To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  “I want you to go out to them Christopher,” said Oscar Fleming. “We’ll pull back a flap of the curtain to let you out. This is very special, you must understand. Very special. To call for the writer on the last night. I hope there’s a critic or two in the audience to see this.”

  “Only with Brett and Danny,” said Christopher.

  “All right… You will have to say something.”

  “What do I say?”

  “How do I know? Now be a good chap. They are stamping on the wooden floor and this old theatre is beginning to shake. Just listen to them. Come along old chap, I’ll push you through. The chap with the spotlight is ready. This is your big moment.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Nonsense. Mr Hill! Give me a hand. Just the two of you. Brett’s blubbing and her eye makeup is all down her face… Out, Christopher! Go forth and face your world.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Out, Christopher! Out!”

  Someone had pulled back the bottom of one side of the heavy curtain making enough space for Christopher to go through to the front of the stage to stand just above the orchestra pit. The house lights dimmed as he went through. The spotlight picked him up immediately. When Danny Hill came through, the gap in the curtain vanished. There was no turning around. Christopher was still wearing the black beret he always wore in Clara’s when he played the piano. His hair was down on his shoulders. He brought up both his hands. From shouting and banging came silence. Christopher was not sure which was worse. The entire audience stood up in front of him. Then they applauded as one, the new noise pouring into his face making him smile. Then as one, they went silent. Christopher held up Danny Hill’s left hand.

  “Mr Danny Hill, everyone. We wrote Happy Times together.”

  “Not quite, Mr Marlowe. You wrote the music in your head. I wrote it down on sheet music. Ladies and gentlemen. My friend and co-musician. Mr Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Thank you all,” Christopher shouted over the new noise of the shouts and the banging on the floor.

  Oscar Fleming had been right. He could feel the floorboards vibrating. The flap in the curtain opened behind them. Christopher and Danny backed off the front of the stage. It was over.

  Inside the safety of the curtain, Brett ran into his arms.

  “That, darling, was the shortest speech I ever heard.”

  Brett was now sobbing on his shoulder. The cast was again smiling. Excitement was all around Christopher as he smiled back.

  “Everyone go and change. My friend Harry Brigandshaw has arranged a party. Everyone back here in twenty minutes. First drinks are already in the dressing rooms. We are all going to have a party which I hope will go on all night.”

  * * *

  “If he expects me to tart myself up in twenty minutes he is daft,” said Millie Scott, the comedienne of the show. “Blimey. Give us a drink and make it a stiff one… What a night. What a marvellous bloody night.”

  Friends were waiting out in the corridors as the cast filtered down to the changing rooms. Most of the cast was still milling around. Some had started to dismantle their costumes even before they reached their dressing rooms. Brett, the only one with her own room had disappeared and shut her door. Millie was looking around looking hopefully for Merlin St Clair. She had asked him to come. She saw his brother, Barnaby St Clair, looking pleased with himself. On his arm was Portia Ramsbottom. The brother seemed in favour again now he was financing the new show. With him were his author brother and his American girlfriend.

  “Where’s Merlin, Barnaby?”

  “He didn’t come.”

  “Damn him. Always when I want a man they never turn up.”

  “I think he said he’s coming to the party.”

  “That’s something. They say there’s booze in the dressing rooms. Excuse me.”

  “There he is.”

  Millie Scott turned smiling, which instantly froze on her face. Merlin was making his way through the milling crowd with his monocle fixed over the one dark eye. The blue eye was the only one that seemed to be looking at her. On his arm was a beautiful young girl. A very beautiful young girl. Tall, slim with a perfect skin and no makeup. Even Barnaby stopped his trivial conversation with his brother Robert to look at the new girl with his brother. With seething, jealous rage Millie looked at the girl.

  Merlin was walking straight towards her. Closer, the girl Millie saw was very, very young.

  “Damn you, Merlin. Not this tonight. Tonight is special.”

