by Peter Rimmer
“So we have a deal, Harry?”
“Oh, I’ll have to think about it, gentlemen. My nephew hasn’t said a word. I’m just a farmer from the bush. He’s the one who makes the decisions. He has a top economics degree from Oxford University.”
“Didn’t you own Colonial Shipping before your aircraft went down in the jungle? Mr Rosenzweig told us after you two left his office.”
“I inherited everything. When I had apparently died the United Kingdom Department of Revenue made the executors of my will sell my shares in Colonial Shipping to pay my death duties. Between the time of my apparent death, when they assessed my estate, and when they forced the sale, the shares in my family company had dropped along with the Wall Street Crash making the executors sell all my shares to cover the debt. When I came back from the dead they gave me back my money. Lucky me. By then, what they gave back was a lot more than the poor chap who bought the shares could get for them. I kept the cash. He kept the company. My money is now worth more than double his. No, I’m a farmer. We are going down to Virginia this afternoon to look at buying a tobacco farm. Now that’s something I know about.”
“Mr Rosenzweig will get you five years’ audited figures as soon as possible. It’ll be a pleasure doing business with you. The news from Germany is not good.”
“Have a nice day, gentlemen, I think you say in America. Sometimes I wonder if we speak the same language.”
“Money always talks.”
“I’ll remember that, Clint. It is Clint and not Clinton?”
“Clinton’s just fine, Harry. Did anyone ever call you Harold?”
“Not that I remember. We all know how to keep in touch.”
“I’m sure we’ll understand each other.”
“I hope so. Here comes Cousin George. I inherited the family estate. George inherited the family title, which isn’t any good to him in America.”
“Isn’t that Genevieve?” said Clint in wonder.
“Yes, it is. She is the niece of my first wife Lucinda.”
“Too complicated. Sorry about the divorce.”
“Not when we get to know each other. My first wife was killed.”
When all four of them, Tinus, Harry, Genevieve and Cousin George, sat back at the breakfast table, Clint and his partner on their way back home to Chicago, Harry turned to Tinus.
“Brilliant. You never said one word.”
“Are you going to buy the company?”
“That depends on you, Tinus. When you’ve studied the figures. How’s your head?”
“Terrible,” said Cousin George and Tinus simultaneously.
“Who were those guys?” asked George.
“Tender Meat Company,” said Uncle Harry. “When do we fly?”
“Five-thirty tonight. I met the lovely Genevieve coming down to breakfast.”
“I’m starving,” said Genevieve.
“So am I all of a sudden,” said Tinus.
“I always make people hungry,” said Genevieve, sadly. “Where are you going now?”
“Virginia. To buy a farm. How was your evening?”
“Boring. Hollingsworth when he wins is a pompous ass. How was yours?”
“Tell her about Russo’s daughter, Tinus,” said Harry looking from one to the other. “He’s got a hangover. I want to see Jacob when we come back to ask his opinion. He wouldn’t have introduced us if they were crooks.”
“We go back to California tomorrow,” said Genevieve. “Tonight would have been our last night together. This is our last meal together until we meet again.”
Trying not to look at Genevieve in case she saw the look of panic and loss, Tinus picked up the menu and ordered what he assumed was a typical American breakfast; steak, eggs sunny side up, sausage, corncake and French fries.
“What is corncake?”
“Canned corn in batter and fried,” said Genevieve.
“French fries?”
“Potato chips,” said Cousin George.
“Bring the lot,” said Tinus, still not making eye contact with Genevieve.
Working on the principle it was better to feed a hangover than starve the problem, Tinus waited for his food in the hope it would make him feel better. The coffee had begun to take effect, making his heart beat faster.
“How’s André?” she asked.
“He’s fine. Trying his best to get a transfer to Fighter Command.”
“Give him my love.”
“Of course… So quick isn’t it?”
“The food hasn’t come yet. Oh, the trip. Everything’s fast over here.”
“I thought we’d have…”
“There’s a park round the corner. Why don’t we go for a walk together?”
“Here it comes. I say, that is a lot of breakfast. Yes, why not. Just so silly, really. Here today and gone tomorrow.” Tinus was trying to be flippant to hide his feelings.
“Eat your breakfast. How much did you drink last night?”
“Too much. After the first three glasses of wine it doesn’t seem to matter so much. I always drink too much when I’m enjoying myself.”
“Was she that nice?”
“Only appeared at the end. To give us a bill and collect our money. Italian families are real families. I liked them.”
6
Outside the hotel Genevieve looked up at the sky, a thin line between the tall buildings. There were a few clouds but no sign of rain. Taking Tinus by the hand she led him away into the morning sun, walking on the side of the road that caught it. They just held hands. There was no pressure. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. The change from make-believe to reality had been too swift. From all the razzmatazz to a boy and a girl holding hands walking along to the park. It took them less than five minutes.
