33
I’d Like to Talk to You About a Sensible Investment Plan
On the return journey I tried to have a sensible discussion about finances, which I saw as part of my responsibility as Pip’s tutor.
I talked at some length about budgeting and making wise investments for the future. I may even have raised the issues of Inheritance Tax and various fiscal obligations. But the young lovers on the seat beside me were not giving these issues the attention they deserved.
We had counted the bundle of notes by the riverside and, to my amazement, found a little over $28,000. In 1963, that would have comfortably bought a fine house and left enough to cover a college education besides. By any standards it was an awful lot of dollars for a young fellow who had walked out of an orphanage with nothing in his pockets but holes!
You can understand why I was a little anxious about driving around with a cookie jar stuffed with banknotes. Pip was more than a little discombobulated, and I had visions of him pulling open the lid and all those banknotes fluttering and flapping about on the highway. Then there was the possibility of getting stopped by the law and having to explain why I was travelling with two ‘aliens’ plus the kind of cash you’d expect from a mid-range bank heist.
In the end I had stuffed the jar deep into my suitcase and pushed it as far as I could into the boot of the Spider.
I couldn’t get Pip interested in the topic of pension schemes either, but the one thing he comprehended well enough was that someone like Erwin could rob him of his money, in the same way as his father’s store and the schoolhouse had been taken from him after his parents died. I managed to convince him that he shouldn’t tell a soul about his good fortune – not even Lilybelle or Zachery.
‘Pip, this money can change your life or it can wreck your life,’ I told him gravely. ‘That’s your future in that cookie jar! Your parents left it for you. They loved you very much and they would want you to be wise, now, wouldn’t they? Tell me, Pip, what would they want you to do with the money?’
‘Get an education,’ he said sheepishly.
‘Exactly right.’
‘An’ a house with a swimmin’ pool . . . an’ a car like this one . . . an’ a sharp suit like Smokey Robinson . . . an’ a pair of Ray-Bans . . . an’ a stereo player . . .’
‘Now, wait . . . wait! This money could run through your fingers like sand; and think how hard your parents worked to save it. Listen, Pip, the best thing you could do is to put the money somewhere very safe, then invest some of it so it grows . . . like a little pip or a seed – you understand that, don’t you?’
‘I want you to hold it, Jack. I don’t trust no one else.’
‘I’m flattered that you trust me, Pip. I’ll hold onto the cookie jar until you decide where to keep it, but . . . well, I won’t be around for ever. The money is yours and you must take your future in your own hands.’
For a moment Pip looked terribly vulnerable. ‘I don’t ever want you to go, Jack,’ he said. I’d told him nothing about my troubles at the university or my thoughts of returning home.
‘Ah, now, don’t look so sad!’ I replied. ‘What has happened is more than wonderful! You realize you’ll be able to leave Dead River and go to school or college? Soon you’ll be able to rent your own room and—’
I heard a peculiar noise and realized that Hannah was sobbing again. We had reached the outskirts of a scruffy town with old men playing chess outside cafés, groups of laughing Latinos and street kids leaning against cars. I pulled over to the pavement.
‘Hannah, what is it?’ asked Pip gently.
We had stopped outside a music store with shining instruments in the window and the deep bass notes of Blues and Soul drifting from the doorway.
In a fragile voice, Hannah said, ‘Jack’s gonna go. Pip’s gonna go. I ain’t got nothing – not a mama or a daddy . . . I ain’t even got a birthday! I reckon Hannah’s gonna die at Dead River Farm.’
Pip was kissing the tears from her face. ‘Hannah, I swear to you – everything I got belongs to you too. I ain’t going nowhere without you. You’re my girl, Hannah, and always will be. You hear me, Hannah? You hear me?’
But she would not be comforted. At last Pip said, ‘Listen, I got an idea . . .’
