The Talisman (36 page)

‘See, what did I tell you? It’s a boy! Look at him, isn’t he just wonderful?’

Harriet was so strong and healthy she was up and about the following morning, singing at the top of her voice. Auntie Mae was preparing her breakfast when she burst into the kitchen.

‘I want eggs, bacon, porridge and tea, and – oh, yes, toast, with lots of marmalade – your home-made stuff. Oh, don’t bother with a tray, I’ll eat down here – he’s had his breakfast. Guess what his name is – go on, guess.’

Auntie Mae shook her head in wonder. Most women spent at least a week in hospital when they had babies, and here was Harriet charging around the kitchen. She was stuffing food into her mouth like a naughty schoolgirl. In all truth she really was just that, her aunt thought to herself. She ruffled Harriet’s hair and Harriet gave her a bear-hug, then nuzzled her neck. ‘I think I am happier than I have ever been in my whole life, my son is . . . Oh, Auntie Mae, he looks just like his father.’

She began to tickle her aunt, who tried unsuccessfully to guess not only the father’s name but the secret name Harriet had chosen for her son.

No one would have expected it, or even dreamed it could happen. Two weeks later, while Auntie Mae was preparing Harriet’s bumper breakfast, one of the farm boys popped in with a bunch of wild flowers. He stood at the kitchen door, grinning and asking if anyone had guessed the baby’s name. Harriet had promised a ten-pound note to the first person to get it right, so the farm hands were always dropping in with hopeful suggestions. Mae took the flowers and put water in a vase for them. She laughed and told the boys she was sure their Harry wouldn’t call the boy Ned, that was the old carthorse’s name.

‘Well, I tried all the others I can think of, and it’d be just like her to call him something different. So my money’s on Ned.’

When Mae had sent the boy back to work, she realized how quiet it was – too quiet. She had not heard either the baby or Harriet, and it was after seven.

‘Harry? You all right, my love? Only I got breakfast near done. That was the boy from Barrow’s Lane, you’ve got ’em all guessing – he says you’ll be calling him after the old carthorse . . . Harry?’

Mae listened at Harriet’s door. The silence worried her. She lifted the latch and peeked in.

Harriet was standing in the centre of the room, wearing a long, white nightdress. The buttons were undone, her breast bared ready for feeding. The baby was cradled in her arms.

‘Oh, why didn’t you answer me? You gave me such a fright.’

Slowly, Harriet turned her stricken face to her aunt. She tried to speak, but couldn’t.

‘What is it, lovey? Harry? Dear God, child, what is it?’

Aunt Mae moved closer, peered at the baby. His eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping. She reached out to touch him, but Harriet stepped back.

‘Now, love, just let me take a look at him . . . Harry?’

She stepped forward again, and this time Harriet allowed her to touch the baby. He was cold, his tiny hand was ice cold.

‘Will you let me hold him a while? There’s a good girl.’

Mae took the baby from her, and knew he was dead. She wrapped a shawl around him.

Harriet’s voice was barely audible. ‘He was cold when I went to give him his feed in the night. I’ve had him close by me, I’ve kept him warm, but he won’t wake up.’

Aunt Mae took the baby downstairs and called for one of the farm boys to get the doctor, fast, although she knew it was too late, nothing could be done for the child. She covered his face and hurried back to Harriet.

She was still standing in exactly the same position, her arms half lifted as though she still held her son.

The doctor came immediately. He could find no reason for the baby’s death. He said, sadly, it was a tragedy. No one was to blame, no one could ever have predicted it. He spent a long time sitting with Harriet, trying to make her understand that it was not her fault. He was very perturbed that Harriet did not cry, and more worried when he realized she did not accept that the child was gone. He gave her sedatives to make her sleep, and Mae sat with her for two days and nights while she lay, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling. Deep, shuddering sighs shook her body, and she clasped her aunt’s hand tightly, but no tears ever came.

The baby was buried in the Simpsons’ family chapel, a cloak of secrecy over the proceedings. Harriet had not given the child his name, and he had never been christened. She played no part in the funeral arrangements, and refused to name the father on the birth certificate.

Mrs Simpson sighed with relief. The baby’s death saddened her, but at the same time it did save the family any embarrassment. She expected Harriet to pick up her life as if it had never happened, unaware of how deeply the loss had affected her daughter.