  “I know, Millie,” said Merlin as he smiled at her and then at his brothers in turn.

  “Barnaby said you weren’t in the theatre.”

  “Oh, we were… Millie Scott, I would like you to meet my daughter Genevieve… Genevieve wants to go on the stage don’t you darling? She has just turned fourteen. Genevieve, I want you to meet Miss Millie Scott. We are old friends. And those two men with their mouths wide open are your uncles. Uncle Robert and Uncle Barnaby. Say hello to them. I thought tonight was a good night to bring my daughter out into the world. To meet everyone.”

  “She’s beautiful,” breathed Millie more in relief.

  “Thank you, Miss Scott. Father has said a lot about you.”

  “Where’s your mother, child?” The girl was certainly precocious.

  “At home. Mother never goes out. Daddy comes to visit. Am I too young to go on stage?”

  “You are never too young to go on the stage. Especially a beautiful young girl like you… Maybe your Uncle Barnaby can find a part for you in the new show. It’s his money… My word, they do grow up so quickly. What do you think, Barnaby? A part in the show for your niece?”

  Millie Scott was enjoying herself. Back in control. It was the first time she had ever seen Barnaby stuck for words.

  “It will be my pleasure if the others agree. Merlin, you old fox. Never thought you had it in you… Hello. I’m your Uncle Barnaby. What a pity Harry Brigandshaw didn’t know about this. He would not have backed out of the show. He was married to your late aunt, Lucinda.”

  “Who is Aunt Lucinda?”

  “I can see there’s a lot you don’t know about your family,” said Barnaby recovering his wits. “Come on. Let the players change. We’ll all go on stage so I can get a better look at my niece. At one of my future leading ladies… I just can’t wait for Brett to get an eyeful of this. She hates competition.”

  Barnaby was actually giggling.

  * * *

  An hour later after the speeches, Barnaby cornered Oscar Fleming before they had drunk too much and only wanted to talk rubbish. Danny Hill was down with the orchestra in the pits playing the piano. The staff of the Savoy had laid out a sumptuous buffet among the defunct set of Happy Times that had till now been the pride and joy of Gert van Heerden. Oscar Fleming like so many people when it came to money had changed his mind once the money was found and agreed to produce A Walk in the Woods. This time with Gert van Heerden as his co-producer. When it came to money Barnaby also liked to hedge his bets. He had the best of both worlds. The young and the old. The new zest and the old tried experience that had made so much money for Harry Brigandshaw. Despite attending all the auditions for the cast he still wished to make money out of the theatre, and not, as he put it to Portia, throw his cash down the drain.

  “Can you get someone into the Central School of Speech and Drama?” he asked Oscar Fleming.

  “Probably. Why?”

  “That’s the one with its home at the Royal Albert Hall, I believe.”

  “The principal, Elsie Fogerty, is a friend of mine.”

  “Perfect. I will call a favour, Mr Fleming. If she is no good after the first year they can kick her out. Just getting in can be a problem without influence. You see the girl over there with my elder brother Merlin? That’s the chap with the monocle. His eyes are different colours. As kids growing up the dogs all ran away from Merlin. The night owls were his favourites.”

  “You want me to speak to Miss Fogerty abou
t the girl?”

  “She’s my niece. I only found out tonight. She wants to be on the stage.”

  “A good drama school is preferable. Even Brett Kentrich attended drama school. You can have all the talent in the world but you still have to know what you are doing. And that means you have to be taught… Mr van Heerden is very good but he still needs my guidance you understand.”

  “Of course,” Barnaby smiled to himself. One favour called for another, Oscar Fleming was still firmly in charge. “She’s fourteen. Her name is Genevieve.”

  “Genevieve St Clair. How nice.”

  “Just Genevieve. She also needs to be taught how to speak properly. My brother is not married. Never has been.”

  “And the mother?”

  “The truth?”

  “Always the truth, Mr St Clair. Always the truth when two men are in the same business together.”

