by Peter Rimmer
“You had a bad war,” she said sympathetically, briefly resting her red fingernails on his wrist. “Your hands are shaking. The worst part of war is afterwards. Barnaby lost his eldest brother to the war. Frederick was heir to the title. Now little Richard is going to be the eighteenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck. They came over with the Conqueror. Very old family. Known them all my life. And poor Robert had his foot blown off. You must have heard of the novelist, Robert St Clair? He had a great success with Keeper of the Legend. Both in England and America. America is where the money is. Poor Mr Bowman. Was your war really bad?”
His erection under the table, not far from his hand, was so stiff Jim thought it would poke through the table, or worse. The hand with the red nails went back to the cigarette holder. She lit another Turkish cigarette. He knew the smell of the tobacco. The thought of another legend coming into his life so swiftly after the first sent his mind flashing back to Colonel Voss, which relieved the pressure under the table. He had not seen anyone order but another tall drink replaced the one he had just finished. They were both looking at him with sympathy, something he had never experienced before, not even as a small boy growing up. The drink had gone straight to his head.
“I was in Palestine. With Allenby,” said Barnaby St Clair. “You were on the Western Front?”
“Yes I was and commissioned in the field, you see, so not a proper officer.”
“Oh yes, you are. Did you lead a charge or something?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then you are a very brave man,” said Tina Pringle. “I hope they gave you a medal as well as the commission.”
“The Military Medal.”
“Jolly good,” said Barnaby St Clair with deep satisfaction. “We are lucky, Tina.”
After the second sidecar on top of the two beers, Jim lost his inhibitions and his tongue began to wag. He even told them about the fishing boat and his fifty pounds in his wallet in the safe of the hotel. They listened with consummate interest to every word he said. Somewhere in the wonderful conversation, the wonderful girl with brown eyes that never left his face told him Barnaby also had a title. The Honourable Barnaby St Clair. Jim had never met anyone with a title before.
When his friend Barnaby suggested they all went through to lunch together he was the first to rise to his feet in anticipation.
They were passing the reception when Barnaby stopped abruptly and felt in the inside pocket of his blazer.
“Oh, dash. I must have left my wallet on the farm… I say, old chap. Can you lend me ten quid? Damn silly of me. Left it at Elephant Walk. You must have heard of the Brigandshaws? Harry Brigandshaw’s my brother-in-law. Frightfully nice chap… You do have some money here, don’t you? Money is such a bore. Someone should invent a way of paying for things without having to cart around all that money.”
The girl at reception with the fringe and glasses pulled his wallet from the safe in a matter of seconds. The girl was not as plain as she had been in the morning. Jim took out ten pounds and gave it to his new friend. Everyone smiled, and they went into the dining room for lunch. Jim saw that Barnaby ordered the most expensive French wine on the list and appreciated the gesture.
“Can’t have cheap South African wine for our friends, can we, Tina?”
Barnaby watched his wine glass for him and kept it full with his own hands. All his new friends talked about was the rich and famous. When the head waiter brought the bill, Tina distracted him for a moment. The bill was put in front of him. There was a pen on top of the bill for one pound, three and sixpence.
“Oh, that’s jolly good of you, Jim. Really is. Lovely lunch. You can just sign the bill seeing you stay here. That will be all right, Williams?” he said to the tall thin man dressed in tails.
“Quite all right, sir.”
“You can just add on a tip,” said Barnaby helpfully. “Well, this has been a pleasure meeting a fellow Englishman. We would stay for another cup of coffee but Tina has an appointment with a hairdresser. And you know what women are like with their hairdressers.”
Jim had no idea what women were like with their hairdressers but before he could say anything they were shaking his hand and Tina gave him an almost kiss on both cheeks. Then they were gone, leaving him standing unsteadily at the table.
“Ten per cent is usual,” said the head waiter in a businesslike voice.
Jim wrote ‘add ten per cent tip’ in a barely legible hand. He was drunk. The signed bill disappeared with a ‘thank you, sir’ from the head waiter. Then he was alone as he had been at the bar. Alone and drunk. He was smiling. They were such nice people. He touched his right cheek where the girl had almost kissed him. Then the left cheek with the other hand. He only just managed not to bump the other chairs when he left the dining room.
If he had known better and not drunk too much wine, he would have sworn the head waiter called Williams gave him a look of pity. Why pity, he had no idea. He had never enjoyed a lunch so much in his life.
He went up to his room where someone had thoughtfully drawn the curtains. He fell asleep on his bed without taking off his clothes. In the dark of the night, he woke with the instant picture of Tina in his mind. Then he remembered the bill… And the ten pounds. And felt sick.
When he eventually drifted back into a troubled sleep he had decided for the rest of his life to avoid anyone with a rank or a title.
When he enquired the next morning after the Honourable Barnaby St Clair, the girl with the fringe said he had left that morning for Johannesburg.
“Did he leave a note for me?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Why did he go to Johannesburg when his wallet is at Elephant Walk? There is a farm near here called Elephant Walk?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Is it owned by a chap called Brigandshaw?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Will Mr Brigandshaw be at home do you think?”
