“Look, Rachael; deer.” David Newton pointed at the small group of deer that were in the trees off to the left of the gravel road. “I’m surprised they’re still here.”
Rachael watched as one of the deer heard the sound and spotted the movement. The herd of deer in the park were tame. Normally, they felt comfortable in the presence of humans, but that had started to change. Some of the herd had mysteriously vanished; that had left the rest nervous. Rachael saw the stag looking at the humans carefully and she could almost read his mind. They didn’t seem a threat, but who knows? She guessed that another unexpected movement would send the stag and his hinds bounding into the shelter of the trees.
“Do you think they are being hunted, David?”
“Poached, rather than hunted.” Newton thought carefully. “They’re mostly eating the grass, so they aren’t eating food that we could use. Not yet anyway. But I guess the local black marketers see a market for venison developing.”
“Not yet.” Rachael weighed the words carefully, not liking the sound of them. “You think rationing is going to get worse?”
Newton sighed. The truth was that he really didn’t like the way things were going. He was a lot more widely read than most of the students and, as a group, they were more aware of the world than most people. But this was the first time that he and Rachael had gone walking out together and he didn’t want to sound depressing. He desperately wanted this afternoon to go well and had been doing his best to make that happen.
“I think so, Rachael. This country imports so much of its food, and nearly all of it came from the Commonwealth. Now we’re at daggers drawn with them; we can’t expect that to continue. I suppose it all depends on how much more we can grow here and how much we can import from elsewhere. Have your folks got an allotment? Mine have.”
“Yes, and Papa goes there every evening to make sure our vegetables are growing well. Or so he says; I think he really goes there so he can read the newspaper in peace without Mama telling him what to do around the house.”
Newton laughed at the picture of Rachael’s father hiding in a little hut on his allotment. “I think mine does too. Talking about houses, Rachael, behold Wollaton Hall. Built around 1600, I think.”
“It’s horrible.” Rachael was appalled by the building. “It’s so fussy and over-decorated. Who built it?”
“Sir Frances Willoughby. He tore down the whole village of Sutton Passeys to build the house and park. It was designed by the Elizabethan architect, Robert Smythson.”
“You’d think he’d have built something attractive after he’d turned all those people out of their homes. Still the bosses never care who gets hurt once they set their hearts on doing something.”
Newton wanted to argue that point, but he didn’t want to fight with Rachael the first time they’d walked out together. Anyway, with Wollaton Hall in front of him, he didn’t feel on very solid ground to dispute her point.
“Do you see the rings in the outer wall? The architect had been to Venice and brought back some ideas with him. Those are gondola mooring rings, of all things.”
He reached out to point Rachael at one of the rings. As he did, she moved slightly to keep a distance between them. He stopped immediately. Have I offended her?.
Rachael smiled and shook her head. “No offense meant, David. A good Jewish girl has to behave modestly in public. That’s all.”
“I’m not just a Broadway Baby, I’m the Broadway Baby. Al Dubin wrote the song about me. Or, as he claims, I inspired him to write it.” Igrat paused slightly and looked at the man she was addressing. “He seemed to like being inspired.”
Bruce Phillips couldn’t help smiling. “I should hope so. So, ‘Lullaby of Broadway’ was written about you? Something I’ve always wanted to ask. What the Hell is a ‘daffy dill’ when he’s at home?
“A rich idiot. Person who has more money than sense. Usually trying to find himself a Baby to look after. Once he’s got one, he gets promoted to a Sugar Daddy. But, yes, ‘Lullaby of Broadway’ was written about me, although it’s been some time since anybody tried to push me off a balcony.”
“Some say the whole sequence is fascist.” Phillips was more interested in the tone of her response than its substance. His instructions were to feel out these people and form a picture of their real aims and intentions. He was surprised when Igrat suddenly looked very sad.
“You know, Buzz was heartbroken at the way that sequence was received. Remember it was made in 1935. The number isn’t promoting or glamorizing fascism; it’s screaming a warning about the birth of the fascist disease. Buzz is a song and dance man, so he put his warning into song and dance, but the message is there. It starts off with people waking up and going to work while the Baby comes home after her night out. Note how well she gets on with the people going to work and how she looks after the cat. It’s a picture of a happy, friendly society in which work and pleasure are equally important; both are valued and the helpless get looked after.
“Then the Baby goes to a nightclub with her Daddy for an evening out when the dancers come in. They stomp in, crashing their boots and giving the Nazi salute. They take over the pleasant evening completely, drowning everything else out, showing how they destroy the happy society. Then, they seduce the Baby, luring her away from her Daddy and fooling her into joining them. Finally, they kill her by pushing her off the balcony.
“By doing so, they destroy all the pleasure in the world, leaving only workers as slaves, while the poor and helpless, represented by the cat, are left to starve. In ‘Gold Diggers of 1935,’ Buzz was warning the world of what was to come, yet they just ignored him. It broke his heart and he swore never to try and use his art to send messages again.” Igrat paused and caught her breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away like that.”
“Don’t worry about it. I never thought of the sequence that way before. Look, I’ll be honest with you. Mr. Essington Lewis doesn’t like small but influential investors. He asked me to speak with you first, to see if your people are the sort he can live with. He quite likes small investors; it’s the influential part he doesn’t much care for. He has enough of those already, and more an enough ‘influences’ to juggle. I can say he sees BHP as his ship to run his way. He’s a pretty fair ‘Captain of Industry,’ but you know what the captain of a ship is like.”
Igrat suddenly looked deadly serious. “Mr Phillips, I told you about myself to emphasize that I have no responsibilities other than to be an absolutely trustworthy messenger. I have neither the ability nor the authority to enter into negotiations. My job is to convey to you the messages my principal wishes to send and to do so accurately and reliably. If Mr. Lewis likes the information I have brought, my principal will be happy to meet with him. Either here or in America; the choice is his. Also, if he wishes to send written or verbal messages back, I will carry them. If verbal, my principal gets his words, exactly as he speaks them, unchanged and unmodified. They will also be carried in absolute secrecy. If he wishes to check my credentials in such matters, he may speak with the Vice President of International Transactions at J.P. Morgan, or his equivalent at any one of several other international trading banks. They gave me permission to use them as references and will vouch for me. They know me by my real name, Igrat Shafrid. Mister Lewis already knows me as Irene Shapiro.”