by Peter Rimmer
“I’m glad I did not fly in combat against you, Harry.”
“Now that everything is finalised, I would like to thank you for a splendid job well done. Which is why I’m here in your office. I will be at the London Stock Exchange on Monday morning when they ring the bell. Keep your fingers crossed for a good opening price. I want my staff to see an immediate profit… Did anyone sell short as far as you know?” Harry was at the door of CE Porter’s office when he turned back to smile. Barnaby had told him CE Porter’s scheme to make Barnaby broke. Again CE Porter went white.
“Not so far as I know, Harry.”
“Good.”
By the time Harry was out of the London traffic and had opened the throttle of his bike, he was smiling again at the recollection. And he had finally made up his mind to make Percy Grainger the managing director of Colonial Shipping, the holding company for Empire Castle Line.
Instead of taking the high road, he wound the motorcycle along the path that followed the river. It was the same path he had taken with Robert St Clair so long ago when they came down from Oxford in 1907. They had walked from Corfe Castle railway station to Purbeck Manor along the river. That was the day he first saw Lucinda when she was fifteen years old. He could still see her standing at the end of the pathway.
When Harry saw the chimney pots of the old house over the trees, he could hear Lucinda calling in his head.
‘Come on, Harry. We’re home,’ she said. ‘We’re home.’
Which made him cry.
Robert St Clair heard the motorcycle when it was three miles away and cocked his ear. Walking on a peg foot was painful after a mile. He had stopped under an oak tree with a twenty-foot girth. Under the great spreading oak Robert had constructed a wooden bench with its back to the gnarled trunk of the old tree. Last year’s acorns were strewn on the moss and further away among the new grass of spring, too many for the squirrels.
On the bench and three others in a two-mile radius of Purbeck Manor was where he sat of a day thinking through the plot of his book before going back to the house to write down what he had seen and heard in his mind.
The army rehabilitation people had twice given him prosthetic feet in exchange for the one he had lost in France during the war. Twice he had gone back to his peg foot. The look of two shoes at the end of his trousers was not worth the jerk and click of the artificial limb that made his walks in the woods a stumbling pain.
The sound of the motorcycle drew nearer. Robert thought the man must be following the course of the river that was really a stream. The pictures in his head were shattered by the loud, intensive noise of the bike’s motor. Robert gave up. Once the pictures left his head, it was a long process to get them back again.
The path along the river was visible from under the oak. Robert waited silently. A traveller was lost; if he kept quiet the man would find the path ended in the private garden of the manor, turn round and go back the way he came. With the return of birdsong to his ears, the pictures would slowly come back again. His characters would again start talking in his head.
He knew the intruder was a man. Women, so far as Robert knew, didn’t ride motorcycles. The motorcycle came into view. The big machine coughing smells and ugly sound drew level and stopped. The rider was fifty yards down the slope from Robert sitting silently on his bench. Robert had not moved an inch.
The engine was turned off bringing back the silence of the woods. The man had big goggles over half his face. Robert recognised the long leather coat that stopped at the thighs. He had seen them during the war, worn by pilots from the Royal Flying Corps.
Robert could hear birds again, calling from far away. A breeze moved the thin strands of new green grass that only grew away from the shade of the oak. Under his foot was green moss. Earlier, Robert had removed the peg and put it on the bench. He liked to massage the stump. He could not run away if he wanted.
The man was getting off the bike and hooking out the stand with his foot. The man in the goggles waved. Robert ignored the wave. The man began to walk towards him. The bike was standing at a slight slant against its metal stand, the machine leaning away from Robert. He imagined the stand or the motorcycle would have fallen over on its side. The man stopped short and put his hands on his hips.
“Fine way to greet your brother-in-law.”
“I say. It’s Harry. Well, I never. I thought you were lost. Don’t have many visitors. You’ll have to hang on while I put on my peg. Well, I never. Why didn’t you phone? Mother will be pleased.”
“How’s the book going?”
