by Peter Rimmer
“There are lots of things you don’t know about Harry.”
“He grew up on a farm in Rhodesia, so far as I remember from those nights hiding underground from the bombing. Clerk in the Air Ministry.”
“I suppose you could call him a clerk. He’s my boss, Sarah. His wife’s coming back from Cape Town. Did you know he had a wife?”
“Yes, that I knew. I want to go and see him. Poor man. Was his son a sergeant pilot?”
“Flight lieutenant. Harry was a colonel in the last war. Royal Flying Corps. I was his adjutant.”
“Never said nothing to us in the underground. Told stories about Africa. We all thought he was making them up to keep our minds off the bombing.”
“His father owned that farm in Rhodesia. Harry owns it now.”
“Come on, Vic. We’ll go round to his room. Said he had a room nearabouts.”
“He’s not there now.”
“Where is he?”
“At Hastings Court near Leatherhead. I went down yesterday to tell him the news about Anthony.”
“He’s rich, is he? Is that what it’s all about? Didn’t want to blow his trumpet with us ordinary folk. You never know people do you, Vic? I always believe what they say. Take them at face value. Poor Harry. He was so good helping everyone. And I made him sandwiches thinking he had no money. What’s Hastings Court?”
“A mansion he inherited from his family. Been in his mother’s side of the family for centuries. Better not to go down today, Sarah. He wants to be alone. They had grown close since Anthony came back alone to England from Africa to join the RAF. Harry taught him to fly. Harry has his own plane in Rhodesia. I’ll take you and Fred down later in the summer. We’ll go for the weekend. When Tina comes back. She’ll like having guests.”
“Is she la-di-da?”
“Quite the opposite. Grew up in a railway cottage in Corfe Castle. Her father’s the stationmaster of a one-horse town.”
“I’ll be buggered. What made him marry her?”
“She was pregnant with Anthony.”
“Drink your tea, Vic. Now you’ve started I want to hear everything. This beats his stories during the Blitz. Was he ever in the Belgium Congo? With a tribe of savages?”
“Yes he was, Sarah, for a number of years. He finally walked out of the jungle and found his way back to London. Back from the dead, so they said in the newspapers.”
“I’ll make us another pot of tea before you start. Poor Harry. He’s such a nice man. I miss my Tom, Vic,” said Sarah, bursting into tears.
“I know you do, Sarah,” said Vic putting his arm round her shoulders.
Janet Wakefield heard about Anthony from William Smythe. Horatio had been sent down to the south coast by Billy Glass, the editor of the Daily Mail.
“What can be so secret on the south coast?” Janet had said to Horatio before he went. “Everyone knows there’s going to be an invasion. There are more Americans in England than English. Certainly seems like it. They’re everywhere and loud. Why can’t they talk without shouting?”
“Most of them are very charming. I’ll be away a while, Janet. Look after the kids.”
“I always look after the kids. What’s the matter, Horatio?”
“It’s going to be dangerous.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ll call soon as I can.”
“Why can’t you tell, Horatio?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. In the Daily Mail.”
“If you’re trying another Berlin on me with William, I won’t have it. We’re married. We have kids. What about young Harry and young Bergit?”
“I have a job to do. We all have a job to do.”
“Oh, my God! You are going to be part of the invasion!”
When William came round to see her with the news of Anthony she was with a patient.
“I’m with a patient, Will. Can’t you see?”
“Anthony’s been killed. Harry Brigandshaw’s Anthony.”
“Mr Makepeace, will you excuse me?”
There was one advantage of her profession thought William, as he watched the man struggle to get out a reply without any success. Harry had asked him to write a piece on Anthony for the newspapers. They both knew the papers would pick up on the story. Harry and his family were news on both sides of the Atlantic. William had not wanted Janet to hear about Anthony from the papers.
“Where is Harry?”
“In his office, I expect. Trevor Hemmings was with him when Vic Bell drove down to Hastings Court to tell him the news. This is my article for tomorrow’s papers. I’ve cabled it to Glen Hamilton in Denver.”
