All enquiries to michael@akanos.co.uk
see some reviews
BRIDESHEAD REGAINED
continuing the Memoirs of Charles Ryder
Michael Johnston
'A compelling narrative, beautifully written' Hon Simon Howard of Castle Howard
Listen to Michael Johnston talking about this book on a recent One Word Radio broadcast
(MP3 player required)
THIS SEQUEL IS NOT AUTHORISED
BY
THE EVELYN WAUGH ESTATE
Extracts
Rex Mottram walked beside me back to the house. He observed the courtesy
of asking me how I was these days but hadn't the patience to wait for
an answer.
'Readjustment isn't in it. One minute there's a Humber and a chauffeur
and the next you have to summon your own damn taxi. I've ordered a Bentley
from a chap I know but even he can't shorten the queue so I get it next
year. Damned Socialists! Most of them are really Communists but they've
learned too much from being brought into government during the war. Permits
for this; licences for the other. Freedom; that's what we fought for.
Liberation from petty restrictions, bureaucracy, red tape and all that
fiddle-faddle. Tell me is Sir Jasper Ryder at the Ministry of Supply really
your cousin? Don't want to be tactless but he's damn stuffy. I was just
exploring the ways in which everyone, himself included, could benefit
from post-war reconstruction and he as near as dammit accused me of sharp
practice. What does he thinks motivates real people?' This was October
and Rex had been on the losing side in the General Election; out of office,
out of the House and severely out of pocket. It was a comfort to me.
'Flight Lieutenant, I enjoyed that. Is there any more of that chicken
stew?'
'Chicken stew, sir?'
'Yes, please.'
'Sir! Chicken? Well sir, I mean, there is more of the…' and he paused,
as if the name escaped him. The silence extended and every eye was on
the poor man. Since I knew what we had been eating but had immediate doubts
as to whether my fellow diners had ever tasted it, I tried to rescue him.
I had seen too many Englishmen enjoy a meal only to be completely revolted
when they found they had been eating, say, museau de boeuf or cervelles.
'I believe this is the local equivalent of chicken, sir, in terms of
popularity. It's not domesticated. It has to be well hung.'
The hapless catering officer nodded.
'What's it called then?
I took a deep breath. 'Chevreau, General.'
Again the catering officer nodded and I sighed with relief that the no
one seemed to know the French for a young goat.
'There is more, sir. I've been keeping it hot.'
Later, the young man took me aside and mumbled his thanks.
'It's really most difficult. I've known soldiers who've spent their careers
in India and want their curries white hot but when I tell them they've
been eating, I mean really wolfing down, a tender piece of goat's meat,
they've gone outside and thrown up. I really didn't know what to say.'
'Your secret is safe with me.'
As we walked to the plane, the American steered me away from the main
party.
'You Limey liar,' he said with a grin.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I've been in Louisiana. I know goat when I see it and that wasn't chicken.
What did you call it? Chevrolet?'
'Not quite; chevreau. It's just the French for kid.'
'Clever bastard. Join me for a meal when we get to Algiers. The name's
Murphy.'
We exchanged a guilty, goat-lovers' handshake and climbed aboard the bomber for the second leg of our journey. Now, for the first time, I knew my destination but not yet my destiny.
'Mon Général, may I present Major Charles Ryder, one of
England's most talented portrait painters.'
'Of whom one has never heard.'
It wasn't said with malice, nor was it said with humour. It was a statement,
a marker. I felt his thought patterns in the warm air. 'You have sent
me this Court Limner. We shall see. Is this a real gift or is it a response
to the tennis balls my predecessors sent your Queen Elizabeth? You English
have treated me so often without the respect that I, my honour and my
country deserve.' He did not offer to shake hands. Roger pressed on; retreat
was cut off.
'Major Ryder can make himself available at any time of day to suit your
operational convenience. He's very keen to get started.'
Now he looked at me; looked down at me because he was almost a foot taller.
I would have joy in working on that nose, those ears, that elongated pear
body. I smiled.
'Major, do you speak any French?'
'Oui, mon général. Avec un plaisir que je ne dissimule
pas.'
He smiled and an initial bond was forged.
He had, as it turned out, half an hour before the committee reassembled
and was prepared to sit down now in his own office which happened to have
an excellent window with a good light. As I walked in behind him, he dismissed
his aide who, turning to go, managed to stumble and fall against me. His
hands slithered down my body as he went down and his fingers clutched
one of my pockets. In a moment, he spun me round, put an arm round my
throat and produced my penknife from my trouser pocket.
The future ruler of France smiled ruefully.
'Let him go, Gaston. An artist has to sharpen his pencil now and again. I appreciate your prudence.'
I spoke to the leathery lance-corporal in charge of the escort under
the nominal command of Hooper.
'Follow the Humber in close formation, Lance-corporal, and if Captain Hooper suggests any change of plan like stopping for a fag, tea, a haircut, or taking a short cut or indeed, any variation from your orders then you are to shoot him and dump his body from the moving truck. Is there any query?'
He fingered his bayonet in its holster and looked me in the eye. 'Seems
a shame to waste a bullet, sir.'
Hooper lolloped up from the back of the truck where the tailgate had just
been secured.
'All ready to go, sir. I say, have we time for the chaps to have a smoke
and some tea?'
'No, Hooper and,' turning to the NCO, 'not yet, Lance-corporal.' He looked
disappointed.
I sketched with my charcoal directly onto the canvas. The pile of corpses at the base of the picture were in some sort of order. Heads and feet tended to point at me out of the picture plane. My point of view was low down, seeing them across the pit, the gouged-out trench into which troops, prisoners and inmates were already throwing stiff cadavers. (When they tired, it was common for them to set up a makeshift bench of three or four corpses and sit down for a smoke.) Above the more regularly piled bodies, the limbs and torsos were more jumbled and wild, dead eyes staring from deep sockets. Every body was naked. It was only later the inmates got out of the ingrained habit of stripping everything re-usable from corpses. Coming up behind the wall of human parts was the shiny steel plough at the front of the bulldozer. Seated on this chariot, masked and awful, like one of the devils in the Inferno, a driver relentless pushed the dry-bone wall of inhumanity into the open grave. As I worked, I could feel the pressure of bodies tumbling forward as if to overwhelm the viewer.
Then Julia hurried out of the room and, to my surprise, my son John came
up and smiled shyly. I moved from the centre of the sofa and he took this,
as I intended, as an invitation to sit down. Absurd really, my own son
but a near total stranger. I didn't know what to say to him. It was he
who broke the silence.
'Colonel Ryder.'
'John. How's school?'
'Rotten mostly, but I like English.'
'Good. I preferred the art classes, but I did enjoy a good read.'
'Me too. I'd like to be a writer. How did you become a painter, Colonel
Ryder?'
'Can you please call me something like Uncle Charles? I know it's a bit
awkward and you're used to calling Robin your dad.'
'I hardly feel I have a father at all, Colonel, I mean Uncle Charles.
We haven't seen Robin for years, it seems.'
My own son tugged at my heartstrings but I didn't want to hurt him or
put him off by saying anything.
'Uncle Charles, is it true that if you'd married Lady Julia then I would
one day own Brideshead?'
'What!! Whose been telling you that?'
'Caroline actually. She says she's got it worked out in a notebook but she's only nine so I didn't really believe her. She's always making up horrid little stories. But is it true?'