by Peter Rimmer
When it came to their meetings Max Pearl was always late and Bruno always early.
“Five minutes early for an appointment, Kannberg,” his London editor had said when Bruno started his first job at the Mirror in 1931, “and five minutes late to a party to give your host that last few minutes to get ready.”
Smiling to himself as he walked, the words of Arthur Bumley had once again controlled the subconscious of his mind as they did so often in his life. He was five minutes early for his appointment.
Boy Rising to the Stars had sold more copies in America than Genevieve, pleasing his wife Gillian who enjoyed living in New York after their two-roomed flat in London. Bruno’s real reason for the lunch was to ask Max for more money, his wife having spent what was already in the bank, the new idea for a book the excuse to get Max to give him lunch.
There was a small bar near the entrance to the restaurant he could see through a window. At twenty past twelve the place was half empty. By Bruno’s watch as he opened the door he was exactly five minutes early, having cut the pace of his walk two blocks back on the four-block walk from his office. To Bruno’s surprise Max was already seated on a high stool at the bar.
“How much do you need, Bruno?” were his publisher’s first words.
“A thousand dollars. She spends money like water.”
“Tell me. I’m on my fourth wife. What you got for me, Bruno? Better be good. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. So the Brits, the Frogs and the Krauts are going to blow each other to pieces again. Don’t people ever learn? What are you going to have?”
“Gin and tonic.”
“You English are so predictable.”
“Don’t you worry about the war?”
“None of our business. Why we have the pond between us. No one can get at us. If you look as if you’re winning we’ll come and help you out so we can share in the spoils. Otherwise it’s business as usual. As we did the last time, American industry will make money, kill off the depression. Roosevelt is playing his cards well and America is right behind him. No sane man starts a war, let alone interferes in one that’s started.”
“Don’t you worry about your fellow Jews in Germany, Max?”
“Anyone with brains got out. You can’t spend your life worrying about other people, Bruno. Now that’s a good barman. Overheard what you want. Down the hatch, Bruno. I picked that one up from you. Did anyone worry about your father, the White Russian, when he made a run out of Latvia? Of course not. Poor bugger was on the wrong side. But look at you. You did all right. Life often turns out for the best just when it’s looking the worst. All those Jews fleeing Germany for America will do us all a power of good. Hitler’s doing the Jews and America a favour. It’s all just politics, which is money. Do you know our factories are gearing up for full production? That friend of yours and mine, Bruno, he’s going to make a fortune out of the Tender Meat Company. Now that Harry is one smart cookie. Your good health, my friend. What you got for me? I like you Bruno. You always make me money. One of my tricks as a publisher is to choose good authors with expensive wives who keep their old man’s face to the grindstone.”
“Gregory L’Amour is going to join the RAF,” said Bruno, clutching at straws. “Wants to be a real-life hero. I want to write a sequel in instalments. You sell first to the magazines for a big, high number and afterwards bring it out in a book. Keeps them on the hook, so to speak. Brave American coming to the old country’s help. There’s nothing more satisfying than sending another man to do your work for you.”
“She can have five thousand, Bruno. Five whole thousand. That’s one hell of a good idea. When’s he going to England?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Maybe she gets the five grand when you are sure, Bruno. Drink up. I’m hungry. This one’s on you, Kannberg. All you got to do is make sure.”
By the time the main course arrived at Max Pearl’s usual corner table, the Thespian was full, the noise having risen to leave their small bubble of conversation unheard by the diners around them. The Thespian was close enough to Broadway to use a theatrical name and be patronised by what some liked to think of as people of letters. Especially, Bruno knew, when they were thinking of themselves. Max liked the restaurant because it was next to his office. The food was good and diabolically expensive, giving Bruno the problem of writing a cheque without any money and being charged with fraud or explaining his real predicament to Max Pearl.
Bruno’s monthly cheque as American correspondent for the Mirror barely covered the rent, let alone his wife’s entertaining now she was married to the man who wrote the biographies of the stars, something she took great pleasure in telling anyone who crossed their path. Now a lady of leisure instead of a London shorthand typist, his wife Gillian lived in a world of her dreams while Bruno picked up the bills.
