The Talisman (19 page)

Cambridge University was well known for its revues, but the most prestigious of all was the Footlights. Some of its members actually went into the theatre after gaining their degrees. The shows were very professional, and many West End managements paid visits, talent-spotting. This year’s show was one of their best yet, and Edward’s comic monologues were the hit of the night, thanks to Charlie.

Edward had been slightly wary, wondering if Charlie had ever shown any of his work to his friends, but it became obvious he hadn’t. As Edward supplied more and more of Charlie’s monologues, he became quite a star attraction himself, and no one was aware that he had stolen his new-found fame. His mantelpiece was filled with embossed invitation cards for the forthcoming vacation, and he was very careful not to answer any of them, hedging his bets. Now he was accepted as part of the crowd he intended to stay in with them. Walter asked if he would like to spend the vacation with his family in Manchester and was laughed at for his pains. Edward had dropped Walter since he had become friendly with Allard, and no longer accepted the offers of free trips to the pictures. ‘Why don’t you find yourself a girl, Walter? You shouldn’t want to take me with you everywhere you go, doesn’t look too good. You ever had a girl, Walter?’

Poor Walter blushed and polished his glasses, and stuttered painfully that he had known lots of girls, he just didn’t talk about them too much. He had become editor of a varsity magazine called
Cambridge Front
, and offered to let Edward write for it. ‘I’ve got some great people contributing, Dylan Thomas, Vladimir Mayakowsky and Raj Anand. Would you write one of your monologues for me, Edward?’

Edward’s store of Charlie’s work was running low, but he promised to come up with something for poor Walter.

Allard, who never knocked, just breezed in, his hair standing on end. He started talking before he’d even closed the door. ‘Edward, old chap, it’s about this piece on the ballet dancer, I think it would be perfection if I had a rugby forward with me who changed into a tutu halfway through; it’d be hysterically funny, don’t you think?’ He pranced around the room, proclaiming the monologue about the male ballet-dancer’s position in the world of dancing. ‘Okay, now when I get to this bit . . .’ He took up a balletic pose and continued in a high-pitched, camp voice, ‘The main problem with the public is that they believe that dancing is for women, and any boy taking it up as a career could be termed a cissy . . . Now then, when I go on about Nijinsky, I think I should prance around doing the “golden slave” routine from
Scheherazade
, the costume would be funnier, don’t you think, than what you’ve suggested – the “Spectre de la Rose”. So instead of knocking Nijinsky I’m going to be that other fella, you know, whatsit, Stanislas Idzikovsky, much funnier name, that all right?’

Edward had to cover because he’d never heard of Idzikovsky. Allard took his silence for disapproval. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. ‘Oh, come on, it’s much better. Sometimes you are so earnest . . . Do I change it or not?’

Edward nodded and Allard beamed. He could snap so fast – one moment all laughs and smiles, the next acting like a bitchy woman. Edward also began to detect how Allard’s voice switched with his moods. One moment he would be dead straight, the next he would be speaking with a camp lisp, savouring his words with that twinkle in his eye. Allard opened the door with a sweeping gesture.

‘For Chrissake, Allard, can’t you even open a door without making a performance of it?’

Allard primped, hands on hips. ‘Listen, who do you think you are, Noel Coward?’

Edward attended the rehearsal, but soon decided he had seen enough and went for a late stroll along the river. He walked on to the small bridge and leaned on the parapet, watching a few students in punts messing about and making fools of themselves. Continuing over the bridge, he cut down the steps to the river bank. He recognized Walter in one of the punts, and couldn’t help but laugh. Walter was obviously extremely drunk. His glasses were askew, and he was clinging on for dear life to the punt pole. Edward had not seen Walter for a few weeks because of his new friends, and he knew Walter was upset about it. He also knew that if Walter and the others were caught on the river at this time of night they would be up before the provost.

Edward walked on but, hearing the hilarity increase, he turned back in time to see Walter flying head-first into the river. The girls thought it was all very funny and smashed their poles into the water close to him as he thrashed around, yelling that he had lost his glasses. The other boys clung to the side of the overturned punt, and one of them called to the girls to lend a hand. They manoeuvred themselves closer. Edward could see it was going to happen and shouted, but he was too late. The two girls were tipped into the water. There was so much splashing that Edward couldn’t see Walter, but he did see one of the girls go under. She came up gasping for air, and he could tell by her terrified screams that she couldn’t swim.

