by Peter Rimmer
She had taken Harry by the arm.
A small boy came running and jumped straight into his father’s arms, mentally kicking Harry in the stomach at the thought of his own children. Then Freya was kissing the child, the boy’s grandmother looking on happily, nostalgia written all over her face. The child was screaming and laughing, sending sweet notes up into the rafters of the old house, peace and happiness mingling high up with the dark. The dogs were everywhere for a moment then went, satisfied with the intruders. The old tug between England and Africa was pulling Harry apart, bringing Elephant Walk into the house making him homesick. He was carrying a small overnight bag. No one dressed for dinner anymore at the Manor.
With all the mingled thoughts from his life playing through his mind, the St Clairs led Harry into the one warm room in the house. Lord St Clair was already waiting with Harry’s glass of sherry in his hand.
“One of the pigs is sick but you’re a farmer and know all about that. Have a sherry, warm the cockles of your heart.”
Nothing for Harry had changed at Purbeck Manor. Nothing ever did. His world was once more back in place. By the fire, with dry logs giving out a good heat, Harry was glad to sit down and warm himself at the family hearth. Only then did he remember his manners.
“I’m sorry. I sat down before you, Lady St Clair.”
“You’ve been in hospital.”
Mrs Mason had taken his small bag away. Robert would tell him which room to go to when the time was right. Harry hoped he would get through the sherry and the wine with the suckling pig before falling asleep. Since being taken off the boat, he had slept most of the time. The drugs they had given him were still playing through his system.
“Mrs Mason is lighting the fire in your room,” said Lady St Clair. “Are you eating all right?”
“Like a horse.”
“We’ll eat early and soon have you tucked up in bed. You can tell us everything when you feel stronger, Harry. You’re here to get your strength back.”
The dogs had got into the room and were sitting round the fire, the flames dancing in their eyes. A ginger cat, just like the one on Elephant Walk, was sitting on the back of the settee fast asleep where it had been when they came into the room. One of the dogs was looking at the cat from a safe distance.
After a second glass of sherry, they all trooped into the old dining hall with the high vaulted ceiling. At both ends of the long room, fires were burning in tall alcoves. On the side of one of the walls in the fireplaces was a spit with the suckling pig. Mrs Mason was sitting comfortably inside the fireplace with a glass of wine, turning the spit occasionally to cook the meat all over.
The family sat at the top of the table as close to the fire as possible. Someone had opened the bottles of red wine earlier to let them breathe. There was no first course, only the pig and large serving dishes of vegetables. The smell of the food made Harry’s mouth water. He had never had a bad meal at Purbeck Manor… Then Robert gave him a glass of French red wine. They all stood up and drank a toast to the King, Mrs Mason standing up in the fireplace next to the pig.
Mrs Mason had a reputation for falling asleep on the bench in the alcove of the fire.
When Harry readied for his bed he was full of good food and slightly tipsy. Robert had turned out the light. Then Harry fell asleep and dreamed all night of so many strange things, he could remember none of them in the dawn.
The room was cold; the bed warm, the world outside the long window that came to within a foot of the wooden floor was white and beautiful. Throughout the old house there was not a sound. Rolling over, Harry went back to sleep again. When he woke, Mrs Mason was standing in the room pouring him tea into a large breakfast cup from a round brown teapot.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” she said.
“My goodness.”
They smiled at each other as Mrs Mason put the cup down on the side table beside his bed, then left the room without another word. Harry managed to drink half the cup of tea before falling back into the deep sleep of late morning. Outside the window the snow was still falling.
4
In London, one hundred miles away, the snow had stopped falling earlier when Oscar Fleming was having his breakfast. The small flat he had lived in for most of his life looked out onto a small private garden of grass and trees that belonged to the flats. A key to the garden gate was given to each of the tenants. The hundred-year lease to his flat expired in twenty-two years, by which time Oscar Fleming hoped he would be dead. At sixty-five, despite planning the last tryst of his life while having his breakfast, he was feeling his age. The ponytail that dropped to the height of his shoulders was white, the white goatee beard barely flecked with grey. From vigorous exercise, only his body was still in shape, which gave him the confidence to indulge his life-long fascination, the pursuit of young girls who needed his help to further their careers in their mindless pursuit of stardom.
The very idea of what he was going to be up to made him chuckle long after the snow had stopped falling. By then he was sitting in front of his fire still in the red silk dressing gown some said was his trademark; the same people who erroneously claimed he was the leading impresario in the London theatre, something he was careful never to claim for himself.
Like many people in the theatre, Oscar Fleming was superstitious. Plays and musicals were more often a disaster. Money made was just as easily lost, something he never forgot. Putting on Robert St Clair’s American wife’s play was going to be just one of those disasters unless something electric could be added to the play to make it explode on the stage. Which was when the thought of Genevieve, the by-blow of lower echelon aristocracy, the daughter of Merlin St Clair and the barmaid of the Running Horses at Mickleham, entered his mind.
