On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  “He’s invited William Smythe for the weekend to stop the German talking politics, knowing William will spout his mouth off on the BBC. Bit of a cat and mouse game if you ask me, though who’s the cat and who’s the mouse is beyond me. Uncle Harry doesn’t remember telling me Herr von Lieberman refused an invitation to Hastings Court after he helped that chap Horatio Wakefield escape from Germany after Uncle Harry phoned von Lieberman. At the time the German said the two friends should only meet in Rhodesia and advised Uncle Harry to go home. Neutral territory so to speak. You can’t be disloyal to your country just because you don’t like the government of the day. Where on earth would democracy be if that happened, the loser hating the winner, though according to Mr Bowden it does happen.

  “You remember Bowden? Teaches philosophy and talks more sense than any man I know; Plato didn’t think much of a democracy where Mr Average made the decisions. He wanted a philosopher king who knew right from wrong. My guess is friend Klaus is over here to spy. It should be fun over the weekend watching them spar with each other.

  “If I know William he’ll bring Horatio Wakefield to the party unannounced, ostensibly for Horatio to thank the German for getting him out of Nazi clutches and saving his life. William always felt guilty for taking Horatio to Berlin in the first place, putting his life in jeopardy to sell a few articles just to make money… I’m right. There they are. Cucumber sandwiches in neat little triangles with the crusts cut off nicely and sprinkled with nourishing watercress. Whatever happened to a braai at a cricket match and a pile of lamb chops to munch on? Bon appétit.

  “Welcome back to England, Andre. It’s been too long. Just don’t eat the whole bloody lot before the others get off the field. If you’d come over two months ago you would have been in time for King George the Sixth’s coronation. Poor chap stutters. Edward’s gone into exile after abdicating. Edward the Eighth. They never even crowned him.”

  “What was all that about?”

  “We don’t talk about such things in England. It’s considered impolite. There was a woman involved. American. Divorced twice. Now she’s going to be the Duchess of Windsor… Any good?”

  “They’re delicious, Tinus.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “What did your Uncle Harry put in your blazer pocket just as he left?”

  “Did he? I say, it’s a fiver, what was that for?”

  “Your first fifty for Oxford. I haven’t seen one of those big white folded pieces of paper for a long time. Why did the Bank of England make the five pound note look like the promissory note my father gave me from his bank when I first went up to Oxford?”

  “No, it wasn’t that. Fifty is all right but not enough for Uncle Harry. I have no idea about the note.”

  By the time play finished at six o’clock, Andre was on top of his world again. Two other people had mentioned his hundred by pointing him out to their friends as ‘that chap who scored a hundred and twelve against Cambridge’. Each time Andre had made it look as if he had not heard. Each time the old thrill of recognition raced through his body. By the time they reached Fleur Brooks’s flat in Paddington he was quite his own self even though he only had two and six in his pocket, the last of his pay from the school. Their luck was in; both girls were at home.

  “Well I never. Come here, darling,” said Fleur taking Andre firmly by the elbow.

  “Fleur, how are you?” He was going to kiss her but Celia and Tinus were watching.

  “Better for seeing you. What a sight for sore eyes.”

  “We want to take you both out to dinner,” said Tinus. “You remember that time we all drove down to Purbeck Manor for the old man’s last party?”

  “Enough said about that night,” said Celia. “How are you, Tinus?”

  “My Uncle Harry gave me some money so we can do a slap-up dinner. All Andre has eaten all day is a plate of cucumber sandwiches daintily sprinkled with watercress. We are both starving. You must know a place around here we can get a good meal without dressing up. I’ve been playing cricket.”

  “So I can see. Fleur, isn’t that an Oxford Blue’s blazer? Come in. We have one of those new-fangled refrigerators from America where we store bottles of beer in summer. How does that sound while we get ready? Did you score any runs, I think they call it? You’re lucky, we don’t play in the midweek, yet anyway.”

  “A few,” said Tinus, not wishing to boast to Celia.

