On the Brink of Tears

by Peter Rimmer

  “Three.”

  “I told Bruno Kannberg and Horatio Wakefield to put your telephone number in their papers. That’s the Mail and the Mirror. Don’t know about the others. Just have your girl ready to take the calls.”

  “Harry, how do you think of it all?”

  “One favour deserves another, John. It’s how the world goes round.”

  3

  When Bergit von Lieberman took the call from Harry Brigandshaw the following Wednesday she was beside herself. Erwin had gone off in a huff having been rude to his mother and Klaus had still not come home. She was numb with fear with no idea of what was really going on. The two younger children were still staying with friends for their summer holiday; either the children went away or friends came to stay to give them something to do. On their own they were always complaining of being bored, of not having anything to do.

  Except for the servants, Bergit was alone in the house having to now run the day to day workings of the von Lieberman family estate. Bergit was not sure which was worse: Erwin telling her the Fatherland was more important than his family, or Klaus being taken away in a stranger’s car without a word to her before he left.

  The row with Erwin had erupted two weeks earlier on his seventeenth birthday when Klaus told him it was time to come home from school in Berlin to learn how to run the estate, there being no money to send the boy to university or finish the last year of his schooling. They had been in her husband’s study when the shouting match began. Without another word to his father, Erwin had run out of the house, Bergit following him to find out what the row was really about.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she had said in the driveway outside the old house. “How dare you be rude to your father?”

  “He doesn’t understand.”

  “What doesn’t he understand that you at seventeen understand so much better, Erwin?”

  “The Fatherland. The Party is our salvation. Germany will be glorious again. The Fuehrer will lead us to conquer the world. I don’t want to work on the estate. I want to work for the glory of the Fatherland. On my eighteenth birthday I shall join the Luftwaffe. Germany needs pilots. Father should have known that. We want war to obliterate the memory of our defeat.”

  “Don’t talk tripe.”

  “You are an ignorant woman in defiance of the Party. No one questions the Fuehrer.”

  “How dare you? I’m your mother. Go inside and apologise to your father. The servants heard every word.”

  “The servants will always do what they are told. So will you, Mother. We will all learn to do what we are told, according to Mr Hahn.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Berlin. To work for the Party if I am no longer to go to school. The Party will now look after me. Mr Hahn understands the destiny of Germany.”

  “Who is this Mr Hahn?” said Bergit, now in a panic at the thought of her son in the air force, the memory of Klaus flooding back.

  “Our teacher in the Hitler Youth Movement. Heil Hitler!”

  The boy had given the sky a stiff-armed salute and walked down the drive on his long walk to the railway station to join the people who had stolen her son; Bergit had her hand to her mouth, her eyes pricking with tears.

  A week later three men had come for Klaus and taken him away. She had heard the first part of the conversation when a servant called her husband to the front door, from where she was standing halfway up the stairs holding the banister and looking down.

  “You are required to come to Berlin, Herr von Lieberman. Please come to the car. No, you will not require a suitcase. Now, Herr Lieberman. To the car. Your wife will be told by the servant you have left the estate.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Berlin. We have some questions to ask you, Herr Lieberman.”

  Bergit had run up the stairs to watch from a second floor window as they took him away in the long black car. Then she was alone in the house, left with the servants with no idea what to do next. The servant who had answered the door and found her in the room was surly, no longer the polite domestic of the past. Cold with fury, Bergit had reflected on their future. Erwin was probably right. The servant was a member of the Nazi Party. In the end, they would all learn to do what they were told or perish.

  The same servant called her to the phone, telling her there was a call from England. When she picked up the receiver the man was standing near to the small ivory telephone. The rest of the servants had been frightened of him ever since the three men had taken her husband away in the black car. He was watching her as she said hello.

  “Bergit. It’s Harry Brigandshaw. How are you all? Thought I’d call and say hello to Klaus. After your visit to England I thought we would pay your beautiful home a visit and do some horse riding. May I speak to Klaus?”

  “He’s not here, Harry. Ran up to Berlin for a business visit. Finding buyers for the potatoes and the onions. We like to sell straight into the big shops and cut out the man in the middle.”

  “When’s he coming back? I’ll call again.”

  “Not for a while, Harry. He’s staying with his Uncle Werner.”

  “So everything is all right?”

  “Everything is wonderful, Harry. How are Tina and the children?”

  “They are fine. How is Erwin getting on at school?”

  “One year to go and then university,” Bergit lied, the sweat coming out on the palms of her hands as she wondered if the servant understood English or whether someone else was listening on the line at the telephone exchange.

  “If you ever need help, Bergit, you know where to find me.”

  “Why would I ever need help, Harry? Germany has recovered from the hyperinflation. Why don’t I get Klaus to call you when he comes home?”

  “How are Gabby and Melina?”

  “Sailing with school friends on the lake.”

  “Lake Constance?”

  “It’s only twenty miles away. The pass through the Alps is easy to travel in the summer. Children like friends their own age. Us old fuddy-duddies, I think is your odd English expression, are boring to the children in the long summer holidays.”