Edward dived in and dragged the girl to the bank. She was near collapse and he turned her over, pumped at her lungs. All around him was pandemonium in the darkness as the boys crawled on to the banks, and Edward shouted again for Walter without success. The girl sat up, coughing and spluttering, and Edward waded back into the water, calling for his crazy friend. Suddenly he spotted him, a little way up the river, floating face down. Edward swam to him, grabbed his inert body and doggy-paddled to the bank, doing his best to keep Walter’s head above water. He shouted to the boys for help as they ran back towards the boathouse, but he could see torchlights approaching. He knew if they were caught they would all have to go before Emmott, and would be in serious trouble. He held Walter for grim death as the torches came closer and closer, scanning the river for the culprits as the two overturned punts gradually sank.

Walter began to cough and choke, and Edward dragged him to the river bank, where he spewed up the water he had swallowed. Walter’s teeth chattered all the way back to the college, and they had to stop occasionally while he vomited. Edward despatched him to his rooms with orders to get a hot drink inside him and to keep his mouth shut about the night’s events.

Back in his own rooms Edward took off his wet clothes, and had only just got into bed when there was a tap on the door. Walter stood there, ashen and shaking, the tears running down his face. ‘Edward, something terrible’s happened,’ he sobbed. ‘It’s Cordelia, you know, she was with us in the punt, she’s . . . oh God, Edward, she’s drowned! Jasper and George came up to my rooms to tell me. What on earth are we going to do? We’ll have to go and see the provost, there’s all hell let loose.’

Edward had to slap Walter’s face to calm him. ‘Listen to me. If none of you wants to be sent down, get them all to keep quiet, hear me? None of you must admit to being there. Now get out, or you’ll make me a bloody accessory.’

Walter stumbled to the door, still crying. He stammered out his thanks and left.

Whatever the tragedy meant to those involved, they all kept silent. As no one came forward at the inquest to admit to being with poor Cordelia that night it soon blew over, and the matter was kept out of the press. There were questions asked at the college, of course, but everyone had been so drunk that no one could remember anything. A few wits remarked that she should have been called Ophelia, and the incident was held up as an example to students not to go boating in the middle of the night. The end of term loomed, and college life reverted to normal.

After persistent recommendation from Dr Gordon, Alex Stubbs was transferred to an open borstal in Southport, in the north of England. Although he had received a further sentence for his attack on the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs, Dr Gordon had insisted upon mitigating circumstances. Alex had been assured that if he behaved himself and showed progress, his stay in Southport might be no longer than eighteen months.

The open borstal, Hamilton Lodge, was run on similar lines to Oakwood Hall, but the inmates were given much more freedom. Among Hamilton’s methods of rehabilitation, education rated high.

The group of warders and officers sat drinking tea in their common room. They held staff meetings every week to discuss the prisoners. The English teacher, Captain Barker, known as ‘Hopalong’ because of a pronounced limp, listened as each prisoner’s notes were reviewed, their progress at the open prison determined. When they reached Alex’s name, the psychologist observed that Stubbs was very much a loner. He did not mix with the others, and did not take part in any of the recreational activities. Alex, he felt, had adjusted to life at Hamilton, but he recommended that he still be watched closely, as he had often resorted to violence.

Captain Barker gave a detailed report. He thought it possible that Stubbs was keeping himself apart from the rest of the inhabitants as a means of survival. Judging from his records, being enclosed with other prisoners had, if anything, destroyed his chances of being released. The consensus was that Alex should be encouraged to take part in the activities offered, and to become part of the community.

Although they had tried to get Alex interested in sports, he had declined. He studied obsessively, becoming totally immersed in order to make up for the lost years. His progress was good, and he took the jibes for being a swot in his stride.

Captain Barker found Alex interesting. He was impressed by the meticulous work Alex always handed in. He had also looked through Alex’s bedside locker, and was intrigued to find the two leather-bound books his mother had given him. He stood watching Alex as he sat alone in the main study hall. When he approached, Alex jumped in shock – he had been so busy working he had not even heard Barker’s distinctive step.

