by Peter Rimmer
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“So bloody what?… You do look lovely, but they all tell you that. Enjoy it. One day when you’re old you’ll remember all the attention. Wasn’t that bad a looker in my day. Most of us have a few years when the men come calling. Cheers. Lovely to see my daughter. Now bugger off.”
The road through the countryside was beautiful in July. It had taken her father an hour to drive out of London. Neither of them had spoken a word since Genevieve got back in the car. While waiting, her father had taken down the hood, the big windscreen giving them enough protection in the front seats of the car. Unlike Tinus and Uncle Harry, her father drove sedately through the country lanes, the road sunk deep between the hedgerows and the fields.
“Is she all right? I should have come up.”
“No you shouldn’t. When are you going to buy a new car?”
“Whatever for? I only use the car to drive into the country. In town I catch a taxi. Last week I caught a bus. Why ever should I want to buy another car? The old Bentley is still the best on the road. We’ll arrive at the Manor in time for dinner. You know I inherit the title and the Manor when father dies? I say this to warn you. He’s not been well. Mother doesn’t think he’ll get through next winter.”
“What will your mother do?”
“What we all do. The best we can. She has Robert and young Richard, though Freya wants to go back to America. Dying is part of life.”
“Will you live at the Manor?”
“Of course.”
“If you had married my mother and I had been a boy, I would also inherit the title.”
“Only after I am dead.”
“But I’m a girl.”
“I thank God and Esther for you every day. You are all I have really got from my life. Everything else is material… Genevieve! Why on earth are you crying?”
Somewhere down an English lane Genevieve had fallen asleep. Talking with the wind whipping over the windscreen was difficult. When she woke, she could only remember the shadow of her dream where nothing had been real, the place or the people. The car slowing down had brought her awake.
“Where are we?”
“Corfe Castle. You know we lived up there in the castle before Cromwell knocked it down in retaliation for the St Clairs going out with the King? Cromwell cut off his head. We were lucky and survived to build Purbeck Manor down the road when the monarchy was restored. Deep under the rubble is the St Clairs’ secret cavern. Only the Baron and his immediate heir are meant to know how to get in. I went down with father.”
“There’s nothing up there but old stones. If there were, why hasn’t someone found it? Will you show me?”
“Of course not. You are not my heir. First, there is Robert. After him young Richard. If everyone knew, it would have been found and looted.”
“What’s down there, Daddy?”
“Plaques. Pictures depicting the story of the old St Clairs.”
“Grandfather would have sold them when he was short of money. When Uncle Barnaby fixed the roof of the Manor and you bought grandfather a herd of pedigree cows from your war profiteering.”
“I wasn’t war profiteering. I merely invested in shares.”
“At the start of the war in a company that happened to make machine guns. Or did you fix the roof and Uncle Barnaby buy the cows? There are so many family stories I can’t remember. No, there’s no hidden family treasure. That one is a tall story.”
“Have it your own way. It was the first time I brought you down to the Manor, but we never told anyone what we were doing.”
“Are we in time for dinner?”
“Even time for a glass of my father’s sherry if he’s up and about. Your Uncles Robert and Barnaby were with me when father showed us the priest’s bolthole. In those days we were Catholics in Protestant England.”
“Now it’s a priest’s bolthole. How old is grandfather?”
“Seventy-four.”
“That is old.”
“Not to him. You can go back to sleep for another ten minutes. You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“I couldn’t make it out. Do you know we dream for one tenth of our lives and mostly don’t remember a thing? The one book I read on the subject said we dream everything that happened to our ancestors. Do you dream in colour or black and white?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s my point. Some people say they dream in colour but how can we be sure? No one ever sees into another man’s dreams… My goodness it is a clear day. I can just see the chimney pots of the Manor behind the tops of the trees. We’re almost home. Better stay awake and watch your family home grow bigger and bigger.”
Slowly, Merlin St Clair drove home the last few miles where everything around him was familiar.
“What are all the cars doing in the driveway?” said her father as they came out onto the gravel courtyard in front of the old house.
Two of them, side by side, were Morgan sports cars, one black and one English racing green. Her stomach gave a sharp flip of excitement. There was no one around, only the cars. Her father parked the Bentley next to a motorcycle; the rider had left his goggles hanging from the handlebars. The goggles were big, of the type used by pilots flying in aircraft with open cockpits.
“That’s your Uncle Barnaby’s Rolls next to the motorcycle. Mother didn’t say anything about visitors. Why look, here comes your Uncle Harry. What’s he doing here? Hello, Harry! Has something happened to my father?”
“He’s having a glass of sherry on the lawn. Tina said she’d take the opportunity to visit her parents with the children. The chauffeur brought them down. That’s my motorcycle. Outside of flying, roaring down the English lanes on a powerful bike is the next best thing. My word Genevieve, you look gorgeous. Why didn’t you tell Tinus you were coming?”
“I was on my way to Oxford from the boat. I decided to go to Daddy first.”