He asked if I would wait a while as he had a surprise for Hannah. I told him I gladly would, but I was less keen when he opened the boot and pulled out a bundle of banknotes, which he stuffed into his pocket, his head bobbing about like a turkey to make sure no one was watching. Pip had no understanding of money and I was worried about what he had in mind; on the other hand, the cash belonged to him – there was no arguing with that.
I waited in the car on the busy pavement, listening to the rolling rhythms from the music store. Someone was playing that record again – that eerie, haunting song called ‘Strange Fruit’, which I’d heard Hannah singing so beautifully on that moonlit night. Then I must have drifted off, because it was a long time before I heard their voices again . . .
Hannah wasn’t crying any more. In fact she was laughing with delight, and when I looked up I barely recognized the handsome young adults with their arms around each other’s waists. Pip had bought himself a new shirt and jeans and a red fedora hat with a little feather in the band, and to my amazement he’d bought an identical one for me. I couldn’t believe how grown up he seemed now that he had money in his pocket. But it was Hannah who surprised me most – I had never seen her in anything but an old T-shirt, but now she stood in front of the car in a beautiful yellow dress with a wildflower pattern, a pair of stylish leather boots on her feet, and she was holding something large and heavy in one hand.
I was still half asleep, but Pip was saying, ‘See, Jack, I told Hannah she was lucky she didn’t have a birthday – cos that means she can choose any day she wants! So I said, why not today? 30th August, ain’t it? That’s a good day for a birthday! And if it’s Hannah’s birthday, why, she has to have presents, don’t she, Jack? That’s what you told me . . .’
Then I realized what the young woman in the wildflower dress was holding: it was not a bag, it was not a suitcase. Hannah was holding a guitar case, with a brand-new guitar inside.
34
The Sweet Guitar
hear my mama far away
from a distant star
and her singing is as soft
as a sweet guitar
walking through some crazy town
thought i heard pip say
you never had a birthday girl
so i think that days today
he choose a yellow dress for me
we head back to the car
someplace in a music store
i hear a sweet guitar
listen to the music pip
dont it make you sigh
one day when im famous pip
a guitar is what ill buy
pip say im a patient boy
but I cant wait that far
he walk right in the music store
and buys that sweet guitar
inside the case he put a book
called learn and sing along
practise carefully every day
and you cant go wrong
i hear my mama whispering
one day youll be a star
the world will come to hear you play
on your sweet guitar
i always been a tongue tied girl
and words are kinda new
but three words slip out easily
the words are
i
love
you
35
Pilgrims Return
The first signs that they were approaching Dead River were the wilting crops in the countryside.
Behind the mauve mountains, the scorching ball of the sun was lowering itself like an old man into bed.
As the silver Spider entered the town, Pip saw Jack gazing wistfully at the twinkling lights of the university on the hill. All three of them knew that the
strange summer of 1963 was drawing to a close.
It had been a long journey. They had spent three more days just drifting and enjoying each other’s company, passing the nights in comfortable hotels. And no matter how much Jack protested, Pip had insisted on footing the bill.
By the time they swung off the road at the familiar poplar trees and bounced along the rutted track, it was almost dark and all conversation had ceased. A feeling of nervousness settled on the returning travellers.
Outside the white bungalow Jack switched off the ignition and a deep silence fell. Pip realized that both Jack and Hannah were doing the same as him – staring across the track to Dead River Farm, scanning the yard for Erwin’s Jeep. Mercifully it was not there.
Hannah was the first to move. In her flowery dress and leather boots, with guitar case in hand, she walked round the car to where Jack was sitting at the wheel. She kissed his curly head with simple affection, and by the time he and Pip had climbed out the girl had spirited herself away.
It seemed a lifetime since their first cautious meeting, but now age, education and race seemed meaningless as Jack and Pip hugged each other like an uncle with his favourite nephew.
When Pip walked wearily into the yard, with his satchel hanging from one shoulder, he heard a commotion, and there was Amigo bounding across to greet him. With tail thumping, the old dog almost knocked him off his feet.
