The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set

by Peter Rimmer

  “You have been to Singapore?”

  “A long time ago. I was about your age. Just after Raffles by a few years. He was the merchant sailor who became governor of Sumatra for the British. Didn’t cost the taxpayer a penny. Or none they did not get back afterwards. Sir T Stamford Raffles. With a name like that, no wonder he was a rubber baron. Jolly good seaport, you see. Right on the trade route. Singapore. I believe they named a hotel after him. The island was a swamp. Hong Kong was a rock. A large rock. So there you have it.”

  “What were you doing in Singapore?”

  “Like you, looking for my future. Why are we so sure we will find it when we are young?”

  “Did you find it?”

  “No. Why I came to Africa.”

  “Straight to Africa?”

  The old man had poured his beer into the glass, leaving a small amount in the bottle. Jim did the same.

  “Oh, no. There was China until the Boxer Rebellion. Chinese Gordon sorted them out. With my help, of course. General Gordon. Now there was a man.”

  “So you were a soldier?”

  “Everyone has to be a soldier sometime or other in his life. The world is fluid. Darwin had it. Survival of the fittest. We are all the product of rape and pillage, dear boy. Including you and I. Kill the fighting men, take their woman for your own and re-educate the young children. Vikings. Saxons. Normans. And tribes we shall never know. The world evolved from rape and pillage. The same world we know and now call civilised.”

  “Don’t you have to pour the libation to the gods on the floor?”

  “I leave that to the waiter in the kitchen.”

  “He may drink it.”

  “He may drink it. Whichever way, the gift is ours. To the gods. The gods are very wise. They have to be.”

  The old man’s eyes were full of laughter looking at him. He liked the old man. He asked himself, for ten pounds, how much could he lose? To see the new country in the hands of an expert guide. For ten pounds and still own the horses! If there was a catch, he was young enough not to worry.

  “I have a better idea,” said the old man. “We shall take some sandwiches into the park and look at the goldfish. There is a bench near the pond. I have slept upon it many a night under a moon. Sometimes the fish reflect the moon but not very often. The hotel will give us a luncheon basket. Many of the guests like to visit the country. To look at the animals. The plains are rich with animals. All kind of antelope. Elephant. Buffalo. We are so near to heaven. I’m very partial to hard-boiled egg and lettuce sandwiches. If you ask they will make the tea from China tea. Not all this stuff from Darjeeling. Tea is the Chinese word, for goodness sake. A thermos flask of tea in a picnic basket. Some hot scones folded into a linen cloth to keep them warm.

  “We can have one more beer while they are warming the scones, making the tea and cutting the sandwiches. I will ask them for you at reception while the waiter brings our beer. They know exactly how I like a picnic. Once, when I came to Rhodesia for the third time, I was quite rich. It was I who started them making the picnic lunches. I stayed in the hotel for three months soon after Thomas Meikles built his hotel. Better I ask them. I like everything just right… Then we can take a walk and look at our horses. They have names but we shall give them new ones. That Zulu is ready for his penny.”

  The old man got up abruptly and made for the interior of the hotel. Jim watched him go in his new boots, wondering how old he was. The gait was strong, the face deeply lined, the skin wrinkled, scored with liver spots. He wondered how much of anything was true. Whether the old man knew himself. Even parts of the war were so frightening he was not so sure if they happened to him.

  The goldfish were mostly hiding under the large green lily pads. There were small white flowers among the pads. A frog with a rich red V on its forehead, the size of his thumbnail, was sitting looking at him where Jim sat on the bench.

  The large picnic basket was between them. The birds in the trees were new to him. Except for the doves. The rule was to eat their lunch without talking, silent in the shade of the jacaranda tree. Jim thought he would buy the old man a new pair of trousers before they went. He was going, that much he had made up his mind. He had thought of asking the big-bellied Zulu about the old man but gave him another penny instead. The large smile, open mouthed with the white teeth, was comforting. The egg and lettuce sandwiches were much to his taste as well. The tea was too weak, without any milk. There was no sugar. Each of them had a nice big piece of cold roast chicken. Celery sticks. Radishes. Two bananas each… He was full when they had finished everything including the scones with butter and strawberry jam and the frog had plopped back into the water. Water boatmen were skating on the clear patches of water between the lily pads. The clock in the church some way behind them struck three o’clock with considerable authority.

