On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  “The army will have to forget me tomorrow.”

  “Of course they will. Like shorthand typists, second lieutenants in the Territorial Army are ten a penny. You won’t have to play your war games tomorrow.”

  “We’re not playing games, Gillian. We fire live ammunition I’ll have you know.”

  “But you never kill anyone, silly. We won’t need the money they pay you as a part-time soldier anymore.”

  “I don’t think you get out of the army that easily. I mentioned the exercise tomorrow to Harry Brigandshaw. Said the air force would put in a word. I’m to phone in sick and the TA will understand.”

  “It’s just a game, Bruno. What am I going to wear? You are so clever, Bruno, knowing all these famous people. I’ve always wanted to mix with the rich and famous. Makes me feel special, not just some dull typist married to a journalist.”

  “Is it as bad as all that?”

  “Not anymore. If you are sweet to me like this for the rest of the day and promise to take me with you, we can have a little bit of fun tonight. First phone Mr Bumley for the car. Where is the place we’re going?”

  “Not far from Slough.”

  “It’s going to be a lovely day, I just feel it… Gregory L’Amour, whoever would have thought it? Gillian West with Gregory L’Amour.”

  “You’re Gillian Kannberg now.”

  “I know, darling. But I still think of myself as Gillian West. Do I look pretty, Bruno?”

  “Good enough to eat.”

  “Not for you, silly. I was thinking of Gregory L’Amour tomorrow.”

  First Bruno telephoned the adjutant of his unit and told him the truth. Then he phoned Arthur Bumley to borrow the car. To be absolutely certain he was going to get sex that night, something his wife had kept from him for a week, he phoned the Greek restaurant where they had met Tinus Oosthuizen and made a reservation for two. Half toying with the idea of suggesting sex to his wife straight away in her excitement, he decided to play the game safe. The immediate approach would have made it obvious he knew that giving him sex when it suited her was the way his wife made him do what he was told.

  Smiling to himself in anticipation, Bruno was a happy man. Waiting for anything good was worthwhile. He even thought the waiting made the sex, when it happened, even better. There was one thing for certain: he was never going to get bored having sex with his wife.

  “We’re going out to dinner,” he called into the bedroom where Gillian was looking through her clothes for something to wear on the morrow.

  “How lovely, darling. If the dress shops were open on a Saturday evening we could go shopping on the way to the restaurant.”

  Thanking his lucky stars for the government’s fixed shopping hours, Bruno began mulling the idea of writing a book on Gregory L’Amour, liking the idea the more he looked at it in his mind. On the spur of the moment he decided to book a call to Max Pearl in America. Luckily, Bruno had his publisher’s home number.

  Better to have his publisher behind him before he asked L’Amour. With a good advance from his publisher, Bruno hoped he would once again be able to keep up with his wife’s spendthrift ways.

  “The more money, the more sex,” he whispered to himself as he went about making his plans, more horny than he could remember ever being before.

  2

  Taking his lead from Harry Brigandshaw, and to prevent confusion at the guard room and the wooden sentry box at the entrance to Royal Air Force Uxbridge, Group Captain Lowcock, the station commander of the three bomber squadrons, declared the Sunday afternoon an open day to the public; anything the RAF did not wish the press to see was hidden away in locked hangars, including the three new twin-engine Blenheims that were capable of flying to Berlin and back again.

  Geoffrey Lowcock knew as well as Harry Brigandshaw that the RAF’s Achilles heel in the event of a war, a war that neither of them believed could be avoided, was a lack of skilled pilots. A sea rescue plan had been put together by Coastal Command to ‘fish’ pilots from the ‘drink’ who bailed out of damaged aircraft into the English Channel and get them back to their squadrons within hours of being pulled out of the sea. Destroyed aircraft were replaceable. Skilled pilots were not.

  “It’s just as important to train pilots now, Geoffrey, as it is to build advanced aircraft the enemy knows nothing about. Make it an open day. Get a brass band. Fly anti-aircraft balloons; give the children miniature Union Jacks. Get the wives to lay on some grub. He’s as big a Hollywood star as we’ll ever get.”

