The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  “Look. It’s Harry. His galloping like a maniac.”

  Sir Henry got up quickly and stood next to his granddaughter. There was a dust trail behind the horse.

  “Oh, my God,” said Henry.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Alison, joining them.

  “It’s George.”

  “No, it’s not, it’s Harry.”

  “It’s George.”

  Barend had also got up to have a look. All four of them watched the rider and the galloping horse.

  Harry came off his horse before it stopped and ran the last few yards. The horse was blown.

  “Grandfather, saddle up and get home,” he shouted.

  “Is it George?”

  “Yes, it’s George. There’s nothing you can now do for George. Any of us. It’s Peregrine. When he read the cable from the War Office he had a stroke. Please hurry. He’s going to die. He knows it. He just wants to see you before he dies. He is mumbling about a letter. Do you have a letter? What letter, for God’s sake? What can a letter do to help? And I’ve decided. I’m going over. Can’t stay now. Should have gone before George. I’m going to join the Royal Flying Corps. If nothing else, I can get some revenge.”

  “It doesn’t help,” said Barend. “I know. Oh, do I know about revenge. It eats into your guts. Never stops. You have to be dead before it stops. If you were going to join the Germans I’d come with you right now. Revenge. You go and take your revenge. Enjoy it. They wouldn’t even let me have that pleasure. I was going to join the uprising that Botha, the traitor, put down. They didn’t even give me the chance. And now where am I?”

  3

  January 1916

  Fay Wheels woke screaming from the pictures in her dream. Men, some whole, some mangled, some dead, some alive, all screaming, flying up into a sky filled with darkness and rain, lit by flashes which went unheard amid the shattering noise of exploding shells, and mud, mountains high, beyond her dreaming, screaming vision. The baby was shrieking and there was banging on a door.

  Then she was properly awake, the baby in the cot screaming its head off, and the hammering on the door, the same door in front of which they had left her mother’s chest of gipsy lore, and the key pushed through the gap into the flat in Sutherland Avenue where she was shaking from her dream that stayed and stayed in her mind. The sweat of fear was oozing out of every pore of her body and her hair was soaking wet, the room pitch dark. And there in the heart of the carnage, amongst the mangled, screaming dead, was the father of the screaming child, and she was sure with all her gipsy sight he was dead, mangled in the blood and torn-off bones and floating eyes, with the smell of old carnage blown up with the new, seeping deep into her air-starved lungs. Then she retched, and her screaming stopped, and a dead man’s voice was shouting at her through the door and she retched again and again.

  “Fay! Fay! What’s going on? Why are you screaming?”

  To hide from a dead man’s voice she hid under the vomit-soaked blankets, the baby quiet all of a sudden.

  “Fay! It’s me. Jack. I’ve got some leave… Did I hear a baby cry? Fay! Let me in. What’s the matter? For God’s sake let me in.”

  Outside Jack Merryweather had lost the key to his mistress’s flat. He was cold, and the long overcoat down to his ankles could not keep out the east wind. There were no lights down the Paddington street for fear of a Zeppelin raid. All the windows were dark and fast asleep in the middle of the night. He was hungry and the wound in his left arm hurt more than it was meant to hurt. He would have to find a hospital when the light of day came up. In France he had told them all his wound was fine and taken up his leave, walking back down the wet cold muddy communication trenches to the reserve line, and then further back, trudging through the dark till he found the slope. Then up above ground for the first time in months, if he excluded the raids over the top into the German lines. The thought of England, Fay and their new baby took him through the night to a backward command post where they found him transport to the coast. Even the seething lurching swells of the English Channel could not take the smile from his face. He wasn’t sick, not even once. The Calais–Dover ship had docked in time for him to catch the last train up to London but the line was blocked and the train arrived late at the station, and he had walked to the flat in the cold, with the wound in his arm hurting so much he had to concentrate his mind to stop the stumbling. There had been no taxis in the middle of the night. There were not meant to be any trains.