Twirling his cigarette holder designed especially for his flat-shaped Turkish cigarettes, Oscar played the picture of Genevieve through his mind, something he had found himself doing often, checking up on the progress of what was going to be his protégée.
Barnaby St Clair had asked him to get the girl into the Central School of Speech and Drama as a favour. They had all attended the aftershow party at the last night of Happy Times, the Christopher Marlowe musical he had put on with Harry Brigandshaw’s money and Brett Kentrich in the lead. Brett at that point was Harry’s mistress, and the show had launched her career into stardom.
That night, late in 1928, was when he first set eyes on Genevieve. Her father had said she was fourteen. Even then he knew what he was going to do. She was perfect. Full of the power that made men fools. The school thought she was nineteen. Oscar thought her two years younger, the perfect age of attraction; all the heroic loves in the history of theatre-depicted girls the age of Genevieve.
Mulling over taking her from school one year short of the end of a three-year drama course, Oscar let the rich oriental flavour of his cigarette drift up to the ceiling.
“What the hell,” he said. “It’s now or never. Another year may be too long for me. One last brilliant affair and then I’ll retire from everything and go down into the country to breed dogs. After all, I’m her only chance for stardom. Even the finest talent in the world has to be sponsored. In a few years, she’ll look like the rest of them… Oh, what a good idea, you old rogue. Even if it doesn’t work it will be fun trying… Nothing ventured nothing gained.”
Throwing the mostly unburnt cigarette in the fire, putting the holder in the pocket of his red dressing gown and feeling a good ten years younger, Oscar Fleming got up from his fireside chair to put his plan into operation.
“We’ll keep it all in the family,” he said, smiling broadly to himself. “Great talent has to be nurtured, haven’t I said that a thousand times to myself… Now where on earth would Brett Kentrich have been without me?”
While Oscar Fleming was plotting the start of her career, not far from Oscar Fleming’s flat in Chelsea Genevieve was enjoying the luxury of solitude in her own flat in St John’s Wood. Living with her mother had become a pain in the
neck. Somewhere definitely not to take her friends. Her mother Esther was a mess, drinking gin from lunchtime with not the slightest interest in anything. Esther had a flat and a pension for life from an affair with a toff twenty years ago.
“Look, luv. I’ve got what I want in life. A nice little flat, money to drink, a lovely little daughter and no one giving me shit. What else can a girl like me ever want? I’m in heaven even if it is all a bit hazy most of the time. Cheer up, Genevieve. If you have my luck you’ll be all right.”
“I want a place of my own.”
“That’s fine by me, ducks. Ask your father. You always could twist him round your little finger. He dotes on you. What’s another flat to Merlin? I’ll ask him if you want.”
“Leave him to me, Mother.”
“I’m your mum not your mother. All this highfalutin’ stuff they teach you at the Hall makes me sick. Move out. See if I care. You’re old enough. Just don’t get yourself up the pole without working it all out beforehand like I did. You’ve got to be calculating to get through this life and that means money.”
“Are you coming to the year-end show?”
“Of course not. I look a mess. Think of your father. He’ll be there, you can bet your socks on that.”
“Why are you crying, Mum?”
“’Cause I love you… Just come and visit your old mum sometimes. Merlin says you are going to be a star.”
“My father is ever so slightly biased… You’ve been a good mum to me. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No. Now bugger off before I really start to cry. Just remember, keep your chin up.”
“I’ll stay in the flat if you want.”
“I just told you to bugger off didn’t I?”
The year-end show took place on the Saturday when Harry Brigandshaw had walked the woods and fields around Purbeck Manor building up his strength for the arrival of his wife and family at Southampton on the SS King Emperor the following week.
The show was a collage of bits and pieces to showcase the individual talent of the students. Only the drama students took part in the show, the students studying speech therapy sitting in the great auditorium of the Albert Hall as guests. Any past student was entitled to a seat in the theatre to fill the place up as much as possible; even the most doting family and friends of the young performers were not enough.
Janet Bray had arrived in time to see the curtain go up on the first sketch, the balcony scene of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. After the young girl’s performance, the rest of the evening went flat. It was said that only two per cent of the drama students found lifelong work in their chosen profession; Janet was glad she was a qualified speech therapist and not an actress.
Since the cherry pip-blowing in her first class at Harrow, two new patients had come her way. She thought her interplay with Willis Phillips and the aristocratic background of the two new patients was not a coincidence. The search for rooms was now urgent. Finding the right furnished accommodation for a practice at the price she could afford was difficult, the right address in London being as important as the right qualifications.
They had held hands throughout the evening, comfortable with each other, ignoring most of what was going on up on the stage. Horatio Wakefield had been quiet all evening, something on his mind.
“That’s Oscar Fleming the impresario with Juliet,” he said at the bar during the interval. “So that’s why he is here. That old bastard has seduced every one of his leading ladies for thirty years. If Genevieve wants to be a star, she’s found the right man. All she has to do is close her eyes and think of England.”
“You are being catty. What’s been irritating you?”