  The brass band and the miniature Union Jacks suggested by Harry Brigandshaw had been a problem; the rest had fallen quickly into place. By three o’clock on the Sunday afternoon RAF Uxbridge was ready for visitors, the SPs on duty at the entrance ready to wave in the people without any questions.

  William Smythe arrived with Betty Townsend as a cushion to Genevieve and to stop himself feeling so miserable at the thought of seeing Genevieve with Tinus Oosthuizen and Gregory L’Amour. They were the first of the press to arrive, so it seemed.

  “What’s going on, Will? These chaps are far too friendly. Thought they’d frisk us at the least,” said Horatio.

  “Open day, sir,” answered a tall man in a blue uniform with a red band round his blue peaked hat. Horatio Wakefield was sat in the back of William’s car next to his cameraman, Gordon Stark. Janet had declined the invitation to join them, preferring to spend Sunday with the children.

  “Has he arrived?” asked William.

  “You are the first, sir. Please call at the guard room and someone will show you round. I’ve never met an American before. She’s the one though.” The SP was smiling with anticipation written all over his face, annoying the hell out of William.

  “Talkative bugger,” said William as he drove onto the station. “Most unlike any policeman I have known. Do you remember those buggers in Berlin, Horatio? They never said a word or gave the glimmer of a smile. I always thought they were enjoying themselves frightening the crap out of me. Sorry, Betty. The word just came out. What a lovely day. Isn’t Harry Brigandshaw meant to be here? There’s another car coming in behind us. Do you know what L’Amour looks like?”

  “He’ll be with Genevieve,” said Horatio.

  “There’s another car behind the other car,” said William, looking through the rear-view mirror. “This is going to be a circus. Get your camera ready, Gordon. I say, the place does look smart. All the stones on the side of the road are painted white. Some poor sod doing jankers, I think they call it.”

  “What’s that?” asked Betty, craning her neck to see who was in the car behind.

  “When you do something wrong they give you nasty jobs,” said William.

  “The man driving behind us is in uniform,” said Betty. “The girl I recognise. That’s Fleur Brooks from the Mayfair sitting next to the driver. Plays the violin. I can’t quite see the girl behind but I think she’s also in the band. There’s an older man next to her who looks bored. The other car is being waved on. Yes, it’s them all right. He’s better looking in the flesh than he was at the pictures. Tingle, tingle. What wouldn’t I do to get my hands on him.”

  “Is there a girl in the car?” asked William, keeping his eye on the road and avoiding his mirror.

  “A girl and two boys. Where does she find them? The other two are quite dishy. One of the boys is waving at us.”

  “Tinus Oosthuizen,” said Horatio. “Harry Brigandshaw’s nephew. Someone’s coming into land in a Tiger Moth. I’ll take a bet that’s Harry Brigandshaw. Drove to Redhill aerodrome and flew up with his friend John Woodall who teaches people how to fly. How did he get it all together so quickly? I suppose when you’ve run a shipping line this is a piece of cake. Nothing like experience.”

  “The girl has just blown you a kiss, William.”

  “You mean Genevieve,” said William, keeping his head straight.

  “Why don’t you look at her? Oh dear, so it’s like that? Real competition.”

  “Not competit
ion, Betty.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. A bloody film star blowing kisses at my boyfriend and that isn’t competition,” she said flatly.

  “You’re my secretary.”

  “Give me time, lover-boy.”

  “The last time I was at a military aerodrome was in Warsaw,” said William to change the subject. “Couple of years ago. Even remember the lad’s name who showed me around. Studying Law and flying part-time for the Polish air force. Count Janusz Kowalski. Harry told me to tell him to come to England if Germany overruns Poland. Spoke good English. Wonder what happened to him? You remember, Horatio? Fritz Wendel, God bless his soul, sent me to one of their air shows. Pilots were good but the planes antique in comparison to what we and the Germans have to fly. Must have finished his law degree by now. Father was a judge or something. Big estate in the country. Old aristocracy. Do you know the Polish army are still riding horses? Genuine cavalry. The Germans will make mincemeat out of them despite our treaty to defend the Poles. I mean how long would it take us to get an army to Poland? One of those treaties that isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, if you ask me. Just show to frighten Hitler, which it won’t. I’m not sure we’ve got anything that could fly nonstop to Warsaw and back, so the RAF won’t be any help to the poor bloody Poles.”