  Then he fainted on the doorstep and slid to the ground, wondering if he was about to die, the pain too great for bearing.

  Fay found him on the steps the way she found her mother’s iron-bound chest. Abandoned. She knew, of course, he was dead. Knew who he was without seeing his face in the dark and creeping fog. She looked at the crumpled figure on the step for a long moment. Having considered her vomit and the banging on the door for a long time in the silence, she had got up and taken a look outside. The soldier at her feet was skin and bones, the army overcoat having fallen open. The body began to stir. Her gipsy mind began to understand. This was not Jack. This was another soldier come to tell her of his death. The messenger of death.

  She grabbed the man by both arms and began pulling him into the hallway of the flat. The man screamed in pain, so he wasn’t dead.

  “For the love of God, Fay. Be more careful. My left arm was shot right through… You smell of vomit. Are you all right? Oh, I see. The baby was sick all over you. Sorry. I fainted from the pain in my arm. I don’t know what you did to it by pulling but it’s better now. What a way to come home. Dragged through the door by the mother of your son… How are you, Fay? Why are you crying? It’s me. Jack Merryweather. If you can help me up off the floor, you can show me our son. Before I passed out I heard you screaming and then the baby cry.”

  “I had a terrible dream.”

  “We all get those. You get used to them in the end.”

  “The dream told me you were dead.”

  “Well, this time your gipsy feyness was wrong, my Fay. I’m alive, on ten days’ leave. Not much, true, but enough. We three are going to have a wonderful time… Now show me my son and then give me a drink. Something strong. It was cold out there and the boat was going up and down… Now, will you please stop crying?”

  “I wrote you there was a child, Jack. You have a daughter.”

  “Then show me my daughter! But first, give me a kiss.”

  “I’m covered in my own puke. Sick from the dream.”

  “I don’t care, Fay. Probably don’t smell too sweet myself. It doesn’t matter. We are the ones alive in all the horror. We have a daughter. Covered in sick, to me you look quite beautiful. I’ll give you a good idea. Let’s take a bath together. Then we’ll make love. Then I will sleep for the rest of the day. This uniform I came home in shall be burnt. My tailor can run me up a new one. The new one will look much the same in a week after I get back. But that doesn’t matter. When I escort my Fay round the town I don’t want those dreadful women handing me white feathers so I shall be in uniform… To the baby. To the drink. To the bath. In that order.”

  “I’ll have to change the sheets.”

  “Then the sheets shall be changed.”

  “Does your arm really hurt that badly?”

  “Not anymore… And that’s the last time you and I shall talk about the bloody war.”

  The doctor at the Paddington hospital was so old, Jack thought at one stage the man had gone to sleep while peering at the wound in his arm, which the field hospital in Flanders had patched up as best they could.

  “Not the slightest trace of gangrene. You are a very lucky man, Captain Merryweather. Straight through the flesh of the arm. You’ll have a scar on both sides but nothing much more. The heat of the bullet sterilised the wound. The nurse will put on a new dressing. Keep an eye on it. Come back if you think you should.”

  To celebrate, Jack took Fay to dinner. He used his years of patronage to get a table at Simpson’s on the Strand. S
he was prettier than he ever remembered, and excited to be seen in public with him for the first time.

  They had gone to his house in Baker Street for clothes. Bradford, the valet, burnt the old uniform, and Jack paid a visit to his tailor in Savile Row.

  For the night, he was dressed in civilian evening clothes, though his left arm was kept in a sling. He could use the hand well enough but when the arm was allowed to move around the wound hurt.

  A young woman standing at the entrance to Simpson’s gave him a white feather for his trouble as they got out of the taxi that had brought them from the Baker Street house. Their child had been left to an astonished Bradford to look after while they went out to dinner. It was the first time they had visited Jack’s house. Jack gave the woman with the feather a sweet smile, tipped his hat and put the feather behind his right ear.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” said the woman, annoyed by the way Jack flaunted her feather, the white feather of cowardice.