“He left to look for his brother-in-law over a year ago. No one has heard of him since.”
“The man I lent ten pounds to was his brother-in-law.”
“The other one. Married to his sister Madge, Barend Oosthuizen.”
“You are a fount of knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
“You did see me give that chap ten quid?”
The girl with the glasses and fringe moved off to help another guest.
“You’d better wake up, Jim my boy,” he said out loud to himself. “They must have seen you coming.”
Upstairs in his room again, Jim Bowman took a good look in the mirror. Hands on the dressing table he leaned to within a foot of the mirrored glass.
“Do I really look that naïve? Can they see the wet behind my ears?”
A boy’s face looked back at him. Only the eyes were older, staring hard at the reflection of himself in the mirror. The nose was well shaped and slightly flared at the nostrils. When Jim turned his face to try to take a look behind his ears, the jawbone was smoothly curved from the hairline around his jaw. The skin was clear and healthy, slightly blushed red on the cheeks. He had not shaved that morning though nothing showed.
“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” he told himself. “No wonder. Just look at you. Lamb to slaughter, Jim my boy. Down to under forty quid within a couple of days. My, oh my.”
Then he laughed. A good, strong laugh, his young face shining with humour. A knock at the door stopped him looking at himself. A lock of soft brown hair fell over his forehead as he turned sharply. Standing upright he pushed the lock of hair off his forehead and marched to the door. He had locked the door, so the cleaner was unable to use a master key. Fumbling the doorknob and the safety catch, he turned the handle expecting to see a black face. The man at the door was white and did not carry a dustpan and brush. The man had a notebook in his right hand and was reading something written on the pad.
“Can I help you?” said Jim Bowman, making his voice sound as cold as possible. He had promised himself the next confidenc
e trickster was going to get a punch on the nose.
Instinctively the man stepped back a pace before recovering his poise. He put the notebook back in his side pocket and held out his hand.
“I’m Simon Haller from the Rhodesia Herald.”
Jim ignored the hand and set his face.
“The local rag, you know. You are Mr James Bowman?”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“You don’t have to be rude.” His hand was still out unshaken. “Do you mind if I come in for a moment? Well, more than a moment if you agree to my proposition.”
“I’ve had quite enough of your propositions. Now, will you be kind enough to leave me alone?” Jim had tried to put some menace into his voice.
The man in front of him was lightly built, in his late twenties. Jim had clenched his right fist and was going to throw a punch if the man took a step forward.
“Easy. Easy, now. I know you had a bad war but…”
“How do you know what war I had?”
“It’s my business to find out things. I’m a newspaper reporter. Not a very good one probably, but…”
“Everyone in this damn country knows my business, and I only stepped off the train the day before yesterday.”
“You did win the Military Medal on the Western Front?”
“Yes I did, and that’s my business.”
“And Colonel Tucker recommended you for the Victoria Cross after giving you a commission in the field?”
“So now what do you want? Free drinks and a tenner? Lunch of course. Out. Get out, I’ve had enough of you lot.”
“All I want is a story. We are doing stories in the Herald of new immigrants who are war heroes… You’ll have your picture in the paper… A little fame never hurt anyone. You are looking for a job? Probably a farmer to give you an apprenticeship with a small income. I can help, Mr Bowman. All I want in exchange is your story. The paper will pay you two pounds. I may even squeeze five pounds from my editor if there are lots to write. Now, may I come in?”
“We can go downstairs and sit in the lobby. Where there are people around.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“This is my press card. You can see the photograph is a picture of me.”
“I don’t damn well care. I’ve been robbed once, probably twice, and it isn’t going to happen a third time.”
“You really did have a bad war.”
“Not really as bad as the last two days. Have you ever heard of a Colonel Voss or the Honourable Barnaby St Clair and his girl with the cigarette holder?”
The man in front of Jim began to laugh. Jim found he could not stop himself. The laughter was infectious. He began to laugh till the tears poured down his face.
“I interviewed Barnaby St Clair a year ago,” said Simon Haller.
They were downstairs in the small men’s bar and drinking their third beer. Jim had told his story of the previous two days.
“He had been demobbed in Cairo. His war was in Palestine. We thought he had been with Colonel Lawrence blowing up trains and by the time we found out the truth he owed my editor twenty pounds. He had never actually met TE Lawrence. The girl was not with him then but I heard about her. St Clair had gone from Egypt down the east coast of Africa where he had a boyhood friend in Johannesburg. The brother of the girl, Tina, of the ebony black cigarette holder. The brother is smart. And rich. His family lived on the St Clair estate for centuries as farm labourers, mostly. Albert Pringle made a fortune out of munitions during the war. Pringle is smart like his sister, and saw clean through St Clair. The bullshit didn’t work so St Clair came up here. Has a brother-in-law. But you know that. Even Mrs Brigandshaw, that’s old Mrs Brigandshaw, wouldn’t give him a job. I heard Tina Pringle joined him a few months ago. Put simply, the St Clairs don’t have a bean other than an old ancestral pile and a few surrounding acres. All the rest he told you about Brigandshaw’s new bride being killed and the brother writing a book is true. Everything he told you was true except for leaving his wallet in Elephant Walk, the Brigandshaw farm. He’s a very charming con man. The youngest son. He’s out in the colonies to make his own fortune. Trouble is, he doesn’t like work. Why she doesn’t find herself a rich man in Johannesburg with her brother’s connections, I have no idea. Rumour has it, the brother hired a tutor to give the girl the right airs and graces. To bring her out of the working class. Wasting her time on a penniless charmer.”
