by Peter Rimmer
Genevieve ordered an omelette but let the wine waiter fill up her glass when it reached half empty. After a few glasses of good Californian wine she hoped Mr Hirschman would look more inviting. It was better to like someone to give them genuine conversation. She at least wanted to make the old voyeur think he had a chance. Some of her friends liked to act in front of the camera with a glass of booze in their stomachs. It made them less inhibited. Thirty years ago the chances were Mr Hirschman was a smasher. He still saw himself as the same, especially now he was rich.
Somewhere after Genevieve finished her omelette Gillian left the table without a word to anyone. Genevieve thought she had gone to the loo to repair her make-up. When she saw her at another table surrounded by young men, Gillian waved. By then she had eaten her expensive meal. Letting the conversation drift between the men, all about business which bored Genevieve stiff, with the help of half a bottle of wine, she got up and left the table. She had done it before. Gerry Hollingsworth would understand. By then she had the dirty old man nicely on a string that she now stretched right across the restaurant. Mr Hirschman was getting drunk and more confident. For all of them she was better out of harm’s way. They had come uninvited and left uninvited. The whore from the loo had given her a forlorn look when she saw Genevieve had left the table and wasn’t coming back; even whores had grander ambitions, especially when they were so young. Genevieve felt sorry for the girl.
The young men at the new table were more drunk than Mr Hirschman. Gillian was tipsy. They drank, smoked and joked for an hour. When Genevieve slipped away, Mr Hirschman had started to wave to her from across the restaurant. Waving her to come back. She hoped Gillian had the price of a taxi which she likely didn’t need. Poor Bruno in his prison, thought Genevieve.
Back in her lonely flat she sat down on her sofa and had a good cry. Not only was the war killing her friends, it was killing the time of their youth together. The time she and Tinus would have made so many wonderful memories. Then she went to bed, the wine letting her fall straight asleep.
When Gillian moved into the flat a week later neither of them mentioned the evening in the restaurant. Genevieve doubted Mr Hirschman remembered making a pass at her. For everyone, nothing had happened. The show would go on. If it was any good, Mr Hirschman would make his money instead of making the leading lady, the money more beneficial, more lasting. There was still no news from Tinus in France. Sometimes she hoped never to hear a word until the war was over. No news meant he was still alive. Harry Brigandshaw was certain to let her know if anything happened to his nephew. In England Harry Brigandshaw was Tinus’s next of kin, the first to be advised if anything went wrong.
Then they started shooting the new film and Genevieve absorbed herself in the work, trying not to think. At home, the chatter from Gillian helped. There was no sign of Nathan Squires, or any of the young men from the Oasis. What the girl did all day when Genevieve was away at work, she had no idea. It was better than living alone and thinking what could be happening to Tinus. Gregory L’Amour, once Gillian’s lover, had the brains to keep well away from the flat. And from the war.
During the long weeks of waiting, as the Germans and Japanese were pushed further back towards their respective homelands, Genevieve talked some sense into Gillian.
“We won’t hold them with our sex appeal forever, Gillian. Better to make a good friend of Bruno when he gets back from the war. Living with a good friend is as important, more important in the end, than having good sex, or finding the sexual stimulation in a row of affairs. One good man. Bruno’s a good man. Tinus is a good man. That’s what counts in the end. Bruno doesn’t have to know what happened while he was presumed missing. Don’t tell him. What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn’t grieve about. When he comes home, give him some love. Yes, give him a baby. More than one. I want you to be one of my friends who lived happily ever after. It’s your only chance.”
“You’re a good friend, Genevieve.”
“I hope so. You’ve helped me through the weeks with Tinus still fighting. We need friends in life. Going through bad times together makes good friends. I’m not going to stay in the movie business all my life. You are not going to want to chase every good-looking man you see. Just don’t bugger up your marriage, Gillian.”
“I’ll try. It’s all so difficult. If you’re nice to them all the time men get bored. They start the roving eye.”
