by Peter Rimmer
“They call me Will.”
“Well, I prefer William so it will be William in the future.” She gave the word ‘future’ a meaning that extended further than time. Byron looked at his protégée with quick alarm. They drove out of the alley and on towards the Café Royal.
“Where did you manage that gorgeous tan, brother William?”
“I’ve just come back from Africa.” Shelley’s bare leg was pressed hard against his knee in the taxi. Will stammered out the words.
“What do you do in Africa, William?”
“I’m a professional hunter with a safari operation.”
“Now that is interesting. Over dinner you can tell me everything.”
On the word everything she put her right hand firmly on his knee and gave it a press. Until they reached the door of the Café, she had not removed her hand.
Byron pinned the orchid corsage onto the yellow-white dress and they sat down to supper. Shelley was having the time of her life and not once mentioned the club to Byron or her standing ovation. The weapon she had been looking for, for over a year had been placed in her hand. Using it was going to be her pleasure and Byron’s pain.
Shelley put the oysters into her mouth, sucking each one off her fork with an inner smile, twice catching Will’s eye as she swallowed. The band struck up a dance number and Byron asked Shelley to dance.
“It will be my pleasure,” she said to him and then turned to Will. “Now, you won’t go away?”
On the dance floor she put her hands behind Byron’s neck but kept him at full distance, smiling regretfully but mischievously into his eyes.
“What the hell are you doing, Shelley?” he snapped.
“You know your eyes are a similar colour but his have far more depth. Must be all that hunting. Imagine shooting a lion.” Shelley rolled her big brown eyes in their almond settings and gave Byron a lascivious wink.
“He’s my damn brother.”
“I know and he’s very good-looking. Nearly twenty-two, he told me; far nearer my age.”
“I don’t want you making a fool of him.”
“I have a secret suspicion that William really would not mind. After all, you did tell me to take a lover.”
“But not my brother.”
“Why ever not? He’s cute. Now, if you had been my lover and not merely my business manager, it would never happen.”
“We’ve been through that a dozen times.”
“Exactly.”
“You were tremendous tonight.”
“I know I was… Now, let’s go back to our table. It’s rude to leave your brother all on his lonesome.”
At the end of the fish course she turned to Will.
“William, come and dance with me. It’s my favourite slow number.”
On the floor, she immediately folded into his arms so he could feel every corner of her body, one of the seashell ears resting sweetly against his cheek. When the music turned her towards their table, she closed her eyes.
The EMI man found them at eleven o’clock, by which time Shelley had ordered a pen and paper from the waiter and written down her address for William.
“Just come round tomorrow morning when you feel like it. I don’t go out very much. Byron will be working so hard. We can go into the park. Holland Park is not very full during the day and there are lots of little nooks and crannies. You might like to buy me a little lunch. There’s a pub I know with a lovely little garden and the best pickled onions in London… Now, you won’t lose that address?” She tucked the piece of paper into the top pocket of his suit jacket and gave it a little pat to keep it safe.
“Do you mind if I pull up another chair?” said Bob Shackleton of EMI. “Phoned seven restaurants before I thought of the Café Royal. Byron, will you do the honours?”
Introductions complete and an extra wine glass placed on the table, Shelley turned her full attention to the man from the record company.
“EMI wish to offer you a recording contract, Miss Lane. I have it here in my pocket. All it needs is your name and for you to sign. It’s our standard contract, the same for all our top artists. I don’t suppose Byron has seen one before?”
With just a little theatre he put the contract on the white tablecloth in front of Shelley.
“I don’t really want to see it, Bob,” said Byron. “Fact is, I also have a contract that just needs your name and signature. By tomorrow I’d imagine we will be holding an auction.” Byron offered the contract from his inside pocket. “The manager will find you an office to be quiet.”
“Don’t you want to read our standard contract?”
“I know every word of it… Shall we say half an hour? You may wish to make some phone calls from the manager’s office.”
“You planned all this!”
“Just over a year ago.”
“What about her band?”
“They are part of that contract. All of us are going to make a lot of money, Bob, a lot of money. And, after all, that is what life is all about.”
The contract was signed by all the parties at three minutes to midnight in the manager’s office, witnessed by the manager and his food and beverage man, the Café Royal popping a bottle of champagne to celebrate. The upfront payment was twenty thousand pounds sterling with twenty-three per cent of record sales at retail price payable to Shelley Lane, renewal of the contract to be renegotiated each year.
“A negotiable renewal makes all parties perform,” said Byron. “Any one-sided contract is a disaster. Congratulations, Shelley, you’re on your way.”
They were the only people under the oak tree. Will and Shelley. Wind rustled the leaves above them but the weather held. Neither of them had spoken for five minutes, the euphoria of the night before finding the full glare of the day. Byron had made his phone call at eleven o’clock that morning and she had turned him down.
“The biggest anti-climax in my life,” said Shelley interrupting the silence.
“Which one? Turning down my brother or signing the recording contract?”
