by Peter Rimmer
At least the wine began to flow in Uncle Harry’s direction, which soon took the edge off the tension of the evening as Tinus proceeded to get himself tight on South African wine, the one line, he found out later, drawn by his Uncle Harry in the sand.
By the sixth course, everyone but Aunt Tina was as tight as a tick, Jesse looking better and better, the string tie and maroon coat no longer an affront to anyone. By the time the port was passed, everyone was having a good time except Aunt Tina, who constantly looked at the waiters whose main job had been topping up the glasses.
Apparently, getting drunk in front of the help was not to his aunt’s liking. When Jesse told a plainly vulgar joke, sending a guffaw of laughter up into the old rafters of the vaulted hall, Tinus got up from his chair, went around the table and slapped Jesse from America on the back, all animosity gone.
“Better sit down, Tinus, before you fall down,” said Uncle Harry approvingly; Uncle Harry never liked bad blood between anyone.
“Best joke I heard since we won the inter-schools cricket,” said Tinus, his teeth getting in the way of his words.
“Maybe the ladies would like to powder their noses,” proposed his Uncle Harry, coming to the defence of his wife who for some reason didn’t seem to like the joke.
“What for?” said Genevieve. “I don’t see any cameras.”
Tinus, using the backs of the chairs to steady himself, made it back to his seat and sat down. Only then did his aunt get up and leave the room, followed by his Uncle Harry.
“You lot carry on,” he said over his shoulder.
Everyone watched the host and hostess leave the room before restarting their conversations.
Five minutes later Uncle Harry came back alone.
“I’m afraid my wife disapproves of over-drinking, a taste she has only recently acquired.”
There was no doubt for Tinus; his Uncle Harry was fuming.
By the time Tinus woke in the morning, he hoped he had learnt another truism of life; the best way to make a man a friend was to get drunk with him and talk a lot of rubbish. At breakfast, the man’s colourful attire was still dreadful but no longer jarred.
“Good morning, Tinus.”
“Good morning, Jesse.”
There was no sign of Aunt Tina or Uncle Harry or the uncle with the two-coloured eyes. William Smythe, they learnt from Mrs Craddock, had been up early and gone for a walk over Headley Heath.
In better mental shape than they had been the night before, they continued their discussion about farming, both men having grown up on tobacco farms.
“We have more in common than tobacco, Tinus. Like your grandfather, one of my ancestors was killed by the British. Your grandfather was your Uncle Harry’s father’s partner and best friend but they still hanged him for high treason; he was still a Boer despite being born in the British Cape of Good Hope. It was Oliver Cromwell who said after he cut off the head of his king that it was only treason if you lost. We won our war of independence, the Boers lost, more’s the pity. Did you know I had read about General Tinus Oosthuizen who went out with the Cape rebel Scheepers? Many of my ancestors survived to bring America to where it is today, a free, democratic country where every man has the same opportunity without let or hindrance. Come to America, Tinus.”
“I’m an African.”
“With the wrong colour of skin. They’ll roll you over in Rhodesia in the end. How many whites are there in Southern Rhodesia?”
“Thirty thousand. Maybe more. People come and go.”
“And blacks?”
“A million, but most of them live in the bush.”
“Are we friends?”
“Of course.”
“Remember what I said, Tinus. You’re always welcome in America. Free from any dark clouds. Like the clouds building up over Germany that will likely plunge the rest of Europe into chaos.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve enjoyed visiting with your Uncle Harry. He’s a good man. You’re lucky. He told me how your own father was killed. He’s trying his best to make up for your loss… Isn’t that girl Genevieve something? She’s coming to America with her producer.”
“When’s she going?” said Tinus, suddenly feeling lonely.
“Soon. Very soon. She’s going to make her next movie in Hollywood. Why she’s here saying goodbye to your Uncle Harry. He was some kind of mentor to the girl; your Uncle Harry got her into the drama college, but you know that. They are sort of related. What’s the matter, Tinus?”
“I’m not quite sure... So it’s only treason if you lose?”
“Always has been. Right through history. In another scenario, some of the most famous and best loved men in history would have been hung before anyone heard of them. This chap Hitler is a hero in Germany. He’s introducing conscription and all the young men are answering the call to the colours. If the last Tsar had put down his own rebellion no one would have heard of Lenin or Stalin. Both would have been shot. The world’s changing. Some call it evolution. Some call it the pursuit of personal power in the name of the people. Funny how they all say it’s in the name of the people… You want to walk on the heath after breakfast? Clear our heads. The kids and the dogs are out of the house on such a beautiful day. Maybe I shouldn’t be so rude about England; without England could there ever have been an America?”
“I rather think, Jesse, we are all subjects of the British Empire. Let’s have a second cup of coffee and then go for a walk. Are you going to see Genevieve in America?”
“I hope so.”
Only outside, walking across the freshly cut lawns of the Hastings estate, did Tinus understand; he was jealous. Jealous of Jesse seeing Genevieve in America. Then he smiled and strode on with the American by his side. He was only eighteen. There was still plenty of time. Jesse would likely see Genevieve in America but there it would stop. The look she had given him told him she knew he was no longer a virgin, her look far away. Tinus quickened his pace looking ahead, hoping to find her walking on the heath.