“Just hope it doesn’t happen to you. Have a family. That always helps cement a marriage. The war’s not going to go on much longer, God willing. Then our men will be coming home.”
Part 8
Light at the End of the Tunnel – May 1945 to May 1946
1
When Harry Brigandshaw looked up from his paper-littered desk at the Air Ministry, Vic Bell was standing in front grinning like a Cheshire cat. Harry had a bad habit of leaving the door open.
“Sorry to barge in, Harry.”
“Now what’s happened?” said Harry leaning back in his chair, stretching his back. “No man should ever be confined to a desk. What good can I possibly be doing shuffling paper?”
“It’s all over, Harry. The Germans have surrendered. The Russians are saying Hitler has committed suicide in his Berlin bunker. All hostilities will come to an end in Europe at midnight tonight. We should walk down to the gates of the Palace. Every Londoner is going to be out in the streets.”
“Do I have to finish this bloody paperwork?”
“Not now. Come on. The others are going. Katherine has put on her coat. The phones are jammed so you can’t phone Tina. There they go. The church bells. Just listen to them pealing.”
“So Germany is split in two?”
“Looks like it. The Russians have agreed to stop where they are. Do you think the King will come out onto the balcony? He’ll have summoned Churchill to the Palace. They may come out onto the balcony together.”
“Is it cold outside?”
“Put your overcoat on. Early May is a little chilly.”
“We’re getting soft, Ding-a-ling. In France you and I ate supper standing in mud up to our ankles. What about the Japs?”
“Still fighting. Unless the Americans do something drastic the Japanese will fight to the death. The Emperor will never surrender.”
“He might not fall on his sword like Hitler? So Berlin is to be part of the Soviet zone of occupation. You solve one problem and start another. Before we make happy fools of ourselves mingling with the crowd I have a better idea. I have a bottle of Scotch in my drawer you purloined for me. The glasses are in the filing cabinet. Second drawer. Be a good chap and ask Katherine to come into my office.”
By the time Katherine had removed her coat Harry had the whisky glasses on the top of his empty desk, the papers swept on the floor both sides of it.
“Just one good slug before we brave the streets. I give you absent friends.”
“To absent friends,” they chorused.
“You’d better stay in town tonight,” said Vic Bell. “You’ll never get on a train even if they are running. The pubs will stay open all night.”
Only when he followed his friends down into the street did Harry realise his job at the Air Ministry, which had started so tenuously at the start of the war, was over. There was nothing now left for him to do. So far as he was concerned, the papers strewn on the floor could stay where they were to eternity.
The church bells had not stopped pealing from all over the capital. Everyone was smiling. Strangers were shaking hands. Outside the gates of Buckingham Palace the crowds were singing God Save the King. After half an hour the King and Queen came out on the balcony and waved. The crowds of people were running far back from the palace gates down The Mall. The leaves on the trees were lime green, the young shoots of spring. Many in the crowd were arm in arm, drunk from the patriotic singing.
“Twice in my life,” said Harry.
“What do you mean?” asked Vic.
“I was here at the end of the last war. Came
to look through the gates at the palace. The war to end all wars. How long will it be before we start all over again? This time, instead of fighting with the Russians against fascism we’ll be fighting the Russians against communism. The same old fight for power and territory with a different name. Do you think Sarah’s in the crowd somewhere?”
“Never find her in this lot. Here he comes. The man of the hour with a bloody cigar between his fingers. Harry, just listen to that cheer. It’s louder than the one for the King. They’re all screaming ‘Winnie’.”
“Churchill always looks bigger in an overcoat. He’s brought us all a long way. He’s loving it. Look at him loving it. The crowd’s going berserk. Why don’t we find a pub before the others have the same idea? I don’t do it often but tonight I’m going to get drunk. I’ll go home tomorrow with a hangover. You’re right, Vic. Who wants to struggle for a train tonight?”
“What about the papers on the floor, Mr Brigandshaw?” asked Katherine.
