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.
‘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 conditio
n 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.
The Talisman Page 28