The Talisman

Chapter five

Edward’s renewed determination to succeed was defeated on his return to Cambridge. The dreaded summons to appear before the Army Recruitment Board was waiting for him. He slumped down in the chair in his study.

Walter appeared within moments. ‘You want to come along to the Marlowe Society, do you? It’s next week, should be good fun. I’ll pay for your membership, what do you say, Edward? It’s a jolly good society, they do plays. I wondered if I could get a part, what do you think, Edward?’

‘They’ve got me, the bastards, I’ve got to go before the ruddy board, could get called up. Shit, this is all I need right now, with exams coming up.’

Walter told Edward he wouldn’t have that problem, not with his eyesight. Suddenly Edward became very interested in Walter’s vision, asking if he was long-or shortsighted, how much he could and couldn’t see, and Walter, who was rarely asked anything personal, launched into a long, boring speech about his myopia.

Edward leaned back, smiling. Old Emmott had given him the hint and now he would take it. He wasn’t going to be called up by anybody, he was going to make damned sure of that. He dismissed Walter with a wave of his hand and as soon as he had left, Edward began practising a convincing myopic squint. Later, he paid Walter an unexpected call, having rarely bothered to visit him before. Walter’s desk was a mess of papers and documents, but Walter’s spare pair of glasses also lay there.

Edward walked into his interview with the Recruiting Board wearing Walter’s glasses. The Marlowe Society would have been astonished at his performance, as none of the board members were fools, having seen every trick in the book pulled by undergraduates reluctant to join up. Edward was a first-class student, one they would have shipped into the intelligence offices where he would have spent his time deciphering codes and developing new ones. Many students had been used in this section, particularly those in Edward’s field.

He had sat up for a whole week, his eyes red-rimmed, paying close attention to the way Walter used his glasses, and particularly the problems associated with shortsightedness. They could not fault him, although the medical officer gave him stringent tests. He examined Edward’s eyes, but did not give a very detailed report. Edward sighed with relief when he was passed over, but he would have to continue wearing glasses. He paid a visit to a local optician and bought a pair with plain glass lenses.

Although he joined the Marlowe Society, Edward felt ill at ease. He wasn’t exactly ignored, but there were so many strong personalities that he paled beside them. He was asked if he wanted to act, in which case he would have to audition before being accepted, or if he wanted to submit script ideas for the forthcoming ‘Footlights’ revue. Walter introduced him to the other members, but he only half listened. He was thinking he wouldn’t bother coming to any more meetings, and would have left immediately if Allard Simpson hadn’t made an appearance. Allard was the star of the company, outrageous and brilliantly funny. He came sweeping in, wearing an opera cloak and jodhpurs with high brown boots. He told them that they must have new material, they were running dry, and if they had to give any more concerts with that idiot trombone player they would fall apart. All the members were set to work to find new pieces, Edward among them. Not that he had any intention of wasting his valuable time. He dismissed it from his mind and continued to study.

One morning Edward’s bedmaker handed him a folder of papers he had found beneath the mattress, and Edward flipped it open to find numerous essays in Charlie’s handwriting. He found himself laughing as he read page after page of notes and drawings, done for Charlie’s own amusement. It gave him an idea. He copied all the papers and gave some to the society as if they were his own work.

Allard called on him to say the pieces were wonderful, and he wanted to put two into the latest Footlights offering. He wandered around Edward’s room remarking on the paintings, then stopped in front of a portrait of an army officer and tapped it. ‘This your father?’

Edward told him it was an uncle, and the others were assorted members of his family. In response to Allard’s enquiry about where he lived, Edward invented a house in Kensington.

‘You must come over to my place during the vacation,’ said Allard, wandering around Edward’s study, picking up objects and setting them down. He slumped into a chair. ‘Very impressed with the decor. My old man wouldn’t give me a pot to piss in, he’s so tight-fisted. Old boy’s a judge. They’ve got me studying law to follow in his wake. I hate it all, only reason I’m here is the Marlowe Society. If I weren’t so good, they’d have sent me down. Have you been before the Recruitment Board yet? I’m lucky, following in Pa’s footsteps in more ways than one — I’ve inherited his flat feet.’ Lounging in the chair, he asked if there was anything to drink, then invited Edward to join him for Sunday lunch — a few friends would be driving down from London to join him.

Allard was a strange-looking boy, very tall and pale with a thick mop of bright red curls. His eyes were slanting and very blue, and, although his hooked nose and small mouth were not good features on their own, together they made Allard very striking. He wore outrageous clothes, always with a flower in his buttonhole, and a sweet perfume wafted around him at all times.

As Edward had no drinks to offer, Allard uncurled his long legs and made for the door. ‘We’ll have to work a bit together on your material, so get a few bottles of plonk in. I like to wet the whistle... see you Sunday.’

Edward smiled to himself. ‘Mr Popular’ would be very useful and, apart from that, Edward liked him.

The Sunday lunch proved to be an eye-opener for Edward in more ways than one. He arrived promptly at one o’clock, and Allard appeared in his dressing gown, swearing that he had no idea it was so late. He opened his wallet and sent Edward to collect the champagne he had ordered for the luncheon, and Edward went hastily, angry with himself for not realizing, as usual, that this crowd didn’t behave as if they were at school, doing everything promptly by the clock.

When he returned with the champagne, he could hear Allard’s angry, high-pitched voice. ‘I promise you he’s just the writer, for God’s sake, there’s no need to get hysterical — I hardly know him, he’s just early for luncheon, that’s all. You really are so stupid! You know how I feel about you, why always ruin everything by being obsessively jealous? It’s too tiresome... you’d better go and change.’

The reaction to Allard’s tirade was an outburst of sobbing, so Edward decided on a strategic retreat. When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard a door slam, then running footsteps. The Honourable Henry Blackwell, head of the union and ‘Mister Snob’ himself, ran past Edward in tears.

When Edward entered the room, he found Allard, dressed in a plum velvet smoking jacket, instructing his porter on how to set the table. It was after three o’clock by the time the lunch began, by which time eight more people had arrived, carrying more champagne, home-brewed wine and caviar. They all got so drunk that the lunch became a shouting match. Edward made a mental note of everyone’s names, and watched his speech to make sure he didn’t drop any aitches. He made himself useful, helping to serve and being very much a part of Allard’s team. All the girls were titled, very young with high-pitched voices, and the girl next to Edward passed him her card and insisted that he look her up when he got to town. They all showered Edward with their cards, and Allard roared with laughter. ‘All after that lean body of yours, Edward old chap. Ahhhh... Henry, come in, come in, you’re very late.’

Henry Blackwell entered, his arms full of flowers. He knelt at the feet of one of the debs and kissed her. It appeared that this was his fiancee. The girl blushed and kissed him back, looking at him with adoration in her eyes. Edward watched the play between Allard and Henry — they were very friendly, but they sat at opposite ends of the table. Edward knew that no one would believe what he had overheard, yet he detected a slight frostiness emanating from the Honourable Henry. He knew why, but he said nothing, knowing intuitively the value of his secret.

Cambridge University was well known for its revues, but the most prestigious of all was the Footlights. Some of its members actually went into the theatre after gaining their degrees. The shows were very professional, and many West End managements paid visits, talent-spotting. This year’s show was one of their best yet, and Edward’s comic monologues were the hit of the night, thanks to Charlie.

Edward had been slightly wary, wondering if Charlie had ever shown any of his work to his friends, but it became obvious he hadn’t. As Edward supplied more and more of Charlie’s monologues, he became quite a star attraction himself, and no one was aware that he had stolen his new-found fame. His mantelpiece was filled with embossed invitation cards for the forthcoming vacation, and he was very careful not to answer any of them, hedging his bets. Now he was accepted as part of the crowd he intended to stay in with them. Walter asked if he would like to spend the vacation with his family in Manchester and was laughed at for his pains. Edward had dropped Walter since he had become friendly with Allard, and no longer accepted the offers of free trips to the pictures. ‘Why don’t you find yourself a girl, Walter? You shouldn’t want to take me with you everywhere you go, doesn’t look too good. You ever had a girl, Walter?’

Poor Walter blushed and polished his glasses, and stuttered painfully that he had known lots of girls, he just didn’t talk about them too much. He had become editor of a varsity magazine called Cambridge Front, and offered to let Edward write for it. ‘I’ve got some great people contributing, Dylan Thomas, Vladimir Mayakowsky and Raj Anand. Would you write one of your monologues for me, Edward?’

Edward’s store of Charlie’s work was running low, but he promised to come up with something for poor Walter.

Allard, who never knocked, just breezed in, his hair standing on end. He started talking before he’d even closed the door. ‘Edward, old chap, it’s about this piece on the ballet dancer, I think it would be perfection if I had a rugby forward with me who changed into a tutu halfway through; it’d be hysterically funny, don’t you think?’ He pranced around the room, proclaiming the monologue about the male ballet-dancer’s position in the world of dancing. ‘Okay, now when I get to this bit...’ He took up a balletic pose and continued in a high-pitched, camp voice, ‘The main problem with the public is that they believe that dancing is for women, and any boy taking it up as a career could be termed a cissy... Now then, when I go on about Nijinsky, I think I should prance around doing the “golden slave” routine from Scheherazade, the costume would be funnier, don’t you think, than what you’ve suggested — the “Spectre de la Rose”. So instead of knocking Nijinsky I’m going to be that other fella, you know, whatsit, Stanislas Idzikovsky, much funnier name, that all right?’

Edward had to cover because he’d never heard of Idzikovsky. Allard took his silence for disapproval. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. ‘Oh, come on, it’s much better. Sometimes you are so earnest... Do I change it or not?’

Edward nodded and Allard beamed. He could snap so fast — one moment all laughs and smiles, the next acting like a bitchy woman. Edward also began to detect how Allard’s voice switched with his moods. One moment he would be dead straight, the next he would be speaking with a camp lisp, savouring his words with that twinkle in his eye. Allard opened the door with a sweeping gesture.

‘For Chrissake, Allard, can’t you even open a door without making a performance of it?’

Allard primped, hands on hips. ‘Listen, who do you think you are, Noel Coward?’

Edward attended the rehearsal, but soon decided he had seen enough and went for a late stroll along the river. He walked on to the small bridge and leaned on the parapet, watching a few students in punts messing about and making fools of themselves. Continuing over the bridge, he cut down the steps to the river bank. He recognized Walter in one of the punts, and couldn’t help but laugh. Walter was obviously extremely drunk. His glasses were askew, and he was clinging on for dear life to the punt pole. Edward had not seen Walter for a few weeks because of his new friends, and he knew Walter was upset about it. He also knew that if Walter and the others were caught on the river at this time of night they would be up before the provost.

Edward walked on but, hearing the hilarity increase, he turned back in time to see Walter flying head-first into the river. The girls thought it was all very funny and smashed their poles into the water close to him as he thrashed around, yelling that he had lost his glasses. The other boys clung to the side of the overturned punt, and one of them called to the girls to lend a hand. They manoeuvred themselves closer. Edward could see it was going to happen and shouted, but he was too late. The two girls were tipped into the water. There was so much splashing that Edward couldn’t see Walter, but he did see one of the girls go under. She came up gasping for air, and he could tell by her terrified screams that she couldn’t swim.

Edward dived in and dragged the girl to the bank. She was near collapse and he turned her over, pumped at her lungs. All around him was pandemonium in the darkness as the boys crawled on to the banks, and Edward shouted again for Walter without success. The girl sat up, coughing and spluttering, and Edward waded back into the water, calling for his crazy friend. Suddenly he spotted him, a little way up the river, floating face down. Edward swam to him, grabbed his inert body and doggy-paddled to the bank, doing his best to keep Walter’s head above water. He shouted to the boys for help as they ran back towards the boathouse, but he could see torchlights approaching. He knew if they were caught they would all have to go before Emmott, and would be in serious trouble. He held Walter for grim death as the torches came closer and closer, scanning the river for the culprits as the two overturned punts gradually sank.

Walter began to cough and choke, and Edward dragged him to the river bank, where he spewed up the water he had swallowed. Walter’s teeth chattered all the way back to the college, and they had to stop occasionally while he vomited. Edward despatched him to his rooms with orders to get a hot drink inside him and to keep his mouth shut about the night’s events.

Back in his own rooms Edward took off his wet clothes, and had only just got into bed when there was a tap on the door. Walter stood there, ashen and shaking, the tears running down his face. ‘Edward, something terrible’s happened,’ he sobbed. ‘It’s Cordelia, you know, she was with us in the punt, she’s... oh God, Edward, she’s drowned! Jasper and George came up to my rooms to tell me. What on earth are we going to do? We’ll have to go and see the provost, there’s all hell let loose.’

Edward had to slap Walter’s face to calm him. ‘Listen to me. If none of you wants to be sent down, get them all to keep quiet, hear me? None of you must admit to being there. Now get out, or you’ll make me a bloody accessory.’

Walter stumbled to the door, still crying. He stammered out his thanks and left.

Whatever the tragedy meant to those involved, they all kept silent. As no one came forward at the inquest to admit to being with poor Cordelia that night it soon blew over, and the matter was kept out of the press. There were questions asked at the college, of course, but everyone had been so drunk that no one could remember anything. A few wits remarked that she should have been called Ophelia, and the incident was held up as an example to students not to go boating in the middle of the night. The end of term loomed, and college life reverted to normal.

After persistent recommendation from Dr Gordon, Alex Stubbs was transferred to an open borstal in Southport, in the north of England. Although he had received a further sentence for his attack on the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs, Dr Gordon had insisted upon mitigating circumstances. Alex had been assured that if he behaved himself and showed progress, his stay in Southport might be no longer than eighteen months.

The open borstal, Hamilton Lodge, was run on similar lines to Oakwood Hall, but the inmates were given much more freedom. Among Hamilton’s methods of rehabilitation, education rated high.

The group of warders and officers sat drinking tea in their common room. They held staff meetings every week to discuss the prisoners. The English teacher, Captain Barker, known as ‘Hopalong’ because of a pronounced limp, listened as each prisoner’s notes were reviewed, their progress at the open prison determined. When they reached Alex’s name, the psychologist observed that Stubbs was very much a loner. He did not mix with the others, and did not take part in any of the recreational activities. Alex, he felt, had adjusted to life at Hamilton, but he recommended that he still be watched closely, as he had often resorted to violence.

Captain Barker gave a detailed report. He thought it possible that Stubbs was keeping himself apart from the rest of the inhabitants as a means of survival. Judging from his records, being enclosed with other prisoners had, if anything, destroyed his chances of being released. The consensus was that Alex should be encouraged to take part in the activities offered, and to become part of the community.

Although they had tried to get Alex interested in sports, he had declined. He studied obsessively, becoming totally immersed in order to make up for the lost years. His progress was good, and he took the jibes for being a swot in his stride.

Captain Barker found Alex interesting. He was impressed by the meticulous work Alex always handed in. He had also looked through Alex’s bedside locker, and was intrigued to find the two leather-bound books his mother had given him. He stood watching Alex as he sat alone in the main study hall. When he approached, Alex jumped in shock — he had been so busy working he had not even heard Barker’s distinctive step.

‘Mind if I join you, Stubbs, have a little chat?’

‘No, sir.’

Barker noted Alex’s good manners, the way he rose from his seat while Barker seated himself and eased his bad leg into a comfortable position. ‘You reading?’

‘No, sir, I was just going over some of the algebra equations, not up to scratch on those yet.’

‘Your English marks were good, very good — can’t expect to do everything at once, you know. You were a grammar-school boy, that correct?’

Alex gave him a slight smile, and nodded. He knew the system — Barker would have all his previous records.

‘So what’s all this interest in maths, then? You’re not too behind, are you?’

‘No, sir, it’s just that... well, I’m thinking about when I leave, what I want to do. Mr Thomas, my maths teacher, said that accountancy is a good profession, good earner.’

‘Yes it is, it is. Everybody needs one if they make a few bob. I know I need one. All those tax forms certainly confuse me. Mind you, I’ve a terrible head for figures, not my line at all. Sure it’s yours?’

‘Yes, sir, I quite like it — you know, figuring how things will come out. I like working them out in my head.’

‘Ah, well, each to his own. But you know, all work and no play makes... some stupid saying or other. What about going in for one of the sports programmes? You could do with putting a bit of weight on, get some fresh air.’

Alex did not reply, but twiddled his pencil. He seemed, if anything, uneasy.

‘There’s cricket, tennis, football...’

‘Running.’

‘What?’

‘I like to run, sir.’

Barker smiled and struggled to get up. Alex promptly rose to help him.

‘I’ll have a talk to the sports master and see if we can get you some running togs, all right? Might even hobble out to see you myself.’

Alex gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Running became a release for all his pent-up frustrations. Only in this way could Alex escape the confines of the school. The most trusted prisoners were allowed to go out on weekend runs. Alex received his reward for hours of training when he was granted the privilege of going on a long-distance run on the beach at Southport. The green van took the runners, together with the sports master and two warders, to Ainsdale Beach.

In winter, with the tide out, Ainsdale Beach was like a grey desert, with Southport pier looming in the distance. They had a five-mile run, and those who wished to, and still had enough wind, could turn round and run back, making a ten-mile circuit in all. The wind was blowing, the tide was out, the pier and the glass-domed swimming pool were grey and empty. The prisoners behaved like children, whooping and shouting to each other as they took off their tracksuits. The sports master lined them up and waved them off, then hopped into the van and drove alongside, shouting advice and encouraging them. He kept one eye on the running lads and the other on his stopwatch. It would be a real coup if he could find one lad to enter the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race.

Alex was as happy and excited as the rest. He ran until he felt his lungs would burst, wanting to run for ever. His legs began to hurt but he pushed himself on until he felt light-headed, running in perfect rhythm — long strides, head up — feeling the sea breeze and smelling the sea, which was so far out it was a grey line on the horizon. He was unaware that he had overtaken the rest of the lads. He turned at the five-mile flags and ran back. Behind him the van picked up exhausted boys who climbed aboard and flopped on the cushions in the back, leaving only four runners on the beach.

Alex romped home, and stood by the finishing flag, shading his eyes and gazing towards the pier. He could have gone on, he knew, but he was obeying the rules. His lungs felt as though they had been cleansed, his head was clear, and he laughed, threw his arms up in the air and laughed out loud. The next runner came in and bent double, gasping for breath, closely followed by the last two, who flung themselves down on the beach, exhausted. The teacher had to look twice at his stopwatch, but he said nothing, just gave the order to get back into the van and they returned to base.

The lads ran into the showers, shouting, and were watched with envy by some of the others for having been allowed beyond the gates.

The sports master barged into the teachers’ common room so excited he could hardly speak. ‘We’ve got a champion, I’ve never seen anything like it. Christ, he’s bloody magnificent, a ten-mile run and the lad wasn’t even winded! I swear he could have done it again — he could have lapped himself — and the time! I had to keep looking at the stopwatch — he’s cleared the record here by two and a half minutes. Would you believe it, two and a half ruddy minutes!’

Barker, lighting the gas stove, grinned, saying that Vic Morgan was pretty good on the football field, so he had heard.

‘I’m not talking about that pig-headed bully Morgan — it’s Stubbs, the boy’s like lightning. You realize what it would mean for this place if we came up with a champion? Just in morale alone. I’m going to push Stubbs and see how much he can take, and if I’m right we can enter him in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country.’

Alex was rubbing down his legs in the shower. He ached all over but he didn’t mind, it had been worth it.

‘Hey, Stubbs, swot-face, I wanna talk wiv you, yer listenin’, Stubbs?’

Alex swished back the shower curtain and found Vic Morgan lounging in the doorway, his wet towel in his hand. He flicked it hard, and it lashed Alex’s back. It hurt. Alex went to pull the curtain across but Morgan yanked it back, flicked the towel again. Alex grabbed it.

‘Think yer somethin’, don’t yer, Stubby boy? Swot! Special education one minute, the next taking over my sport. Well, I don’t like it, understand, makin’ meself clear? So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll just get back to yer swottin’ like a good girl and leave my sport to me, understood?’ Morgan yanked his towel from Alex’s grasp and Alex overbalanced, slipped on the soap in the bottom of the shower and fell heavily, cracking the side of his head on the tiles. Morgan laughed and walked away, and Alex got up, shook his head and stepped out to fetch a dry towel. His own was lying, sodden, at the bottom of the shower.

Morgan’s friends were lined up in the corner of the shower room, sneering at him and telling each other what a well-endowed poofter he was.

‘Here you go, Alex, use mine, it’s almost dry.’ Eric Motley, a small, skinny lad, handed Alex his towel, and with his back to Morgan and his friends whispered that Alex should ignore them, they would only cause trouble.

Alex gave the funny little Eric a wink, towelling himself dry. ‘I can take care of meself, Eric, but thanks anyway. Good to know I got someone tough on my side.’

Eric beamed with pride. He was a runt, and jokes were always directed at his misshapen body and his inability to play any sport. Now his face shone — he had a pal, his hero.

Due to all the excitement over Alex’s astonishing performance, the head gave permission for everyone on the running teams to attend the official record run. This was to take place on the track in their own grounds, not on the beach. Morgan was seething, but he and two others were delegated to run alongside Alex to act as pacers.

‘I’ll fucking pace him, the son of a bitch, it should be me out there. You know what he’s doing, don’t yer, he’s butterin’ up that ponce of a teacher. Well, I’ll show the friggin’ bastard, I’ll pace him right off the fuckin’ track.’

Saturday was a good, clear day. The Governor’s wife came to watch the race and all the inmates were told they could watch. This made Alex quite a hero, as any excuse for not doing their mundane jobs was cause for celebration.

Alex concentrated on keeping calm and blocked out everything else around him. He didn’t want anything to throw him — this was one of the best moments of his life.

‘Okay, Stubbs, let’s have you. And keep on the run, there’s a nip in the air. Get yourself warmed up... and you, Morgan — come on, move it. No foul language — just keep your mouths shut and let’s see if we can make Stubbs a champion.’

Alex ran on to the track, his breath steaming in the chilly air, and was greeted with a cheer from the spectators. He began doing press-ups to warm his muscles.

‘Okay, come on, let’s get you in line, check your shoes, and get into the traps... come on, Morgan, stop talking.’

Morgan was whispering in Alex’s ear, ‘Watch your heels, Stubby boy, because I’ll be right on ‘em, an’ I’m gonna fuck you over.’

They lined up, with Alex on the inside lane. He bent down to fit his left foot into the running trap. His trainer knelt in front of him, telling him to pace himself. When the flag waved for the finish he wanted Alex to take off and keep on running, just as a tester. They were only interested in the record for today, but he wanted to see how far Alex could go it alone. It was a chance and he wanted Alex to take it. ‘The prison record’s one thing, let’s see if you can take the long-distance one at the same time?’

Alex could hardly hear him, he was blocking out all distractions. He could hear nothing, and all he could see was the track ahead of him.

The starting pistol cracked and they were off, Alex pacing himself and hugging the inside lane. At the first bend they were all lined up behind him, very close, and Morgan was too close. Alex put on a spurt of speed and Morgan followed, right on his heels again.

‘What the hell is Morgan doing, he’s pushing him too hard too early, the stupid bastard.’

The runners had reached the farthest point of the track, a linesman waved a flag and they were heading down towards the starting line again. Now Morgan was virtually treading on Alex’s heels. The trainer swore, then clocked the stopwatch. They were already ahead of time on the first lap.

Alex felt the studs rip into his ankle and overbalanced, then righted himself, but Morgan moved up ahead. A cheer went up as he took first place, and Alex was being elbowed by the second man. He put on speed again and crept closer to Morgan. He could actually get heel to toe, but instead he gave Morgan a wide berth and moved again into the first position.

‘That just lost him a second, he’s crazy, and I’ll crack Morgan’s head when he comes in.’

The trainer was running, yelling, along the side of the track, but Alex didn’t hear him. They were on the third lap, with three more to go, and Morgan was still pushing Alex from behind. By trying to bring Alex down he was driving him far harder than he should have, and Alex was taking it. One runner dropped out and collapsed on the grass, heaving for breath. He sat up in time to see the field split in two — Alex and Morgan in the lead, the other two way behind. As the leaders went into lap four, the stragglers dropped out, leaving just the two of them.

Eric was on the sidelines with his cheap Woolworth’s watch, trying to time them. He was beside himself, shouting and cheering his hero on. Round they came, and Morgan was tiring, but both were coming in under the record for the fifth lap. The trainer was jumping up and down. Morgan was neck and neck with Alex, he had two possible contenders, not just one...

The final lap, and they moved into a last-minute sprint. Alex’s heel was streaming blood from Morgan’s studs, but nothing was going to stop him. They crossed the line, both inside the record, and Morgan caved in, fell on the track and lay gasping, snorting for breath. But the cheers had stopped, and he looked up, expecting to see Alex close by, only to stare in disbelief. Alex was still running, and running at a crazy pace. Morgan’s moment of glory passed, he was hauled unceremoniously off the track as everyone watched the lone runner continue.

‘If you put your mind to something, son, you can do it, it’s all a question of will... and now, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to give a warm round of applause for the ex-British Heavyweight Boxing Champion, Freedom Stubbs!’

Alex ran on, still hearing the applause on the day his father had walked with such pride on to the grammar-school platform. He could hear his mother’s voice, urging him on and on, her arms open, and he just couldn’t get to them, couldn’t reach her. She was standing by the white cross, wearing her old brown coat, her flat leather handbag over her arm, and her beautiful hair was braided around her head. She smiled at him. ‘Come on, my love, you can do it, you can be anyone if you want. Put everything you’ve got into it, my son, my own love.’

The trainer stared at Alex, back at his watch, then back at the track. The lad wouldn’t be stopped, round he went again and again, never letting up his pace. The crowd waited quietly as they watched the lone runner, and even when the trainer waved the flag for Alex to stop, he continued to run. They couldn’t cheer, and no one knew exactly what to do. They could see as he passed that his face was like a mask, set, his eyes staring vacantly ahead, his limbs working by themselves.

‘He’s going to run himself to death. For God’s sake, somebody stop him.’

The trainer took off, running at top speed along the track, but it took him all he had to catch up with Alex. He shouted that it was over, Alex had done it. ‘It’s over, Alex! It’s over... Alex!’

Alex collapsed in a heap and lay face down, his chest heaving, his hands clawing at the gravel. He felt his head being rubbed, and a voice told him it was all right, it was over, he had done it, he had done it.

The matron bathed his feet and put disinfectant on his cut heel, bandaged it very carefully, and checked his pulse. He was lying with his eyes closed, still, and she pulled up a chair and sat close to him.

Down in the canteen the group of boys whispered, and Morgan, his nose out of joint because he realized he was losing his position as the ‘Guv’nor’, knew he had to do something to reinstate himself. Drinking his cocoa he rolled a thin cigarette, clicked his fingers for one of the lads to snap to with a match. ‘I’m gonna have ta show that creep Stubbs, wipe him out, he won’t make that run, I’ll bloody see he doesn’t.’

‘Pssst, Alex, Alex, a few of the lads thought you might fancy half a Mars Bar... You okay?’ Eric’s sweating face was close to Alex, his bad breath swamping him. Alex propped himself on his elbows and gave the thumbs-up sign. He accepted the half Mars Bar and a packet of five cigarettes. Two more boys crept in and whispered, ‘We’re all gunnin’ for yer, Alex, an’ we got a few suggestions, like. If the Chief, the boss man like, asks yer if yer want anyfink — we all bin discussin’ it — we wanna learn how ter dance, like. Yer know, ballroom stuff. Will yer suggest it? We’re serious, like, all of us wanna dance, so will yer put it ter the Chief, Alex?’

Alex thought they were joking, but they insisted they were serious, so he gave them his word that should the Chief offer him any perks he would ask for a gramophone and a dancing instructor.

The Governor did appear the following morning, in high spirits, and wanting detailed medical reports on his prized boy. The matron assured him Stubbs would be up and about in a day or so. Alex watched the man stride down the row of empty beds, wearing suede boots, his Merchant Taylors’ old school tie, blue shirt with stiff white collar, the creases in his trousers like razors. ‘Well, you gave us all a good day, I must say, never seen anything like it, congratulations! You know we had the clock on you, Stubbs, bloody marvellous.’

The Governor wandered around the ward, coughing and picking his nose, then stared out of the window. ‘Inter-Counties race, what you reckon on your chances, Stubbs?’

Alex shrugged, he had no idea of the times set by other runners.

‘The other schools happen to have some of the best running clubs, son, Merchant Taylors’ best, and the Harriers... I think you can take them on, all of them.’ He moved around the bed and sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a smoke ring. ‘Thing is, to date we’ve not had a chap good enough or trustworthy enough to try for a place.’

Alex sat up and hugged his knees, saying that no matter what, they could trust him. He gave his word, which was greeted with a hearty slap on his shoulder. The Governor had reached the door before he turned to ask if there was anything Alex wanted.

‘There is something, sir. The lads I’ve been training with, they sort of asked if I’d put in a word...’

When Alex mentioned ballroom dancing the Governor almost keeled over. ‘Ballroom dancing? You serious, Stubbs? You any idea what the rest of the lads’ll do if they hear about it? Good God, I’ve been asked for some odd things in my time, but this takes the medal. Ballroom dancing? How many lads want to do this fancy footwork, then?’

Alex shrugged and said about eight of them, with a gramophone.

‘You’ll take a hell of a ribbing, you know that? But if it’s what you want then I’ll see what I can arrange.’

Vic Morgan roared with laughter — friggin’ ballroom dancing! Ponces headed by friggin’ ‘Goody-Two-Shoes’ Stubbs. This he had to see to believe. Stubbs’ popularity was eclipsing Morgan’s, and his hatred was intensified when he discovered that three members of his inner circle had joined the ‘fairies’.

Fully recovered, Alex returned to classes a hero. Along with eight other boys, all serving long sentences, he was called into the Governor’s office.

He had kept his word, they were to have the use of a gramophone two nights a week between tea-break and dinner, and there were four records — a waltz, a foxtrot, a rumba and a tango. They would be taught by the Governor’s wife. Mrs Dennis stood by her husband’s desk, a pleasant, plain-looking woman in lisle stockings and brogues. ‘You will start with the waltz, and work your way through the other routines. But any boy abusing this special privilege will ruin it for the others.’

The sarcastic references to the ‘pansies’ special brigade’ were ignored, and twice a week the ballroom-dancing lessons took place in the drill hall. But before long the other lads began to envy the group as they marched across the quad to the hall and the sound of the Joe Loss Orchestra belted out. Mrs Dennis’ strident voice was heard, ‘One, two three, one, two three, one, two three... No, no, you must walk backwards... One, two three and fishtail, one, two three...’