  “Why don’t you ask them?” said Horatio. “Now’s the time. Not that they’d tell you. If war breaks out, do foreign correspondents become war correspondents?”

  “Depends what they do. Probably. What happened to that German Janet had as a patient? Did she cure his stutter?” asked William.

  “Funnily enough she did. I liked him. Not all Germans are bad.”

  “He’s a member of the Nazi Party, for God’s sake,” said William, parking the car next to what he took to be the guard room. Genevieve’s car was right behind them.

  “Knew a chap who was a member of Mosley’s party,” said Horatio, ignoring William’s reference to Henning von Lieberman. “Now there’s a dangerous bastard.”

  “Say that again. If war breaks out they say they’re going to lock him up for the duration. What people do in pursuit of power!”

  “Someone was saying in the office Gandhi is one day going to be prime minister of India when he’s kicked out the British Raj.”

  “Never. The Muslims won’t let him. Can you imagine the Hindus and Muslims living side by side without us British keeping the peace? America wants us out so they can move into the Indian market... You were right, Horatio. That was Harry Brigandshaw landing the Tiger Moth. Here he comes. You’d never think looking at him he nearly died in hospital. Must be seven years ago. Time flies. The group captain with him must be the CO. Come on. This is where we all do some work. Glen Hamilton said on the transatlantic phone this morning he’ll sell anything I can get on L’Amour wanting to be a flyer. His last film was a howling success in the States, apparently. Film stars sell, Horatio. Come on. Betty, be a dear and keep lots of notes. Gordon, start flashing your flashbulb. Your editor, Mr Glass, will sell me the photographs but only for the American market... What’s that bloody great balloon doing up there in the sky?”

  “William’s ignoring me,” said Genevieve, waving back at Horatio Wakefield as he walked across to the guard room. “Why are we stopping? Look, it’s Uncle Harry with an important-looking man with a peaked hat and two rows of ribbons on his chest.”

  “What have you done to William Smythe?” said Tinus innocently, turning to Gregory L’Amour. “He’s a freelance journalist with big American connections. Uncle Harry said something about the press and RAF recruitment for pilots. Looks like more than just the four of us. Coming towards us, Gregory, is my Uncle Harry and John Woodall, who certified my competence to fly an aircraft, back in 1933 it must have been. Must be the CO with them. Quite a reception, Greg. What’s the Honourable Barnaby St Clair doing here? Must be Uncle Harry again. Andre, it’s Fleur and Celia and a chap in RAF uniform who looks like he knows what’s going on. You’ll get a flip by the look of it, Greg. There are more cars coming in. About half a dozen and everyone in civvies.”

  “Do you mind if I take a photograph, Mr L’Amour?”

  “Aren’t you Gordon Stark, Horatio’s photographer?”

  “Afternoon, Tinus. The RAF have made today an open day at Uxbridge. Bit of public relations after Chamberlain’s talks with Hitler.”

  “Has it anything to do with Mr L’Amour and Genevieve?”

  “Everything.”

  “Uncle Harry! How are you? Mr Woodall. How nice to see you again.”

  “My nephew, Geoffrey. Not a bad pilot. Group Captain Lowcock, Tinus. Mr L’Amour,” said Harry putting out his hand. “Harry Brigandshaw. Welcome to the RAF. Genevieve! Where’s my kiss? How’s your grandmother and father?... Come over here, Barnaby, and get yourself introduced. Look at all those cars.”

  “What’s the balloon for?” asked Betty, looking at the group captain.

  “The steel wires anchored to the truck make it difficult for enemy aircraft to fly over the runway without clipping their wings. In time of war we have balloons like that all round the field. Group Captain Geoffrey Lowcock, Mr L’Amour. Glad you could help us. Our American cousins are greatly important to us. Met some of you Americans in the last war. Good pilots.”

  “Can I have a photograph with Gregory, Genevieve and the group captain?”

