by Peter Rimmer
“They liked it better the second time,” said Robert, smiling.
“How did you know it was mine?”
“Had your signature all over it. Come on, I’m a writer. We all have a distinct fingerprint.”
“You do want a table so you can eat tonight?” asked Christopher. “Some friends of mine would be happy for you and your brother to join their table.”
“She’s just left, you mean.”
“You saw that too?”
Robert was giving Merlin, deep in conversation with Millie Scott, a fond look. “There will have to be enough room at the table for Millie… One of those three girls is quite pretty.”
“They are from Yorkshire.”
“Ah. Now I see the plot.”
“He’s rich. Very rich. Old yeoman Yorkshire family. Salt of the earth. Land in the family for generations. Sheep, lots of not very profitable sheep until they found coal, lots of coal, under the ground. Unlike some other countries in the world, in England, the landowner owns what’s under the ground as well as what’s on top of it.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Christopher. She’s pretty. Trouble is I’m too old for her.”
“You are a bachelor, Robert, so never too old. Anyway, so many of the young chaps were killed in the war. Chaps that would be running after those three girls right now. For Mrs Ramsbottom, a husband with even an Honourable in front of his name is a good catch. For you, it’s much better to have a young wife if you are going to have one… Prepare Merlin and Millie, I’ll approach the Ramsbottoms… Oh, and they think of me as a lowly piano player not fit for their offspring.”
“But do they know you are in love with Brett Kentrich?”
“You really don’t miss anything.”
“That’s my job. I’m an observer. Then I write it all down and call it fiction.”
* * *
Portia Ramsbottom wondered if it could get any worse. Two old men and a middle-aged woman were being introduced to the table by the piano player who wasn’t playing the piano for the time being. Portia was bored. Had been all evening. The show they had seen had literally sent her to sleep. The star of the West End stage had been so full of herself, Portia was only too happy to see her go and take the sycophant: the man had positively drooled over every word from the great Miss Kentrich. The man escorting the star had had a round face with big round ears and eyes like a puppy dog.
Portia turned her bored attention back to Christopher Marlowe.
“May I present Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom with their charming daughters Clarissa, Hermione and Portia? Miss Millie Scott, the comedienne for Happy Times. They tell me, it is showing nightly at the Aldwych. With her are the Honourable Merlin St Clair and his brother, the Honourable Robert St Clair. Their father is the seventeenth Baron St Clair of Purbeck in the county of Dorset. Merlin here is the heir to the barony. So kind of you to ask us to sit down Mrs Ramsbottom. Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Unfortunately, I must repair to my work and play the piano or Mr Danny Hill will be claiming my wages from Miss Clara… So nice to have spoken to you all.”
Portia’s eyes bugged in amazement. The piano player her mother was so impressed by was not only bad at his music, he was behaving like a pompous ass, the little wink he gave her at the end of his dissertation an insult to her intelligence. Why were there no young good-looking men in London her mother was always promising her? At least in the Yorkshire countryside, she was not bored as she was in London.
To add insult to injury the freak with the two colour eyes was putting a monocle in his dark eye to have a better look at her. When he turned the dark eye on Clarissa, Clarissa giggled making Portia want to kick her under the table. Their mother was fawning even more than over the Kentrich woman. Portia sighed and sat back in her chair to be miserable.
The brother with two ordinary eyes had been put into a chair next to her. There was something wrong with his leg. He had difficulty getting his right leg under the table. She was nineteen years old, she told herself, sitting next to a man old enough to be her father, with a gammy leg and likely not a brain in his head. She doubted if he had ever read a book after leaving school. It was horrible. Perfectly horrible. Portia began to sulk.
“Sorry,” said Robert. “It was Christopher’s idea. And by the way, he did write Happy Times along with the tune they are now playing for the third time this evening.”
“I like it.”
“So do I. Now, can we try and be friends? I also live in the country. In Dorset. Something of a recluse. My younger brother dragged me up to London.”
“There’s another one?” said Portia in horror before she could control herself.
“I’m afraid so. He’s the scallywag in the family. What are your interests, Miss Ramsbottom?”
“I read a lot. There isn’t much else to do on the Yorkshire moors. I’m going to be a writer… Are you sure about the piano player?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then what’s he doing here?”
“He likes the atmosphere. He always wanted to be a bohemian. You want to be one of the Brontë sisters? We all want to be something other than what we are.”
“Would you like to dance, Mr St Clair?”
“I can’t, Miss Ramsbottom. And I did see your mother give you that look. You didn’t have to suggest a dance.”
“Why can’t you dance with me, Mr St Clair?”
“Because my right foot was blown off by the Germans during the war.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Better than blowing off my head. All my brothers went through the war except the eldest, Richard, who was retarded and died young. Frederick, the next brother was killed in the war. His only son Richard has just died of typhus. Why the two old bachelors are out looking for wives. Have you heard of anything so ridiculous? Both of us are old enough to be your father. It was Christopher’s idea. Something about all the young men who should be escorting you girls are now dead or married. Sorry. Now, which is your favourite book?”