The eight members of the formation dancing team became friends. They laughed as they partnered each other, but they were obviously dedicated to learning. Ted Smith took it upon himself to divide the group into male and female so they could learn to move backwards as well as forwards. Alex, being so tall, rarely had to be the lady. Ted, a small-time spiv, was mastering the tango, and encouraging the others. ‘When ya get out, all of yer, yer gonna need ta know how to move on the floor, best way of pickin’ up girls, right? Yer come out not knowin’ one move from the next an’ yer sunk. We gotta learn, only way yer can pick up the chicks, I’m tellin’ ya...’

The lads laughed a lot, especially at poor Eric, who tangoed across the floor on his own.

More and more, Alex was becoming the hero, and Vic Morgan slunk around trying to find any way he could to sabotage Alex. He managed to steal a small file from woodwork class, and every night he worked on carefully sharpening the spikes on his running shoes. He cajoled and threatened one of the lads in the mailbag section to get some thick cotton and a strong needle without saying what he wanted them for.

The news came through that Alex had been accepted for trials, and he was called to the Governor’s office to fill in an application form. This was the first time any borstal lad had been allowed to take part in the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race. Mr Dennis checked the form and clapped his hands, smiled his satisfaction and asked how the dancing was coming along.

‘It’s very good, sir, thank you very much. We’re on to the rumba now.’

The Governor was surprised and impressed at the way the lads had conducted themselves. He knew the other prisoners had been merciless, but they had kept themselves to themselves and there had been no fighting. His wife told him the lads were always on their best behaviour and really did want to learn to dance.

‘Tell the others that next Saturday night they’ll be allowed to wear their own clothes. I’ll rope in a few girls, give you a small dance — no alcohol, mind, just fruit juices, but it’s about time you had female partners.’

The news spread like wildfire, and those who had done nothing but send up the dancers were green with envy. Allowed to wear his own suit, Ted Smith oiled back his hair and even let two of the lads have a small dab of his Brylcreem.

Eric was happy, and his twisted back seemed straighter. Either that or Ted’s padded sports jacket, on loan for one-and-six, disguised his curved spine. Watched enviously from the windows by the other prisoners, dolled up and reeking of aftershave, they walked across to the drill hall. Mrs Dennis had been seen taking cakes and sandwiches over, and the others were thoroughly disgruntled.

Mrs Dennis had had quite a time finding eight suitable girls. They included her own daughter, two of her school friends and a couple of aunts. They were all gathered in the office.

‘Now, these boys are juvenile offenders, but they are offenders, and they are serving time. Please treat them kindly. This is a very special treat for them, and they have been looking forward to it for a long time.’

The women stood silent as Mrs Dennis tried to put her next point as delicately as possible. ‘If any of them makes any kind of move that is distasteful, approaches you other than to dance, you must inform me immediately and we will cancel the dance there and then. You are invited as dance partners, to put into practice what they have learned. There’ll be a few sore feet at the end of the evening, but I am sure you are all aware that this is in a very good cause, some of the boys come from dreadfully deprived backgrounds...’

Extremely nervous by now, the women made their way across the quad to the drill hall. Every available window was filled with faces, and the odd lewd remark was heard, quickly silenced as Mrs Dennis frowned up at the offenders.

In their cheap suits and with their slicked-back hair, the boys sat at one end of the drill hall, close to the table where the food and lemonade was laid out. The gramophone with the worn records was on the stage. The sight of the women drew veiled looks and nudges, and Ted whispered that there was only one worth attempting to pull, the rest were old ponies.

‘Now, boys, the first dance is a waltz, please take your partners.’

The boys stood in a solemn line, no one having the guts to make the first move. The women, standing on the opposite side, were equally embarrassed, and after Mrs Dennis’ warnings they were beginning to think they should never have agreed to come.

‘I’m going for the Old Man’s daughter, all right, lads? Here goes.’ Ted sashayed across the floor in his brothel-creeper shoes, his skinny tie only an inch wide, his spivvy suit shiny at the bum and showing the lines where the trousers had been let down. But to the rest of the lads he was Clark Gable showing them how it should be done.

‘Er, you want to dance, love?’ The Governor’s daughter blushed at being the first on the floor. Guided by Ted’s firm hand at her waist, they moved into a waltz.

Eric gaped, mightily impressed. ‘Gawd, he looks like Fred Astaire, he’s got the fishtail down all right, ain’t he? Gawd, I’m gonna have a hell of a time, I’ve always been the bleedin’ woman, I can’t go forwards.’

Slowly the boys summoned their courage and asked the women to dance, and one by one they moved their partners on to the floor.

The drill hall resounded to the rumba, and the envious listeners at the windows groaned, ‘Not again.’ Later, they watched the ladies leaving, the boys walking back to their dormitories. They were all agog, wanting to know if anyone had ‘pulled a bird’, but Matron was patrolling and ordered those not in bed to get in, it was lights out.

Morgan watched two of the boys enter his dormitory, laughing together and telling stories about how Ted Smith had been the first on the floor, and that he had vowed to date the blonde with the big knockers as soon as he was released. Alex, with two more of the lads, passed the dormitory and gave the thumbs up. From the bed nearest the door he heard a voice whisper, ‘Eh, Alex, is it true you gave Mrs Dennis one?’

Chuckling, Alex moved on towards his own dorm. He got into his pyjamas and hopped into bed. The door creaked open and he heard whispering. Then Eric and Ted, followed by the other formation team lads, crept into the dorm. Eric whispered hoarsely, ‘One, two, three...’ They each struck a match in unison, held them up and sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.’

Unceremoniously they dumped their token gifts on Alex’s bed and scuttled out, embarrassed. Alex now owned half a tin of Brylcreem, a comb, five cigarettes and a skinny-jim tie. He snuggled down and, happier than he had been in years, he whispered, ‘Going to be a champion, Ma...’

Chapter six

Edward packed up his belongings to take to London, and made arrangements to keep his rooms for the following term. He had taken up Allard’s offer to spend the Christmas vacation at his family’s country house.

With so many trains commandeered to ferry soldiers around, there were long delays on the passenger trains, and it was late when they arrived in London. A chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce was waiting for them at Paddington Station, and Edward and Allard were driven across the park to Kensington. The house was in a very exclusive area, the Boltons, and had large gardens with high, wrought iron gates.

Allard’s parents were already in the family’s country house, and there was only a housekeeper waiting for them. Allard, with little pretence at being a good host, muttered that he was tired out. Edward was flippantly introduced and shown to a large double bedroom with a bathroom adjoining. He was impressed, and pleased that he had made the decision to take up Allard’s invitation. If the family’s town house was anything to go by, he reckoned their country place would be even better.

‘Alleyyyyy! Yooo-hooo! Alleyyyyy, where are you?’

Edward’s bedroom door was flung open by a very tall girl with a thick mop of red hair very like Allard’s. ‘Oh gosh, sorry! I was looking for my brother, who are you?’

Edward shook hands with the long-legged girl, who said her name was Harriet. She stood back and grinned.

‘Well, you look better than the weakling he dragged back last vac. Do you play table tennis?’

As Edward was admitting he didn’t but was willing to try, Allard came in and caught the girl up in his arms, swinging her around. She squealed with delight, then went into a boxing stance, trying to get a punch at her brother.

‘Don’t they teach you anything at your posh finishing school, brat-face? Look at you — my God, you’re filthy, and your neck looks as if it hasn’t been washed for years. You dirty, scruffy gel, you nasty, dirty little fink rat!’

Brother and sister chased each other around Edward’s bedroom and fought on the bed, bashing the hell out of Edward’s pillows. Harriet, with her skirt up round her waist, was a real tomboy, and the noisiest girl Edward had ever come across. She never walked, but hurled herself around like a human tornado, causing anything within her range, ornaments especially, to fall to the ground. Her laugh rang out like a schoolboy’s, and she shouted at the top of her voice. She was so tall, and Edward could see the nipples of her small breasts, formed like two tiny hills, showing through her school shirt.

‘How old are you?’ Edward asked her. He took her to be about seventeen.

Harriet looked at him and told him to mind his own business, and if he didn’t shut up she would belt him one in his smarmy face. Allard stood in the doorway and laughed. He turned to Edward and told him he had permission to sock his sister at any time. ‘She’s fourteen and a half, and I would say by the time she reaches eligibility she will be so tall no man will be able to look her in the face.’

‘Oh, shut up, you. What time are we leaving in the morning? Does Mother know you’ve got someone else coming? She’ll hit the roof, you know. We’ve got bloody BB and Auntie Sylvia...’

Allard dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Edward could hear them bickering and Harriet’s boisterous laughs and squeals as Allard threatened to leave her behind.

The threesome left for King’s Cross the following morning, brother and sister still apparently at loggerheads. At the station, Harriet disappeared, to Allard’s fury, but soon came bouncing back with a large sandwich. She wore what looked like a pair of Allard’s old trousers, tied up with string, and her grubby school shirt. Her overcoat belonged, Edward presumed, to someone considerably larger. The sleeves flapped and the hem dangled around her ankles. Allard was no better dressed, wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day, but more crumpled. They each carried battered, dog-eared suitcases, and they marched around the station demanding to know from porters which platform the York train went from.

At last they were settled in a first-class compartment, and Allard sorted out who owed what for the tickets. Edward began to think he should have taken up one of his other invitations as he ended up forking out fifteen shillings. He was running low on funds, and sat, tight-lipped, gazing out of the window. The journey was not without delays — lines up, faulty signals — and Allard began to get restless, pacing up and down the corridor.

Edward had a moment’s peace when Harriet departed to the Ladies’. He wondered what Mrs Simpson looked like, and smiled, thinking it could be useful if she suffered from the Lady Primrose syndrome.

‘Next stop, get the cases,’ said Allard. ‘Christ, where is she now? Well, we’ll get off and leave her on the train, serves her right.’

Edward looked at the sign on the station platform — Thirsk. So this was Yorkshire. Not that he had much time to take in the scenery as Allard steamed along the platform with Harriet bounding in front of him. A black, highly polished Bentley was waiting outside the station and a chauffeur, cap in hand, sprang to attention. He took their cases, stacking them in the open boot.

‘Gosh, you look good, Fred, tres smart... Come on, Edward, get in.’

In fact, on closer inspection, Fred was rather frayed around the edges. His uniform was ill fitting and his florid complexion went well with his broad northern accent. ‘My, yer growin’ oop, Miss H, we’ll have yer out an’ int’ saddle in no time. Yon boy’s grown oop an’ all, got a coat that’s better’nt’ polish ont’ motor... Reet, we all settled? Then let’s be getting on.’

Fred put on his chauffeur’s hat, which was so large that he was in danger of being blinded by the peak. That was not the only danger, however; Fred’s driving was a wonder to behold. The grinding of gears, the revving and the hopalong jerks gave them all a bumpy ride. Allard sighed. ‘I say, Fred old chap, the motor does have two more gears, you know.’

Harriet, sitting next to Edward, chortled, ‘He’s never going to make it up the hill — it’s three in one, he’ll never do it.’

They could see the village of Helmsley, snuggled in a dip, with its cobbled village square. They passed over a bridge, through the village and out into open countryside. They drove for an hour and a half before turning in at the gates of Haverley Hall. There was a small lodge to one side, and Fred gave a loud toot on the horn as the car jolted up the drive.

Haverley Hall had seen better days, but it was obvious it had been magnificent at one time. The Georgian Hall was vast, white stucco fronted and surrounded by rather dilapidated stables and outhouses. The gardens were overgrown and the orchard ran wild, but the overall impression was that the Hall was held in suspension — very much in need of repair, but still standing proud.

As the Bentley drew up with another crash of gears, a bulldog hurtled out of the open front door. Harriet clambered out and ran towards the enormously fat dog. ‘Buster, Buster... Hello, my darling... Come and say hello.’

Allard opened the boot to take out the cases and the huge animal wobbled around them, snuffling and barking. He had no tail and his bottom wagged from side to side.

‘I wouldn’t go too near him, Edward. He’s not vicious, but his farts are deadly.’

A woman emerged from the Hall as Allard spoke. ‘I heard that, Allard. It appears Cambridge has done nothing for your command of the English language.’

Mrs Simpson was an imposing, hawk-faced woman with iron-grey hair and steely blue eyes, far from the Lady Primrose type. She wore a tweed skirt and heavy brogues, and was very tall with a harsh, loud, upper-crust voice. She stared at Edward and then turned, nonplussed, to Allard.

‘Edward, this is my mother. He’s staying with us for the vac, Ma. Pop inside, is he?’

Mrs Simpson fixed her steely gaze on Edward and told him crisply that he was most welcome, then she turned on her heel and followed Allard into the Hall.

Harriet yanked at her case, telling Fred not to bother taking them inside, but to get her horse saddled up. She grinned at Edward and told him to follow her. The interior of the Hall was vast, with a predictably rundown feel to it. Everywhere the eye fell, there were antiques and paintings, while a profusion of wellington boots and riding boots littered the floor. Edward stood abandoned, not knowing where Harriet had disappeared to, and couldn’t help overhearing Mrs Simpson’s voice somewhere behind him.

‘You might at least have warned us. There is a war on, you know, and we’re bursting at the seams as it is. Daddy won’t be pleased.’

The wide sweeping staircase had numerous portrait paintings. None very special or very old, however one was rather amusing of a judge in wig and robes. Someone, no doubt Harriet, had drawn a black fly on the end of his nose. As far as Edward could see there were endless rooms. A chandelier with hundreds of crystal drops, a few having dropped off completely, was suspended from the centre of the remote ceiling far above him. As Edward looked up, Harriet’s head appeared from the landing above. ‘Come on up. Do you want to know which room Mother’s given you? Ma... Ma, which room is Edward in? Ma?’

Mrs Simpson came into the hall. ‘Harriet, please don’t shout, how many times do I have to tell you? Now — Edward, isn’t it? Get Harriet to show you to the room on the top floor, then it will be time for dinner. Usually we’re very casual... Oh, there you are, darling. This is a young friend of Allard’s who’s staying for the hols.’

Judge Simpson walked into the hall, carrying a shotgun. He tossed his cap towards the hat stand, missing it by several feet. He was stout and muscular, but a few inches shorter than his wife. He had grey hair and a stern, strong face. Edward felt as if he was being scrutinized from head to toe.

‘Well, welcome aboard... Any hope of a cup of tea?’ The Judge strode into a room on the other side of the hall and closed the door behind him. Allard could be heard somewhere, speaking on the telephone, and still Edward stood, not knowing where he should go, feeling very much the uninvited guest.

‘Ma... there’s no sheets on my bed.’ Harriet’s voice echoed down the stairwell, and Mrs Simpson sighed, then forced a smile.

‘You’d better go up, Edward. I’ll see to that wretched child later. I have to get the other rooms ready.’

Beginning to get angry, Edward picked up his case. He thought to himself that he was being shoved in the bloody nursery again. But far from being a nursery, Edward’s room was enormous. The four-poster was canopied and draped in dark-navy velvet. The room smelt of mildew, but it was, or had once been, very ornate.

Harriet appeared, her arms full of sheets and blankets. ‘Come on, I’ll help you make up your bed. Sorry about this, but you’ll get used to it.’

As they removed the counterpane, Edward couldn’t help but notice the clouds of dust. The linen sheets were clean, though, and with Harriet’s help he made up the bed. She flopped down on it, lying flat out. ‘Right, I’ll give you a few tips. If you want a hot bath, be sure to get up early, otherwise you’ll never get one. Don’t use the lavatory on this floor because it doesn’t flush. Use the one on the second floor... Do you ride? We’ve got five horses — three hunters and two geldings. Dreadful thing to do to anyone, isn’t it? I always think they shouldn’t do it. Have you ever seen a stallion’s donger?’

Edward started unpacking, opening a Jacobean chest of drawers lined with yellowing newspapers and reeking of mothballs.

‘Only, if you don’t ride,’ Harriet continued, ‘you’ll find it ever so boring here. How tall are you?’

Edward laughed, and Harriet cocked her head to one side.

‘Do you always ask questions and then not wait for an answer?’

She chortled, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s habit. No one here ever listens to anyone else. Where are you from?’

Edward pointed to the front of her trousers. ‘Your flies are undone.’

She looked down and, without any shame, buttoned up her old, baggy trousers. Edward finished unpacking and stood in front of the dressing table, combing his hair. Harriet hovered behind him, standing first on one leg, then the other. ‘You look a bit foreign — you know, like an Italian.’

Edward smiled at her through the mirror. She looked like a boy, but she was sucking her thumb. ‘You’ll get buck teeth,’ he told her.

Harriet blushed and quickly withdrew her thumb from her mouth. She marched to the door, all skinny arms and legs. ‘I’m going for a ride, do you want to come with me?’

Allard appeared and interrupted, ‘No, he doesn’t. Go on, hop it, pest, and stop hanging around Edward. Go on.’ He shoved his sister out, then closed the door. ‘Listen, I’m just going to shoot off for a while. It’s a coincidence, really — do you know Henry Blackwell? Well, he is staying with friends a couple of miles away. I’m just going to trot over for a drink, might ask him over. Won’t be long — see you later.’

Edward sat on the bed, the smell of dusty curtains in his nostrils. He swung his fist and punched one. He knew Allard was using him to cover up his so-called friendship with Lord Henry. He muttered angrily, ‘I’ve got to get out of this dump...’

When the gong for dinner rang with a strange, clanging sound, ending with a clatter as it fell off its stand, Edward heard Harriet yelling down the stairwell that she would be two minutes. Edward checked his appearance in the mirror and went down to dine with the Simpson family.

Later the doorbell rang, and they could hear the thunder of Buster’s paws along the hall as he raced to the front door. They heard the butler shouting to the person outside to push hard on the door as the dog was on guard.

‘We expecting anyone, dearest?’ Mrs Simpson asked her husband.

Allard jumped to his feet and told his mother that it would be Henry. As he rushed to the door he turned to Edward. ‘We’ll all go and gate-crash a few parties.’

Henry appeared at the door in his evening dress and waved to Mrs Simpson. A rather chinless young man, Robert D’Arcy, waited as Allard, behind him, booted Buster up the bum. ‘Go on, get out of it. Come on Robert, Edward. Let’s get going.’

Harriet, not included in the invitation, paid not the slightest attention to anyone. She sat curled up on the sofa, reading Horse and Hound.

Although Edward didn’t have much inclination to ‘party’, he departed with the three boys. They were in high spirits. Allard drove the Bentley, and they went on a round of gate-crashing, except that there was a shortage of young, eligible men, so they were made welcome wherever they went. At first, Edward was very much on the outside, not knowing any of the people, but in one night he got a clear idea of the English social scene. He was half amused, now able to assess the social strata of the Simpson family. They were really upper-middle-class social climbers, with as many aspirations as Edward. He now saw the other side of the country set in a series of parties in ever more splendid homes. The smell of money, old money, was intoxicating, and he took it all in. In those few hours he met more titles than he had in his entire time at Cambridge.

Edward was accepted as part of the group. He looked right, spoke well, and his costume fitted the play. He started to relax. Being by far the most handsome of the four young men, he was soon the centre of attention. He was no fool, and knew not to make the first move himself. Accepting Allard’s invitation had not, it was now clear, been a mistake. Somewhere among this horde of society people he would find one to act as a rung to help him climb onwards and upwards. But he had plenty of time, he would only make his move when he was sure he had made the right connection — one with money. The debutantes twittered and giggled around him, flattering him and making advances. He charmed them, smiling shyly. If they had known what thoughts were running through his mind, they would have blushed.

As he listened and laughed on cue, he amused himself by making each girl believe he was enamoured of her. When he danced he held his partner just that little bit closer than was entirely polite, and he knew he had them creaming their little silk drawers. Nor did he stop with the debs. He made himself equally charming to their parents. He asked them seemingly innocent questions, wanting to be very sure precisely who they were.

He had no thought of marriage, nothing could have been further from his mind. He wanted finance, connections. His intention was to make enough money by the end of the holiday to see him through his final term. He was introduced to mothers, and was astute enough to create just the right air of formality. The invitations flooded in. Everyone agreed Henry’s friend from Cambridge was adorable.

Allard watched Edward ‘work the room’ and nudged Henry and Robert slyly. ‘He’s going to be a great asset this vac, very useful, wouldn’t you say? I reckon we’ll be invited to every “do” in Yorkshire.’

Robert disappeared, and Allard and Henry departed together, making it obvious to Edward that they didn’t want him along. He was assured of a lift back to the Hall, so it took little persuasion for him to stay. Indeed, he had no intention of leaving, the ground was too thick with rich pickings.

It was after midnight when Edward was finally driven home by Lady Summercorn, her two daughters flanking him in the back of the car. She was swathed in mink, an attractive woman in her late forties. She gave him dazzling smiles in the rearview mirror, and when they reached the Hall she turned to him, resting her arm on the back of the driving seat. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you. Please do call.’ As she handed Edward a card he noted the square diamond solitaire ring, and the veiled look in her eyes. The Lady Primrose syndrome again — he had received several of these ‘come hither’ looks during the evening. These women were more rampant than ever, due to the number of absentee husbands who had gone off to war.

Edward watched the Rolls-Royce glide away as he placed Lady Summercorn’s card carefully in his wallet. He now had seven cards and two scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them, all of which had been discreetly slipped into his pocket.

Harriet heard the tiny stones rattle against her window and leapt out of bed. Looking down into the garden, she waved, then tiptoed downstairs to let Edward in. She put a finger to her lips and whispered so loudly he thought she would wake everyone in the house. ‘Don’t make a sound or Buster will head straight for the front door.’

They crept to her bedroom, and Edward trod on a teddy bear that squeaked, causing Harriet to titter and put her hands over her mouth. ‘Have you been having it away, like Allard?’

Edward looked back at her, standing there in her child’s nightie, and grinned. ‘Not quite.’

‘Oh, tell me what you’ve been doing, go on. It’s only fair, I’ve let you in.’

Edward tapped her snub nose and whispered that he had been screwing the knickers off a tart. Harriet stared, round-eyed, then crept to his side. ‘Did you pay for it? How much did she cost?’

He pinched her and pulled her chin towards him, looking down into her outrageously cheeky face. ‘She gave it me for free because I have such a big cock, bigger than Allard’s.’

Harriet mimed a faint, her face lit up with glee. She would have liked to keep him there, but he had already slipped out of the room. She flung her tall body on to the bed, her thick red curls covering her flushed face. ‘I wish he’d stick it in me,’ she whispered. Then she giggled so much she had to put the pillow over her head to muffle the noise, and in her imagination it turned into Edward, and she hugged it close to her. ‘I love you, Edward, I do — I really love you.’

Alex had been in training, working daily with the sports master. He had been accepted as a candidate for the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race — no easy accomplishment. Many people were against allowing a borstal boy to run in the competition. On his back rode the reputation of the borstal and, above all, the trust placed in him to mix with the other runners, the chance to run freely in open country with easy access to public transport.

Alex had also continued his studies, showing remarkable progress considering the pressure he was under. He had changed radically, from a shy, introverted boy into an outgoing, well-liked lad. He was popular, a hero to the other borstal boys. He was proud of his new status and took care of his new-found image. He was an example to the younger boys, showing them it was possible to succeed even within the boundaries of a reform school.

On the morning of the race, Alex was up at five o’clock, tingling with excitement. The sports master found him in the gym, working out at a gentle pace. ‘It’s cold, and there’s a frost. Ground’ll be hard going, could be snow later, it’s forecast. How you feeling, lad?’

‘Feeling good, sir. Ready to go.’

The whole school wore an air of excitement. At breakfast, Alex was patted on the back, and shouts of ‘Good luck!’ echoed around the hall. Alex was fit, his body in great shape with not an ounce of fat, his legs muscular but still slender. His eyes sparkled with health and vitality. Eric, his shadow, was ecstatic, saving Alex’s place for him at table. He beamed up at his hero and gave him a wink.

‘Right, Stubbs, this is it. Get your gear, the van’s waiting. Calm down, lads...’ Even the sports master was showing excitement, bouncing around dressed in tracksuit and plimsolls. He raised his hand for silence, and indicated the package he carried under his arm. ‘All right, come on, settle down. Stubbs, this is for you. The staff had a whip-round, so get into it on the double.’

The boys clustered around as Alex opened the parcel to reveal a new, pale blue tracksuit. They cheered, but Alex was so overcome he didn’t know what to say. Eric hugged him, jumping up and down at the same time. ‘I’ll get yer shoes an’ fings, all right?’

Mobbed by well-wishers, Alex made his way towards the lockers. He looked like a real ‘golden boy’, head and shoulders taller than most of the others, straightbacked, with his long, curly blond hair. Had it not been for the broken nose he might have been called handsome.

He turned the corner into the corridor. Eric shot out of the locker room, Alex’s running gear under his arm. He was red in the face, panting and terrified. Something was wrong, Eric was shaking. ‘Don’t go inter the lockers, fer Chrissake. They’re waitin’ for yer, Vic Morgan an’ ‘is mates. He’s got a runnin’ shoe wiv spikes an’ he’s goin’ ter mark yer. Take yer gear an’ get out before they find out I told yer. Go on, get out. I had ter sneak in — the bastards want you to lose.’

Alex hesitated, then grabbed his gear. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Hey, Alex... win fer me, will ya?’

Alex laughed and cuffed his friend lightly, saying that if he won the cup, Eric could keep it on his locker.

In the locker room, Morgan’s lookout banged open the toilet door. ‘That shit-head, Eric, gone an’ warned ‘im off. He’s gone, yer’ll never get ‘im now.’

Morgan swore and kicked at the tiles. Wound around his fist was a running shoe, sewn together heel to toe, like a knuckle-duster. Each spike had been filed to a razor-sharp point. From the window they watched the van drive out of the gates, and Morgan screamed obscenities. In a rage, he turned and shouted that he wanted that little shit, Eric, brought to him. He was going to teach the dirty squealer a lesson.

Alex looked splendid in his new tracksuit. He shook each leg in turn, then bent double to rub his thighs, while the sports master talked quietly to him. ‘Just pace yourself, lad. Don’t push, you got a lot of miles ahead of you. Don’t let the front runners set the pace. A lot’ll drop out. You run like you’ve trained, conserve your energy...’

Hundreds of spectators with a good sprinkling of sports reporters lined the starting point. The runners gathered in a pen and were given their numbers. Alex was the last to join them, and he felt self-conscious, wondering if they all knew where he was from.

The runners were called to the starting line. They were all jogging on the spot, trying to keep themselves warm, Alex among them. Captain Barker and the sports master looked on, watching as he shook his head, eased his neck muscles. This had become a familiar sight. They could see his lips moving.

Alex was setting himself apart, talking to himself, oblivious to the rest of the field. He was standing, hands on hips, shaking out each foot in turn. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the starting pistol being loaded. He panted, sniffed the air deeply into his lungs, shaking his head from side to side, and all the time he talked to himself under his breath. ‘This is it, go for it. You’re going to take it, take it, take the son of a bitch. Go for it, Alex. Nobody can touch you, nobody.’

Bang! They were off. Alex found his place with a tight group, taking easy, long strides, not pushing it. They had five miles of road before they hit the open country, and the going was tough because of the ice and the thin film of snow that was beginning to lie on it. The runners’ breath steamed in front of them — it was going to be a tough, gruelling race.

Four hours later the runners were far apart, many having dropped out. Alex began to push himself through the pain barrier. He was well out in front, with only eight runners ahead of him, and he was pacing himself well.

Captain Barker held his stopwatch tight as the van jolted and rolled along the country lanes. ‘There he is — by Christ, he’s going well. How’s his time?’

‘Bloody marvellous. If he keeps this pace up, he’ll break the record. The ruddy snow’s not helping, though.’

The snow was falling thick and fast now, and they watched their boy overtake two more runners. ‘Not so fast, son, don’t overdo it. Take your time.’ Barker, suddenly an authority on cross-country running, was banging his stick on the dashboard as he spoke.

Alex was now in fourth place with one mile to go. His legs were agony, his breath heaved and the sweat dripped down his back. Far ahead he could see the faint blue line, the small dots that were spectators gathered for the finish. He was still talking to himself. ‘Take it, Alex, take the motherfucker. Go, go, don’t let no bastard in front of you. Take it, it’s yours...’ Suddenly he was aware of a runner coming up behind him, and he pushed himself even harder. ‘Bastard, that bastard, he took everyfing... Bastard’s right on yer heels, Alex, he’s going to take it from yer like he took everyfing... Eddie, you bastard, you’re not taking this — this is mine, this is mine, mine, mine, mine...’

The last stage of the race was suspense all the way. The two of them overtook the first three, jostling for the lead. Alex was losing headway, the boy trying to take him on the inside, but Alex’s elbows kept him back. His heart was bursting, his brains about to explode. He had no energy left, he had used his final reserves on that last push... He could almost feel the breath of the runner behind him, the thud of the boy’s feet almost on his heels... ‘Bastard motherfucking bastard...’

Barker was shouting, banging on the dashboard, ‘Run, Stubbs, you’re there... Run!’

The sports master was panting as if he had run the race himself. He had a sickening feeling that their boy was going to be pipped at the post. ‘He’s not going to make it, he’s run himself out.’

The blue line was blurring, so near and yet so far. Alex felt the runner’s arms brush him, trying yet again to pass him. With a superhuman surge Alex moved through the barriers of pain and exhaustion. Through it and out the other side. He was on top of the mountain, he was free, he was flying. He lifted his arms above his head as he hit the blue ribbon, trailing it, streaming out behind him...

He turned and jogged back to his trainer, to Captain Barker, who was punching the air with his fists. For a moment the two men were so emotional they could have wept. Their golden boy, their champion, had beaten the record. ‘Beaten’ was hardly the word — he had pulverized it, knocking off over four minutes.

The canteen was in uproar. Everyone banged their plates, shouting in unison, ‘Champion, champion...’

Alex, now even more the hero, saluted with his fist in the air, and the room erupted into screams and cheers. He didn’t want the day to end, he was happier than he had ever been in his whole life. He had a big silver cup and a shield he could keep for ever. The cup had to be handed back after a year, but for the time being it would take pride of place in the assembly room. Alex paused, looked around. ‘Where’s Eric? Where’s the runt?’

The boys nearby went quiet, sheepish. Eventually, Ted summoned the courage to tell Alex. Eric had got himself into a bit of trouble and was up in Medical. ‘You can’t see him, they won’t let you. You’ll get into trouble if you go up there without permission.’

Alex grinned and pointed to himself. ‘Who, me? Do me a favour! After what I done for the school today, you fink they’d haul me over the coals for a little misdemeanour like goin’ ter see me mate?’

Alex slipped out of the dorm and up the stairs. It was past lights out, so the corridors were dark. He edged his way up three floors, dodging the night patrol, and up to the infirmary. It was on the top floor of the wing, next to the matron’s office. Her half-glass door looked out on to the corridor. It was strictly forbidden for any boy to be in the infirmary without permission. He bent double and sneaked past the office.