Janet read the story, tears coming down both sides of her face. Mr Makepeace left without her noticing. She gave the article back to William and wiped her eyes.
“Poor Harry. Anthony was all he had in England.”
“Tina’s flying back with the kids.”
“I’m glad… Is Horatio in any kind of danger?”
“Not at the moment, Janet.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“He told me to tell you when he was gone. So you wouldn’t throw a tantrum. He’s going on a British ship with the invasion fleet.”
“Will he come under fire?”
“No one knows, Janet. Maybe the Germans will withdraw from the coast. The RAF and the American Air Force have command of the air.”
“It’s Berlin all over again. Why didn’t you go, William? You always liked to be in the thick of it.”
“Ruthy, Janet.”
“I’ll wring his bloody neck when he comes back.”
“Horatio said you might.”
“Then why did he go?”
“Billy Glass asked him. Someone had to go from the Mail. I’m freelance. Can choose my jobs. Horatio can’t. He didn’t want to put the others in jeopardy. They’re all married with kids. He said it was his responsibility.”
“First Bruno Kannberg. Now my husband. Just for a bloody story. Where’s that Mr Makepeace?”
“He left. He was trying to say something.”
“When’s the invasion?”
“No one knows exactly. Moment I hear anything I’ll let you know. I’ve managed to filch some petrol to go down to Hastings Court on Saturday to be with Harry. Do you want to bring the kids? I thought they’d help. Young Harry in particular.”
“Anything to take my mind off Horatio. When’s this damn war going to be over?”
“Soon, we hope.”
“If anything like that happened to young Harry I don’t know what I’d do. Poor Harry.”
“Let’s hope young Harry never has a war to contend with.”
2
Being a father had changed William’s life. From being a self-centred hedonist taking from life what he wanted, everything was now about Ruthy.
“Marrying an ‘old man’ does have its compensations,” Betty had said to him six months after Ruth was born. “She’ll grow up into a bitch with all this attention. Please don’t let me stop you. I won’t be marrying her. Some poor man down the line is going to have to start running after her where you left off, William. By the by, when the war’s over we’re moving out of my flat. I want a couple more kids to keep you on your toes. Can’t have just one demanding child, now can we?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t mind North Kensington. We need a bedroom for Ruth. She can’t spend much longer sleeping in the bath. It’s the howling noise. I don’t mind the poo. I don’t mind being sicked all over. I just want my sleep.”
“I always get up.”
“You do, Will, but she wakes me up. I’m all alert. Motherly instinct. Then I can’t get back to sleep. Listening for her next sound. When she’s dead quiet I wonder if she’s got her head in the pillow suffocating.”
“I’ll start looking. Better to buy now with the war still on. The doodlebugs are getting on everyone’s nerves. After the invasion the army will knock out the launch sites the RAF haven�
�t found. We’ve still got money, if that’s what you’re asking. You never ask me about money. Most women do.”
“I’m your secretary. I do the banking. I never wanted much materially. Just to be comfortable and eat plain good food. Do you still miss Genevieve?”
“Not for a minute. When we saw her last film I didn’t even bat an eyelid.”
“Is it me or Ruthy?”
“Both of you, Betty. Not only are you a damn good secretary, you’re a damn good wife.”
“Is that a backhanded compliment?”
“Whatever made you think that?”
“Didn’t you really get a twinge when you saw Genevieve’s film?”
When William reached the small flat after visiting Janet in Chelsea, his wife had the supper ready in the oven, with Ruthy bathed, the bath dried, and Ruthy’s bedding back in the bath.
“We’re going down to Hastings Court with Janet and the kids on Saturday.”
“Poor Harry. He must be feeling terrible. You were a long time.”
“She’s worried about Horatio.”
“Thank God you didn’t go.”
“Is she asleep?”
“Out like a light. Putting her down in the bath was your best idea. Don’t wake her up. Want a cup of tea before supper? You’ll want to listen to the news.”
“Yes, we’d better listen to the six o’clock news.”