In the small park the leaves were falling from the trees, the wooden benches deep in autumn colours. There were other lovers in the park. Real lovers, not the ones she played on film. None of the couples noticed them, too immersed in each other to look. The wind had ruffled her hair that had grown to the length of her shoulders. This week her hair was the colour of a light strawberry. Not even the colour of her hair was real. Tinus was more real than any of the men at Hollingsworth’s celebration. Everyone had gushed. All over her. So pleased. Laughing. They made out it was all so important, including themselves. Gregory had had to buck her up, told her to smile for the man with the camera. Now, with Tinus, the previous night seemed so unimportant yet they were going to part.
“Why are we always saying hello and goodbye to each other, Tinus?”
“Did you ever think that without Uncle Harry we would never have met?”
“Can’t we do something, Tinus?”
“What? Your world has been made. Mine still has to come.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Probably nothing of my own volition. The world’s catching up. We won’t have a choice anymore. None of us. It’s all running downhill so fast. Uncle Harry knows a lot more than he’s letting on. You only have to read the newspapers. Even the papers over here are saying it’s a matter of time. Then I’ll join the air force and the rest won’t matter. Elephant Walk. Rosenzweigs. Tender Meat Company. Love. Money. Family. It won’t matter. We’ll all be fighting to survive.”
“You could hide in Africa.”
“Anyone can hide. It’s staying hidden that’s the problem. How long would the few of us in Rhodesia last if Britain goes down the drain? We’re all part of the same empire. Without the body the limbs will fall off. A fascist or communist world run by thugs would be an unhappy world. Mr Bowden says it isn’t communism or nationalism where the problem lies but in the thugs who manipulate the new ideas that are supposed to give everyone everything they want. One day it’s follow Christ and be saved. The next day Karl Marx will give you the rich man’s money. Hitler will make you proud to be German. No, we’ll have to fight for our way of life to survive. There won’t be an option. It’s gone too far. The thugs want power, not communism or fascism or
any other damn ism. They want the power and your money. All I ever want is to be left alone but people never let that happen. I’m too young to understand. Maybe I will one day in the distant future if I survive.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Man’s been asking that question all his existence, which is a very long time according to Mr Bowden. Trying to find a point. Trying to find a god. Trying to make sense of what we are doing.”
“Then why are we here, Tinus?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe it’s to love each other.”
“Nothing is that simple.”
“Why don’t we try?”
“Try what?”
“Loving each other.”
“If only life was that easy, Genevieve. How long have we got?”
“About another hour. Then I have to pack. I’m always damn well packing. Always going. Never getting anywhere.”
“Maybe we will one day.”
“What?”
“Love each other. Maybe one day they’ll all go away and leave us alone.”
While Genevieve and Tinus were making each other miserable at the thought of packing, Harry Brigandshaw was thinking how far the family had spread since his ancestors stormed ashore from the Norman fleet to fight the Saxons at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Cousin George, now the direct male descendent, had gone off to do his shopping. They had talked on alone at the breakfast table, getting to know each other as friends rather than relations.
“Your grandfather’s uncle was my great-grandfather is how it worked. I suppose I should be English but back then a fourth son without money wasn’t any use to anyone, Harry. So he went to seek his fortune in Canada.”
“Did he make any money?”
“Not a penny. By all accounts the chap was a charming bum. Beautifully spoken. Perfect manners. Everyone loved him.”
“Your grandfather?”
“Another bum. Roamed the frozen north of Canada. Some say he collected animal pelts. Went off one day and never came back. For years Grandmother brought up my father on charity. There were only the two of them. She was a tough old bird. Always telling me and father stories of the illustrious Mandervilles. That back in the old country we had an ancient title and a country estate. Must have been why she married grandfather, believing all that bullshit. He never believed a word till the day he heard back from your grandfather, Sir Henry Manderville, God bless his soul, saying father was the heir to the baronetcy. That all the other male heirs had died out. He did say he had a daughter and a grandson but that you could never inherit the title and it had to go to the next male in line, was what he said. A lot of women would argue about that these days now they have the vote. Do you know, Harry, it did something to my father. Made him want to make something of himself now he had some esteem. That Grandmother’s stories he thought were bullshit were in fact true. That in our veins ran the blood of ancient knights. Father was bumming around like the rest of them round about then. Lumber jacking. Cutting great fir trees for someone else. Father was about the same age as Tinus when the first letter came to him from my old grandmother, enclosing your grandfather’s letter. He was the last of the Mandervilles. It was up to him to carry on the line. He had to find a good wife and have seed as it says in the Bible. Father finally came to his senses. Instead of cutting trees for someone else, living in a lumber camp, bunking in one of the row of beds with the rest of the crew, he got himself a concession in Virginia. By then he knew how to fell trees. Being single with no real home back anywhere he hadn’t spent his money for five years.”
“What did he call your farm?”
“Lily Water. You’ll see why tomorrow. Tonight when we get home it will be dark. Tomorrow I’ll show you everything… You know, Harry, up close that Genevieve is real pretty.”
“I’ll tell Merlin you said so next time I see him.”
“Who’s Merlin?”
“The Eighteenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck, Genevieve’s father.”
“So she’s got a title like me?”