“Leave them. I’ll come in Monday and formally resign. Then we’ll tie up the loose ends.”
“Will I be out of a job?”
“I’ll need you, Katherine. My private affairs have been left to stagnate through the war. I’ll need an office in London. My nephew will be joining us before I send him to America. Drinks are on me. What a day. What a night. This is one we’ll remember till the day we die.”
When Harry reached Leatherhead railway station the next day his motorcycle was still standing in the rain with the tarpaulin over the top tied to the wheels. Trying to kick-start the machine with his right foot over the saddle ended in frustration. Harry was suffering from what he termed ‘a creeping hangover’, the longer the day went the worse he would feel, the patriotic, drunken fervour of the night coming home to roost. He felt terrible. Most of what happened after dark he could not remember.
Having flooded the carburettor, Harry sat on the bike in the rain, both feet on the gravel. There was always a price to pay for everything, even the pleasures of victory. Most of the people off the London train had gone on their way. One old woman was looking at him waiting for her lift under the overhang of the ticket office. There had not been a taxi at the station since the second year of war. Seeking redemption for his abandoned revelry, Harry put the cover back on his bike and began the walk to Hastings Court, his long raincoat pulled up to his chin. Thinking of Africa and walking for miles through the bush among wild animals, he began to enjoy himself. His circulation returned, his hands warmed. After ten minutes the drizzle stopped and the sun peeked out from behind a cloud. Harry began to whistle. He was thinking of Tinus as his mind walked through the African bush in his imagination. When he walked up the driveway, Kim was coming down on his bicycle.
“Where’s the motorbike, Dad?”
“Wouldn’t start. What are you doing home?”
“They sent us all home. What are they going to say on the news now the war’s over? Did you walk all the way from the station? Beth’s home. You’d better go and explain to mother.”
“What must I explain, Kim?”
“Why you didn’t come home last night.”
“You want the facts, son? I caught myself up with a nice crowd of drunks. The trains weren’t running, so they said. Everyone was celebrating. I saw the King and Queen at the palace. And the Prime Minister.”
“Aren’t you working today?”
“Questions. Always questions. I’m resigning. My job’s finished.”
“What are you going to do with yourself? Mother says she’s bored.”
“Not with you three home. Where are you off to?”
“Questions. Always questions. Have you got a hangover?” Kim was grinning all over his face.
“The worst of my life. They’ll find something to say in the news. It’s not over yet in the Far East. We still have to defeat Japan. There’s going to be a general election I should think.”
“Dorian’s gone into the village to see his friend. The girl.”
“What’s her name?”
“Won’t tell anyone. Mum’s up at the house. Good luck.”
Harry shook his head, smiling to himself, and trudged on up the long driveway to the old house where the builders were repairing the bombed-out stables. For the clock tower they needed plans to be passed with the council before the men could start building. His home was almost back to its pre-war state. Poor Tina, he thought. The worst thing in life was to be bored. To have nothing to do. Nothing that was interesting. He would tell her they would go to America for Tinus’s wedding. He would put her in charge. Most women liked planning for a wedding.
When he almost reached the house the dogs came hurtling down the steps, barking. When they reached him they all jumped up and put their dirty paws on his raincoat. Somewhere, an aircraft was flying in the direction of Redhill Aerodrome.
“Thank God, Harry, it’s over,” said Tina coming out onto the terrace to look down to where he was patting each of the dogs in turn.
“Did you hear the church bells? London was chaos. Walked down The Mall and back to Charing Cross. Then we all crawled from pub to pub. Even the bobbies were drunk. One lost his helmet and didn’t seem to care. No one cared. It was over.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving. The bike wouldn't start. Had to walk from the station.”
Then they walked inside the old house holding hands, both of them thinking of Anthony and the new memorial among the cedar trees at the back of the house.
