As if by Magic (4 page)

Jack clicked his tongue. ‘I think I'll leave what happened that night alone for the time being. I know you said he was ill but I had no idea he was so washed up. To be honest, after having seen him, Bill, and hearing what the doctor had to say, I think you're probably right and he imagined the whole thing.'

George was discharged from hospital on Monday and, exhausted by the move to Chandos Row, spent most of the day dozing. On Tuesday morning, however, he was so much brighter that he was able to get up, have a bath, and eat a very substantial breakfast.

He sat in the brocaded armchair by the crackling fire, dressed in a spare pair of Jack's pyjamas, wrapped in an old and hairy dressing gown. As a final domestic touch, the kitchen cat, Boots, had wandered in to greet the new arrival. George, who liked cats, had given her some of his breakfast kipper on a saucer and Boots, with deep approval, was now curled up on his knee, purring loudly.

‘You're honoured,' said Jack from over the top of the newspaper. ‘Boots doesn't take to everyone.'

George smiled and idly scratched the top of the cat's head, resulting in a fusillade of purring. ‘It's nice here, Jack,' he said.

He'd scarcely taken in his surroundings yesterday but he'd had a good look round the sitting room this morning. It was full of colour. There was a blue-and-red Turkish carpet in front of the fire, comfortable chairs and a sofa with cushions in green, blue and yellow. The table where they had just had breakfast was covered with a crisp white cloth and paintings hung on the cream-coloured walls. There were a couple of a large country house with a river and trees, with masses of gusty white clouds, one of Jack's favourite places of all. It was, Jack said, Hesperus, his aunt and uncle's house in Sussex, where he had spent much of his childhood. ‘I go there for holidays,' he added with a smile. ‘It's nice to pretend I'm one of the idle rich from time to time.'

The rest of the paintings were mainly, George guessed, of Mediterranean scenes, with big skies and a hot sun. He liked those; they reminded him of home. One, a striking study of a ruined white church set in dark pines against a brilliant sea, was signed with Jack's name. George had had no idea he was an artist. There was a gramophone with a mixed selection of classical and jazz records underneath. A collection of silver sports cups, mainly for boxing, stood on the sideboard, together with an agreeable array of bottles and a soda siphon. A Spanish guitar stood propped against the bookcase. The bookcase itself occupied the alcove next to the window and was filled from floor to ceiling. The stuff on the higher shelves looked fairly deep: poetry and philosophy. Further down were the sort of books George thought he might like to read, with bright spines and the words
Body, Murder
and
Death
in the titles. Underneath the blue-curtained window, through which came the faded noise of traffic on the Strand a few streets away, stood an office desk with a typewriter and, beside that, a very workmanlike filing cabinet, on top of which were reference books. There was a well-thumbed dictionary, an atlas, Whitaker's Almanack, something calling itself
Everybody's Pocket Companion
– you'd need damn big pockets – Burke's Peerage, Kelly's Street Directory and a book of quotations.

Jack, apparently, was an author, a choice of profession which caused George to raise his eyebrows. Even if old Jack wrote detective stories, which he said he did, it wasn't, in George's opinion, a proper job for a man, not the sort of man who'd been his flight commander, at any rate. It wasn't really work at all. He tactfully kept these views to himself, falling back on the comforting thought that it took all sorts to make a world.

Because Jack was all right. The first time he'd met him, Jack had been covered in oil and dressed in filthy overalls. George, secure in his immaculate uniform, had looked at his olive-skinned flight commander and inwardly sneered. A dago. Partly a dago, at any rate, who was too good-looking by half. And then, quite unaware that he had broken the twin South African taboos of dirt and mixed race, Jack had started to talk about flying. He knew his stuff, that was for sure, and George felt a grudging respect.

Jack, who was sitting in the opposite armchair, looked up from the
Daily Messenger.
He was also thinking about flying. It was George's voice that had done it in the first instance. That clipped South African accent brought back, more vividly than he'd have thought possible, half-forgotten details of the war. It seemed so long ago now, yet it wasn't, not really. Then, as if to reinforce his thoughts, the
Messenger
had had a long article about air travel and safety.

