by Peter Rimmer
Even at a young age, Tina had worked out the nonsense of life. That it was what you appeared to be that counted, not who you were. A man in a smart suit was a man in a smart suit. Nobody asked if he had paid his tailor. The Savoy, the rand baron, the flat in St John’s Wood, the perfect elocution, compliments of Miss Pinforth: that was who she was. Her brother’s money had made her a lady. To those who asked, she told them her parents were dead, rolling sad, please ask no more questions eyes, making the conversation fall silent. Like in a church. Each time she denied her parents she mentally apologised to her mother and father.
Only Barnaby knew. She would have to be careful of Barnaby. She had watched him take the tadpoles from the water in the jars. One by one. Letting them squiggle out their short lives on dry land before squashing them under his feet. She knew him better than he knew himself. She loved even the evil hidden in his mind.
Playing Merlin as a pawn had not been her idea at first. Merlin presented the idea without her help. The two-colour eyes gave her the shivers. The one eye almost black, peering at her through the monocle, had the same effect on her as Merlin had on animals. Cats that arch their backs. Dogs that ran away. Where Barnaby’s evil was hidden in a smile, Merlin’s was visible in the turbulent stare of the one dark eye. Only this time Tina had no idea if the stare was false. The evil only in the pigment of the eye.
The brothers were still living together in the Park Lane flat when Merlin asked her out. She had been expecting something for weeks. Like Barnaby, they met on the social circuit. Always, Merlin was polite. Never once did he refer to the circumstances of her birth. Somehow he had even found out she was saying her parents had died when she and Albert were young. She even thought he knew the game she was playing.
They had found themselves in the same group of people at Epsom Downs that day they were running The Oaks, a minor classic of the English flat racing calendar. The group had hired an open-topped, double-decker bus that was parked at Tattenham Corner. Formally dressed waiters served ice-cold glasses of French champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches. The men wore morning dress; tall, dove-grey hats and dove-grey suits with tails. She had worn a large hat made of straw and covered in artificial flowers. Dressed in crimson, the material soft and clinging to her legs, she was visible from the stands on the opposite side of the racetrack. Merlin had sat himself next to her. Barnaby was nowhere to be seen. Merlin had a tall cane between his legs, the monocle dangling at the end of the cord on his chest. She was seated on his right, next to the one blue eye and felt more comfortable.
Without the two glasses of champagne that had gone straight to her head, she would probably have refused his invitation.
“Have I ever said how beautiful you are?” he had said.
She was trapped in her seat on the side of the bus next to the track. Caught like a rabbit in a car’s lights, she froze. Her hackles rose. She was sure there was a sword hidden inside the tall cane between his legs that would flash out and impale her. She had not dared look at him. Even her big hat had felt silly on her head.
“Why don’t I call for you tomorrow? At twelve o’clock. You have not seen my new car, Miss Pringle. Tomorrow for lunch. Just the two of us.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“Oh, but I do. St John’s Wood is such a good address. May I congratulate you? And upon your dress. Your hat… I shall call for you tomorrow.”
Merlin had stood up and turned his full face to hers, the coal-black eye pinning her speechless to her seat. Then he had smiled. Excused himself to go and lay a bet with a bookmaker. Bookmakers lined the railings. She could see them down below.
Only when he had gone did she think of what to do. Instead of letting him call on her, she would call on him. Call on the both of them. At the Park Lane flat. They would all go out together. The three of them. Herself, Merlin and Barnaby.
When she had reached home that night, having refused an invitation from the group to go on to dine in town, she had told Smithers, who answered the phone at Merlin’s Park Lane flat, of her change in plan.
“I have to be at my hairdresser in Oxford Street, Smithers. You understand?”
“Perfectly, Miss Pringle. Mr Merlin is to remain here.”
“Silly for both of us to go to St John’s Wood.”
“Silly indeed, Miss Pringle. I will inform Mr Merlin… You did say, Mr Merlin, Miss Pringle? I’m sure Mr Barnaby would be pleased to speak to you right now.”
