Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  “The pilots?”

  “No, the Sopwith Camels.”

  “Best fighters in France, flown properly. You can help me by passing one of Mrs Craddock’s ham sandwiches sitting next to you in that wicker picnic basket. Why I put the picnic basket on the back seat and not in the boot. We cure our own ham the way we cure it in Rhodesia. The taste makes both myself and Tinus homesick, which is why I like them. She’ll be all right with the dogs. We’ll be back in two hours. You and Tinus will have a chance to fly while John and I have a good chinwag.”

  “What’s a chinwag, sir?”

  “Digging up old times. Please don’t call me sir. In Rhodesia we are not as formal as you Europeans.”

  “But you are Europeans.”

  “We’re African. Tinus’s family on his father’s side have been in Africa nearly three hundred years. Anyway, we Europeans came out of Africa in the first place according to the anthropologists I read. From Kenya. Not that long ago if you think how long life has been on the planet. Of course, when the dinosaurs ruled the world millions of years ago we hadn’t begun to evolve. No, we’re Africans, Tinus and I. Despite my being born at Hastings Court, something I don’t remember. My first memories are the smells and sounds of Africa when I was two years old. So far as I recall, apart from bringing the body of grandfather to Hastings Court to be buried next to his ancestors, my mother has not been back to England in fifty years… Good, aren’t they? Just the right amount of mustard. Homemade bread. Home cured bacon. What more can a man want? Now that’s what I call bringing home the bacon… There she is through the trees. One of the first airfields in England. There’s someone taking off right now. I never get sick of watching aeroplanes fly. It really is a beautiful day. Please feel free to have another ham sandwich. I asked Mrs Craddock to make lots of them. The chaps at the airfield always ask for Mrs Craddock’s ham sandwiches. Can you imagine living in something twice this size night after night? The whole family and the servants. You can’t just go to the air-raid shelter when the siren goes off and leave the servants in the old house without protection from the bombs. My wife is finding it difficult to sink in. The last war was in France with the occasional Zeppelin hand-dropping a bomb out of the basket so to speak. This one is going to have hundreds of bombers with levers to open the underbelly and drop a full load right on top of civilians. How do you see it, Janusz?”

  “Warsaw in ruins. You only have to look at Spain. What the German bombers did for Franco. Without the German air force on his side, under whatever guise, Franco and his fascists would not be winning the civil war.”

  “Hitler’s testing his armaments. They made a right royal mess of Guernica. Now they’ve bombed Barcelona. Why you need command of the air in any war of the future. Will you have command of the air, Janusz?”

  “No, we won’t.”

  “Neither will we without enough Hurricanes, Spitfires and pilots. Whoever is flying that aeroplane knows what he’s doing. A complete loop followed by a dead stick and pull out just above the airfield. Pass me one more sandwich before the hordes get into the picnic basket. While you’re flying I’ll have a cup of tea from the flask with John. Maybe I’ll take her up for a spin when you two are finished. You remember the old Handley Page, Tinus?”

  “Still flies. Tembo really was frightened. Princess won’t let him go up again.”

  “Who’s Tembo?” asked Janusz.

  “The bossboy on Elephant Walk,” said Tinus. “He runs the place. Even Ralph Madgwick defers to him on most occasions.”

  7

  They all stood outside the hangar watching the unknown pilot do his aerobatics while munching Mrs Craddock’s ham sandwiches. John Woodall, Tinus could see, had a sweet smile in his eyes as he picked up the second one from the open picnic basket; good, half-sized bread sandwiches with the crusts on, the farm butter yellow at the edges matching the yellow squeeze of the mustard against the thick red of the ham, the edges of the ham covered in a brown sugar coating topped with nutmeg.

  “I’d marry a woman just to get a sandwich like this, Harry,” said John Woodall.

  “How long’s he been up?”

  “Twenty minutes. He’s coming in now. We don’t fill the tanks for that kind of flying close to the field.”

  “Had an Australian in the RFC. Before your time at 33 Squadron, John. There are plenty more in the basket. William Smythe says young Janusz here is as good as they come.”