Mae took Harriet back to London, and her heart broke when they said goodbye. She even offered to stay in town to take care of her, but Mrs Simpson dismissed the offer, insisting that all Harriet needed was time. Mae left a changed girl behind her in the Kensington house.

It was accepted that Harriet would not ‘be herself ’ for a while, and the Simpsons were not unduly worried by her quietness. She withdrew from the family, preferring to eat alone in her room. Mrs Simpson put up with Harriet’s moody idleness for as long as she thought she should mourn. But when she remained locked in her room months after the funeral, she began to wonder if Harriet should see a doctor. Her room was untidy, dirty, with plates of rotting food pushed under the bed. She refused to wash or dress, but lay on her bed, staring into space. She had a habit of picking at bread, making it into small hard balls, and odd piles of her endeavours littered the room. She began raving against her mother, accusing her of spying, and would put a chair under her door handle in addition to turning the key in the lock. She grew very thin and refused food, until Mrs Simpson was at her wits’ end.

The Judge tried to talk to his daughter and was spat at. He was astounded at her filthy language. She became abusive if any of them tried to make her eat. Allard tried, but was told he was a nasty old poofter. He beat a hasty retreat in case the Judge should hear her.

The family doctor gave Harriet another supply of sedatives. He discussed her symptoms with her parents, and put it down to severe depression after the loss of her baby. He did, however, say that if her ‘illness’ persisted she should see a psychiatrist.

Harriet’s condition not only persisted, it grew steadily worse. The climax came when the Judge found her in the kitchen. She was setting two places at the table, and talking in a hideous, high-pitched voice to someone she accused of trying to kill her. The Judge was mortified.

‘Harry, old gel, there’s no one else here but me. It’s four in the morning, why don’t you let Daddy take you back to bed?’

She lunged at her father with the kitchen knife, narrowly missing him. He shouted for his wife, and together they managed to get Harriet back to her room. For what remained of the night they could hear her, crying and shouting jumbled words. She was obviously putting herself through hell.

The next morning she was laughing, cooking eggs and bacon. On the surface it appeared she was suddenly all right again. She ate ravenously, and chattered non-stop about things she wanted to do and places she would like to go to. When Allard came downstairs she teased him and laughed so much the tears rolled down her cheeks. They watched her dancing around, then she thudded back up the stairs to get dressed for a ‘mammoth shopping spree’.

An hour later they found her lying on her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Judge Simpson arranged an appointment for her in Harley Street with Mr Montague Flynn, a kindly psychiatrist, who diagnosed schizophrenia. He had a long discussion with the Judge, who refused to believe there was anything of that nature wrong with his daughter, insisting it was just depression. Mr Flynn assured him, quietly but firmly, that Harriet’s condition was a little more than that.

‘You see, sir, schizophrenia symptoms are fluid. It’s a changing process, rather than static. Your daughter may demonstrate different signs of her illness from day to day, even hour to hour. She may show different symptoms in different situations. Often diagnosis is difficult, but she has all the classic signs of disordered perceptions – she hears voices that blame her for the death of her child. Her logic is overborne by the strength of her delusions. She has changed radically in the past few months from a happy, outgoing girl to a recluse. She is very self-critical, and exceptionally anxious. Your daughter, sir, needs help, she is crying out for it in the only way she can . . .’

The Judge blamed everything on his wife and her sister. ‘I have never had any of this kind of trouble in my family, but your sister went off her head when her boys were killed. Runs in the family – your family.’

Mrs Simpson sipped her gin and tonic, her foot twitching. ‘I blame whoever got her pregnant, that’s whose fault it is, and if I ever find out who he was, I’ll wring his neck.’

The Judge picked up the
Evening Standard
, muttering that if he ever found out who it was, he’d take a shotgun to him. He retired behind his paper, the print blurring before his eyes as they filled with tears. Seeing his daughter that way had hurt him more than he would ever be able to tell.

His wife continued, ‘Well, she won’t be coming out this season, that’s for sure.’

The Judge turned the page. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, subject’s closed.’