As he had said to Arthur Bumley on the transatlantic phone while trying to borrow money from his editor, “It doesn’t matter what I make, she spends it.”
“Are you getting enough, Kannberg?”
“Barely.”
“You married her. Have fun. Even when you don’t want it anymore you’ll still be paying. You’re welcome to America’s divorce laws.”
“I don’t want to divorce her!”
“Watch this space. Write another book. You’re on a treadmill, Bruno. Have a nice day, as they say in America.”
“They’re not coming into the war.”
“Oh, they will, when we can’t pay their bills after we ask for credit. When we owe them enough for out-of-date destroyers, they’ll come in on our side to protect their own financial interest. Their greed will give us the credit. We just need to run up the bills and make them big enough to fight for.”
“We’re all Anglo-Saxons.”
“You’re not, for one. Give my love to Gillian. Tell her from me to keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, Mr Bumley, for the loan,” Bruno had said sarcastically.
“My pleasure.”
Bringing his mind back to the present, the price of his fillet steak still sticking in his throat, Bruno tried to concentrate on his publisher’s words.
“Those two girls over there are in the wrong place. Happens once in a while. They mix up thespian with lesbian or I’m a Dutchman. Just look at them holding hands across the table. Should be a law against it.”
“There is.”
“Only for men. Women can do to each other whatever they want. That’s Gerry Hollingsworth over there, Genevieve’s producer. My word, the place is full. He’ll know when L’Amour is going to England. Go and ask him.”
“It was just an idea. I need money, Max. Gillian again. If I pay for this lunch with a dud cheque they’ll lock me up.”
“And a damn good one. You don’t have to get out of your seat. He’s coming over. Maybe he’d like to join us for lunch with his girlfriend.”
“I can’t afford it, Max.”
“Then you shouldn’t invite me to lunch. I’m a popular lad. Plenty of people would like to buy Max Pearl lunch.”
“You invited me.”
“After you asked to be invited. Under false pretences. Gerry, old buddy! Come and join us. Bruno here is paying for lunch. Who’s the new girl? Have you finished making Holy Knight?”
“Why I came over, Max. We have a problem. Your client, Gregory L’Amour, wants to go to England.”
“When?” said Bruno jumping up from his seat.
“Right away, Bruno. How nice to see you. Gregory doesn’t give a damn about the film all of a sudden. He’s gone all heroic. Wants to go down in flames. Genevieve won’t marry him. Can’t you help?”
“I’m sure he can, Gerry. If you buy him lunch. Bring the girl right over.”
“Didn’t you recently get married, Max? Second or third time?”
“The day an old man stops looking at a pretty girl he might as well be dead. It was the fourth, and more expensive the bigger the age gap.”
“Why are you laughing, Max?”
“Bett
er ask Bruno. He knew Greg was going to England before any of us. He’s going to write a sequel, The Real Hero. Make me a fortune. If you’re a good boy I’ll sell you the film rights.”
“How long do you need him to finish the film?” asked Bruno.
“A month, if we concentrate on just filming his scenes.”
“I’ll have a word with Genevieve. Wouldn’t it be best if we cross to your table, Mr Hollingsworth?”
“The world’s gone arse about face.”
“I thought it was arse over tit,” said Max, picking up his glass and the bottle of wine.
“That comes later when the real war starts. I’m calling this part the Phoney War in my column.”
“Nothing phoney in Poland.”
“We weren’t in that one,” said Bruno. “We only think of what affects ourselves.”
“You can leave the plates,” said Max. “The waiter will bring them. Why won’t she marry him?”
“Says she doesn’t love him. Do you know, I’ve spent half my life trying to get into her pants?”
“So has half of America, Mr Hollingsworth. In their minds. What’s her name?”
“That’s what she calls me. She won’t call me Gerry and I’m her producer.”
“I know, Gerry. Isn’t Genevieve a bit young for an old fart like you? And what about your wife?”
“Her name is Petronella,” said Gerry Hollingsworth, ignoring the question about his wife.
“I thought it was Hannah.”
“The girl at my table, Max. I’ll fly you to California, Bruno. When can you go?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll want that five grand, Max.”