  “They can go up together and later swap cockpits if Tinus wants to fly, which is a silly question. Good to see you both. How’s the project?”

  “Spitfire is on schedule. Tooling up for mass production is the problem. Half the government doesn't take us seriously. Or Hitler, for that matter. They believed what they wanted to hear when Chamberlain came back from Munich. How did you end up with an Australian at Redhill? Bit far from home. What’s he doing in England?”

  “Better ask him, Harry. Came over yesterday with a sports job I suppose you’d call it and rented a plane for today. Gave him a student rate. Said he was short of money. Showed me a licence and a letter from his flying club outside Melbourne, wherever that is. Some university. You ever been to Australia, Harry?”

  “What kind of a sports job?”

  “Looked the same sort of thing as yours, Tinus, only different. Where is the Morgan?”

  “Hastings Court. Came in the Austin with Uncle Harry. Had to have somewhere to put the sandwich basket. Go on, Mr Woodall. Have another one.”

  “I don’t mind if I do.”

  “Come on, Janusz. It’s our turn. He’s taxiing to the fuel pump.”

  Watching the two run to the biplane, John Woodall sighed and put his hand in the picnic basket without looking.

  “Don’t know where you put them, John.”

  “In my stomach. What I would do to be that young again. All the excitement and none of the pain. They look so bloody innocent.”

  “They are. Their world is still perfect. Cricket fields. All the history of Oxford. Everything to learn and everyone to help. Not a cloud in the sky. Even their girls are perfect, whatever the girls do to them. I think Janusz likes his girl to flirt. Likes to see her appreciated. They can’t even imagine infidelity in someone they love. To them at that age it’s real love too, not one bump in the road ahead. Do you think it’s instinctively why they like the idea of going to fight the good war at that age? Or all the books they read that makes everyone a bloody hero? Maybe their instinct tells them getting killed young stops them finding out the truth. To die pure and innocent with only love and bravery in their hearts and on their minds. Seems to me every generation does it so there must be something in my theory.”

  “Blimey, Harry. Have another sandwich. What’s got into you? The idea of being wired to die young in war is morbid.”

  “The start of old age. Nostalgia. Not wanting the children to find out the ugly side of life. Don’t you know what I mean?”

  “If I did I wouldn't admit it to myself. I still enjoy my life. In particular right now, these ham sandwiches.”

  “You want some tea?”

  “Pour away.”

  “Doesn’t your wife feed you?”

  “Not like this. Pilot’s name is Trevor Hemmings and here comes youth, as they say, in all its glory.”

  “Mr Hemmings? My name is Harry Brigandshaw. You’re the second Australian I’ve met.”

  “Lucky bastard. Mr Woodall said you come from Rhodesia, Mr Brigandshaw. First time out of Australia for me.”

  “What are you doing over here?”

  “Buggering around after finishing at Melbourne University. Like Tinus. Can the Pole fly?”

  “We’re about to see.”

  “Like a ham sandwich?”

  “Rather. I never eat before flying or I throw up.”

  “Like a friend of my nephew’s.”

  “Do you fly, Mr Brigandshaw?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Colonel Brigandshaw shot down twenty-three Germans in France,” s
aid John Woodall.

  “That must make you an ace… They’re good. You make them yourself?”

  “I helped cure the pork.”

  “Bloody marvellous. There they go. I learnt to fly with the University Air Squadron. Like Tinus at Oxford.”

  “You two swapped a life history in ten seconds.”

  “Only the important bits. Later we’re going to race against each other. Tells me he’s got a green one like mine. Then I’d better hop it back to my digs in the village.”

  “Get your bags and stay at Hastings Court.”

  “Tinus hoped you’d say that. Us colonials have to stick together in Pommy land. My bag’s in the hangar. Always travel light, I say.”

  “I rather thought that would be the case, Mr Hemmings. Always let opportunity knock.”

  “You know what it’s like. Everyone’s been young according to my dad. Mum says she doesn’t remember. Like pulling each other’s legs.”

  “I expect you’ll then tell us what you’re doing in England.”

  Watching the young man eat his way through the ham sandwiches, Harry found out that, since he was only twenty-two, there wasn’t much to tell.