  “Just do me a favour, Tinus. Don’t mention Barnaby St Clair. His latest girlfriend hasn’t even turned twenty-one.”

  “So you’re not at the Windmill, I gather?”

  “Not anymore. We have our own band that has nothing to do with Barnaby St Clair. What are you doing back in England, Andre? Fleur thought you had gone home to farm sheep. Merino sheep if my memory is correct. You said something then about lots of wool.”

  “I’m joining the Royal Air Force. Fighters I hope. Tinus’s Uncle Harry has promised to put in a good word for me. I tried teaching for a while but it did not work.”

  “The fridge is in the kitchen. Help yourself. The Americans say within ten years every house will have a fridge so we don’t have to throw food away. Whatever are they going to think up next to make us spend our money on? This is a nice surprise, Tinus. You’ve filled out in the shoulders. Suits you. I was right, that is an Oxford cricket blazer.”

  “Yes it is, Celia.”

  “Congratulations. How are the studies?”

  “Even more absorbing than cricket.”

  “Come and hear us play on Friday at the Mayfair.”

  “You have come up in the world. Not this Friday. Going down to Hastings Court.”

  “We played at your Uncle Harry’s big bash at Hastings Court you remember. Now that was a shindig. Your Aunt Tina knows how to throw a party. Give the two of us half an hour and we’ll be ready. There’s a Greek restaurant in Soho that is just the best. When they get excited they throw plates on the floor. Can you believe it? The Greek restaurant is in Greek Street.”

  “I never would have guessed,” said Tinus, sitting himself down comfortably in the lounge while the girls went into their bedrooms to change. “They cook lamb and serve it off a spike,” he said to Andre. “You’ll get enough food. Sometimes those fancy French restaurants are all display and no substance. You don’t want a beer either?”

  “Not for me without Fleur. They’ll have a bottle of wine in the restaurant.”

  2

  Bruno Kannberg recognised Tinus Oosthuizen when the four young people came into the Greek restaurant where he was celebrating with his wife of three months. He thought he also recognised the two girls from somewhere. In case Tinus remembered him he made a vague sign of recognition immediately picked up by his wife.

  “Do you know those two girls, Bruno?” There was an edge to his wife’s voice which suggested it would be better if he did not know the pretty girls. Arthur Bumley, his editor at the Daily Mirror, had been right about women; they changed once they became wives, and protected their territory. One of the girls gave Bruno a faint smile of recognition as if she was used to being recognised in public. “That girl knows you, Bruno!”

  “I don’t think so, darling. One of the chaps is Tinus Oosthuizen. Harry Brigandshaw’s nephew. I met him a couple of times with his uncle though I don’t think he recognises me. I just nodded my head in his direction. The girl’s an entertainer. Now I remember. At the Mayfair.”

  “Of course, and the other girl? Genevieve talked to me about this Tinus when I was typing her book at Hastings Court. That’s a cricket blazer isn’t it?”

  “Oxford University. They are playing the Surrey Second Eleven at the Oval.”

  Once the threat disappeared his wife was all smiles again. Ever since the big wedding paid for by her father, Bruno had been on his guard not to look at other women in the presence of Mrs Kannberg let alone, he found, talking to them.

  “You look henpecked already, Kannberg,” Art Bumley had said that morning in the office of the
Daily Mirror where Art gave him the good news.

  “Everything has to be done her way. I’m permanently on the defensive.”

  “Are you getting enough nooky?”

  “Not as much as before we were married. She uses it as a weapon in case I won’t do what she wants.”

  “Clever girl. Even the perfect girl becomes boring in bed if you get what you want. It’s called satisfaction. Once you are satisfied you don’t want any more. The clever ones ration it out in a marriage. Give it to you as if they are doing you a big favour. As if sex to them is a chore.”

  “You are a cynic, Mr Bumley.”

  “You have to weigh the good with the bad. How is she at cooking?”

  “Brilliant.”

