by Peter Rimmer
“Are you knocking our dad and our mum?”
“I love both of them. You know that. We’ve a chance to get off the bottom bloody rung. Growing up in that old cottage was lovely. Crowded but lovely. But I want more. So do you. For heaven’s sake, I was a ‘gentleman’s gentleman’, a bloody valet. Now look at me. And had it not been for Jack Merryweather making me read proper, and write, and speak proper, I’d a still ’ave been in the gutter so to speak.”
“You just dropped an ‘h’, Bert.”
“I know I did. And that’s what I mean. It’s still skin-deep in me but it won’t be in my kids.”
“Better bang ’er first, Bert.”
“Oh shut up and listen… Do you want to make something of your life?”
“Yes I do,” said Tina very quietly.
“Good. Miss Pinforth moves into the house tomorrow.”
“You banging ’er, Bert?”
“She’s fifty-seven. A severe fringe. Glasses. Very plain I’m afraid. She would probably have killed to have had your sex appeal. Though at fifty-seven that doesn’t even matter. No, I’m not ‘banging’ Miss Pinforth. And when you see her tomorrow you’ll know exactly why… I want mum and dad to be proud of you. What with Walter blown to bits and Edward drowned. Never found nothing of Billy.”
“I’ll do it if you promise me one thing. You don’t go and join the army. I don’t want you dead too, Bert. Please. I can’t ’andle another. There’s three of my brothers dead in this bloody war and they can’t take the last of you. Promise me that and I’ll do anything you want.”
Bringing her mind back to the present, Tina noticed the rain had stopped as quickly as it had come. She could still hear thunder rumbling over towards the Magaliesberg Mountains. From the veranda on Parktown Ridge, she could see the bush going far away, to where the rays of the sun were breaking through the black thunderclouds moments before the sun would sink for the day. Miss Pinforth preferred a small cottage at the bottom of the garden where the flowers were plentiful and she could be at peace on her own. Being at peace was a large thing in Miss Pinforth’s life. Surprisingly to Tina, the woman was happy. She never mentioned family or friends. Only the flowers and the birds in the garden, and the books she read.
Tina had turned nineteen the week before and when she concentrated she managed not to drop letters all over her speech. She had even begun to put the words in their right sequence. Adding up, she said to Albert, was now a ‘piece of cake’. Why it was a piece of cake Albert did not know but he understood what his sister was saying. She was learning. There was even a better quality of men on the veranda when Albert came home to his house. And quite often the same people. Sometimes the men brought girls but none of them appealed to Albert. Only when Sallie came over to the house did his face light up. There was nothing he could do. As the years went by he only wanted Sallie. And if he couldn’t have Sallie he’d end up like Miss Pinforth, at the bottom of the garden with a book.
To Albert’s surprise, there were no visitors drinking his booze when he had come home with the paper. He had put it down to the rain. Later, he was standing with his hands on the iron wrought railing looking out from the ridge, when he heard his sister take a sharp intake of breath.
“It’s him,” she said deliberately. The ‘h’ in place was so affected it made Albert smile. He had found the same problem. In the end, it came naturally. “It’s Harry Brigandshaw. Got to be. Air force. That’s right. Look at this, Bert. Our ’ost up in Africa’s a bleedin’ hero.”
“You’d better not let Miss Pinforth hear you put it that way.”
“But he is. Look. I’m right. There’s his name under the photograph. Harry Brigandshaw. Now, he’s lovely. Don’t know what I wouldn’t have done to him if he hadn’t run away. He’s gorgeous. What was the name of his farm?”
“Elephant Walk.”
“That’s it. The funny name. That’s what started it. I could marry him, Bert. The others are mostly a bunch of twits. Harry Brigandshaw is a man. Too bad he ran away.”
The doorbell rang from the hall and Tina put down the paper. The entourage was late, thought Albert, but there had been the rain. The sun gave out a last flash of light and sank into the African bush. One of the black servants was wheeling in the drinks tray. Albert smiled to himself. There were always plenty of friends when there were free drinks. And Tina… Harry Brigandshaw. He thought she had forgotten him months ago. The babble of voices was building up in the hall. Waiting until the last moment, he turned to greet their guests. No one was ever invited but that did not matter. There were seven of them. Two women. Neither of them was Sallie.