William Smythe watched them from a distance, striding side by side, talking with great animation, and smiled to himself. Neither young Tinus or the American had seen him sitting quietly on his bench under the spreading oak tree, the new spring leaves the colour of lime. The old bench was in the perfect position to look out from the grounds of Hastings Court to the rising hills of Headley Heath. The bench, William thought, had been in the same place for many years, the good English oak from which it was made not rotting in the rain.
William was glad the animosity caused by the American’s strange ways had fallen into friendship. The man was a Southerner, where the ways of life were much different to Hastings Court and all the frippery of crests and men dressed in strange coats that would be more at home in a Shakespeare play. Poor Tina was trying to make up for her lack of family background by taking everything to an extreme. William was sure she and her children would be better off living in the British Crown Colony of Southern Rhodesia on the farm Harry Brigandshaw’s family had called Elephant Walk, the place Harry had told him where the elephants walked on their ten-year migrations to the hinterland of central Africa.
Even for William the thought of giving up his job and the horror he knew was soon to unfold in Europe and going to live alone in the African bush was appealing… If it were not for Horatio.
“There’s a hermit in every one of us,” he said to himself as he stood up to stretch and walk out into the sweet yellow of the morning sun, making sure not to tread on the crocuses, the two men now a couple of hundred yards ahead of him still walking fast. He was feeling tired and mentally weary. Janet, of course, had been right. They should never have gone to Berlin in the first place. Despite all the subterfuge, they must have stood out like pork chops in a synagogue, the phrase Fritz Wendel used when warning him to get out, too late for Horatio. The taxi driver who took Horatio Wakefield to Mrs Schneider’s residential hotel had been working for the new Nationalist government to curry favour in a society w
here knowing the right people could mean the difference between life and death, poverty and riches.
The sweet old man, Hillier, was trying to regain the riches lost by his family in the war, or so he said, William suspecting from his subsequent research in his bid to find Horatio Wakefield that Hillier’s family had lost their estate in Prussia from living beyond their means, a common cause of bankruptcy for many aristocratic families throughout history. Hillier, so Fritz Wendel had warned him, was working not for the German government but for the Nazi Party.
Horatio had disappeared on the Night of the Long Knives, when Hitler killed off his opposition in the Nazi Party along with any prominent German who questioned his power, including the former Chancellor Kurt von Schleicher. From obscurity in the Schneider residential hotel, the mild-mannered, well-educated Hillier, who had fascinated Horatio night after night and wormed his way into his confidence and the reality of what William and Horatio were up to, was given a senior post in the Party: the post of propaganda officer directed at the English-speaking world, Hillier being fluent in English as Horatio had found out to his cost.
They had been in Berlin for over a year while Hillier reported the name of every person they met, every article they wrote before it was published in the British and American press. The story of the Americans selling the formula for high-grade armour plating had been countered by a false story of an American firm selling Britain armour-piercing shells that went through the new armour plating like a hot knife through butter, causing many Americans to have a good laugh at the ingenuity of their free enterprise system. The press hadn’t bothered to check the validity of the planted story, leaving the German Tiger tanks with an outer skin that nothing the British or French armies had in their armouries could ever penetrate.
By the time the British and the French found out and asked the Americans to supply them with the new armour-piercing shells, so prominently vaunted in the press, they were given the runaround by an American administration who had no idea what was going on and little incentive to interfere with their own free market system, which was making America the richest nation on earth.
Hillier had played Horatio right up to the end, when German police in civilian clothes took him away to what William feared was one of the new camps for undesirables. Ever since, William had been trying to find his friend. Janet Bray was beside herself. Even the British government did nothing to help.
“You say he disappeared in Berlin, old man. What was he doing there?... Well, if he’s the famous correspondent you say he is why did the Germans, as you put it, make him disappear after reporting from Berlin for a year? Who were the men you say took him away? Where’s this Fritz Wendel man you tell me is a Jew? You admit the men were in ordinary clothes. You chaps in the press should watch it. You make enemies. You make up these stories to sell your papers and then come to us for help when something goes wrong. Sorry, old man. Nothing the Foreign Office can do. As you say, the fellow disappeared. How should we at the Foreign Office in London know why or where?”
The only thing to be said for it was both of them had grown rich, which did not help Horatio wherever he was. Having chased fruitlessly around the halls of London for weeks, William decided to go back again under a second disguise.
“All you’ll do is get yourself killed.”
“It was my fault, Janet.”
“I know, but getting yourself killed won’t help anyone.”
“I have contacts. Fritz Wendel said he was going to make himself disappear. Isaac has given me a list of people to contact in Germany, which I will commit to memory. Would they just kill Horatio out of hand? These are the people of Goethe and Beethoven. They’re civilised.”
“There’s evil in every civilisation that mostly only cares about power. Hitler doesn’t care about Beethoven, or this man Hillier who hoodwinked the pair of you for over a year. My love is dead, William. Go away. Leave me alone.”
“I’m going to find him.”
