by Peter Rimmer
When Robert came back and gave Hamilton the large pile of paper, Glen Hamilton put it on the coffee table saying he would take it up to bed with him after dinner. With everyone in the family trying not to look at the manuscript on the table, they filed out of the sitting room and into the dining room with the fires at both ends and the old, long, wooden table that the family had fed from over the centuries. To everyone’s surprise but Cook’s and Merlin’s, a side of beef was roasting on the old spit at the exact right angle to the fire. Merlin had also brought down with him three cases of French red wine. Despite the undercurrent of absent friends and the book in the sitting room, everyone set about enjoying themselves. And it was Granny Forrester who went upstairs to check on Richard after everyone had eaten too much roast beef. Mysteriously the manuscript had gone from the table, which she found a great relief. She had pushed open the door to have a look. Whether, of course, the American would read the book was another thing. All she could do was hope. Back in the dining hall she drank a whole glass of wine and felt quite tipsy for the first time since Potts died… They were all wearing silly paper hats. In the end, Robert was quite drunk and had to be helped up to bed.
They were all sound asleep, except Glen Hamilton, when the midnight chimes brought them Christmas. Thinking the book would send him quickly to sleep and expecting the worst, he had picked up the first chapter and began to read by the small new electric light over his bed. He was still reading when the dawn came up and the cocks began to crow.
The old maid brought him breakfast on a tray. He could smell the coffee, the coffee Merlin had specially bought for him. Unaware he was the only one in the old house drinking coffee, he carried on reading. When he finally finished, it was almost time for the big family Christmas lunch. Having used all the bathroom facilities, he dressed in the tweeds he had bought in London and went down to join the family. He was not sure what to do with the potty, so stuck it back under the bed. He wondered in the old days if they just tipped it out the window!
He could never have been more wrong in his life. If he lived to be a hundred he would never match the book written by Robert St Clair. By the time he reached the bottom of the great winding stairs, he had decided to offer himself as Robert St Clair’s literary agent. He was smiling to himself. It was better to get ten per cent of the lot than one hundred per cent of a little. He kept them all in suspense through Christmas lunch. Then he told Robert.
“But you can’t have read the book by now,” exclaimed Robert.
“I haven’t slept since you gave me the book. I finished at eleven o’clock this morning.”
“Is it really any good?” asked Lord St Clair, dropping his façade of disinterest.
“Oh, yes.”
Then the family were all clapping and Robert was crying.
“Do you think someone will want to publish?” he managed.
“I’ll see to that. I’ll see to that… I give you a toast. To the new author and his next ten books.”
After cracking nuts with the men over a glass of port, Glen found himself alone as the whole family went off for an afternoon sleep. The air in his room was remarkably clean, which he put down to leaving the window wide open. When he plucked up the courage and pulled the potty out from under the bed, it was as clean as a whistle. The English really were a curious race. Then he fell into a deep sleep that had been a long time coming. It was a Christmas he was to remember for the rest of his life.
Glen Hamilton left the Manor the next day in a hurry. It was Boxing Day when the servants received boxes containing their Christmas presents. While Glen was standing at Corfe Castle railway station with Merlin, the ancient upstairs maid was staring at the five-pound note she found tucked into the handle of the water jug. There was a note but she was unable to read. Cook read her the message.
“This is for the lady who cleaned my room. For services beyond the call of duty. Thanks from the American.”
Cook smiled and gave the old woman the large, white five-pound note that had been folded four times.
“More than I spend in a month on food for everyone at Purbeck Manor. Better ask Lord St Clair to open a bank account for you in Swanage. You can earn three per cent a year. That’s two shillings a year, Meg. Not to be sneezed at. Once a month you can have yourself three gins at the Greyhound in Corfe Castle and raise the glass to the American. They must be real rich in America. Fancy giving you five pounds. If you were fifty years younger I’d worry about the last piece of the note. What you think he meant?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Meg, clutching her five-pound note.
It was cold but not raining on the station platform. Glen Hamilton walked up and down impatiently. The train from Swanage was late.
“You think the book’s that good?” said Merlin, misinterpreting the man’s hurry and impatience.
“What book?” said Glen, stopping in his tracks.
“Robert’s book. He is going to call it Keeper of the Legend. He told me this morning.”
“I can hear a train. Thank God. Why does nothing ever work on time in this country?”
“What’s all the hurry? Why the rush? You seemed to enjoy your Christmas lunch.”
“I have work to do. Work! A lot of work. The biggest story of my life.”
“So it had nothing to do with Robert’s book, all this haste? I rather hoped it was. Is the book any good, Glen? Or were you being the polite guest?”
“Kept me up all night… Oh, don’t worry about the damn book. It’s my article I want to get out. You know that war hero Braithwaite? The air ace. He is alive. The man’s a murderer. What a story. I’m going to find him and splash his face over every newspaper in the world.”
“So that’s why you agreed to come down to the Manor.”
“Of course. I’m a newspaperman. Smelt a big story… What are you laughing at, Merlin?”
“The machinations of man. We’re all the same. The reason I wanted you down for Christmas was to read Robert’s novel.”
