The Talisman (21 page)

The news came through that Alex had been accepted for trials, and he was called to the Governor’s office to fill in an application form. This was the first time any borstal lad had been allowed to take part in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race. Mr Dennis checked the form and clapped his hands, smiled his satisfaction and asked how the dancing was coming along.

‘It’s very good, sir, thank you very much. We’re on to the rumba now.’

The Governor was surprised and impressed at the way the lads had conducted themselves. He knew the other prisoners had been merciless, but they had kept themselves to themselves and there had been no fighting. His wife told him the lads were always on their best behaviour and really did want to learn to dance.

‘Tell the others that next Saturday night they’ll be allowed to wear their own clothes. I’ll rope in a few girls, give you a small dance – no alcohol, mind, just fruit juices, but it’s about time you had female partners.’

The news spread like wildfire, and those who had done nothing but send up the dancers were green with envy. Allowed to wear his own suit, Ted Smith oiled back his hair and even let two of the lads have a small dab of his Brylcreem.

Eric was happy, and his twisted back seemed straighter. Either that or Ted’s padded sports jacket, on loan for one-and-six, disguised his curved spine. Watched enviously from the windows by the other prisoners, dolled up and reeking of aftershave, they walked across to the drill hall. Mrs Dennis had been seen taking cakes and sandwiches over, and the others were thoroughly disgruntled.

Mrs Dennis had had quite a time finding eight suitable girls. They included her own daughter, two of her school friends and a couple of aunts. They were all gathered in the office.

‘Now, these boys are juvenile offenders, but they are offenders, and they are serving time. Please treat them kindly. This is a very special treat for them, and they have been looking forward to it for a long time.’

The women stood silent as Mrs Dennis tried to put her next point as delicately as possible. ‘If any of them makes any kind of move that is distasteful, approaches you other than to dance, you must inform me immediately and we will cancel the dance there and then. You are invited as dance partners, to put into practice what they have learned. There’ll be a few sore feet at the end of the evening, but I am sure you are all aware that this is in a very good cause, some of the boys come from dreadfully deprived backgrounds . . .’

Extremely nervous by now, the women made their way across the quad to the drill hall. Every available window was filled with faces, and the odd lewd remark was heard, quickly silenced as Mrs Dennis frowned up at the offenders.

In their cheap suits and with their slicked-back hair, the boys sat at one end of the drill hall, close to the table where the food and lemonade was laid out. The gramophone with the worn records was on the stage. The sight of the women drew veiled looks and nudges, and Ted whispered that there was only one worth attempting to pull, the rest were old ponies.

‘Now, boys, the first dance is a waltz, please take your partners.’

The boys stood in a solemn line, no one having the guts to make the first move. The women, standing on the opposite side, were equally embarrassed, and after Mrs Dennis’ warnings they were beginning to think they should never have agreed to come.

‘I’m going for the Old Man’s daughter, all right, lads? Here goes.’ Ted sashayed across the floor in his brothel-creeper shoes, his skinny tie only an inch wide, his spivvy suit shiny at the bum and showing the lines where the trousers had been let down. But to the rest of the lads he was Clark Gable showing them how it should be done.

‘Er, you want to dance, love?’ The Governor’s daughter blushed at being the first on the floor. Guided by Ted’s firm hand at her waist, they moved into a waltz.

Eric gaped, mightily impressed. ‘Gawd, he looks like Fred Astaire, he’s got the fishtail down all right, ain’t he? Gawd, I’m gonna have a hell of a time, I’ve always been the bleedin’ woman, I can’t go forwards.’

Slowly the boys summoned their courage and asked the women to dance, and one by one they moved their partners on to the floor.

The drill hall resounded to the rumba, and the envious listeners at the windows groaned, ‘Not again.’ Later, they watched the ladies leaving, the boys walking back to their dormitories. They were all agog, wanting to know if anyone had ‘pulled a bird’, but Matron was patrolling and ordered those not in bed to get in, it was lights out.

Morgan watched two of the boys enter his dormitory, laughing together and telling stories about how Ted Smith had been the first on the floor, and that he had vowed to date the blonde with the big knockers as soon as he was released. Alex, with two more of the lads, passed the dormitory and gave the thumbs up. From the bed nearest the door he heard a voice whisper, ‘Eh, Alex, is it true you gave Mrs Dennis one?’

