The Brigandshaw Chronicles Box Set 2, page 89
part #4 of The Brigandshaw Chronicles Series
“Are you being serious, Genevieve?”
“Never more serious in my life. It’s not just the booze, William. Just promise me one thing forever; you never tell Tinus. Now promise me that and we’ll stop all this drinking and go next door to my bedroom.”
“I promise.”
“Come along then. I want you to make love to me and hold me in your arms all night. Tonight, I want to feel safe. Please, William. It’s not very much to ask from an old friend.”
A week later, when William Smythe arrived in Denver, Colorado to see Glen Hamilton of the Denver Telegraph, the man who over the years had syndicated his articles across America, he felt so sad he did not care what Glen thought of the three articles he had written in New York. Even the title of the first one, Why America wants to end the British Empire, meant nothing anymore. William had experienced the most life-changing one night stand in his life; never again could he ever be the same. For one-night he had owned the world the way he wanted.
Just before they had met the obnoxious Gerry Hollingsworth with his put-on American accent at the airport the following morning, where William had gone in the taxi with Genevieve and her piles of luggage to see her off, she had put her right index finger on his mouth, the last time he knew she was ever going to touch him. Then she had flowed towards her entourage, the consummate actress, the smile flashing at the people waiting for her to arrive before they all flew off to California. Waiting, hoping, she never looked back as the film crew and hangers-on flowed through the gate to board the aircraft.
It was William’s turn to feel more lonely than ever in his life. His turn to feel suicidal. Miserable. They were lovers but only for the once, his promise never to tell Tinus Oosthuizen clear in his mind. If, he thought, standing rooted to the spot as passengers milled around him, she had just used him he might have shrugged and walked off happy with his luck, another conquest under his belt, another day searching for enjoyment. William didn’t even feel sorry for himself or sorry for his loss, just miserable with an intensity he had never experienced. Then he had picked up his one small suitcase and gone back to Manhattan in a cab to find his own hotel and to try and forget the only woman he would ever love in his life.
Glen Hamilton, across the desk at the newspaper with the three unread articles in front of him, looked a picture of good humour which William suspected would evaporate the moment he read the articles.
“Had an invitation to Harry Brigandshaw’s party. Very expensive invitation card like something you’d expect from a king.”
“It’s his wife,” said William, trying to concentrate on Glen Hamilton and forget his problems. “She likes to think of herself as a society lady.”
“Did you know I met Harry and the new Lord St Clair at British military headquarters in France back in 1917? In those days I was a war correspondent with the honorary rank of captain in the American army. We’d gone over to save your empire, not to end it.” William smiled wryly; Glen had at least read the first heading.
“Save reading the articles for later. You went to make sure the Allies were able to pay back America what we owed you. You’re not going to like these articles. They tell the truth. Are you going to Hastings Court?”
“To travel that far to a party is insane. I have to clean out a log cabin this weekend an hour’s drive from Denver. Why don’t you drive with me?”
“You want me to clean out someone else’s mess?”
“She was my personal assistant for ten years before she married Robert St Clair. Robert wrote most of Holy Knight at the cabin that overlooks the ski slopes. They are coming back for Robert to keep an eye on the filming of the Legend. They bought the cabin and three hundred surrounding acres of pine trees with the money Robert made in America from the book. Thought it nice to put back into America what he took out in royalty payments. Freya’s mother has a key. So do I. Most weekends one of us or our friends stay at the cabin. It’s good for a man after the rough and tumble of city life. You look terrible, William, but I won’t ask why.”
“Is the cabin empty during the week?”
“Nearly always except in the ski season which is over.”
“If I help clean, may I stay a few days on my own? I have some things to think about. If you don’t like those articles throw them in the bin.”
“We’ll go after work on Friday. Why are you in America, William?”
“To assess the mood. See what you are going to do. Try and give the British a better perspective of America. In England we have the silly idea we are cousins, the same family with the same interests at heart. After a week in New York I find we British are very wrong about America. America is a competitor with very different interests. Once America breaks up the British Empire they’ll move in on our traditional markets. The mighty dollar as an alternative to the mighty empire which for all intents and purposes amounts to the same thing; hegemony, control, colonisation, call it what you will. I think America is only dictated to by money, the moral claptrap about equality for everyone their way to muscle in on our markets. That all the rhetoric is governed by greed with little to do with freedom. ‘Freedom from what?’, I ask in those articles. Freedom from colonisation? Freedom from poverty? Freedom to live an average of thirty-six years, which was the lifespan in Africa before British colonialism? None of us are moral, Glen. It’s not in human nature. The next three articles will be a rebuttal. The American point of view. Why American-style democracy and freedom is right and empire is wrong. I want to make people argue with each other. To try and understand what we are all up to and realise America and the British Empire have the same imperative in common; stopping the spread of communism and fascism before the whole damn world goes up in flames.”
“Sounds like the stuff of good journalism. A provocative title, this first one. I shall read with interest. Always nice to visit with you, William Smythe. Just you and me at the weekend with a couple of bottles of Scotch round the log fire. In April it’s still cold on the slopes. There may even be snow. Can you ski?”