“Do you know Andre scored a century for Oxford?” said Harry Brigandshaw. “To celebrate I persuaded your grandmother to invite them down to the country for the weekend. Well, come on in. We can get someone to take up your luggage. How are you, Merlin? I’ve got a job at the Air Ministry, I’ll tell you all about it. So Robin Hood is in the can, as they say in America?”
“How is my father?” asked Merlin St Clair.
“He’s old, Merlin. We all get old. Your mother asked me to come down for the weekend. Tina’s now with her parents who love seeing the children. Well, you know the rest. Never the twain shall meet. One day all that nonsense won’t matter. My grandfather Brigandshaw said we all look the same under a bus. Why do people so often complicate their lives with petty rules that separate them?… Where are you going in a hurry, Genevieve?”
“To find Tinus. It’s over a year. He wrote to me about Andre. At Oxford that time we called ourselves the three musketeers.”
Before Merlin could follow, Harry gave him a look that said the girl should go alone.
“I’ll help you with the luggage, Merlin old boy. Why not? Those servants have enough to do. You two brothers really like your cars. How’s the old car going?”
“What’s going on, Harry?”
“The boys drove down with their girlfriends.”
“What’s that got to do with Genevieve?”
“You don’t know?”
“Nobody tells me anything.”
“Ask her, these things have nothing to do with me.”
“Is he very sick?”
“Your father has cancer. He had a lump on his leg they tried to cut out. Now they want to cut off his leg. They didn’t get all the cancer growth the first time.”
“Will it save him?”
“Probably not. Likely he won’t let them cut it off anyway.”
“How’s mother?”
“Practical as ever… You carry that one. Mrs Mason has put you in your old room with your dressing room next door for Genevieve. How did th
e filming go in America?”
“I don’t know.”
The last person Tinus expected to see walking across the lawn was Genevieve. So far as he knew she was still in America. The four of them were standing on the lawn in the shade of a tree at the back of the house. Lord St Clair was sitting on a chair in front of them drinking a glass of sherry. Next to him, Barnaby was talking to his father.
“I say, isn’t that Genevieve?” said Lord St Clair brightening up. “This little party is getting better and better.”
Genevieve stopped dead. In between the two boys were two young girls. The girls had their arms linked with the boys’. They were obviously together, more than casual visitors who had come down to the country for a weekend. One of the girls was smiling up at Tinus from the level of his shoulder. Even at the distance across the lawn, Genevieve could see the girl’s eyes were shining. Tinus was looking embarrassed, the tableau frozen. Then Genevieve moved forward easily, smiling her enigmatic smile that was about to sweep the world. When she reached them under the shade of the tree, she bent to kiss her grandfather.
“Hello, Tinus and Andre,” she said as an afterthought as if she had just seen them in the dappled shade of the tree for the first time. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Do you drink sherry, Genevieve?” asked Lord St Clair.
“Only with you, grandfather. What are all the cars in the driveway?”
“They think I’m dying.”
“You look wonderful.”
“I don’t but thank you just the same. May I introduce you to the two young ladies from the Royal College of Music? They have promised to play after supper in the dining hall. A medley from Beethoven’s late quartets arranged by their music teacher for two violins, or so they tell me. Quite frankly I don’t know what a Beethoven quartet looks like, early or late.”
Genevieve gave the girls the same smile she gave everyone when she did not want them to know what she was thinking. The same smile she gave to the newspapers.
“Andre, what a century. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Genevieve. This is Celia Larson and her friend Fleur Brooks.”
“How nice to meet you.”
“Aren’t you an actress?” said Celia Larson.
“I believe so. I have just finished making a film in America.”
“How jolly exciting. What’s it called?”
“Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I played the part of Maid Marian. The premiere is in November at the Leicester Square cinema. Why don’t you all come? I’m sure Tinus would love to bring you. So Tinus, how are tricks?”
“Did you get my letter?”
“Of course. How would I have known about Andre’s proliferation of runs? Will you excuse me while I go and look for my grandmother?”
“She’s in the dining hall,” said her grandfather. “Arranging the flowers. Your grandmother has always been a stickler for her fresh flowers on the dining table.”
Even as she walked away she wondered what her grandfather thought of his illegitimate granddaughter he had first seen when she was fifteen, taken down to Purbeck Manor by her father. Thinking back to the conversation with her father earlier in the car when they drove past the ruins of Corfe Castle up on its hill, she remembered all the male members of the family leaving her alone with her grandmother while they went off together; it must have been the time her grandfather showed her father the family secrets.
Looking back over her shoulder, she could see Tinus still looking in her direction. She smiled at him. Her real smile, the one they shared together without having to say a word. Happy again, she walked into the house to find her grandmother in the dining hall.
“Hello, Grandmother.”
“Hello, darling. What a lovely surprise. You want to help me arrange these flowers?”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Genevieve smiling.
“Now, tell me everything you’ve been doing this last year.”
“Are you and grandfather coming to the premiere in London?”
“Don’t be silly. We never leave Dorset. That’s your world, Genevieve. This is ours. What’s left of it. We are having a cold supper without any fuss. There are two young girls visiting who are going to play some lovely music… Did you hear that boy scored one hundred runs for Oxford?”
“One hundred and twelve.”