The beds were all empty but one, and Alex smiled when he saw the small mound in the nearest bed. Eric’s little body was no bigger than a ten-year-old’s. He crept to the bedside and whispered, ‘Hey, what’s this? I win the race for yer an’ yer not even around ter congratulate me! Hey, you awake?’

The mound shifted and Alex had to creep right around the bed. He squatted on his heels and held out his running shield. ‘Look, I won.’

Peering closer in the gloom, Alex could see that Eric’s face was in a terrible state. His lips were puffy and bruised, and both eyes were blackened. Eric tried to smile, but his eyes filled with tears.

‘Christ, what happened?’

Fighting his tears, Eric whispered that Morgan and his crowd had set on him for tipping Alex off about the running shoe. Gently, Alex patted Eric’s greasy, spiky hair and tucked the shield into the bed beside him.

‘It’s me back playin’ up,’ Eric whimpered. ‘They kicked me hump.’

Alex leaned close and whispered, ‘They’ll be sorry. Gimme their names, I’ll get ‘em.’

‘Don’t do nuffink, Alex. Best ter forget it. You’ll be out soon what wiv winnin’ the race an’ all, you’ll get remission.’

‘Sod that. Besides, I ain’t goin’ no place wivout you.’

Eric held Alex’s shield in his small fist. He looked so pitiful that Alex sighed.

‘I’ll be in fer a long time, Alex. You just go back ter bed.’

‘What you in for, Eric? Not the infirmary, here, in the Hall?

‘I got a bit of a problem... arson...’

Alex couldn’t help but smile. He leaned close to Eric’s ear. ‘Well, there’ll be a bit of a bonfire tonight...’

‘I love you, Alex — I know it sounds soppy, but I do... Not like a queer, nuffink like that — like you was my bruvver.’

Eric felt Alex’s soft kiss on his forehead. He clutched his hero’s shield. Alex was gone as silently as he had crept in.

But Alex didn’t go straight to bed. He made his way to the locker room and prised open Vic Morgan’s locker before returning to his dormitory.

The following morning Alex took his ballroom-dancing cronies aside. ‘You all owe me, right? I want Morgan’s gang, but I want ‘em one by one. Bring them into the locker room... Any of you open yer mouths about this an’ you’ll be for it. Leave Morgan until last.’

Ted organized it, making up a story that they had got some booze stashed away in lockers, but only one could come along at a time. Morgan agreed to exchange his brothel-creepers for some of the booze.

Alex scared each one of the gang witless, sitting like a king in the end toilet with the lethal running shoe curled in his hand. ‘You won’t be hurt. All I want is ter know which one of yer worked Eric over. You can’t get out of ‘ere, my lads are on the door, so you might as well talk.’

Without their leader, the gang members crumbled. They offered bribes to be let off, and with only a little pressure Alex discovered that Morgan himself had punched Eric’s face in, and his ‘sergeant’ had applied the boot. Vic’s sergeant was a loud-mouthed, fat boy who thought he was going to be hanged when he was brought face to face with Alex. They tied him up, pulled his trousers off and hung him upside-down in the end toilet with an old sock stuffed in his mouth. He was sobbing in terror.

‘Okay, now all of you get out. Just bring Morgan.’

Ted chattered away to Morgan as he led him to the locker room. As they arrived, one of the other lads yelled to Ted that a master wanted to see him urgently. ‘The booze is in the end lav, Vic. I’ll try the shoes on an’ we can talk about it when I get back.’

Morgan strolled along the row of toilets, pushed open the door at the far end and found his half-naked sidekick trussed up. ‘What the fuck is this?’ He backed out of the toilet, almost bumping into Alex.

‘You got nobody to ‘elp yer this time, Morgan. It’s just you an’ me.’

‘Hey, come on, Stubbs... Look, I know we ain’t exactly been friends, but we can sort this one out. What you want, you name it?’

Alex was amazed how easy it was — the smell of fear gave him a strange sense of power. He could see the terror in Morgan’s eyes, and it made him feel even better. ‘This is for Eric.’

The shoe’s razor-sharp spikes slashed into Morgan’s face. The boy screamed and tried to push Alex off, but he was cornered. He fought desperately, but the spikes kept on coming. Blood streaming down his face, he fell to his knees, begging for mercy. The more he cowered the more rage Alex felt. It wasn’t Morgan any more, it was Eddie — Eddie, crying for him to stop, screaming at Alex not to hurt him any more.

‘Jesus Christ, he’s killin’ him — somebody get him off.’

Ted was terrified. Beating Morgan up was one thing, but Alex had gone crazy. Captain Barker heard the screams and he ordered the boys away from the locker-room door, forcing them aside with his stick. He limped to the far end of the toilets, unable to believe his eyes. The ‘golden boy’ was splattered with blood, and he scarcely recognized Morgan, who was moaning in terror and covered in blood. Hanging from the cistern in the last closet was another lad, half-naked and weeping.

‘Get back against the wall, Stubbs... Stubbs!’

Alex turned on him, fists raised. He would have taken on Barker as well if the walking stick hadn’t come crashing down on his head.

Two warders led the handcuffed, struggling Alex to a padded cell. He was kicking and yelling obscenities, and it took all their strength to hold him down. Alex was crazed, spitting, lunging at his captors and trying to head butt them. They paid no attention to the words he was screaming, being too intent on getting him into the cell. ‘I didn’t do it, he killed him, he killed him... Eddie! Eddie... bastard, fucking cunt, bastard.’

Captain Barker was stunned into silence. The sports master turned helplessly to him, close to tears. ‘Dear God, why? Why? Why did he do it?’

The fall of the hero hit everyone hard. Barker was as distressed by the incident as anyone else. Quietly and sadly, he took out Stubbs’ record. There it was, in black and white: ‘potentially dangerous’. Something had sparked off his violence, but what it was they would never discover.

Matron came into the teachers’ common room to report on Alex. She was very depressed. ‘He’s quiet. I’ve given him a sedative, but I think it’s best to leave him in the strait-jacket. He doesn’t seem to understand what is going on. It’s pitiful, he’s calling for someone called Rex. Is there anything in his report about a Rex?’

Barker shook his head and told her the only living relative was a brother, but they had no address for him. He turned to the sports master. ‘I found this in Eric’s bed after they took him to the hospital,’ he said, handing him Alex’s shield. ‘Who knows, that might have started it. You think little Eric stole it from him?’

The sports master took the shield, held it for a moment then put it down on the table. He shrugged, a helpless gesture. ‘He could have been a British champion... He was magnificent.’

Chapter seven

Edward could hear the Judge’s loud voice in the stable yard, talking to Harriet. The stable lads were saddling up and the Judge gestured with his riding crop as he talked. ‘Any hunter unable to control his horse and hounds should be shot. Some of ‘em think they can clear a fence without a thought for the dawgs. They end up clearing nothing. Master of Frogmorton is an absolute bastard. Saw him kick a hound once — frightful incident.’

Edward had heard nothing but horses and hounds throughout breakfast, luncheon and dinner. He was heartily sick of it — especially as he had never even sat on a horse, let alone ridden one. Not that any member of the Simpson family appeared to notice his silence on the subject, and he had managed to excuse himself from morning rides by pleading his studies. He was also socializing, however, and enjoying his vacation, although the hunt seemed to be uppermost in everyone’s minds, including his new-found friends. Everyone presumed he would ride to hounds, and Edward was beginning to wonder how he was going to get out of it.

When he looked up again, Harriet was cantering across a field beyond the stables. She was a joy to watch; the winter sun shone on her hair, her curls bounced as she pulled the horse in to a trot, and her cheeks were like two red apples. She wore only jodhpurs, black riding boots and an old white school shirt, and Edward thought she must be freezing. Horse and rider were fluid, like a single being, and he was fascinated. Usually Harriet was so ungainly, and yet she looked as graceful as a ballet dancer out there in the fields. He saw the Judge, dressed in an ancient jacket and jodhpurs, join his daughter, riding a seventeen-or eighteen-hand chestnut with a sheen that glinted like Harriet’s hair.

Assuming that the whole family were out, Edward decided he would take the opportunity to have a bath. He opened the bathroom door to find Allard just jumping out of the big tub. ‘Morning, come in, come in.’

His teeth chattering, Allard proceeded to rub his pale, freckled body dry with his once-white towel, now a dirty grey colour. In two seconds flat he was dressed, his sweater, shirt and vest having been left one inside the other, as were his underpants and trousers. In one swift move he had his top layer on, and in another his trousers followed. ‘Learnt this at Harrow — we had to crack the ice on the tubs there. It’s quite easy when you know how. It’s taking the garments off that’s the trick, making sure they come off in one move ready for the following morning.’ He padded out with his sodden towel, forgetting to brush his teeth, and told Edward there was no hot water. He would have to get up at the crack of dawn if he wanted that luxury. As he wandered off down the corridor, he called out that he was going to drive into town and would no doubt see Edward later.

Edward had seen very little of Allard, and as he had no transport of his own he was dependent on his newly acquired friends sending their chauffeurs to collect him. He had made no move on any of his prey, but he was lining them up in his mind, and Lady Summercorn was high on his list.

Walking into the kitchen, Edward found the back door wide open. He could see the Judge and Harriet kicking off their riding boots. The Judge was arguing with Harriet about which packs were the best in the country. ‘I would say without a doubt, Brocklesby. But one has to look at knees and ankles... On the other hand — let me speak, Harriet, shut up — I would say that the Belvoir’s are beautiful animals...’

Harriet wrinkled her nose and said something inaudible. Her father turned on her, pointing at her with his crop. ‘Remember that time with old man Burton? This gel, Edward, only hallooed, shouting that she’d seen a fox. I galloped up on — what was I riding then, dear? Oh, never mind — anyway, Edward, I get up to the gel and she’s hysterical, jumping up and down in the saddle, and I said, what on earth did you halloo for?’

Harriet muttered that she was sure Edward wasn’t interested in something she had done when she was eight years old. The Judge roared with laughter and carried on with his tale, regardless. ‘“A fox, Daddy, it was a fox, and he was so dirty and covered in mud...” Mud be buggered, I said, what on earth did you halloo everyone out for? A mangy fox, the hounds won’t run to that.’

Harriet flew into a rage, shouting that she was sick and tired of her father always bringing up that old, motheaten story. Edward turned to the Judge. ‘What is a mangy fox, sir?’ He knew immediately that he should have kept his mouth shut.

The judge gave a snort. ‘Good God, doesn’t this chap Allard’s lumbered us with hunt? Doesn’t he know what a mangy fox is? Well, he won’t be out with us, that’s for sure! Now, dearest, coffee please, and I’ll have a nap.’

Harriet looked at Edward’s embarrassed face and moved round the kitchen table to sit next to him, resting her chin on her hands. ‘A mangy fox, Edward, is one not worth hunting. The hounds can’t pick up the scent — the gamekeepers are usually sent out to shoot them, if they can find them.’

Buster, who had been dozing in a corner, stood up and padded out, delivering a raspberry as he went that echoed around the kitchen. Harriet closed the door and leaned on it, smiling sweetly at Edward. She trailed her hand along the backs of the chairs as she returned to his side. ‘You can’t ride, can you? Oh, don’t fib, I know you can’t.’

Edward felt himself blushing. He coughed and said no, actually, he didn’t ride. Of course, his family had horses, but he had never had the inclination to learn. Harriet turned with a devilish grin and giggled, and Edward smiled back. She knew he was lying. He leaned back in his chair and admitted that he was, in fact, scared of horses. He almost told her about running to the docks to see if his father was working, and how the mounted police had pushed the desperate workers back, but he managed to stop himself. He remembered Alex holding out a lump of sugar to one of the horses and getting a sharp kick from the policeman... He was miles away, wrapped in his memories, when Harriet called him back to the present. ‘Well, I can teach you if you like. I ride every morning, and I would be happy to teach you, what do you say? It’s all very simple, really, most important thing is that you convey to your horse exactly what you want him to do, they know when they have someone unsure of themselves on their backs. You must always judge the speed that’ll carry you over the jumps, you mustn’t lose confidence because the horse will know. The most crucial moment is the last few strides... you listening? Edward?’

Edward shrugged, saying that he doubted he could learn fast enough to take jumps, and she slipped her arms round his neck and promised him he would. She smelt of fresh air and horses, and he couldn’t help but give her a quick, light kiss on the cheek. She galloped off to the door like an unruly animal — she never seemed to walk, but loped, her arms swinging. She banged open the door, winked and told him she would wake him at five-thirty.

She was true to her word, and early the next morning Edward felt himself being shaken. He started and sprang up, and Harriet flung herself down on the edge of his bed to give him his instructions, waggling her crop in front of his nose. If he didn’t have boots, he would find rows of them at the side of the kitchen door, and he should put on a warm sweater and a vest. She would meet him at the stables.

Edward had no jodhpurs, so he tucked his trousers into the tops of the boots and went to the stables. She was saddling up a very frisky mount, while the stableboy held the reins of the enormous gelding. ‘He looks more frightening than he is. He’s Ma’s nag, and he’s a big softie. Stan, help Mr Edward up, show him how to put his feet into the stirrups and not to fall arse over tit. I’ll just have to get Kentucky out, he’s very jumpy this morning.’

Edward didn’t want her to leave him. He was terrified and had great difficulty mounting. The stableboy hitched him up three times before he was in the saddle. He then took for ever to adjust the stirrup length to suit Edward. Harriet came cantering back, clattering on the cobbles. She took Edward’s reins and walked his horse back through the archway towards an open field. Edward held on tight, leaning forward. The ground looked very far away and he was sweating with nerves.

Harriet’s patience and encouragement were endearing, and by nine o’clock he was feeling more secure. She never pushed him too fast or too soon, making him walk round and round the field until he felt comfortable on the mount. She made him grip with his knees, and instructed him to get to know the horse, talk to him and encourage the animal as much as she was encouraging him.

‘He’s got no balls, but that doesn’t make him a dunce. He’s a sharp old boy and he likes attention, bit like Pop — maybe Ma had him gelded.’

The following morning Edward felt as if he had a tea trolley between his legs, his body was so stiff, and he almost called it off. But Harriet was there, waiting for him, at five-thirty. This time they trotted, and Edward at first bounced all over the horse’s back until she pulled him in and, sitting astride her own horse, demonstrated the proper rhythm. It took a while, but then it came to him and he was trotting round and round the field, delighted with himself. By the end of the third day’s lesson he was cantering and galloping. He no longer needed Harriet to wake him up, he was up and dressed and waiting at the stables for her. He learned to saddle up, how to groom, and Harriet insisted that he must know everything, including how to muck out. There was a way to do it, a correct way, and to do it any other way meant he would be immediately spotted for a ‘townie’.

More than anything he remembered, Edward looked forward to his morning rides. He was so keen that he asked if Harriet would also ride with him in the afternoons. She grinned and said he would soon be ready to take the jumps if he went on at this pace, but after lunch she was ready and waiting.

‘Tomorrow, Edward, want to go across country with me? We can take a picnic and really have a good ride over to the woods. They’re about eight miles to the north, give you an idea about cross-country riding.’

Edward shaded his eyes, smiled at her and agreed, then heeled his horse into a gallop. Harriet watched him and yelled at the top of her voice.

‘Your bum! Sit, sit on the horse!’

The house was getting ‘a thorough clean’ in preparation for the arrival of guests. Edna Simpson’s efforts at flower arranging with sticks and dusty willows appeared all over the house. Invitations began to arrive for the season’s social events, and were lined up on the mantelpiece with the Christmas cards, to be discussed at breakfast. Edward read them all but knew no one. But titles abounded.

‘We’ve cracked it, Ma, look at this invite, all your Red Cross activities have paid off.’

Mrs Simpson turned it over and beamed, then placed the crested invitation in the centre of the row of cards, stood back to admire it. ‘Daddy will be pleased, this’ll be the first season we’ve had a royal invite... Fred! Someone get Fred.’

While Edward drank his tea at the table he listened to the instructions for the Judge’s formal attire to be taken out of mothballs. Mrs Simpson sang, off key, but cheerfully so. Then the rumble of the plumbing rattled down the array of pipes and she charged out. ‘Allard, get the hammer and hit the bathroom pipes, Daddy’s overrun the bath again. The place will be flooded.’

Harriet appeared with a straw bag slung over her shoulder, impatient to be off for their picnic. She looked at the mantel and picked up the invitation, turned it over. ‘I say, we’re really in with the in crowd this season. Pa will be pleased, we’ve been trying to crack this set for years... you almost ready?’

Edward downed his tea and took a sneaky look at the invitation crested with the small gold crown on his way out. The Judge appeared, clutching a large hammer, looked over Edward’s shoulder and grunted. He went through to the scullery, from whence loud clanking and banging noises issued as he belted the pipes. Allard strode in holding two white envelopes. He tossed one on the table, telling Edward it was for him, end-of-term results, and opened the other with a marmalade-covered knife, at the same time enquiring how the riding was coming along. The knife left a thick ridge of marmalade on his envelope and he sat down to read the contents. ‘You want any washing done, chuck it in the laundry basket in my bathroom, and leave your DJ out for pressing — looks like we’ve got quite a social time ahead of us. ‘Bout time things picked up, getting bored out of my mind... oh, shit, shit, shit.’

Edward opened his results and flushed a deep red, looked at Allard, who was turning his pages over and over in a fury. ‘How did you do, old chap?’

Edward shrugged and pocketed the papers. Allard seemed relieved, said he had just scraped through, or rather crawled. ‘Old boy’ll have a fit, I’ll have to have a private chat with Ma, see if she can get me some extra tuition next term... What did you get?’

Sighing, Edward told him that he would more than likely have to do the same thing, and Allard patted his shoulder, asking him to keep mum about the results. He would find the right time to discuss it with his father.

Edward had got a first in everything — a remarkable achievement. There was even an added footnote of personal congratulations from Emmott himself. As he strode out to the stables, Edward whistled, did a small hop and skip, and patted the precious exam results in his pocket. The horses were being groomed, the stables mucked out, the tack being brought out to be cleaned and polished. Harriet was waiting impatiently, with the two horses already saddled. ‘You took your time — come on or Pa will make me stay to help out here, there’s a lot to be done... you look very chipper... No! Wrong foot, how many times do I have to tell you to mount the other way round, idiot!’

They trotted out of the stables into watery sunshine. It had rained heavily in the night, but now the clouds were high and far apart.

‘Right, let’s go. Follow me — we cut across the road and head through the fields, then it’s a free ride for about six miles with some good jumps... By the way, don’t you have a hacking jacket? You really should get one, you know — look like a dreadful townie in that thing you’ve got on.’

They galloped across the fields and Harriet took the jump with ease, but when Edward heeled his horse forward it pulled up short, and Edward was pitched over its neck to land in a muddy ditch. Harriet’s head appeared against the bright sky and yelled down at him that he was a stupid bugger, what had she told him? ‘If you don’t pace him, how in God’s name is he going to jump? Now go back and try again.’

Edward picked himself up and remounted, trotted back again for about twenty yards and took the jump. Harriet, waiting on the other side, gave him the thumbs up and cantered on. She was going at full gallop when her horse pulled up short and she rolled to one side, slipping off the saddle. Edward joined her and looked down at her as she lay on the ground with one foot in the stirrup. ‘Having problems, old thing?’

Harriet wrenched a thistle bush out of the ground and held it up as a warning. ‘Most horses hate thistles and will veer away from them, so be warned.’ She was up and giving chase to Edward, the straw bag bouncing on her back as she passed him. ‘See the gate ahead? When you’re on a hunt, if the pack veers off giving you a leading position, never take a gate, always open it, remember that even if the horses can jump it, the hounds might not and you’ll be given hell if they start ripping their bodies trying to get through hedges. Keep on a straight line now, head towards that thicket and then we go into the woods — be good exercise, see how you cope with trees and branches.’

Edward was enjoying the damp morning air and the sun. He was also elated, the prized results burning in his pocket. He overtook Harriet and looked back, laughing, and she came to his side as they pulled their mounts in and headed for the thicket. ‘You hardly ever laugh, you know that?’ Her red hair bobbing and shining in the sun, cheeks flushed, sweat dripping down the back of her shirt, Harriet swiped at the branches with her crop, looking back and urging Edward on. She shouted to him to make sure his mount had a clear path at all times, horses don’t like being whacked in the face by branches any more than their riders.

The bushes grew thicker and they slowed to a walk, finally emerging into a clearing. It seemed darker, and they looked up between the trees to the sky. Black clouds had gathered above them, and Harriet cried, ‘Oh pisspots, it’s going to rain.’ They mounted and trotted up a small bank towards a wood.

‘Keep on talking to him, tell him he’s doing well, he’s getting to know you now... we’ll head for the woods, I’m taking you to the special place I know where we can shelter.’

Edward patted the neck of his sweating horse and whispered ‘good boy’ and ‘good chap’. Harriet disappeared into the woods about eight yards ahead of him, and he thrashed at the branches with his crop.

The sky grew darker and a cold wind began to chill them. Fierce rain lashed down, and the ground quickly became slithery with mud as the horses picked their way over the uneven grass.

‘We’ll have to get off, walk the rest of the way, it’s too dangerous. The stream up ahead must have burst its banks. You okay? Just lead him on.’

Within a matter of minutes Edward was soaked to the skin. He pulled at the horse’s reins and followed Harriet, twice losing his footing, the mud oozing around his boots. ‘Harriet, Harriet, we should go back...’

She was way up ahead, dragging her horse beside her, and she pointed off to the left. ‘Just a few yards...’

The tiny chapel was dilapidated, the roof had partly fallen in and one wall was crumbling. In the old arched doorway two heavy oak doors hung off their hinges. Harriet tethered her horse to some branches and nuzzled him. ‘Get his saddle off and take it inside.’

Edward obeyed, wiping his face as the rain was blinding him, and pulled his horse towards the arch to give him some shelter. Heaving off the saddle, he carried it into the chapel.

Inside, it was a mass of fallen debris and overturned pews, and the font was cracked in two. The stained glass window was shattered, broken glass littered the small stone altar.

Harriet’s voice echoed as she pulled off her boots, rubbing her cold feet. She sat on a pew and turned to grin at him. ‘This is my secret place, you like it? Used to come here when I was little — course, it wasn’t all tumbled down then. I was christened here, it belongs to the family. Some of my father’s family are buried here. His father was a curate, not that he likes to broadcast that too much.’

Edward removed his soaking jacket, rubbed his wet hair and sat in a pew opposite Harriet. She shook her hair and unwound the ribbon that held it at the nape of her neck. She grinned at him. ‘You hungry? Open up the bag, I’m starved.’

She wandered around the chapel as Edward unloaded the picnic, telling him that her father had always kept his origins quiet. Being a judge he liked everyone to think he was somebody, but really he was just a vicar’s son. The family had bought the old manor house, they didn’t inherit it. ‘I think Pa married the old lady for her cash. I mean, have you seen some of the old photographs of her when she was young? Frightfully ugly, but he was quite good-looking.’

Throwing herself down beside him she searched the contents of the bag, opened a neat packet of sandwiches and munched hungrily, still shaking the water out of her hair.

‘I didn’t know you had such long hair.’

Harriet told him she had cut the fringe herself, and if she’d had long enough she would have cut the back as well, but the needlework teacher had taken the scissors away. ‘Shall we light a fire? I’m frozen, we could light one on the altar, it wouldn’t be sacrilegious, I mean nobody uses this place now.’

Edward shrugged his shoulders and began picking up dry sticks from the floor of the chapel.

Edna Simpson’s sister and her family, the Van der Burges, arrived to find no member of the family there to greet them. They sat in the warm spot in the house — the kitchen, Sylvia still wearing her mink coat. She surveyed the cards and invitations, assuring her husband they were going to have a pleasant festive season.

‘I should ruddy well hope so, after the trek down here. Why they don’t get rid of this place, God only knows. It’s rundown, freezing, and the roof looks as if it leaks. I’d say you needed to spend ten to fifteen thousand on the place before it’d be habitable... Social ruddy climbers, this place must be breaking the Judge. He’ll no doubt touch me for money, as usual.’

Richard snapped that perhaps they kept the Hall because they liked it. Not everyone was as obsessed with money as his father was.

‘You ought to know about that, Richard, never having earned a brass farthing — yet you manage to spend more in one week than a man earns in a year of hard labour! If all Eton taught you was to play goddamned backgammon, then I for one wish I’d never sent you there.’

Throwing up his hands in despair, Richard walked out, leaving BB, his father, to take over his position by the fire, warming his rear end.

‘Leave him be, dearest,’ Sylvia remonstrated feebly, ‘you always criticize him. He’s a dear boy, and means no harm... Did you bring your hunting jacket?’

BB bit the end of his cigar, spat it in the fire and bellowed for Fred to get him a drink to warm him up.

The thundering sound of Buster charging down the hall announced the arrival of Mrs Simpson. She proffered her cheek for Sylvia to kiss, while BB complained bitterly about not being able to take a bath after their journey. Mrs Simpson pursed her lips and murmured that there was a war on. BB snorted, ‘Don’t tell me they’re rationing hot water now, Edna, for Gawd’s sake.’

Sylvia could see her sister was furious, so she suggested Edna might tell them when it would be convenient for them to take their baths.

‘Well, come along now, dear, and I’ll show you your rooms and explain the intricacies of the plumbing system at the same time.’

They left BB still hogging the fire, his trousers sizzling. Sylvia followed her sister upstairs, noting Edna’s pathetic attempts at flower arranging. ‘My dear, perhaps you would like me to make a few Christmas decorations? I can paint some twigs and put some coloured balls and ribbons on them — they look very festive.’

‘We don’t really go in for that kind of thing... The gardeners haul a tree up outside the house and the Judge switches on the fairy lights — that, my dear, should suffice. And we’re not sending Christmas cards this year — rather goes against the grain, but there is a war on.’

Sylvia sighed. There was indeed a war raging, but somehow here in the depths of the country it seemed very far away.

Feeling a bit miffed at Sylvia’s condescension, Edna ushered her into her bathroom and explained how the hot water supply worked. Noting how many trunks her sister had brought from London, she said, off-handedly, that they had been invited to the Duke and Duchess’s house party the following weekend. Of course, she would call and ask if she could take her sister along.

The two women were so different, one five foot eight in her stockinged feet, the other five foot nothing. Their only similarity was in their plummy, aristocratic voices, Edna’s hoarse from constant shouting and Sylvia’s husky from chain-smoking. Sylvia must at one time have been very pretty in a doll-like way, with her big, liquid eyes, tiny upturned nose and cupid’s bow mouth.

Edna looked around the bedroom and folded her arms. She loved to take digs at Sylvia, as if they were still children. She’d always been jealous of her younger sister. It was unfair that Sylvia should have all the looks, but the fact that she herself had married a judge, and now mixed with high society, was reward enough. The family beauty was married to a South African, and a rough diamond at that, and Edna never let an opportunity pass to rub it in. ‘I can’t say for certain that the Duchess will oblige — they must have so many guests... It’s rather an honour, you know, to be invited, but then the Judge is very well thought of in these parts. The rumour is that he may even become Lord Chief Justice, did I tell you that?’

‘Yes, you did, dear, and I’m thrilled for you both.’ Sylvia fluttered her eyelashes, which were thickly coated with mascara, and looked so down, so hesitant and nervous that her sister felt quite sorry for her.

‘No doubt Richard will be roped in. Young men are always in demand, there are so few about with the war on... I don’t suppose you’ve got any dresses that would suit Harriet, have you? We really should do something with the gel. She’ll be coming out in a year or two, and she’s not the slightest bit interested in fashion. Would you see what you can do with her? The wretched child cut off half her hair, you know. Her best feature and she ruins it... Well, not the back, it’s just that the front’s gone fuzzy.’

‘I’m sure I can find something appropriate for Harriet... She’s out riding, I hear, with — Edward, isn’t it?’

Edna snorted and strode to the window. With all the students up at the university Allard could at least have brought home someone less peculiar. ‘Chap hardly speaks, you know. Good-looking, I suppose, but I find him rather disturbing. He’s sly in a funny sort of way — can’t fathom out his background at all. Welsh, or his family were, but then Allard was always one for collecting lame ducks.’

Sylvia carefully placed a silver-framed photograph on the bedside table. It was of two blond, angelic-looking boys, arm-in-arm and smiling into the camera. She touched the frame fleetingly, a sad, motherly gesture as if she were touching the child itself.

‘You shouldn’t carry that around with you, Sylvia. A constant reminder like that doesn’t do any good, you know, not after all you went through. I’d put it away somewhere.’

Sylvia ignored her, but she continued, ‘I don’t know why you put up with that husband of yours, I really don’t. He’s so dreadfully coarse and loud. He may be rich, but that’s not everything. Does he still run after the ladies the way he used to?’

Sylvia blinked, her nervous little hands trembling as she began to arrange her pure silk underwear, all neatly packed in layers of tissue paper, in the drawers. But she said nothing.

Edna pressed the point. ‘I do care about you, you know. You are my sister, after all.’

Sylvia shut the drawer very carefully and blinked, gave a tight little smile. ‘And I care about you, my dear. But I am perfectly well now, and BB takes care of us all, in more ways than one. Don’t be cruel about him, he is a good man.’

Silently thanking God that he was also a rich man, Mrs Simpson kissed her sister’s powdered cheek and walked out.

Left alone, Sylvia sat on the bed and looked at the photograph. Her tiny hands fluttered above the two beautiful, smiling boys, then dropped like birds to her side. Her eyes filled with huge tears and brimmed over, staining her cheeks with mascara.

BB walked into the room. For a moment his face puckered with pain, then he assumed a neutral expression and breezed over to lay a hand on her curly, blonde head. ‘Hold on, there’s a good girl, keep yer pecker up — we don’t want you having to go away again, now do we?’

She smiled up at him, and he took out his big silk handkerchief and wiped her tears away as though she were a child. She patted his hand and managed a small smile, saying she was perfectly all right, it was just that her sister sometimes got the better of her.

‘All I know is I got the best of the sisters. By God, I couldn’t survive that creature for long.’

BB watched his wife pull herself together, take her little silk make-up bag and go quietly into the bathroom to patch up her face. He sighed. She was so fragile, he could never tell her everything he felt, everything he was going through. The photograph of the two blond boys caught at the big man’s heart. He gritted his teeth and frowned, then took the frame and laid it face down so the two boys would not be looking at him, not forever making him feel guilty... He wished he could love his last born as much, but somehow he had closed off a part of him when his two eldest sons had died.

‘Be quite a social time here, Sylvia, my lamb. You’ll like that, and you know something — you’ll be the prettiest woman they’ve seen in these parts for years. Always said you’re the loveliest woman I ever set eyes on.’