Looking down, Tinus Oosthuizen could see the landing craft, all heading for the shore. At fifteen hundred feet he could see the first rays of the morning sun rising from German-occupied Europe. Down below on the sea the first light was full of moving shadows, the wakes of the blunt-nosed landing craft running back in straight phosphorescent lines. All other thoughts left his mind.
“They’ll be coming out of the sun, chaps,” he said over the radio.
“Bandits one-five to the northeast.”
“Tallyho.”
Adrenaline pumping, Tinus led his wing to the northeast, scanning the sky for the glint of sun reflecting off metal.
“I see them. I count ten bandits, 109s. Here we go.”
Within minutes the sky above Normandy was filled with dogfights while German artillery on the ground opened fire on the incoming landing craft. Quickly the 109s were breaking away, overwhelmed by the three squadrons of Mark IX Spitfires. For half an hour, Tinus patrolled above the landing beaches.
“Tinus, you can go back for fuel,” he heard from the incoming wing.
“They didn’t know we were coming, Janusz, or they don’t have enough aircraft. Not so good down below. Going home for fuel. Good hunting, my friend.”
All day the fighters left RAF Tangmere, Tinus flying six sorties before the dusk came and night shielded the troops on the beaches. Only the Americans on Omaha beach were held up by German artillery and machine gun fire. By nightfall the British and Canadian armies had reached the sand dunes and beyond. In the British sector the Royal Air Force had control of the sky, their overwhelming numbers preventing the Luftwaffe from attacking the ground troops.
In the officers’ mess, while the maintenance crews worked on the spitfires, Tinus stood with one elbow on the bar surrounded by his pilots.
“It took the Yanks longer than everyone expected. They were right to build up overwhelming force. The Germans don’t have the aircraft to fight on two fronts. The Americans will break out tomorrow. Equipment will be hitting the beach all night. Pratt, give everyone a drink and put it on my card.”
No one mentioned the pilot they had lost during the day until the round of drinks was in their hands.”
“Fisher,” said Tinus raising his glass. “At eighteen I hope his life was fulfilled.”
“Fisher,” said the other pilots.
When Janusz joined him at the bar, Tinus was not thinking of the youngest pilot in his wing. He was thinking of his cousin Anthony as he had been for days.
“Sorry to hear you lost Fisher. It’s always the novice.”
“The old hands among the Germans can see the inexperienced pilot and single him out. I was watching Fisher. When I got to him it was too late. He was going down in flames. Did you lose any pilots?”
“Not today, Tinus.”
“Anthony was just unlucky. Bomb bay open to drop his stick and a shell hits the bloody load. Fluke. Lucky shot. He was coming to live in Africa after the war. Had it all planned. Had a girl to marry. Well, he can’t do any of that now. You never heard a word out of Poland since you fled the country after the German invasion?”
“Neither my family, nor Ingrid. Not a word. Now, instead of being ruled by the Nazis, we’re going to be ruled by the communists. I wonder why I worried.”
“You can stay in England.”
“On my own? I’m a Pole, Tinus. The same way you are an African. You love Africa. I love my country. Except there isn’t one now.”
“The Russians will let you go home.”
“To what? Communism confiscates the land. Gives it to the people to run as a commune. Well, I suppose that is good for some if they know how to farm. I was educated to be a lawyer and run the family estate one day. Father was a judge. All those jobs are defunct under communism. In Russia they shot their aristocracy. Going back to Poland after the war claiming I’m Count Kowalski will get me shot. No, there’s no comfort for me after the war. Even if I find my family alive.”
“You could come out to Africa. There’s plenty of land in Africa that is not being used. The population in Rhodesia is sprinkled among a few rural villages. The wild animals roam over most of Rhodesia.”
“The Americans won’t let you keep your empire once they’ve won your war for you. India will be first to get independence. The Americans are already talking about a free world under democratic rule. Colonialism will be a dirty word.”
“They need us to develop Africa. Without our knowledge the black man will starve as they multiply. With modern medicine we’ve cut the child mortality rate in Rhodesia by eighty per cent in the last fifty years.”