  “My dad runs a chemist in Collins Street. Not far from Flinders Street Station. Gets the train from South Yarra every morning. The Yarra. Yarra River. Only river in the world that flows upside down. Too thick to swim in, too thin to plough. But you’ve heard that one. Mum looks after us kids. My prize for getting through pharmacology at Melbourne was a six-month trip home. Dad can’t afford it of course, with all the kids. But he promised. Only way he’d get me into the bloody shop. Does all the dispensing and takes all the money himself. Don’t trust no one outside family. When I get back I join him. Not a bad do really. Dad’s made a living and brought up us kids okay if you ignore Justin. He’s wild. Fifteen and wild. Doesn’t bloody concentrate at school. Plays footer instead of doing his homework. I tell him you can’t make money playing sport. That’s why they call it playing. Like talking to a brick wall, Mr Brigandshaw. My dad would go for these. Mind if I have another? There they go. The Pole’s flying. We got Polacks in Aussie. Fair go. Right, he can fly. Kind of makes friends quickly, having something in common.”

  “You’d probably like a cup of tea?”

  “Never say no to a cuppa.”

  “When did you get to England?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. Came over round the Cape, going back through Suez.”

  “Why do you call this home, Trevor?”

  “All Aussies call England home, Mr Brigandshaw. A different kind of home. Like where we come from. Most of us don’t have too many roots. Don’t ask too many questions either. Anyway, this is home even if the Poms sent great-granddad in a convict ship for stealing a sheep. Funny hey? Then they sent the bloody sheep.”

  “Did you know your Merinos come from the Cape of Good Hope? Did you stop in Cape Town?”

  “Every stop I got off the boat. Probably never travel again. Once you get a wife and kids that’s it. Then it’s work. Aussie’s too far from anywhere and big enough to keep a man occupied looking over his own estate. Never been out of Victoria before this trip.”

  “So you learnt to fly at university. Like my nephew. You are right, Count Kowalski can fly.”

  “He’s a bloody count? Wait till I tell my sisters.”

  “How many sisters do you have, Trevor?”

  “Four at last count. We’re Catholics. Two boys and four girls. Mum says we eat her out of house and home.”

  “Have you worked at the chemist shop?”

  “Every hols. Where the fare came from. Dad paid me in credits.”

  “Wise man. A few shillings here and there buy nothing of lasting value. You’ll remember this trip for the rest of your life. Enjoy it to the full. So you’ll join us at Hastings Court? You can drive behind the Austin.”

  “Too bloody right. You’ll like Matilda. Beat the shit out of your nephew’s sports car.”

  “What is Matilda?”

  “An old motor cycle he picked up for ten bob and fixed,” said John Woodall. “He’s going to pay for his flight by helping me fix my car’s ignition.”

  “Does Matilda go, John? For ten shillings. I wouldn’t have thought…”

  “Like the wind. And like that Morgan of Tinus’s it’s green for some reason. Only trouble is, it doesn't have an exhaust. You can hear it a mile away. Come and have a look. It’s parked in my hangar.”

  “Shouldn’t I bring the picnic basket, Mr Brigandshaw?” asked Trevor Hemmings hopefully.

  “Why not?”

  On either side of him, as they walked across to the aircraft hangar, both of them were smiling.

  “Are all souped-up motorbikes in Australia called Matilda?”

  “Most of them. You want to give it a go?”

  “That’s how you pay for your stay at Hastings Court. Motorbikes are one of my obsessions.”

  “Good on you. You got a nice house, Mr Brigandshaw? We’re pretty open to travellers in Australia. Don’t mind sleeping on the floor. Got my sleeping bag.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Harry smiling, knowing exactly how the young man’s mind was working. The best bed on holiday was always a freeload.

  With the goggles on his face, the wind in his hair, the haversack with all his worldly possessions strapped onto his back, Trevor Hemmings followed the big Austin, the throttle half open, the power of his motorcycle vibrating up through his loins, and the whole world at his feet. Prepared for anything, Trevor followed the three men he had just met. If supper was as good as the sandwiches at the airfield he was going to eat like a king, something that had not happened very much once the boat reached England and ‘home’.

