The Talisman (14 page)

The bell rang for recreation and their cell was unlocked. The boys left Alex sitting on his bunk, reading.

The third letter made Alex even more depressed; she was to go into hospital, she had underlined that it was nothing serious and he was not to worry. Alex wanted to cry, he felt so helpless. There was his poor old mum, no one with her, dependent on neighbours. She did not mention Edward, and Alex swore, hitting the wall with his fists. ‘Bastard, didn’t even go an’ see her in ’is ’olidays.’

A warder knocked on the cell door with his baton. ‘Hey, Stubbs, what you think we’re runnin’, a post office? This come fer you, an’ Stubbs, there’s a message inside, all right?’

Alex took the open brown-paper parcel. Evelyne had sent him the only two leather-bound books she had left. They still bore tell-tale marks of the fire. They were Christina Rossetti’s poems and a thin volume of plays by Strindberg.

Alex was so emotionally disturbed by the books, the feel of them, the memories flooding through him, that it was a while before he even opened them. Tucked into the centre of the book was a sheet of cheap, lined notepaper. Opening it, Alex knew immediately that his mother had not written it. The writing was that of a child.

‘Frankie Warrs wants a meet, breakfast, Monday.’

Frankie Warrs was the baron of the main prison. He offered Alex the borstal section to run on his behalf. It was an offer Alex couldn’t refuse. Frankie Warrs was an old friend of Johnny Mask, and Johnny was making sure Alex was being taken care of, as a ‘thank you’ for not grassing on him.

The barons operated food, drink and cigarette rackets, and could get you anything you wanted provided you could pay the price. Alex was given careful instructions on how to proceed. The commonest weakness in prison was smoking. The men were given their cash on Friday and they shelled it straight out on tobacco. By the next day it would be gone. They would then have to buy from the barons, whether a single roll-up or a larger quantity. They had to pay three times the proper price, so they were always in the red. The barons’ paid runners took money to relatives to buy goods outside and smuggle them in. Prisoners often saved themselves a beating by getting their families to bring in the cash they owed, but the less fortunate would have to perform sexual favours. They even got cut up with knives that were smuggled in somehow. No one dared rat on their attackers for fear of further harassment.

As a baron, Alex even had two screws in his employ, who brought him whisky, for which he paid three times the market price. Tom, Joe and little Dick became his runners. Above all, Alex was a very popular boy, so that when his eighteenth birthday came round they threw a party for him in the recreation hall. Evelyne had been allowed to send him a gift, cakes and biscuits, and even the screws sang ‘Happy Birthday’. But the best gift Alex had was a short letter from Dora. He had written to her, not really expecting a reply, and was tickled pink when he got her funny, misspelt letter. She asked if he was okay, and said she was doing fine, but that Johnny Mask had been arrested shortly after Alex and was in Brixton Prison. She added a footnote that she would try to come and see him one visiting day. She didn’t say when, but Alex lived in hope. She had also sent him a photograph of herself, and Alex had pinned it on the cell wall. All the lads thought she was the best-looking ‘bird’ they had ever seen, and Alex gained even more glory through her. He seemed to have everything, and they stared hungrily at Dora’s smiling face as they drifted off into their wet dreams.

Alex was counting his weekly take from the tobacco sales when Tom hurtled into the cell. He could hardly speak, he was so excited, and he gasped out that Alex had a visitor. It wasn’t his ma, he’d seen her arrive and all the lads were trying to get a look at her. It was her, the girl in the picture.

She was looking wonderful, her lipstick red and glossy, her nails scarlet. She waved, and Alex felt his heart thudding as the screws made snide remarks about his girlfriend. He could hardly speak for nervousness, and Dora giggled, saying he looked even bigger than when she had last seen him. He had grown – he was now six feet two inches tall, and had filled out because of all the work-outs he did in the gym. He cracked his knuckles, showing off the muscles in his arms, and she giggled again. ‘I got a few things from your ma – she don’t know I know you, I never said – but remember me once sayin’ I thought we’d met? Well, you could ’ave knocked me down with a feather when I realized who you was. Anyways, she told me to give you these. It’s just some fruit – things are hard to come by with the war an’ all . . . How do you do in ’ere when the sirens go? Bet they can’t let you all out into a shelter, can they?’