  “Don’t I know it? Your use of English always amazes me, Bergit. Just tell Klaus I called.”

  “It’s a long way to come to ride a horse, Harry.”

  “I suppose it is. We were just thinking of you. So you are quite all right?”

  “Never better, Harry.”

  “That kind of English is more American.”

  “Goodbye, Harry. Thank you for calling.”

  Smiling for the benefit of the servant, Bergit put down the phone and walked through the house into the garden that led into the woods where she walked and walked, playing through every word of Harry’s conversation in her mind. It was not difficult for Bergit to understand Harry had phoned for a reason. Harry Brigandshaw knew something was wrong. The fact he knew made her even more frightened.

  Harry kept looking at the phone in his hand, the call to Germany having come to an abrupt end. Then he put the receiver back on the hook in his office. Timothy Kent was sitting in a comfortable chair on the other side of the desk.

  “What happened, sir?”

  “I think she brushed me off. Said Klaus would call me, rather like don’t call us, we’ll call you. He’s in Berlin on estate business and Erwin is still going to school, according to Bergit. Her voice was taut, as if someone else was listening to our conversation. She gave me the feeling she was frightened. Sometimes in life, Tim, you can do more harm than good. It’s often better to mind one’s own business. I think this may be one of them. My blundering over to Germany could create a disaster for whoever is left behind.”

  “Are you going to call the Shorts factory?”

  “Set it up, maybe. Left it open for Mrs von Lieberman to come back to me. Yes, I’ll phone Crookshank, though it’s a bit of a cheek. Never met the man. Just heard on the grapevine they have developed a viable flying boat. I don’t think we should do an
ything more direct for the von Liebermans at the moment. Tinus will be disappointed. He liked the idea of flying to Switzerland. Two of the von Lieberman children are in Switzerland. On a sailing holiday with school friends.”

  “Hope she has the sense to leave them there.”

  “So do I. Poor Bergit. Apart from the servants she’s all on her own by the sound of it. When you go out, ask the girl to get Crookshank on the line for me. It’s better to be prepared.”

  Harry went back to the work on his desk, trying to concentrate. When the call to the aircraft engineer at Short Brothers was put through to him half an hour later, he had temporarily forgotten the call.

  “Harry Brigandshaw,” he barked into the phone without thinking.

  “Crookshank.”

  “Mr Crookshank. Sorry to get the girl to get you on the line. You don’t know me and what I’m going to ask is highly impertinent. Would you like me to test fly your new flying boat?”

  “You don’t know me, Colonel Brigandshaw, but I certainly know you. Your epic flight down Africa that ended so tragically inspired us here at Shorts to try harder to build a viable flying boat. The first Short Empire flew a little while ago, as you probably heard. We’re building them for Imperial Airways. They’ve ordered six of the big aircraft that can fly twelve passengers in the kind of comfort they would get on a ship. We think it will make a financially viable airline. But if you would fly the Short Sunderland for us, its military variant, with all the attendant publicity, I'm sure the company would be delighted. How did you know my name, Colonel Brigandshaw? That I designed the plane?”

  “Iggy Bowes-Lyon knew you in the war.”

  “You never heard another word of him?”

  “Just disappeared with Fred Dwyer, the civil engineer who was on his way to Rhodesia to help build a dam. We’re going to call it the De Wet Cronjé Dam when it’s finished.”

  “Where do you want to take our plane?”

  “To Lake Constance in Switzerland.”

  “I suppose you have a reason?”

  “It may not develop.”

  “Call me again, sir. This call is quite a privilege, I’m sure. The Short Sunderland would be perfect for Coastal Command.”

  “I’ll pass that on.”

  “The girl said she was calling me from the Air Ministry so I presumed…”

  “Let me fly the aircraft first. You’ll be pleased to know there are no hippopotamuses on Lake Constance.”

  “So that’s what happened?”

  “Came up for air right in front of me as I came into land on the river. I hit the animal with the float and careered into the riverine trees, smashing the seaplane beyond our ability to repair. Cost three good men their lives. More, in fact. I bribed the Tutsis with a consignment of guns to get out when de Wet died of malaria. The crash had paralysed him. Now my guns have slaughtered the rival Hutu clan, a rivalry that goes back into Congo history. It never seems to stop, Mr Crookshank.”

  “Please call me Phillip. Phil, really. At least the Solent won’t be used to kill people. Save people, maybe. Land on the sea if it isn’t too rough and pick up downed pilots.”

  “Coastal Command.” Harry was smiling. No one missed an opportunity to sell.

  “That’s right, Colonel. Anytime you want to fly her, give me a ring. He was a good friend of mine, Iggy Bowes-Lyon.”

  “He was my friend too. I miss him. All his friends miss him. Really good friends are hard to find.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, sir.”

  “But I do. Oh, yes, I blame myself all right. My conceit wanted to fly the first airline down Africa.”

  While Harry was sitting in his office alone, worrying about his friend in Germany caught in the spider’s web of men’s ambition, Gillian Kannberg, who still thought of herself as Gillian West, was having the time of her life. She had never travelled in anything first class before and it suited her well, a way of life to which she would dearly like to become more accustomed. Everyone on the Queen Mary knew Gregory L’Amour and Genevieve, even if some of the high society tried to ignore the two film stars in their midst. Genevieve had declined sitting at the Captain’s table saying they were all too old and stuffy, though not to the Captain’s face.