She came out, refreshed and repainted, kissed his cheek lovingly. BB turned to leave the room. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, old gel, see you down in the arctic lounge.’

Harriet held her feet up to the fire. In the cracked, stone-flagged floor were little blue-flowered weeds, and she picked them one by one and threaded them through her toes, then held her foot up and laughed. She leaned on her elbow and looked at Edward, who was staring at the wall, a strange, expressionless look on his face.

‘What are you thinking? You’re miles away.’

He moved to her side and touched her hair, hair like gold, just like gold, just like his mother’s, so long that it hung below her waist. He remembered brushing it by the old grate, how Evelyne had loved her hair to be brushed. ‘You remind me of someone.’

Harriet smiled and leaned back against his shoulder, a natural and unprovocative move. The fire was low, there was no more wood in the chapel, and Edward noticed the rain had stopped. But he made no move to go. The quietness, the peace, was nice.

‘Did you love her, this person I remind you of?’

He smiled down at her and nodded his head. He found himself talking freely, unashamedly, and for the first time without any pain inside him. ‘I loved her, loved her very much.’

Harriet touched his face softly, looked into his dark-brown eyes. ‘You’ve got all the girls running after you round here, haven’t you? Is this a girl in Cambridge?’

He laughed and whispered to her that it was his mother, she had red hair too, long, long red hair.

Harriet snuggled into his shoulder, said that she was glad it wasn’t some woman. Edward coiled a strand of her hair round his finger, rolled it and let it drop into a ringlet on her shoulder... She caught his hand, kissed it, and he kissed the top of her head, very, very gently... He shook himself back to sanity. ‘We should go, Harry — come on, it’s stopped raining.’ Standing up, he lifted her to her feet. She was too close, his hands involuntarily tightened around her — he knew he should push her away, but he couldn’t. She looked up into his face. There was a calmness in her, an adultness that took his breath away. Gently, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his lips. The sweetness, the innocence of the kiss, her lips so soft — no tongue searching, thrusting down his throat — it was a childish kiss, no hands swarmed over his body, or clutched at his trousers to feel him. She was simply there, so warm and so pure that it made him gasp. ‘We’d better go, come on, get your boots on.’

She began to tie her hair back, and got into a mess so he had to do it for her. As he tied the ribbon, he lifted her thick hair and kissed the nape of her neck, then tapped her tight little bum and told her to get a move on... He walked out, hampered by his erection and knowing he had to get away from her before he ripped her skin-tight jodhpurs off.

At seven-thirty, Edward was freezing to death in the bathroom, in a cold bath. The dinner gong, obviously repaired, boomed out, and he hurried to his room to dress. Harriet hurtled into his bedroom in a dreadful pea-green dress. The hooks and eyes were undone at the back, she had only one shoe on and her hair was like a wild hedgerow. ‘Will you do me up, Allard’s not in his room? I hate this dress, it looks dreadful, doesn’t it? Mother says I have to wear one for Uncle and Auntie.’

The dinner gong chimed again. Edward adjusted his immaculate, perfectly tied bow tie and, silently congratulating the late Clarence on his taste and style, hurried down the stairs.

Mrs Simpson was talking loudly to her husband as Edward entered the sitting room.

‘A real stallion hound, darling, is frightfully rare nowadays.’

Sitting astride her chair as though it were a horse, Mrs Simpson gave Edward a cursory smile and kept talking. The Judge rose to his feet as his wife went on at great length about what, in her opinion, a good hound should look like. He poured a sherry and handed it to Edward.

‘Straight, beautiful neck and shoulders, depth of girth, bone and feet. Must have that essential muscle, refinement of skin, back quarters like a horse. Frightfully important that it’s quick of hearing. Get a deaf dawg...’

‘Thought you were describing me for a minute there, Edna.’

BB and his wife, with their son trailing slightly behind, made a grand entrance, and were introduced to Edward. His wife, tiny and demure, fluttered in a chiffon dress that seemed to trail myriad floating panels like scarves. The room reeked of Chanel No. 5, and her shrill, nervous laugh mingled with the clinking of her many bracelets.

BB accepted a whisky from the Judge. He was a lot older than his wife, and wore an immaculate grey suit and stiff white collar, with a blue foulard tie in an old-fashioned dimple knot and a large diamond pin. His complexion was florid, his white hair, though balding, thick at the sides of his red cheeks, and his small round eyes were like flints. He shook Edward’s hand in a grip like iron, and stood nearly as tall as Edward, his wide shoulders tapering to his once-slim waist showing that, although he was too heavy, he had at one time been a very fit, athletic man. He raised his glass high, including everyone in the room in a toast to the family.

His son paled beside him, although he had his father’s colouring and was exceptionally handsome, the similarity ended there. Richard Van der Burge was slim and dandyish, and Edward reckoned him to be around the same age as himself, although far more sophisticated.

Richard laughed up at Harriet who loomed over him as he sat on the sofa, and observed that she was growing faster than he was. Then he got to his feet and gave her a kiss. She pushed him away and wiped her cheek, telling him he was a ponce. The butler nervously approached Mrs Simpson and whispered to her, asking if he should announce dinner. Edward took stock of the guests. They were, it was exceedingly obvious, ‘money’.

Allard swept in, his cheeks flushed with the evening air and slightly out of breath. He apologized to everyone for his lateness and linked arms with his mother. They all drifted into the dining room.

The table was beautifully laid, and a rotund cook peered through a hatch that led into the kitchen. She was handing the dishes to a young local girl who had come in to help out, and to old Fred. Fred, obviously a ‘man of all trades’, was acting butler. Edward couldn’t help but notice that he was even less adept at this than he was at driving. Edward was placed next to BB with Harriet opposite. While the others at the table discussed family outings and previous dinners together, Edward became fascinated with BB.

‘I have not shaved myself in over twenty years. I was in New York, and I realized that it was non-productive and time-consuming. In the time it would take to shave, I could have been reading, say, a company report, and no doubt made a decision that could possibly bring in a million dollars, maybe more. So I detailed a unique tonsorial network between myself, my chauffeur and my barbers. The barbers were briefed to be standing by to attend to me instantly, and they got a good tip for being ready and waiting.’ His shaggy eyebrows and piercing blue eyes roamed the table, demanding attention. He spoke in a strange, guttural manner, clipping the ends of his words. The family, obviously having heard most of his stories before, continued their chatter. Richard paid no attention to his father, but Harriet was avidly interested in her uncle and asked questions Edward was too shy to ask.

‘Did you make millions, Uncle BB? In America? I thought you were in mining? You’ve got mines in America too, I suppose.’

BB roared with laughter while he picked at the dreadful dinner on the plate before him. Edward gathered that the Van der Burges were in gold-and diamond-mining in South Africa, and that BB must have made a fortune in the early twenties over there and opened up some kind of banking operation in America. He fascinated Edward as he patiently described the mysteries of the Stock Exchange to Harriet. ‘You got different types of markets, Harriet, we give them names. First we got the “bull” market, that’s the one in which the majority of share prices have been, and continue to be, rising. Then you got what we call the “split up” — that’s when the value of a company’s stock goes very high. Market dealings are made easier if the value of the stock is reduced, and the number of shares correspondingly increase as the “split up” happens, understand?’ BB continued to talk, holding forth with gestures so expansive that his wife carefully removed his cut-glass wine and water tumblers from his reach. ‘A man known as a “bear” is a person who believes prices will fall, and the “bull” is a man who expects them to rise.’

Both her elbows on the table, Harriet’s eyes twinkled as she asked BB which of the two he considered himself.

‘You tell me, Harriet, eh? Which one do you think I am, Harriet, lovey?’

BB gave the butler a small nod of his head to clear, and by that small movement placed himself as the head of the table — not that the Judge seemed to notice, he was too busy pouring himself another glass of wine. He was arguing with his wife about the vegetables, telling her they should be lightly boiled and not stewed to a pulp. Mrs Simpson haughtily repeated his suggestions through the hatch to the cook. At the same time Harriet spoke even louder to BB, ‘Does that mean you are rich then? I mean, diamonds are worth a lot of money, Ma’s got a diamond ring and that’s worth thousands, isn’t it Ma? Not as big as Auntie Sylvia’s, though. Did you sell them in America? Is that what you did over there, Uncle?’

Harriet was reprimanded for asking impertinent questions, and it gave Edward the opportunity to talk to BB. Buster appeared at this moment, at least, they could smell him and he had to be removed. He was dragged unceremoniously out of the doors, and the Judge remarked that if the dog was fed the same stewed veg as he was, no wonder he farted.

BB quietly explained to Edward what they meant in the City by ‘selling short’. He smiled and murmured that he was, if anything, a bear, and selling short was a favourite device of a bear. This was done if you believed that a stock was going down. A bear would sell, but the stock he sold was not necessarily his own — or not as yet, because he knew he was able to borrow it from a broker for a time, for a fee. ‘Then, Edward, I deliver the borrowed shares to my buyer, collect the payment and wait for the price to fall. Once it goes down, I buy the same shares at a lower price — you with me? — and give them to the broker to replace the shares I initially purchased... my profit is the difference between the price at which I sold the borrowed shares to the buyer and the price I paid to replace them. Now, you can get yourself in a right bad situation if the prices unexpectedly go up instead of down. In 1930, rules governing the short-selling system were imposed, aimed at the likes of me so that there could be no possibility of the system actually causing prices to fall.’

Bored by her uncle’s conversation, Harriet concentrated on stuffing herself with trifle. Edward asked BB if the Wall Street Crash had affected him. The big man put his napkin down and turned to Edward, although he threw his voice to the whole table. He thumped the table, making the pudding spoons jump, and said he had got out in time. ‘I wish I could say the same for many of my friends — good friends that were bled dry, men who had to face creditors and so gambled on the markets that had already crumbled beneath them.’ He swept the dining table with a theatrical gesture, forcing everyone to listen as he described the fate of many of his colleagues in New York. Mrs Simpson raised her eyes heavenward, having heard this story, like everyone else, many times before.

‘There were men appealing for time, many became foolish, taking risks they would never have attempted before the crash... One close associate who shall remain nameless, but a true, dear friend of mine and my dear wife’s, tried to recoup his losses, based on the old Roman maxim, caveat emptor — buyer beware!’

Richard Van der Burge looked at his mother and yawned, but his father held forth and fixed his son with such an icy stare that the boy pursed his lips and looked down at his plate instead. BB continued, ‘In 1933 the Securities Act effectively made it mandatory in all stock dealings for the seller to beware. It was a tough new legislation, and I was lucky to get out without undue losses. Men were up to their necks in lawsuits, all resulting from disputed market dealings and loans. Bankruptcy is a terrible thing, and a friend of mine who fell foul of the hungry vultures wrote on a notepad over and over again, “My life is worthless, worthless, worthless, I am a failure.” Then he shot himself in a New York cocktail bar. That man’s life had been a veritable victory, rising from nowhere, nothing, to dominate the banking world for ten years.’

BB was finally silenced by Allard waving his spoon in the air and loftily asking if anyone knew what Beau Brummel’s last words were?

‘As they carried the dying Brummel from his impoverished room in Paris, he was heard to say, “I owe no one.”’

When dinner was over, Mrs Simpson stood up, saying she, Sylvia and Harriet would take coffee in the library. Allard and Richard sprang up and both rushed to the doors, giggling. The Judge only lasted until he had drained his brandy glass, then departed to his bedroom, complaining of wind. Edward was thankful they had left him alone with BB, and began to question him in a roundabout, flattering way. BB was a sharp man. He smiled, poured himself a glass of port and held it to the light, murmuring that he hoped it would not be of the same poor quality as the rest of the meal. ‘I am a self-made man, Edward lad, and I am proud of it, proud. I began in South Africa, I went over there with one hundred pounds in my pocket, and eight years later I was a multi-millionaire. Ever heard of the great Kimberley mine, son? Look at this, see, this was the first diamond I mined with my own hands, look at the colours, beautiful, isn’t it?’ He held his tie-pin up to the light, then placed it in Edward’s hand. Edward held it and turned it over, then returned it to BB’s big, open palm.

‘The gold pin was made from my first gold nugget. I struck it rich, my boy; my quarry returned five thousand ounces of gold from thirteen tons of ore, my shares rose from one pound to one hundred and fifty. Those were the days, these hands raking the ground hour after hour, but my God, when you strike, there’s no better feeling on this earth — better than sex, lemme tell you. No woman on earth can give you a climax like the one you get when you strike it rich. I’ve seen a gold nugget the size of that decanter, weighing in at twelve pounds — the Peacock nugget — Jesus God, my friend, I seen men weeping just looking... and I was there, right at the beginning. Gold, it can’t clothe a man like wool, can’t even arm them like iron, warm them like coal, feed them like corn, but — and pay close attention to this, lad — gold can buy all the others, and that’s what it’s all about.’

It was two hours later when Edward and BB joined the rest of the party, BB having consumed an entire decanter of port. His face was flushed and his small eyes glinted, and he strolled into the lounge with his arm around his new friend’s shoulders. The others were playing charades, and BB shattered the relaxed, informal atmosphere as he strode into the centre of the room and declared that he wished his own son had the intellect of his new-found friend. ‘There’s a job waiting for this lad when he gets out of university, and you’re all my witnesses. This lad is going places, I know, I can tell, which is more than I can say for everyone else gathered here. Finance is what rules the world, and I say there would be no war on right now — no bastard Germans herding Jews into the concentration camps — there wouldn’t be a war if there had been no Wall Street Crash.’

Embarrassed by his father, as everyone else also appeared to be by now, Richard tried to hand him a cup of coffee, but BB stood in the centre of the room, legs apart. ‘You young people don’t understand finances. Take the Messerschmidt — now then, when the crash came, where was Willy Messerschmidt, tell me that? I’ll tell you — in Germany, waiting to see if the Eastern Aircraft Corporation at Pawtucket, Rhode Island, had crashed, and when he discovered it was in trouble his hopes of building a secret air force to prepare Germany for another war were dashed, but had they? No! The bastard facing financial ruin was kept going by Hitler himself. It was Hitler who knew the man was a genius, and financed him, and, by Christ, look what havoc those planes are creating. There would be no war — no war — if the Wall Street Crash hadn’t happened. It caused Germany’s growing economic crisis to escalate, just as it improved Hitler’s chance of gaining office. The Reich was tied to the American economy more closely and — not many people know this — massive loans from Wall Street helped finance the German reparation payments and the post-war reconstruction projects. That’s how that man got into power, the Wall Street Crash should never have been allowed to happen...’ BB swayed, still standing in the centre of the room.

Harriet, bored, curled up on the sofa with a copy of Horse and Hound. Allard kept taking sneaky looks at his watch, and twice he tried to exchange amused glances with Edward, but received no reaction, so he turned back to Richard. Unlike his father, Richard had no South African accent. He had been educated at Eton and was, so Edward had overheard, going into his father’s business. They were at present negotiating with two renowned dealers in Hatton Garden.

As they prepared for bed that night, BB commented to his wife, ‘Good chap, that young fella, Edward. Liked him — reminded me of myself at that age.’

The next evening Edward again spent most of dinner talking to BB. The man knew everything there was to know about mining, and Edward was so involved that he didn’t look at Harriet once throughout the meal. She was hurt by his ignoring her and reverted to childish behaviour, squabbling with Allard and Richard. As usual, the Judge and his wife discussed hunting and the details of preparing the horses.

‘How’s the chap doing, Harriet? Can’t have one of us letting the side down — have to go over and have a word with the master of the hunt as it is. What do you say, Harriet, he make it, you think?’

Edward heard Harriet say that he would be able to hold his own, he could more than likely outride Richard already. Richard laughed, looked at Edward and said that he had tamed the wildcat, Harry was actually being nice to someone. Allard joined in the teasing, shouting across to Edward that Harriet was love-struck. She blushed, and threw a tantrum, hurling a bread roll so hard it bounced off the table and hit the Judge.

‘That’s enough, Harriet, now go to bed. Now! We’ve had enough of your antics. Out — I mean it — out!’

Harriet stormed out, slamming the door. They finished their dinner without further interruption. Later, Edward played draughts with BB, who would not stop until he had won three sets. He sat opposite Edward, chewing on his cigar, slamming his fist down on the board when Edward beat him.

‘Right, my friend, one more set, and this time I’ll get you on the hop.’

It was after twelve when the evening broke up and everyone drifted off to bed. The plumbing creaked from the extra usage. His teeth chattering, Edward went to his room and dived between the chilly sheets. He could still hear the distant murmur of voices, but eventually all was quiet. He was just dropping off to sleep when the bedroom door creaked open.

Harriet, her face tear-stained and glum, stood there in her thin cotton nightie. ‘Why were you so nasty to me at dinner, you totally ignored me. What have I done?’

Edward sat up and told her to go back to her room immediately, she hadn’t done anything, far from it.

‘What do you mean? You didn’t look at me once.’ She crept to the bed and sat down, her bare feet blue with cold.

‘Harry, you are fourteen years old, and it’s not done to come to a fellow’s bedroom at this time of night.’ In a whisper as loud as most people’s normal speaking voice, Harriet asked why?

‘You know why, it’s not on, what if anyone were to see you here? Now be a good girl and go back to bed.’

Stubbornly, she remained sitting, rubbing her chilled feet against each other.

‘Harry, I’ll see you in the morning as usual, now go back to bed.’

She slunk off the bed, pouting moodily, padded to the door and glared back at him. Then her eyes filled with tears and she turned to walk out.

‘Harry, don’t get upset with me, I didn’t mean to ignore you, I give you my word, it’s just that...’

She cocked her head to one side, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders. ‘Just what?’

Edward held out his hand and she crept back to hold it tightly.

‘Just nothing, I’ll see you in the morning, goodnight.’

She flung herself in his arms and hugged him. He could smell Pears soap. Then she bounced off the bed again, happy, gave him a cheeky grin and banged out.

Edward closed his eyes. She was so noisy, he thought, she would wake the whole house. He listened, but all was silent. He knew he would have to tread very carefully with Harry, she was as frisky as a puppy. He pulled the bedclothes around him and could smell the Pears soap, feel her warm, lovely body. Christ almighty, he had a hard-on again, he knew he would have to get himself laid soon, the sooner the better.

One night, after his draughts session with Edward, BB appeared, puffing, on the top landing. ‘Look, old fella, been going through my wardrobe. Put on a lot of weight, doubt if I’ll make the hunt — gout, you know — but it’s a pity to waste all this gear... Now then, you’re a big chap, what do you think?’ He held out an armful of hunting togs, jackets, boots, a polished black topper. Edward knew why he had come up, and he invited BB into the cold bedroom. BB had a look at all the books laid out on the desk, then sat down.

‘See you’re still hard at it, jolly good, interesting.’

Edward showed BB his work, and they discussed mining. BB rubbed his hands complaining of the cold, and disappeared briefly to return with two glasses and a bottle of brandy.

‘I hear you’ve no family, son. That right?’

Edward told him it was, and that he was having difficulty making ends meet, but he was determined to finish his studies at Cambridge.

‘Short of cash are you, lad? Well, we’ll see to it that you make ends meet. In return, I want you out on the first seaplane to South Africa when you’ve finished at university. What do you say? It’ll be the chance of a lifetime, and you’ll have more than opportunity — you’ll have me, and any introduction I can give you. It’s wide open there for the likes of you, prepared to work hard for their chance.’

Fortified by the Judge’s excellent brandy, BB found himself talking more like a father to Edward than his own son. ‘I had two good boys, you know about them? They were like me, you know, eager to go into the business, good, hard-working lads, and I’ve always maintained that if you want to go into a business you start from the bottom, work your way up, whether you’re the boss’s son or not. If you don’t know what the workers do, you don’t understand them... My father was a penniless immigrant in the East End. He slaved to get me my stake, never saw me strike it rich, but I owe him a debt... never forget your debts, son, that’s another important lesson.’

Edward was taken aback when the big man suddenly sat on the bed and took out his silk handkerchief. ‘They died along with twenty-five kaffirs. When they dug them up, the eldest boy had tried to save two of the workers, his body lying over theirs... It took them five days to dig out the youngest lad.’

Edward poured another measure of brandy and handed it to the big man.

‘I’m not a chap to show my emotions, got to keep up a front for the wife. Marry a strong woman, Eddie, one who’ll stand by you through thick and thin, or never get yaself hitched. There’s women the world over that’ll give you any satisfaction you need below the belt — have that rather than tie yaself down... not worth the heartache.’

The intimacy of their friendship in that huge, cold bedroom was never shown to the rest of the family. BB would revert to his usual blustering self with the others, arguing with the Judge on politics, war, anything that took his fancy. The other side of this complex man was reserved for his private drinking sessions with his new pal Edward. But occasionally the big, robust man could not help but give an affectionate pat to Edward’s shoulder, the fondness glowing in his flinty eyes. These familiar, almost loving, gestures did not go unnoticed by the rest of the household.

Allard couldn’t resist making snide remarks to Richard. ‘Watch out, old chap, that’s a very ingratiating fella — even got Harriet eating out of his hands like one of her nags... Appears he’s done the same with your father.’

Richard did take note, and had a quiet talk with his mother. She assured her son that his father was just being friendly. He missed his friends back in South Africa and appeared to have a lot in common with Edward.

‘Just so long as it’s not Pa’s money, that’s fine, keeps him out of my hair.’

The morning of the first meet was clear, and the whole household gathered in the hall. Mrs Simpson looked almost attractive in her black habit, black topper, lace veil and immaculate, gleaming boots. Allard, the Judge and Richard, all equally smart, checked their appearance in the hall mirror. They were joined by Edward, who felt uncomfortable in BB’s riding kit, and even more by their scrutiny, concerned he might let the side down. Seeing him so well kitted out, however, they accepted him and the Judge even fixed Edward’s cravat for him. He gave him so many instructions about what to do and say when he met the Master of the Hounds that Edward’s head reeled. He began to understand why the Judge kept quiet about being only a clergyman’s son, why they were so delighted with the invitation with the gold crest... they really were as much social climbers as himself, and it amused him because they were taking him right along with them. Their obsession with the correct procedures for the hunt arose from the fact that they were not original members of the local social set, and now they were about to move up a notch. As they walked out to the stables, Edward was feeling as buoyant as they so obviously did.

Harriet moved to Edward’s side. She looked quite beautiful under the black lace veil, her red hair braided as if to match her horse’s tail. ‘Remember everything I’ve told you. Keep well to the back, don’t try and be clever, just hold him in and don’t let him take the lead. Control him — he’ll want to join the leaders. Keep him reined in — he’s very powerful, but you’d not be able to keep up with the Master, so let him know who’s boss. As soon as you see riders breaking away, you can leave without disgrace... If you fall, remount, ride on, don’t let the hounds worry you.’

His head was teeming with instructions, and it didn’t help that BB’s hat was a trifle too tight.

Along the way the farm workers stopped in the fields and waved to them, and the Judge, leading the group, touched his crop to his topper. Long before they reached the village they could hear the hounds, and as they turned into the square the noise became ear-splitting. The loose hounds ran back and forth, baying excitedly, and the eight pairs held by the handler on long leads barked hysterically. Edward was surprised to see how many riders there were — on beautifully groomed mounts with braided manes and tails. The horses were frisky, some rearing and trotting sideways, others jerking their heads up and down. Above the noise of the hounds and the restless horses could be heard the high-pitched voices of the riders.

A large silver tray of punch was being offered around, and the public house, The Feathers, was overflowing with farm workers and valets. Six of the mounted men wore hunting pink, and three more stood on the cobbles, horns at the ready. Edward stayed on the edge of the circle, and nearly lost his topper when he leaned down to take a small silver cup of punch.

A palomino, its tail braided with black ribbons, began to sidestep as if dancing. His woman rider bent forward and patted his neck, and he kicked out again. She trotted on, wheeling him round to calm him. She sat side-saddle, wearing a long, black skirt, a black jacket tight at the waist and flared over the hips. Her cravat was white, and her flat topper was veiled with black, a long swirl of black net trailing behind her. ‘Walk on, thatta boy, walk on, good boy.’

She was stunning, her arrogant head held high, her black leather-clad hands holding the matching crop, and Edward stared. Suddenly she turned the horse and trotted towards him. As she approached, he realized it was Lady Summercorn. She brought her horse to a stop and gave him a tiny smile. ‘We’ve missed you. You promised to come over and see us. Perhaps later on today, unless you have a prior engagement?’

Edward touched his topper, flashed a smile. ‘I would like that, thank you.’

The Master commanded the hunt to ‘walk on’, and the riders began leading their horses out of the village square. Edward stayed at the back of the pack, as instructed, and Lady Summercorn rode beside him. The pace was easy and slow as they manoeuvred their mounts through the narrow village lanes.

‘There’s a field off to the right, just before the main gallop. I doubt it will last longer than that. My chauffeur is waiting at The Feathers. Riders generally splinter off about that time, I’m sure no one will miss us.’

She stared directly ahead, and might have been talking to her mount. She heeled the horse forward until Edward was slightly behind her, then turned and gave him a secret smile.

The hunt was on, but Edward had already caught his fox. He didn’t give a damn about the four-legged one.

Edward did not return to the Hall until after one o’clock in the morning. He had called the Simpsons and said he had taken a fall, and left his horse with Fred to lead to the stables.

Allard was sitting in his father’s armchair, very drunk, and heard Edward arriving home. He staggered out into the hall. ‘Well, you slut, Lady Summercorn’s gels treat you all right?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Rather boring, actually. Came a hell of a cropper. How did it go?’

‘Go? Go...?’ Irritated by his sarcastic tone, Edward turned on his heels, but Allard continued, ‘Harry’s in hot water, she took that fence by Hendley’s brook.’

Edward turned back, concerned. ‘Is she all right?’

‘She is, the bloody horse isn’t, though. All hell to pay — Pop’s blown a fuse. Listen, you on for tomorrow? We’re invited to the Gaskills’, could be a good do.’

‘Actually, no, I accepted an invitation to dinner.’

‘Well, well, well. Got into the inner sanctum, have we? Lady Summercorn... well, well.’

Edward said nothing, gave nothing away. He was as exhausted as Allard, the only difference was that his horse had been of the two-legged variety. Her Ladyship had been very demanding. Edward slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the cigarette case she had given him. He wondered if he would get a lighter to match at dinner the following evening.

Harriet was in the stable, lying in the straw next to her horse. She had been poulticing his injured leg every half-hour since she returned from the hunt. The horse could not put his leg down, and old Fred and Harriet were taking turns to sit up with him through the night.

Edward woke with a start, sat bolt upright, then flopped back when he saw by his bedside clock that it was only four in the morning. He rubbed his head, he was freezing cold and got up to put a jumper on, then heard footsteps below in the courtyard.

Harriet was huddled by the stable wall, her shoulders shaking. Fred was standing a short distance from her. He tried to put a blanket around her shoulders and pointed towards the house, but she refused. Then Edward saw her march towards the kitchen.

Edward dragged on his trousers, threw on his coat and went down to the kitchen. He made her jump, he entered so quietly. He saw she was loading a shotgun.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

She told him curtly to mind his own business and walked out. He followed her across the yard and into the stable, then stopped when he heard Fred’s voice. ‘Let me do it, miss, I’ll do it. You’ve no need to put yerself through this. Go back to the house now, there’s a good lass.’

Her voice was not harsh or childish, it was quiet and firm. ‘No, Fred, go on, leave me, make sure you shut the doors behind you — I don’t want to wake the whole household... I mean it, I want to be on my own. He’s mine — it was my fault and I have to see it through, that’s the way it should be. Please, Fred, I know what I’m doing.’

Edward slipped into the shadows and watched as Fred walked away, glum-faced. He stopped to say he would get the cart ordered for first thing in the morning, she wouldn’t have to see him taken away. He’d not let her go through that.

The heavy door was dragged shut behind Fred, and Edward walked towards the stall. He couldn’t see her, but he could see the hind quarters of her horse, lying wrapped in a blanket. He was shuddering and making strange panting noises. Harriet was sitting with his head resting in her lap, stroking his nose to comfort him. ‘You’ll be out of pain, boy, not long now, shhh, not long, no more pain, there’s a good boy.’

About to speak, Edward was stunned into silence. He saw her carefully place a blanket over her beloved horse’s head to deaden the sound of gunfire, stand up, aim the shotgun right at his head and pull the trigger. The horse jerked, kicked his legs out in a frantic spasm, then lay still.

She lowered the gun and slid down the side of the stall to end up squatting by the horse’s head. She didn’t remove the blanket, but expertly placed her hand on the pulse points.

‘Harry... you all right, sweetheart?’

She gave a sad, soft sigh, nodded her head, got to her feet and said she hoped the shot hadn’t woken anyone. ‘He was in agony, I couldn’t stand to see him go through more. We did what we could, but his leg was broken, and it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have taken the jump.’

Edward was astonished at her strength, her calmness. He took his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. They walked slowly back to the house and she told him they would come for the carcass in the morning.

She stared up at the stars and told him she wouldn’t go back into the house — she was going for a walk. He watched the straightbacked little figure in his big overcoat striding across the fields. It was hard to believe she was only a child, she constantly threw him off-balance, the child-woman. He didn’t follow because he wouldn’t have been able to trust himself; at least he had some decent qualities. The further away from her the better. He decided he would pull some strings to join Lady Summercorn’s house party as quickly as he could.

Alex Stubbs was transferred to Durham Jail, known for its hardened criminal inmates. He was over eighteen years old now, and eligible for an adult prison. With his record of violence, he was placed in a top security wing, with two men to a cell. Stubbs, Prisoner 49861, wearing his grey uniform and carrying his few belongings, was led along the corridors to a cell at the end of E Block. The wardens opened the door and Alex walked in. The door closed behind him. There were two bunks, one already occupied. He put his things down.

‘You a friggin’ fairy, Stubbs?’

‘No.’

‘Get this clear from day one, Stubbs, I don’t wanna know anythin’ about you, I don’t want you yakkin’ on about your family, your kids, your fuckin’ wife, nothin’... I don’t wanna know you, I don’t want you askin’ me any questions about my life. I’m in here for eight years, armed robbery, I got three to go an’ I intend gettin’ out without any aggro. That clear? You stay on one side of the cell an’ I’m on the other. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, an’ I don’t want any fuckin’ trouble from the barons. You start anything, anything, an’ I’ll tie your balls so tight you’ll wish you never met me.’

George Windsor glared at Alex. He looked almost scalped, his crew-cut red hair was so short. His thick neck sloped down to massive, muscular shoulders. Windsor was about five foot eight but built like a bull, even his hands were broad and stubby.

