by Peter Rimmer
The visit to Harry Brigandshaw had come at the end of their trip. Erwin, smiling now and doing his best to make a party, had been conceived on the Brigandshaw farm. If they had stayed another nine months her son would have been born British, like Harry Brigandshaw, in the British Crown Colony of Southern Rhodesia. She remembered their journey and the smell of the bush. There were plants growing she had smelt nowhere else in the world. Harry had said the smell was of wild sage. One day she wanted to find that scent again. He was going to be all right, she kept telling herself, trying not to cry.
When Gabby played her music in the music room where they had all gone after dinner wearing their paper hats, elastic under their chins to keep the conical hats on their heads, Bergit cried. The new sonata was sad. Erwin shifted in his chair. Jürgen looked at Melina with an unobtainable longing Bergit remembered from the looks given her by Klaus before they were married. Jürgen wanted her daughter. For Melina, a good match of similar families. They would have a life like hers on a country estate, bringing up their children in peace, away from the harsh bustle of the cities. Bergit wondered if Melina knew.
When Gabby finished playing her own composition they all clapped. They drank small glasses of dandelion wine made by Mrs Müller, one of the tenants’ wives. It was as good as any liqueur from France, they all said. It was strong, the second glass going to her head. They had drunk a red wine with the lamb from a nearby estate that was still making wine despite the war. Provided it was local, they could have what they wanted. Only in the cities there were terrible shortages of everything. Bergit drank a third glass of the dandelion wine at Erwin’s insistence. Then they sang songs. They were all a little drunk. Jürgen kissed Melina on the cheek right in front of everyone. Melina turned and kissed him gently on the lips. It was a dinner party they were all going to remember, Bergit said to herself.
Like all time it was soon gone. Quicker than usual but gone. Instead of waiting for her son to run up the steps from the driveway, Bergit was standing alone looking down, the last feel of him still in the sinews of her arms where she had hugged, not wanting to let him go. He saluted her from the bottom of the steps, the big black officer’s cap overshadowing his lean face. Klaus was already up on the trap, reins in hands, waiting. The girls were shouting at the dogs, the dogs barking in excitement. Erwin patted each dog in turn before getting up next to his father. Klaus had made sure there was plenty of time to get to the station. There was only the one train for Erwin to start his journey back to the war.
The old horse took up the weight of the trap. Slowly the trap moved forward, gathering pace down the driveway. Erwin turned once and waved. They all waved back except Jürgen who saluted despite wearing civilian clothes. They watched the backs of the men and the horse until they were right out of sight. Bergit was crying. The girls were crying. The dogs, sensing something was wrong, kept quiet. Loneliness came upon each of them. It was over. His leave was over.
“You’ll stay a few more days, Jürgen?” said Bergit. “It will be nice.”
“He’ll be all right, Mrs von Lieberman.”
“I know he will. Will you excuse me? I’m going up to my room to lie down. Maybe tonight, Melina, you can take charge of the food?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“I’ve never been able to get away from these damn wars. First your father. Now Erwin.”
“He’ll be all right, Mama. Papa came home.”
“Thanks to Harry Brigandshaw. I hope Anthony’s all right, and his nephew Tinus. It’s all so damn crazy. Excuse me. I’m not myself.”
“I’m going to play the piano,” said Gabby. “I have it in my head now he’s gone. The second movement is always slow and very sad. Take her for a walk, Jürgen. I’m so glad for Melina you are staying. With an oar each on either side of the boat you can go for a row on the lake. It’s still a lovely day. Papa won’t be back for a couple of hours. Papa made sure they would be an hour early for the train.”
By the time Jürgen and Melina had put on their walking shoes and gone for a walk with the dogs barking at their heels they could hear Gabby’s music coming through the open window of the music room. They were holding hands, Melina on his right, instead of the left where she normally walked next to a man.
“She plays beautifully,” said Jürgen.
“She needs a bigger audience than herself and the old house.”