  “There you are, Bruno. Your new book is also brilliant. Read it right through last night. Genevieve’s publishers won’t touch it. Far too conservative. I’ll ask around.”

  “If you say it’s good someone will buy the publishing rights?”

  “I’ll do my best. Take Gillian out to dinner.”

  “You mean I can celebrate?”

  “Something like that. What you are saying is Edward was forced to abdicate the throne because he sympathises with Hitler after the communists shot his cousin and his cousin’s family in Russia. That the Mitford girls, one of whom is married to Mosley, were part of the entourage of Edward when he was Prince of Wales, that Edward, arguably the most popular Prince of Wales in history, would be able to sway the people. A man able, if he so wished, to take England the Mosley fascist route, which is all very well if you had any proof. Conspiracy theories are all very well but they have to stand up in the court of libel. You can’t just say the Americans encouraged their own twice-divorced Mrs Simpson in the hope she would jeopardise the future King of England and Emperor of India and help bring down the British Empire in a scandal. That’s Smythe’s blast at the moment; American determination to see the end of our empire. If you ask me, Edward abdicated because Mrs Simpson has got him by the balls. Some women have that kind of power over men. Poor sod didn’t stand a chance once she decided she wanted him as her husband, even if they didn’t let her be queen. A twice-divorced American making herself into the Duchess of Windsor is pretty smart social climbing to me. I don’t think Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain has the brains to think Edward is pro-German despite Edward’s German ancestry, despite the German surname of the royal family being changed to Windsor during the last war. It makes good reading, your book, but whether a publisher will risk a court case to sell a million copies, I’m not so sure. People have been ostracised for less in England, for less of a tilt at the establishment.”

  “You think my book will sell a million copies, wow! That’s a lot of books.”

  “A million copies across the empire. Then there’s America. The Americans will lap it up with an American at the centre of your conspiracy.”

  “Then I’ll go to America.”

  “Don’t forget you work for me, Kannberg. On a new exorbitant salary since you got yourself married.”

  “Of course.”

  “Chasing publishers in America where no one knows you will be difficult in any case, however good the book. The public think Genevieve wrote her book, not you. There’s nothing about a ghostwriter on the cover. Don’t change horses mid-stream. It’s good, Kannberg. You’re a good writer whose talents are probably wasted on a tabloid like the Mirror. But you have a good job. Books are one-off, mostly fame rather than fortune. They don’t pay the bills year after year like a good salary. Count your blessings and take your wife out to dinner, tell her from me you are a genius. That should help tonight when you get home.”

  “But you will have a go for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your nodding acquaintance is coming over,” said his wife, the previous part of her conversation having gone in one ear and out the other as Bruno thought about his new book, the fear of rejection still gnawing at his stomach.

  “I say, aren’t you the chap who wrote Genevieve’s book for her? We were just talking about Genevieve when you caught my eye. My name is Tinus Oosthuizen. Harry Brigandshaw is my uncle. How is the book selling we want to know?”

  “The print run has gone over the hundred thousand in America.”

  “Is that good or bad? I don’t know much about writing books. Myself and Andre back there and Genevieve are the three musketeers.”

  “My wife Gillian.”

  “You helped write the book at Hastings Court.”

  “Give Mr Brigandshaw my regards,” said Gillian formally.

  “You won’t come and join us?”

  “We’re having a private celebration,” said Gillian.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt. If your husband hadn’t…”

  “I’ve written a new book on the abdication,” said Bruno to get over the awkward moment.

  “I’ll look forward to reading it, Kannberg. So nice to meet you both. Enjoy your celebration. Who’s publishing?”

  “Longman, probably.”

  “Good for you, Kannberg. When you next write to Genevieve give her my love. She’s a very special lady. The world is a small place.”

  “Isn’t it so?”

  “You’d better get a publisher,” said his wife when Tinus was back at his own table.

  “Art Bumley’s doing his best. The fact he likes my book means everything.”