Alex turned and looked at him, and for a second Windsor was nonplussed. The lad was younger than he had at first thought, and he was a hell of a size. His blue eyes glared fearlessly, and he moved to Windsor’s bunk, rested his hands on the side. ‘I don’t wanna know you either — know anyfing about you. I’m just gonna serve me sentence, I don’t even want to talk to you. I want out as badly as you do. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink, I work out, an’ you screw anyfing up fer me and it’ll be your balls wrapped around your neck.’

Windsor shook Alex’s hand and lay back on his bunk. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his new cell-mate carefully placed four books on his small corner table. No photographs, no knick-knacks, nothing.

On Windsor’s table was a neat stack of comic books and nothing else. Around them could be heard the catcalls and ribaldry of the other prisoners, but the two remained silent. Cell doors clanged, and there was the all-pervasive stench of urine. Alex lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. The years ahead loomed like a nightmare. He knew he would have been out, a free man, but for his foolishness. He tossed and turned, angry with himself, angry at little Eric. Desperate for sleep to envelop him, he counted the years, and memories of Edward reared up. This was his fault, Edward was to blame for everything. He’d put Alex in prison to begin with, it was all his brother’s fault.

Alex tried to picture Edward’s face, but that too had become blurred by time. At last he fell into a fitful sleep, calmed by his assurances to himself that when he did get out, he would find Edward and make him pay for what he had done. ‘I’ll kill him... I’ll kill him.’

Windsor looked up. The lad was talking in his sleep. That was all he needed — a friggin’ nutter in with him. Well, if he was, he’d straighten him out fast enough. He stared at the sleeping figure. The boy’s face was a mess, and it looked as though he had a cracked cheek that should have been attended to. There were fading yellow bruises all over his face and shoulders. Windsor lay back, thinking that whoever this kid wanted to kill had better watch out — he, for one, wouldn’t like to bump into him on a dark night.

Chapter eight

Edward left Haverley Hall to spend the rest of his vacation with Lady Summercorn and her guests. The Simpsons felt rebuffed, especially as they encountered him on a number of social occasions. He was very much in demand, for reasons they were totally unaware of. Edward was being passed around as the ‘stud’ of the season, screwing anyone who would pay him for it. Lady Summercorn was desperate to keep him, so she upped the ante until Edward was ‘bought’ for her sole use. He loathed and detested the lot of them, with their high-pitched voices and artificial manners. They all wanted the same thing — his body in bed.

Edward had not even said goodbye to Harriet; he just packed his bags and departed in Lady Summercorn’s Rolls-Royce. The only person he paid careful attention to was BB. He wanted to take up the offer of work in South Africa, so he made sure the old boy knew exactly what he was up to.

‘As you said, sir, work your way up from the bottom... all depends which bottom. But right now, I need cash, so I’m on the move.’

BB roared with laughter and pulled Edward towards him. ‘You mean she’s keeping you? Good for you, lad, that’s the ticket. Make ‘em pay for it, strapping young fella like you. Here, this is a little something for when you get back to college.’ BB tucked a fiver into Edward’s pocket. Edward had expected more, but thanked him. He knew BB would be discreet, and he was pleased that he was leaving the Simpsons with his blessing.

‘Good lad! If I were younger I’d come with you... Go on, give her one from me...’

Only once did Edward feel any remorse. He went to a cocktail party where, to his surprise, he saw Harriet. She was sitting alone, looking awkward and out of place in a dreadful yellow dress, a bored expression on her face. He slipped to her side and stood looking down at her thick mop of hair.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Harriet’s grim expression quickly changed to a glowing smile when she saw who it was. Then she kicked him in the shins. ‘You are a rotter, leaving without a word. I’ve been going to these awful bashes just in the hope of seeing you, to give you a black eye.’

Edward sat down, laughing, took her hand and kissed the palm.

‘Oh, stop that, you’re as bad as all these wets. You stink, you know, you missed my birthday. I hate you.’

‘No you don’t, Harry, not really.’ He was teasing, but he saw a hurt expression cross her face. He kept holding her hand. ‘Tell me, where in God’s name did you get that frock?’

‘This “frock”, as you so quaintly put it, happens to be a Balmain number my mother insisted I wear and which Auntie Sylvia bought in the year dot... Makes me look as if I’ve got jaundice, doesn’t it?’

He had to laugh, she was so outrageous, and she elbowed him, leaning closer. ‘Are you screwing any of these old bags? Allard said you were. Are you?’

‘Where did you learn to speak like that? You should be ashamed of yourself, a nicely brought-up young lady... What else did Allard tell you?’

Harriet shrugged and muttered that he was probably jealous. She giggled and nudged Edward in the ribs again.

Edward saw Lady Summercorn raise an eyebrow at him. It annoyed him, but he rose to his feet. She might pay for his services, but that didn’t give her the right to order him around like a skivvy.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Harriet.

He looked down at her and shook his head. ‘Nothing, it’s nothing... I’d better circulate. Maybe I’ll pop over and say goodbye before I go back to college.’

Harriet glanced up at him, then turned away. ‘I still ride every morning, go to my chapel. Maybe you could walk over one day — it’s not far from...’

Edward was whisked away to be introduced to a plump woman, a very close friend of Her Ladyship’s. When he turned back the sofa was empty, Harriet had gone. It depressed him, just as much as the possessive hand clutching at his arm. The fat, jowled face smirked up at him. ‘I’ve heard so much about you... I’m having a few friends over for a small dinner next week...’

The red-painted mouth dropped open as Edward spun on his heel and walked out. He searched half-heartedly for Harriet, then walked out into the snow and sat on a bench in the garden. He took out his gold cigarette case, tapped a cigarette on the lid and lit it with a gold lighter. He turned the lighter over in his hand.

Later that night, Lady Summercorn came into his bedroom. She fiddled with her bracelet, muttering that the catch had broken, then tossed it on to the dressing table. ‘My husband’s coming home on leave. Perhaps it would be best if you left a few days earlier than we’d arranged. It’s been fun, but it’s over. Maybe I’ll contact you at Cambridge... Would you mind if a few of my girlfriends make your acquaintance?’

Edward picked up her bracelet and fingered the small gold links. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary — I have their numbers, in more ways than one. I’ll leave tonight.’

Edward left Lady Summercorn’s estate before the household was awake. He decided to walk to the station and take the train back to London, perhaps pay a visit to Dora before returning to college. The station was closed, and Edward hesitated a moment until a guard wandered down the lane towards him. When Edward asked the time of the next London train, he shrugged and said he hoped there would be one around ten, but there were always delays. He took Edward’s bags inside and promised to look after them, and Edward walked off. He knew it was madness to go, but he needed company, needed something clean and honest.

‘Hello.’

He rested his arm along the back of the old pew in the chapel and saw her standing in the doorway, her cheeks like rosy apples and her hair wild. She sat beside him.

‘You have a nice Christmas?’ he asked.

‘Yes... it would have been nicer if you had been with us. The tree went up in flames, the fairy lights short-circuited, or something. The Judge was livid because Allard said he had put the wrong fuse in the socket... Anyway, made Christmas finish with a bang.’

‘Did you get some nice presents?’ Edward asked.

‘Oh, yeth, I got a dolly...’ she lisped. ‘Why are you talking to me as if I were ten years old? If you want to know, I got some new stirrups and a silver-topped riding crop from BB. What did you get? Not that I’m interested, I didn’t get anything for you.’

Edward replied, ‘Ah, but I’ve got something for you — it’s a belated Christmas-cum-birthday present.’ He took out the broken bracelet and held it up. Harriet looked at it as he held it aloft, dangling it in front of her. She held out her wrist and he bent his head to fasten the chain around it, although he knew the clasp was broken. He suddenly felt guilty and caught the bracelet in his hand, put it in his pocket. ‘That was a lie, you don’t want it, it’s cheap and nasty.’

He expected her to delve in his pocket and ask what he meant, but instead she said softly, ‘I would still like to have it, may I?’

Edward hesitated, then handed it to her. She gave him a sweet smile as she tucked it into the pocket of her jodhpurs. ‘Thank you.’ She held up her new crop. ‘Here, take this, I want you to have it.’ As he shook his head she said, ‘Please take it, I’ve got another one and this is real silver.’

He stroked her thick, curly hair for a moment, then said, ‘If it’s real silver, then you keep it.’

She turned her cheek and his hand brushed her soft, fresh skin. She kissed his fingers and he pulled his hand back sharply. He got up and kicked at the pew saying he shouldn’t be there, he should be at the station. He wondered what he was doing in the middle of nowhere, in a broken-down chapel with a child.

‘Harry, get on your goddamned horse and get out of here. Go on, be a good girl, just get the hell out of here. You drive me crazy, you know that? Oh, Christ, come here, come here, Harry.’

She went into his arms and he held her, held her tight, so tight she felt the breath squeezing out of her lungs and it was the sweetest feeling she had ever known in her life. He spoke into her hair, his face buried in the red-gold curls that still smelled of Sylvia’s Chanel No. 5. ‘I’m not much good, Harry. There’s a lot of reasons and I can’t tell you but... I have to succeed, I have to make it, and I’ll use anything, anyone, to get wherever it is I am trying to go... You are no use to me, in fact you’re a menace, because you make me feel, you touch some chord right down inside me...’

She felt he was smothering her, but she didn’t move, she couldn’t, he was holding her so tightly, but he didn’t frighten her. She looked up at last into his handsome face. ‘I belong to you, I do, I know it.’

He held her at arm’s length and said in a harsh voice that she belonged to no one but herself, least of all to him. He flicked up the collar of his black cashmere coat and smiled, but his eyes were holding on to her — dark, black eyes. ‘Maybe one day, when I’ve made it, I’ll come back for you, just don’t lose yourself, Harry, don’t grow into a woman.’

She spoke so softly, looking down at her old riding boot, ‘Everyone has to grow up, Edward.’

He turned away, faced the wall. ‘I have a brother, you know, younger than me...’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, I have to succeed for both of us, you see. I owe him... I owe him.’

She could barely hear him, and moved a little closer. His fists were clenched as he fought his emotion and she saw his face twist with anger. ‘Why am I telling you this, why?’ Neither spoke for long moments until he whispered, ‘I owe him his freedom.’ The word ‘freedom’ hammered inside his head and he struck out at the wall, his back to her. His voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘That was my father’s name — Freedom — he was a Romany gypsy, a gyppo... You see what I mean, you don’t know me.’

‘I think it’s a beautiful name... Freedom.’

Hearing her say it with such gentleness calmed him, but he still wouldn’t turn and face her.

‘He always loved my brother best. He bought him a dog once, I remember. I wanted a dog so badly, but I pretended not to like it. One night, one night, Harry, we had this argument... You wouldn’t understand, you couldn’t, I’m a liar and a cheat, I’m cheap... I come from the slums, Harry, real poor, you know? But I won this scholarship and... and...’

She remained standing, not moving closer, just standing there. He could feel her behind him. He pressed his head against the brick wall and the tears streamed down his face.

He turned to her, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. Her huge eyes looked deep into his. She was so different from all the women he had known — it was a direct gaze, innocent, and she wasn’t frightened by what he had told her. It was a terrible puzzle to her — his disconnected words showed his anguish and torment. She didn’t even lift her arms when he cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her gently, chastely, on her wonderful mouth, so soft and warm. A loving kiss. She loved him and he knew that he loved her. He held her face until his fingers marked her cheeks.

But Harriet was a child.

He turned on his heel and walked out. She stood staring after him. It was the most decent thing he had ever done in his life.

Dora had been in tears all day. Johnny Mask had been picked up for black marketeering. Not only that — when he was arrested they discovered that he had also skipped conscription. He chose to go into the army rather than jail, and so arrived at his tasteless apartment with his head shorn and wearing a corporal’s uniform.

He was philosophical about it all, reckoning that the war wouldn’t last all that long, and by the time they’d got him trained he would be back at the club. Dora wept buckets, she could see him opening fire on rows of Germans and being shot to pieces.

‘Darlin’, listen to me, I’ll be confined to bleedin’ barracks for three months before they can even ship me over. What you howlin’ for? I keep on tellin’ you I’ll be all right, for Chrissake... Dora, will you shut it!’

She gulped and mopped her tear-stained face. With Johnny gone, who was going to run the club? Who was going to look after her? She started up again, her face puckering, and he threw his arms up and threatened to slap her around, he had work to do and she was part of it.

‘They got me on a load of gin, but I got a warehouse full of stuff scheduled to come in tomorrow night. Now I can’t trust any of those sons of bitches I got workin’ for me, so I need someone on the inside.’

Dora started to think, her little brain teetered around and she tossed a few names to Johnny, who shook his head.

‘Yer not wiv me, are yer, you stupid cow? Look, you know the club racket — you should do, you’ve been runnin’ it wiv me long enough, even get the girls in for me, so...’

Dora suddenly felt the tears departing. Sharp as a tack, she picked up on what he was saying. She wasn’t going to be ditched, far from it.

‘I’ll be able to get out on weekend leave, right? All you gotta do is run the place until I’m fancy free again. I can even start a racket going down the barracks so I’ll need you even more on the outside, workin’ for me.’

Dora gaped, then threw her arms around his neck, kissing him, and he had to shove her away. ‘We got no time for that stuff. First I’ll take you over the accounts, the orders, who you got to bung a few quid to on the side so we don’t get any aggro from the law... Dora! Siddown and fuckin’ pay attention! Gawd almighty... I must be outta me head.’

Dora sat, attentive, and Johnny opened the safe, taking out papers, and to her stunned amazement, rolls and rolls of banknotes.

‘An’ another fing, Dora, you handle this right an’ I might even make an honest woman of you, when I’m out, like... Don’t start howlin’ again!’

She was over the moon, he was going to marry her — she asked if he really meant it? He relented and sat her on his knee, saying she’d never let him down, all the years they’d been together she’d never let him down and he appreciated it. Of course he meant what he said — when he got out of the army he would marry her. ‘Here we go! It’s not real, it’s what they call a zircon, but no one would know it’s not the real fing. You like it? I got it off Harry the Jew over in Paddington, does it fit?’

The ring, three sizes too big, sparkled as Dora held out her hand. She was so happy she danced around the bed. ‘Johnny, I love it, I just love it, and it’s perfect... Hey, I’m engaged, I’m engaged!’

He tossed his head and grinned. He liked the way she was so tickled, but he was also making sure she would tell everyone she was his ‘intended’. There were reasons behind it — he reckoned that if the lads knew this woman who was running the place was not just a tart they might leave her alone.

Dora sat at the reproduction antique desk and began sorting through the papers — who had to be paid off, who to order the booze from, who to welcome into the club and who to warn off. He had two good men for the door and the bar, and an ‘inside man’, who would be the one she would signal to if a customer was giving trouble.

‘Fing is, Dora, we gotta keep up the nice class of our customers. We can clean up, officers, you know — elbow the likes of me, we don’t want the riff-raff in, keep it classy. That goes for the girls too, an’ make sure they’re clean, any with a dose get ‘em out quick.’

He went to great lengths to show Dora the bookkeeping. One set for the government, one set for Mr Mask. She was to bank only the takings from book one, everything else went into the safe. They didn’t want to be copped for taxes and busted, they had to keep it legal and straight.

Dora ended up with so many instructions and lists of arrangements that had to be made over the next month that her head reeled.

‘Another fing, gel — now we’re an official couple you don’t lay the customers. It don’t look right, you’re the boss, an’ you gotta act like one, so you get respect, understand me? So you stick to ginger ale. I hear one word you get yourself legless and I’ll be out an’ you’ll be for it.’

They spent the night together, Johnny so eager to get Dora clued up that he was unable to get a hard-on. She giggled and said it didn’t matter, they would have lots of time for that when they were married.

‘Johnny, we gonna have kids like normal people?’

He flopped back, still desperate for an erection, and gave up.

‘Gawd ‘elp us, we only got engaged an’ you’re arranging the bleedin’ nursery... Go an’ get the baby oil, will you, and shut up?’

Johnny left the following morning, handing out instructions as he went. He had to come back as he had forgotten to kiss Dora goodbye. She started getting tearful and he gave her one of his looks that was usually followed by a slap. She forced a brave smile.

‘Thatta girl, I’m dependin’ on yer, so don’t fuck it up, all right, darlin’?’

She had only a few moments of doubt and sadness at Johnny’s departure. Returning to the satin-covered bed, the open safe, she suddenly perked up and flopped back on to the bed, laughing.

‘It’s all mine! Bloody hell, Dora Harris, you’re rich.’

The train from Yorkshire ground to a halt yet again, and Edward swore, went to the window and lowered the sash. ‘What’s the problem? What’s the delay?’

A guard, running down the track swinging his lantern, shouted something inaudible and kept on running. All the lights on the train went out, the signals, the station two miles up the track blacked out... The train remained stationary for about half an hour and was then shunted into a siding. The passengers heard the drone of planes overhead, but no bombs... the planes passed over and were gone. Looking up, they asked each other if they were ‘ours’ or ‘theirs’.

Miles away they saw the sky light up like bright red and yellow fireworks and they knew they were German planes. The train began a slow backward shunt and halted again. Crowds of soldiers began to board and filled the front carriages.

‘Got a light, mate?’ The soldier looked no older than Edward. He clocked the gold cigarette lighter and lit up a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. ‘Thanks... thanks, mate.’

The boy and four more soldiers were told by their commanding officer to get back up front. Their vacated seats were taken by officers who sat back, eyes closed. Edward put his glasses on and buried his head deeper in his jacket collar. It was the first time he had felt any form of guilt.

The young officers were all very well-spoken, their upper-crust voices loud. He listened to the conversation as one officer stared out of the window.

‘Rocket, I’d say.’

The other officer shook his head, said that the rocket sites were in Holland, too far away.

‘That was a rocket, I’ve seen them before.’

‘Wait, we’ll soon know if it was a rocket or not, only takes a few seconds...’

They were all silent, then suddenly they heard it, a huge explosion. They sat back again in their seats.

‘Told you it was a rocket, saw the flash.’

‘Our chaps are overrunning them now, don’t see many more coming. The Allied Forces are wiping them out, thank God.’

‘I knew it was a rocket, I knew it was one of those V2s. One landed near our chaps, centre of the road, smack on a junction... It was not long before ten-thirty and one pub had run out of beer so all the customers were moving on to a bar in McKenzie Road. Bloody place was jam-packed when the bloody thing came down. The bar-room floor collapsed, the poor fellahs were dropping through into the cellah, whole building came down around them... Foggy night, too, and a bloody one, we had to tunnel under the debris, poor bastards screaming... But every time we removed a part of the building the rest just crumbled on to those below. I still hear them, you know, still hear them screaming.’

The train began to move and Edward lurched in his seat, heard the soldiers in the front carriages give a cheer. The officers, all bomb-disposal experts, relaxed in their seats and slept for the rest of the journey. They were exhausted, their mouths open and snoring as the train made its slow, unsteady journey to Paddington Station. In the station buffet they heard a newscast of the latest report.

‘The Fourteenth Army is advancing through Burma, the Japanese in full retreat.’

The soldiers in the buffet let rip with a cheer, and stretched over the counter for mugs of tea and stale bread rolls. The newscaster ended his report with a rousing, ‘Let’s hope the longed-for end to these long years of war will soon be here.’

The soldiers raised their mugs of tea and cheered, and their officers barked orders for them to get themselves to platform three, they were on the move again.

Edward sipped his tea, watching the boys barging out of the doors towards the platforms. The woman behind the counter looked over the glass case. ‘Bastards hit the East End again last week, it wiped out my husband’s allotment, all his onions gone, not one left. Pulverized the whole onion bed and yer could smell it fer miles around. See, they was cookin’ in the fire, I dunno... Oh Gawd, ‘ere they come, the Yanks are back.’

The buffet filled with American soldiers joking loudly with one another, and Edward walked out to wolf whistles and lewd remarks. He picked up a taxi, it was past eleven.

‘I can only take yer as far as Hyde Park Corner, guv, they got the road up round Marble Arch, crater in the road size of this station.’

They rattled through the blacked-out streets. The cab driver was an authority on German warfare, Hitler’s strategy. ‘I’m tellin’ ya, mate, he made a mistake. See, he was so close — Jersey, you know — they was that close, yes, fella in the cab yesterday hadda get out. See, if you don’t have actual documents sayin’ you was born in Jersey then you hadda get off the island, he’d left everything he’d worked for. But they occupied the bastard, an’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else, the Americans, if they hadn’t hit Pearl Harbor they wouldn’t have backed us up... Now then, with them behind us we’ll wipe those German buggers off the face of the earth... I’ve nothin’ against ‘em, the Yanks, they may be shaftin’ all our girls, but my daughter’s got herself a lovely fella, he’s brought us the best corned beef I’ve ever tasted in me life, tins of the stuff. Works in the canteen, see...’

Edward was glad when the cab pulled over. He refused the offer of certain items that could be got for a good price, and of introductions to some good clubs, and by the time he’d paid the cab off he would have liked to throttle the driver.

Dora had spent a lot of Johnny’s money on clothes, but she told herself that that was what she should be doing, she had to look the part. She had a new platinum rinse, silvery-blonde, almost white, and her face had been made up in the beauty department at Harrods. Her eyebrows were plucked, and she wore the new, deep-red lipstick. Her hair was scooped into a roll on each side of her face, the back curled into a pageboy. The clustered pearl earrings and matching hair slides made her look very sophisticated in the little black dress with the padded shoulders. It was nipped in at the waist and tight over her little bum. She had put some sticking plaster around Johnny’s ring so it didn’t swivel around her finger, and she flashed the ring and her long, red nails. She was smoking Lucky Strikes from a gold cigarette case, and couldn’t keep her eyes off herself. She kept catching glimpses of herself in mirrors around the club and liked what she saw so much that she constantly tilted her head and touched her hair.

The club was full, and the girls were working hard at entertaining. Edward sat at the far corner table, watching Dora swanning around the club. She hadn’t seen him yet, and she disappeared through a small door marked ‘Private’.

‘You on your ownsome, darling? Would you like company? We can offer some lovely champagne, and there’s small snacks if you’re feeling peckish. You feeling peckish, lovey?’

He smiled at the pouting young girl and shook his head. He asked for a whisky and soda and said he was waiting for Dora.

‘Oh, Miss Harris. She know you’re here, does she?’ She stepped back, dropping the big come-on act as he looked at her.

‘I’ll wait for her, thank you.’

‘There’s a geezer sittin’ on his own, Miss Harris, says he’s waitin’ for you.’

Dora pursed her lips and picked up her small black handbag, took out a compact and flicked it open. ‘Phyllis, you do not call customers “geezers”. How many more times do I have to tell you that? Who is he and what’s his name? You ask what he wants and then you come to me an’ you say, “Miss Harris, there’s someone who wants to speak to you.” That clear, lovey? Now, which table is he at?’

Dora moved aside the small flap covering the peephole in the door and Phyllis peered over her shoulder, said he was the customer sitting at the back table in the alcove. Dora let the cover slip back into place and smiled to herself. ‘Bring the gentleman into my office, would you, and bring us a bottle of Dom Perignon, one of the real ones.’

‘Well, Eddie, this is a surprise. Sit down — thank you Phyllis, that’ll be all for now.’ Phyllis left the champagne in its ice-bucket and slipped out.

‘You want a drink, Eddie? It’s good stuff, none of the muck we serve out there... You look well, nice suit, how do you think I look?’

He gave her a nod of approval, refused the drink, and noticed she didn’t touch it herself. She sipped from a long, thin glass of iced water, and crossed her perfect legs.

‘How’s your mother?’

Dora waved her hand vaguely, said her mother had snuffed it months ago, couldn’t even remember how long. ‘Pity, really, I’d like her to see me doing so well. I manage the place, you know? Well, more’n manage it — I run it, see. Johnny got enlisted, terrible shame. They picked him up for black marketeerin’ and then found out he was a draft-dodger. I worry about him because he’s in the bunkers and he suffers from claus... er, claus...’

Edward finished the word off for her, ‘... trophobia’. Dora nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s some kind of phobia, he don’t like enclosed places, ever since he was in the nick one time... Well, tell me about you.’

When she saw the gold cigarette case, the gold lighter, she gave him a quick once-over. He let the smoke drift out of his nostrils... He was still the best-looking man she had ever set eyes on. Trouble was, he knew it, he had that manner about him. ‘Very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Eddie?’

He laughed and suddenly he looked younger, and said he could say the same for her. He stood up, crossed over to her and held out his hand. ‘Let’s cut the crap and go to bed, I’m tired and I need a place for the night.’

She wanted to say no, wanted to say she wasn’t his for the taking, not any more, wanted to say she was engaged to be married, but she simply nodded her head. ‘Go out an’ get a cab to Johnny’s place, it’s same as last time — only difference is, it’s mine... I can’t be seen leaving with you, not now I’m runnin’ the place. Doesn’t look good. I’ll be with you in a few minutes, just sort out a few things. Here’s the keys, let yourself in.’

He caught the keys and walked out, closing the door behind him. Dora remained sitting for a few moments before she buzzed for Arnie Belling.

At first Arnie had not liked taking his orders from Dora, but Johnny had given him a twofold assignment. He was to act as bouncer inside the club, and he was to look out for her. He was paid extra for the latter. Only after Arnie had seen her spot a barman fiddling the till and observed the way she handled him did he begin to respect her. She had asked him simply to stand close, close enough so the barman would be aware of his presence. Then she had smiled sweetly, sat the man down and offered him a drink. The barman had relaxed, drinking, saying they were doing good business and that Johnny would be proud of her.

‘Yeah, he would be proud of me, but he’d have your balls, love. Now then, don’t make excuses, don’t even try because it would embarrass me, and it would annoy Arnie. See, your fiddle’s been copped. It’s two in the till for the club and one in the pocket for you... Don’t interrupt, let me finish. Now then, you’re a good man behind the bar, and you got a good line with the customers. We are making a good profit so why don’t we say two and a quarter in the till, a quarter in yours, the rest to Arnie? That way the pair of you can watch out for each other.’

Arnie watched the guy hesitate, then realize he was on to a good thing. So it was a deal and, because he was getting a share of the profits, a straight share, he worked even harder.

‘Lock up for me will you, Arnie? I got ever such a headache.’

Arnie helped her on with her mink and said he’d have a taxi outside in a minute. Dora checked her appearance once more in the wall of mirrors, made sure her seams were straight, touched her hair in the familiar gesture and swanned out.

Edward looked around the place, impressed. New wallpaper, new curtains — not exactly elegant, but certainly a vast improvement.

‘I’m very impressed, place looks quite nice. You’ve been busy.’ He helped her off with her coat, noted the label, and tossed the mink to one side.

Dora walked straight through to the bedroom and began to take off her stockings, kicking her shoes across the room. ‘I got a maid comes in every day to keep the place tidy. I’m obsessed with everything being tidy. I got a place for everythin’, probably because all my life I hadda... had to share everythin’ with me sisters an’ brothers, not even me own bedroom. Now this is all mine, at least until the war’s over, anyway...’ She was trying to sound posh, trying very hard not to drop her aitches, and Edward was amused. She reminded him of himself not so long ago. He began to undress.

‘What you laughing at?’

He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on to the small, pale pink velvet chair, then pulled off his trousers and, stark-naked, walked over to an ashtray to finish off his cigarette. He blew out the smoke and then ground the cigarette into the pristine cut-glass ashtray.

‘I’m doin’ well, Eddie, really well. I’m stashing it away and I’m enjoying myself — life’s good, really good.’

He flipped back the clean silk sheets and got into bed while she slowly removed her underwear. He watched her as she wriggled sexily out of the black lace brassiere, then her panties giving them a small twirl. ‘Figure’s good, ain’t it? Not bad for my age?’

Perfect legs, tight belly and big tits — she was lucky, they were well rounded so didn’t sag or droop. He watched her cream her face, sitting naked at the neat dressing table, first the cream, then the dabs of astringent, and each piece of cotton wool she used went into the small pink velvet waste bin. She checked her eyes in the mirror, the little lines, then took the stopper from a perfume bottle and dabbed her neck, elbows, behind the knees... admiring herself all the time. Then, ready, she turned with a smile.

Edward lay with his eyes closed, and she stood up, hands on her hips. ‘Bloody hell...’ Flipping off the lights she climbed in beside him, and he grabbed her, laughing. He wasn’t asleep — far from it — and he mounted her before she’d even pulled the sheet over her...

Dora drew her pink silk dressing gown closer around her and carried the coffee into the bedroom. ‘You’ll have ter get a move on, she’ll be ‘ere — here any minute an’ I don’t want her finding you. You know the way maids talk.’

She stood at the bathroom door, watching him as he rifled through Johnny’s shaving gear and lathered his face. ‘You know, you really are the best. I’m not just saying it, I really mean it, an artist. You could make it your profession.’

She surveyed his body, sipped the thick black coffee and reminded herself not to use too many beans in the American coffee machine, a gift from one of her customers. ‘When will you come again, Eddie? Eddie...?’

He splashed cold water on his face, walked past her into the bedroom and began to dress.

‘Eddie, you hear me, when are you coming back? You don’t really give a tinker’s cuss about me, do you? You know, I thought you did, last night? What did you need, a room for the night? Eddie, you deaf? Why don’t you answer me?’

Slipping into his fresh shirt he started doing up the small pearl buttons. ‘Because I don’t like to be called “Eddieeee... Eddieee.”

‘Oh, all right, then, Stud, is that a better name?’ Furious with him, she opened her handbag and took out two folded tenners, chucked them on to the bed. ‘You got a posh voice, Eddie, you got all the right gear. You got the lighter an’ cigarette case, but that don’t make you any different from me. You’re goin’ through one school, an’ I’m goin’ through another, but we’re the same.’

He was putting his coat on, going to walk out on her. She blazed. Nobody walked out on her, she was somebody now. She certainly wasn’t going to take it from a kid from her own backstreet slum. She hurled a pot of cream at his head, but she missed and it spattered over her new wallpaper.

Dressed to perfection, his coat on, Edward snapped his overnight case shut. Then he gave her his smile, and she wanted to cry. ‘Damn you, Eddie Stubbs, damn you.’

Picking up a handkerchief from the dressing table she blew her nose.

‘I earn good money, Eddie, and with Johnny away you could stay here, stay with me. I know how to handle the punters, I could really make it... You like me, don’t you?’

He looked around her bedroom, picked up his case.

‘This isn’t for me, sweetheart, and nor are you... Thanks anyway.’

She followed him through into the small hallway with the pink rose-patterned carpet. ‘Will I see you again, then?’

He opened the door, gave her a wink and said, ‘Sure,’ then he was gone. When she went back into the bedroom she noticed that he had taken her twenty quid, and then she saw the cream dripping down the new wallpaper. ‘Me wallpaper, look at me bloody wallpaper.’