Chuckling, Alex moved on towards his own dorm. He got into his pyjamas and hopped into bed. The door creaked open and he heard whispering. Then Eric and Ted, followed by the other formation team lads, crept into the dorm. Eric whispered hoarsely, ‘One, two, three . . .’ They each struck a match in unison, held them up and sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.’

Unceremoniously they dumped their token gifts on Alex’s bed and scuttled out, embarrassed. Alex now owned half a tin of Brylcreem, a comb, five cigarettes and a skinny-jim tie. He snuggled down and, happier than he had been in years, he whispered, ‘Going to be a champion, Ma . . .’

E
dward packed up his belongings to take to London, and made arrangements to keep his rooms for the following term. He had taken up Allard’s offer to spend the Christmas vacation at his family’s country house.

With so many trains commandeered to ferry soldiers around, there were long delays on the passenger trains, and it was late when they arrived in London. A chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce was waiting for them at Paddington Station, and Edward and Allard were driven across the park to Kensington. The house was in a very exclusive area, the Boltons, and had large gardens with high, wrought iron gates.

Allard’s parents were already in the family’s country house, and there was only a housekeeper waiting for them. Allard, with little pretence at being a good host, muttered that he was tired out. Edward was flippantly introduced and shown to a large double bedroom with a bathroom adjoining. He was impressed, and pleased that he had made the decision to take up Allard’s invitation. If the family’s town house was anything to go by, he reckoned their country place would be even better.

‘Alleyyyyy! Yooo-hooo! Alleyyyyy, where are you?’

Edward’s bedroom door was flung open by a very tall girl with a thick mop of red hair very like Allard’s. ‘Oh gosh, sorry! I was looking for my brother, who are you?’

Edward shook hands with the long-legged girl, who said her name was Harriet. She stood back and grinned.

‘Well, you look better than the weakling he dragged back last vac. Do you play table tennis?’

As Edward was admitting he didn’t but was willing to try, Allard came in and caught the girl up in his arms, swinging her around. She squealed with delight, then went into a boxing stance, trying to get a punch at her brother.

‘Don’t they teach you anything at your posh finishing school, brat-face? Look at you – my God, you’re filthy, and your neck looks as if it hasn’t been washed for years. You dirty, scruffy gel, you nasty, dirty little fink rat!’

Brother and sister chased each other around Edward’s bedroom and fought on the bed, bashing the hell out of Edward’s pillows. Harriet, with her skirt up round her waist, was a real tomboy, and the noisiest girl Edward had ever come across. She never walked, but hurled herself around like a human tornado, causing anything within her range, ornaments especially, to fall to the ground. Her laugh rang out like a schoolboy’s, and she shouted at the top of her voice. She was so tall, and Edward could see the nipples of her small breasts, formed like two tiny hills, showing through her school shirt.

‘How old are you?’ Edward asked her. He took her to be about seventeen.

Harriet looked at him and told him to mind his own business, and if he didn’t shut up she would belt him one in his smarmy face. Allard stood in the doorway and laughed. He turned to Edward and told him he had permission to sock his sister at any time. ‘She’s fourteen and a half, and I would say by the time she reaches eligibility she will be so tall no man will be able to look her in the face.’

‘Oh, shut up, you. What time are we leaving in the morning? Does Mother know you’ve got someone else coming? She’ll hit the roof, you know. We’ve got bloody BB and Auntie Sylvia . . .’

Allard dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Edward could hear them bickering and Harriet’s boisterous laughs and squeals as Allard threatened to leave her behind.

The threesome left for King’s Cross the following morning, brother and sister still apparently at loggerheads. At the station, Harriet disappeared, to Allard’s fury, but soon came bouncing back with a large sandwich. She wore what looked like a pair of Allard’s old trousers, tied up with string, and her grubby school shirt. Her overcoat belonged, Edward presumed, to someone considerably larger. The sleeves flapped and the hem dangled around her ankles. Allard was no better dressed, wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day, but more crumpled. They each carried battered, dog-eared suitcases, and they marched around the station demanding to know from porters which platform the York train went from.