“My pleasure. What a story. I’ll leak it to the press to get it started. So he can’t go back on his tantrum with Genevieve. We’ll say our hero is first going to finish making his film. Then he’s going to a real war. The true American hero. Do us both a power of good, Mr Hollingsworth. Your films. My books. Nothing like a glut of good and free publicity to make money in the entertainment business.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Where’s she from? Petronella?”
“New York.”
“This lunch is getting better and better. To girls like that, one old fart’s as good as another. You did tell her I’m a famous publisher, Gerry, before you so rudely left her at your table all on her own? Waiter. Throw away what’s on those plates and bring it all over again. I’m hungry.”
“Do you think they’ll charge us twice for the steaks, Max?” asked Bruno.
“Who cares? We’re rich.”
“Don’t you worry about Gregory getting himself killed?” Bruno found trying to force a man to go to war was beginning to prick his conscience.
“He’s the one who’s going to get all the glory, young Bruno. Not me. By the time they’ve finished squabbling in Europe and made up again there’ll be millions dead. They’re going to bomb the shit out of each other.”
“Maybe Genevieve will marry him,” said Gerry Hollingsworth hopefully. “It costs money to build a star.”
“Splendid! Famous actress sees off famous actor to war. Bloody sensation in the papers. Have the whole bloody country crying.”
“I meant marry him to stop him going to war, Max.”
“Oh, he’s going to war. Said so in England. They won’t let him back out now. The newspapers will hound him. Ask Bruno. I’m going to phone Glen Hamilton in Denver the moment I get back to my office. He’ll tell that freelancer in London. Writer under the syndicated byline of William Smythe.”
“And if he gets killed?”
“He’ll be an even bigger hero,” said Max on a roll as they reached the other table.
“This is Petronella,” said Gerry Hollingsworth as he began the introductions. “The old guy with the bottle of wine is Max Pearl. The young man is Bruno. Bruno Kannberg. Wrote the books on Genevieve and Gregory L’Amour. He’s coming with me tomorrow to California to save our bacon. Petronella wants a part in the next film. Pity you only publish books, Max.”
“Maybe Petronella wishes to write a book?”
“I doubt it,” said Gerry Hollingsworth nastily.
“Could you help me write one, Max?” asked Petronella sweetly.
“Of course I could, darling. Would you like some of my wine?”
“Just a little,” she giggled.
Standing a pace back from the others as waiters moved in the new chairs, Bruno doubted the girl was out of her teens. Just as he was pondering the girl’s age and what to say to Genevieve when he found her in California, Petronella gave him a wink. Even young, they come tough in America, thought Bruno changing his opinion of the girl.
“And what do you do, Bruno, apart from writing books?”
“Make money for my wife.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes, I do. Ever since I saw her I’ve never looked at anyone else.”
“Lucky you. Come and sit down. Tell me all about Genevieve. How she started. You see, Gerry told me it was you who wrote her book before he went across to your table leaving me all alone. All I want is to become an actress. Maybe you know some of the tricks?”
Glancing at Gerry Hollingsworth, Bruno kept his mouth shut as he took his place at the table. Five grand, he thought, hoping it would be enough.
“What’s her name?” asked Petronella ignoring Gerry Hollingsworth’s look of annoyance.
“Gillian.”
“She’s a very lucky girl. Do you have any children?”
“Not yet. My wife says we don’t have enough money for children. It’s always about money. However much you make.”
“That’s why I want to be a successful actress. Isn’t it, Gerry?”
Without having to be told, Bruno knew the girl was sliding her hand along the inside of Hollingsworth’s leg, making Hollingsworth’s eyes glass over for one brief, intense moment. Then the girl smiled at a job well done and bought her hand up from under the table and went on eating her lunch, letting the men talk, her control of Gerry Hollingsworth firmly in place for the moment, making Bruno smile; everyone in America had an angle, everyone trying to get what they wanted.
For the rest of lunch, the war in Europe was never mentioned. At the table it seemed to Bruno everyone had got what they wanted. The noise in the restaurant had now reached a crescendo as each table made its point, people interested only in themselves, their personal bubbles, safe and secure. Bruno doubted there was one person in the room not beating their own drum, each oblivious to the other’s intentions.