Alex asked if Johnny knew about him and Dora, and she laughed. She didn’t really think there was anything to know. When Alex leaned forward he could smell her perfume. ‘You know how I feel about you, you know it . . . Open your blouse for me, go on, just a bit – lemme see them.’ Dora looked around, then slowly unbuttoned her blouse and let him peek at her lace bra, running her tongue round her red-painted lips. Alex rubbed at his erect penis and squashed his legs together until his balls burnt him. She was still talking away, telling him how bad her mother was and how her legs were swollen up like balloons. ‘I said to your mum that if she couldn’t come next visitin’ day I’d like to come again, would you like that?’

Alex was puzzled – what did Dora mean his mother couldn’t come? She looked at him in amazement. ‘Haven’t you been told?’ she asked. Then she looked at the screws and frowned. ‘Bastards never told you, she had to go in for an operation. They say she’s all right but she’s ever so weak, maybe she just didn’t want to bother you.’

The bell clanged and it was over. Alex was led back to his cell. On the way he asked the screws if they could check on his mother – that he had just heard she was ill.

He couldn’t sleep that night for worrying about Evelyne. The lads in their bunks could hear him tossing and turning, and presumed it was because of his lady love. In the morning he requested an interview with the Governor.

He had to wait a whole week before he was taken to the Governor’s office. ‘I want someone to check on me ma, she’s ill, and she’s got no one ter look after her.’

Predictably, he was told that perhaps he should have thought of that before he got himself into trouble. He was so angry that he slammed his fist on the desk and demanded that someone go to see his mother. The wheels were put in motion, and various letters were written to social workers to check up on Mrs Stubbs, but no one seemed particularly concerned.

Edward collected his mail from his pigeon-hole. He recognized his mother’s letter immediately, but was confused by the large manila envelope. He had no idea who it could be from.

He was going to be late for a lecture, so he stuffed the letters in with his books and crossed the quad.

It wasn’t until he got back to his rooms to study that he remembered the letters. He picked them up and sighed – he hated reading Evelyne’s letters, they depressed him so much. But he deftly slit the first cheap envelope with a paperknife. He gave the letter a cursory glance – the usual chatter about the neighbours. Mrs Harris’ daughter again – Edward sighed, and was just about to toss the letter in the waste-paper basket when he noticed there was a postscript. He put the kettle on the small stove to make his cocoa, helped himself to a biscuit and carried it back to his desk, munching while he continued to read. Evelyne wrote that the operation had been successful but she would be in for a few more days. She was feeling much better, but had been worrying about certain financial matters that Edward should be aware of.

Edward’s hand shook when he read that Alex was in Wormwood Scrubs – in the circumstances Evelyne had made a will, leaving everything to Edward. She had signed the letter, as usual, ‘Your Mother’; no love. It was a single sheet of cheap paper. He turned it over. Scrawled on the back was one sentence, underlined, ‘Whatever the outcome, you must take care of your brother, you have a debt you must never forget.’

Edward felt sick, his stomach churning. She had made no mention of why she had had an operation, or why Alex was in Wormwood Scrubs. He crumpled the letter into a ball and hurled it across the room. ‘Stupid bitch, stupid bitch.’

A sob caught in his throat and he retrieved the letter, pressing out the creases. He ran from his room, down the stone stairs three at a time to the telephone booth by the main hall. As he hurried across the quad Walter waved and joined him. ‘I’m just going to see the new Carole Lombard flick at the local, there’s a double feature, Greta Garbo, you want to come? I’ll pay for your ticket.’

‘I’ve got to make a phone call.’

‘You’ll be lucky, all the lines are down, didn’t you hear the blast last night? Do you want to come? Have to get a move on, film starts in five minutes.’

In the small, dark picture house, Edward sat with his eyes closed. The letter felt as though it was burning in his pocket. He took it out and then leant forward and stuffed it in the ashtray. On the screen Greta Garbo portrayed the dying Camille. She held her arms out to her lover, saying over and over in her deep, throaty voice, ‘I love you, I love you, I knew you would come to see me, my love.’

Walter sighed, his thick glasses had steamed up. He was about to dig Edward in the ribs to see if he wanted a choc-ice in the interval when he realized that he was staring at the screen, tears streaming down his cheeks. Walter was surprised, he’d never seen Edward show any emotion at the pictures before. He looked up at the screen; Greta was dead, lying on a bed covered with gardenias, one clasped to her bosom.