“They won’t remember that. They’ll want their land back. Like the Russian peasants. People always want what they haven’t got. They don’t see hard work and knowledge as a prerequisite for making a success of their lives. When the politicians say they are going to give them what they want the people think it’s a handout. That they’ll have everything for doing nothing. We should go to America. That’s where we should go. You know the old saying, if you can’t beat them, join them.”
“Genevieve has suggested the same. She’s also worried about the future of the white man in Africa.”
“Doomed, I’d say. When this is over, go to her in America, Tinus.”
“I might just do that. You can come with me… First light tomorrow. The CO says we’ll be flying six sorties a day for the next week. A few more drinks and I’m getting some sleep. It’s the beginning of the end, Janusz. The invasion of Normandy is the beginning of the end of the war in Europe.”
“For the British maybe. I don’t think so for the Poles. We’ll be no better off under the Russians than under the Germans. All of us. Not just the aristocracy.”
3
Sarah Coombes held his hand when Harry Brigandshaw went round on the Wednesday for his weekly cup of tea. The Air Member for Personnel suggested he take a week’s leave. Vic Bell pussyfooted around his office every morning with the daily situation report. Everyone, as Harry put it to himself, was so damned nice while all he wanted to do was scream from the top of a hill. There was nothing anyone could do. He had to sort out his own mind. Stop the recurring picture of the exploding bomb bay, Anthony turning round from the cockpit as he recognised in a second before death he was going to die. The worst curse for Harry was a vivid imagination, with each time his inability to stop what was about to happen.
In deference to Air Vice Marshal Healy’s suggestion, Harry put in a formal request for leave which was instantly granted. Going down to Hastings Court on the Thursday night from London a day early, Harry took the 770cc BSA motorcycle from th
e shed. The same bike he had owned for nearly twenty years. In the flying coat he had worn in the First World War, flying goggles to keep the wind out of his eyes, Harry began the long ride to Corfe Castle and the Purbeck Hills where first he had screamed at the loss of Lucinda St Clair, his wife killed by Mervyn Braithwaite while Lucinda was expecting Harry’s first child. Soon after the war had ended, Braithwaite, out of his mind from all the killing he had endured in the war, had felt the urge to go on killing his imagined enemies, friends turned to foes in his paranoid mind. Riding the bike at full throttle, Harry hurled himself through the English lanes seeing nothing that was not in his mind. For four years all Harry had seen of his family was Anthony. Anthony back from flying school in Gwelo. Anthony in his officer’s uniform, new wings bright on his breast. Anthony at Hastings Court, the two of them walking the estate, talking, always talking. Of the future, of what his eldest son was going to do with the rest of his life, the excitement, the hope, the golden future of a perfect life seen through the eyes of youth before the warts set in and reality came down to the facts of life. Eleanor, the perfect girl, never to argue with in his life. Harry, seeing the excitement in his son that made life worth the living, even though Harry knew most of what his son wanted was the basis of fiction.
Except for petrol, Harry did not stop until he reached Purbeck Manor and looked up at the Purbeck Hills. Without seeing anyone, Harry left the flying coat and goggles draped over the bike. Looking at the spine of the Purbeck Hills in the middle distance, Harry began the long walk. Over the small stream, up the paths he had walked so long ago with Lucinda until he reached the top. Harry knelt down first and prayed to all the gods. Then he stood up and screamed at the heavens, the sound echoing down into the valley, the birds taking little notice, a rabbit scurrying away, a cock pheasant lifting out of the bushes to fly down into the valley empty of people. Then he was finished.
When Harry walked back to the Manor house and his lonely motorbike parked in the drive, Robert St Clair was waiting. Neither said a word. They hugged each other. Then Harry looked up to the second floor landing of the old house and saw Lady St Clair, who once had been his mother-in-law. Maybe she still was. Later he would ride to see the Pringles and tell them the news they likely knew already. Maybe losing a grandson for Old Pringle was as bad as Harry losing a son. Harry did not know.