At last they were settled in a first-class compartment, and Allard sorted out who owed what for the tickets. Edward began to think he should have taken up one of his other invitations as he ended up forking out fifteen shillings. He was running low on funds, and sat, tight-lipped, gazing out of the window. The journey was not without delays – lines up, faulty signals – and Allard began to get restless, pacing up and down the corridor.

Edward had a moment’s peace when Harriet departed to the Ladies’. He wondered what Mrs Simpson looked like, and smiled, thinking it could be useful if she suffered from the Lady Primrose syndrome.

‘Next stop, get the cases,’ said Allard. ‘Christ, where is she now? Well, we’ll get off and leave her on the train, serves her right.’

Edward looked at the sign on the station platform – Thirsk. So this was Yorkshire. Not that he had much time to take in the scenery as Allard steamed along the platform with Harriet bounding in front of him. A black, highly polished Bentley was waiting outside the station and a chauffeur, cap in hand, sprang to attention. He took their cases, stacking them in the open boot.

‘Gosh, you look good, Fred,
très
smart . . . Come on, Edward, get in.’

In fact, on closer inspection, Fred was rather frayed around the edges. His uniform was ill fitting and his florid complexion went well with his broad northern accent. ‘My, yer growin’ oop, Miss H, we’ll have yer out an’ int’ saddle in no time. Yon boy’s grown oop an’ all, got a coat that’s better’nt’ polish ont’ motor . . . Reet, we all settled? Then let’s be getting on.’

Fred put on his chauffeur’s hat, which was so large that he was in danger of being blinded by the peak. That was not the only danger, however; Fred’s driving was a wonder to behold. The grinding of gears, the revving and the hopalong jerks gave them all a bumpy ride. Allard sighed. ‘I say, Fred old chap, the motor does have two more gears, you know.’

Harriet, sitting next to Edward, chortled, ‘He’s never going to make it up the hill – it’s three in one, he’ll never do it.’

They could see the village of Helmsley, snuggled in a dip, with its cobbled village square. They passed over a bridge, through the village and out into open countryside. They drove for an hour and a half before turning in at the gates of Haverley Hall. There was a small lodge to one side, and Fred gave a loud toot on the horn as the car jolted up the drive.

Haverley Hall had seen better days, but it was obvious it had been magnificent at one time. The Georgian Hall was vast, white stucco fronted and surrounded by rather dilapidated stables and outhouses. The gardens were overgrown and the orchard ran wild, but the overall impression was that the Hall was held in suspension – very much in need of repair, but still standing proud.

As the Bentley drew up with another crash of gears, a bulldog hurtled out of the open front door. Harriet clambered out and ran towards the enormously fat dog. ‘Buster, Buster . . . Hello, my darling . . . Come and say hello.’

Allard opened the boot to take out the cases and the huge animal wobbled around them, snuffling and barking. He had no tail and his bottom wagged from side to side.

‘I wouldn’t go too near him, Edward. He’s not vicious, but his farts are deadly.’

A woman emerged from the Hall as Allard spoke. ‘I heard that, Allard. It appears Cambridge has done nothing for your command of the English language.’

Mrs Simpson was an imposing, hawk-faced woman with iron-grey hair and steely blue eyes, far from the Lady Primrose type. She wore a tweed skirt and heavy brogues, and was very tall with a harsh, loud, upper-crust voice. She stared at Edward and then turned, nonplussed, to Allard.

‘Edward, this is my mother. He’s staying with us for the vac, Ma. Pop inside, is he?’

Mrs Simpson fixed her steely gaze on Edward and told him crisply that he was most welcome, then she turned on her heel and followed Allard into the Hall.

Harriet yanked at her case, telling Fred not to bother taking them inside, but to get her horse saddled up. She grinned at Edward and told him to follow her. The interior of the Hall was vast, with a predictably run-down feel to it. Everywhere the eye fell, there were antiques and paintings, while a profusion of wellington boots and riding boots littered the floor. Edward stood abandoned, not knowing where Harriet had disappeared to, and couldn’t help overhearing Mrs Simpson’s voice somewhere behind him.