“Never tried. Won’t your wife want to come?”
“Not if I tell her the subject. Samantha hates arguments. Why we have the perfect marriage and perfect children. We never argue with each other. If we don’t agree we shut up. Fortunately we share the same opinions. The two boys are growing up in a happy family. Why haven’t you got married?”
“She won’t marry me.”
Genevieve only realised she had ripped the soul out of a man and thrown it in his face when Gregory L’Amour walked onto the set the first day of shooting; they were equally self-centred and selfish, concerned with themselves, caring nothing of what they did to other people. Robbing a good man of his pride and soul just because she felt lonely was worse than stealing his money.
“You’re a bitch, Genevieve.”
“My word, we are getting somewhere. Are you apologising?”
“Not to you, Genevieve. And don’t pretend you lost something. You’ve only ever loved yourself in your entire life.”
“We are edgy.”
For the next weeks they never said anything to each other apart from snide remarks and the lines of the dialogue that came between them in the film.
Despite living close to Gerry Hollingsworth, Genevieve had succumbed to his invitation to move into the house. The thought of spending months alone in a hotel suite was worse than putting up with lecherous stares, that largely never came, and when they did, far from the prying eyes of Carmel. Carmel reminded Genevieve of her mum. Genevieve reminded Carmel of her children. Neither said so to each other at first but both were homesick despite the sprawling house they lived in on the perfect stretch of Pacific coast, south of Los Angeles, a mile south of Long Beach, some hundred miles from the Mexican border no one ever seemed to visit.
By the time King Harold looked up at the sky, taking the Norman arrow in his eye just to the side of his nose armour, Uncle Robert and Aunt Freya had arrived from England to watch the scene on the south coast of England play itself out in the surf of the Pacific Ocean, no one remembering what the shores of England looked like back in 1066. By the time the Battle of Hastings was over, the last Saxon king dead in his grave, Robert and Freya had moved into the house on the beach with its superfluous swimming pool.
Gregory L’Amour had rented his own house not far down the beach and surrounded himself with a harem. He made a splendid sight storming ashore from the Norman fleet, cutting up Saxons with a sword the size of himself. His bride, Genevieve, waiting patiently on board for the all-clear, frightened for the life of her knight as she watched the mayhem of battle from a gently undulating spot on the poop deck of the leading boat, looked perfect, the Héloïse of the book in her bliaut and veil, the most beautiful woman in France.
Even Uncle Robert was pleased with the rushes and the way the film was panning out, even if there wasn’t much resemblance to the story in his book, a story Robert still claimed to be factual, his only proof the word of mouth passed down by his ancestors. Filtered stories even Robert conceded were better than the dirt, filth and lice the knights of old put up with under their suits of anything but shining armour. Fighting the good war, even when it led to a castle on some foreign land, was right; William of Normandy was the rightful King of England, not King Harold.
The trick, according to Denzel Hurst the film’s director, was to make the battle scenes happen so fast that no one saw the flaws or doubted the veracity of the story, the whole playing out in the end to so much noise and surging, martial music the audience was saturated.
“By the time we’re finished,” he said to Robert, “we’ll blast their minds into submission.”
“I believe you, Denzel.”
“Wonderful story.”
“Which one?”
“It’s all about making money, Robert.”
“Of course it is. How foolish of me. Whatever was I thinking.”
“They want to live in a more exciting world.”
“Who, Denzel?”
“The audience, silly.”
“Yes, of course. Our job is to entertain, not inform.”
“Now you’ve got it. Gerry’s throwing a party to celebrate the successful end of the battle scenes.”
“How nice of him.”
“Smile at them all, Robert. Publicity. The press will be there. We start now hyping the movie. Making a film is much easier than selling it. Having the public waiting with anticipation, their money at the ready. That’s Gerry’s business. Like your publisher. Max Pearl is flying in from New York for the party. He’s launching a new edition of your book to whet the audience’s appetite. You should be thrilled.”
“Oh but I am. How nice it will be to see Max again.”
“He’s invited the newspapers from right across the country.”
“You think they’ll come?”
“To a Hollywood bash on the beach? Are you kidding? They’ll kill each other to get that invitation in the press rooms. Makes journalism worthwhile. All the starlets get invited. If they don’t lay the press boys they don’t get invited again.”
“You do do things differently in America.”
“Bigger and better.”
“Will the sun shine for the party?”
“Hey, buddy. This is California.”
Poor Uncle Robert, Genevieve thought, watching the exchange. From the backwater of rural England to the go-go of America where money was the only thing, where hype ruled over reason and telling the truth in business was a mortal sin if it was going to cost money. The cold stare in her uncle’s eyes said the opposite of his cheerful words; he knew exactly what they were doing with his book. When the director moved away to tell someone else what they were doing wrong she walked across to her uncle standing on his own, an oasis of sanity in a fictional world.
“Are you all right, Uncle Robert?”