‘Do you want the paper?' he asked. ‘There's an article about this air crash in Paris the other day.'

‘An air crash? What happened?' said George with interest.

‘The undercarriage crumped as the plane came in. No one was hurt much to speak of, but a couple of sheds came off worse. Considering what could have happened, I think the pilot deserves a medal.'

‘So do I.' He took the outstretched newspaper. Boots, outraged by the movement, stood up, glared, stropped her claws on the dressing gown and departed. George watched her go with a smile, then turned his attention to the paper. He wouldn't have minded reading the article but the small print made his eyes ache.

‘I'll look at it later, Jack. What I'd really like is a cup of coffee.'

‘Right you are,' said Jack. He picked up the percolator which was making comfortable plopping noises on the hearth, poured two cups of coffee and gave one to George.

It was a simple action, yet George felt so ridiculously grateful he had to swallow hard to keep his voice from breaking. When Jack had turned up at the hospital on Saturday afternoon George could hardly believe it, and then, when Jack casually suggested he should come and stay, the relief had been so great George couldn't find any words to express what he felt. He simply reached out and clasped his friend's hand.

He'd hardly taken in what he'd said, all about his landlady (Mrs Pettycure? Was that the name?) and how it was all okay and he could have the spare room and so on. All he really knew was that the ordinary things of life, things he'd scarcely thought of a few weeks before, such as warmth, food, shelter and companionship, had been snatched away and now they were back, given by someone who didn't seem to have any idea of how much it meant.

George sipped his coffee. ‘This,' he said with deep feeling, ‘is absolutely wonderful. My word, I wish I'd known you lived in London. I've had the most ghastly time.'

Jack sat back in the armchair once more and stirred his coffee. ‘Why did you come here?' he asked curiously. ‘I know how you came to be in hospital, of course, but what brought you to London?'

‘It was the legacy,' said George. He looked at Jack's enquiring face. ‘It's a long story.'

‘I love long stories,' said Jack cheerfully. ‘Especially when they've got legacies in them. Go on.' George hesitated and Jack reached for a cigarette. ‘Why don't you tell me what happened to you after the war?' he prompted. ‘Did you go home? Back to South Africa?'

George hesitated once more and Jack could see him trying to think of the right words. ‘I did go back,' he said eventually. ‘I'd been longing to go back but I don't know . . .' He paused. ‘I tried to get into the routine of the farm once more but after the war and flying and so on, it all seemed so dull. My mother had died while I'd been away and although my father was pleased to see me, I'd changed. He couldn't really understand what life had been like in France, Jack, or in the prisoner-of-war camp, and when I thought of what I'd been through, none of that ordinary stuff seemed worth bothering with any more. I couldn't settle.'

Jack nodded. ‘You weren't alone in that feeling.'

George looked up. ‘Wasn't I? I don't know. I didn't fit in any more. It was as simple as that. It might have been different if I'd had brothers and sisters but there was just me and my father. To be fair to him, I think he was ill. Anyway, he died a few months after I got back and then there really wasn't anything to keep me on the farm any longer. I sold up and headed north. I did a few things after that, including running a seaplane, a Short 184, along Lake Nyasa with a couple of pals. That was tremendously good fun while it lasted but the plane got damaged in a storm and we couldn't fix it. I lost a good bit of the money from the farm on that plane. Then I picked up a nasty dose of malaria and ended up back at the Cape. I tried all sorts of things – tourist guide, the railways, overseer at the diamond fields – and finally ended up taking parties to hunt big game. I got as far as Matabeleland. It was all going well when I came down with malaria again. I was looked after by the White Fathers on a mission station near Tulali.' He took another drink of coffee. ‘And that, in a roundabout way, is what brought me to London. They had a stack of old newspapers. I was flicking through them one day when I saw my own name in a paper dated December 1921.'

Jack leaned forward. ‘Your name?'

‘Yes. It was an advertisement which said that if George Lassiter, late of my old address, and thought to be resident in South Africa, would apply to Marchbolt, Lawson and Marchbolt, solicitors of London – it gave the address – I would hear of something to my advantage. You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather.'