Evelyne Stubbs’ solicitors were taken aback when the smart young man presented himself as her son. He apologized, and said he had intended calling to see them months ago, but due to his studies he had never been able to get to London on weekdays.

They reviewed Evelyne’s will in detail. Edward had hoped that the land his mother’s house had stood on would be of some value. The whole street had been bombed, and they were building prefab houses — in fact they had already rebuilt part of the street and were rehousing the homeless.

‘The land, really, is virtually worthless. Of course, that may not be the case after the war, but at present there are vacant plots of land all over London, in some places more land than houses.’

Edward took their advice to retain the plots until they were worth selling. He then asked about Evelyne’s money in the Post Office; it was a simple matter of the verification of his signature and the money was his. He stopped at the first Post Office he came to after leaving the solicitors’ office, and withdrew the 123 pounds in cash. The assistant asked if he wished to retain the old book, as there was still one pound, fifteen shillings and sixpence of accrued interest.

Edward chuckled, slipping the book into his pocket. ‘I think I’ll leave that in, for emergencies, thank you.’

After opening a bank account — his first — Edward made his way to the station and sat on the train, waiting for it to leave for Cambridge. He had hoped, of course, that his mother’s land would be worth a lot more. He recalled the days of Miss Freda and Ed, the Meadows family, and how hard his mother had saved and fought for them not to be evicted. What had it all been for? To end up as a worthless piece of wasteland. He gave no thought to Alex, beyond being relieved that the solicitors had not mentioned him. It did not occur to him that half the money he had just banked rightly belonged to Alex, or that half the property was also his. All he could think of was that now he could continue his studies, not exactly in the lap of luxury, but with more than enough to see him through.

By the time he let himself into his rooms, Edward was quite cheerful. He had only just taken his overcoat off when there was a knock on the door. He recognized the light, nervous tap, and called for Walter to let himself in.

‘I’ve just been with the board again, it’s unbelievable. They’re sending me off to the War Office, to decipher bloody codes or something. I mean, how can they do it to me, smack in the middle of term?’

Edward commiserated. Poor, blind-as-a-bat Walter. He even offered to make the poor boy some cocoa, but Walter was so depressed he refused. Walter was nudging ahead of Edward in the tutorials, he was exceptionally clever...

‘You should take it as a compliment — only picking the chaps with specially high IQs. Never know, Walt, you may yet make a career for yourself in the Foreign Office.’

Walter picked at his spots, squinted and moaned that he was just completing an analysis of specimens down in the lab, he doubted if he’d be allowed to complete even that. Edward offered to take a look, and together they walked over to Downing Laboratory.

His hands stuffed in his pockets, Walter kept complaining until Edward patted him on the shoulder. ‘Think of it this way, you’ve got all the London cinemas — most of the pictures at the locals here are years out of date...’

Walter cheered visibly, and began talking about the possibility of working with microfilm. He lost Edward in the technical pros and cons of film-making.

But Edward was anything but lost when he read the results of Walter’s research — it was too interesting. They sat in the library, discussing Walter’s tests, then together they went over to the chemical laboratories.

Walter had drawn maps and detailed diagrams of many of the famous mines of South Africa. His tiny, meticulous print was difficult for Edward to read.

‘What I’ve done is to take all the famous mines and break them down into scales — where the strikes occurred, how they were discovered. This one, for example, is the De Veer mine, coming in at the west side angle — the west-end shaft was burnt out — check down the layers of basaltic rock, black shale, mela-phyre, and at eight hundred feet they hit quartzite. Smack in the middle you’ve got the different reef levels. Now, I reckon you should be able to tell the quality of the quartzite areas by the texture of the top basaltic rock — see? Look at the difference in quality — all those listed in Chart A, Chart B, have the same consistency. Now then, look at the mines that struck lucky, and look at the chemical formation of the top layer...’

They continued their talk until late that night. Walter was enthusiastic, excited. He believed he could, given the time, find some method of testing the top layer of rock and know, without have to spend millions on drills and pumps, just as they were able to test for oil, what areas were more likely to contain the precious minerals.

Edward asked if he could hold on to Walter’s precious papers and read them overnight. After hesitating for a moment, Walter agreed, and went off to pack his clothes. He was due to leave the following morning.

By dawn, Edward had copied all the notes. He congratulated Walter, saying he was certainly on to something, and he hoped they wouldn’t keep him away from college for too long.

Edward worked hard, taking Walter’s theories a step further, and was excited that he would have one hell of a paper for the end-of-term exams.

Chapter nine

The prisoners were all gathered in the canteen for their dinner. The Governor called for silence. He had a speech prepared, but only got as far as telling the men that the war was officially over, Germany was taken and Hitler was dead, the long nightmare was over. The men cheered and shouted, and the rest of the speech was lost as the prisoners roared their approval.

The fact that the country was at long last at peace really meant very little to those serving sentences, but they celebrated along with the rest of England, the rest of the world. They filed into chapel and offered prayers for the dead, prayers for peace to be long lasting.

All across England the long-awaited peace gave rise to street parties and celebrations. Not everyone celebrated — peace would bring an end to the black-market racketeers, and night clubs folded overnight. Soldiers, sailors and airmen arrived home first to cheers and then disillusion as they tried to readjust to civilian life, to the fact that they had missed their children’s growth, their jobs were lost, in many cases their wives were gone, and mass unemployment loomed again.

Men trapped in the insulated world of the prisons were given film shows of the invasions, the signing of the peace treaty. Newsreels were shown, and the prisoners on their rows of hard-backed wooden chairs watched the screen with awe, which turned to horror when they saw footage of the liberation of Hitler’s concentration camps. Many hardened criminals wept at the appalling atrocities on the screen.

Alex lay on his bunk, still trapped in the nightmare of those starving millions, the skeletal shapes of men’s, women’s and children’s bodies being tipped into the anonymity of the mass graves. The haunting, pitiful faces were so remote, so unreal, that they hung over his head like a cloud, part of a terrible dream.

‘Alex, you think them films were real? I mean, really real? Like, I know some of us inside here have done things in their lives, like meself even, but, but no one could really do what we saw, could they? Starve all those people like animals, I mean, they didn’t even look human... were they?’

Alex sighed and turned over, looked at the big, bull-necked man who was so disturbed, so disbelieving... He was like a child. ‘Takes all kinds, George. It wasn’t just one man what done it, it’s a whole country. They must all be as bad as each other.’

George swung his legs down from his bunk. ‘You tellin’ me that ordinary people stood by and let it go on wivout doing nuffink? I mean, there was kids operated on wivout anyfing to put ‘em out! Jesus, they wouldn’t even do that in the nick.’

Alex didn’t want to talk, he was as overwhelmed as George by what they had seen. He rolled over to face the wall, but George continued, ‘I get my hands on that bastard, on Hitler, I’d bleedin’ kill him, I would. I’d give him his own torture, then shove ‘im in the gas chambers. I’d round up the Gerry bastards and gas the whole fuckin’ lot of them. Not one of them should be allowed to live, gas the bleedin’ lot.’

Alex told him quietly that if he did that he would be no better than the Germans.

‘I believe in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that’s in the Bible, that’s in the bleedin’ Bible.’

Alex was unable to get any peace with George banging around the cell, picking up his comic books and slapping them down again. ‘One million Jews die, so they should take one million Germans and wipe ‘em off the face of the earth... I’d not leave one SS officer alive — not one of those cunts would survive — that’s what I’d do. For however many Jews was gassed, pay ‘em back. What you say, Alex, never mind this trial. What they doing, anyway, givin’ them animals a trial? Fuckin’ hell — you and me know what a good lawyer can do, they’ll walk away, you watch ‘em, walk away and...’ George Windsor, ‘Mister Tough’, ‘Mister No-Talk’, ‘Mister Stay-Off-My-Back’, broke down in tears, his square, muscular body shaking as he sobbed his heart out.

George was not the only man in the prison unable to face what had gone on outside, beyond their safe world, and it caused a mass outbreak of rioting and destruction. No more films were to be shown until the prisoners had settled back into their daily routines. But the films had another, more positive effect on many of the men. They all volunteered to work in the Red Cross department making blankets, to contribute in some small way. Jew-haters suddenly wanted to help Jewish prisoners.

George soon began to drive Alex nuts. He had to slink off to the library to read, and George even pursued him there.

‘You mind if I ask you somefing personal, Alex? It’s just that, well, I’ve been thinkin’ over some of the things what you told me, and, like, I got anovver year... Well, look, Alex, will yer teach me ter read and write like what you do?’

Alex led him along the rows of books and found a children’s story book, took it back to his table. He was now a ‘trusty’, allowed in the library and able to borrow books at will.

‘I’ll work wiv yer in the gym, if you like. I was a trainer, see, a boxer, an’ there’s nothin’ I don’t know about the ‘uman body — injuries, the lot, so it’d be a fair swap, all right, mate?’

So George began learning to read and write. He looked up to Alex as if he were some kind of hero, because of his superior intelligence.

At first Alex ignored George’s offer to help in the gym, but eventually he let George begin training him. His already large, six-foot-two-inch frame changed radically. His wide shoulders tapered down to a firm, tight waist, and he built up his legs and arms on the weights.

One day while George was barking out the time like a drill sergeant and Alex did press-ups, he stopped counting. ‘Alex, your name’s Stubbs, ain’t it? You related to a boxer, ex-champ?’

Alex picked up a towel and wiped his forehead. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Well, it’s the name, like, he was called Freedom Stubbs. Bit before my time, mind, but me old man, my dad, he was one of his sparrin’ partners down at this big country house. Always said he was one of the finest men he’d ever seen box, man was like lightning, with one hell of a reach. He was an enormous geezer, six foot four, used to wear his hair long like, yer know, he was a gyppo.’

Alex tossed his towel aside, for a moment he was tempted to tell George.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Yer know in the washrooms — well, last cubicle, ‘is name’s scratched into the wall. He must’ve served time ‘ere... He was British Heavyweight Champion, oh, must’ve been, now let me think... 1925 or ‘26...’

Alex walked along the cubicles and into the stall at the far end. He found his father’s name scrawled beside a date. He leaned against the tiled wall, feeling sick, and tried to remember the dates his father had been away, but it was all so long ago, a blur.

George was released four months later, but he promised to write, and to arrange a place for Alex to live. Alex had the cell to himself for a month. He now had the best bunk, and he waited to see who they would put in with him.

Brian Welland was a pretty boy, and Alex knew at a glance that he was queer. He tossed his book down and stared hard. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven, sir.’

‘What you in fer?’

‘Fraud.’

Alex came on as the heavy ‘con’ at first, almost repeating George Windsor’s welcome when Alex had first arrived at Durham. Brian was well educated, his speech refined. But it was the row of books that Brian carefully laid out by his bunk that interested Alex. Classical volumes, with a few thicker books on banking and taxation. Brian gave Alex a sheepish smile, expecting a crude remark, but instead Alex picked one of the books up and asked if he could read it.

‘I doubt if that one will interest you, it’s accountancy.’

‘That what you are then? An accountant?’

‘Was, I was... and I doubt if I’ll be allowed to practise when I get out.’

‘I’ll make a deal wiv you. You could get a lot of aggro — I’ll see the blokes leave you alone. In return, I want you to teach me everyfing you know...’

This was the last thing Brian expected. He was so relieved he would have promised anything to have Alex on his side — he had been terrified while being held on remand. But he did not anticipate Alex’s almost obsessive desire to study — the moment he woke up he reached for a book. Every moment he didn’t spend in the gym he spent with Brian, ploughing through everything they could get from the library. Brian was a good teacher, and had worked for the Inland Revenue. As a fledgeling tax inspector, he was able to guide Alex through the complex taxation system.

Brian had become involved with a man who had manipulated him into a banking and taxation fraud. He had been used, but in the course of the scam he had travelled extensively, and organized tax havens for his friend in Jersey and Switzerland.

Alex was fascinated, and questioned him on everything, often until the early hours of the morning... and the relationship deepened. Alex, not Brian, made the first move. He had already had a number of homosexual so-called affairs, but Brian was different. Alex actually cared for him, and the feelings were reciprocated and eventually consummated. Alex learnt a great deal more than accountancy from his lover, who now corrected his grammar and picked him up on his dropped ‘aitches’. At first Alex had been temperamental about being constantly corrected, but he soon realized it was done out of affection. In the end he worked just as hard on speech defects as on his other studies. Being with Brian gave Alex a new confidence in himself. He was less aggressive, more quietly assertive than he had ever been.

Brian was broken-hearted when Alex left. They promised to write, and Alex gave his word that as soon as he had a place to stay he would send Brian his address. But he had no intention of ever seeing him again, the relationship was over. For Alex, like most prisoners, homosexual practices until Brian had been a pure necessity... but there would be no more Brians, he had served his purpose. He would have one label, ‘ex-con’, and he didn’t want another.

Alex set his sights on climbing back to the top of the mountain, to breathe that clean, fresh air once more. He vowed to himself that he would never see the inside of a prison again.

True to his promise, George Windsor was waiting for Alex outside the gates of the prison. He had rented a small flat in Dulwich. The next day they bought a second-hand suit for Alex. Being ‘outside’ was not easy at first, and he had to hide his shyness at talking to strangers. The next step was to find a job, but with hundreds of soldiers back from the war, work was hard to come by. Alex began a depressing round of job interviews, arranged by his probation officer.

Edward walked out of the examination room, exhausted. His head ached from concentrating and his shoulders were stiff from hunching over the exam papers. He breathed in the lovely, fresh spring air as he walked across the quad. He had done well, he knew it. Not one question had beaten him. It had been his last exam in two weeks of finals, and now all that was left were the results and freedom. He felt almost light-headed as he walked along the river bank.

The May Ball signified the end of term, and everyone was excitedly looking forward to it. But Edward decided he would give it a miss and await his results in London.

Edward’s bedmaker was just finishing his room, and told him a letter had just arrived — it was on his desk. ‘You do well, you think, sir? In the exams, sir? I hope so, you’ve certainly worked for it if I may say so. Very dedicated student if I may say so, pleasure to bedmake for you, sir.’

Edward smiled, he knew the man had hardly given him a moment’s thought, but it was now coming up to the time for tipping, and he wanted to ingratiate himself.

‘Well, I’ll be off, sir, all shipshape, thank you very much, sir.’

Edward didn’t even turn his head to thank the man. The door closed and shut out the sound of his muttering. He opened the letter. It was from Harriet, and the energetic loops and coils of her handwriting reminded him of her. It was misspelt and full of underlinings and double underlinings for emphasis:

Edward thought about replying to Harriet’s letter. He had not spoken to Allard for months; they passed each other without any acknowledgement. As he had made up his mind to take up BB’s offer of work, Edward booked a passage on the seaplane to South Africa. This made a considerable dent in his mother’s legacy, but he still had the gold cigarette case and lighter.

The pieces of furniture and the paintings from Charlie’s attic that Edward wanted to keep were crated to be put into storage. He packed his personal belongings into his trunk, discarding a few articles that were very worn.

All around him the students were hell-bent on preparing for the ball. Hotels were booked, girlfriends and fiancees began to arrive by the train load to be ready for the big night. Edward kept himself busy completing his packing. He would be in Southampton the night of the ball and, even if he had contemplated staying for it, forking out the one pound and ten shillings for the tickets was, he felt, a waste of his cash.

‘You leaving before the big bash, sir? Well, that is a rum thing.’

The gatekeeper inspected Edward’s list of instructions for the things that were to be picked up. His trunk he would take with him.

‘Going somewhere nice, sir?’

Edward smiled, and said airily that he was going to see friends in South Africa.

He walked one last time along the river. He had to see Emmott and a few other tutors before he left, but basically it was over, and he wanted one long, last walk.

‘Edwaaaaard! Edwaaaaaard!’ It was Harriet, wobbling alarmingly on a bicycle. He knew it was her not just by the bellowing, but the long red hair that streamed out behind her. She was wearing a printed summer dress, and had tucked the skirt into the leg of her knickers so it wouldn’t catch in the spokes. Her skin was lightly tanned, her long legs bare, and she was wearing brown leather sandals. She careered up to him and he caught the handlebars to stop her.

‘Gateman said you were walking this way so I borrowed this, no idea whose it is, but he must be a very tall chap, I can hardly reach the seat.’ She had grown taller herself, and must have been at least five foot eight in her flat sandals. But it was as if there had been no time since their last meeting, she was as familiar with him as if they had parted only yesterday.

‘Said you were about to leave, thank you very much, not even a word to me... My, you are even taller than I remembered.’

He tucked her hand under his arm, he could say the same for her, she was almost as tall as her brother.

‘What’s gone on between you two? I mentioned your name and I thought he would throw up... Oh, look, a mallard!’

She dropped to her knees on the river bank and stared at the duck. ‘You two have a falling-out, did you?’

‘No, not a falling-out, more just sort of going our separate ways.’

‘Well, he is a bit odd... Ahhh, look, more ducks — I love ducks, I once had a nanny, and she used to take me to Regent’s Park to feed the ducks, lovely woman, with terrible BO, but she knew all the ducks by name, well, the ones she’d given them to.’

They walked on, arm in arm. Harriet chattered to begin with, then she went quiet and they walked together in silence until they came across a floating, empty punt.

‘Shall we capture it? Go for a punt?’

Edward reached out with a stick and pulled the punt towards them, looked around for a pole, but there wasn’t one.

‘We’ll just float along, let it take us where it wants, come on, get in... Where are you going, anyway? Why are you leaving before the ball?’

Edward said he was going travelling. Harriet lay back and hitched her skirt up so the sun could get to her legs. ‘Ma says I shouldn’t sunbathe because my freckles’ll all join up into one dark red-brown blob, but I love the sun... Where are you travelling to then?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘I haven’t cut my hair, you will note, it’s now much longer and the front is growing again. You know Pa has been made Chief Justice Simpson now? He swans around, very puffed up, he’s so proud of himself.’

Edward kept his distance from her at the far end of the punt, watching as she trailed her hand in the water. She filled him in on all the family news. ‘The Van der Burges have gone on a world cruise, then they come back and go home, thank the Lord. They really were becoming part of the fixtures and fittings... BB consumed most of Pa’s stock of brandy and never replenished it, which infuriated him.’

The sun was getting hotter and hotter, and Edward closed his eyes, the cool, slight breeze off the river was delicious.

Harriet pointed to an ice-cream seller on the bank. ‘Oh, have you any money on you? Come on, paddle over, I’d love a cornet.’

They paddled with their hands and Edward handed her sixpence. She waded into the water, and with wet dress and sandals she marched up on to the bank, coming back carrying two dripping cornets. She climbed back into the punt and Edward pushed off from the bank.

They fell into silence again as they drifted on down the river. A few punters passed them, shouting as they poled on.

‘I am being made to go to Switzerland, did I write and tell you that? Finish me off, and then I return to be paraded around town for my “coming-out”... Crikey, I loathe them all, I really do.’

Edward sat up and tossed the cornet end to the ducks. He leaned on his elbow, smiling at her. ‘What do you want to do, Harry? Really do with your life?’

She finished her cornet, not giving a crumb to the ducks. She had ice cream all round her mouth, which she wiped off with the back of her hand, and licked the trace from her lips. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I told you.’

He tapped her foot and told her to go on, he wanted to know. She bent forward and took one sandal off, laid it on the seat beside her then did the same with the other one. He leaned forward and tapped her bare foot, asked her again to tell him what she was going to do with herself, what she wanted out of her life.

‘Okay, I would like... One, for you to take me into a big, white, soft bed, really thick and squashy, one that you sink into... I would like then to have four sons, all of them as tall as you, all of them a criss-cross of our looks, two with reddish hair, two with your black, black hair, but all with your dark eyes... Then I would like to live with you and our sons on a big farm, like abroad somewhere, maybe South America, somewhere where there is hot sun, wild animals roaming, a few horses, my own stables, a cook, because I hate cooking...’

She was lying stretched out, legs bare, eyes closed and her hand trailing along in the water, causing miniature whirlpools to form and disappear. ‘What about you, Edward, any of that take your fancy at all?’

He shaded his eyes and looked at the river bank because he couldn’t think of anything to say. He had a lump in his throat, and he swallowed hard. The punt banged into the bank, and Harriet reached up to a hanging branch of a willow tree to hold the boat beneath it. He could see the glint of the sun on the thin gold bangle she wore.

‘Course, you don’t have to reply, make any decision immediately...’ She tossed her head back and laughed, her hair flying around her, and fell back into the punt, legs in the air. She continued to laugh as he moved along the punt on all fours, leaned over her and looked down into her freckled face. ‘You, Harry, are as mad as a hatter.’

She wrapped her arms around him and looked up into his face.

‘You will never have anyone love you as I do, they will all be older, experienced and boring, but you can have me untouched by any other human hand...’

He kissed her nose, but remained hovering just above her, looking down into her upturned face. ‘What if I don’t want you? What if I have other plans for my life that do not involve a lunatic?’

The big, blue eyes filled with tears, brimming over, and she whispered, very low, ‘You will break my heart.’

Edward moved back and sat on the seat. He rubbed his head. ‘Harry, I have to go away to find some work. I have no money, nothing to offer you, and added to that you are still a kid with romantic notions you’ve got out of some magazine.’

She threw water at him and drenched his shirt. ‘Bollocks, I am not a kid, as you put it, I am sixteen years old, you are just making excuses. I’ll wait, I’ll wait for two years, but I won’t wait any longer... Ma will have a fit, Pa will have a heart attack, especially if he’s laying out all the cash for my coming-out, but...’ She looked at him, she wasn’t joking, she said it softly, so earnestly, it was touching. ‘I’ll wait for you, Edward.’

She toyed with the branch, and the willow shuddered above her head. Then she let it go and sat up, looking at him very seriously, very straight-faced. ‘Only, you’ll have to give me something, something so that I know you’ll come for me, I don’t want letters, just your word...’

Edward pushed at the bank to make the punt move, but it remained stuck by the willow. ‘I can’t give it to you, push from your end, come on, Harry, push it away.’

He leaned out and pushed, the punt turned and he fell towards her, landing with his head in her lap, between her legs. He lifted his hands and held her tightly, pressing his face against her, and she folded her arms around him and bent to kiss the back of his head, then wriggled until her body was beneath his, and he let her. Knowing he was mad, knowing he must be out of his mind, he remained lying on top of her.

The punt drifted off down the river, and they lay wrapped in each other’s arms. Content to hold him close, Harriet lay quiet, made no move. Slowly, gently, he pushed her skirt back until he could feel the edge of her knickers, grasped them and began to ease them down. She kissed his head, his hair, with soft, sweet kisses. ‘What should I do? Tell me.’

His voice was husky, she could feel his breath on her face as he said, ‘Nothing, nothing...’ and she rested her head against his, so happy she wanted to cry. She had dreamed of this moment, dreamed it so many times she felt she needed to pinch herself to prove that this time it was really happening...

She knew he had undone his trousers, she could feel him now... he pressed her legs apart, and as if he were afraid to look at her, he turned his head away as he gently eased himself into her... At last he kissed her lips, and found them as rounded and soft as her thighs, her breasts, and his kiss hardened as he moved inside her, gripped her tightly, thrusting himself into her until the boat rocked in the water... She moaned, and he looked at her face, in anguish that he had hurt her... but she smiled, her face so filled with love he felt himself wanting to weep.

He was so caring, pulling up her knickers, straightening her skirt, and she did up each fly button on his trousers. They lay close and he promised that he would come back for her, gave his solemn oath that he would be back and give her four sons.

‘I don’t want a girl, Edward, not a girl, they are such pests.’

He laughed and cuddled her, said she was the only girl he wanted, and she was right, four sons would be perfect.

They bumped into an empty, drifting punt and retrieved the pole. Edward poled the boat back towards the bridge, towards the town. ‘Harry, you must never tell anyone what we’ve done today, your father would come after me with a shotgun.’

She wagged her finger at him and said he had better keep his promise then. He helped her jump on to the bank, and as he was tying up the punt, he heard a sports car careering across the bridge.

‘Oh, damn it, here comes Allard.’

Edward looked towards the bridge as the bright red car screeched around the corner. ‘Go to him, go on Harry — no goodbyes, no nothing, just go...’

She turned back only once, then she ran towards the red car, waving her sandals above her head. ‘Allard, whooo hoooo, Allard!’

Edward heard Allard shouting, asking where the hell she had been, they had all been looking for her. Then Edward heard the car turn and drive back over the bridge. She sat at the back, he saw her turn, give a small wave... and with her red hair flying out behind her she was gone in the little red sports car.

George thundered up the worn, lino-covered staircase and rushed into the bedsit. ‘Now then, Alex, I got some good news for you. This bloke I work for, right, I’ve told him all about you, said you was good at bookkeeping, an’ he wants to meet wiv yer. It’s a real job, with wages.’

Alex asked George if he was sure the man was straight, as he had to report to his probation officer every week.

‘I got it all worked out. He knows you done time and he still wants to meet you. He’s honest, Alex, a real nice bloke — you can at least try it.’

Suddenly George stopped and looked around the small flat. ‘Oi, what you been doin’, you moved everyfink.’

‘It was untidy, I just cleaned it up and put what we don’t need away. I hate mess.’

George sniffed and checked his things, discovering that Alex had allocated space for each of them in the drawers, places for shoes, shirts and jumpers.

‘Hey, just don’t make it too tidy, don’t wanna be reminded of the cells, like. But it’s nice.’

‘I’m going to get some paint, see if I can clean the walls — it’s that wallpaper, makes me go nuts.’

George rather liked the heavy, maroon flock wallpaper, and it was quite new, but he said nothing. When he went to the tiny cupboard they used as a kitchen, he gasped. Every pan was polished, every cup washed and neatly stacked. Alex had even rinsed out the dishcloth and hung it on the sink to dry.

‘Oh, yes, you done a real fine job, yer could eat yer dinner orf this floor, Alex. You’ll make me a good wife.’

George whipped round as Alex sprang towards him, his fists clenched.

‘Hey, hey, it was just a joke, all right?’

‘I just like a clean place, that’s all, George. There’s nothing nancy about that.’

George sighed. Sometimes Alex could be so touchy. Grinning, he said there was no harm meant, then he put the kettle on. He even wiped the drips of water off the small draining board. He noticed Alex had his nose stuck in a book again. Not that they were real books to George, no stories, just rows of calculations. He began to hope that Alex would get a job soon, because he doubted if things would work out between them.

Harry Driver was very sceptical about the new chap Stubbs. He had always run his business single-handed, but lately he had been branching out. He had a small drinks place, but his main income was from five backstreet tailoring and dressmaking sweatshops. He put Alex to work on his club books first so that, having complete knowledge of his accounts himself, he could test the lad out.

With his paunch and his ever-present stubby cigar Harry was a real character. He was from a Russian immigrant family that he complained were forever bleeding him dry. Harry did take care of a vast family, having six kids of his own plus various aunts and uncles. And in the sweatshops he was always discovering yet another impoverished relative who had come looking for work. He was a penny-pinching man, but a decent one, and he had got very fond of George Windsor, so if George said the chap was a good’un, he was inclined to believe it. He put Alex on trial for three months at half the salary he would have dared offer any man with credentials. ‘Understand me, Alex, I am taking a risk on you, so I can’t shell out the money before I know I can trust you. All you gotta do is prove yourself, you’ll not hear a bad word about Harry Driver, but you gotta prove your worth first.’

Alex pored over Harry’s books, and made careful, detailed notes alongside his figures. He checked the bar takings, the warehouse, the staff, leaving nothing out, and by the end of the week he made Harry nearly swallow his cigar.

‘I think, Mr Driver, you are losing between one and two hundred a week, it varies at different times of the month. I’ve made a list of the takings from the club for each week over the past six months, and I think you’ll find my assessment interesting.’ He went over each detail with Harry, who hummed and hawed and shook his jowls until his head spun. ‘Added to that, Mr Driver, you are paying certain taxes that need not necessarily be paid if you purchase articles within a certain time limit. If you are outside that limit, then you are paying more tax. They work by the fiscal years, you see, sir.’

Harry chomped and spat and relit his dog-eared cigar. He told Alex to leave the work with him, he would have a look at it.

‘Wally, listen to me, I’ve got a lad here I think you should have look over your books, he’s a whiz-kid, I’ve not seen anything like it. I’ll let you have him on loan, mind, he works for me, but I want to see what you think of him.’

Alex was put on a salary of seven pounds a week by Harry Driver, and he was tickled pink. He knew, of course, that he was earning it, and he knew he was worth twice the amount, but he had to start somewhere.

George and Alex went shopping in Petticoat Lane for suits, shoes and ties. Some were second-hand, some new, and Harry gave them both special prices on his sweatshop goods. Alex displayed his new wide-collared, single-breasted suit. It was brown with a thin blue stripe, and he had bought a brown-and-pink striped tie and polished brown shoes to go with it.

‘Gawd help us, Alex, wiv the briefcase, my son, you could be a City gent.’

Alex marvelled at his friend’s stunning bad taste. George loved the wide, hand-painted ties, the huge square jackets with the padded shoulders and two-toned shoes reminiscent of the old movie gangsters.

Alex was now also on loan from Harry Driver to a number of East End Jewish tailors and stall-holders. They joked between themselves that for a goy, a non-Jew, he was the meanest man they’d ever come across.

‘This boy, Solly, he knows the tax system better than I know the wife, no word of a lie. You know how much he just saved me? Fifty quid — I got it from the government — and know what else this boy can do? Save on your taxes — save! If you knew the loopholes that are legal... On my word, this boy is gold dust.’

Alex was passed from manufacturer to tailor, to sweatshop, to clubs, and Harry Driver reaped the benefits and raised Alex’s salary to twelve pounds a week. Alex was no fool, he was getting to know everyone with the best cash flows in the East End. At the same time he was still learning.

Once a week Alex had to report to his parole officer, who would shake his hand and congratulate him, saying that they were proud of how well he had adapted to his new, straight life. While he was on parole they could, at any time, walk into his flat or his place of business to see if he was doing what he said he was.

Alex bided his time, waiting for the day when he would be free of the probation officers. He was determined not to put a foot out of line until he was not only free from prison but completely free of prying eyes. He wanted to find his brother, to confront him, but he was careful never to mention his name. It became an obsession with him and this, along with his shyness, added to the strange, solitary air about him.

George popped into Harry Driver’s sweatshop on his way to work to see Alex, but was told he always had that particular afternoon off. This puzzled George, as Alex had never mentioned it. Harry insisted George stay for a cup of coffee, anyway. ‘Look, I’ll come right out with it, George. This guy you sent me seems too good to be true. I mean, he works like a friggin’ beaver, and don’t talk to nobody. Now don’t get me wrong, I can’t fault his work, he doesn’t even stop for a bite to eat. So, what is it with him? I mean, what makes him tick?’