  “Such praise won’t buy us a house. If we’re going to have a family we need a house, something your portion of the Genevieve biography won’t buy.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “So long as you understand the house is more important than Arthur Bumley’s praise.”

  “I was hoping for a little praise from you, dear.”

  “I’ve told you what I think of the book. More than once. But that doesn’t help. The Abdication of King Edward will only be worthwhile if it makes money. Otherwise what was the point of writing it?”

  After that, as Bruno ate through his meal in small talk, he thought his chances later in the evening rather poor.

  At the other table Harry Brigandshaw’s five pounds was going a long way to get all four of them drunk, the low price of wine in the Greek restaurant something of an incentive. No one felt guilty as new bottles were put on the table at regular intervals.

  “I can’t bowl to save my life,” said Tinus. “I only have to concentrate when I bat. They’ll put me out on the boundary when I field tomorrow, out of the way. So let’s celebrate. My word, it is good to see you, Andre. Old friends mean so much in life.”

  “When next are you going home to Rhodesia?” asked Andre.

  “Not for some time. It’s too expensive. Ralph Madgwick is doing a sterling job as manager of the farm after my great-grandfather’s death but tobacco just isn’t fetching big prices anymore. American leaf from Virginia is flooding the market. Tucked away inland in Africa and Elephant Walk far from the railhead, we can’t compete on price with the American growers, despite the good leaf we produce on the farm. Everyone lives well on Elephant Walk but we don’t generate much cash. The cattle and maize are for local Rhodesian consumption, why food at home is so cheap and the grub’s good on the farm. Grandfather Manderville started us growing tobacco during the war when the troops were smoking so much to calm themselves down in the trenches. It was easier to get Rhodesian tobacco to England through the Suez Canal from Beira than it was for the American ships to dodge the German submarines crossing the Atlantic. There was a heavy war premium according to grandfather that made Rhodesian tobacco competitive. Then the price went up with the demand.”

  “Why don’t you ask your Uncle Harry?” said Andre.

  “He’s done far more than an uncle should do already. Including tonight. I’ll go home when I finish university to finally decide what to do with my career.”

  “The price of tobacco will go through the roof if war breaks out,” said Celia as she rested her hand on Tinus’s knee, the wine having made her amorous. “That man William
Smythe is predicting German underwater boats will be able to shut down Europe’s trade with America despite the Royal Navy. The Atlantic is so large our surface navy will never be able to find all those German submarines under the sea. We’ll be able to keep the Germans out of the Med by blockading the Straits of Gibraltar. You’ll make a fortune, Tinus. Tell this Ralph Madgwick to sow lots of tobacco. What a hoot.”

  “I’ll suggest it to mother in my next letter home. Actually we plant out tobacco in the lands as seedlings from just a few seed beds near the family compound. We can store tobacco for up to five years letting it mature. According to grandfather the more mature the tobacco, the better the smoke. Rather like old wine in barrels, we store cured tobacco leaf in wooden hogsheads.”

  “When you’re rich you can give me some,” said Celia stroking his leg under the table, making her words perfectly clear to Tinus.

  “Ralph’s married to a Jewess,” said Tinus trying to ignore the hand steadily creeping up the inside of his leg. “There was a rumpus about them getting married which was why they landed on Elephant Walk.”

  “I’ll bet she’s glad to be out of Europe,” said Andre.

  “Like all new Rhodesians they are having lots of kids. Her father’s in America but I don’t think they communicate. Something about marrying out of their religion. He’s a banker. Stinking rich.”

  “You mean she gave up all that lovely money for love?” said Celia removing her hand from his knee.

  “So did he. Ralph had a first class job in New York working for his family company as their American branch manager.”

  “Must be mad.”

  “My mother writes they are blissfully happy. They love Africa. Love the life on a big African farm away from all the nonsense, whatever mother means by that.”

  “People,” said Fleur. “Away from people. When Tinus goes to Rhodesia, Celia, we’ll have to go visit him and find out what has made the Madgwicks so happy. In London everyone says they are happy. They try hard to look happy.”