by Peter Rimmer
He had not returned to Cornell, Brooke and Bradley at the end of the war, the firm of Lloyd’s insurance brokers who had been his employer before the outbreak of hostilities with Germany. He had nothing of importance to do until the evening when a new musical was opening at Drury Lane. With his money safely invested in British government gilt-edged stock, his income would be sufficient for the rest of his life. He had chanced his arm once in the share market and made his fortune. He had quite enough money for his tastes. He never understood his friends who had enough but always wanted more.
When he was a little bored, he never admitted it to himself, which was why he kept strictly to his daily routine. With a routine, there always was something he had to do. It made his trivial life seem more important than it was.
When the front doorbell rang he was standing looking out over the park with his third and last cup of tea held in both hands. In ten minutes he would take his coat, hat and cane from the stand at the front door and go out for his constitutional in the park. He was surprised and annoyed at the doorbell ringing. No one had been invited and all his friends knew perfectly well not to call on him unless they were invited. It was the front door, he knew by the ring, and not the smaller door into the kitchen that was used by tradesmen. Merlin waited frozen for Smithers to answer the summons. Never, ever, had he opened his own front door to its ring.
“Can I help you, sir?” He could hear Smithers’s voice from the front door.
“Is this the home of the Honourable Merlin St Clair?”
“Indeed it is, sir.”
Merlin noted with satisfaction the disapproval in Smithers’s tone of voice.
“Please tell him Mr Barnaby St Clair wishes to speak with him.”
“Barnaby. Barnaby!” shouted Merlin. “Is that you?”
Forgetting his routine and the walk in Hyde Park, Merlin put down his teacup, spilling tea into the saucer in his haste.
“Come in, dear boy, come in. Smithers, it’s my brother. You were in Palestine. Then Africa. How long have you been in England? Goodness, what a lovely surprise.”
They had met in the corridor that separated two bedrooms from the dining room and the kitchen. Merlin did not notice the stack of suitcases at the front door or the cab driver waiting to be paid.
“This morning, Merlin. London docks. Didn’t you once sail on the King Emperor?”
“Yes, yes. The first time it must have been five years ago, the second when Lucinda died. I was on home leave. 1915. Then you were sent out to the Middle East, and we never saw you again. Didn’t you sail straight from Cairo to Africa? Come in. Come in. Let me have a good look at you. You were just a boy. Only shaved twice a week, I remember. The favourite son returns. You are, you know. Granny Forrester always said you were the best of the bunch… Who’s that man at the door? What are those cases?”
“They’re mine, Merlin. As I said, straight from the dock. I say, can you pay the cab driver? Jolly silly, but I don’t have any money.”
“Where are you staying in London?”
“Well, I rather hoped with you, Merlin.”
“Of course. Come in. Have a sherry or is that too early? It’s after breakfast. Smithers, give that chap some money and put the cases in the spare bedroom. My, but you’ve changed. You’re a man. Filled out. Why didn’t you write to me, you scoundrel? Or did you? Yes, I rather think you did once. Just before the war was over.”
“I’d like a glass of sherry.”
“So we shall then. When are you going down to Dorset?”
“Well, that depends. Met a charming girl on the boat.”
“You old rascal. Are you going to marry her?… Smithers. Please hurry up and close the front door. There is a draft going through the flat. It’s now the end of September, you know. Bring me the sherry decanter and two glasses. Some biscuits… Come on, Barnaby. I just finished my breakfast.”
“You don’t work in insurance anymore?”
“No, I don’t…”
Merlin fixed the monocle in his left eye to give himself time to think. The boy who was now a man had not been able to look him in the eye. The cuffs of his shirt were slightly frayed and for some reason, his brother was wearing an old Harrovian tie. All the boys had gone to Radley, a small, less expensive public school that had given their father a discount for sending them four boys. Richard, the eldest, had never gone to school. There had been something very wrong with his mind from birth. Merlin always thought Richard dying young was a blessing in disguise.
“What’s going on, Barnaby? You never went to Harrow.”
“Oh, my God!”
To impress the girl’s father, the girl with the scrawny neck from the captain’s table, he had worn the tie the last day at breakfast, hoping the father would invite him for a visit. He had intended to take it off when he left the ship. But Barnaby was more afraid of taking a taxi without being able to pay the fare and not knowing if Merlin was at home to receive him. The fear had made him forget. To add to his woes when they came off the boat, the girl who was still as ugly as sin had cut him dead. The damn girl had seen through him all the time. Had been polite while they were all bound to the captain’s table on board ship.
He put his hand up to his neck and blushed, something he had not done since he was ten years old. He had never before seen his brother wear a monocle and it frightened him. He was sure the left eye had not been that dark in 1915.
“What’s wrong with your left eye?” he asked to cover his embarrassment.
“Nothing except the colour… Come in!” he called to Smithers who had knocked on the door. “Please bring me the whisky decanter instead, Smithers.”
They waited in silence, Merlin looking out of the window.
“You’re broke, aren’t you?” he said into the silence.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, we’ll just have to do something about that.”
“I hoped you’d say that.”
