The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 103
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“You did. Merry Christmas.”
He must have repeated himself he thought, as the train pulled out of the station. Maybe the old girl opposite was right. Maybe, just maybe he still had not lost.
“Hope springs eternal.”
“Old, but true.”
For the next fifteen minutes they journeyed in companionable silence, both of them keeping their thoughts to themselves.
Henning von Lieberman’s suite at the Savoy, paid for by the Nazi Party, was the largest in the hotel; two big rooms and a large private bathroom. Before the successful lunch downstairs, Henning had made contact with three more on his list of eleven, interviewing them in the same way he had interviewed Rodney Hirst-Brown. No acknowledgment of what was in the future came into the discussions though all three discussed politics in Germany, where National Socialism stood between Russian communism and the rest of Europe.
Only Rodney had thought he was, in his own words, ‘hard done by’, the other three falling into the category of fanatics, people who considered a new world order better than the chaos of so-called democracy that had people voting for someone they knew little about.
The two men and one woman believed society had to be told how to run itself with strict rules that put people in their place. The idea of a pure uncontaminated race appealed to all three of them, much to Henning von Lieberman’s hidden doubt. He was told in three different ways, order and discipline would stop the world fighting amongst itself. Everyone would be under control. Everyone would live according to his place. No one would be allowed to disrupt an ordered society; anyone who tried to disrupt and inflame would be brought to justice.
What all three of them wanted, while Henning encouraged them to rant on, was a well-ordered party comprised of dedicated men and women who would enforce the peace. It should allow the average citizen to go about his life without being disrupted, his life interfered with, or his property taken away on the whim of some idea like communism, that claimed everyone should be equal, everyone should have according to their needs while the communist hierarchy plundered what they wanted in order to live like feudal kings, as one of the three had pointed out triumphantly. Quietly, he had listened to their diatribes that to Henning, educated at Heidelberg and the London School of Economics, made very little sense. What the three fortunately failed to understand was that National Socialism, what others called fascism, was for the benefit of Germany alone. Fascism was a way of creating the most powerful empire that for Henning would dominate a peaceful world under German hegemony for centuries to come; fascism was merely the means to that end.
In between the interviews Henning entertained, making a palaver of the visits to his suite to cover over the more important visits of the eleven. After the formal Christmas luncheon in the Savoy ballroom, where in deference to Christmas the dining room had been silent of music, Henning invited his guests up to his rooms.
“I have a surprise for you, my dear Fleur. A surprise. Let us repair to my suite.”
Only a controlled stutter was now impairing his speech, a worthwhile bonus from his trip.
Barnaby St Clair was now bored stiff with the assignment given him by Harry Brigandshaw. He considered the German a man who liked young girls but was otherwise a bore, and certainly no threat to England. He was hoping he could leave Fleur with the German and take Celia back to his Piccadilly flat where they could do more than talk frivolous rubbish and eat too much food, the thought of not going home to his mother still at the back of his mind niggling away.
Upstairs at the man’s suite, to be confronted by a large cello and two violins was as much as Barnaby wanted to take. Dance music was all right when a girl was in his arms, even pleasant, but classical music played on strings ground his teeth.
“You see, I also play an instrument,” the German was saying, making Barnaby want to run for the door. “Borrowed from the orchestra. There is some lovely sheet music on the little stands for the three of us to play. Brahms, Beethoven, Bach. Wagner unfortunately never wrote music for strings. The maestros of Germany. The epitome of civilisation. Our music and our writers. The glory of Goethe.”
To Barnaby, this man Harry said was a menace was definitely a crashing bore.
Plonking himself on a small sofa near the window where the curtains had already been drawn, he settled himself down to just about the worst that could happen to him at Christmas: listening to two violins and a cello, however well played. To add to his woes he was not even offered a drink. When the bows scraping on strings began, Barnaby had the notion to howl like a dog. “For this, Harry,” he said under his breath trying not to wince, “everything I ever did to Tina is forgiven.”
Then the music began in earnest. Folding his arms across his chest and shutting his ears, Barnaby St Clair wondered what else he was expected to do for King and country that could possibly be worse. Getting up and pulling back a piece of the curtain, Barnaby could see it was dark outside with the odd flake of snow drifting down outside.
With all the good food and wine he had consumed downstairs in the dining room, Barnaby, again comfortable on the couch, quickly fell asleep, the fluting sound of his snores washed over by the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. Not even the sound of bows scraping catgut penetrated his dreams.
Part 9
Peace, for Now — August 1938
1
For Tinus Oosthuizen, coming to the end of his last year at Oxford, the best part had been living among men and women who found thinking a pleasure in life. That and playing the most civilised game on earth, the game of cricket. So many people he met in the three years he found interesting, people searching for knowledge among the excitement of life.
Mr Bowden, his philosophy tutor, was so far the most important man he had met, the man who had led him into his reading and the first glimmer of an understanding about the reason for his life that had taken him further than his faith in religion. For Mr Bowden, Tinus understood, the great religious teachers in history were little different to the best philosophers, both trying to find in a short time on earth the meaning for life beyond animal pleasures in a hedonistic world always dominated by power and money.