“One day she’ll find her audience. Oh yes, she’ll find it. That music is making me want to cry. Captain of a bomber and I want to cry.”
“Why don’t we both cry together?”
“Will you marry me, Melina?”
“Don’t be silly. In total we haven’t known each other a week.”
“We made love quick enough.”
“Don’t be naughty.”
“What do you say?”
“You’ll have to ask my papa when he comes back from the station.”
“You won’t mind a man with one arm and a limp?”
“Why should I ever notice?”
Part 7
In the Line of Duty – June to December 1944
1
The following summer, Squadron Leader Trevor Hemmings was waving the Australian flag, standing on the Leatherhead roundabout as the convoy of British armour passed by heading for the Dorking bypass and the road to the south coast. Next to him, flying goggles hanging from his left hand, stood Harry Brigandshaw, cheering along with the boys from the nearby prep school. To the side of the boys were the girls from the convent in their school uniforms. All the boys and girls were waving at the smiling troops, with the soldiers, their heads and shoulders out of the turrets of the tanks and armoured cars, waving back. Harry and his weekend guest at Hastings Court had ridden their motorcycles to the designated spot.
When the cheers from further back towards Ashtead increased they all craned their necks.
“He’s coming,” shouted Trevor. “The bloody beauty’s coming. Harry, give that small kid a hike up on your shoulder. Poor little bastard can’t see from down there. This is history in the making, mate. Bloody history. The blokes back home will want to know all about this. Timed it perfect, we did. Who told you?”
“My old adjutant, Vic Bell.”
“Hope Jerry doesn’t know Monty’s schedule like you do.”
“Shot in the dark, really. Vic said stand on the roundabout at lunchtime and you’ll get a surprise.”
“What a bit of luck on my leave. Tinus will be pissed off to miss this. That’s him, isn’t it? With his head and shoulders out of that armoured car. He’s the only one wearing a beret. Wave, kids. That’s the man who took the Eighth Army to victory at El Alamein. Yes, that’s him. He’s waving back.”
The excitement was quickly over as the convoy passed on down the road.
“Now I need a drink to celebrate. Can we call at the Running Horses on the way back, Harry? Have they still got the same barmaid?”
“She got married to an American GI. There’s a new one.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Not for me to say at my age.”
“You old fox. I’ll bet you can still get what you want.”
“I’m married.”
“When did you last see your wife?”
“Four years ago. I talk to her and the children on the phone.”
“That’s what I call being faithful. Don’t think I’d be that good after four years.”
“You’re younger, Trevor. Anthony would find out. Can’t teach your children bad habits. We can have a pint in the pub if that’s what you want. I’ll give John Woodall a ring from the Running Horses. I’m sure he’ll like to see you again. He’ll probably want you to tune up his bike. 1938 when we first met at Redhill Aerodrome seems like a century ago with what you’ve all been through since. You’re going to miss Anthony and Tinus if you go tomorrow. Want me to wangle something with your CO?”
“Course I do.”
“I’ll ring Ding-a-ling.”
“Who’s Ding-a-li
ng?”
“Vic Bell. He has a way of getting what he wants. Favour for favour, that kind of thing. He can give Air Commander Lowcock a ring. Strings, Trevor. It’s all about pulling strings. We must just hope German Intelligence doesn't know where the Allies are going to land. Churchill wanted to go with the troops. The King said he’d go too. They’ve compromised. Neither of them are going. Just a rumour at the Air Ministry. Vic picks up everything. Thank God the war’s going to be over soon.”
“The Germans will fight.”
“Hopefully not to the death. It’s all so bloody futile.”
They drank two pints of bitter in the Running Horses. There was no reply from John Woodall’s telephone at Redhill Aerodrome. Harry noticed the Australian drank his beer using two hands to keep the pint steady as it came up to his lips. To help, the man bent forward to drink. Harry knew the feeling. The men had been in combat too long. The barmaid tried to flirt with Trevor. The bar was half full. Most were old men, too old to fight. The only young man in the bar was Trevor Hemmings. Trevor told everyone Field Marshal Montgomery had waved to him. He was like a small boy with his first bicycle. The afternoon quickly went flat after the story at the roundabout.