  They had their own table, the four of them, giving Gillian the kind of prestige she had longed for all her life and never found as a shorthand typist with a father who was a grocer. She was in her element, having spent as much as she could of the book advance in the short time before they sailed for America, her onboard wardrobe competing with the best of the younger generation, all by the look of them from the British and American moneyed class.

  After several days into the voyage, and soon to be entering New York Harbour, she even thought lowering her sights to marry Bruno was not such a bad decision after all. Happy to be part of the writing process when it brought her close to Gregory L’Amour, she knew the writing of the book was going well, Bruno’s journalistic instincts for getting to the facts that sold newspapers standing him in good stead. The book was going to work. The rise of young Joseph Pott from obscurity to world acclaim as the film hero that was Gregory L’Amour even brought tears to Gillian’s eyes, the sure sign every shop girl in Britain and America would howl their eyes out with sentimental joy when they read her husband’s book. Even if Gillian had little or no talent of her own, she knew now her husband had the chance of giving her what she wanted, the glamour and ability to brandish wealth in other people’s faces.

  “You’re going to be the writer to the stars, Bruno.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course, darling. After Genevieve and Boy Rising to the Stars, every rich and famous person in America will be after you to write their story.”

  “I never thought of that. Just one book at a time, Gillian. That’s me.”

  “You have to think big to get to the top, darling. Where your talent deserves to be. Oh, how I love you. This is all such a thrill. I had a little talk with Lady Murtherville and she was the one who started the conversation. She had seen all the films. Those are the kind of people with whom we’ll be socialising with in the future. We’ll be able to cock a snook at people like Art the Bumley.”

  Bruno, ecstatic that he had had sex every night for a week, had no wish to suggest to his gorgeous-looking wife that what she had just suggested would not be very nice. That putting one’s nose in the air had the habit of bringing about a nasty fall. Hoping his luck would carry through their last night on board, he tried to kiss his wife on the lips, only to be offered the side of her cheek.

  “Don’t be silly, darling,” she said, giving him the same look Bruno supposed she would give to a naughty boy. “People can see.”

  “We’re husband and wife. This, for all intents and purposes, is our honeymoon.”

  “We must always keep up appearances when we are someone. Kissing in public, really!”

  “Are we someone, Gillian?” asked Bruno.

  “Of course we are. You are the writer to the stars. I promised to show Lady Murtherville the photographs taken by Gordon Stark of me and Gregory that appeared in all the English papers.”

  “Just one, Gillian. The Daily Mirror. After I twisted Horatio Wakefield’s arm to let me have the photograph which I presented to Arthur Bumley as something of a prize, seeing I do not take good photographs.”

  “Never mind. She doesn’t know how many papers. Sounds better to say all the papers rather than just one.”

  Bruno watched his wife go off down the sunlit deck in pursuit of her new-found friends with a feeling of misgiving. Then his mind went back to the time he had given Arthur Bumley the photograph just before they left to go to America.

  “Is it a coincidence, Kannberg, your wife is in the photograph?”

  “It’s the only one I could get from the Mail.”

  “I see. And now you want to follow the man to America and expect me to give you leave?”

  “That would be nice. I can write a piece or two about the loomi
ng war from an American perspective while I write his book in my spare time. We’re travelling first class.”

  “Are we now? She really has got you by the balls.”

  “I’m afraid so. Ever since the book was agreed to I’ve had it every night.”

  “You poor fellow. Lovestruck by your own wife. When she turns it off again you’ll really climb up the proverbial wall… It’s a good photograph, of both of them. Would the front page make your wife amenable for a nice long time? An American perspective to the air force story of L’Amour will sell. Go, you poor fool. Go with my blessing. I just hope one day you will find you have had enough of her in bed and see the wood for the trees. Until then you are besotted and there’s nothing to be done to help. The rumour I heard yesterday from a dear old friend is Hitler is still laughing up his sleeve at Chamberlain’s ‘Peace for our time’ little speech. Pompous idiot, the Prime Minister. If there is a war they’d better give Churchill the job, even if he is an aristocrat. When he wins we can throw him out and vote in the Labour Party. I love people. They are so predictable… Not a bad-looking girl, your wife. Why don’t we give her her maiden name in the photograph? The readers know the Kannberg name as yours. Can’t have favouritism can we? Whatever next? Sometimes we call it the phoney war. This one’s the phoney peace. If anyone wanted my opinion, which often they don’t despite me trying to give it to them, I’d say all hell is about to let loose.”

  What struck Genevieve was their complacency. Everyone on board was so self-satisfied, seeing only what was right in front of their noses, from the old dowagers right down to the crew. No one saw even the sea beyond the rails, just their world on board without fear or thought. They seemed to Genevieve to have what they wanted and anything else beyond the present was superfluous, to be ignored. The contrast with the bomber squadrons lined up on the end of the field came back to her vividly.