  Jim packed up the luncheon basket, putting back the china plates that tucked into neat places next to the cups and saucers. Everything buttoned down. There was a little tea left in the thermos flask that he left where it was. They sat for a long while in comfortable silence digesting the food. The colonel, as Jim still thought of him despite the denial, let out a deep sigh of contentment.

  “Well, to work,” he said. “Without work, there can be no pleasure. And that, dear boy, was indeed a pleasure. I have greatly enjoyed your company not saying a word. I dislike people who talk during meals… You can take the basket back to the hotel and I shall wait for you here. I may even take a snooze. A good snooze after a good meal is one of the last great pleasures left to me. You may take as long as you like. Going and coming.”

  The old man was sound asleep when Jim Bowman returned half an hour later. He had taken the precaution of speaking to the young girl at the reception desk. She had a nice smile which made up for the fringe and glasses.

  “Do you know the man who ordered this basket in my name?” he had asked.

  “Colonel Voss! Everyone knows Colonel Voss. You must be off the boat train. He waits at the railway station looking for a grubstake. The young ones fall for it.”

  “Do you think I should fall for it?”

  “Depends on you. What’s he looking for this time? Emeralds? Gold? Diamonds?”

  “Does he ever find anything?”

  “You only have to look at him.”

  “Have you heard of the Place of the Legend? Somewhere in the high mountains.”

  “They found it just outside Fort Victoria.”

  “Colonel Voss says that was not the right one.”

  “He wants you to help him look for the right one? Well, at least that is new.”

  “You never heard him looking for the Place of the Legend before?”

  She gave him a queer look that spoke of many things. Her own frustration at being single. A young man on a fool’s errand. The general stupidity of the world.

  “Thank you,” said Jim. “You have been most kind. Please add the cost of the picnic basket to my bill.”

  “I already have… You won’t run off without paying your bill! Some of the young men just go off into the bush and we never see them again.”

  “You have my wallet. Locked in your safe… Has he ever killed anyone?”

  “Colonel Voss? I’m sure he has. He fought with General Gordon during the Boxer Rebellion in China.”

  “He says he is not a colonel.”

  “I can’t vouch for everything people say.”

  “Are you sure he fought with Gordon?… Do the people who give him a grubstake come back again?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You have been a great help.”

  “Just pay your bill before you go, Mr Bowman.”

  “What makes you think I’m going?”

  “According to the Zulu on the door, they all do. And he’s been here since Mr Meikles built his hotel.”

  “That explains the penny.”

  The young girl with the fringe and glasses turned her back to help another guest.

  Jim walked aw
ay. It would seem disloyal to ask the doorman if the man they called Colonel Voss was honest. There was something about Englishmen sticking together far from home. And they were both Englishmen. Something deep inside was telling him to be reckless. That strange and good experiences were few and far between. That boredom knocked more often at the door. He was young and strong. He could look after himself. The worst thing the old man could do was leave him in the bush to find his own way home. He would always hobble the horses at night. The only source of small wealth worth stealing. He would keep the compass in his own pocket. Alone in the African bush with the wild animals sounded much more comfortable than the British front line on the Western Front. And a lot safer.

  He had to wake up the old man from his dreams. They were to go and have a look at the horses. The old man had been sleeping bolt upright on the wooden bench.

  As they passed the big church while walking up Second Street, the clock struck the half hour.

  “Did the reception desk tell you anything?” asked the old man. They had stopped to look up at the clock tower of the stone-built church… “Churches are sprouting up all over British Africa. Do you think that a good thing?”

  Jim Bowman blushed to the roots of his dark brown hair. Even his ears were burning. “No, sir,” he managed, answering the first question.