“All right until that damn machine shattered my concentration. There are fresh scones for tea and raspberry jam from last year. We can get the cook to make a big supper now you are here. The cook sometimes needs motivation. Harry, take off those goggles!”
“Good to see you, you old bastard.”
“None of that, Harry. You’re the bastard, don’t forget. Why is this only your third visit since you came to live in England?”
“Not to live. I’m going home at the end of the English summer in time for the seedbeds. The seedbeds go in, in September. We plant out the tobacco seedlings in the lands at the start of the rains.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“You want a lift to the house?”
“Don’t be silly. Wouldn’t get on that thing if you paid me… Where is the Rolls-Royce? The chauffeur?”
“This is more fun. I’ll go on up. Is your mother in the house?”
“You’ll find her in the herb garden. Father went out to check the cows. Best thing Merlin ever did was buy Father the pedigree herd. Joy of his life. With the pigs of course. Ah, the pigs!”
“You don’t have to hurry.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You are always hungry, Robert. You have worms. You have always had worms.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why aren’t you fat?”
“I burn up the fat with mental energy… I really am glad to see you.”
“So am I to see you, old friend. It’s nearly twenty years since we first met at Oxford.”
“Eighteen to be exact. Yes, it’s eighteen years. Can you tell mother to tell the cook about supper? You know where the herb garden is? Behind the kitchen. Remember the herbs hanging in Mrs Pringle’s kitchen? They came from our herb garden.”
“Yes, I do, come to think of it. Glorious smell, wasn’t it?”
“It certainly was. Memories! Life is all about memories, Harry. Fact is, that’s all life is about.”
“When I saw the chimney pots back there, I saw her again when she was fifteen. We were together, you and I. When I first set eyes on Lucinda.”
“Are the memories all right?”
“They are getting better. The bad are fading. The good becoming more vivid.”
“She fell in love with you that day. She told me. All the girls fell in love with you that day. My mystery man from Africa… You go on. I don’t like people to watch me put on my foot. It’s the only thing I don’t like apart from not having a foot. Private Lane doesn’t have anything except his soul. Just one wayward British shell ending in the wrong trench. Quite ironic. There was Albert Pringle in Africa making shells for the army. They mustn’t have loaded the damn thing correctly. Or whatever you do to make a dud shell. You think Albert from the cottage down the river blew off my foot?”
“I doubt it. I’ll ask Cook to put the scones in the oven. Can I call you peg leg?”
“You call me what you like. I just called you a bastard.”
They were all pleased to see Harry. No one mentioned Lucinda using words. The cook’s eyes spoke volumes as did the bluster of Lord St Clair. Harry was first taken to see the pigs. The bull and the cows came next. They were Sussex cattle with deep red hides and soft brown eyes.
The rest of Saturday was spent in comfortable small talk. The kind of talk among old friends who did not have to say very much to each other. There was no need for any e
xplaining.
There were more dogs and cats around the old house than Harry’s first visit back in ’07. The dogs sprawled comfortably in front of a log fire. Even in May, the house was cold. They ate roast pork with an apple sauce that the cook had bottled in the autumn. There was a row of Kilner jars full of apple sauce in the pantry. For some reason, they ate in the grand hall with the vaulted ceiling. They all sat at one end of the long table. Only one of the fires had been lit. Harry thought eating in the hall was for him. There were just the four of them as one of the sisters who had lost a husband in the war lived with her mother-in-law in Norfolk. The other sister, Annabel, lived in Manchester, happily married to Geoffrey who had been a sergeant during the war. Harry remembered the man had won the Military Medal and was now a painter. Geoffrey had painted the covers for Robert St Clair’s novels. The covers were very good.
Politely, neither Lord nor Lady St Clair mentioned the motorcycle.
The next day, Harry and Robert found their way back to the bench under the oak. They wanted to talk. The weather had held. Robert had insisted on bringing with them a large packet of chicken sandwiches. The sandwiches were wrapped in greaseproof paper. Harry had seen some of the chickens pecking around in the garden. The cook had put in a thermos of tea and two slices of plum cake. Harry carried the basket. They had only just finished a large breakfast.