Under a bare lightbulb on the farmhouse porch, Zachery was drinking coffee, with a cigarette to keep the bugs at bay.
‘Decaided t’ come back, did ’ee? Ah figured ye an’ the gull run off fer good. Lemme look at ye, boy . . . Y’ seem kinda diff’rent somehow . . .’
‘That’ll be the hat, Mr Zachery, sir.’
‘Ain’t the hat.’
‘Wal, it’s good to see you, Mr Zach. Guess I’ll get some rest so I’m ready for work tomorrow . . .’
‘Reck’n Lilybelle laike t’ see ye now. She got awl kindsa crazy notions in her heed since you bin gawn.’
So Pip pushed open the creaking screen door and stepped into the farmhouse. There was the clock stopped at twenty to nine. There were the glass-eyed animals – although now they did not seem so threatening. He walked along the gloomy corridor and was amazed to see two live chickens pecking on the tabletop – in his absence the kitchen had become almost as chaotic as the yard.
Lilybelle must have heard him because he was greeted by the same tinkling bell and soft call as he had heard on his first visit to that peculiar house.
‘Come an’ show yerself. Don’ be shaiy now. Is that mah precious boy outsaide?’
Pip smiled to himself, and turned the rose-petal handle. To his surprise Lilybelle was sitting with her barrel legs hanging over the side of the bed and a lively expression on her doll-like face. She had a paintbrush in one hand and a large painting on the bed beside her. In the short time he had been away she seemed to have lost weight. Her pink nightdress hung loosely around her now so that she resembled a circus tent pitched in a field.
‘Oh, Pip! Ah’m so glad t’ see yer. Bless yo’ heart, I do believe mah li’l Pip has grown into a man.’
‘And you look wonderful, Lilybelle! You’re breathin’s all clear, an’ your face – well, it’s sorta glowing! Have you been on some kinda diet?’
‘Oh, look at me blush, Pip! You know how t’ sweet-tawk a gull an’ that’s the truth. Wal, if ah’ve lost a li’l weight it’s ’cos Zach don’t know how t’ cook nothin’ but aigs ’n beans. Aigs ’n beans is awl ah ate since you been gawn. Makes me windy as a typhoon, but ah don’ maind, Pip. Ah been real busy, see . . .’
And she had been busy. The room was filled with colourful artwork, pinned to the walls and propped on every surface. Pip saw wonderful imaginary worlds of forests, tumbling waterfalls, beaches and oceans, rainbows and sunsets, flying fish, wild animals of every kind, cities swarming with cars and bicycles, all populated by extraordinary people.
The half-finished painting on the bed was the strangest of them all. It showed a bearded man and a large woman in transparent nightclothes flying together through a starry sky.
‘Lilybelle, is . . . is that you an’ Mr Zach?’
‘Sho’ is!’ she crooned. ‘Ah painted it for a real special occasion. It was our weddin’ an’versary, see. An’, Pip, it makes me blush t’ say it, but Zach say he’s mainded t’ move back into the bedroom with me!’
‘That’s wonderful! I’m real pleased for the both of you, because I’ve got something to tell you too . . . See, I love being with you, Lilybelle, but Hannah and I been thinking . . .’
She placed a stubby finger on her lips. ‘Pip, whatever it is y’ gotta say, ah don’ wanna hear it raight now if it’s awl th’ same t’ you. Ah’ve missed you like mah own son . . . Besaides, you ain’t finished readin’ Great Ex’tations, Pip, an’ ah’m dyin’ to know what occurs.’
‘Course I’ll read to you, Lilybelle. It’s always my pleasure.’ Pip opened his satchel and pulled out the book.
‘You’re a good boy, Pip . . . But ah don’ even know where y’ bin or what ye seen . . .’
‘I don’t know how to say it, Lilybelle. I went to the past . . . I seen the future too an’ it sure looked bright to me.’