George was guarded, not liking to be questioned about his mate. ‘Like you said, Mr Driver, he works his butt off for yer, so why don’t you just accept it? Just don’t cross him, leave him alone. You an’ me both know you’re gettin’ ‘im cheap.’

George went off to his job as a bouncer, but Driver’s remark nagged at him. He wondered why Alex had never told him about his afternoons off.

Alex wished he’d worn something old, he was getting filthy digging around the grave. It was in a terrible state, the weeds choking his mother’s cross. He dug and snipped with his scissors and filled the tin can with water from the tap to put the flowers in. He told himself he’d get a nice stone urn or something for next time. The grave was looking nice now, the grass cropped around, all neat and tidy, and he placed the flowers on it and stood back.

‘Doing all right now, Ma, I’m doing all right, you’ll see, I’ll make it, gonna be somebody, you got my word on it... Amen.’

He was washing his hands at the tap when he saw her, her blonde hair rolled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She looked one hell of a lady, with her black mink draped over her shoulders and her ears glinting with what looked like diamonds. She was wandering up and down between the gravestones, peering at each one, a ten-shilling bouquet of flowers in her arms. Alex straightened his tie, smoothed down his jacket and followed the searching figure.

‘Dora... Dora!’

She turned, bewildered, and stared at him.

‘It’s me, Alex Stubbs... it’s Alex.’

She almost dropped her flowers, then she smiled and shook her head. ‘Well, I hardly recognized you, good heavens, it’s been years, hasn’t it? How are you?’

He felt embarrassed as he put out his hand to shake, but she just waved her gloved hand. ‘I’m lookin’ fer Mother’s grave, but it’s been so long I can’t remember where she is, isn’t that awful, I know she’s ‘ere somewhere.’

Alex followed her as she teetered around on her high heels, peering shortsightedly at one gravestone after another. Eventually she stopped by some old grave and dropped the flowers. ‘I can’t ruin my shoes any more. Give me your hand, Alex, it’s ever so muddy.’

He guided her back through the narrow lanes and they reached the gates.

‘You need a lift anywhere?’

He marvelled at the way she looked, the way she spoke, it was hard for him to believe it was the Dora he’d known.

‘I haven’t a car, I come by bus.’

She walked over to a white sports car and told him to get in, she’d give him a lift.

They drove along the familiar streets and she pulled up outside his flat.

‘So you’re back in this neck of the woods, are you? I must say I couldn’t stand to live here. Besides, I couldn’t leave my motor outside, the kids would wreck it. What do you do with yourself now then?’

He told her about his job with Harry Driver, and she nodded, said she knew of him, he’d got a small drinks place. ‘You married are you, Alex?’

He shook his head, looked at her hand but couldn’t see whether she was wearing a ring or not because of her gloves.

‘I was, remember Johnny Mask? We got married but it didn’t work out. I ran a club, well, bit more than that, actually, you must come down sometime, Mayfair — Masks. Just mention my name at the door. How’s that brother of yours? I’ve not seen him down the club for ages, what’s he up to?’

Alex stared at her, then gripped the side of the car window. ‘You know where he is? You got an address?’

Dora laughed and switched on the engine. ‘You must be joking, he’s quite the toff now. He used to come down the club a few times. Look, I got to go, nice seeing you, Alex.’ In her mirror, Dora could see him standing like a big oaf, watching the car. She shuddered, he reminded her of her own past. She hoped he wouldn’t show up at the club, not in those dreadful cheap clothes he was wearing, anyway. Robert Mitchum had a lot to answer for, all the East End villains tried to copy his look.

While Dora was changing, Johnny walked in, yelling that she had left all the lights on again. What did she think he was, the London bloody Electricity Company?

She came out of the bathroom, her mouth set. He reeked of booze, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Been playing poker, have you? I dunno, I work all the hours God gives me for you to squander it at the first opportunity. Who you been playing with this afternoon then?’

Johnny flopped down on the bed and said he’d been over the East End. He lit a cigarette.

‘Don’t toss the match on the carpet, Johnny, honestly, how many times do I have to tell you? They leave burn marks.’

Johnny snorted and got up to pour himself a drink. She clocked it but said nothing.

‘I been playing wiv Harry Driver and a few of his mates, lost a bundle an’ all, he’s very flush all of a sudden. You hear about him? He’s opening up more businesses than I’ve ‘ad hot dinners.’

Dora began to cream her face. The lines were worrying her now — fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and she couldn’t hide them. ‘Funny, I met an old friend — remember the Stubbs boys? It was one of them — Alex... He’s doing Harry’s accounts for him.’

Johnny scratched his head. ‘Alex? Christ, I remember ‘im — skinny boy, blond. They picked ‘im up outside one of the dosshouses, didn’t they? He was a good kid, what you say he’s doing?’

‘You never bleedin’ listen to me, do you? I said he was doing Driver’s accounts.’

‘Yeah, I remember — Christ, he was good even then, and he was straight. He used to bring all the cash down, every penny accounted for. Well, well, working for Driver, eh? I owe him, you know, that kid. He kept mum about me, not like that little shit-head — what was his name? Talked like a canary, he did, that’s why they picked up Alex.’

Dora watched as he poured yet another drink. ‘Oh Johnny, don’t get pissed tonight. There’s a big crowd comin’ down and you make such a fool of yourself. It’s not good for business.’

‘You see the lad, tell ‘im to come an’ see me.’

‘Lad? He’s more like a gorilla nowadays. I tell you, I wouldn’t have recognized him. Mind you, he would make a good bouncer... Ah Johnny, please don’t drink.’

Johnny slapped her so hard she slid off her stool. She blazed at him. ‘That is the last time, Johnny, the very last time. Sod you, I’ve had you up to here.’

He hung his head in shame, mumbled that he was sorry, he was sorry. ‘I dunno why I do it, I don’t, Dora, but yer git me so mad sometimes. An’ usin’ that phoney posh voice of yours gets on my nerves.’

Dora started unloading underwear and clothes from the wardrobe.

‘What yer doin’, Dora, what yer doin’?’

She snapped that she had warned him that if he ever hit her again it would be the last time. Well, now it was, she was through and she was walking out on him. ‘An’ I’m walkin’ out of the club, too. I can get a job in any place around town, don’t think I can’t. I’m sick of covering up for you and taking your violence. You’ve done it, Johnny, I quit.’

He knew that without her the club would fall apart, and he begged her, then got on his knees and clutched the hem of her dressing gown, crying and begging.

‘I’ll stay on one condition — that is, stay here, in your bed and in the club — if you make it out on paper that I own half — half, Johnny, it’s only fair.’ She had him by the balls and she knew it. She got him another drink, a real stiff one, and cajoled him into signing half the club over to her. Then she undressed him and put him to bed. He lay snoring, mouth wide open, and she looked at him with distaste.

She called her lawyers to make sure the contract was legal, then left for work. All the way to Mayfair she was thinking that now she’d got one half she’d keep Johnny boozed up until she’d got the other half for herself.

Dora was squinting at the accounts when Arnie knocked on the door to tell her there was a gent waiting to see her, name of Stubbs, looked a bit of a punk.

‘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.

She roamed the fields in her old print frocks, she didn’t bother with maternity wear. She simply left the zippers or hooks and eyes open. She wore an old pair of sandals that looked as though she had worn them to go paddling.

As the months passed, her belly grew, and she loved the feel of her baby inside her. She wrote long stories in her diary, they were love stories, but she never mentioned the name, the person she wrote them for.

The local doctor and district nurse checked her over, she was fit, healthy, and her child never seemed to cause her a moment’s problem. She yelled the first time he kicked, and made everyone feel her huge belly.

‘How come you’re so sure he’s a boy?’

She wrinkled her tanned face, her freckles all joined into one, and roared with laughter. ‘Because I know, and what’s more I am going to have three more, and they’ll all be enormous!’

Harriet ate like a horse and grew plump and round, her long legs tanned. She would pinch her fat, swearing like the farm labourers. ‘Bloody hell-fire, I’ll have to go on a diet, when he’s home and dry, I’ll be as big as a house.’ She waddled like a duck to make the lads laugh, and they adored her. There was nothing they would not do for their madcap Cousin Harry.

Aunt Mae sat sewing by the open kitchen door. ‘She looks so beautiful, like a wild thing. She’s so happy, so full of life, it breaks my heart.’

Aunt Mae had tried once to ask Harriet about the father of her son, but she had wagged her finger and sworn she would not be tricked by anyone into telling.

‘It’s just that he’s missing so much, to see you as you are now. To touch your belly, feel his unborn child, is something important to a man, Harry, and he’s missing it.’

She wished she hadn’t brought it up when she heard Harriet up in her little room, sobbing as if her heart would break.

The next day Harriet was all sunshine again, but her aunt detected a sadness that wasn’t there before. ‘I dare say he’ll be with you for the next lot you want to have, so it makes no difference, really, does it?’

Harriet gave her aunt one of her sweet smiles and that funny little wrinkle of her nose. They both knew in their hearts that the first-born was very special.

‘You got a name for him, lovey? What you going to call this chap?’

Stretching her arms above her head, Harriet said that it was a secret, and when she lowered her arms she felt the first pains. She clapped her hands...

‘Oh, Auntie, he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s on his way.’

Chapter ten

Edward received no reply from his many letters to BB. He was not unduly worried as Harriet had told him they had only just left for South Africa. He bided his time working in bars in and around Southampton, saving for his passage. The months passed and still no word came, and so he sent a cable saying he was on his way, hoping that by the time he arrived BB would be expecting him with the job offered to Edward waiting for him. He eventually made it to South Africa after a nightmare journey, by seaplane, tram boat and a two-seater mail plane. He was sweating in the intense heat, for even though the taxi had every window open, the air was still and arid. He began to worry about the length of the drive, conserving his hard-earned money as always. ‘Is it much further to Rosebank?’

The driver coughed and spat out of the window. ‘Not far, boss, it’s another ten, fifteen miles along the highway. You can’t miss it when you see it, where the rich live.’

Half an hour later the scenery changed and the houses became very grand, almost baronial in style — some low to the ground like sprawling bungalows, others tall and pillared like the houses of America’s deep south. The taxi swept up a wide gravel drive, the palm trees clustered along its edge giving shade from the boiling sun. The house was three-storeyed with a verandah running the whole length of the ground floor. Painted awnings hung over the windows with shutters to match, and Edward got out and stared in admiration. He paid off the taxi and walked up to the front door.

The bell resounded through the house with a strange echoing effect. Edward rang again, waited, stepped back and looked up at the house. ‘Hello...? Hello...?’

A black maid opened the door and peered out.

‘Edward Stubbs, I cabled that I was coming over, is Mr Van der Burge at home?’

She opened the door and turned back into the house without a word... to him. She shouted, ‘Meester B... Meesteeeer B! There is someone here for you!’ The woman waddled across a long, polished floor. She banged on a door, shouted again and then turned. ‘He’s in here, but he’s sleeping. He expecting ya?’

BB yanked open the door. His suit was rumpled, his collar stained, and his face was so flushed that Edward hardly recognized him.

‘Vat you screamin’ fer, woman?’

‘Mr Van der Burge, it’s me, Edward, Edward Stubbs. I cabled you... Edward Stubbs, sir, we met at the Simpsons’.’

BB swayed, stared hard, and then his eyes lit up and he opened his arms. ‘My friend, my friend, come in, come in... Zelda, get us something in here fast, come on in...’

Edward left his case and followed BB into the room. It was cool, the shutters drawn so that it was in semi-darkness. The floor was of pine with rugs scattered over it, the furniture was wicker and a Hoover fan twirled overhead. There were also, Edward couldn’t help but notice, a lot of whisky bottles, many of them empty.

BB poured himself a brandy, stumbled against the side of a large, polished table. ‘Coffee... damned black bitch... Coffeeee Zeldaaaa.’

He staggered to an armchair and fell down into it. ‘Sit down, lad, sit down, how long are you here for then?’

Edward began to think he was going out of his mind, he sat and looked at the room then mentioned the job BB had offered him.

‘What job, my friend, what job?’

Zelda thudded into the room with a tray of coffee and a few stale biscuits, and banged it down on the table. ‘You should not drink, Meester B, it’s no good for ya.’

BB glared at her and Edward rose. He followed Zelda out, closing the door behind him. BB seemed not to notice his departure.

‘How long has he been like this? He’s dead drunk.’

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 condition 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.

Chapter eleven

Alex sat with Dora in the office. He had taken a while to come back to her with his analysis of the club’s accounts. She was slightly afraid of him — he spoke so quietly, and was obviously nervous himself. He made it brief — the gambling part of the club was badly run. They had just a few poker games, private sessions, which could be opened up into a much more ambitious operation, a much bigger money earner. First, she should put in a roulette wheel.

‘Well, I know that, darlin’, but if you’ve got a partner that plays your own tables, forget it. I did have one for a while, but I had to close it right down.’

Alex waited for her to calm down. ‘Johnny’s boozing and gambling away all the profits, right? Well, you’re his partner, and I’m telling you the accounts indicate you could double the earnings on this place. But you’ve got to off-load your husband first.’

Dora threw up her hands and said she was working on it, but there was only so much she could do.

‘What’s his share worth, Dora, twenty-five grand? That’s being generous. You could buy him out. This place is leased, you don’t even own the building — all you got is the licence, the lease and the fixtures and fittings.’

He had her full attention now. She listened, sipping at her water. ‘I’ve not got that kind of money, Alex. You should know, you’ve got the books, for Chrissake.’

Alex stared at her and his eyes frightened her, they were so expressionless. ‘First you have to have a legal document stating what the partnership is worth, how much cash. That I can do for you.’

Alex was making notes on a small slip of paper, and he said that rather than go for the highest estimate she had to go for the lowest. ‘Forty thousand, you want the place insured for that, all legal, just so should anyone ask you know exactly how much you want if someone offers to buy you out...’

Alex continued, she had to make Johnny sign another document making her a legal partner, the papers she had at the moment would not really stand up to scrutiny.

‘I’ll sack that bloody lawyer of mine, he’s useless. He was supposed to do it.’

Again Alex waited patiently for her to calm down, then in his steady, low voice he went on. ‘The papers must be verified by a good company, a known company. There must be someone who works for some big law firm among your customers — use him, use his company. Legal, it has to be legal.’

Dora hesitated. She knew everything Alex had said was true, but there had to be a catch. ‘Okay, come on, out with it. Why are you doing all this?’

‘I took a fall for Johnny, years ago, but what did he do for me? A few words here and there with some prison barons, but he never came to see me, never asked how I was. I don’t owe Johnny anything — so listen carefully. I’ve found out Johnny owes money all over town, even at Harry Driver’s. He plays for high stakes, likes poker sessions... he’s also hooked on the booze. You an’ me, Dora, we’ll pull a sting, one that’ll leave you owning the club outright.’

Dora’s jaw dropped. There he sat, like a big oaf, and yet he talked as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Taking his time, Alex outlined the plan, and Dora didn’t interrupt once. When he had finished she sat chewing her lips for a moment. ‘What do you get out of it?’

Alex smiled, lifted his hands in a casual gesture. ‘I’ll run the place for a nice wage. Better than sittin’ on me backside in Harry Driver’s sweatshops.’

Alex was already packing his briefcase. Dora sighed. ‘All right, let’s do it.’

Alex gave her one of his strange smiles. ‘That’s a clever girl.’

Edward knew exactly the scam he and BB would pull to make them rich. It was far-fetched, requiring a lot of time and hard labour. It would take at least four years. This was summer 1947, and Edward had been in South Africa almost a year. Under Edward’s instructions, BB had purchased four ‘dead’ mines. He already owned five non-productive mines, all lying dormant. He questioned Edward as to why he was to buy still more, but as always there was no reply. BB had grown accustomed to the mask-like expression Edward used when he didn’t wish to discuss something. He could be jovial, even laughing, but as soon as BB pushed for information his eyes went blank. It was chilling, this ability to switch moods so rapidly. At times BB felt afraid of him, but his usual good humour and friendship touched the old man, and he eventually stopped probing.

However, things began to change after BB received a letter from his son Richard, who was living in England. He went to Edward’s room and found him sitting at the microscope on his makeshift desk, as usual, surrounded by hundreds of test tubes and stacks of notes and files. BB coughed and waited for Edward to give him a nod that it was all right to speak.

‘Just got a letter from Richard. He’s doing quite well, working for De Veer’s in Hatton Garden. He says he’ll be coming over quite soon... Edward? I said I got a letter. You met Richard at the Simpsons’, didn’t you?’

Edward dropped his pencil, moved the microscope aside and rubbed his eyes. He held out his hand for the letter, and read it while BB wandered around the room looking at the hundreds of sample phials filled with sand and rock, all neatly tagged. Edward shook his head in disgust, the contents of the letter infuriated him. ‘He’s asking for more money! What does he want another house for?’

BB stared at one of the ampoules, taking it out of its wooden rack.

‘Don’t touch anything, BB.’

Poor BB jumped nervously and immediately replaced the thin glass tube. Edward continued, ‘You should let him earn his own money if he’s got such a good job. What’s he coming to you with his hand out for?’

BB straightened his tie, stood with legs apart. ‘He’s my son, that’s why. Look, I think I’ll take a little trip into town, all right with you? Anything you want? Zelda’s got bobotie for your dinner.’

Edward was already back at work, squinting intently through the microscope, and he didn’t answer. After shuffling his feet for a moment BB departed. Edward worked on, and when Zelda brought him a supper tray he looked at his watch and was startled at how late it was. ‘BB not back yet, Zelda? He called at all?’

She shook her head, then went to the window and lifted the blind. The old Bentley could be heard churning up the gravel outside. She let the blind drop. ‘I made you a nice melktert for your pudding... Eh, eh, he’s home, boss, and he drunk. He cut right across the flowerbeds again.’

She rolled her way out and padded along the landing as the front door crashed shut, making all Edward’s glass tubes shiver. Edward pushed his supper tray aside and marched out on to the landing. He looked over the banister and yelled, ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ He started down the stairs. ‘Most important, did you tell anyone I was here? Look at you, you’re a mess, you wonder why I don’t tell you anything? This is the reason! You’re pissed out of your mind, for Chrissake, you could ruin everything.’

Swaying and blinking, BB puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’ve just had a couple at the Pretoria Club, and why not? You sit here all day, all night. I don’t know what the hell is going on in my own house. All you get me to do is buy up useless mines... So I went to a soccer match. Good game, Cape Coloureds played well. You know, man, those Bantu fellas kick the ball around like the devil. Mind you...’

Edward interrupted him. ‘You tell anyone about my presence here? Did you? Well, did you?’ BB burped and gave Edward a shifty look. Edward reached out and pulled BB to him. BB was wearing his best suit, and Edward picked up his silk tie. BB eased it away from him and tried to straighten it, but he stumbled and fell into a chair. ‘No one knows, I have told no one, man, but I had a little business to do. I’m not a damned prisoner, for Chrissakes, man!’

Edward snapped that he was until he was told differently. ‘This is part of the plan, BB, and if you foul it up now how can I trust you later on?’

The old man looked crestfallen and Edward pulled up a chair. He gave a little wink to show he wasn’t angry any more. BB rubbed his head until what little hair he had left stood on end.

‘Okay,’ said Edward, ‘this is what you do. Might work well... You cable Richard, tell him to get a flight over. When we get the dates I’ll tell you more, but get him out here.’

Edward walked out, and BB padded after him, pleading like a child. ‘Tell me, tell me what you’ve got up your sleeve. You make me feel so useless. I want to help you, man, you said you needed me?’

Edward turned, put his arm around BB’s shoulders and led him into the study. He decided that perhaps it was time to let BB in on part of the plan. ‘Okay, sit down, look around. See these samples... I’m going to need a hundred times this amount. Maybe Richard’s coming will be more than useful, I’ve got to get into one of the major companies.’

Edward tried to explain to BB in simple terms what he had been working on at Cambridge — Walter’s initial hopes of a breakthrough in assimilating tests for minerals taken from the surface of the land. He made no mention, of course, that the experiment was instigated by Walter. ‘My theory was that, by testing the minerals, I could say without doubt whether or not the ground had the right amount of mineral deposits — that it would produce diamonds, gold, semi-precious stones even. This would bypass the vast expense of drilling equipment and initial layout of...’

Edward couldn’t finish as BB roared with laughter, shaking his head. ‘Well, man, that’s a tall order, and pretty nigh impossible. For one, the diamonds can be found on the surface of a productive mine, or close to water, you don’t have to dig, boy. The land is littered with diamonds, opals; washing plants are what you have to set up, wash for ‘em. It’s the building of the water plants that takes the initial cash, and then it’s wash, gallons... you find a glimmer of a fissure all hell breaks loose, and when it’s dried up your luck is out, like mine, finished. Left with thousands of worthless acres.’

Edward was whistling, impatient for BB to wind down. But BB continued, ‘You’ve got to have blasting licences, the machinery alone would set you back half a million, you can’t move in mining on a few hundred thousand, unless you get a strike... an’ I know of men who have kicked, kicked the ground and turned over jars the size of eggs, diamonds big as my fists in the old days, but you’ll never find those again. Land that can be had cheap is drying up.’

Edward banged on the side of his chair and BB glared.

‘You haven’t listened to me. Do you think I would be going to all this trouble if I was trying for a goddamn strike? I know what sort of cash we have — you have — and I know how much we would need to even attempt a mining venture. That is not my concern. I am going to prove that dead, known mines can be productive.’

Again BB guffawed with laughter. ‘You’ll need more than a theory, son, and I’m telling you straight, you’ll never be able to prove it for years, years.’

Finally losing his patience, Edward jumped up and paced the room. He snapped, ‘I never said my theory was proved, but what if I could prove it? What if I could, for example, guarantee that your dead mines were actually alive?’ He sat down on the edge of his chair. BB pursed his lips. He could see Edward’s excitement.

‘Take it one step further — what if, after I had stated that I could guarantee your mines would produce again, this statement were leaked to the press? Not by any old sod, but by a scientist actually working in, for example, the De Veer labs, thereby giving credence to the experiment? What if, after that statement, your mine did produce again? Any mine, come to think of it, that had been a dead zone for years. What do you think would happen then?’

‘You’d have a bloody stampede, man, for your services! You know, lad, if there was even so much as a suspicion that there’s diamonds in this area... We have to be bloody careful, any findings of valuable minerals... Jesus, I start to open up my places, my mines, that costs in itself. You’re looking at machinery that’ll cost at least ten thousand, you have to show we are actually working, that work is in progress... No mine in production is without washing plants, and everyone knows it is the only way diamonds are generally discovered. The workers cost nothing but a few rand and a good meal a day so that’s not much outlay, and they are so thick they wouldn’t know what the hell we were up to. But everything, everything we set up, needs money. See, you rarely find diamonds just by turning gravel over, so we need diggers, then we got to make an elaborate show of security — no productive mine is without security, wouldn’t look right.’

BB strutted across the room, chomping on his cigar, his face shining.

Edward smiled. ‘It’d be an elaborate charade, but it would mean that your dead mines would become valuable assets overnight, wouldn’t you agree? Even more of a proposition if you were forced by bankruptcy to sell in auction all the mines that had recently been discovered to be productive again. You with me?’

BB dragged on his cigar. Slowly, it was dawning on him why Edward had made him acquire more defunct mines.

‘The banks have already loaned out enough to open the mines. Now we start borrowing more and more, until they call in the loans and you are forced to sell — forced just when it is made public that they are rich! Rich, BB!’

‘Jesus Christ, man, you’ll never get away with it! The De Veer company would never allow it, that’s if you can ever get a job in one of their labs in the first place. There’s no certainty, and even if you did, and say it was De Veer’s, they’d be over your shoulder like hawks.’

Edward pulled his chair closer, so his knees were touching the old man’s. ‘I can do it, I know it! I can make the scam work, but it will take time, years. Each sample will have to be doctored by me, and when I’m through they will have thousands and thousands of samples. Now, when I begin to leak my work to the press — not from Pretoria, from right across Africa — the theory will have to be refuted. That will take time because I will have made up so many thousands of samples, and they will have to check them all before they can say my experiments are a load of crap... But by that time, we will already have sold, understand me? We coincide the leaks about your mines precisely with the banks foreclosing on their loans. You have no alternative but to sell, but by Christ you’ll kick up a storm, desperate not to sell...’

BB couldn’t quite follow. ‘You fix each ampoule? That’s what you’re doing? What’re you using, chippings? Real stones?’

Edward waved his hand around at the already tagged samples. He gave a wink, tapped his nose. ‘It will take me years to “gather” this lot, but I will gradually take them into the lab, the lab of a well-thought-of company with a big name. They will receive them carton by carton, so it will look like I’m working on each one, one at a time. They will have no idea I’ve doctored them, right? With me? I’ll need to be taking trips out to mines every day, and I need gold, diamonds and gems to grind and roughen. It will cost every penny you can borrow or beg. You will have to borrow more from the banks, do you understand?’

BB’s brain began to tick. It was a wild, far-fetched scheme, but Edward’s enthusiasm was contagious. ‘You’ve got to get inside one of the major companies, the only way to pull it off, need them behind you.’

Edward knew the old boy was hooked, and he grinned. ‘Richard will get me in, I know it. If he’s already working for De Veer’s he may be able to get me an introduction, added to which I have a first-class honours degree from Cambridge, plus my professor is sending me glowing reports — reports, BB, on my work at Cambridge, which is... the theory I’ve just told you. But I have to gain authenticity from one of the big companies. So, I want to get Richard out here, and fast.’

‘Consider it done — partner.’

Chapter twelve

Johnny was shaving when Dora took in his coffee, put it down and asked him if he remembered one of those rich fellas from the other night, the one with the Greeks?

‘I dunno! What other night? What the hell are you talking about?’

She sat on the edge of the bath and said that the reason she was asking was she had been asked to set up a game in the club — a real private one for high stakes, on a Sunday when the place was closed.

Johnny was immediately alert, she could see just by the way he continued shaving and said nothing.

‘Only that Sunday I gotta go to Brighton, it’s Hylda’s birthday party. You know Hylda, girl with the long blonde hair and the lisp... Well, she’s having her twenty-first, I can’t get out of it.’

Johnny rinsed his face, patted it dry with the towel. ‘What you want me to do?’

She told him the most important thing was that he didn’t even think about playing. These were big money boys with a lot of cash to throw around. ‘What you say, Johnny, you around Sunday?’

He was so annoying she could have hit him. He combed his hair and said he might be, he wasn’t sure.

‘All right then, I’ll get Arnie in to see to it. I dunno, I don’t ask you to do much, but I would have thought you could at least show some interest. By the way, is it true you took cash out of the till again last night... Johnny, I’m talking to you.’

He sprayed her cologne over himself and admired his new suit in the mirror.

‘Johnny, will you answer me?’

He tossed her comb on to the bed and went out into the hall. ‘I hear yer! I hear yer, what else yer want from me? Any more bits of fucking paper yer want me ter sign? You can go stuff yourself! You got that ape Arnie counting out all the money I take out. So I owe yer a few quid, so fucking what, it’s my club. Anyone calls for me, tell ‘em I’ve gone away, fend ‘em off, will yer. And Sunday I’ll be there, I’ll be there.’

She stopped him at the door and made him promise not to play, and then he slammed out. She dived for the phone. ‘Alex? Alex, he’s hooked, I know it. Can you set the game up, you sure? This Sunday, yeah, I’ll have it for you, I will, no problem.’

Dora dressed quickly, went straight to the bank and made an arrangement to withdraw twenty-five thousand pounds, saying she would be in to collect it on Friday. Alex was waiting for her, and she stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then drove off in her little white sports car.

The three Greeks looked smart, and each carried a briefcase. Alex met them outside the club and gave Arnie the signal to open up and let them in.

Arnie switched all the lights on as they passed through. The smell of stale booze and cigarettes clung to the flock walls and, empty, the place seemed seedy. It surprised Alex as he had only ever seen it in full swing, with flowers on all the tables and a bevy of pretty girls. Now in the cold light of a Sunday afternoon it disgusted him.

No sooner had they entered when George Windsor arrived. He gave Alex a look, and behind him came two girls dressed in evening clothes to serve the drinks. There was no sign of Johnny Mask.

‘Where the hell is he?’

Johnny waltzed in and apologized for being late but he had been busy. Alex could see he had already been drinking. Johnny stared hard at Alex and moved to his table, put an arm round him. ‘Hey, Alex, you son of a bitch, how ya doin’? Jesus, truck run over yer face or what? Never would’ve known ya.’ Then he pulled Alex to one side and whispered, ‘You playin’ with these wops?’

Alex assured him he was, then smiled and nudged Johnny and said after all he was an accountant now, and had made a few bob. Johnny seemed satisfied, and Alex caught the gleam in his eye as the Greeks dug deep in their pockets and laid thick wads of notes on the table. Alex joined them, and the girls moved around the table with drinks.

New packs of cards were ready on the table. Alex took his seat and, like the Greeks, took out a wad of money. Johnny perched on a bar stool, poured himself a Scotch, and watched the seal on a pack of cards being broken and the game begin.

Alex was up by two thousand, the men hardly speaking except to bid, and Johnny’s fingers began to itch. The phone rang and Arnie answered, then looked across to the table. ‘Call for you, Alex, important, sorry.’

As he passed Johnny, Alex spoke to him out of the side of his mouth. ‘I thought these guys were supposed to be sharp, I’m creamin’ them.’

The game went quiet, the men covered their cards. Alex swore into the phone, looked back at the table, then slammed the phone down.

‘I got problems, I got to walk — I’m sorry about this.’

The Greeks argued among themselves, and Johnny moved to the table.

‘No need to break the game, I’ll take his place if you agree. Alex, what you say?’

Alex put it to the men and they refused, saying they would need to see the colour of Johnny Mask’s cash. They knew about him, about the markers, and they were not interested. They wanted his money on the table.

Johnny swore and went to the till, sprang it open. It was cleaned out. As planned, Alex took Johnny aside and told him to get the papers from the safe in the office. He could put his share of the club up as a stake, and Alex would lend him cash in return. ‘It’s just between you an’ me, Johnny, up to you. It’s your choice, only I got to go.’

Johnny signed his half share of the club to Alex, and was handed twenty thousand pounds.

Alex walked out of the club as the game proceeded. He gave Arnie a look, and George walked with Alex to the exit. ‘Gawd almighty, he fell for it, he’s off his rocker.’

One hour later, Johnny was five thousand up, flushed and drinking steadily. He was playing well, and he was beginning to raise the bidding higher and higher. The Greeks won, lost, won, lost, making sure that Johnny believed he was on a winning streak. They had been playing for over two hours when the game began to move into really high stakes. The stakes were being pushed up by Johnny himself. He started the bidding on one hand at five thousand... Slowly the tables turned on him. The Greeks were good, and although Arnie watched closely he couldn’t see how they were doing it. He would never play a game in one of their joints, that was for sure. They were wiping Johnny out, hand by hand. As Johnny began to panic, he doubled up his betting to try to recoup his losses.