“Don’t like to be too far from the house without food,” Robert explained.
“I see,” said Harry. His friend was stumping along quite well next to him. The dogs had all been told to stay behind. Robert had used many strong words before the dogs did what they were told.
Harry breathed good clean air with satisfaction. The tension from the office and the share listing was leaving him. To have an old friend, he knew, was one of the joys of life. To never have to be on the defensive.
“How’s the new book going, Robert?” He knew Robert liked to talk to him about his books.
“I’m back in the twelfth century again. It’s not a sequel to Keeper of the Legend. England before the Norman invasion. By the way, I had a letter from the American Glen Hamilton last week. He wants to know when he can read the manuscript of the new book. No title yet. Usually, I get the title somewhere through writing the book. It’ll come. Glen has been so good to me after finding me my publisher for Keeper of the Legend. I think he really likes my books but you never know. I can never judge my own works so I don’t know what the fuss is all about. Living here is cheap so I don’t worry about the new advance. Well, maybe I do a little. Father is always short of money.”
“Well, he won’t be soon if all goes well on Monday.”
Harry told Robert what Barnaby had done. Leaving Barnaby as the only benefactor to his family. Harry told Robert he thought Lord St Clair would get a tax-free cheque for as much as twenty thousand pounds from Barnaby.
“It wasn’t his idea was it, Harry?”
“It was a matter of fact. I just set the rules. It’s how Barnaby makes a living.”
“How did he get allocated so many shares?”
“How’d you know about these things? You don’t know a thing about finance.”
“Nonsense. Long ago a teacher told me to read the whole newspaper including the letters to the editor. Not just the sport or the stage reviews. Or the court circular. He said if I wanted to write fiction I would have to know everything about life. You’d be surprised how much useless information resides in this head of mine. Among the rubbish are treasures, I hope. How many people other than Barnaby received a one hundred thousand share allocation?”
“The sponsoring broker. He hid it in nominees, if you know much about the stock market.”
“Then you are giving father the money, Harry.”
“He won’t look further than Barnaby. Lead your mother off the subject if she starts asking questions. You’re very good at leading people off the subject, Robert.”
“Would you like a sandwich?”
“I have only just finished a very large breakfast.”
“Have a mug of tea. There are two mugs so we don’t have to use the top of the flask. The cake is very good. Rich well-dried fruit. Why do plums become prunes when they dry up? Why can’t they just stay as dried-up plums?”
“You love words, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. They are such fun. I love writing as I can go anywhere I want, whenever I want, in any century. The leg becomes irrelevant. Sometimes I am so much there in the story it is more real than sitting at my desk. As if that old ancestor has gone into my body and taken me back to his life. It’s so vivid, Harry. I am there in every way. Mentally and physically. I become each one of my characters in turn. Or more exactly, each character takes over my body and lives through me.”
They sat down on the bank of the stream to drink their steaming hot mugs of tea. Neither of them put sugar in their tea. The fresh milk from one of the cows was in a screw-top bottle in a napkin. The cook was from an old school who believed in doing it the right way or not at all.
The morning clouds were upside down in the floating stream. A frog watched them from a perch on a stick in the water. The stream flowed over the frog’s feet.
After ten minutes they got up and walked the rest of the way to the oak tree and looked at the bench Robert had made for himself. They had not said another word.
“I always wonder how many St Clairs have sat under this tree. Do you think any of them made love to their ladies? That somehow I started under this tree? Conical hats with long hanging silk thrown urgently on the moss of summer. I don’t think they would have done it in the winter, do you?… Horses jangling at the bits. Armour propped against the far side of the tree with a great sword hilt ready for strong hands. Great big swords with Christian crosses for handles. Long white smocks with the red cross of St George emblazoned on the back and front. Thrown away on the ground, oblivious to love. Chain armour. The fading smell of the Holy Land. A manservant discreetly keeping guard with his back to the naked lovers. Right there, Harry. Where I put the bench. Where I sit on the moss when I lie down to sleep, dappled by the sun through the leaves of summer… Love among the sweet smell of vanilla from the wildflowers of England. The coo of doves. Happy. Just happy. How it was. How it should be. And isn’t… Now can I have a chicken sandwich? I always eat the sandwiches before I eat the cake. Otherwise, it would not be right… I’m a romantic old fool.”
