The Talisman (34 page)

‘Show him in, will you, Arnie? It’s all right, he works for Harry Driver. Apparently he’s a whiz-kid with the accounts. Maybe we should try him out, that bastard we’ve got costs us an arm and a leg.’

When Alex entered she could see that he’d made a great effort. His hair was slicked down, his suit pressed and his shoes polished until you could see your face in them. Dora felt sorry for him, the trouble he’d taken.

‘Well, you found the place, then. Can I get you a drink? Champagne? You name it and I’ll get it sent in.’

Alex said champagne would be just fine, and sat there like a dummy. He was all fingers and thumbs, and spilt the champagne as he poured it. He had to lick it off his hands. ‘Er, when I saw yer, you said somefink about Eddie. I come round to see if you got his address.’

Alex could hear his old cell-mate correcting him, ‘No, no – it’s not somefink, something, it’s a soft G.’ He caught Dora staring at him and looked away. She was checking him over and he knew it.

‘Like I told you, I’ve not seen him for a long time . . . They say you know all about taxes and accounting, Alex. How come? If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look like the pinstriped City type.’

Alex shuffled his feet, blushing. ‘Let’s just say I had a long time to study.’

Suddenly he looked up and gave her a shy smile. She smiled back and poured him some more champagne. ‘You certainly made a mess of your face . . . You know, accountants cost. Maybe I could let you have a look over our books. I’d be glad of a few tips and I’d pay you for your time.’

There was another knock at the door and Arnie appeared. Dora looked up, annoyed at the interruption, but he whispered something to her and she got up to look through the spyhole in the door.

Johnny, obviously very drunk, was leering around the bar. She flipped the cover back in place. ‘Arnie, get Cathy over to him and get him out fast as you can. There’s a big party due about eleven-thirty and they’re real money, I don’t want him around. If he won’t go quietly, bloody well haul him out.’

She clinked ice into a tall, thin glass and poured herself a glass of water.

‘Crazy, isn’t it? My dear husband, partner in a business that’s worth God knows how many thousands, and he’s out there boozing it up and carrying on with the girls.’ Dora lit a cigarette and put it in a holder, blew out the smoke and crossed her still perfect legs. ‘You be interested in doing the accounts, Alex? No need to mention it to Driver if you don’t want to.’

Alex murmured that he could always do with some extra, and if she handed over the books he’d contact her as soon as he’d been through them.

Dora got up and went to a wall safe, twirled the combination and turned, smiling and licking her lips. ‘Goes without saying there are two sets, but I’m sure you would know all about that. I can trust you, can’t I, Alex? I mean, these are private.’

Alex could feel her looking at him and flushed, put down his glass and told her she didn’t have to worry. She took out all the books and put them into a shopping bag. He was fascinated by her perfectly manicured long red nails.

‘I’m sure I can trust you, Alex, we go back a long way together, you and me. Here you are, dear, and I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Alex worked all night on Dora’s ledgers, and when he had finished he chucked down his chewed pencil. ‘Shit, that little tart’s worth a bleedin’ fortune . . .’

The club was a gold mine, but it was losing more than it needed to through mismanagement. Alex knew he could get back a lot of the tax the club was paying. She could be claiming for God knows how many more employees than she was. Alex quickly began to calculate the savings. He paced the small bedsit, constantly drawn back to the books. Dora was earning a living wage, but right in front of him he saw a way to make a lot more. When George arrived home at four in the morning, he was amazed to find Alex still working.

‘Whatcha up to, son? You been out? ’Bout time yer got yer leg over . . .’

Alex quickly covered the books while George was hanging his coat in the small wardrobe they shared.

‘I’m movin’ out, George. Need a bigger place. Maybe you can get that bird you see to move in an’ keep the place tidy . . .’

George’s face fell, and Alex went to sit next to him on the bed. ‘I been offered a job. It’s straight, but . . . there’s another reason. You see, I need to find somebody, and I just got a lead on him. So, in a way, I’m killin’ two birds . . .’

George watched Alex undress, revealing his big body, and the powerful way he moved. He hung everything neatly on a hanger in the small wardrobe.

‘You want to tell me about it? I mean, who is he? Who you got this lead on then?’

‘It’s a relative, that’s all.’

‘Well, you make sure you don’t do nuffink that’ll put yer back inside.’