“I’m in a terrible rush, Smithers.”
When she put down the phone, she swore out loud in a Dorset accent.
“Damn servants know more of what’s going on than we do.”
The irony of what she had said to the telephone back on its hook was lost on her. Only in the middle of the night did she wake and change her plan. Only then, in the dark of the summer night, did she recognise the irony of her words. She even smiled before falling back to sleep.
Barnaby answered the door. The man downstairs at the reception desk had rung the flat. She was dressed perfectly, her close-cropped hair freshly cut, the small cloche hat perched skilfully in her soft brown hair with its tint of red. She smiled her sweetest smile at Barnaby, her new plan working right from the start.
“Is Merlin at home? He kindly invited me to lunch. So sweet of him. He has a new car.” She giggled right in Barnaby’s face, making him step back to reveal Merlin and behind Merlin, Smithers. At that moment she knew that Smithers knew exactly who she was. There was a familiar smirk on his face. A look of ‘you and me, darling’, not ‘you and him’.
In a glance, Tina knew the damn cook fancied her. She even gave him a second look which was probably a mistake. They were all playing games, anyway.
“You don’t mind do you, Barnaby? We were childhood friends. All of us.”
“You talk nonsense.”
“Do I? I don’t think so… Are you ready, Merlin? I’ve been so looking forward to our lunch… Where are we going?”
Again Tina giggled deep in her throat. For a moment she thought Barnaby was going to slam the flat door in her face, his own face had turned so livid. With another sweet smile at Barnaby, she turned on her heels and waited for Merlin. After a long ten seconds, she felt a hand take her elbow and walk her to the still open lift, the lift attendant having been told to wait for her. She was not sure until she turned whether it was Barnaby or Merlin. For the first time in her life, she found the coal-black stare of the left eye reassuring. Then the wrought iron concertina door to the lift closed, and they were going down.
Tina had time to raise a quizzical eyebrow at Barnaby still standing in the doorway to the flat. ‘If looks could kill,’ she told herself.
The Bentley 3 Litre was black. Only the chrome on the rounded top of the radiator shone in the brilliant sun.
Merlin had left his monocle in the flat. He was still asking himself why he had called Tina ‘Miss Pringle’ on the bus. No one else had been listening. Most of them were down on the track, laying their bets. The two o’clock was about to be off. Once the starting gate went up, the betting stopped. Still, it had taken him months to find the courage to ask her out. The Honourable Merlin St Clair, once Captain B Company, Dorset Fusiliers, a regiment first called out by an ancestor more than two hundred years before he was born. A man so rich he would never again have to work in his life. Reduced to a suppliant by a girl not even in his class. A girl with no better birth than Esther, who had gone off and married a corporal soon dead in the war. Esther, the mistress to whom he still paid a small allowance.
The power of the engine, the force of their speed, pinned them both back in the front seats of the car as Merlin hurled the new machine around the tight corners of the English country lanes, fighting his demon. Why did he always wish to seduce girls well below his class, he asked himself? Never once had a classy girl made him go weak at the knees. They left him cold. Trivial chatter. Their sole interest in themselves. Frivolity at its worst. Like being down with a sack of potatoes on a wet blanke
t… Oh, how he knew. How many times. Not one of them making him wish to go back again let alone to make one of them his wife.
Now he was old. Set in his ways. Too old to bring up children even with a house full of servants. The eligible girls in his age bracket loved horses and dogs more than men. Only wanted a husband to stable the horses, kennel the dogs for the hunt. For most of his adult life, Merlin was sure the girls he was introduced to by so many mothers with so many understanding looks mingled with fear were more satisfied by the rhythmic hump of the saddle than any man. They didn’t want him. Any of them. Just a home. A large country home where they could wear their two-piece set of tweeds and hunt foxes in the winter. Watch chinless wonders play endless cricket in the summer.