“Better more of us should be. In London, they only think about making money and spending it and they waste most of it. While poor people go hungry.”
“That is too serious for my mood. Too sad. Questions like that lead us to feel miserable… Did I tell you Merlin came down last week? With a girl. Not for himself. For me. She had read my book and made Merlin drive her down in that car of his. I won’t get in the thing. Poor girl was exhausted with fear. What’s wrong with Merlin? Something’s up. The girl knew you. I like her. She likes my books. We talked about my books all day while Merlin just moped around. Do you know what’s going on?”
“Yes I do but it’s up to Merlin to tell his family.”
“Is it serious?”
“Oh, not in that way. He hasn’t gone broke. He’s in love with the wrong girl. That I can tell you.”
“Who is she?”
“That I can’t.”
“Do you know anything about the Voss girl, Harry?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well go on.”
“I can’t. I know her mother. You’ll like her mother. Are you in love, Robert?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t mind my foot a bit. Said I was so brave. I didn’t want to say there was nothing brave about standing in a trench when a British shell lands next to you. Her father was killed in the Anglo-Boer War. When are you getting married again?”
“I would like some children. Elephant Walk needs lots of children.”
“You’d better hurry up.”
“So had you.”
“Now, have a chicken sandwich. The cook ha
s put pickles in with the sandwiches. Like Mrs Pringle. Albert’s mother. She always gave us pickled onions with our doorstop sandwiches on our way to and from school. Old man Pringle was the station porter. Barnaby still sees Tina?”
“Yes.”
“Are they lovers?”
“Why don’t you ask him? She’s a very nice girl. She wants to marry Barnaby.”
“Oh, he’ll never do that. Barnaby is far too much of a snob. He wouldn’t have a railway station porter as the grandfather of his children. Gracious me, no. Doesn’t matter to me. Probably doesn’t matter to my father and mother. It matters to Barnaby. Tell Tina from me to marry someone else. If she waits for Barnaby, she’ll be an old maid when she dies. Anyway, we have an heir to the title in Frederick’s son, Richard. Do you know Penelope never married again after Fred was killed in the war? So many of them were killed. So many nice girls are withering away without husbands or children. At least Pen has young Richard and Gwen. He’s four years old. They never visit. They’ve gone back to India. Her grandfather is a merchant prince in India. Along the lines of Clive and the East India company. Her mother and father are both dead. I think mother would like the children to live at Purbeck Manor… There are no fish in the river to speak of. You know that. Sticklebacks. How is your mother? That grandfather of yours is quite potty. I’ll visit you again one day. Even on a peg leg. I can ride a horse. Please come down again before you go home? I get lonely.”
Harry had to turn away. So much had happened to both of them since Oxford. The innocence had gone in the war. Blown to pieces. Robert had told Harry he was talking to Lane when the shell arrived. That Lane never answered. There was no Lane. The man had vanished in front of him. The eyes, the mouth, the voice had gone. He had not even registered his shattered leg in that appalling moment. Instead of fading into old age, the boy had gone with no recognisable trace. Blown out of the world.
Harry knew he was getting old thinking such thoughts. At Oxford, they had only thought of the future. Talked of the future. Of how wonderful and exciting it was to be alive. They never even guessed at the reality. The horror of war. The drudgery of making a living. The sadness of seeing people for what they really were and not what they wanted to be seen to be. Even the questioning of faith and the avalanche of science. Man’s evolution from the apes. All the old skulls and bones of not so long ago. Evolution showing the progress of life from the primal swamps up into the trees and down again. From four legs up onto two. The growing size of the craniums as ape became man and the process of thought became what it was.