“So that’s good. You got what you wanted. And so did I. Now that doesn’t often happen in the schemes of life.”
“And you are going to find a publisher?”
“Definitely. Probably in America. They love all that shit about old families as we don’t have any of our own.”
“And you don’t care about Braithwaite?”
“Why the hell should I… You know he wanted to kill Harry?”
“That I didn’t… Harry wants to protect him. Something about the other pilots. The dead and the living.”
“You don’t happen to know where they put Braithwaite?”
“Try the Banstead Lunatic Asylum. It’s near Epsom in Surrey. Don’t tell Harry I told you.”
Merlin drove the trap back to Purbeck Manor in troubled thought. He knew he had been wrong to give away the whereabouts of Mervyn Braithwaite. Harry had warned him about Glen Hamilton. He was so surprised to find out from Harry the CO of 33 Squadron was still alive, he had asked where he was if he wasn’t in his grave.
“Banstead Lunatic Asylum. It’s a long, sad story, Merlin, and you don’t want to know about it.”
So often, he ruminated as he drove along the bottom path by the river that was only just passable with the trap, things one didn’t want to know about had a bad habit of telling their own story. And with Harry about to marry into the family, if Granny Forrester had her way, it became a problem that belonged to all of them. If he had not been so happy for Robert he would not have blurted out the name to Glen Hamilton. In some way, it was his trade, the fact he was rich and whole that made him want to make his crippled brother a successful author, something Robert could do for the rest of his life without a right foot.
The horse picked its own way down the bridle path while Merlin worried about his dilemma. It was not Braithwaite he gave a hoot about but Harry Brigandshaw’s confidence. He did not have to be told that the last person to know where the War Office had hidden the one-time hero was a newspaper reporter.
He could now see the old chimney stacks with the tall brown pots looming over the trees and he was glad he had the money to repair the house. The land, the old house and the even older building material that had gone into the house were core to his being. For the family to survive, the house had to survive. He was just someone in a long line of family who had come down the old centuries and would pass down the new. He was just a link in nature’s chain, a chain he never wanted broken. It gave him his sense of belonging. In the here and after and before.
Where the garden started, he found Geoffrey Winckle, painting away at a wide canvas that included the old house. The easel was standing at the same spot where Lucinda had first met Harry walking from the station with Robert on his first visit to the Manor. Lucinda had pointed out the spot more than once. Merlin stopped the horse and got down from the trap to watch. His brother-in-law was so engrossed in his work, Merlin and the horse went unnoticed. The ex-sergeant was not even coughing. The painting from thirty yards spoke to him of centuries past. He stood watching for five minutes.
“It’s for the cover of Robert’s book,” he said without turning around. “In exchange, he’s going to give you back your ten pounds when he gets his advance.”
“You hadn’t forgotten!”
“A man should never forget a debt.”
“It’s very good.”
“Thank you. You think that American is genuine? He was after something but it wasn’t one of the girls.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“No. So don’t tell me. Wars have been started by the same request… I’m going to do portraits. Where the money is. Rich old factory owners from the north. Where there’s muck there’s brass! Fat ugly wives, they want to be remembered forever. Ugly and rich. They go together.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“It stops the coughing. Round a fire I start coughing my guts up… In a way, the gassing is a blessing. A small pension for life. Not many painters have anything to live off.”
“What about the rich industrialists?” Merlin decided he liked his brother-in-law.
“Yes, there’s them… And it isn’t fatal. They say I can go on coughing like this until I’m ninety. You go on in, Merlin. And don’t worry about your ten pounds. And that Yank’s after money, whichever way you look at it.”
Instead of getting into the trap, Merlin led the horse by the head to the stable. He knew he should tell Harry what he had told Glen. Let Harry warn the War Office. Then he felt a cold shiver run up his spine and decided to forget the talk at the railway station… There were muffins for tea around the fire in the sitting room. He quickened his pace.
Mervyn Braithwaite knew he was as sane as the next man. The trick was to make everyone think he was quite mad. Till the war ended. When he knew they would not give a damn about war heroes. At the moment, everyone wanted him insane. Everyone believed his little outbursts. He was preaching insanity to the converted. After the war, they would throw him to the wolves. Yesterday’s hero. No longer any use to the war effort. They would hang him just as easily as declaring him insane. So he was going to get out and go to South America. Lose himself in the Amazon. Find a dark young girl and make her his mistress. Discard her. Find another. He was going to have a string of women in his life to prove them all wrong. He had money which he would send out of the country before they found out he was gone. There were cargo boats sailing for the Americas every day from Liverpool. Looking for hands. Never asking questions. He had read about it in the paper. He could put on a north country accent. Wear a cloth hat.
The only regret he would have was not killing Harry Brigandshaw with the same pistol. He hated the man. Had hated him ever since Oxford University. Everyone liked Harry Brigandshaw. Everyone wanted to be his friend. Wherever he was, a group gathered around, with Brigandshaw, good-looking Brigandshaw, the centre of attention. Men and women. Old and young. Students and dons. Even the servants. The bulldogs. It had made him sick. And then to add insult to injury, when he was meant to die in the first week of joining the squadron, the damn man could fly an aeroplane better than anyone. And Sara loved him. Even Sara had been taken away. He wished he had killed both of them. Then he thought of another good idea. When he had been away for a few years and they had all forgotten him, he would take a boat to Africa. Find Harry Brigandshaw. And kill him. Then he would be able to rest in peace and enjoy all the women.