“Probably not in the way you wanted. There will be no gifts. You will work. And take off that damn tie. I don’t like confidence tricksters at the best of times. And certainly not in the family. You could always get your way as a boy. I watched you and hoped you would grow out of it. You always knew how to get around people but it was always calculated. You have the charm all right. Charm can be very useful in life. When it is genuine. You had better start from when you left the army. And don’t lie. I can see right through lies.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take you home to Dorset. Leave you at home. Then I will think. You don’t have any skills other than the army?”
“None.”
“Can you go back into the army? Back to Sandhurst?”
“I’m too old.”
“And they probably won’t have you.”
“No, they won’t.”
“What did you do?”
“Borrowed some money from the mess funds in Cairo. I was in charge of them.”
“Stole some money. Why you were demobbed so quickly?”
“Something like that… Why don’t you give me a hundred pounds and I’ll get out of your way?”
“What will you do?”
“I have an idea. There were some chaps on the boat. Stock exchange types.”
“Stockbrokers?”
“No, investors. They both gave me their cards.”
“Why don’t you go back to Africa?”
“I can’t.”
“Burnt your boats there too? Who paid your passage home?”
“Albert Pringle, Tina’s brother.”
“Oh, my God! Can this get worse?”
“I hope not. Maybe five hundred pounds will give me a better start.”
“Buy yourself some new shirts.” He was being hoodwinked, but he did not care.
“If you don’t mind I’ll skip the drink. I never drink during the day,” Barnaby said sarcastically.
“What did you do to Tina Pringle?”
“Nothing. And that’s the absolute trut
h.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
“So we’re not going to Purbeck Manor?”
“No, not today, not after what’s been said. Why don’t you try America? They love a title. Even an Honourable.”
“Maybe. Thank you, Merlin. I knew I could rely on you.”
“There’s always one in every family.”
“Yes, I rather think there is. Five hundred pounds and you won’t see me again.”
“Like hell.”
Barnaby waited patiently for his brother to write out the cheque.
“You can make it out to ‘cash’. I don’t have a bank account.”
With a small satisfied smile on his face, Barnaby put the cheque in his pocket and turned for the sitting room door.
“Smithers can let me out. I’ll send for my suitcases… And Merlin, don’t you think it a little early to start drinking? Just after breakfast! Really!”
Jenny Merryl’s family had been shrimp fishermen in Neston for generations. The shrimp boats lay on their sides on the mudflats of the River Dee down by Parkgate when the tide went out. The fine-mesh pots hung out to dry next to the houses. No one had ever got rich, and no one had starved. A few moved across the Wirral to Liverpool to make a better life, so they thought. Some, like Jenny Merryl, went further afield and were quickly forgotten.
Never once had anyone heard of a cod fisherman changing to shrimp or a shrimp man to deep-sea fishing. They were tough, independent and loyal to each other. The men were men among men. The women fed, cleaned and looked after the broods of children. Nonsense was sorted out with a clout round the head. Words were sparse and family honour as valuable as the catch that came in from the sea. They were private people who lived in the small stone cottages that littered the shore of the estuary in rows.
Had it not been for the parish vicar, no one would ever have heard of the reward in the Daily Examiner for finding Jenny Merryl. The word spread like wildfire from cottage to cottage. Twenty-five pounds would buy a small boat.
“Do we know where the little cow went to?” said her mother who lived next door but three to Mrs Bowman, Jim Bowman’s mother.
“She never but looked at ’im,” said Jenny’s brother, Len.
“Don’t bloody care. All they want’s our Jenny… You think that Jim Bowman’s rich?”
“Some say the boy had fifty pounds when he came out of the army.”
“Fifty pounds! Don’t be daft. Bloody corporal ’e was.”
“Not at the end… What’s all palaver about? Made ’im an officer, they did. Got a medal so vicar says.”
“What’s the vicar know?”
“More than us, Mum.”
“You say they want a photograph of our Jenny?”
“Maybe we tell ’em who we are. Vicar can write the newspaper. You think they’ll like our photo in paper? Better than nothin’. Might give us a bob or two. You think our Jenny will be famous when they find ’er? Hero, vicar says. Jim Bowman. Gave me a clout once, so I clouted ’im back. Made ’is bloody nose bleed. Serve ’im right. Must have been ten or eleven. Now he’s famous. Whatever next. You think Jenny will write? She can write, you know. How she got the job as nurse in the war. Well, I never. Our Jenny famous.”
“Shut up, Len Merryl, or I’ll give you a clout.”
“I’m goin’ down the Pig and Whistle. Someone might buy me a drink now I’m Jenny Merryl’s brother what’s in the paper.”
“Why they want to buy you a drink?”
“Because my sister’s famous. Everyone likes to be associated with the famous. Somethin’ to talk about.”
“You’re bloody daft… What we want’s that twenty-five pounds. Best you go down to London, Len. Look for Jenny. First, she went to see our Cousin Mildred. One that got herself pregnant. Little bugger must be two years old by now.”
“Little bastard you mean… You goin’ to lend me the train fare, Mum?”
“Might do. Then you’ll owe me that twenty-five pounds less a quid for your trouble.”