Merlin pushed down again on the accelerator pedal. A small stretch of straight road. To his surprise, Tina seemed to be enjoying herself. Twice she had whooped as he brushed the hedgerow on the curves. She was alive. Her eyes sparkling. Her leg so close to his.
There was no chance of talk. No chance of questions. The top was down and the wind rushed over the windscreen. Tyres squealed on the newly tarred road. There had never been any doubt in his mind where he was going for lunch even if the end result had been so humiliating. His mistress gone off from his house while he was fighting in the trenches. Gone off to marry her corporal because she knew he would never ask her to marry him. To have children. To have a real home of her own.
He had met Esther at the Running Horses in Mickleham. On a walking tour in the countryside before the war. Esther had been the barmaid. Young. Big-breasted. Full of life. None of it trivial… And he was going back. Hurtling down the lanes of Surrey back to the pre-war days with another girl that made his hormones scream for the joy of life. He was going to find the magic once again before he died. To hell with Barnaby. To hell with Smithers. To hell with all of them. He wanted to feel again. To want to live. He wanted Tina. Even as a wife. Merlin knew they were travelling much too fast as he shouted out his joy to the rushing air. He had admitted it. At last. He wanted her as a wife. To hell with all the family consequence. Skilfully his right foot brushed the brake before the onrushing hedgerow. Next to him on the seat was a small hand gripping the red leather with all its might. Taking one hand from the wheel he briefly covered the hand with his own. They were back down a straight. Faster than before.
By the time they reached the Running Horses, Tina was not sure if she was dead or alive. She had never been so frightened in her life. The journey blurred between tree and hedge, flashing past, hurling her sideways in the turns, the big engine throbbing power the full length of her body. Her knuckles gripping the red leather seat for dear life were white. She whooped and whooped to replace her fear.
When the car stopped on the gravel driveway, she was unable to get out of the car. Her small hands were still gripping the leather seat. Merlin was smiling at her, the engine turned off. The long black bonnet in front of her seemed ready to go again. Ready to fly. No wonder a thick leather strap bound down the rounded bonnet to keep the power of the engine deep inside. Again he covered her right hand, smiling at her, willing her to enjoy his fun.
For a moment Tina thought she was going to be sick. Her cloche hat had long gone with the rushing wind. Her new haircut was free of all restraint. Her hands stopped gripping the leather seat. She brought them together pertly on her lap.
Merlin got out of the car and walked around the front, touching the shiny chrome of the radiator top in passing. A lover’s caress. Merlin licked the hand that had touched the chrome. It was hot, she thought. He was smiling deep into her eyes, the dark eye and the blue eye working together. His hair too was ruffled by the wind. His left hand ran the full length of the car’s bonnet towards her and opened the door.
The fear had gone, replaced by something more familiar. Sexual. It was as though she had never seen the man before. Seeing him in a different light compared with the well-dressed, somewhat detached gentleman full of conceit. All appearance and little substance despite the frightening eye. A man made up of an eyeglass and a cane. Everything perfect. The flat. Smithers. The daily routine. The unspoken money.
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“Oh, the hat,” she said after a moment.
“You weren’t frightened of my driving?”
“Petrified.”
“Don’t be silly. Tina Pringle has never been frightened of anything in her life. I’m sorry. We would have been late for lunch. They stop serving lunch at two o’clock. Come on. We left Hyde Park at ten past twelve. It’s a quarter to two. Not bad. One of those corners was a bit close but you sometimes have to take a chance in life. No point in driving all this way without getting lunch.”
“You’ll be slow on the way home?”
“Of course. Like a lamb. I never drive fast when I drink a bottle of wine.”
“I need a stiff gin after that.”
“I used to know the owner. We’ll have a drink in the bar and order lunch. A gin first and then a bottle of wine. How does that sound?”
“Where’d you learn to drive that fast?”
“On a racetrack. I don’t take up many hobbies but when I do, I like to know what I’m doing. Cars can be dangerous if you don’t know how to handle them.”