  When the car in front turned through the portal of an English country mansion as if it owned the place, Trevor began to chuckle.

  “Good on you, mate,” he said to the big trees gliding by his side that looked as if they had been in the same spot for centuries. The size and magnificence of the supper grew in his mind as the driveway went on and on, coming eventually to a gravel yard that looked to Trevor behind his goggles the size of Flinders Street Station. The façade was topped with battlements. “Shit. How long’s this been here?”

  A large Alsatian dog met the car while a pack of Spaniels watched from the terrace that ran half the length of a football field down in front of the house. Between the Spaniels stood a girl with long dark hair and a body made in heaven. His day was just getting better and better. Then some kids joined the girl as Trevor turned off his engine, still astride the bike not knowing what to do, his mouth wide open.

  “When you said Hastings Court it was like my mum saying ‘come back to Buckingham Palace’. This I’ve never seen.”

  “Family,” said Harry Brigandshaw. For once the man seemed lost for words. “You can race the bike with the car tomorrow. Tinus will show you up to a room. Don’t worry, we don’t dress for dinner. Dump your haversack and come for a beer.”

  “I’m in heaven.”

  “Only if you let me ride your bike. Enjoy yourselves. My eldest son is away at boarding school. The rest will ask you a million questions. The lady belongs to Janusz and doesn’t speak English. Behind her with my children is Tina, my wife, the one waving. I hope you’ll be hungry after all the sandwiches. You youngsters must have much to talk about so I’ll let you be. John Woodall wants you back at Redhill tomorrow noon to fix his car. There’s always a price for everything.”

  “What’s the price here, Mr Brigandshaw?”

  “I work at the Air Ministry. We are always looking for good pilots. If you don’t want to put on a white coat and serve at the chemist shop, the RAF might give you a job flying their latest aeroplanes. Supper’s at eight. Tinus will give you the lay of the land. We’ll be eating on the lawn behind the house on a night like this. I’ve learnt to make the best of good English weather. Welcome to Hastings Court, Trevor Hemmings.”

  “How long’s your family had this plac
e?”

  “Six hundred years, round about. Not the exact same house. This one is Elizabethan at its core. We came over with William the Conqueror.”

  “Saw a good film back home, Holy Knight. About the St Clairs in Dorset back there. Meant to be true according to the write-up. Began with the Battle of Hastings. Genevieve and Gregory L’Amour. Now she’s really something.”

  “My first wife was a St Clair. My friend Robert St Clair wrote the book. Ask Tinus all about Genevieve. Did you know Gregory wants to be a pilot? Said if war breaks out with Germany he’ll come over from America and join the RAF. You’re all about the same age. Don’t mind that dog, he just wants to go for a walk.”

  “Well I never! How are you and Tinus Rhodesian, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “That is a long story. You see that second-storey room to the left with the window open? My father put a ladder up to that window and eloped with me and my mother and the nurse. The nurse is Tinus’s grandmother. We all ran off to Rhodesia to get away from my grandfather. When he died I inherited this place. Nothing’s really complicated when you work it out. I want to go back to Rhodesia. My wife wants to stay in England. So here we are.”

  As Harry went inside to book a call to Sir Jacob Rosenzweig in America for the following day, he was thinking how far Robert’s book had gone. First tickling Maxwell behind the ear, Harry picked up the receiver and waited for the operator. Then he booked his person to person call across the Atlantic and noted the time on the small note pad attached by a cord to the telephone.

  Part 2

  Never Miss an Opportunity – October 1938

  1

  Sir Jacob Rosenzweig was seventy-one years old and had just found his second wind in life when the call came through from Hastings Court. Unlike Harry, who he knew by reputation and from speaking to on the phone, both aware of their unspoken family connection, he did not live with his wife or any of his four children.

  The three children in England visited when it suited them; when they visited, the subject was always money. Apart from Rebecca, far away on Elephant Walk, he had never been certain the children were his own. When they married, he and Hannah, it was family business, two good Jewish families to be tied by marriage to each other. Then, as always, the banking world in Europe was small, cementing relationships by mingling blood more important than any short-lived love.