  “Her mother was a barmaid. Merlin met her during the war. Things are different in wartime.”

  “Yes, well, the war is over and the progeny must learn to speak the King’s English if we wish to take them anywhere. Where is the mother tonight?”

  “She stays at home. Merlin provides a flat and what she needs. A girl of simple needs. She is quite content not having to work for the rest of her life.”

  “How fortunate. Some of us are so fortunate.” Oscar Fleming coughed delicately into his hand. “I thought it good manners to phone Mrs Brigandshaw this morning and ask her to the last night. She declined which for some of us might be construed as fortunate. Such a pretty woman. I knew her well before she married Mr Brigandshaw you understand. She had soon returned from Africa. She is worried about her husband, Mr St Clair.”

  “I thought that is all in the past.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I did hear a little something. No, not the past, Mr St Clair. The present. She has received a wire from Rhodesia. From Mr Brigandshaw’s grandfather wanting to know when Mr Brigandshaw will arrive on Elephant Walk.”

  “He left with Ignatius Bowes-Lyon three weeks ago. Must have stopped off on the way. Harry can be very impulsive. He was married to my late sister. I’ll phone his office on Monday. They will have kept in touch I’m sure.”

  “Mrs Brigandshaw telephoned a Mr Percy Grainger on Friday. Mr Grainger is the managing director of Colonial Shipping the firm founded by Mr Brigandshaw’s paternal grandfather. Not the chap in Rhodesia. They have heard not a word since Cairo. Two and a half weeks ago.”

  “The aeroplane does not have a wireless. Harry told me himself. He has an aircraft engineer on board and a civil engineer. The civil engineer is going to build a dam across the Mazoe River on Elephant Walk.”

  “It is so nice to hear you are friends again with Mr Brigandshaw.”

  For a moment, Barnaby thought he was going to lose his temper. The old voyeur was giving him a look of lascivious understanding… Robert was now waving at him from across the stage. Christopher Marlowe had his arm around Brett Kentrich’s shoulder which annoyed Barnaby for some reason he wished not to admit even to himself. His good mood had changed. No matter what he had done to Tina, Harry was one of the few people in his life he had thought of as a friend. Someone he could go to. Three weeks was too long for two experienced pilots and a good mechanic to disappear. The plane they had flown was two-engined. Harry had told him the day before they took off on the epic flight down Africa.

  * * *

  “You can fly this chap on one engine, Barnaby. The idea of flying again is wonderful. Free as a bird. I feel so clean when I am up in the sky. You must come up one day, Barnaby.”

  “Not me, Harry. I like to keep my feet on the ground.”

  “You should have thought of that when you dived head first into the river.”

  “It was a sucker punch.”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you and Tina all right?”

  “We are now. And yes, Barnaby, I do understand she was your lady first.”

  “All our lives. From the time we were five years old. I was a bloody fool looking back. I should have married her.”

  “I’m glad she didn’t marry you. She and I are going to be fine. We only have the one sticking point now. I want to live in Africa. Tina wants to bring up the children in England. Time will tell. It always does. We all mellow and change with the years. Our needs and wants become different. The slow evolution of getting older.”

  * * *

  Bringing his mind back to the present, Barnaby waved back at Robert.

  “Excuse me, Fleming. My brother wants something.”

  “When’s he going to write us a play?”

  “I’ll ask him. Yes, I’ll ask him… They don’t call it darkest Africa for nothing. I’ve been there. He could have gone by boat to Cape Town and caught the train to Salisbury and arrived by now.”

  “I’m sure nothing serious is wrong. He went right through the war, you know.”

  “He came over after his brother George was killed in Flanders. Please excuse me. You won’t forget Genevieve?”

  “I never forget a pretty girl. In a few years’ time, she will be devastating.”

  The man was positively leering. Barnaby hated to think what was going through the old sod’s mind.