“Wuthering Heights.”
“If only we could all write as well as Emily Brontë.”
“They came from our part of the world.”
“I know.”
“Do you read books?”
“Sometimes… The other problem was the lack of a table. Write it down later as an experience. Two old codgers. Fact is, we weren’t too bad before the war. Why Millie Scott over there is still in love with my brother.”
“Is she his mistress?” whispered Portia.
“She was. He has another one now. The first one, actually. She went off and married a corporal during the war.”
“Why isn’t she with the corporal?”
“He was blown to pieces by a shell… Esther and Merlin have a daughter. Genevieve. He dotes on her.”
“You are pulling my leg, Mr St Clair?”
“I wish I was.”
“Tell me some more. Lots of some more. Then I’m going to make it all into a story and write it down when I get back to Yorkshire.” For the first time since getting to London, Portia realised she was no longer bored. Forgetting the rest of them at the table, she prodded the man on to tell her his stories. Even between mouthfuls when his food came along.
“You’re starving, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Not in the direct sense of the meaning. But yes, I rather think I even forgot my breakfast. I have my own flat here in London on my own.”
“And no mistress?”
“No mistress, Miss Ramsbottom. Not even a glimmer of hope. My brothers are the ladies’ men. When they gave out charm, I was left on my own.”
“I find you charming.”
“Then what has happened to the old bore you were thinking of when I sat down?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m an observer. Of human nature. Not difficult when you get to know people. You can read their inner thoughts in their faces. All the real truths behind the mask.”
“I want to know.”
“Where did you learn to read faces?”
“In the war. In the trenches. Everything the men thought about was an open book when you looked at their faces. The ability to read faces can sometimes be a curse. You learn things you don’t want to know. Many things in life are better not spoken about. Our innermost secrets. If we already knew each other for what we really are, life would be a bigger disaster than it already is.”
“Can I see you again, Mr St Clair? After tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure. But am I not so old?”
“You can love a man’s mind as well as his body.”
“I don’t think I ever thought of that. That is rather a nice thought. You see minds unlike bodies never grow old. My mind still thinks I am young. Only when I look in the mirror do I see grey hairs… But back to the stories.”
“You are a wonderful storyteller.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Ramsbottom. That is a very nice compliment.”
* * *
Brett had gone home to the loneliest flat in the world. Everything reminded her of Harry: it was after all Harry’s flat in the first place. Before he had deserted her and gone back to his damnable Africa, the last place in the world she ever wanted to go. Just the thought of a creepy-crawly sent shivers up her spine.
It wasn’t a bad night standing on her balcony looking down on the mews. London around her was quiet. Mostly asleep, something Brett knew would be impossible for her even if she tried. The show brought her alive. Took a long time after the curtain went down to stop the adrenaline pumping through her body.
The family from Yorkshire had been just dreadful, the mother treating her like someone so marvellous, every word she spoke like a pearl of wisdom, which was all a lot of rubbish. Why did people behave like that when all she did was sing on a stage and talk a few words in between? She had felt like letting down her façade, telling Mrs Ramsbottom a few choice words on the subject of bodily functions and ending with her dead mother’s favourite, ‘we all look the same under a bus’. Brett hated being fawned over. Made her put on her duchess act she had badly learnt in drama school. If nothing else, her grand performance in Clara’s had annoyed the youngest daughter. The one with the name out of Shakespeare. The poor thing had not been impressed.
Brett would have gone home earlier were she not so hungry. Always after a good show, she was famished. To eat she needed a table and an escort. Poor fellow was another besotted idiot. If only her mother had taught her to cook and not spout lines out of bad plays and make her go to drama school. Brett knew she could not properly boil an egg. Either it ran all over the eating spoon or it was inside the shell as hard as nails. Toast, always, burned in her toaster. Her mind was elsewhere. She was domestically hopeless… Maybe her mother, as usual, had been right. She would have made a lousy housewife.
“I’m twenty-four years old and a bloody mess.”
Having said that very loudly she looked down and hoped her neighbours were fast asleep.
Brett went back through the French windows into the bedroom she had shared with Harry and had a good cry on the bed. She felt sorry for herself. She had everything everybody else wanted. Nothing she wanted herself. She wanted Harry.
With the curtains blowing in the breeze from the open balcony doors, Brett finally found herself in the land of sleep. She was in Africa. The head of a large lion was looking at her from the depths of long, brown grass. Cold yellow eyes. The tail swinging and thrashing the grass. Ready to pounce.
Brett woke half an hour after falling asleep in a cold funk. The French window was banging. The room was dark. There was no one else in her life to turn to.
Only when the daylight came up through the closed French windows did she fall into a peaceful sleep that lasted right through to lunchtime.
Brett was hungrier than she had been after the show when she had gobbled her food in Clara’s and run for the door.
