The Talisman (35 page)

She roamed the fields in her old print frocks, she didn’t bother with maternity wear. She simply left the zippers or hooks and eyes open. She wore an old pair of sandals that looked as though she had worn them to go paddling.

As the months passed, her belly grew, and she loved the feel of her baby inside her. She wrote long stories in her diary, they were love stories, but she never mentioned the name, the person she wrote them for.

The local doctor and district nurse checked her over, she was fit, healthy, and her child never seemed to cause her a moment’s problem. She yelled the first time he kicked, and made everyone feel her huge belly.

‘How come you’re so sure he’s a boy?’

She wrinkled her tanned face, her freckles all joined into one, and roared with laughter. ‘Because I know, and what’s more I am going to have three more, and they’ll all be enormous!’

Harriet ate like a horse and grew plump and round, her long legs tanned. She would pinch her fat, swearing like the farm labourers. ‘Bloody hell-fire, I’ll have to go on a diet, when he’s home and dry, I’ll be as big as a house.’ She waddled like a duck to make the lads laugh, and they adored her. There was nothing they would not do for their madcap Cousin Harry.

Aunt Mae sat sewing by the open kitchen door. ‘She looks so beautiful, like a wild thing. She’s so happy, so full of life, it breaks my heart.’

Aunt Mae had tried once to ask Harriet about the father of her son, but she had wagged her finger and sworn she would not be tricked by anyone into telling.

‘It’s just that he’s missing so much, to see you as you are now. To touch your belly, feel his unborn child, is something important to a man, Harry, and he’s missing it.’

She wished she hadn’t brought it up when she heard Harriet up in her little room, sobbing as if her heart would break.

The next day Harriet was all sunshine again, but her aunt detected a sadness that wasn’t there before. ‘I dare say he’ll be with you for the next lot you want to have, so it makes no difference, really, does it?’

Harriet gave her aunt one of her sweet smiles and that funny little wrinkle of her nose. They both knew in their hearts that the first-born was very special.

‘You got a name for him, lovey? What you going to call this chap?’

Stretching her arms above her head, Harriet said that it was a secret, and when she lowered her arms she felt the first pains. She clapped her hands . . .

‘Oh, Auntie, he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s on his way.’

E
dward received no reply from his many letters to BB. He was not unduly worried as Harriet had told him they had only just left for South Africa. He bided his time working in bars in and around Southampton, saving for his passage. The months passed and still no word came, and so he sent a cable saying he was on his way, hoping that by the time he arrived BB would be expecting him with the job offered to Edward waiting for him. He eventually made it to South Africa after a nightmare journey, by seaplane, tram boat and a two-seater mail plane. He was sweating in the intense heat, for even though the taxi had every window open, the air was still and arid. He began to worry about the length of the drive, conserving his hard-earned money as always. ‘Is it much further to Rosebank?’

The driver coughed and spat out of the window. ‘Not far, boss, it’s another ten, fifteen miles along the highway. You can’t miss it when you see it, where the rich live.’

Half an hour later the scenery changed and the houses became very grand, almost baronial in style – some low to the ground like sprawling bungalows, others tall and pillared like the houses of America’s deep south. The taxi swept up a wide gravel drive, the palm trees clustered along its edge giving shade from the boiling sun. The house was three-storeyed with a verandah running the whole length of the ground floor. Painted awnings hung over the windows with shutters to match, and Edward got out and stared in admiration. He paid off the taxi and walked up to the front door.

The bell resounded through the house with a strange echoing effect. Edward rang again, waited, stepped back and looked up at the house. ‘Hello . . .? Hello . . .?’

A black maid opened the door and peered out.

‘Edward Stubbs, I cabled that I was coming over, is Mr Van der Burge at home?’

She opened the door and turned back into the house without a word . . . to him. She shouted, ‘Meester B . . . Meesteeeer B! There is someone here for you!’ The woman waddled across a long, polished floor. She banged on a door, shouted again and then turned. ‘He’s in here, but he’s sleeping. He expecting ya?’

BB yanked open the door. His suit was rumpled, his collar stained, and his face was so flushed that Edward hardly recognized him.

‘Vat you screamin’ fer, woman?’

‘Mr Van der Burge, it’s me, Edward, Edward Stubbs. I cabled you . . . Edward Stubbs, sir, we met at the Simpsons’.’