  “At least you’re honest. We shall get on. Always be honest. The rest does not matter. Lies, dear boy, are the ruin of man. Cut out their tongues, I say.”

  The horses when they found them half an hour later were the sorriest sight Jim Bowman had ever seen. Skin and bones. Unshod. Lethargic. Their owner, a man much older than Colonel Voss, was much the same. His bare feet were gnarled and his front toes clutched the earth like the toes of a chicken. The old man had a lazy eye that looked over Jim’s shoulder while the other fixed him with a stare. The man lived in a shack with a paint-peeled door but no windows. Jim could make out a bed in the dark inside but nothing else. The floor was unswept dirt. A dog with its tail firmly between his legs guarded the door. A big wooden cart with high sides and a tailgate stood in the yard with the chickens. The canvas top had long shredded in the wind, the shreds of canvas bleached by the African sun. The colonel handed the old man a leg of roast chicken he had kept in his pocket. The old man ate the chicken. His teeth were surprisingly good. The dog got the bone.

  “The roan we shall call Hamlet, dear boy. That big, dark beast shall be Othello… They need some food, Bert.”

  “Don’t we all,” said Bert. The dog, having eaten the chicken bone without mishap, had its tail back between his legs.

  “I’ll do you a favour feeding the beasts, Bert. Why don’t you take them into the bush and let them graze?”

  “Then they run away.”

  “Don’t blame them,” said Jim.

  “What you say, young whippersnapper?” The straight eye had fixed him again.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  The one eye stared him down.

  “How about hiring them for three months?” said Colonel Voss. “Five bob the lot, including the dog. We’ll need a dog. Does he have a name?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He’s a stray.” The old man was well spoken.

  “Gout still killing you?” asked Colonel Voss.

  “Why I keep off the shoes.”

  “Five bob? We’ll fix the canvas and the front right wheel. Mr Bowman, please give Sir Robert the five shillings. Then we’ll be off. At least the horses are salted.”

  “They won’t go ten yards,” said Jim Bowman.

  “Oh yes they will,” said Colonel Voss. There was steel in his voice for the first time. “We leave for the mountains in a week, during which time Hamlet and Othello will be fed on the best food a horse can eat. You shall see. New horseshoes. A good brush. Lots of food… Oh, yes. And that dog could do with something to eat, too. The dog shall be King Richard the Lionheart. We mount the expedition, dear boy. Indeed we do.”

  “You think a week will be enough for the horses?”

  “Maybe two.”

  Jim Bowman was convinced a lifetime of good fodder would have no effect on the horses.

  The front wheel received attention. Jim gave Sir Robert the five shillings. The horses were harnessed into the big double shaft. The dog was coaxed into the cart by Sir Robert’s bare right foot lifting him violently up over the dropped tailgate. The reins needed repairs. The wheels creaked ominously. There were chicken droppings thick on the floor of the cart.

  “Where are we taking them?” asked Jim, seated on the high bench above the skinny rumps of Othello and Hamlet.

  “I have a friend who runs a stable. For two shillings and sixpence, we shall have a great change. I shall sleep with the horses. A man mounting a great expedition can never be too careful… We five shall meet again in two weeks. At the place of the stable. I shall need a shilling.”

  To Jim’s surprise, the horses moved off at a trot. Colonel Voss turned and waved at Sir Robert standing in his doorway. Jim Bowman felt a long way from his home in Stockport.

  “We had better shake hands,” said Colonel Voss. “On our agreement. Remember, an Englishman’s word is his bond.”

  “What is our agreement, Colonel Voss?”

  “Together, we go in search of the Place of the Legend. Now, do we shake hands?”

  Reluctantly, Jim Bowman took the gnarled hand as they trotted back down the road into Salisbury. The old man’s grip was strong. Jim looked back over his shoulder to find King Richard the Lionheart looking at him with pathetic eyes. He put a hand out to the dog which snarled at him. Bravery was overcoming the dog’s fear. Never in his life had he ever found himself in such a peculiar position.