Mrs Simpson sighed, wondering if there could be any truth in the suggestion of a connection between Harriet and her sister. She dismissed the thought immediately, blamed the entire illness on the father of Harriet’s baby. She banged her glass down. ‘I hope he rots in hell.’

The following day Harriet left to stay at a clinic. She went quietly, without argument. She looked older – strangely old – wearing a hat pulled down to hide her face. When Mrs Simpson went into her daughter’s room she found an auburn heap on the untidy dressing table. Harriet had cut her hair.

A
lex sat with Dora in the office. He had taken a while to come back to her with his analysis of the club’s accounts. She was slightly afraid of him – he spoke so quietly, and was obviously nervous himself. He made it brief – the gambling part of the club was badly run. They had just a few poker games, private sessions, which could be opened up into a much more ambitious operation, a much bigger money earner. First, she should put in a roulette wheel.

‘Well, I know that, darlin’, but if you’ve got a partner that plays your own tables, forget it. I did have one for a while, but I had to close it right down.’

Alex waited for her to calm down. ‘Johnny’s boozing and gambling away all the profits, right? Well, you’re his partner, and I’m telling you the accounts indicate you could double the earnings on this place. But you’ve got to off-load your husband first.’

Dora threw up her hands and said she was working on it, but there was only so much she could do.

‘What’s his share worth, Dora, twenty-five grand? That’s being generous. You could buy him out. This place is leased, you don’t even own the building – all you got is the licence, the lease and the fixtures and fittings.’

He had her full attention now. She listened, sipping at her water. ‘I’ve not got that kind of money, Alex. You should know, you’ve got the books, for Chrissake.’

Alex stared at her and his eyes frightened her, they were so expressionless. ‘First you have to have a legal document stating what the partnership is worth, how much cash. That I can do for you.’

Alex was making notes on a small slip of paper, and he said that rather than go for the highest estimate she had to go for the lowest. ‘Forty thousand, you want the place insured for that, all legal, just so should anyone ask you know exactly how much you want if someone offers to buy you out . . .’

Alex continued, she had to make Johnny sign another document making her a legal partner, the papers she had at the moment would not really stand up to scrutiny.

‘I’ll sack that bloody lawyer of mine, he’s useless. He was supposed to do it.’

Again Alex waited patiently for her to calm down, then in his steady, low voice he went on. ‘The papers must be verified by a good company, a known company. There must be someone who works for some big law firm among your customers – use him, use his company. Legal, it has to be legal.’

Dora hesitated. She knew everything Alex had said was true, but there had to be a catch. ‘Okay, come on, out with it. Why are you doing all this?’

‘I took a fall for Johnny, years ago, but what did he do for me? A few words here and there with some prison barons, but he never came to see me, never asked how I was. I don’t owe Johnny anything – so listen carefully. I’ve found out Johnny owes money all over town, even at Harry Driver’s. He plays for high stakes, likes poker sessions . . . he’s also hooked on the booze. You an’ me, Dora, we’ll pull a sting, one that’ll leave you owning the club outright.’

Dora’s jaw dropped. There he sat, like a big oaf, and yet he talked as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Taking his time, Alex outlined the plan, and Dora didn’t interrupt once. When he had finished she sat chewing her lips for a moment. ‘What do you get out of it?’

Alex smiled, lifted his hands in a casual gesture. ‘I’ll run the place for a nice wage. Better than sittin’ on me backside in Harry Driver’s sweatshops.’

Alex was already packing his briefcase. Dora sighed. ‘All right, let’s do it.’

Alex gave her one of his strange smiles. ‘That’s a clever girl.’

Edward knew exactly the scam he and BB would pull to make them rich. It was far-fetched, requiring a lot of time and hard labour. It would take at least four years. This was summer 1947, and Edward had been in South Africa almost a year. Under Edward’s instructions, BB had purchased four ‘dead’ mines. He already owned five non-productive mines, all lying dormant. He questioned Edward as to why he was to buy still more, but as always there was no reply. BB had grown accustomed to the mask-like expression Edward used when he didn’t wish to discuss something. He could be jovial, even laughing, but as soon as BB pushed for information his eyes went blank. It was chilling, this ability to switch moods so rapidly. At times BB felt afraid of him, but his usual good humour and friendship touched the old man, and he eventually stopped probing.