For the first time in weeks, Brett pulled out her frying pan and fried herself an egg. She placed the funny-looking egg on a slab of bread slamming another chunk of bread on top and ate hungrily, her improvised sandwich tasting perfectly delicious. Having finished she fingered up the spilt part of the yoke from her kitchen table and licked her finger.
Today she was going to phone Harry. Even if the bitch answered the phone. She promised herself.
“Why is it always worse in the middle of the night when everything is quiet?”
Brett Kentrich was feeling better.
* * *
At four o’clock in the afternoon when Brett was phoning his Berkeley Square house and getting only Engelbert, the butler, Harry was sitting down to afternoon tea at the Royal Air Force club. He had waited downstairs five minutes for Ignatius Bowes-Lyon and left a message with the hall porter at the Piccadilly entrance. His friend was late, something unusual for a man who prided himself with always being on time.
Harry was more bored than usual with the day-to-day routine at Colonial Shipping where his managers did most of the work and took all of the decisions. Harry liked to delegate and then watch what he delegated. Two men could never do the same job properly. Many of his people were specialists and knew more about what they were doing than Harry. Harry supervised the overall direction of the firm, founded by his grandfather: the old hands in the firm still referred to him as the Pirate behind Harry’s back, the same old hands who thought the young man from Africa running something he knew little about as something of a joke. The demise of the seaplanes had given them satisfaction and more than one look at Harry said ‘we told you so’. Harry was quite happy to make mistakes and cut his losses before they really cost money. Fortunately, the shipping line that served the whole of Africa was making good profits and ‘Harry’s Folly’ as he found out it was called after his last trip back with Ignatius from Africa, was written off against income from the ships.
Harry had taken a table in the alcove on the first floor where the club’s restaurant overlooked Green Park. It was five minutes later that Ignatius Bowes-Lyon joined him. There were two other members taking tea at separate tables. They both glanced at Ignatius striding through the room and went on with their tea. Ignatius was a tall man with the comfortable look of an aristocrat.
Harry looked up from his tea and smiled. They had been through a lot together in the war, he and Ignatius.
“Scones are fresh and the strawberry jam quite perfect. Never could make strawberry jam in Africa. Mother tried for years. Said it was to do with the fruit growing too quickly in the hot sun.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
“What kept you, Ignatius?” It had been a joke with them for years, Ignatius Bowes-Lyon’s fetish for punctuality. In everything else, he was a normal male: drank too much when encouraged, told borderline jokes and brought down the house, even in female company. It was only his large fob watch and keeping his promise on time that kept him apart from everyone else. In the Royal Flying Corps, he made his point by leaving the bar if his promised drinking companion was more than five minutes late, leaving the poor chap to drink on his own.
To Harry’s surprise, Ignatius now looked flustered.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all. Chap with the first taxi had a flat tyre,” he lied. “Had to wait for a growler. Anyway, here I am… You think we can go down to the bar for a drink after tea?”
“Why ever not? What we do when we come to the club. The club bar opens as usual at five o’clock.”
“Taking English tea at four o’clock is so civilised.”
“Ten past four, old chap.”
“Sorry, Harry.”
“Think no more of it… You got something on your mind, Iggy?”
“Course not. Whatever gives you that impression?”
“You are fidgeting with your table napkin. You only did that at breakfast time, before we flew on dawn patrol.”
“Am I really? I didn’t notice.”
‘The blood
y man can see straight through a brick wall,’ thought Ignatius. ‘Am I that obvious?’
He was sweating. He knew that. After walking up Piccadilly to the club on a summer afternoon instead of taking a cab. Which if he had done would not have found him in his present predicament.
Not far down the road from the club, as he was taking his constitutional by walking on the pavement instead of opposite in the park, which would have made him late by crossing the road into Green Park, he had seen a taxi stop outside the townhouse belonging to Barnaby St Clair. Before he could stop or hide, he had almost bumped into Harry’s wife as she jumped out of the taxi and ran for the steps that led up to Barnaby’s front door. She had seen and recognised him but not stopped in her flight. Barnaby himself had opened the front door. He had had to be watching from a window for his paramour. The front door had opened and quickly closed on Tina, Barnaby taking a swift look at the street. Like a thief.
Ignatius Bowes-Lyon’s dilemma was whether to tell Harry. To be the teller of an appalling bad tale. To Ignatius, soliciting another man’s wife was as bad as anything he understood. The chap was a rotter. Unless the meeting of the wife with the brother-in-law was a normal, prearranged visit. Harry would then think it odd him not mentioning bumping into Tina who in innocence would tell Harry she had seen him walking down Piccadilly. Ignatius knew he was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Ignatius had hurried off into the park to think out his problem making him late and still not providing him with a solution other than to say nothing.
When he thought that through, eating his tea, he knew nothing said by Tina would remove his predicament. Except he would then know for certain the Honourable Barnaby St Clair was a cad.
Ignatius took out his fob watch and looked at the time. He could barely wait for the bar to open downstairs.