BB swayed, stared hard, and then his eyes lit up and he opened his arms. ‘My friend, my friend, come in, come in . . . Zelda, get us something in here fast, come on in . . .’

Edward left his case and followed BB into the room. It was cool, the shutters drawn so that it was in semi-darkness. The floor was of pine with rugs scattered over it, the furniture was wicker and a Hoover fan twirled overhead. There were also, Edward couldn’t help but notice, a lot of whisky bottles, many of them empty.

BB poured himself a brandy, stumbled against the side of a large, polished table. ‘Coffee . . . damned black bitch . . . Coffeeee Zeldaaaa.’

He staggered to an armchair and fell down into it. ‘Sit down, lad, sit down, how long are you here for then?’

Edward began to think he was going out of his mind, he sat and looked at the room then mentioned the job BB had offered him.

‘What job, my friend, what job?’

Zelda thudded into the room with a tray of coffee and a few stale biscuits, and banged it down on the table. ‘You should not drink, Meester B, it’s no good for ya.’

BB glared at her and Edward rose. He followed Zelda out, closing the door behind him. BB seemed not to notice his departure.

‘How long has he been like this? He’s dead drunk.’

Zelda shrugged her fat shoulders, tried hard to remember exactly how long BB had been drunk, but she rolled her eyes and gave up.

‘Is Mrs Van der Burge at home, Zelda?’

She shook her head, then made a circular motion with her finger near her head, rolling her eyes. ‘She’s in the home again, and this time she don’t look as if she ever come out – crazy.’

Edward leaned against the polished banister. ‘Oh Christ, I don’t believe this. Where’s his bedroom? I’ll get him up there – he looks like he needs a wash.’

Together they hauled the big man slowly up the stairs. When they reached the landing he fought them off, swayed, and was about to topple backwards, but Edward caught him.

‘Bastards, sons of black bitches, all of them bastards.’

They had a struggle to get his clothes off. Zelda informed Edward he had not changed his clothes for weeks, and they smelt like it. When the big man was clean they rolled him into his double bed. He seemed for a moment to focus, held out his hand as though to shake Edward’s, then it flopped on to the bed and he snored, falling into a deep sleep.

Edward walked around the house. It was filthy, every room filled with dust and dirty dishes. Eventually he opened a door on the same landing as BB’s bedroom. It had been converted into an office, and there were papers in every corner, stacked almost to the ceiling. The desk was a mess of open drawers, and more papers were strewn across it and the floor.

Edward remained in the room for most of the night, and by morning his back ached and his eyes itched from reading. BB was broke. How he had been living in London God alone knew – probably on credit. Edward struck the desk with his fist – BB, the great financier, had lost everything in the Wall Street Crash. He had only useless mines and overdrafts – Edward took his fury out on the papers, hurling them across the room. Judging by the mess, that was more than likely what BB had done himself. He went to BB’s room and looked at the big, beached whale as he snored and right there and then he wanted to kill him. But he closed the door, went to his room and sat hopelessly on his bed, beside his unopened suitcase. He lay across the musty-smelling bed, and then was gripped by a sudden, terrible wrenching pain. He doubled up, clutched his belly. He was terrified, what in God’s name was the matter with him?

The pains swept over him in engulfing waves. They would subside only to come back, wrenching and shaking his body . . . Sweat dripped off him and he felt them coming again and again . . . He rolled on the bed, his legs thrashing, in agony . . .

Slowly, as the sun came up, the pain diminished. He lay exhausted, gasping for breath. An overwhelming sense of grief and loss engulfed him. He touched his face, half surprised to find he was crying, the tears streaming down his face. He got up and stared at himself, stared at the weeping man in the mirror.

He ran down the stairs, leaping the last ten to the landing below, kicked open BB’s door and grabbed the startled man. BB was sober but confused, and Edward was like a madman.

‘Call London, call London, you have to call London . . . listen to me, you have to call London . . .’

Somehow he got through to BB, who unearthed the telephone number. Edward snatched up the receiver and waited for what seemed an interminable age of misdialling, operators’ voices and strange noises, until finally he heard a distant ringing tone.

BB fought to get his befuddled brain into order so he could speak. Edward gripped his arm so tightly it was like a vice. ‘Speak to them, ask them if everything is all right, now, speak to them now.’