“Maybe both… Will, you want another beer?”
“The games people play. Sure, I’ll have another beer. When something is too good to be true, it usually is. That was you for me last night. Byron and I talked until three in the morning after we dropped you off in the taxi. I made him make that phone call this morning and I’m only sad you didn’t accept.”
“Did I really make him as jealous as a snake?” she chuckled.
“Jealous as a snake.”
“I’m sorry for coming on to you.”
“At the time I was delirious.”
“We can still go to the park.”
“Maybe you are right. You and Byron would never work. Any more than a singer would want to live in a bush camp on the banks of the Zambezi. How do people get together, Shelley? Get together and stay together? I’ll go and fetch the beers. English draught beer. Missed it for four years.”
“There’s always something missing.”
“Yes, there is. Oh, and with one exception you are the most attractive girl I have ever met. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“What was she like?” asked Shelley.
“The other half of my soul.”
Her name was not mentioned at 47 Buckingham Court for the next week. The ivory and skins were sent for processing and would be sold for six times the amount stated in the bill of sale which had been accepted for the calculation of duty by the customs.
“Whatever we import into the island is sold again,” said Byron. “All we’ve done is brought the goods into the country as raw materials, arranged for the ivory to be carved, the skins to be made into coats and the profit exported to Switzerland. Perfectly legal and everyone is happy. The middleman always makes the money. The fact we have an interest from the killing to the carving is coincidental. Your friend Hannes Potgieter would be very wise not to have his share sent to Northern Rhodesia. Better we invest for him in South African shares on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange as on
e day soon he will be going back to South Africa. The colonies are too expensive and there’s a better way of exploiting the minerals without having to administer the country and listen to the likes of our sister.”
The cable arrived from Hilary Bains via Langton Manor that afternoon. Madge O’Shea, Byron’s secretary, had opened the envelope.
“I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry.”
REGRET HANNES KILLED BY ELEPHANT
Will sat down in the office and stared at the simple piece of paper.
“If I hadn’t come over, he would still be alive. His legs had gone. You mind if I get out of here and go for a walk?”
The wooden bench was covered in pigeon droppings and the people passed him by in both directions, unseen, unnoticed.
Will was back in Barotseland in the permanent bush camp and the place was lonely. Neither Sixpence, Fourpence nor Onepenny were talking and the Goliath heron had stopped looking for revenge. The bush was silent and the great river behind the house flowed to the sea. The pontoon boat was waiting for the skipper who would not come home.
Where had they buried him? Would the big man have liked to grow into old age, daily more decrepit? Maybe the elephant knew. Without the big man, would Africa ever be the same?
‘The sun’s down, Englishman. Have a drink.’
‘That’s the best idea you’ve had since yesterday.’
They’d drink listening to the river behind, the bush in front and talk. The most pleasant evenings of his life. There was no intrigue or subterfuge. No hidden meanings. No trying to hurt.
‘I’ve had a good life, Englishman. Danika was a good woman. That’s all a man can want. You don’t ever worry about me. Worry about having a good life for yourself. You’re the nearest I got to a son. You know the bush and years of experience will better your skills… Africa is changing, Will, so be careful.’
The memories skittered in and out of his mind and when he got up his legs were stiff from sitting in the same position. Africa receded and London traffic returned.
“Go well, Hannes,” he said and walked to the nearest bar.
When he reached the flat that night he was maudlin drunk and Byron had to sit up listening. For Will, the world had just come to an end.
Will woke with a headache pounding in the front of his head. He had no idea where he was. There was a banging outside of his head followed by bells and the chimney pots outside the window were going round and round. The well of bile-sickness surged from his empty stomach and threw him at the sick-splattered washbasin where he retched and retched until the sphincter at the base of his spine hurt more than his stomach, the opening and closing of the ring round his rectum more painful than the passing of a gallstone. Drunk, Will had wished he would die. Now, he wished that he had. The cold tap gushed and splattered the carpet with diluted vomit and Will got his head down awkwardly to the hard mouth of the tap that rattled his teeth and sucked in water while the spasms around his arsehole continued. The intermittent banging and bells were coming from the hallway and no one was answering the door. It was all coming back to him. With a towel snatched round his waist Will staggered to the bedroom door and down the passage. Byron had gone to work and he was left on his own. After fumbling the catch he had the door half-open and stared out into the corridor. Two tall men in blue uniforms with large, white-banded caps were looking down at his half-nakedness. White blancoed webbing belts circled their midriffs, the brass work gleaming even in the gloom of the corridor.
“Are you William Edward Langton, formerly of Langton Manor in the county of Dorset?”
Will tried to draw the towel tighter and his arsehole clammed up and he was sick into the corridor, a trickle of bile reaching the nearest inquisitor. Will nodded weakly.