When he climbed the ladder in the stable block and crawled beneath the itchy blankets, Pip was restless. He wondered how many more nights he would spend on that makeshift bed. The trip to his village had been a kind of miracle; but he knew that his life journey had barely begun. Now he reflected on the story he had been reading to Lilybelle and the equally miraculous events that had happened to his namesake, Pip. Pip had come upon an unexpected fortune too, but it had turned his head. The hero of Dickens’s story had become arrogant and spoiled. He had shown contempt for the decent ordinary folk who had been his friends, and his new wealth had brought nothing but unhappiness.
But my life is not a story laid out by an author, Pip thought to himself. He resolved that he would not make the sort of mistakes people made in books; he would care for his friends, especially Hannah, and treat them with the kindness they deserved. More than anything, he would become the man who would have made his parents proud.
And all night long, Pip’s dreams clinked and clanked and rustled with the sound of dollars and dimes in a cookie jar.
36
A Warm Welcome from the Klan
How is it possible for a fellow to feel so much pain?
If it hurts this much, how bad must it be to lose a lover, or a child?
He was a cat, for God’s sake! And not even mine. That’s what I loved about the little fellow. He belonged to himself. He belonged to no one. He came and left as he pleased, and I felt privileged that he chose to spend one summer with me.
I never owned him, or tried to own him. But now that he is gone there is something missing like the hole under the bridge when Pip removed the stone. Gaping, cold and empty.
When Hannah and Pip left, I gathered my bags and maps from the overheated car. I pulled out the suitcase with the cookie jar inside, intensely aware of what it contained.
While we were away, I had quietly resolved to leave my job at the university. A big move, I know, but I simply couldn’t tolerate working for a man like Cerberus. Having said that, I’m not the sort of fellow who does things in a hurry – I’d make sure these kids had proper plans in order. Besides, this was the week in which I had agreed to stand in for the man while he was away in North Carolina, and I always fulfil my obligations.
There was just enough daylight to find my way up the steps onto the deck, my arms piled with bags and clothes and the red fedora on my head. I was exhausted, actually – I must have driven thousands of miles in the last few days and I was aching for a shower and a long sleep.
Immediately I realized something was wrong. My door wasn’t quite closed! The lock had been forced!
I dropped everything on the swing seat, heart thumping like a jackhammer. Supposing the bastards were in there? Supposing that giant was waiting at my table
with a rifle in his hands? Anything was possible here. People were lynched and murdered, and the judge who handled the trial would be the assassin’s brother or father; the fellow who wrote up the story for the papers would be his cousin. And they’d all laugh and wink and shake hands with each other. And no one would think anything of it, until my ma received a coffin off the plane.
I crept inside the bungalow as if my belly and all my vital organs were made of concrete. And straight away I could see that the room – my lovely tidy living room – had been turned upside down. There were filthy boot marks across the white carpet. My precious books spewed from their shelves. All my files and notes were spread like apple blossom in a storm. The chairs lay on their sides, the table too. My special couch – the padded one – had been carved up with a knife . . . and – oh, God in heaven and all the saints! They had sliced three letters into the leather:
K K K
Now the concrete in my guts had turned to liquid, which swirled and slurred like a washing machine. I felt sick. Devastated. Terrified.
It was the same thing in the kitchen – every plate and mug smashed. The fridge door hanging on broken hinges, with food trickling out like bile. And I saw that these brutal villains had left me a present hanging from the ceiling fan – a dead rabbit, was it? Didn’t they know I was a vegetarian?
Only this rabbit was ginger with tiger stripes.
And this poor rabbit was Finnegan!
37
The Dreamsnatcher
he has been here
he has prowled bent low beneath hannahs ceiling
and violated the sanctuary of my room
he has been here
he has touched my things with abominable fingers
and broken the web of my dreams
he has been here
i smell the stench of skin and sweat and foul fluids
where
The Hypnotist Page 16