They rode back to Hastings Court on their motorcycles, through the leafy lanes and hedgerows. Trevor’s brother had been killed in the Pacific at the age of nineteen, he had told Harry. The words had been blurted out leaving Harry with nothing to say. Justin Hemmings, Harry learnt, had been with the Australian Army. Later in Trevor’s stay at Hastings Court, Harry expected to hear the full story. Over the four years of the war, Harry had taught himself to be a good listener. To wait. In the end it all came out. It was a beautiful day for riding through the English lanes on a motorcycle.
In the driveway sitting in a RAF car was Vic Bell. Harry’s stomach sank when he saw his old adjutant. Carefully, trying not to panic, Harry leant the bike on the rest he pulled down with his left foot after turning off the engine. Vic got out of the car.
“It’s Anthony, isn’t it?” The words were pinched in his throat.
“I’m afraid so, Harry. Last night. Part of a thousand-bomber raid over Berlin. One of the chaps said it was a lucky shot from the ground. Before Anthony had dropped his bombs. Hit the open bomb bay with a full load of bombs, they think. Exploded in mid-air.”
“Thank you for coming, Vic. For not using the telephone.”
Trevor Hemmings had gone to the rose bed where he was being violently sick at the news.
“We’ve mourned them before, Harry.”
“They were not my son!” shouted Harry. “You don’t have a son. You don’t understand.”
“There’s still Frank…”
“He’s not my bloody son. Barnaby St Clair poked my wife when I was on the farm in Rhodesia. They were lovers before I married her. I got her up the pole with Anthony on the boat out to Africa. She followed me to the farm. Why I married her. That was how I started my family… No one baled out?” he said, looking at Vic hopefully.
“The explosion tore the aircraft apart. I’m sorry, Harry. Do you want me to go back to London now?”
“Of course not. Oh my God. Oh my God. My son. My son. I’ve lost my son. Why did I bloody teach him to fly?… Does his mother know?” he said after a long while, by which time Trevor had wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Not yet. We thought...”
“Of course. I’ll phone her right away. Come in, Vic. This is Squadron Leader Hemmings. We were going to ask you to fiddle some leave for Anthony. They first met when Anthony was learning to fly at Redhill. Before the war. Trevor’s just lost his brother in the Pacific. I should go to Cape Town. To be with her. Can you arrange to get me there?”
“I’m sure we can.”
“Will you tell Tinus? I couldn’t phone two of them now. No man should outlive his children. I’m going for a walk. Go inside. I have to walk and think or I’m going to die. Why didn’t he stay in Rhodesia?”
“Are you going to be all right, Harry?”
“Of course I’m not. I just want to be alone.”
Both of them were gone when Harry came back from his walk. Both of them had left letters of condolence. Trevor said he could not stand losing any more of his friends. The shadows were long on the lane. Evening was approaching. Everyone left him alone. The pigeons were cooing from the elms across the back lawn. The clock tower had still not been cleared of rubble. Harry doubted now he would ever clear away the mess until after the war. The stables would stay in ruins. The grass would stay uncut. There was nothing Harry could think of to do. His mind was not strong enough to phone Tina in Cape Town. However their marriage had taken place in his life she was just as much Anthony’s parent as he was. More. A mother mourned her lost children, they said, more than the father. Harry could not see why.
When the phone rang from inside the house he was sitting on the lawn in the gloaming. Harry took no notice of the ringing. He could hear Anthony talking in his head. The young, confident Anthony with his whole life in front of him.