Talking, discussing, reading what had been said during the centuries of civilised man had been the true worth of his years up at Oxford. The final examinations had been written to conclude his study of philosophy, politics and economics, Mr Bowden confident enough in Tinus to suggest he would receive a First in PPE.
“What are you going to do with your new knowledge, Tinus Oosthuizen?” Mr Bowden asked as the two of them strolled down the towpath next to the river, the summer day balmy, the air fragrant with the scents of flowers among the hum of insects, the sound that would always remind Tinus of England.
“Go home, I suppose. The idea of making myself a fortune in the corporate world has paled the longer I have been up at Oxford.”
“Everyone has to earn a living. Choose something that keeps your mind alive. The body can be quickly satisfied. The mind takes much longer.”
“I’d vegetate farming in Rhodesia with no one to talk to, or rather people to talk to who have something to say.”
“Don’t become arrogant. Everyone has something to say. You just have to listen.”
“Some stories are better than others.”
“There, I would have to agree. Be careful, Tinus. It’s not all a nice world. Here, we wrap ourselves in our own conceit and the world’s history of knowledge. It’s a comfortable world that only requires the pursuit of knowledge… Good luck with the rest of your life. Don’t forget to have fun. Never take yourself too seriously, but never forget that without fun life isn’t worth the living. Now look at those two birds over there chasing each other through the trees. Now they’re having fun.”
“I think they’re trying to have sex, Mr Bowden.”
“Do you think so?”
“That’s why the male is chasing the female while the female is playing hard to get. She wants the best flyer. The strongest male. Darwin, Mr Bowden. The survival of the fittest. That female bird wants the best for her children.”
“I suppose you are right. But if we come down that far to the basics of life, I’ll have to think all over again.”
“It’s not just sex and procreation surely? There has to be more than that.”
“I hope so… Look, he’s caught her. You were right. I’ll be blowed. I thought they were flying around to have fun.”
“They are now, Mr Bowden.”
In comfortable silence they walked on half a mile before taking their separate paths, Mr Bowden to his wife and family, Tinus to his meeting with Andre Cloete who had come up to Oxford to see Tinus on a forty-eight hour pass from his squadron at RAF Uxbridge, not far from where the two birds had ended their dash around the trees.
They had arranged to meet under the same tree by the river where they had joined hands with Genevieve so long ago and gone out on the river. Sitting down on the grass bank out of the sun, Tinus had time to think on his own while he waited for his friend. He had a big surprise for Andre which made Tinus smile to himself with pleasure.
For some reason, Uncle Harry had shelved the plans for the big dam across the Mazoe River despite all Tinus’s hard work during his trip home to Elephant Walk the previous Christmas, where the draw of Africa had again focused on his life making what he wanted to do with his future uncertain. To make the dam financially viable required an area of more than ten thousand acres to be put under irrigation, something that would have required his full attention for many years to come. It was one thing to plant thousands of orange trees, quite another to prepare the land and install the irrigation pipes for miles around the dam. A pump station was required to draw the waters of the Mazoe River and water the young trees at each of the thousands of round catchments to be dug around each sapling.
What his Uncle Harry was suggesting amounted to a complete industry for the Mazoe Valley: extraction factories for the juice and the oil from the skins, good houses for employees, electricity from the burgeoning national power grid, roads to take out the fruit to the plant, and management. Each time Tinus had done his sums the question of good management hung over the project.
People to pick the fruit was easy. People to work in the pulping factory was controllable. Finding the capital to invest was a simple matter for his Uncle Harry. Employing a scientist to come out from England to follow the fruit from the trees to the finished product was comparatively easy. What was difficult was finding an honest, dedicated man with a clear brain to watch over everything and find the flaws by thinking through all the problems before going ahead.
As they had taught him at Oxford, the vital link in the chain of business was management. Without good management all the workers in the world would be going round in circles with no one in the end making any money, the investment coming to nothing, everyone out of a job. And on his own, stuck in the bush with no mental stimulation other than miles of orange trees fragrant with blossom, he would go right out of his ‘cotton picking’ mind.
“Oxford’s spoilt me.”
“It spoilt me too, Tinus. How are you?”
“At least you’re in civvies. Good to see you. You crept up behind me. Have you bought yourself another car?”
“No I haven’t. I took the train. Flying officers don’t get paid a fortune in the RAF. I can’t afford another car at present.”
“Bomber Command. My word, Andre. What happened to the fighter pilot?”
“It could have been worse. Let’s the two of us find a boat and go out on the river.”
“The three of us again, Andre. Why the meeting under the tree. Genevieve is going back to America to make a new film. She’s coming up to say goodbye before she sails. She’s joining us for the whole weekend. And she’s late.”
“All women are late. Wow, that is a surprise. Won’t she be recognised?”
“No one takes any notice at Oxford. Come and sit on the grass while we wait. It’s a beautiful day for a row on the river… It’s going to be strange going out into the real world to practise all the theory… Are you getting enough cricket?”