Coming down to Hastings Court had been William’s last resort. To ask Harry Brigandshaw for his help.
“I have friends in the army and air force from the war. Why didn’t you come down earlier, William? It’s important to know the right people. At the least, we must find out if Horatio is alive. When my American cousin goes back to Virginia, I’ll come up to London with my wife. She’ll be delighted, which will be my excuse for being in town. In the meantime, try to relax at Hastings Court. If you are going back to Berlin, you’ll need all the strength you can muster. And what about Genevieve? Don’t you like her anymore? You are meant to be her agent. I always thought you were sweet on the girl.”
The one thing William was certain about was that Germany calling up its young men meant there was going to be another war in Europe. Despite whatever Baldwin said. There was going to be war. And soon. And before war broke out he was going to find his friend and bring him home.
Somewhere far away, William could hear the children calling to each other, the happy sound of treble voices bringing him back to the present moment, to where he was standing next to the bench. Then he began the walk he had told Mrs Craddock about after she gave him an early breakfast. Tinus and Jesse had disappeared but far away on the heath, silhouetted in the yellow morning sun, William could see a girl with long hair blowing in the wind. Putting his best foot forward while he made his mind think positively, he strode out to see if the girl on the hill was Genevieve.
Before William had gone another hundred yards, the girl on the hill disappeared and William felt a tap on his shoulder, making him swing around in fright.
“Sorry. Thought you’d heard me. I missed breakfast. Overslept.”
“Not surprised, Andre. We all drank a lot last night.”
“Was that Genevieve on the hill?”
“I thought so.”
“Have you seen Tinus?”
“Up ahead, passing through those trees with his American friend. Thick as thieves. When do you two drive up to Oxford?”
“Monday. Monday morning. You’re right, there they are. Come on, let’s run.”
“You run, Andre. I’m too old to run.”
“How old are you, for goodness sake?”
“Thirty-three at the end of the year.”
“That is a bit old, I suppose. See you later.”
Feeling more like fifty than thirty-two, William watched the young man run to catch up with his friend, envying his youth and the joy of his friendship that lay just up the slope between the trees.
The phone call came into Hastings Court from Germany at the moment William found Genevieve on the heath. She was looking at the young Tinus in a way she had never looked at William, even in the beginning before she was famous. William, walking up the last of the hill-climb, felt a stab of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. The look reminded him of lovers happy in the present, not wanting anything more from their lives than the moment. A look of complete fulfilment. Jesse and Andre were out on a limb talking to each other about nothing in particular, both aware of what was going on between Genevieve and Tinus. William thought women went for men older than themselves but this seemed the exception to the rule. Despite what Harry Brigandshaw had said, he was not the girl’s agent despite checking for her the first contract with Louis Casimir, who was also besotted with the girl. Instead of joining her, William went and joined the conversation of Andre Cloete and the American. The hard walk had done him good, strengthening his resolve to go to Germany. Like most things in William’s life, he found it necessary to get a job done himself and not rely on other people.
The spring day was perfect. Larks singing high in the sky. Trees in the pale green leaves of youth. The sun warming with the day. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen standing not twenty feet away. And he was miserable. A hard, aching misery of the kind that never went away. He had killed his best friend. There was nothing in life worse than that… Down the hill in the trees, a pheasant called stridently, demanding attention. Tinus was telling Genevieve about fl
ying an aeroplane up the Zambezi River.
“Are you all right, William?” asked Andre Cloete, breaking off his conversation with the American.
“No, Andre, I am not. There is nothing you can do, but thank you for asking.”
“I heard about Horatio. I’m sorry.”
“So am I… I think she loves that boy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s eighteen years old. Genevieve is famous, whatever could she see in Tinus other than a friend with their Uncle Harry as the glue?… Wow, it really is a beautiful day. Did you hear that pheasant? When does the shooting season open for pheasant? The grouse season opens on the twelfth of August. There’s something about the English countryside with a shotgun in the crook of your arm. Something very solid.”
Harry Brigandshaw put down the phone and let his mind’s eye range back to the spring of 1917. He had shot down the German Fokker triplane, a long line of black smoke trailing from the German’s engine. The propeller had stopped but the aircraft was still under the pilot’s control.
Harry had flown alongside his victim, saluting the falling pilot. The plane crash-landed at the end of a small field, ten miles behind the French lines Harry’s squadron had been patrolling that morning. The triplane tipped into the ditch, the tail coming up, the pilot slumping forward, the engine catching fire.
Harry had landed his Sopwith Camel and taxied to the end of the field. The pilot was either dead or unconscious. The flames were dying down. The dog-fight with the German squadron had lasted half an hour. All the aircraft were light on fuel, including Harry’s own plane. The rest of his squadron had flown back to their airfield, the ones that could still fly. Looking up, Harry could see the Germans had also left the sky.
Harry had managed to get the young German pilot out of the crashed plane and lay him flat on his back on the grass of the farmer’s field. At the corner of the field, a flock of sheep were watching, having run as far away as possible from the commotion, stopped by the ditch and the thorn hedge. The pilot came round looking up at the sky.