“The fickleness of newspapers. The short attention span of the public. Once the Mirror confirmed our story, everyone lost interest in Harry Brigandshaw. He’s yesterday’s news.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad.”
“It’s William. He’s a bear with a sore head. My editor is only paying him for three articles as first agreed, just enough to pay the interest on William’s overdraft. Just glad I still have a job. Even the Brigandshaw family back from Africa isn’t going to make the papers. Harry is yesterday’s hero. I don’t think people give a damn really. They only call on people like Harry Brigandshaw when they are in trouble. In war. When they want something. They don’t want to remember for too long after they have got what they want as it makes them feel guilty… Can we go? This year’s show is an anti-climax after Genevieve playing Juliet… Look, she’s going off with Fleming. He’s old enough to be her grandfather, for God’s sake.”
“He wouldn’t take advantage of a young girl,” said Janet, not believing what she saw.
“Only if she wants him to. Some people will do anything to get on in this world. See, over there is her father. The one with the monocle and the stare at Fleming’s back that would kill if he had a gun. Genevieve must have her father under her thumb like the rest of them to get away with that right in front of him.”
“Don’t you mean like the rest of us? You’ve been besotted ever since you saw her in Simpson’s on the Strand.”
“Are you jealous, Janet?”
“Damn right I am. Every man in this room is watching her right now and not because she just played Juliet. And just look at that. She’s put her hand on the crook of the old man’s arm as if she belongs to him already… Why doesn’t her father do something?”
“Maybe he will… We’d better stay for the second half of the show. It would be rude to the rest of the cast. Maybe there’s a new star to be born in the second half I can write about.”
“What about Genevieve? Aren’t you going to write about her?”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Horatio, giving his lady a smile.
Getting what she wanted out of men was the biggest art in her life. Acting for Genevieve was only part of the process, the window display for what she was really after. Looking back over her shoulder with her right hand gently resting in the crook of the old man’s elbow, she sweet-smiled her father standing alone and about to explode, changing his angry expression into pleasure… It was always so easy she told herself, turning back to the task in question.
“Where are we going, Mr Fleming?”
“Where would you like to go, Genevieve? I have a proposition for you that entails leaving school.”
“Then it doesn’t matter where we go.” This time she gave Fleming the sweet smile.
The horny old goat returned her smile with a flash of raw lust, more revealing than taking off his clothes, which she intended to keep on him for as long as possible. The trick was to give them hope, never exactly what they wanted. Just enough of a taste to keep their hormones screaming for more. In her short experience of life, a satisfied man was a bored man, no longer pliable in a woman’s hands. With luck he would now be jealous, the most devilish form of jealousy, that of a father, especially when the man in question was older than himself.
Genevieve, graciously handed into the back of a taxi outside the Albert Hall, knew her life was going to go exactly the way she wanted. No matter as she snuggled into the old man’s shoulder that even the smell of him was quite repulsive.
“What have you got for me, Mr Fleming?”
“You were very good tonight.”
“I hope so. So you have a part for me?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t think, Mr Fleming, just give it to me. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Take me to a nice place for supper and tell me what you want me to do. I learn very quickly. Another year at school would have been boring. You either have it or you don’t, Mr Fleming. Do you have friends in film?”
“Have you had a screen test?”
“I would love one. I love tests. Tonight was a test, don’t you think? And haven’t I come through with flying colours?”
“Yes,” said Oscar Fleming.
“My Juliet was perfect. So sad she had to die… Is it a big part, Mr Fleming?”
�
��The juvenile lead. A young soldier comes back from the war blind, no longer able to see the love of his life. You will be the love of his life.”
“How beautiful. How lovely. So to him she stays beautiful for the rest of his life. Now that’s a happy ending. The girl could end up an old bag and still get away with it.”
“He dies at the end of the play.”
“What a horrible ending. You’ll have to make them re-write. Now, where are we going?”
“To the Savoy.”
“Don’t worry about Daddy. He loves me so much. I’ve just moved into my own flat in St John’s Wood thanks to my father. He’ll be so thrilled to hear I have the lead in the new Oscar Fleming play at one of London’s top theatres.”
“We were thinking of Bristol.”
“Whatever for! Didn’t you see them looking at me tonight? No, Bristol would be a waste of our time don’t you think? I believe in going head first, don’t you? Right in, straight away.”
When the taxi reached the Savoy, Genevieve could see the old man was positively drooling. ‘Why,’ she asked herself, ‘were men always so stupid?’
The dress her father had bought for her the previous day was perfect for the Savoy. As she got out of the taxi after Oscar Fleming had walked round to help her out onto the pavement she flashed him an inch of her ankle, followed by a glimpse of her breasts. Then they were walking arm in arm into the grillroom of the Savoy Hotel. It was the power over the old man she found so intoxicating, not the thought of the part in his play.
“How old are you really, Genevieve?”
“Isn’t that rude to ask a girl?” she said smiling. “I’m seventeen. I turned seventeen at the end of last month… Am I too old for you, Oscar?”