4
While Bruno was enjoying his second platter of steak, now without fear of it sticking in his throat, far away on the South Atlantic coast in Cape Town Tinus Oosthuizen was eating his supper in the Mount Nelson Hotel. This had once been the British headquarters of Lord Milner during the Anglo-Boer war which had ended for his family when the British hanged his grandfather for treason, his grandfather’s only crime ‘going out’ for his fellow Boers when as a Cape Boer he was a subject of the Queen. Sitting alone at his table in the majestic colonial dining room, the irony was not lost on Tinus, nor the irony of General Jan Christian Smuts, now Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa, taking South Africa into the war to fight alongside his old enemy, England.
What had been the Boer Republics of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State were now part of the Union, alongside the Cape and Natal, the whole British-Boer conflict turned upside down with the losers ruling the country. There was even talk in the Cape Times Tinus had read that morning before he took the short drive to Uncle Harry’s new house at Bishopscourt, that if Churchill became Prime Minister of Britain, Smuts would be invited to join the British War Cabinet.
Tinus found the Bishopscourt house grander by far than Uncle Harry’s description, Mr and Mrs Coetzee, the caretakers, living in splendour in the nine-bedroomed colonial house with six servants, three in the house and three in the ten acres of gardens, as different to Elephant Walk for his Aunt Tina as chalk was to cheese.
The Coetzees, delighted at his fluency in Afrikaans, had shown him around as if they owned the place, more of a reality to Tinus than fiction. Declining their offer to put him up until his boat sailed for England, Tinus had driven his hired car back to the Mount Nelson Hotel and the distractions of Cape Town. After months on Elephant Walk supervising the infrastructure of pipes and pump houses, with not a young woman in sight, Tinus had better ideas on his mind than saving money. The Capetown Castle, which Tinus hoped would be full of young women, was due to sail in only a week.
When the cable from André Cloete had arrived on the farm telling Tinus to ‘put his arse in gear and get over to England’, he had lied to his mother and grandmother by saying the RAF had called him up, that his Oxford University Air Squadron had put him on the Royal Air Force reserve of officers, officers who were now being called up for the war.
A week after arriving in Cape Town, somewhat satiated by the nightclubs of Cape Town, buoyed by the bravado of youth, Tinus boarded the Capetown Castle on his way to England and the war that, apart from the British and French declaration, had not yet started.
By the time the Capetown Castle was sailing out of Table Bay, the newspapers in America were in a feeding frenzy at the heroics of Gregory L’Amour. Glen Hamilton, editor of the Denver Telegraph, had made clippings of the headlines from around the country, not sure what he had started after receiving the phone call from Max Pearl in New York.
‘Now Hitler will think again’
‘America to the rescue’
‘American knight to the rescue of Europe’
‘All over by Christmas now they have Gregory’
‘Flyboy goes to war’
‘Our hero Gregory’
“He’s never flown a plane or ridden a bloody horse,” said Glen in disgust.
“Sells papers,” said Robert St Clair sitting comfortably in the chair on the other side of Glen Hamilton’s desk. “Assuages the public’s guilt at staying neutral whichever side they would want to be on. Don’t forget your press finds it necessary to pander to the wealthy Jews in America. And they want America to fight Hitler. Now. Build up Gregory L’Amour and the job’s half done for the newspaper barons. All hot air and only Gregory gets hurt. They keep the Jews quiet and don’t upset their buying public, one man off to war, now that’s leverage. Freya feels sorry for Gregory being dragooned off to fight but thanks to God America is minding its own business. Every time she thinks of the war and looks at the children she shudders. Won’t let me think of going back to England. I’ve written to mother suggesting she visit America, more to salve my conscience than believe my mother will set one foot outside Purbeck Manor. Merlin will take it as a nice gesture. Anyway, with my one foot they won’t want me getting in the way. Merlin’s far too old this time. Barnaby may try and lie about his age. He’s got nothing to do. Chap’s bored. Some fools think war’s exciting. Hopefully Barnaby had enough excitement in Palestine to see sense. Probably forgotten he nicked fifty quid so you never know.”