“She’s a bastard. Like me. Now that’s another long story. My father eloped with me and my mother from Hastings Court when mother was married to the eldest Brigandshaw brother.”
“But aren’t you his son?”
“Mother was pregnant when she married him, by the youngest brother. We all ran away to Rhodesia where father was a white hunter along with the farm he called Elephant Walk. We all have our family tales, Cousin George. Nothing in life comes to us simple. Just life itself maybe. I’m looking forward to seeing your Lily Water… I’m going up to my room for a sleep. Now the initial discussions are all over with Chicago I need some sleep.”
“We’ll take a cab to the airport?”
“Looking forward to meeting your family. This is proving quite a trip.”
“There’s one point I don’t understand, Harry, before you go up. How did you as the son of the youngest sibling inherit?”
“My Uncle James Brigandshaw left me his shipping company and Hastings Court, that he had inherited himself from his father, some called the Pirate. I had no idea what was coming. I’d have stayed in Rhodesia for the rest of my life. It’s a lot easier running a self-contained African farm than a shipping company with the largest freight business in and out of Africa. The largest fleet to the Cape. Sometimes, if not always, inheriting great wealth is more of a burden than a pleasure. Believe me, George, you’re far better off on Lily Water than sitting in an office in the City of London. However plush. However much respect people show you, meant or otherwise. My father roamed the African bush free as the rest of the animals. That’s the way to go through life. Not cooped up in an office.”
“Refresh my memory again on why you inherited Hastings Court?”
“It was through Uncle James, not grandfather Manderville. What with property tax and no income, most of the land having been sold off, Grandfather Manderville made a pact with the devil. In exchange for my mother marrying the Pirate’s eldest son and heir, he gave my mother’s father enough money to live off. Hastings Court came as part of the deal. So the Brigandshaws, not much to speak of, became part of an old, blue-blooded family with a mansion to match. Bit like the bullshit told you by your grandmother. Grandfather Manderville went off to live in Italy. Only later did he join his daughter in Rhodesia after she ran off with father. Where we all lived happily ever after.”
“And your father?”
“He was killed by the Great Elephant. The biggest elephant in Africa. A legend from the Congo to the Cape. I think father would have liked it that way. At first, he had killed elephant for their ivory. The tables were turned. Only when we are young do we want to shoot wild animals. Some of us. In those days Africa was a lot more wild. Millions and millions of animals roaming the vastness of the bush. Only a handful of people. For me, I can only shoot for the pot. Man is carnivorous. We all like steak and eggs like I ate just now. Only when you come face to face with the live animal, before you eat it, does what you eat become real. A living beast much like ourselves. We’ve eaten flesh from the start. Will go on. Man does what he likes and afterwards makes what he does look acceptable. Like my Grandfather Brigandshaw, who bought a baronetcy for himself by giving money to the Tory Party, I think it was. And died alone in the Great Hall at Hastings Court, a man, in his mind, of consequence. And how could I complain? Without his being alive I would not exist. Now, if you don’t mind, that nap calls. You know where to find me, George.”
“Isn’t life just strange?”
“You never know. Maybe one of your children will marry one of mine and bring it all together again.”
“But you didn’t inherit the Brigandshaw baronetcy?”
“Of course not. Uncle Nat’s son is the current Brigandshaw baronet. Down the male line Uncle Nat, the bishop, just got what you received, a worthless title, and passed it down to his son. Never see the cousin. Thinks I stole his money. His inheritance. What can you do? We are who we are. That’s all that ma
tters. Lily Water. What a lovely name. He thinks, like you, he’d be better off with the money.”
“Not me, Harry. I’m happy. I’m the last in a great direct line and proud of it. You keep Hastings Court and your grandfather’s money.”
“But, George, we’re going to use it to buy a farm.”
“Then we’ll be partners, Cousin Harry. Partners. And that’s different.”
While Uncle Harry was sleeping back in his bed, Cousin George off on a walk to think through what they had said, Tinus saw the charabanc full of tourists pull up in the street next to the park. A pair of lovers had caught his eye, looking annoyed, the pair nearest to them on the grass. Following their look to the disturbance, Tinus understood why. All the tourists were talking at once, every one of them carrying a camera. Their peace, like the lovers’, was over.
“Better get up and go, Tinus. That bus is trouble.”
“One of them has seen you, Genevieve. The price of fame. She’s yelling your name at the whole damn busload at the top of her ugly voice.”
The couple on the grass, not ten yards away, were now looking at Genevieve with their mouths open. Like a stampede of heifers, as Tinus described it afterwards, the busload of tourists began to converge. Genevieve, resigned to her fate, got up to meet them. Within a minute she was surrounded. Tinus, who had also got up, was ignored. Genevieve broke out her best smile to his surprise and posed happily for their cameras. Anything that could be written upon was thrust in front of her. Fumbling in her handbag, Genevieve found a fountain pen, took off the top and pushed it back on the bottom in a resigned, familiar fashion before getting down to work. The crowd was shrieking and giggling, men and women, old and young. Tinus watched them from where he had stepped back to a safe distance.