  “After we’ve had a cup of tea. I’m going to take you up myself, Mr L’Amour.”

  “Call me Greg, Geoff.”

  “Well, I could I suppose.”

  “Do I get a uniform?”

  “We can arrange that I suppose. Honorary RAF officer for the afternoon, how does that sound? Miss Genevieve, how nice of you to come. You are even more beautiful than in the pictures.”

  “He’s an old flatterer.”

  “Not at all, Harry. It’s only flattery when it isn’t true. I believe you are leaving us again for America?”

  “Next week,” said Genevieve. “I never know if the coming week is this week or next week. Greg and I are sailing back together. My word, Uncle Harry, you really did work the phones; here comes my biographer, Greg. The man who helped me write my memoirs. Bruno! Come over and meet Gregory L’Amour. Gillian, how are you? I don’t have to ask if Uncle Harry had a hand in your sudden appearance. Gregory, why don’t you ask Bruno to write your story in a book?”

  “Only a pleasure,” grinned Bruno putting out his hand. “Great minds think alike, Genevieve. I phoned Max Pearl and he’s quite interested. He said he’s met you on the set of your movies, Mr L’Amour.”

  “Call me Greg.”

  “This is my wife, Gillian. We recently got married.”

  “Can we make a photograph of us all together, Mr L’Amour? I’m your greatest fan, I’m sure.”

  “Call me Greg, Gillian. With all the flashbulbs going off, come and stand next to me and give the cameras that big smile. You can join us, Bruno. I read Genevieve’s book, of course. Very well written. Why don’t we have a talk before I sail for America?”

  “If you agree in principle, we can be on the boat and have four full days to go into the right detail of your life. We wrote most of Genevieve’s book staying at Mr Brigandshaw’s beautiful home outside Mickleham. You need quality time with the subject to write a good book. My wife is a top-class shorthand typist and helped us on the Genevieve book, so a lot of groundwork can be done on the boat.”

  “Sounds as if you already made plans. Why not? All publicity is good publicity. If you want to last in films you have to keep your name in front of the public. Do we get to share the author’s royalty from the publisher? Genevieve tells me it’s important to stash away some money for when we lose our bit of fame and no one wants to read about us in a book, let alone write one. Money is the lifeblood of the future. You can run out of fame but don’t run out of money.”

  “Five per cent of retail, Greg,” Bruno decided on reflection.

  “Then we have a deal. We’re travelling first class on the Queen Mary. Do
you have your passports in order?”

  “Always, Greg,” said Gillian, posing next to him for the cameras. “I will phone the shipping company line first thing in the morning.”

  “Do we get a big advance?”

  “Of course. My husband will phone Mr Pearl in the morning. Give us your word on the book and we’ll have him deliver your bank a cheque in California.”

  “New York. Genevieve and I will be living in New York for our next movie.”

  “As man and wife?”

  “Not at all. She won’t marry me.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “He doesn’t have to, Gillian,” said Genevieve. “We understand each other very well. Despite all the press to the contrary, we are not a couple… William! Come over here. Why are you ignoring me? Who’s the lovely girl by your side?”

  “Betty Townsend, meet Genevieve. How are you, Genevieve?”

  “I was going to phone.”

  “I’m sure you were. I was coming backstage that night I came to Private Lives.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Of course. You were in the play.”

  “What a lovely day,” said Gillian.

  “It is, isn’t it?” said Genevieve. “Andre, you’d better go over and say hello to Fleur and Celia. For some reason the world seems very small today. What do you say, Uncle Harry? Grandmother is so sad after Grandfather died. My father’s fallen in love with the cows and the pigs, if you can believe it.”

  “I will drive down for a visit. Your grandmother is very special to me. We have a little reception for everyone in the officers’ mess… Come along, everyone. This is going to be a party. One rule. No drinking before flying so we all drink tea. My word, what a beautiful day. Barnaby, why are you looking so grumpy in the company of such lovely girls? Fleur. Celia. You both look lovely. Barnaby tells me your records are selling like hot cakes. Timothy, thank you for driving down at such short notice.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “By the grin on your face I rather think it is,” said Harry, looking from Timothy Kent to Fleur and back again.