“You will report to Royal Air Force Cardington on July the third, by sixteen hundred hours; four p.m. for the likes of you. If you are late, we’ll pick you up AWOL, that’s absent without leave, and throw you in the glasshouse which is not glass and not a house but a prison cell. Furthermore, in accordance with Queen’s Regulations you will surrender to me your passport.” The RAF Special Policeman slapped an envelope at Will’s bare chest. “We’ve spent a lot of time looking for you. Your call-up papers have now been served on you in person. The rail pass inside the envelope will take you to Cardington for induction and the issue of uniform from where you will go to a square-bashing unit for your initial training. Your attempts to avoid military service have been noted on your record. At the end of your nine-week square-bashing you will wish you had joined up the first time.”
Slowly, the SP Corporal looked down, his eyes half hidden by the peak of his cap, to the bile on his right boot. In perfect unison with the aircraftman 1st class at his side, he left turned, crashing his boots on the tiled floor of the corridor, and marched away.
“Detail halt,” he bellowed ten paces away. “About turn… Quick march… Detail halt… Passport?” he snapped.
“It’s at Langton Manor.”
“Don’t try to leave the country.”
“No, sir.”
“Corporal to you.”
“Yes, Corporal.” By the time the detail had reached the end of the corridor, the towel had fallen to the floor and Will was standing in his underpants, his arsehole still as tight as an oyster, with the brown envelope clutched to his chest.
“This is plain stupid,” said Byron. “Six weeks ago Parliament announced the end of national service.”
“Probably for people born after a certain date.”
“Total waste of your time and taxpayers’ money. Will, we’ve got to get you out of this one. Two years is a hell of a long time and they won’t even consider you for a commission. ‘Didn’t play the game, old boy’,” he mimicked. “You must go back to Africa on the first plane.”
“They asked for my passport. Told them it was down in Dorset.”
“Where is it?”
“In my pocket.”
“Do you have a return ticket?”
“No. But they said I mustn’t leave the country. Threatened to lock me up… I have to go back to sort out the safari operation.”
“There was a boy at school who joined the Bechuanaland police instead of doing his national service. Perfectly legal. Tell them you’re in the Northern Rhodesia police, home on leave. That’ll shut them up. Bureaucracy against bureaucracy… What’s the name of the chief of police in Mongu?”
“They call him the member in charge. What can he do, Byron? I’ll just have to go to Cardington next week. They will hound me for the rest of my life. Problems faced are problems solved. That was Mother.”
“Not if we send them official documents. That is, a copy of your police identity document and the leave pass from your member in charge.”
“Gave me my driver’s licence without a test, did the member in charge.”
“Pour yourself a drink. You look terrible.”
When the front door had banged, Will sat back with a half-glass of neat whisky and contemplated his options. Forged documents would probably land him in jail but two years as an aircraftman 2nd class was not to be contemplated. Africa was suddenly a long way away.
On the first of July, Byron handed a set of documents to Will together with a ticket from the port of London to Cape Town on the City of York, a British cargo vessel that carried eight passengers.
“The boat leaves at eleven tomorrow night,” said Byron. “I’ll deduct the cost from the ivory. Cable me what to do with your friend’s money when you get home.”
“England’s my home, Byron. This is sending me into exile.”
“Maybe the whole of England is going into exile. You want to spend an evening with our sister and her friends and just listen. The England the likes of you and I want is dying slowly. Socialism. Democracy. The other side of the equation. You know, when they first voted in the welfare state the contributions were to fund the benefits but the new socialism soon used the contributions as current income and promised the pensions from future tax.
Quite understandable. First year economic student will tell you a pension has to be provided for. Very simply they are going to make our grandchildren look after our old and sick and they won’t, Will. Social democracy is a tax on unborn children who don’t have the vote.
“In the old days the rich were greedy. Now the masses have gone into a feeding frenzy. Wonderful system provided the majority can vote to steal from the rich, the producers, the people who create the wealth. But they won’t stand for it either, Will. They won’t allow themselves to be punitively taxed. They’ll get their money out of the country into a system that is free of currency controls, and free of predatory governments. Between world socialism demanding their rights and the new capitalism running off with the money, the likes of England will probably disappear in financial chaos. Forget about giving England two years of your life. Go and enjoy yourself. What do you think all this free love is about? No one gives a damn about tomorrow. Grab what you can in the feeding frenzy. The sixties will be the best decade ever for the young. They’re going to screw what’s left of their brains out.”
“You’re a bloody cynic.”
“No, brother, a bloody realist. Ask our father. He saw them drop the bomb and he hasn’t been the same ever since. He saw the end of this world and his religion hasn’t given him a clear picture of the next. Let’s get out of this flat and have a good supper on your last night. You may not be seeing London for quite a while.”
The owner of the restaurant on the Bayswater Road welcomed Byron with a broad smile and hands wrung together at belly button height.
“It’s so good to see you again, Mr Langton. Are you expecting some ladies?”
“Just me and my brother. That table in the corner.”
“Welcome, Mr Langton,” said the owner, now smiling at Will in his new suit.
Not waiting, Byron strode across to his preferred table and sat down comfortably. The wine list was put into his hands. Will took a menu that showed no prices.