BB took the phone, breathed in and licked his lips. ‘Hello . . . hello, can you hear me? It’s BB! What? It’s a terrible line, hello? Allard, it’s BB, just making the yearly how-de-do call. Everything all right there, old chap? Can you speak up, it’s difficult to hear . . .’

Edward released his hold on BB’s arm, his eyes searching the man’s face. He wanted to grab the phone from the pudgy hand, but he contained himself. He was sure the Simpsons wouldn’t approve of him even trying to speak to Harriet. He wished he’d just asked for Allard, made some excuse to speak to him.

BB listened, his face red, the sweat trickling down his chin. He mopped his brow with a dirty, stained handkerchief. ‘I can’t hear? What . . .? Oh, Sylvia? Well, she’s not too good. Is everything all right there?’

BB battled with the bad connection, his voice rising. ‘What? She is? No . . . no reason, just rang to say hello . . . what?’ He looked at the phone and shook it. Edward could hear the buzz of the dialling tone . . . He seized the phone.

‘It’s no good, been cut off. Lines are always bad, terrible connections.’

Edward’s eyes frightened him, deep, black eyes.

‘Harriet? Did they say anything about Harry?’

BB scratched his head. His eyes filled up and he looked at Edward, helplessly. He was hardly able to recall what had just been said to him. ‘Think they said something about her being a bit under the weather, not “coming out” this season . . . What is it, lad? What’s wrong, what have I done?’

Edward felt his whole body relaxing, the pain in his stomach eased and he slumped into a chair. ‘Nothing, nothing . . . Sorry if I yelled at you, I just . . . I just had a gut feeling . . . an odd feeling.’

The pains had subsided completely, the awful wrenching at his belly was over. BB stuck his hands in his pockets. Tufts of white hair stood up on end around his bald head. Edward stared through him, and then his eyes focused on the old man. His voice was quiet now. ‘I need you, BB – need you to make my fortune. What a joke, what a fucking joke. You don’t even know who I am, do you? Do you . . .?’

BB’s face puckered as he sat in the chair, his feet planted wide apart, a shell of the man he once was.

It was all coming back to him now, he remembered who Edward was. He slumped before the younger man, head bowed in shame. He could find no words to express his feelings. He was a drunkard, a bankrupt, and a liar. Edward clenched his fists in anger as he saw the light dawning on the old man. BB’s voice was hoarse, whisky-soaked. ‘Allard’s friend . . . yes, Eddie. Oh God, my mind’s so fuddled.’

Edward gripped him tightly. ‘Then you’re going to have to get straightened out, you’re all I’ve got. We’re partners, you and me, and we’ll do it on a handshake. I’ll get you back on your feet, I don’t know how the hell, but, by Christ, I’ve not come all this way for nothing. Shake . . . shake, BB.’

The old man looked Edward in the eyes and shook hands. He gave a wobbly smile. ‘We used to play draughts . . . yes, yes, I remember . . . You played a good game of draughts. I’ve not played for a long time now, a long, long time.’

‘We’ll play anything you want, BB . . . after I’ve made my fortune.’

BB thought he was joking, but Edward’s face was like a mask, with no trace of humour. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile.

The birth had been easy for Harriet. Even so, she had screamed the place down. The midwife had blushed at her language, and the doctor had laughed as Harriet kept up a steady flow of verbal abuse. She had swung her fists in the air, writhing around on the old-fashioned bed. ‘You bloody amateurs, what in Christ’s name are you doing? Get that stupid bitch out of here, I want a vet! A vet knows better than you two! Ohhhh, Jesusssss . . .’

But when the baby was born, and laid on her breast, Harriet softened. She glowed like every other mother the doctor had seen. She held her son in her arms, not wanting to part with him even to be washed. He weighed eight and a half pounds and was perfect, with a mop of jet-black hair. His eyelashes were so long they brushed his cheeks. His tawny skin was neither reddened nor wrinkled . . . he was like a doll, sleeping contentedly.

‘Oh, look at his fingers, Auntie Mae, have you ever seen such perfect hands – and his toes, each one is simply perfect.’

They were beautiful together, she with her rosy-red cheeks and her auburn hair tumbling around her shoulders. The baby was strong, his tiny fists clenching and unclenching. He had such a pair of lungs the whole farm knew his arrival had been accomplished successfully. The lads all gathered outside Harriet’s window, and she held up her son with pride.