“Isn’t your eye out of focus?”
“Of course not. The monocle is for effect. Plain glass. Why I left it at home. You don’t need a distraction when driving at speed. Believe me… Are your knees a bit weak, Tina?”
“They’re rubber. You’ll have to help me out of the car.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“Do you ever get the feeling you have only just met a person you have known all your life?”
“No. I don’t think so… It’s not going to rain. We can leave down the top. What a beautiful day. There is nothing more beautiful than an English summer’s day. You can leave your coat on the back seat of the car. No one steals anything in the country. Don’t you miss Dorset?”
“And my mother, Merlin.”
“I miss mine too. In a better world, we could take a journey home together. Maybe we will. Who knows?”
“It would be a disaster.”
“Probably.”
The building was very old. Someone had told Merlin there had been an alehouse on the same site during the Crusades. The man had not said which Crusade. The place had likely changed names a few times over the centuries. During the reign of King Richard the First, there were unlikely to have been running horses at nearby Epsom Downs.
The thatch was thick and black, patched many times over the years. The thatch stood out three feet from the walls, giving the small, low windows some protection from the rain and sun. The leaded windowpanes were small, the glass uneven, the old bubbles in the glass making the occasional magnifying glass into the dark interior.
Before the war, Merlin had looked in through one of the bubbles in the glass. Everything inside was distorted. He was unable to make out anything real. The bulged figures moved around, he could see that. He had been looking into the low-ceilinged dining room. He had thought the moving gargoyles were waiters.
The wood slats on the side of the tumbling buildings were black with age. The buildings had been built onto each other when they were needed. Some of the joins were strange where the long-dead builders had made them fit together with great skill.
The then owner said the thatch leaked, and every summer had people on the roof putting on another layer of combed straw. Starlings nested in the thatch which Merlin had thought was probably the problem. In those days he had not made his money out of shares in Vickers-Armstrong. He relied on his small wage from Cornell, Brooke and Bradley. Philip Spence had been his senior in those days. It had been Philip Spence who had first brought him to the Running Horses.
By the time he got a shaken Tina Pringle from the car, the owner was walking towards the car across the wide, gravel driveway. Merlin was surprised to see it was the same man from before the war. Most things he fo
und changed in nine years. They might look the same but they weren’t. The man had his hand out. Merlin had not visited the Running Horses since before the war. There was a girl of about seven standing in one of the side doors of an outbuilding looking at the car. The door was so low anyone over five-foot tall would have to bend their heads to go inside.
This same man walking towards him had told Merlin Englishmen were much shorter at the time of the Crusades. There was an old suit of armour at Purbeck Manor that had belonged to one of Merlin’s ancestors which bore out the theory. The ancestor had had to be very small to get into the suit of armour. And very strong to carry the weight. Merlin had got into it as a small boy. The armour had fallen on its face, the part Merlin had squirmed into. His mother had found him an hour later still lying on the floor. He had never tried to get into the suit of armour again.
He gave the little girl a smile, but the girl turned quickly back through the open door and slammed it shut.
“I don’t believe it,” the man said, “the Honourable Merlin St Clair. What a pleasure. Just in time for lunch. Some salmon straight from the north of the Lyn River. Peas from the garden. Potatoes. Your favourite.”
Surprised seeing the same man, Merlin fought to remember his name. Then he remembered.
“Stanton. Nice to see you again. This is Miss Pringle. Do you like my new car? Goes like the wind. Thought we would have a drink in the bar while you prepare our lunch… You do have a table?”
“Of course… Well, why not go straight to your table? The waiter can bring your cocktail. We do make cocktails now, you know. The building may be old but we’re up with the times.”
Merlin saw the man was suddenly flustered. The confident hand held out became a soft, brief handshake. The man would not look him in the eye. Merlin had forgotten how much darker the left eye had become. The man was frightened.
“Be warned not to travel in that car, Mr Stanton,” said Tina.