  They parted company at the stables and Jim walked on to Meikles Hotel without any idea of what he was going to do for two weeks. Like any young man with time on his hands, he headed straight for the bar. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to tell someone. Most of all he wanted reassurance.

  2

  Deceit, August 1920

  Jim Bowman felt flat. There were few more desolate experiences than sitting in a strange bar alone. Everyone else seemed to know each other. The barman smiled at everyone else. How the old man had drawn him into spending money was beyond his comprehension. Instead of getting on with his life. Looking for a job on a farm to give him the experience in five years’ time to apply for a Crown land farm. He was about to gallivant off into the bush with an old man who had picked him up at the railway station. Ordering his second beer from the unfriendly barman he wished he had put his damn money in the fishing boat. Until that moment he had no idea he was so gullible. The old boy was clever, he had to give that to Colonel Voss. Making him shake hands.

  A young couple came into the bar laughing and settled at a table. He had chosen the first bar he found. The ladies’ bar. The rest were reserved for men only. He thought for a sweet moment the girl smiled at him and looked quickly away. After a few moments, his eyes strayed back to the young couple.

  They were in their early twenties, he guessed. The girl had big brown eyes and was dressed in the latest flapper fashion. She was smoking through a long, black cigarette holder held up high when she was not taking small puffs of the cigarette. The long, tight dress gave the impression of a flat chest. Jim knew the modern girls tied themselves down with something they wore under their dress, to make them look flat-chested. The girl was obviously not flat-chested and the fight between nature and fashion was more erotic than anything he had seen before. This time he was sure she smiled at him, reading his mind, and he blushed a deep crimson. He could see the colour of his face in the bar mirror, behind the bottles of whisky. She had close-cropped wavy hair in the London fashion with a small tight hat that hugged her head. To add to his consternation, the man got up and came towards him. He could see clearly what was happening in the mirror behind the whisky bottles. The young man was elegantly dressed in a double-breasted blazer and grey flannels.

  “I say, don’t I kn
ow you from somewhere? Army, probably. You were in the war? Barnaby St Clair, at your service. I can see you’re on your own. Come and join me. Silly for an Englishman to sit on his own where there’s another Englishman… You’re not waiting for someone?”

  “No. No, I’m not. My name is Jim Bowman.”

  “You were an officer?”

  “For the last six weeks.”

  “Jolly good. That settles it. Come and meet Tina. She was the one who thought we knew you. She’s quite a girl, Tina. Leave that beer. I’ll have the barman make us a sidecar. I rather like these American cocktails. You are staying in the hotel?”

  The combination of the liquid brown eyes and luscious, slightly open mouth at close proximity caused Jim to want to cross his legs with embarrassment. Under the tight strapping beneath the red dress, he was now sure large, full breasts were trying to come free. As he sat down in a hurry at the table and crossed his legs, the girl took an elegant puff through her cigarette holder, sending an erotic ripple across her chest.

  “This is Mr Bowman, Tina. He’s come to join us. Miss Pringle, Mr Bowman.”

  Before Jim knew fully what was happening a fancy cocktail was put in front of him. He had drunk down the last of the beer before leaving his bar stool, not being a man to waste beer.

  The girl put an elbow on the table and leaned towards him, smiling. The tip of a small pink tongue appeared and retreated. They all raised their new tall glasses and Jim managed to say ‘cheers’. He was acutely aware of the girl’s thighs under the pencil-thin dress. Her fingernails were painted bright red, accentuated by the ebony black of the long cigarette holder. He had never felt more out of place in his life. Both their accents were languidly upper class, the man’s tie clearly from a good regiment or an even better public school. Jim hoped the girl could not smell Hamlet and Othello’s manure. All thought of Colonel Voss and their handshake fled his mind. He had no idea what to say. Both of them were just smiling at him as if he were a long-lost friend. He was quite sure he had never seen either of them before in his life. The girl very beautifully put out her cigarette in the ashtray and placed her cigarette holder on the table, all the time sending waves of sexuality across her chest.