“Weekends. Playing for Bomber Command and RAF Uxbridge. It’s a good life in the Air Force provided you don’t want to get rich. Now tell me everything while we’re waiting for the famous Genevieve. What are you going to do with yourself when you come down from Oxford at the end of the month? Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thank you. Whenever I smoke, which is not very often, I wonder if the tobacco inside the cigarette came from Elephant Walk. All our tobacco comes to England to be processed.”
“The price of tobacco will go up if war breaks out. You’ll make a fortune.”
“I suppose so. At the moment we are looking at oranges.”
“Tobacco, Tinus. Plant more tobacco. In wartime people smoke like chimneys.”
“Have you seen Fleur?”
“She has much bigger ideas. Your Uncle Barnaby started a company to record the girls’ music and sell their records. Sold like hotcakes. Everyone is buying gramophones. Quite the thing. They want to listen to what they want, not just turn on the radio.”
“Why did Uncle Barnaby do that?”
“I have no idea. Best he gets married to someone nearer his age and stops running after young girls.”
“Young girls like his money.”
“And his record contracts. They say half a dozen young girls are recording on his label. He even goes to the studio sometimes. When you have his money you can buy the best people to make the records. All you need is the right idea and money makes money.”
“You’re jealous, Andre.”
“Probably. Anyway, I can’t afford to do anything with anyone on a junior officer’s pay. Even with my flying allowance. There’s talk the squadron is being posted to Singapore.”
“At least you’re getting around. To answer your question, I have no idea what I’m going to do. One minute a chap’s buried in the books. Then, wallop, he’s looking for a job. Uncle Harry’s allowance stops when I come down, so I’ll be as poor as a church mouse.”
“Join the club… How’s Genevieve getting to Oxford?”
“Said something about a driver. She’s rich. Going back to America to make more films. The play in the West End went all right but they don’t make money in theatre, so I’m told. Chauffeur-driven car. That really is something… They must have paid her a fortune to go back to America.”
Genevieve watched them talking together under the tree, holding back to take in the picture. They were still boys, innocent boys, having an animated conversation oblivious of their surroundings. They were clean-cut and pure of mind, something Genevieve knew she had lost a long time ago, probably never had. To be pure and innocent, she told herself as she watched enviously, you had to be protected by parents and money, confident of where you came from and where you were going, right at the beginning. Bastards, even aristocratic bastards, had to make their own protection, something she had done without help from her mother or father. She was rich, her investments making her richer with CE Porter handling her financial affairs. The thought of well-invested money gave her a good feeling of security.
“Darling Genevieve,” Harry Brigandshaw had said to her when Private Lives came to an end and the new film contract had been signed with Gerry Hollingsworth. “The most difficult part of money is not making it, it’s holding on to it. You have to invest wisely. Go and see CE Porter. He’s a stockbroker friend of your Uncle Barnaby. I’ve done business with him. As investment men go, he’s honest. More honest as he grew older. In the early days, Porter and Barnaby were up to all sorts of tricks. He’ll give you a balanced portfolio spread across the financial world including America. Make you independent for life. Next time Hollingsworth wants something you’ll be able to decide for yourself without needing his money. You’ll be in control.”
“I have him under my thumb.”
“Later in your life the thumb might just slip. Money is the real power, Genevieve. Your power as a woman, on and off the screen and stage, will fade. It always does, no matter what we think when we are young. The power of money stays the same whatever our age. The first meeting with CE Porter we’ll go together… When did you last see Tinus?”
“Not for a while with the play. I’m planning to go up to Oxford before I sail for America. I’m going by ship this time. Crossing the pond in an aeroplane is all over too soon. I like the change of moving from gentle England to rampaging America to be slow. On the boat I get used to the American lifestyle before I arrive. The shock is not so great.”
“He’s very fond of you, Genevieve. He’s also a good man. You’d be safe with Tinus.”
“Are you matchmaking, Harry Brigandshaw, sir?”
“Looking after friends, Genevieve. Getting married is life’s big gamble as we all do it for the wrong reason. Physical attraction always transcends common sense. That, or it’s purely a matter of money. You have to like the person you marry. You two like each other. Love is a lot more fickle. Liking someone can last a lifetime.”
“He’s still just a student.”
“Tinus will do all right for himself, you can take my word for that. He’s done a report for me which is quite brilliant. Were it not for the war clouds I’d build the dam and its complex tomorrow, putting Tinus in charge. I’d have to keep an eye on his inexperience, which would give me a chance to visit Elephant Walk. Now it’s all on hold until Chamberlain faces Hitler and forces him to stop his games, or it’s war. You once said you would like to live in Africa. If only my wife had the same wish. Bought a house in Cape Town to get my children out of harm’s way but Tina won’t have any of it. I even got Anthony a place at Bishops. Radley is a good school but too near the coming war. Porter will suggest most of your money going to buy shares in American companies. I’ve been buying myself. Nothing ever stays static. You have to think ahead. Give me a ring when you want to see Porter. And go and see Tinus.”