“You’ll like her, Dad. She’s Afrikaans. Like Tinus’s father. It will be nice to have a family with deep roots in Africa. I want to run Elephant Walk. Eleanor and I have discussed it in our letters. Mum doesn’t want to live in Africa. Dorian can help me. He wants to be a farmer. We’ll buy more land and turn the whole Mazoe Valley into one big citrus farm now you’ve built the dam. I think we should give Ralph Madgwick a share in the company I plan to form to run the estate. There’ll be much more than farming so we need a company with distinct sections. A manager for each section. A marketing division for selling our orange juice. Another for exporting the oil we extract from the orange skins to the perfume factories in Europe and America. There’s so much to do. Eleanor is going to be a qualified nurse. She wants a big clinic on the farm so she can help Aunty Madge. Grandma Brigandshaw will love Eleanor. Everyone loves Eleanor. She wants a dozen children. The Afrikaners are ones for big families. I can’t wait for the war to be over so we can be married. I’ll be twenty-one in June. That’s not too young to get married when you love someone. We met on the beach. Clifton Beach. We played beach bats together for hours in our bathing costumes and bare feet. The sand at Clifton is so soft. The water’s so cold. Freezing. You must have gone to Clifton Beach, Dad, when you were at Bishops?”
“It’s for you, Mr Brigandshaw,” called Mrs Craddock. “Long distance. It’s your wife. You better come inside.”
“Does she know, Mrs Craddock?”
“She says the British High Commissioner in Cape Town came to see her this afternoon.”
“I’m coming. Tell Tina to hold on.”
When Harry reached the phone in the old house, Anthony’s voice had gone from his mind, leaving his head empty of all thought.
“He was shot down by German flak, Tina. Vic Bell came down from London. I’m so sorry for you. I was about to call you. Anthony must have given them both our names as next of kin.”
“I’m coming home, Harry. With the children. They break up at the end of July. All of us.”
“Why, Tina?”
“I can’t stand it here any longer. He would have turned twenty-one on Wednesday.”
“I know.”
“Are you all right, Harry?”
“No, I’m bloody well not. He was my son.”
“He was my son too.”
“I’m so sorry… Are you going to fly? I was going to come out to you.”
“Flying home will be quicker.”
“Hug the children for me. How are they?”
“None of them have stopped crying from the moment they heard.”
“I hate bloody wars. Always the best get killed. He was going to marry his Eleanor. Did you know that?”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“You’d better go and tell her.”
“I don’t know where she lives. I’ll find out. They’re cutting us off, Harry.”
The phone went dead. For the first time in his life Harry had n
o idea what to do. He wished he could cry. Like the children. Instead he was numb.
Mrs Craddock, the old cook, took him by the arm and led him through the house to her kitchen where she cooked him bacon and eggs with a cup of cocoa. She stood over him while he ate.
Afterwards Harry went up to bed. All night he lay awake. All night he lived with his ghosts.
Later that day in London, Vic Bell went to see Sarah Coombes in her flat off the Charing Cross Road. The church bells were ringing for matins. Harry had phoned his flat to say Tina was bringing the children back to England.
“You don’t have to get me on a flight, Vic. Anthony must have given both our addresses as next of kin in case something happened to me in the bombing.”
“Are you coping?”
“We all cope one way or the other.” There was a long pause on the phone. Vic suspected it was while Harry gained control of his voice. “It will be nice to have Tina and the children in the house,” said Harry, back to his normal voice.
“Adversity brings people closer together.”
“I hope so. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. What did you do with Hemmings?”
“He wanted to get drunk. I left him in Soho. I’m having a word tomorrow with his CO. They must take him off active duty. Half his friends are dead including his younger brother. The mind can only take so much before it breaks. You always think of other people. No, maybe not. Air Commanders don’t take kindly to Air Ministry personnel telling them what to do.”
Sarah Coombes’s small flat was over the tobacconist’s. They met twice a week for a cuppa as Sarah liked to call it. Her husband had owned the tobacconist’s before he was killed at Dunkirk. Sarah ran the shop on her own. The shop was closed on Sundays. They were a great comfort to each other.
“What’s the matter, Vic?”
“Harry. His eldest son’s been killed.”
“Was he in the army?”
“Pilot of a Lancaster.”
“I didn’t know.”