“That’s daylight bloody robbery.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“First, I’m goin’ to the pub.”
Dolly Merryl watched her son put on his overcoat. The days were drawing in. The feel of winter was in the autumn sun. A cold wind came into the kitchen parlour when Len went out the door. She was thinking. Most times she only thought as far as her next job. Five sons and Jenny were what she had to show for it. Arms the size of hams from manual work. A blotched red face. Chilblains on her toes and fingers. Hair going streaky grey. Nails broken. Feet swollen from standing all day. She was an old hag when she looked in the cracked old mirror someone had given her grandmother. Thrown out of some fancy house. Grandma bringing it home like the first prize she had ever won in her life. By then, Grandma had no teeth, only gums. She died soon after. She was fifty-two years old, Dolly remembered, looking out of the window.
The tide was out. The mudflats stretched into Wales, black and cold, waiting for the sea to come back and cover its sadness. The shrimp boats were all out waiting for the tide to come in. The two boys would be hungry when they came back in the dark and she should get on with the cooking. Instead, she was thinking. Len would put his half in a shrimp boat. The three boys would work together. Got on with each other without fighting. There would be more than potatoes and onions on the table. Bread with no butter. It filled their bellies but after fishing, pulling in the heavy nets, they deserved a good meal when they came home tired to the marrow of their bones. In her mind’s eye, she could see a nice boat with nice new nets and shrimp aplenty.
The Welsh coast was pretty with the green. Even the mud had a strange prettiness of its own with the late yellow sun showing pockmarks where air blew holes in the surface coming up from down below, air pockets caught by the rush of the sea when it came in with the morning tide. She was dreaming and standing and doing nothing for a rare moment in her life. Jenny by now would have collected the twenty-five pounds for herself and spent it on fancy clothes. They had never got on, she remembered. Jenny had always been different. Never wanting to be a shrimp fisherman’s wife like the rest of them… The best she could hope for was a postal order for a few shillings and a letter. She hoped Jenny was all right. Doing well. Found herself a bloke.
Len had brought the dirty washing for her to do from the vicar’s wife along with the strange tale of Jim Bowman. A boy like the rest of them, gone off to war and lived, not like her older boys and what was the thanks? The older boys and Da. Blown to bloody pieces, two of them. Da shot dead in ’15 and she told him not to volunteer… Dreams. She should stop the dreams and peel the potatoes. She had some stock from the fish bones to pour in the mess. Some greens from the small fenced garden, salted by the wind from the sea, stunting everything that tried to grow… She needed another load of horse manure from the farm back of Neston.
She was pretty once like Jenny. Her mind wandered away and went off into the past.
Fred Merryl had been a lovely young boy that summer before the Boer War started when Queen Victoria sat on the throne of England. Not a big man like some of the others, but beautiful. When the beautiful young boy looked into her soul through her eyes, she drowned in his beauty. He promised her a boat would soon be his own. He promised her eternal love. Eternal devotion. Always promises that he meant at the time he wanted her body. She could see that now. She smiled. Young and in love. One true year before the babies came and the drudgery. Never the boat of his own. Never the eternal love as his soft brown eyes that women loved strayed around the village. He had been unfaithful to her the second year of their marriage. Again and again. They made up, again and again, bringing them the children.
Dolly began peeling the pile of potatoes, still thinking back, reminiscing, remembering the good times never the bad. She even smiled to herself alone in the kitchen at the scrubbed white table where the sharp knife took off the thinnest peel from the potatoes. At the beginning, a pretty girl was in control. Once the prett
y had gone, the women were servants for the men and the children. Some women fought out their frustration by nagging their men and shouting at the children. Which made it worse. Life was hard work and there was never any getting away from it, she told herself for the umpteenth time.
Dolly finished the potatoes and started on the big onions, making her eyes water. She got up to look out of the window and rest her eyes away from the onions. The tide was coming in flat like a mirror spread on the mud. The sunset red and pink from the sinking sun on the underbelly of the clouds was reflected in the water flooding the wide estuary of the Dee. The hills across in Wales were purple-red. Dolly had never been to Wales and wondered why. She had never been out of the counties of Cheshire and Lancashire.
The sails would be up and the boat the older boys worked would be moving into shore. They were good boys. If they had the twenty-five pounds and the boat, her boys could find a wife and start the cycle of life all over again. She hoped their wives would not nag them.
She sat down again at her work and finished preparing the family supper. On Sunday, they were going to look for blackberries in the hedgerows behind Neston, along the fields of old farmer Bill. She liked picking blackberries. Liked making jelly in the big preserving pan. She always made enough to last her family through the long winter, the jars of bramble jelly reminders of the summer and the sun. She made up a picnic lunch for all of them when the sun shone and they laughed their way along the lanes. She had the boys if nothing else in life, and that was all that mattered to her now.
She was pleased when Len came back after drinking only one beer.
“Everyone’s talking about our Jenny.”
“I’m glad.”
“Jim is in a place called Rhodesia.”
“Where the ’ell is that?”
“Africa.”
“Hope our Jenny don’t take idea of goin’ Africa?”