‘I can imagine. And this was your legacy, was it?'

‘Yes, it was, but I'm afraid it didn't come off as I'd hoped.' George took a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully. ‘I wrote to the solicitors and when their reply came, I was thunderstruck. It stated that the legacy – it was a legacy – had been paid in February 1922 to Mr George Lassiter and virtually accused me of attempted fraud.'

‘Good grief,' said Jack, sitting up. ‘What did you do?'

‘I was furious. The solicitors had quoted the address of the farm in the advert and used my name and I thought someone had calmly stepped in and swindled me out of what was rightfully mine.'

‘But that's appalling,' said Jack. ‘Hang on a minute. Your father wasn't called George by any chance, was he?'

George shook his head. ‘No, but I see what you mean. If I'd been called after him there would be two George Lassiters at the same address, but that idea doesn't hold water. Apart from anything else, the legacy was paid after he died. No, it wasn't my father.'

‘And they gave the address of the farm?'

‘Yes. It simply had to mean me, Jack.'

‘It looks like it.' He paused. ‘Who could have left you the money? Have you any idea?'

George shook his head. ‘That's another thing I couldn't work out. I've had lots of friends and wondered if it might be an old pal, but from the tone of the letter I gathered there was quite a bit of money at stake. I couldn't think who the dickens it might be. I wrote to the solicitors again but they declared that they'd said all they were going to say and that, as far as they were concerned, was that. What would you have done?'

Jack considered the question for a moment. ‘In your position? I think I'd have come to London. I'd want to know who had mentioned me in their will, I must say, let alone what had happened to the money.'

George nodded. ‘That's exactly what I did. I packed up, got the train to Durban and when I found out the fare to London was twenty-two pounds, that seemed to settle it. I had just over twelve pounds left after I'd bought the ticket and got some kit together, and I thought the change would see me through for a few weeks. When I arrived in London I went straight to the solicitors. They were a bit frosty at first but I let them know I wasn't leaving until I had some answers. Eventually I was wheeled in to see the chief panjandrum, old Mr Marchbolt himself. He asked for my birth certificate but I've never had one. I'd wanted it when I joined the Royal Flying Corps but my father told me it had been lost years ago, together with a lot of other family papers. However, I had other papers with me, such as my RFC discharge certificate, and so on. Mr Marchbolt asked me some pretty piercing questions but my answers must have satisfied him, because he unbent as we went on and told me what had happened. The legacy was a pretty substantial one.'

Jack looked at him with interest. ‘Go on. How much was it?'

‘Forty-six thousand pounds.'

Jack stared at him. ‘Forty-six
thousand
! That's a fortune.'

George nodded grimly. ‘I thought so. Forty-six thousand pounds and it had been swiped. Nice, eh?'

‘But who'd left it to you?' asked Jack. ‘Did this Mr Marchbolt tell you?'

George leaned forward. ‘Yes, he did, and again, I can't make any sense of it. A Mrs Rosemary Belmont had left the money to her son, George Alfred Lassiter, on her death in October 1921. Now I'm George Alfred Lassiter and the address given in the will was the farm, but Rosemary Belmont, whoever she was, certainly wasn't my mother. I couldn't figure it out. My mother was called Susan and her maiden name was Harrison. She certainly never had that sort of money and anything she did have went to my father. I've never known anyone called Belmont and who on earth she was is anybody's guess. Mr Marchbolt told me frankly he was giving me these details because I could go and look up Mrs Belmont's will for a shilling in Somerset House, wherever that is.'

‘And who claimed it?'

George shrugged. ‘Someone who said they were me. Apparently the solicitors had advertised in the
Cape Town Herald
and the other South African papers but I'd been up on Lake Nyasa. Anyway, they received a letter from a George Alfred Lassiter, enclosing a birth certificate, and, as everything seemed to be in order, they paid up.'

‘Where had this other George Lassiter written from?'

‘They wouldn't tell me, apart from the fact it was South Africa. I came out of the solicitors' office feeling skittled out. To be honest, I didn't know if I'd been rooked or not. As I say, the address was certainly mine but Mrs Belmont wasn't my mother.'