‘Mind if I join you, Stubbs, have a little chat?’

‘No, sir.’

Barker noted Alex’s good manners, the way he rose from his seat while Barker seated himself and eased his bad leg into a comfortable position. ‘You reading?’

‘No, sir, I was just going over some of the algebra equations, not up to scratch on those yet.’

‘Your English marks were good, very good – can’t expect to do everything at once, you know. You were a grammar-school boy, that correct?’

Alex gave him a slight smile, and nodded. He knew the system – Barker would have all his previous records.

‘So what’s all this interest in maths, then? You’re not too behind, are you?’

‘No, sir, it’s just that . . . well, I’m thinking about when I leave, what I want to do. Mr Thomas, my maths teacher, said that accountancy is a good profession, good earner.’

‘Yes it is, it is. Everybody needs one if they make a few bob. I know I need one. All those tax forms certainly confuse me. Mind you, I’ve a terrible head for figures, not my line at all. Sure it’s yours?’

‘Yes, sir, I quite like it – you know, figuring how things will come out. I like working them out in my head.’

‘Ah, well, each to his own. But you know, all work and no play makes . . . some stupid saying or other. What about going in for one of the sports programmes? You could do with putting a bit of weight on, get some fresh air.’

Alex did not reply, but twiddled his pencil. He seemed, if anything, uneasy.

‘There’s cricket, tennis, football . . .’

‘Running.’

‘What?’

‘I like to run, sir.’

Barker smiled and struggled to get up. Alex promptly rose to help him.

‘I’ll have a talk to the sports master and see if we can get you some running togs, all right? Might even hobble out to see you myself.’

Alex gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Running became a release for all his pent-up frustrations. Only in this way could Alex escape the confines of the school. The most trusted prisoners were allowed to go out on weekend runs. Alex received his reward for hours of training when he was granted the privilege of going on a long-distance run on the beach at Southport. The green van took the runners, together with the sports master and two warders, to Ainsdale Beach.

In winter, with the tide out, Ainsdale Beach was like a grey desert, with Southport pier looming in the distance. They had a five-mile run, and those who wished to, and still had enough wind, could turn round and run back, making a ten-mile circuit in all. The wind was blowing, the tide was out, the pier and the glass-domed swimming pool were grey and empty. The prisoners behaved like children, whooping and shouting to each other as they took off their tracksuits. The sports master lined them up and waved them off, then hopped into the van and drove alongside, shouting advice and encouraging them. He kept one eye on the running lads and the other on his stopwatch. It would be a real coup if he could find one lad to enter the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race.

Alex was as happy and excited as the rest. He ran until he felt his lungs would burst, wanting to run for ever. His legs began to hurt but he pushed himself on until he felt light-headed, running in perfect rhythm – long strides, head up – feeling the sea breeze and smelling the sea, which was so far out it was a grey line on the horizon. He was unaware that he had overtaken the rest of the lads. He turned at the five-mile flags and ran back. Behind him the van picked up exhausted boys who climbed aboard and flopped on the cushions in the back, leaving only four runners on the beach.

Alex romped home, and stood by the finishing flag, shading his eyes and gazing towards the pier. He could have gone on, he knew, but he was obeying the rules. His lungs felt as though they had been cleansed, his head was clear, and he laughed, threw his arms up in the air and laughed out loud. The next runner came in and bent double, gasping for breath, closely followed by the last two, who flung themselves down on the beach, exhausted. The teacher had to look twice at his stopwatch, but he said nothing, just gave the order to get back into the van and they returned to base.

The lads ran into the showers, shouting, and were watched with envy by some of the others for having been allowed beyond the gates.

The sports master barged into the teachers’ common room so excited he could hardly speak. ‘We’ve got a champion, I’ve never seen anything like it. Christ, he’s bloody magnificent, a ten-mile run and the lad wasn’t even winded! I swear he could have done it again – he could have lapped himself – and the time! I had to keep looking at the stopwatch – he’s cleared the record here by two and a half minutes. Would you believe it, two and a half ruddy minutes!’