  * * *

  Robert had watched Barnaby’s mood change suddenly. One minute he was the soul of the party talking to Oscar Fleming. The next minute he was sour. It was one of Robert’s attributes to sense people’s moods. It helped him understand the way the characters in his books behaved… He watched Barnaby break off with the impresario and come across the stage between the trestle tables laden with so much good food.

  “When are you two going back to America?” asked Barnaby.

  “We are not. Not for the while, anyway. Freya loves England. She has rented a small flat close by. We are going down to Dorset for a stay. Freya will be mother’s guest.”

  “You’ll have to behave yourself with mother around.”

  “Barnaby! How could you suggest such a thing in front of a lady? We are always the perfect example of good behaviour, aren’t we Freya?”

  “Quite perfect.”

  “Your brilliant idea has a flaw, Barnaby. Our ancestors spoke French. I don’t speak French, let alone write it. The original parchments had there ever been any would have been written in old French.”

  “Nonsense. Not the ones that left Corfe Castle for the secret hiding place in Purbeck Manor. By then our illustrious ancestors would have translated the Sir Henri Saint Claire Debussy’s words into English. By the time Cromwell knocked down Corfe Castle your precious parchments were written in Chaucerian English. Dear oh dear. Where is your imagination, Robert? I thought you said you were a novelist.”

  They all laughed as Christopher and Brett joined them. They were standing next to the buffet table. The music from the orchestra pit had stopped. Danny Hill was climbing back on stage and coming across to join them.

  “Harry’s missing, Robert. He hasn’t arrived on Elephant Walk. No one has heard a word since Cairo.”

  Brett, who had turned as white as a sheet, ran off the stage without saying another word.

  “You’d better go after her, Christopher.”

  “When did you hear?” asked Robert as Christopher went to look for her.

  “From Fleming. Just a few moments ago. He had phoned Tina to ask her to come tonight.”

  “I’m sure Harry’s all right. Engine trouble. They are fixing it. Harry is the ultimate survivor… When are you going to see Tina?”

  “I’m not. Certainly not now. You’d better go and see her, Robert. With Merlin... Fleming’s getting our niece into the Central School of Speech and Drama.”

  “That’s a good idea. Cheer up. Harry will be fine. It’s a long way down Africa… How long has it been?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Have the press got hold of it?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to get another drink. A stiff one… Oh, and Fleming wants you to write him a play.”

  �
�How nice of him. I’m a novelist. The two are as different as chalk and cheese. A novel has to come to life in the reader’s mind. A play comes to life on the stage and is looked at with the eyes of the audience.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Robert.”

  “Think about it. The pictures are different ways around… Freya is still going to write her column for Glen Hamilton. Maybe Freya can write Mr Fleming a play. What about that, Freya? Then there is no competition. And we can live in the country.”

  “Where is Max Pearl, Robert?” asked Barnaby.

  “Back in New York. Luckily, he didn’t act on the parchment drama. The English edition of Holy Knight is selling like hotcakes.”

  “However, even more reason for forging those parchments.”

  “Do you know how difficult it is to write Chaucerian English?”

  “How about Freya?”

  “What a brilliant idea,” said Robert.

  “Count me out,” said Freya, “I’m not a crook. There’s something about being an accessory to the crime.”

  “How can there be a crime? The parchments never existed. You can’t forge what never existed. Sometimes you have to give people what they want. A white lie at worst, Freya.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s a good girl,” said Barnaby. “Lies are always fine until they are found out. Germany says they are not rearming. Now that’s a lie. Churchill says it’s a lie and when we find out there will be a war. Lost and found parchments just don’t matter. Except to that Yank… Oh sorry, Freya. That American. Let’s give him what he wants and have some fun. Can where Robert found the ideas for his book make the slightest difference to how good Holy Knight really is? It’s fiction. Entertainment. Based on fact. That much my entire family can vouch for.”

  “That ‘Yank’ got under your skin, Barnaby,” said Freya.