Alex turned to him. Sometimes he frightened George. His blue eyes were filled with hatred, and yet he had a soft smile. ‘I’ll never be put behind bars again – I’m going to make sure of that.’

During the flight to South Africa, Edward settled back in his seat. It would be a long journey with many stopovers for refuelling. He recalled BB telling him he had arrived in South Africa with only one hundred pounds and made millions – well, Edward had, after paying his fare, exactly eighty-five pounds to his name. He was, nevertheless, determined that he too would make his fortune.

Ahead of Edward lay his future, and he was itching to begin. He knew he was taking a chance, knew it, but he was ready for it – longed for it – and he would let nothing stand in his way, nothing and no one.

Edna Simpson waited at the airport for her daughter. The plane was delayed, and she paced up and down. The family had said all they could say on the subject, and they had made their decision. As soon as she got off the plane she would be taken to the Harley Street clinic where she was booked. The minor operation had been easily arranged. No one would find out, no one would know. Harriet was still a child, and the more Mrs Simpson thought about it the worse she felt. Her daughter had been a problem since the day she was born, when Mrs Simpson had almost died giving birth to her. It had been one heartache after another ever since.

‘God, why couldn’t she have been a boy?’ The season would soon be upon them, and Harriet’s ‘coming-out’ dance would go ahead as arranged. Mrs Simpson was so immersed in her own thoughts that she jumped.

‘Hello, Ma, dreadful bumpy ride, pilot was terrific.’

Mrs Simpson pursed her lips and kissed her daughter frostily on the cheek, then took her suitcase. They walked to the car, which was waiting outside the terminal.

‘We are going straight to Harley Street, everything’s arranged.’

Harriet beamed, said there was absolutely no need, she felt wonderful.

‘That is not quite the point, dear. You will only have to stay overnight, I’ll collect you in the morning and no one will be any the wiser. Now get in the car and don’t talk about it, I don’t want the chauffeur to know – talk about anything but you-know-what.’

Harriet stopped short and folded her arms. ‘What you talking about, Ma?’

Mrs Simpson pursed her lips even tighter. ‘You know perfectly well, an abortion.’ She hissed the word, and Harriet’s mouth fell open. ‘Daddy and I have sent off all the invitations, get into the car, dear. So far we have got a jolly good set of replies.’

They got into the car and Mrs Simpson watched the chauffeur putting Harriet’s case into the boot.

‘Oh, God! You’re not serious, Ma, you haven’t arranged a dance, have you?’

Her mother gave a nod for the chauffeur to drive on, and settled back. ‘Well, of course we have, it’s your coming-out ball, you know perfectly well. We had to book our dates at the Dorchester ballroom weeks ago.’

Harriet giggled and leaned back in the seat. ‘Well, I’ll certainly be coming out in more ways than one, Ma.’

‘No you won’t, I won’t hear one word more. It is all arranged. Now then, do you want to see your guest lists?’

Harriet gazed out of the window, sighed and took her mother’s hand. ‘I’m truly sorry, Ma, about the dance, but I am not going to any clinic, I refuse . . . You see, I want him, want the baby more than anything else in the world, and I don’t think I have ever felt so happy in my whole life.’

Mrs Simpson thought she would faint, she had to wind down the window. ‘Please keep your voice down, please.’

Harriet looked at her mother, and then at the stiff-backed chauffeur. She leaned forward and dug him in the back. ‘I am going to have a baby, Henson, isn’t that wonderful?’

The car veered towards the centre of the road. Henson flicked a quick look into his mirror and then concentrated on driving.

‘Didn’t you hear me? I am going to have a baby.’

Mrs Simpson slapped her, said she was most certainly not and she was to stop this silliness at once.

‘It’s not silly, Ma, it’s the truth.’

‘I know it is, haven’t you been sent home in disgrace? Do you know how your father feels? Have you any consideration for your father, for Allard? Let alone myself, don’t you care what we think?’

Harriet tried to take her mother’s hand again, but she withdrew it. ‘Oh, Ma, don’t you care what
I
think, what I feel?’

Mrs Simpson took out her handkerchief, blew her nose, and said it was quite immaterial what Harriet felt. They had decided and it was final.

‘It’s my baby, mine, and I want him, and what’s more I am going to have him and I don’t care what any of you think or feel, he is my baby.’