“I’m glad your father did not come over as I suggested. He would have taken umbrage at all the commercialisation. To him the understanding from a book is more important than the pace of the story. Here, I’m out of my depth, but you would know that, Genevieve. You are part of them. The smile into the camera the audience see as a smile at your husband is all you have to do to tell the story. Let me just say what we are getting was not in my mind’s eye when I wrote the book. Everyone reading the book has a different mind’s eye interpretation of what they read. My words just spark their imagination. No two people see the same thing that’s right in front of them let alone a picture painted in words. Your father would have been miserable among all the noise and strange conversations. We use the same words most of the time but America speaks a different language. Maybe they understand better what they are saying to each other. We English are a little more reserved. We don’t shout our opinion from the rooftops. We don’t get quite so up close to each other. I’m too old for all this. Freya says it was easier to take when she was younger.”
“Are you going to live in America?”
“Probably, so I’ll have to adjust. It’s all a trifle too brash for a staid old Englishman. Richard is having fun. Freya wants the new baby to be born in America. She’s thirty-eight so we won’t have any more children. She wants to be near her mother this time to share the joy with her own parents which I quite understand. We have a cottage with a few acres near Denver where we intend to live until the new baby is born.
“Richard is the problem. He should be in a good prep school by now. His mother has been giving him lessons. Your friend William Smythe was staying in the cottage when we arrived. We were staying with her parents and went to check the cottage during the week. Glen Hamilton had given him the key for helping clean up the place while the two of them talked British-American politics. When I mentioned your name to remind him of our connection he nearly bit my head off. What did you say to him, Genevieve? Never mind, it’s none of my business. You youngsters have your own way of doing things. He was as happy as a sandboy until I foolishly mentioned your name.
“Between them they have published a series of articles on transatlantic relations which has caused a furore in American papers, everyone writing rude letters. William thinks America wants to move into our markets when the empire comes to its end, like every other empire in history. That underneath all the nice cousin talk there is a nasty undercurrent of greed. That America siding with what they call the oppressed people of the British colonies is a ruse to get us out and their big corporations into our markets. William told Glen later he learnt more from the letters written in response to his articles than any research could have given him. Glen Hamilton was thrilled. Nothing better than controversy to sell newspapers, though that side of life I don’t even try and understand. He also missed Harry Brigandshaw’s celebration bash. Freya and I were in America by then.”
“Did it go all right? I wrote him a letter in response to my invitation.”
“Tina brought in a band. Two of the girls played for my father at his last party. Tina used the inglenooks at the ends of the old banqueting hall to turn sides of carcasses to feed the hordes of guests for the weekend. Hastings Court was a madhouse. Everyone was given a dagger to carry around with them in case they got hungry. The theme was a medieval banquet that became formal on the Saturday evening when everyone sat at the long tables in the old hall while the carved meat was brought to them on silver platters held shoulder high. For the rest of the time food was laid out as a buffet with every kind of drink you can imagine. The guests took their daggers into the inglenooks and cut bits off the carcasses and stuffed their faces with fat dripping down their chins.
“Harry’s ancestors looking down from heaven must have thought it was all like old times. Merlin said it took him a week back at Purbeck Manor to recover from the party. Great success. Had another letter from mother. She had gone up to Hastings Court for the shindig with your father. On the Saturday night with Harry’s birthday on the Sunday, your grandmother stayed awake until midnight, drank the toast to Harry and only then went off to bed. Every hotel for ten miles was full for the weekend along with every room in the old mansion. That young chap Tinus came down from Oxford.”
“Was he on his own?”
“I don’t think so, Genevieve. His other friend had gone back to South Africa. Merlin wanted to know what had happened to the other Morgan sports car. The girl with Tinus said he was going to play cricket for Oxford University. Round about now, I suppose. Something about the first week in July. It was all in the letters I received giving me chapter and verse on the party it was such a big event.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Who?”
“The girl. The girl with Tinus?”
“Merlin never mentions pretty girls anymore.”
“Has William Smythe gone back to England?”
“I imagine so. Here comes your boyfriend, Genevieve. I’d better not monopolise any more of your time. I forget you are a famous actress.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, despite what they write in the newspapers.”
“William thinks in his articles there’s going to be another war with Germany. That if England and America don’t join forces we’re all going to be for the high jump, that if Hitler wins he’ll take revenge on the whole lot of us who forced Germany to sign the peace agreement at Versailles. According to William, Hitler’s war reparations against the Allies will make the Germans look like a walk in the park. The British Empire will then become part of the Third Reich with American business right out of the picture and Gandhi not even allowed to mention Indian independence. William’s good at stirring up controversy. Some of it makes sense. Some of it, in my humble opinion, is a load of rubbish. Except the bit about another war, that’s coming. Why Freya wants to live in America. She thinks if Germany were to conquer Europe, America would make peace with Germany. She was a journalist before we married, worked for Glen Hamilton at the Denver Telegraph for ten years. She thinks America should fear Russian communism more than fascist Germany. That fascists still do business whichever way they run the country. For me, I’m just a country bumpkin writing a book on Merlin the Magician... I’ll leave you two alone. I’m her uncle, Mr L’Amour.”