A male nurse was approaching the old wooden bench where he sat so often and made his plans. He began to roll his eyes to make them vacant. He let his jaw hang down. There was a tall man in uniform with the male nurse. A type of uniform he had never seen before. The man carried a camera that he set up in front of the bench. Mervyn had on his best vacant look when the man put his head under the hood, put up his arm and pressed a button at the end of the wire. Mervyn, concentrating like he had done so often in battle to stay alive, maintained his idiotic expression. He didn’t know why they were taking his picture but he did know he had to look mad.
When the man began to ask him questions, Mervyn went into his well-rehearsed gibberish. The man had an American accent. When he was done and the nurse was helping carry the photographic equipment away the American leaned close to his ear.
“Harry Brigandshaw sends his love, Fishy.”
For a moment, all sign of his madness left him, and he glared at Glen Hamilton.
“As I thought, Colonel Braithwaite. You’re as sane as me.” The vacant expression and the gibberish had come back again. When he was alone again Mervyn made up his mind to go as soon as possible. The American’s eyes had been laughing at him. The way he had laughed at all those Germans when they died, going down in flames.
The first thing Harry heard about the story in every newspaper was a phone call from the War Office. He was still at Purbeck Manor and he had still not proposed marriage to Lucinda St Clair despite everyone’s expectations. He was due back in France at Army Headquarters on the third day of the new year. The man who called was the ADC to Trenchard.
“They found him. Bloody American. Goofy photograph of Braithwaite in every English-language paper in the world. Trenchard wants you back at 33 Squadron. To command the squadron again. Question of morale. You’ll have to tell them the truth. The good news is the photograph in the papers makes Braithwaite look as mad as a hatter. You’re to report to your squadron immediately. And we’re having a big hate on Jerry.”
“I must go today?”
“Now.”
“Was the American Glen Hamilton?”
“How did you know?”
“He’s being staying with us at the Manor.”
“Did you tell him anything?”
“Certainly not where he could find Braithwaite. I told him to mind his own business. He’d been snooping before he came down here.”
“Someone told him. Definitely not good for public relations. People like their heroes not to have clay feet. Is there somewhere we can land a plane? Trenchard is not amused.”
“There are plenty of big fields.”
“Then wait. I’ll send someone down… Why can’t people keep their mouths shut? You yourself said the man was insane. Hamilton interviewed Braithwaite. Says the man’s insanity is faked. The police want to know what’s going on. But that’s not your problem. Those pilots deserve a proper explanation.”
The line went dead at the other end and Harry found himself staring at an old gentleman in a wig across the hall. The eyes looked straight back at him from the portrait.
He was back in the battle. Fishy Braithwaite would still have the last laugh. His hands holding the mouthpiece and earpiece of the telephone were shaking. Quickly he put the telephone back on the hook. He was frightened for the first time and looked for somewhere to run. Down the long corridor. Out the bay window. Through the side door in the big Gothic door. Back to Africa. Safety. His legs would not move. His mind numbed. His jaw set and the moment passed, to be strangely replaced by excitement. Over there were all his friends. They need
ed him. It was his job to make sure all of them came through the last part of the war alive.
By the time he walked back into the sitting room to tell Lucinda, he was smiling.
The fire was well banked in the sitting room and Granny Forrester was half asleep in her big chair. Outside the long windows that came down to a foot from the floor, it was cold and windy, the boughs of the trees whipping in the wind. Inside it was warm and cosy, and soon her daughter Bess would come in and draw the curtains, and they would all take tea… She had had a good life with few regrets, and the pain in her side was not as bad as it had been in the morning. She knew she was dying but at her age, it did not matter anymore. That morning she had plucked up the courage to confront Penelope and she liked the idea of an Indian princess having something to do with her family. It was fitting for so big a colonial power to mingle its blood with the colonies. Whether the girl was a princess mattered not a jot. What mattered most was Frederick going to his early grave without horns on his head, the horns of a cuckold. She believed the girl and hoped with her for the future young Richard to show some of the St Clair traits. The girl had hugged her at the end and she had liked that.
When Harry came into the room, all smiles after taking his phone call, she was happy for Lucinda. This was going to be the day. Lucinda could not take her eyes from the boy’s face, a gentle smile of pure happiness. She was in love, that much Granny Forrester could see as plain as a pikestaff.
“I’m afraid I’ve got to leave you all,” he said. Everyone else in the room came fully awake. Lucinda’s expression turned to panic. “Trenchard is sending down an aeroplane. They’ll land on one of the fields. They want me to command 33 Squadron again.” The household, not receiving a newspaper, had not read Glen Hamilton’s article.
“When are you going?” asked Granny Forrester.
“Oh, not for a couple of hours.”
“They can’t land in the dark,” said Lord St Clair.