It was a month later that the Governor got the word that Alex’s mother was indeed seriously ill. She had already been operated on for cancer, but had been released from hospital. Alex was called and told the news. He was shattered, and had to be helped into a chair.

‘I’ve put in for a special visit, Alex, but the Home Office have to agree – so get back to your cell and as soon as we have news I’ll let you know.’

Alex was in such a black mood when he returned to his cell that the lads were half-afraid to speak to him. Tom climbed up into Alex’s bunk as soon as the lights went out, and held him close. He knew Alex was worrying about his mother. Alex smiled at his pal, and tried to explain what his mother was like – how she was such a fighter, how she had fought all her life to better herself and her sons, even her husband. ‘She always said that you can only climb out of the shit by yer brains, Tom, not yer fists. Always was a stickler for books an’ reading. Since I can remember she was always at the kitchen table wiv a book ready and waitin’, and the way she’d read to us when we were kids . . .’

Tom had never heard Alex speak of his brother, and he was puzzled for a moment. ‘Eh, you didn’t tell me – you got sisters an’ all, Alex?’

Alex shook his head, his voice so quiet Tom had to lean close to hear him. ‘I just got a brother, just one, his name’s Edward.’

Tom knew for a fact that Alex had never received a letter from a brother, and he was surprised. The fact that Alex never spoke about him made it even stranger. ‘Don’t you two get on, then? I mean, you don’t ever talk about him? What’s he up to, doin’ time, is he? Where is ’e, then?’ Tom laughed and Alex cuffed him, then stared blankly at the wall. After a while he told Tom that Edward was at Cambridge. Tom giggled, nudged Alex and said there was a good open prison near Cambridge. Alex didn’t laugh, he got down from his bunk. ‘He’s not in prison, he’s at university.’

Still Tom laughed, letting his head loll over the edge of the bunk. ‘Go on, yer ’avin’ us on – you ain’t got no bruvver, do us a favour.’ Tom could have bitten his tongue out, his hero seemed so helpless, so vulnerable, and he wanted to reach out and hug him. Whatever emotion Tom saw disappeared in the fraction of a second, and Alex laughed, tugging Tom’s hair good-naturedly. ‘You’re right, mate, I ain’t got no friggin’ brother . . . I was just ’aving you on. Yer think the likes of me would have a nob at Cambridge? You lot’d believe anything I say.’

They all laughed and Alex swung himself up into his bunk. He flicked open a well-thumbed American movie magazine, pretending to read. None of them heard a murmur, they all went back to their comics. Alex had to grit his teeth so hard, staring at Carole Lombard’s glossy red lips, her gold lamé swimsuit and all the time hearing Eddie’s voice – the voice he hadn’t heard for so long – yelling at the kids in the street, ‘We are brothers – take ’im on, yer take me . . .’

Alex wouldn’t release the tears. He ground his teeth and flipped the page over. It was true, he had no brother, not any more, and if he did see him, after all this time, he would knock his teeth down his throat.

He slipped his hand under his pillow to the two small, leather-bound books. Holding them brought his mother closer. He tried to remember the poem she loved so much, the one she could recite from memory, ‘Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land . . .’

He closed his eyes, holding the book close to his chest. He wanted his dream so badly – the mountain, the horseman, the clean, sweet air . . . ‘freedom’.

M
rs Harris shuffled down the hospital corridor stopping constantly to catch her breath. She asked a passing nurse the way to Keats Ward, and was directed to a lift. It was on the third floor.

She looked down the long row of beds and noted that they had moved Evelyne again. She was even further along than she had been on the last visit. She was watching out for Mrs Harris, her face pale, and she waved. It broke Mrs Harris’ heart. Evelyne’s arm was so thin and she looked so fragile. Mrs Harris put on a brave smile.

‘Well, ducks, nice to see you looking perkier today. My God, the bus was stopped five times – more rubble in the streets – and as fast as they get it away another attack comes, poor Mrs Smith blown right off her feet she was, an’ her two kids with her – it was a sight to be seen, so I was told, legs up in the air an’ her bloomers showing for all the world.’ She kept up a steady flow of chatter as she took a washbag out of the cabinet, wiped Evelyne’s face and then unbraided her long hair and brushed it slowly. She knew it soothed Evelyne, and that she liked to look neat and tidy.