“As a young girl I watched my brothers play cricket with the villagers on the village green. There is nothing more soothing for the nerves than watching a game of cricket. It was on one of those late afternoons that I met your grandfather… Enough of me. I want to hear all about you. You look radiant. Are you in love? Who did you meet in America? Oh dear, does this mean you are going to live in the States? I lost one daughter to the colonies when Lucinda married Harry and went off to Rhodesia. Did you know he’s got a job at the Air Ministry? All very hush-hush. There’s going to be another terrible war. Harry says so and he should know. The Germans have walked into the Rhineland. I suppose it was theirs before they lost the war. You can’t just take someone else’s country and expect to keep it.”
“It was plastered over every newsstand. I was first going to Oxford and changed my mind to visit father, which was just as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tinus has a girlfriend out there on the lawn.”
“He’s only a boy… What a strange coincidence for you to come down to Dorset now.”
“Are things like that truly a coincidence? Uncle Harry said during the war he never stared at the back of the head of a German pilot he was stalking or the man would feel his presence and turn around.”
“Don’t be silly. He would have heard Harry’s engine.”
“Not over the sound of his own propeller; Tinus told me you can’t hear another thing. No, there are more senses than we give ourselves credit for.”
“That kind of idea is too complicated... Bring me that bunch of freesias with some of those ferns. The green of the fern brings out the yellow of the flower. And why haven’t you given me a kiss?”
For Celia Larson back on the lawn there were more important things than playing the violin or Tinus Oosthuizen. She was twenty-one years old and far too old for him anyway. Despite winning a Rhodes Scholarship, the boy had to prove he could get on in the world and make money. Celia had never banked her life on prospects. She wanted certainty in her future, not a hope and a prayer. The two boys from Oxford were, in Celia’s opinion of life, still wet behind the ears. Fun for the moment, a vehicle for better things to come.
Looking up at Tinus with the hope of love in her eyes had been a ploy to attract the other man on the lawn, the rich one talking to his grandfather. Celia’s whole idea of playing Beethoven later in the evening was to make herself more aware to Barnaby, the bachelor who she had heard only liked young girls.
When Andre and Tinus mentioned a weekend in the country at the St Clair manor house, she had first asked questions, never a girl to waste her time. Anyone in London with an eye to the future had heard of Barnaby St Clair. Celia had even heard a rumour about a bastard son foisted on the man’s friend when the friend wasn’t looking. That the father of one of Harry Brigandshaw’s children was the Honourable Barnaby St Clair.
“They want you both to play the violin. Lord St Clair is sick. It’s a gathering of family and old friends with the four of us to lighten the mood. Tinus’s Uncle Harry suggested we bring you down in the Morgans. Nice run through the countryside. We can detour to London and pick you both up on the way.”
“Will all the family be there?” she had asked Andre Cloete down the phone.
“So far as I know, Celia.”
“Will Barnaby St Clair?”
“What do you know about the Honourable Barnaby?”
“That he’s rich. Very rich. Charming.”
“You’ll be going down with Tinus, Celia. The Honourable is old enough to be your father. They want you both to bring your violins. It’ll be a hoot.”
“Of course we’ll
come. When do you want us?”
“This weekend. We can strap the violin cases on the back. Just don’t bring too big a suitcase. We’ll be just staying the one night. Is there anything you two can play together?”
“A medley from Beethoven’s late quartets. It’s part of our curriculum.”
“I thought a quartet was for four instruments?”
“It is. I can get the music teacher to write some pieces just for two violins. He’s a darling. Do anything for me and Fleur.”
“I’ll bet he would.”
“What does that mean, Andre?”
“The next thing, you’ll be thinking both of us are virgins.”
“Aren’t you?”
“How old do you think we are?”
“Tinus is nineteen. Never mind. Come to our flat on Saturday morning. We’ll be ready.”
“Don’t you want to ask Fleur first?”
“The only thing Fleur thinks about is playing the violin.”
“Doesn’t she even like me?”
“Of course she likes you. We all do. Jolly good show about the runs. Fleur’s daddy pointed it out to her in the Telegraph. Toodle-oo.”
2
Long before the half-hour recital due after dinner in the dining hall, when the notes of Beethoven would be playing up high into the old vaulted ceiling, Genevieve understood what was going on. The little bitch with Tinus was making a play for the old reprobate, her Uncle Barnaby, the very idea giving Genevieve a giggle.
Mildly curious, she wondered if her uncle had made off with a fiddler before. Maybe, with luck, Celia would find herself on Barnaby’s list of conquests, some of which Genevieve tried not to think about. Like everyone else in the family, despite all his bad habits, she liked her Uncle Barnaby the best of all her uncles, even her Uncle Harry whose sweet head Uncle Barnaby adorned with horns, meaning the fact that Aunt Tina was staying with her parents in the railway cottage a few miles down the road made as much sense as not mixing the classes. Now she knew what to do, she was back in full control, the brief hiccup on the lawn a misunderstanding of what was really going on in the other girl’s head. Playing the violin was one thing, playing the field of men quite another. The girl was an amateur.