Albert made himself a stiff whisky and turned back to look out over the distant bush. Most of the colour had already gone from the sky. There was a new light in Miss Pinforth’s cottage. Behind him, Tina was doing her thing. Later he was sure one of the men would escort her out to dinner. Or the crowd would all go together.
Making an excuse, he took his drink to his bedroom and sat on the balcony that led out from the bedroom. He kept the lights off to keep away the mosquitoes. There was no malaria in Johannesburg. The canvas chair was comfortable and Albert fell asleep when he had finished his drink. He would have liked another drink but did not want to talk to the guests. It had been a long, hard day in the explosives factory, making certain all the safety precautions were being observed. Giving orders was one thing. They had to be checked.
The banging front door woke him. His empty glass was on the floor next to the chair. He would have one more good one in the quiet of the night on his own. Then he would go to bed. He was not hungry.
To his surprise, the small light was still on over the drinks tray and Tina was using it to read the newspaper.
“Didn’t you go out with them?” asked Albert.
“He’s a hero. Eighteen kills. Military Cross and Bar. Whatever the Bar means.”
“Who?”
“Harry Brigandshaw.”
“So that’s why you didn’t want to go out.”
“Yes… It is… You think he’ll be all right, Bert?”
“Of course.”
“They say it’s all the hunting he did in the bush. His father was a famous hunter… Why did he leave to go to war?”
“The Germans killed his brother… I should go.”
“You promised, Bert. Please don’t go. You do more for the war effort in the factory. By far. Have another drink and come and talk to me. I couldn’t be bothered with all the chatter tonight.”
“You’d better turn off the light or the mosquitoes will eat you alive.”
“Then we’ll go inside. I’ll make us a sandwich. Have a good chat, you and me.”
“We haven’t done that for a long time… You’re not tired, are you?”
“Not anymore.”
The next day, and just past eleven o’clock in the morning, on the other side of Parktown, Lily White, born Lily Ramsbottom in south Wigan, was watching Mrs Barker like a cat watches a snake, ready to strike if the danger became real. Lily had eaten four slices of fruitcake for her elevenses and the pangs of hunger and loneliness had gone away for the moment. Mrs Barker was ordering poor Mrs Hardcastle, the cook and housekeeper, left and right. It was hard for Lily not to chuckle out loud. She knew the story. Not so long ago, the high and mighty Mrs Barker was a housekeeper herself, a servant, ordered about from pillar to post. Watching Mrs Barker lash Molly Hardcastle with her tongue, Lily wished someone would order the old bitch to a post on the other side of the world… And just when it looked like she was settling in nicely to the home that would be hers for as long as she wanted. Lily sighed and wondered what she would have to do to get the skinny little rake out of the house. Bill Hardcastle had found an excuse to go shopping. Even though he had not said a word, they understood each other. At least she, Lily, had started the process that had led to all the money. All Mrs Barker had done was give herself to a man, but what man could ever have wanted to dip his wick in a spitting viper, Lily could no way co
mprehend. The poor man had done the sensible thing by killing himself. That much she did know.
Lily didn’t want a man any more. She had satiated her lust on a string of lovers, all of them rich, some of them nice, one of them, Jack Merryweather, she had thought once she even loved. It was not the lack of men that worried Lily, even though she was barely forty; there were enough good memories to last her a lifetime. If she wanted a man she would lose her fat and go for the really old men. Fat came from eating. All she had to do was stop eating. No, for Lily it was not the lack of men or even being the centre of male attention. It was loneliness. However much money she still had stashed away from the old whorehouse, it was being left alone that worried Lily White the most. She was terrified, utterly terrified of being left alone. And Sallie Barker was the answer to her prayer. A nice home. Good food. And company every time she wanted it.
“Would you like a piece of cake, Mrs Barker?” she said sweetly.