  “So should you,” spat Fay.

  The doorman, who had known Jack for twenty years, raised his voice for the first time.

  “Welcome home, Captain Merryweather. Hope the wound is not too bad?”

  “Thank you, Fred. Anyone in the restaurant I know?”

  “The Honourable Robert St Clair. He is dining with one of his brothers.”

  “Didn’t know any of them could afford the place.”

  “I believe the Honourable Merlin St Clair took a large position in Vickers-Armstrong just before war broke out.”

  Without looking back, Jack took the feather from behind his ear and handed it back to the young woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  With Fay on his arm, Jack walked through the door held open by Fred into the crowded restaurant.

  Robert St Clair had started with a cheese soufflé, which was much to his liking. The second course, a partridge, had been hung just enough, high to the taste but not quite rotten. The red wine and port sauce over the bird were, to Robert, perfection. Where they had found the new peas and new potatoes in winter he had no idea. The menu he had been given showed no prices and Robert asked no questions. He was Merlin’s guest.

  “Where did they get the vegetables from at this time of year?” he asked.

  “Someone’s hothouse, most likely. You can get anything, even now, if you have a lot of money. Well, here’s to the old Vickers machine gun.”

  “Please, Merlin, don’t bring up the war.”

  “Do you know that chap over there? The one with the pretty girl. He’s been trying to catch your eye ever since he sat at his table.”

  “Of course I do. That’s Jack Merryweather.”

  “Then why don’t we join them for supper?”

  “Don’t be silly. He’d be terribly embarrassed. That’s his mistress. You wouldn’t want to be recognised if you were dining here with Esther.”

  “Esther, I’m afraid, went off and married a corporal.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Merlin. I hope she’ll be happy.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Then she can move back into the Barbican flat.”

  “I’m looking for another mistress.”

  “I’ll have the roast sirloin if you can afford it, Merlin,” said Robert, breaking the awkward silence.

  “They say Vickers makes a machine gun every two and a half seconds, which they sell to the British government at a nice profit. The average lifespan of a machine gun is ten days. And they are strung out from coast to coast along the Western Front… Frederick has joined the army in India. They’re sending him to France. Probably on the water by now. Penelope and the girl are staying behind.”

  “Does Mother know?”

  “I’m going to tell her tomorrow when we go home,” said Merlin.

  “What are we going to say to Lucinda?”

  “Give her a hug, I’d say.”

  “Did you meet her fiancé?”

  “No. Don’t even know his name.”

  “Poor old Cinda,” said Robert. “Terrible to end up an old maid. She should have stayed in Africa with Harry Brigandshaw. Far away from this bloody war. There are going to be a lot of old maids left by this carnage. What a waste of life. All those years with nothing to do. No purpose. I think the fiancé was the lucky one.”

  “Barnaby should be all right. They’ve posted him to Palestine. It’s a two-year posting. Granny Forrester cried when she heard. Doctor Reichwald, who now calls himself Doctor Smithers, has one son left alive. Do you remember when you had that flu? He was good, saved your life… He’s coming over.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend Jack Merryweather.”

  “Then that makes it different… Hello, Jack. How’s the arm? Didn’t see you come in, old chap… You alone?”

  “Come and join us, Robert, for coffee. You know who she is as well as I do. Shown you her photograph enough times over there.”

  “Why no uniform?”

  “Burnt it. New one is ready tomorrow. I have a daughter.”

  “Jolly good… Did that woman catch you at the door?”

  “Fred saved the day.”

  “Good for Fred, whoever he is. I can’t afford these places myself.”

  Fay watched Jack make his way back to her with pride. He had lost a lot of weight in the trenches but there was more purpose in his walk. As if he had something to do that was important. He looked older than his thirty-five years but so did they all. None of them would ever be the same, even if they came out of the war alive. It would live with them forever. She smiled up at the father of her daughter who still did not have a name. She had been waiting for Jack. Only if he had been killed was she going to do something on her own.