When Tinus came home to Hastings Court he had taken off his RAF uniform for the last time. The war in Europe had been over for two months. As a Rhodesian he was one of the first to be discharged, along with the Canadians and the Australians who had ended up in the RAF at the start of the war. In his pocket was a very nice letter, he thought, from Lord St Clair saying how delighted his Lordship would be if Tinus married his daughter. And no, with his mother ailing from old age he wouldn’t come to America for the wedding. If Harry Brigandshaw was going, Merlin suggested in the letter in reply to Tinus’s formal request for Genevieve’s hand in marriage, Harry could give away his daughter. ‘She calls him Uncle Harry as he was married to my late sister.’ There was nothing immediately wrong with Lady St Clair. Tinus imagined his future father-in-law did not like travelling. If Esther came to the wedding his Lordship’s sense of decorum would likely be out of joint.
“What are they going to do when they have grandchildren?” he said to his Aunt Tina while they were discussing the wedding.
“It’s all the photographers, Tinus. All the newspaper nonsense. I’d love to plan your wedding. I’ll need a good month or so in America to learn the ropes. If Cousin George wasn’t so far away from Los Angeles we could stay with him. Maybe after the wedding. When you lovebirds have gone to your secret honeymoon. Where are you taking Genevieve for your honeymoon?”
“She wants to go to a desert island with no one around.”
“Have you found one?”
“Not yet. You really don’t mind all the work of planning a wedding?”
“Do you know what it’s like to be bored?”
“Not recently. Janusz has gone back to Warsaw to look for Ingrid and his parents. His father, the judge, is nowhere to be found. The Russians called on him after Germany surrendered and he hasn’t been seen since. He was advocating elections in Poland. To elect a government after the German occupation. Now the Russians want to occupy Poland. Not getting any sense on the phone, he’s gone to look for himself with special permission from the Air Ministry. They’ve allowed him to wear his uniform. They think the British uniform will give him protection so they must know something is wrong. Everything’s very fluid on the east side of the Russian front line. The Russians are never going to let go of the territory they won from the Germans. Right of conquest, to hell with what the countries were before the Germans marched in. He’s a trained lawyer. Can’t practise law in the States with his Polish degree but he can give me legal advice when we look at expanding in Ameri
ca. He can join the firm of Brigandshaw Oosthuizen Inc. That’s what we are calling the consulting firm. Once I’m married I’m to stay in America with a full-time job with Uncle Harry.”
“Won’t you miss your friends in the RAF?”
“All of them, Aunt Tina. The living and the dead… Oh, I’m so sorry, that was terribly insensitive.”
“I miss him so terribly. Every day I go and look at that damn memorial among the cedar trees. As if that will do any damn good.”
“Seeing me come back alive doesn’t help.”
“Of course it does, Tinus. What a terrible thing to say.”
“Give me a hug. Why don’t we both go and have a look together? Uncle Harry showed me the moment I got to Hastings Court. I should like to see it again.”
“Would you?”
“He was your son. He was also my first cousin and a fellow pilot. Do you know, I think of André Cloete nearly every day. We called ourselves the three musketeers. Me, Genevieve and André. We were so young and innocent in those days. Feels like a hundred years ago. Then we can talk more about the wedding when we’ve paid our respects.”
On the way to the ancient burial grounds of the Mandervilles, Tinus picked wild flowers from the side of the path. Beneath the cedars and next to the smaller yew tree, Tinus placed the flowers on the small plinth below the cross. The monument Harry had had built by a stonemason was small, no bigger than the others, in deference to the many of Anthony’s ancestors who had died fighting for their country. Only the Lord of the Manor was entitled to a mausoleum if the family was rich at the time. Sir Henry Manderville, buried next to the monument to his grandson, lay in a small grave, the headstone the same height as the cross. On the cross, people would read the words down the years of a young pilot killed in action. What was so big in his aunt’s heart, the poor woman crying without hiding her tears next to Tinus as they stood silently looking at the simple inscription on the cross, was the same pain so many women had endured down the centuries. There was nothing more Tinus could say to a woman who had lost her son, the first born, the one he was told was always the most precious to a mother.