The chauffeur swallowed and took another quick look in the driving mirror. The conversation going on behind him was riveting.

‘Who is the father, we want to know who did this – and my God, if I get my hands on him, if your father got his hands on him, he would tear him to pieces . . . How could you, dear, you are only sixteen.’

They argued for the rest of the journey, and the poor chauffeur kept being told to go to Harley Street, then Harriet would scream that he had to take them home, he didn’t know which way to turn.

‘Your father will settle this – Kensington, Henson! And you haven’t heard a word of our conversation, is that clear?’

Allard strode into the hall as they arrived, looked at his sister then at his mother. ‘I say, is it a joke, you been playing a joke on us, Harry?’

Mrs Simpson said that she most certainly had not, then looked with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘It isn’t a joke, is it, Harriet?’

Harriet looked at the two of them and laughed, then asked if they wanted her to waddle for them or stick a cushion up her school tunic. ‘I am preggers, and I am delighted and happy, so stick that up your nose.’

‘Harriet, come down this instant, you hear me, I want you in my study now.’

She marched in and sat down in the big, black leather wing chair and swung her legs. He had his speech all prepared just as if he were in court, but suddenly the words disappeared and he got up and pulled her into his arms. ‘Oh, Harry, Harry, you silly, silly gel, what a mess you’ve got yourself into! But not to worry, we’ll get it all sorted out.’

She hugged her father, this show of emotion was so unlike him and she felt sorry, sorry for all the upset, but she was resolved, and would not be persuaded. ‘Pa, I want him so much, I want this baby, and I am going to have him. Please, please, don’t make me lose him, don’t let them take him away . . .’

The Judge tried everything, and in the end he had to admire his daughter. He asked her time and time again for the name of the father, did she love him?

‘I do, I love him with all my heart.’

The Judge sighed with relief. Well at least that was one thing in their favour. ‘Well, then, you’ll have to marry the chap, who is it?’

Harriet bowed her head and looked at her shoes.

‘Come on, gel, out with it, I’ll go round and see his family, is he foreign? You meet him in Switzerland?’

The Judge gulped down his Scotch and sat down next to his wife, took her hand. ‘Gel’s got a will of iron. She won’t have it aborted, and she won’t say who the father is, only that she loves the chap and she wants his brat. I don’t know what we are going to do, be a bloody rum do her coming out six months’ pregnant, be the laughing stock . . . Some birthday party, what?’

Mrs Simpson felt the tears rising again, and sniffed. ‘Now, now, don’t break the taps, old thing, we’ll sort something out. We can pack her off to the country – that cousin of yours, farm down in Dorset. Nobody’ll see her there, know her . . . she can have the thing and . . .’

The more they discussed it the more it became a vicious circle of problems. If she was allowed to have it and then returned to London everyone would know.

‘Don’t suppose we could farm it out, no, she wouldn’t accept that. We could say we’ve adopted it, lot of it going on nowadays.’

Harriet came in, downcast but unashamed, and repeated how sorry she was, and how sad to make the whole family so unhappy. ‘I’ll marry the father one day, I promise you. It’s just he has things to do. I don’t mind staying down on Auntie’s farm, I can even take my horse.’

Mrs Simpson told her that she was even more stupid than she had imagined. ‘You can’t ride in your condition, you silly gel. Who is the fellow, why won’t you tell us? I mean, if he needs money perhaps Daddy can help out.’

‘Bloody take a shotgun to him, more like it . . . whoever he is needs a ruddy thrashing. You’re only sixteen, for Gawd’s sake.’

Harriet got up and put her arms around both parents’ shoulders and kissed them. ‘Just know that I love him, I really do, and I want his son.’

At that moment she seemed so grown up, so much older than her parents even, and they looked at each other and gave in.

The Simpsons prepared a press release to the effect that Harriet Simpson’s forthcoming dance would be cancelled due to illness. Then they crossed it out – the Judge said it sounded better if they said, ‘due to a family bereavement’ . . . In truth it felt like one, they had suddenly lost their little girl.

Harriet adored the country. Her Auntie Mae was a distant relative, and one they usually kept out of the way. She was a big, rotund woman with two grown-up sons married and living close by, and she welcomed Harriet with open arms. Her husband was reluctant at first, but the Judge gave them a handsome allowance to keep her until the child was born.