  “They’re coming over for coffee and a brandy. Met Robert in Africa… I’m going to take you to Africa when all this is over. You’ve heard me talk of Harry Brigandshaw? He came over and joined the Royal Flying Corps. They’re teaching him to fly Sopwith Pup biplanes. Best of our fighters. He’s a lieutenant. That was one of the letters I read this morning when we went to the house.”

  “Are you really going to take me to Africa, Jack?”

  “I said I would. When all this is over. A celebration.”

  “When will it be over?”

  “Not for a while. Jolly good of Harry to come over and help. He’s a Rhodesian. English stock of course. They’re growing tobacco out there for the troops. Saves bringing it across the Atlantic from America. And it’s cheaper. Harry says America put up the price of tobacco a month after war broke out. Someone always makes money in a war. Merlin, Robert’s brother over there, has made a small fortune having the nous to buy Vickers-Armstrong shares just before war broke out. They make the machine guns that kill most of the Germans. In Germany, the lucky chap was the one that brought Krupp shares. What Herr Krupp makes kills us. Silly really. And we all pray to the same Christian God out there. There never has been any sense to war. Just every now and again it has to be done. As I said, rather silly but there it is.”

  Together they listened to the dance music in silence.

  “What do you want to call our daughter?” Fay was trying not to cry about the war.

  “Oh, Mary. Definitely. My mother’s name was Mary… What do you call her now?”

  “Baba… You want my child named after your mother? I’m your mistress, Jack, not your wife.”

  “Doesn’t make her any less my daughter… There’s a new clause in my trust. Or will be. Jared Wentworth’s out in the Atlantic with the Royal Navy. He is my stockbroker. There’s talk of convoys for the merchant ships. The Huns are sinking far too much tonnage. Underwater boats. From the depths, they fire torpedoes… Jared’s office will change the trust. You and Mary will always be all right, Fay.”

  “She won’t be without a father, however much money.”

  “Don’t pooh-pooh money. Money is important. Or rather it is not important when you have it… The one thing I can never understand is where Robert St Clair puts all the foo
d. He’s as skinny as a rake… He’s going right through the menu. We had better dance. It’s going to be a while before they come across.”

  “I can’t dance,” said Fay.

  “Don’t worry. The dance floor’s so small and with so many couples we just sway to the music. Just an excuse for people to hold each other.”

  “Do you need an excuse, Jack?” She was smiling again.

  “No, I don’t. Come on. It’s a waltz. A slow waltz. Not one by that Austrian Strauss.”

  There was no one on the platform at Corfe Castle railway station and the weather was bleak. Merlin pushed open the door to the waiting room. It was freezing inside. No one had lit the fire for days. The grate was full of old ash. He had a slight hangover from the previous night. After doing the right thing with Jack Merryweather, drinking coffee with a snifter of brandy, Robert had kicked him under the table on the shin. They left the happy couple, and went on to a club, but did not find any girls even though he and Robert were in uniform. Neither of them tried very hard. Seeing Jack and Fay look at each other that way made little sense of casual acquaintances.

  They had caught a cab back to Merlin’s empty flat in the Barbican and Robert had slept on the couch. They travelled down the next morning to their ancestral home in civilian clothes. There were two women at Waterloo Station handing out feathers. In passing one of them, Robert went into an elaborate limp. Ten yards further on he walked up straight and the women began running after them. They changed trains twice before getting off at Corfe Castle. The last part of the journey they spent alone.

  “Well, I’m not going to walk,” said Robert. “Fun in the spring. Even pleasant in summer. But not in the winter. When Harry Brigandshaw first came down I made him walk. Lucinda was in love the moment she clapped eyes on him. She was only fifteen. Poor Cinda. I’ve told Harry to come down here if he gets any leave, so you never know… Not even a sign of old Pringle. Do you remember how Mrs Pringle used to make us those sandwiches? There was always a pickled onion. Then we’d bring her a chicken. Nothing will ever be the same.”