“Haven’t you eaten enough?” snapped Mrs Barker turning her attention from the hapless Molly Hardcastle.
Sallie smiled and said nothing. When Mrs Barker turned back to her first victim, Lily gave Molly a wink. The trick, Lily thought, was to make allies. As many as possible.
Thousands of miles away Robert St Clair would have given anything for just one piece of Lily White’s cake. The rations came through but never a good meal. Canned meat. Canned vegetables, mostly carrots. Canned fruits, mostly plums. Canned corn kernels, big yellow globs that Robert had never seen before in his life. All were stamped made in the USA. Anyone over there with a canning factory was getting rich.
There had been a lull in the fighting for a week. Both sides were exhausted. It was rumoured the Somme offensive was over. The only thing in abundance on the Western Front, other than machine gun fire and high explosives, was rumour. Soon the rumour would change, and he would lead his men once again over the top of the trenches, through the freshly cut British wire, into the mud and shell holes of no man’s land, waving his swagger stick for how much good that would do and, like a man in constant pain, hoping a bullet would kill him and get it over with.
Jack Merryweather had been made a major and gone off to another regiment that somehow had more need for a major. Robert was still a captain. He was good at doing the right thing, but not very inventive. Caught out in the open in a shell hole, Robert was more inclined to stay where he was and crawl back to his trench in the dark with his men. Three times he had lived for days in the forward German trench with no idea of what to do next, alone with a few men cut off from orders. He had done what he knew best and eaten the German sausage, which was better than anything in a can from America. He watched his men die and blanked his mind to save his sanity.
On the last attack, the colonel had been killed. A new colonel had arrived the previous day. The man had drooping wet eyes like a spaniel’s. Not the first sign of a chin. Been in India, they said. Robert kept to himself. The rumours had already started. The new CO had once resigned his commission. Left the regular army. The only ‘regular’ army Robert had met were well back from the front line with red tabs on their uniforms and red bands around their staff hats.
Robert was hungry as usual. He missed the company of Jack Merryweather. They had fought side by side for months on end. And it was better not to make friends with the new officers. None of them had lasted very long. The trick, Robert told himself, was to stay in his own cocoon, and if the gods were with him, one day the guns would stop and some of them would walk away alive. Robert forced himself to stay in the moment. Never the past. And never, never the future.
The men had been stood down, with sentries on the lower fire-steps looking out over the drizzle and mist that covered no man’s land. The old hands knew long before an attack. There had not been a German spotter plane for days, even when the rain had stopped. At night they watched more carefully for German patrols. Double sentries at night. Like every job Robert had done in his life, there was a pattern.
Robert was duty officer, standing at the bottom of the trench below the sentry who was looking through his binoculars, searching the shattered earth for signs of life. Every ten minutes Robert went up and had a good look himself. From months of experience, his eyes could discard the ‘normal’ in the mangled landscape. He was looking for a straight barrel. Domed shape of a tin hat. A mound that was not there before.
Robert looked at his watch. Ten o’clock in the morning. Time for his hourly tin mug of sweet tea. His feet were cold, his hands cold, the gas mask heavy on his chest under the coat that was meant to keep out the rain. Robert forced himself not to look for Private Lane and the hot tea.
“Right behind you, sir.”
“Give it to Jones up top.” Robert had not turned around.
“Two mugs, sir.”
“Thank you, Lane.”
“The mail came up, sir. Three for you. On the table.”
The table was in the dugout with the tarpaulin over the top that was meant to keep out the rain. Robert had been wet through for months.
“The colonel, sir,” whispered Lane.
Robert turned. The new colonel was walking down the trench with his adjutant. They were never alone, Robert thought. No one was ever left alone. Putting his tea carefully on the fire-step, he made himself ready to salute. They had seen each other twice but never spoken. Robert thought they were probably about the same age. Saluting none too well, he reported nothing happening as he was expected to and waited for the colonel to pass on down the trench.
“You have any more of that tea, Private Lane?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, sir.” Both Robert’s and his batman’s face registered surprise at the new colonel knowing Lane’s name.
“Carry on up the line, adjutant,” said the colonel.