“Maybe she loves him.”
“You’re a romantic, Jim Bowman. No wonder you lost your ten pounds and paid for the lunch. Don’t worry. There are worse failings in life. Far worse. I wouldn’t mind being a romantic.”
“You don’t think I’ll see my money?”
“Not very likely… Colonel Voss is another cup of tea. If I had the time I would go on that journey. You won’t find a valley full of anything. You won’t want to believe too much of what he says about himself. But the experience, the experience you will tell to your grandchildren. I don’t know what rank he was. Whether he fought with Chinese Gordon. But his knowledge of the African bush is worth a lot more than ten pounds. He’s lonely, poor old boy. You’ll be the grandson he never had. He’ll tell you stories. Many stories. What you believe is what you want to believe. There will be plenty of time to find a job when you come back. You’ve been in a terrible war. Let the horror seep out of you in the African bush. It will be a wonderful therapy. Maybe you can tell me the story and I’ll write a book like Robert St Clair. I recommend you read Keeper of the Legend. I hope he writes a lot more books. Even a modern one. About his living family. Not the dead…
“Now, do you want to tell me your story?” he finished.
“There’s nothing to tell. I ran for my life with a fixed bayonet that ended up in a German. It was a blur. They needed new officers. I was yelling at the top of my voice for the others to follow me because I was so scared… Didn’t know anything else to do. I was quite sure I was about to die and the yelling would somehow keep the bullets away.”
“But they did make you an officer. Tell me about that. How it felt? How you fitted in? Tell me about your family. Readers like to read about real people. You must have done more than you say for Colonel Tucker to put you up for the VC.”
“I don’t remember. I don’t bloody well remember.”
“You’d better leave that bit to me. Maybe my editor can go to ten pounds. All this coming out of the ranks so suddenly makes a wonderful human story.”
“Why me?”
“’Cause they gave you the MM and made you an officer. Have another beer. And I promise, Jim, you will not have to pay for anything today. All I want is a good story.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course you can… Mr Barman. Two more Castle beers, please… Did I tell you Rhodesia was named after our paper? First came Cecil Rhodes. Then came the Rhodesia Herald. Then came Rhodesia. We newspapermen coined the name, you see. We gave this country its name. I think only Bolivia was named after a man. Simón Bolívar. What I want from you is a really good story we can sell to the papers down in South Africa. I’ve never syndicated one yet round the world but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t.”
“You won’t tell any lies?”
“Of course not.”
By the end of the fourth beer, Jim Bowman was spilling his guts. Telling his life story. The codfish. The drowned father. The small house in Stockport and the poverty. He even told how his heart stopped whenever he saw Jenny Merryl, the girl next door but three in the row of council houses. He didn’t want to leave anything out for such an attentive listener who listened so well and wrote in his notepad covering page after blistering page. At one point Jim asked to read back the notes.
“Sorry, old chap. You couldn’t read a word. All in shorthand. Pitman’s. Let’s have another beer and you can tell me again about that wonderful charge. So brave of you. I was never in the war. Wouldn’t have me, more’s the pity. I so admire s
uch bravery. You say you don’t remember but you must have killed many more Germans than you say. Why Colonel Tucker put you up for the VC, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I thought afterwards he was just short of officers. The average lifespan of a second lieutenant was only ten days.”
“There must have been much more to your story. You were just too busy bravely leading the men to remember your personal details… I wish I had been in the war.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, maybe not. I might not be here listening to such a wonderful story. A true story. They are always the best. To hell with fiction. Can you describe Jenny Merryl to me? Was she very pretty, Jim?”
“She was the prettiest girl I ever knew.”
“And she went off to Canada? America? You don’t know where? Why, if she knew this story she would run right back to you. A good-looking brave young soldier and a beautiful girl. What a lovely ending. What a lovely story. Five pounds. I’m now quite sure my editor will go to five pounds.”
“You won’t mention Jenny will you?” said Jim, alarmed. “She doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Of course not. Now let’s have some jolly old lunch. We can order a bar lunch right here. I hate those fancy dining rooms. This has been a pleasure. No, Jim, don’t look at me like that. Here, Mr Barman. Take my money now. Friend here thinks he’s going to land up with the bill… Now, Jim, does that make you happy? They do good cheese rolls, with pickled onions. My favourite… You do like pickled onions?”