Robert waited for the tea and the new colonel to speak. His tea was getting cold on the fire-step so he picked it up and drank. What did you say to someone who had the right to speak first?
“Not like Africa,” said the colonel.
Robert was sure he had heard right but could think of no answer.
“I got as far as the signpost to Elephant Walk. You stayed there, I believe… Thank you, Lane… They were a bit short of officers so they let me back into the army. Not the same regiment of course. My father saw to that. While we drink our tea, you can tell me every bit you know about this part of the front. It’s the first time I have commanded a battalion, so I need your help, Major St Clair.”
“Captain St Clair.”
“No, I changed that. I want you to be my adjutant.”
“But what about…”
“He’s going back to England. Poor chap’s a bit shot through. That sort of thing.”
“He’s wounded, sir?”
“Not exactly. Needs a rest.”
“And I’m not shot through?”
“You’re not the type, St Clair.”
The adjutant who was ‘shot through’ came back from the end of the inspection. Robert drank the rest of his tea and went up the fire-step to have another look. He had never been singled out before. And he didn’t like it.
Later Robert read the mail from home. There was one from his father. There was one from his mother. There was one from Lucinda but this time no mention of John Heynes, her dead Irish Guardsman. They were all numb. The whole family. Most of the men had letters from wives and girlfriends. He would have liked that. But what worried him most at the moment was why Colonel Bowes-Leggatt wanted him as his adjutant. One of Robert’s secret claims to fame in life was always keeping himself out of the way. No one at school had even thought once of making him a prefect. His trick was to be always there, but always invisible. It was the best way for Robert to go through life. And how the hell did the colonel know he had ever been in Africa let alone on Elephant Walk? It made him uncomfortable. He did not like surprises. And he didn’t like people knowing things about him they were not meant to know about. He had never heard of a lieutenant colonel with an adjutant the rank
of major.
Wally Bowes-Leggatt was not sure whether the army was trying to get him killed or give him the chance to remove the block from his father’s escutcheon. The war had certainly killed off Captain Craig, the rotter who had run off with Poo, and through Wally made a fool of the great General Bowes-Leggatt, first Earl of Fenthurst. Smeared the reputation of a great British regiment by seducing a fellow officer’s wife. That much Wally had found out back in England at the end of August ’15, after he had sold the lion skins with the lion heads still attached to them to a taxidermist in Johannesburg, the lions that had killed Jackson, at what proved to be the end of Benny Lightfoot’s African safari and his sexual pursuit of Tina Pringle. Craig had been put on the front line the moment hostilities broke out and had lasted a week. Wally, back in the army, had lasted over a year, but how he wasn’t so sure. Though like everyone in life, he told himself, there had to be a percentage of luck. And up till then, luck had not been his in any quantity.
The old regiment had turned up their noses at him, but after the fiasco at Gallipoli and the decimation of the British regular army in Flanders, by September 1915, when Wally reapplied for his commission, the army was so short of trained officers they would have taken him back for a far worse crime. To Wally, the East Surrey Regiment was as good as any other regiment, and now he was a lieutenant colonel, commanding the 2nd battalion, having spent the last year with the 1st battalion outside Amiens. The army had even given him a Military Cross for his afternoon alone in a shell hole surrounded by dead soldiers, using one of the dead soldier’s .303 rifle to pick off German soldiers on their abortive way to the British front line in the counter-attack. Wally’s platoon had been killed in the British assault leaving Wally stranded in the shell hole. Some said he should have been put up for the Victoria Cross, but they were the ones who knew nothing of Poo’s indiscretion and the embarrassment of Wally’s father the general. Six months later the army had promoted him to major. Now he was an acting lieutenant colonel. If he won them the war they might just forgive him his trespasses. Anyway, he told himself when they gave him the Military Cross, at least the years drinking his way around Africa had not been totally wasted. He could still shoot the eye out of a leopard at one hundred yards, even if the leopards wore grey uniforms and tin hats. An eye was an eye, whatever was wearing it. The yellow eye of a leopard or the blue eye of a German.