At midnight Alex returned. Johnny looked exhausted, his collar undone, sweating, and stubble darkened his sweating cheeks. He seemed hardly to notice Alex’s arrival, he was dealing, and his cash, once stacked so high in front of him, was down to about two or three thousand at most.

‘He’s lost every hand for the past hour, couple more big pots and he’s finished.’

‘Okay, I’ll go five and another two on top to see you.’

‘Fucking hell, shit... Shit!’

Johnny swiped at the table and the cards tumbled on to the floor. Arnie went immediately and gathered them up, replaced them with a new deck.

Three o’clock and Johnny was cleaned out. He walked away from the table, running his hands through his hair. ‘Give us one for the road, Arnie old son.’

Arnie placed a double Scotch in front of him and he knocked it back, then gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘You know, my Dad, he was a gyppo. He thought he had the luck, he gambled all his life. He died in a Salvation Army hostel... Any of you lot know where I can find the nearest one?’

You had to admire the way Johnny straightened his tie and turned with a flashing smile to Alex. ‘Tell Dora, will ya? Tell her I finally did it.’

Alex paid off the Greeks and gave them the two whores as a present. Then he paid Arnie and leaned on the bar, looking around. ‘You know the first thing I’m gonna do? Get some new tablecloths, this place looks like a dive.’

They both turned as Dora entered, her mink coat slung over her shoulder. Alex gave Arnie a look which told him to disappear and he murmured, ‘Okay, boss.’

Dora heard him, and cocked her head to one side. Alex tossed the papers to her and she caught them, laughing. ‘So you did it? How much do I owe you?’

Alex walked over to the table, which was still stacked with the cards and the cash. ‘Twenty-five grand...’

She thought he was joking, but he wasn’t. ‘You’re not serious... What the hell do you take me for?’

Alex handed over the papers Johnny had signed. ‘Look at the papers, darlin’, I am serious. Johnny signed the club over to me — all legal, just as we agreed.’

‘You bastard... you dirty bastard! You thievin’ git!’

Alex sighed and told her she could choose — either give him the money or accept him as her new partner.

‘I need that money, you know I do. I got wages to pay on Friday, all the girls, the barmen, the booze...’

Alex handed her the briefcase. ‘Well then, it’s simple, isn’t it — partner?’

Dora knew he had beaten her, but then she looked on the bright side. Maybe it would be a good thing to have a man around. And, if Alex were true to his word, she wouldn’t be the loser, far from it. She began to look at Alex in a different light.

‘Will you do one thing for me, then, Alex? For God’s sake get yourself a decent suit.’

Alex drew back his head and laughed. It took her by surprise — it was an infectious, bubbling laugh.

‘You know, I thought your brother was a bastard, but I reckon you’re one step ahead of him.’

The smile disappeared, and Alex’s face froze. ‘If ever, ever, he walks into this place, no matter what hour of the day or night, you call me...’

He frightened her. ‘He owe you, like Johnny did?’

Alex snapped the briefcase shut and wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Yeah, he owes me.’

At Johannesburg Airport, Edward slipped in among the throngs of travellers as they left the terminal, ending up at Richard’s side. ‘Richard...? You on flight 054?’

Richard turned, puzzled for a moment, then recognized Edward. ‘Good God, it’s Stubbs, isn’t it? Well, hello there! How are you doing?’ They walked into the brilliant sunshine outside the terminal.

‘I’m hoping for a job at De Veer’s mining laboratories.’

As he looked round for his father, Richard said he might be able to help out as he was employed in their valuation department at Hatton Garden. He spotted his father’s old Bentley as BB tooted and waved. Edward had polished the car himself, and it gleamed.

‘Pop, this is Edward Stubbs, remember him?’

BB gave Edward a non-committal look and shook his hand. He had to hand it to BB, he carried it off brilliantly, even seemed to get a kick out of it. Richard threw his case into the back of the Bentley. ‘I say, can we give you a lift, Edward?’

‘Actually, I have to book into a hotel, not got things arranged as yet.’

With a look to his son, BB waved his cigar and said surely they could put the young chap up for a few days. Edward saw Richard hesitate, but then he smiled and gestured for Edward to climb aboard.

Richard was very much ‘on top’ and wanted to flaunt his affluence to Edward, insisting they dine out together that evening at one of the best hotels. Edward murmured that he was a little short of cash, and Richard waved this aside. BB gave Edward a covert look as they entered the house.

While they were dining at the Fairmount Hotel, Richard rose from the table as two grey-haired men in dark suits approached them. They shook hands as Richard introduced his father, then as an afterthought he introduced Edward. The two men were in top executive positions at De Veer’s, and Richard almost grovelled at their feet to persuade them to join their table. BB surpassed himself. ‘You shouldn’t miss this opportunity. This young friend of my son’s has just stepped off the plane from London. He was at Cambridge — firsts in every subject and honours in Geology and Petrology... looking for work. If I had my day again I wouldn’t let this chap go...’

Mr Johnson took stock of the handsome young man, and leaned forward. ‘How long have you been in South Africa?’

Edward flushed and looked down, acting the shy student. ‘I just arrived, I was on the same plane as Richard, actually.’

Johnson nodded, then turned to Richard. ‘Bring this young chap along with you on Thursday, be interested to hear what he has to say for himself. Nice to meet you, Mr Stubbs, BB... until Thursday then, Richard. Thanks for the drink.’

Richard waited until the two men had threaded their way through the restaurant before he looked angrily at his father. ‘I only just got my own foot in the door, Pop, I don’t want to push my luck. Maybe another time, Edward, all right?’

BB rose from the table as Richard, obviously still angry, held Edward’s arm. ‘I don’t want to sound hard, Edward, but the old man does go on a bit. It’s taken me a lot of hard work to get this far in the company, and Pop’s not exactly got a snow-white reputation.’

BB turned to his son, his face flushed. ‘I heard that, and you’ll take young Edward here with you. Always give a chap a leg-up, Dickie, you never know when you might pass them on the way down — and I should know. Right, let’s get me to bed.’

‘Mr Johnson, there’s a gentleman here to see you, says his name’s Stubbs.’

Edward took the phone from the receptionist. ‘Edward Stubbs, sir, met you with Richard Van der Burge at the Fairmount Hotel the other night... Yes, yes, well I’m here in reception right now.’

Mr Johnson was waiting at the lift as Edward stepped out. ‘I have to go over to the labs this morning, you busy later?’

Edward grinned and said he was more than free, and they walked into the office.

Richard made no attempt to mention Edward. He had had long talks with the marketing board, and they discussed the new sales brochures they were about to print, spending considerable time looking over the new designs. The diamonds had been given more commercial-sounding names: ‘Brilliant’, ‘Marquise’, ‘Pear’. Richard was beginning to get a headache, but he tried to appear interested in the conversation. They went on to the problems they had been having with the Central Selling Organization getting their shipments on time.

Fascinated, Edward listened as Johnson explained the Central Selling Organization, or CSO. With such an attentive audience he held forth in great detail. ‘Our principles are very straightforward. As we, the CSO, handle the major proportion of world sales, we can best maintain an adequate supply of diamonds to the cutting centres at stable prices... If you look at this map, Edward, it’ll give you some idea just how many mines are producing quality merchandise.’

Johnson pointed to a wall map and picked up a pen, gesturing to each country as he spoke. ‘The Belgian Congo, Tanganyika, Bechuanaland, Basutoland, Namibia, Sierra Leone, Ghana... all from Africa, we here in South Africa are among the many. Co-operative marketing depends not only on the ability of the CSO to sell diamonds, as with your young friend Richard, but also on its financial strength to cover stocks. Whenever production of particular sizes exceeds demand, then these categories can be carried in reserve until the market needs them, therefore keeping some kind of equality... excuse me.’

Edward jumped as Johnson barked on his intercom, then switched it off and checked his watch. ‘Look, you want to have lunch? Show you not only the laboratories but some of the cutting experts of the world are in town today, would you like to meet them...?’

Richard was amazed to see Edward being guided through the canteen by one of the Great White Chiefs, and ushered into one of the private dining rooms. Edward gave Richard a slight smile and followed Johnson.

The food was good, and served by waitresses wearing pretty pink caps. Johnson introduced Edward to the others, and they discussed in detail a programme they were setting up. A white-haired gentleman seated himself opposite Edward, next to Johnson.

‘You the young chap with the glowing degrees from Cambridge? Who was your professor, not Emmott by any chance?’

Edward was ‘in’, and he smiled. They talked for a long time, at the end of which the man shook Edward’s hand and said, ‘Call me Ernest.’ His love of diamonds was obvious, and he kept Edward fascinated with his descriptions of the two main methods used for mining diamonds, ‘pipe’ and ‘alluvial’.

Time and time again Edward tried to interrupt Ernest but, like Johnson, once he got started on his precious diamonds he was unstoppable. Just as he was about to launch into the alluvial mining process, Edward managed to interrupt.

‘It’s quite extraordinary, sir, I was making vast progress in the testing of above-ground materials to avoid the time it takes to pinpoint the exact location of the central mine. Stones, I know, can be carried miles on river beds, and the miners work backwards to trace the source... But what if, by using chemicals on the layers of earth at surface level, one could detect, and be almost one hundred per cent sure, that there would be diamonds or gold seven or eight hundred feet below...?’

Johnson did not like to break in on the conversation, as the chairman was obviously enthralled by the young student. Sir Ernest Lieberson tweaked his moustache as he listened to Edward’s theories, which he found interesting, to say the least — especially when Edward took Emmott’s notes and copies of his final papers from his briefcase.

Sir Ernest had been credited with great ingenuity. He was known to be a resourceful man, and was the one BB had pinpointed for Edward to reach, telling him that it was Lieberson who had steered the diamond industry out of the depression in the thirties. Edward had struck gold on his first introduction to the De Veer company. He had made such an impression on the chairman that he was not only shown all the laboratories but was asked to have lunch with Sir Ernest, whose son was at Oxford, the following day. He wished to discuss Edward’s theories further.

Edward returned home to find a furious row raging between BB and Richard. BB had taken to using a silver-topped cane to help him walk about, and as Edward came into the room he was using it to prod his son in the back. ‘Only way you’ll get those mines is over my dead body. Your brothers were killed in the Fordesburg, and I have personal attachments to the others. Try anything and I’ll cut you off without a bloody rand.’

Furious, Richard turned on his father. ‘From what I can gather from your cronies at the Pretoria Club, you don’t have a rand to your name anyway.’

Purple with rage, BB shouted that if it was true then his bankruptcy was due to his, Richard’s, spendthrift ways. Richard was taken aback. ‘You’re not serious, Pa... Edward, would you mind leaving us alone, this is a private matter?’

Edward gave BB a meaningful look as he left the room, and heard the old man’s puff of breath as he flopped into a chair. ‘You can sell off your mother’s jewels, what’s left of them.’

Afraid that BB might divulge something to Richard, Edward hovered outside the door. The crackling laugh made him smile.

‘Ah, see, that’s brought you to your senses. Those sons of bitches at the club biting against me as usual, are they? And what the hell have you been doing there? Playing the tables again? Haven’t you learnt anything from London?’

At dinner, Richard was quiet, picking at his food. Bad-tempered, he asked when Edward was thinking of leaving.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, depends on my luncheon. I think I will be offered a job at the laboratories.’

Richard had served his purpose in getting Edward into De Veer’s, now Edward wanted him out of the way. ‘When are you due back in London, Richard?’

Shrugging, Richard said they were waiting for a new consignment of roughs to be delivered, he was to carry them back to London.

BB looked at his son and sighed. ‘Come to that, eh? Got you carrying the stones? Well, they must be testing you, so be sure you take care.’

Richard snapped back at his father. ‘I have no intention of continuing as their errand boy. I have been assured of a position within the company as an executive.’

Shortly after dinner Richard left for town. Edward patted BB’s hand and the old man gripped it tight. ‘How am I doing? Not let you down yet, have I? Keeping my old brain ticking you are, makes me feel good.’

‘No, BB, you haven’t let me down. I know I’m going to get into the labs and then we’re home and dry. I’ve arranged for you to buy two more mines.’

Laughing, BB put his arm around Edward. ‘That’s what I like to hear, think big and your dreams will grow, think small and you’ll fall behind... think big, son, think big.’

But Edward was thinking far bigger than BB ever dreamed.

Chapter thirteen

The following day Edward charmed his way into Sir Ernest Lieberson’s office. As he had hoped, he was offered a job in the laboratories, pursuing the theories he had first begun at Cambridge.

Richard returned to London and Edward moved into a cheap hotel. It was imperative that he had no traceable association with BB. But, as promised, he kept in touch. He knew it was necessary, even though at times he could have done without the nightly calls. He worked all day, moving from mine to mine, making careful studies and collecting samples, filling his specimen bottles with soil and rock gradings. He travelled extensively, and his preparations were diligent in the extreme. It was vital now for Edward to have rough diamonds and gold. He needed samples of both in quite large quantities.

BB’s part in the plan began. He employed a group of kaffirs to rewire the fences on all his mines. Every mine they had was to look as if work were in progress. They would work on a turnaround system, in split groups, one day leaving only one boy on a site but with a piece of heavy machinery to make it look as though a lot was going on. It appeared that eight dormant mines were now being worked, which naturally stirred up interest in the local communities. The mines were many miles apart, and the news was left to spread slowly by itself.

Edward’s work was inspected, but the four scientists were doubtful of any beneficial outcome. However, Edward requested a month off to begin taking samples from as far afield as the Belgian Congo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast. He wanted samples from as many ‘live’ mines as possible to counter-test with the dormant ones.

Edward was granted two months’ sabbatical, paid for by De Veer’s. He did not, as they presumed, begin work immediately, but searched around Pretoria for the haunts of local journalists. He became a regular visitor, sitting chatting and drinking with reporters in pubs and clubs, making it his job to get well acquainted. He was amused that all the bars he went into had ‘Men Only’ signs up, and no women were to be seen drinking.

The barman at the Night Light Club, Nkosi, proved an invaluable asset. Edward was looking for a very specific kind of journalist, and had begun to despair of finding one when Nkosi whispered to him that he should, if he had nothing better to do, come and meet a friend of his called Skye Duval.

Edward was waiting for Nkosi when the tiny bar closed, and they drove out of town on to a dirt track. They veered off, and Edward stared around him, trying to get his bearings. He began to feel uneasy, not knowing where he was, but eventually they stopped at a small shanty with lights streaming from every window, the threadbare curtains unable to prevent it. Loud music blared from the shack.

Nkosi tapped on the door and entered. It was closed behind them by a beautiful black girl who beckoned them into the shanty’s living room. Edward was surprised to see white men sitting with their arms around black girls. It was, of course, illegal to fraternize, and everyone stared at the door as Edward entered. Seeing Nkosi leading him in, they relaxed again, and the room was soon filled with the hubbub of their chatter.

Nkosi talked quietly with a fat-bellied man who sat with his arm around a very young black girl. The man had some information for sale and the pair of them slipped outside.

Skye Duval was the most handsome man Edward had ever set eyes on. He entered the room to a few ribald comments from the men, and he smiled. He was very tall — not as tall as Edward, but lanky so that he appeared taller. His hair was black and worn long, but it was well cut. His almond-shaped eyes were dark amber, his nose almost hooked, the wide cheeks and small mouth made the face strangely pretty yet arrogant. Skye had a dimple in his right cheek and a lopsided smile. He was stoned out of his mind, and he walked as if on air, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his sweet, girl’s mouth. Edward watched him closely as he kissed two of the girls, obviously a familiar customer of the house.

Skye caught the can of beer someone threw him and moved with hazy eyes through the lounge. He opened the beer, which sprayed all over his cream-coloured suit, but didn’t bother to wipe it away. He drank from the can while he surveyed the room. Edward met the eyes, glinting amber, tiger-like, which flicked over him, and Skye raised one finely arched eyebrow. He may appear drunk, thought Edward, but the man’s taking everything in, and no one enters or leaves the room without those strange eyes recording it.

Skye made his way over to Edward. ‘Well, you’re a strange face... Skye Duval... no, don’t get up, I’ll join you.’

Skye’s method of joining Edward was simply a slow, languid collapse on to the sofa next to him. His voice was very upper-class English, drawling, and Edward noticed a heavy signet ring on the small finger on his left hand.

‘So which are you here for, the news items or the broads?’

Edward estimated Duval could not be much older than himself, yet he seemed very worldly and confident.

‘I’m just passing through.’

‘Aren’t we all, but you were brought by the infamous Nkosi or whatever they call him. He usually drags in the most dreadful types, sometimes it’s hard to call the place home...’

‘Is this your house?’

Still lolling on the sofa, Duval turned his head. ‘You joking?... Christ, my shoes are crippling me, it’s the heat, makes the feet swell.’

Skye stared at his scuffed shoes, then caught a beer can tossed to him by one of the black girls. It hissed as he pulled the ring off and guzzled the beer, spilling it over his clothes again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I am a reporter, Johannesburg Sunday Express, don’t suppose you’ve got a scoop for me? If I don’t send them something soon, I’ll be out of a job. You’re English, aren’t you? Where are you from?’

Edward gave him Allard Simpson’s address, and Skye laid his slim arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Kensington? Know it well, my family lives in Cadogan Place. What are you then, a student?’

‘I was, at Cambridge. Now I’m just travelling.’

‘Travelling, are we? Oh God, I’m buggered. I’ve got to get out of this dump, it’s driving me nuts... You drive, Cambridge fella?’

Edward put his beer can down and Skye promptly picked it up and drained it. He burped, then flung an arm round Edward’s shoulder. ‘We English should stick together — you got any money? Show you a nice time, or you can show me... Ha, ha, ha...’

Skye got into the driving seat once they were outside the bungalow, and drove so recklessly that Edward hung on for dear life. They went on a club crawl that made Skye so foul-tempered he got himself thrown out of the last one.

‘Well, that’s that for the night, another day passed, another day gone that I won’t see again.’

He drove around the town, then headed out for his own place. He didn’t seem interested in where Edward lived, or even if Edward wanted to go with him. He simply accepted that he was there.

Inside Skye’s house Edward tried to talk sense to him, but he was blasted out by Purcell, played so loudly it nearly shattered his eardrums. Skye passed out on the sofa and Edward looked around the place. He moved quietly into the bedroom, saw the unmade bed, the clothes strewn around. At the side of the bed was a photograph of a very beautiful girl, a blonde, standing on a beach and shading her eyes to look at the camera.

Skye appeared behind Edward. He had taken off his shoes and Edward hadn’t even heard him walk in. ‘Trouble is, I’m sick of this fucking country, they want you to act as spy, every fucker is spying on everyone else...’ He flopped down on the bed, rolled over. ‘You know, I did this article on travelling across the Sahara on camels, with my friend... He was my friend, understand, really close friend. When we got back, they all loved the story... but it wasn’t enough... editors want blood, prefer shit like “Suspect I observed yesterday has a pen friend in Moscow and he collects Russian stamps. I think he could be a Communist.” You believe that kind of crap? An’ I’ll tell you something else. Every one of those guys you saw tonight screwing the knickers off the little black whores — even the most liberal Afrikaner — if approached by the security branch and asked to spy would. Bastards leak rumours if you don’t spy, and that fucks you over, and the police will destroy you anyway even if you do spy. There’s no chance in this shit-hole of not being a goddamn sodding spy.’

Edward, trying hard to decipher what on earth Skye was talking about, asked him if he was a spy. Skye turned on him in a fury. ‘Course I’m a fucking spy you arsehole, what in Christ’s name do you think I’ve been talking about — I fucked him over, didn’t I?’

He swayed drunkenly in front of Edward and shouted, ‘I’m talking about my mate, the one that came on the caravan with me, I’m talking about him.’ He slumped into a chair, and his lower lip trembled... ‘Like a bear he was, Cambridge blue, rugger forward, maybe a prop, I dunno.’

He gulped at his drink and lay back closing his eyes.

‘They put pressure on him, secret police, he told them to sod off, so they leaked a rumour that the poor son of a bitch was a spy. They framed him, and to increase the rumour they put a lot of pressure on his black friends; so the poor sucker was running to black and white trying to make them believe he was straight. You know what he did? He walked into the fucking lab, man, into the photographer’s darkroom, and gulped down a mugful of chemical fixer. They said it was suicide... some bloody suicide.’ His face streamed with tears... and he finished his drink, throwing the glass at the wall.

Edward made sympathetic noises and watched as Skye stripped off his clothes. He was down to baggy white underwear when he turned to Edward. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Into bed, prick.’

Edward backed off fast and said, very embarrassed, that he was straight.

‘Why on earth have you stuck like glue to my side all night long if you’re not queer? Isn’t it obvious? Aren’t I obvious?’

Edward sat in a chair by the chaotic dressing table while Skye propped himself up in his bed. He lit a cigarette and lay back on the pillows. ‘Ahhhh, deary me, my sob stories usually get the boys into bed with me. Don’t you just love their tight black bums? I just die for them... did very well tonight, see, real tears. Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell the truth, there again maybe I won’t... Eh? You want some coffee, you able to cope with that percolator thing in the kitchen? If so, I’d adore a cup.’

As Edward got up to go into the kitchen, he again caught sight of the photograph of the beautiful blonde. ‘Who’s the girl? She’s lovely.’

Skye picked up the picture and snuggled down under the bedclothes. When Edward came back with only half the percolator, the other half, sadly, missing, Skye was fast asleep with the photograph held tightly in his arms. For a moment Edward thought he resembled an innocent child. As he crept back to the door, it creaked open, and he winced, hoping the sound had not woken Skye... it hadn’t, his body remained still deep in a drunken sleep.

Edward wandered around the messy house. He searched all the rooms thoroughly. There were books piled in heaps and on every available surface. The bookcases were crammed full. Many were on politics and there were plays from every period. Several shelves were devoted to film-making and there were stacks of movie magazines. Mr Duval was a complex character... Edward also reckoned he was a dangerous one. Why did he tell him the long elaborate story about his friend’s suicide? To get him into bed, or to alleviate his own guilt? Edward was more than sure Skye Duval must have assisted if not organized the frame-up that caused his friend’s death. He began to read a folder of press cuttings relating to Skye’s articles. They made fascinating reading and were well if rather flamboyantly written. He replaced the folder and searched the drawers, finding a lot of clothes with good labels that were badly in need of washing. The wardrobe contained many suits in similar condition, and to Edward’s surprise a set of women’s expensive clothes. Everything was muddled, haphazard. In a desk drawer Edward found so many bills that he gasped. Skye owed money everywhere. His bank statements were old and torn, his entire overdraft facility having been exhausted months ago.

The record collection was mostly classical, a few big jazz bands, Swing along with Sammy Kaye, Horace Heights and his Musical Nights, Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong and Billie Holiday plus a few blues singers, some German records and a couple of recordings of black pop groups. They were dusty, many without covers or in the wrong ones. Edward was about to stroll out to the verandah when he found another bunch of folders. These contained photographs of Skye in flowing robes and the story of the trek across the Sahara in manuscript form. Looking through the photographs Edward again got the impression that Skye was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.

A car drew up outside and Edward walked out to the dark verandah. The small Volkswagen, which a young black boy was driving, parked and he saw a very attractive white girl sitting in the back seat. The boy got out and it looked as though he was carrying something for the woman, falling into step behind her as they entered the house. They walked in silence, and then Edward heard her laughter, the lower tones of the boy. At first he had presumed him to be the girl’s servant, but there was familiarity in that laughter. They did not enter the lounge, but went straight to the spare bedroom and closed the door.

Edward was unsure if he should make some noise to let them know he was in the house. He knew they would be arrested if discovered. Any romance across the colour line was illegal in South Africa, the land of so-called racial purity. If they had ever shown in public that they were on equal terms they would have been arrested immediately. Skye would also be charged if it were discovered that he allowed his home to be used by them.

Edward waited for a while and then lay on the sofa, eventually dozing off.

Around dawn, Edward was woken by the sound of the lounge door opening. Skye entered the room. ‘Christ, are you still here? I thought you’d have gone. Do you want some wine? It’s chilled in the kitchen.’

When he returned with the wine, Skye said abruptly, ‘Well, what do you want? You’ve certainly waited long enough.’

Edward noticed the change immediately — Skye’s lisp had disappeared, and he seemed tired. Edward detailed his plan, but the only indication that Skye was listening was the constant twitching of his foot. When Edward finished, Skye set his wine glass down carefully and lit a cigarette from a half-smoked butt. He gave Edward a lopsided grin, and his lisp returned. ‘My, my, you have been busy. And, well, what can I say? It’s certainly interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair, his foot still twitching and getting on Edward’s nerves. Again he grinned, but this time it was more like a smirk. ‘How old are you, my Cambridge friend?’

Edward added a few years and said he was twenty-six. Skye raised his eyebrows. ‘Same as myself... you look younger, but there again, perhaps not. Be a good fellow and bring the bottle, will you?’

Skye’s eyes were shrewd and watchful. He picked up the telephone and dialled, and Edward came back in time to hear him speaking. His heart lurched — Skye’s voice was sly and his lisp was obvious. He was rocking back and forth in his chair. ‘I may have something for you, but, you bitch, I want my passport... Yeth, yeth, yeth, fair exchange.’

He removed the bottle from Edward’s hand and poured for himself. He did not look at Edward as he spoke. ‘About this offer — you’re on, it will also help me out of a rather nasty situation — not merely financial. Well, I think you overheard — my passport is being, shall we say, “held”, against my will. It’s rather debilitating to say the least.’

Skye drank most of the bottle of wine as he told Edward that ever since he had arrived in South Africa he had loathed and detested apartheid. He had broken every rule in the book, hating how the rich whites lived. He had stayed mostly in black townships, knowing he was breaking the law, for to enter a black area a white must first obtain a special permit and he had never bothered. He had, therefore, been under the watchful eyes of the South Africa security police, and was listed as an ‘undesirable alien’.

‘I was ordered to leave South Africa within seven days, that was three days ago. I have had to do certain things to be able to remain here, like retrieve my passport from the police.’

Edward asked why he wanted to stay so badly if he hated the country so much. Skye laughed, but it was a humourless, bitter laugh. ‘Because, old chap, I was born here. My mother took me to England on a false passport when I was a baby, helped by a certain group of people, and unwittingly I returned here, I wanted to become a reporter so I ingratiated myself with the inner sanctum of the Pretoria secret police. It was easy enough — as I told you, I just betrayed my friends... Rather good at that — in fact, fucking marvellous.’

Edward had noticed the Volkswagen from the previous night had already departed. He began to feel uneasy. He looked at Skye, puzzled, and asked why he didn’t go to the British Consul if he was a British subject. Skye stared at him. ‘Someone — a woman named Julia — also has my birth certificate, so I can’t go. I’m trapped here until I get it back.’

Edward told him he could send away to Somerset House, they would forward a copy of his birth certificate. Skye shook his head at Edward’s stupidity and spoke coldly, quietly. ‘I’m black, you stupid bastard. My father was black, a political embarrassment, he was one of the highest members of the banned African National Congress...’

Edward realized that Skye was an even more fortunate find than he had believed possible.

‘My mother was very young, her family dripping with fucking coalmines, and she got herself knocked up by a bloody black houseboy. Needless to say, I was kept very much in the dark, haw haw haw, but I was well educated and although I was shipped about somewhat, things weren’t too bad. Anyway, she got herself married, and, naturally, the husband doesn’t have the slightest knowledge of moi.’ He fell silent for a moment, sipping his wine.

Edward noticed the foot-twitching had stopped, and Skye appeared very still. He had a haunted look, and he was distant, but he continued. ‘So, buddy boy, that’s Skye Duval for you. Now you know — I have entrusted you with my life.’

Edward didn’t reply, but Skye appeared to read his thoughts. ‘It’s imperative, you know, if two people are doing a con trick, that they trust each other, have something on each other. You even attempt your little scam without me and I’ll know. Understand me, man?’

At his hotel later in the morning, Edward looked through the newspaper. He glanced only fleetingly at the front page, then flipped back to it. There was a photograph and he recognized the girl’s face. The article was by no means prominent, just a small bulletin, but the girl had been arrested with her black lover. There was no name to the article, but Edward knew it had to have something to do with Skye. He was also very aware of the importance of the information he had just gained. If he were to tip off the blacks about Skye Duval’s secrets, the man would be a walking target. This made Edward think hard. Why had Duval opened up to him? Was it simply, as he had said, trust? Or had he in actual fact bitten much harder on Edward’s offer than he had thought? Edward concluded that Skye was indeed a manipulator, and even though he joked about it, he would be in the scam whether Edward wanted him or not.

Edward knew he had Skye when they met that evening. The girl in the newspaper had hanged herself. Yet another death lay at Skye’s feet and he was in a nasty, belligerent mood. ‘Get me out of this shit-hole country, man, before I put my head in a noose like everyone else. A voice keeps whispering louder and louder, “You’re black, Skye Duval, you’re a fucking black.” And you know what? I wanna be black. The whites here are made of vomit, one day they will all spew their guts out and we will rise up and swamp them.’

Edward knew he had to get Skye on to a different subject, so he asked about the woman called Julia.

‘This woman, the one holding your birth certificate, is there any way we can get to her? If we have that you’ll be off the hook.’

Skye shrugged, and said she kept it locked in her safe.

‘At her home? Couldn’t we get it somehow?’

Skye had been sceptical about Edward, but now he looked at him with interest. Even more so when Edward suggested that the two of them together could surely break into the woman’s safe. Skye went to telephone Julia and then returned to the table. ‘She’ll see me tonight... we can at least try.’

Julia Keevy was overweight, and wore her dyed blonde hair in a tight, lacquered set. She wore rings on every finger, and a kaftan to hide the rolls of fat drooping from her body. Her small eyes were like speckled duck’s eggs, and her skin had been exposed to the sun for so many years that it was as wrinkled as a walnut. She was grotesque, welcoming Skye with a glossy, thickly lipsticked smile. She had dismissed her servants for the night, and had the champagne on ice.

Edward waited outside. Skye had described the exact layout of the low, sprawling bungalow. Skye would open the back door, and had warned Edward to be careful of the screen door squeaking.

He moved stealthily into the kitchen, banged his shin on the fridge and held his breath. Had she heard? He could hear a deep, throaty, gin-sodden laugh from the bedroom. He slipped into the dining area, took stock of the rooms, and eventually found the lounge.

The safe was like a vault, with a heavy combination lock. He scratched his head — no way could he open it — and jumped as Skye appeared silently beside him.

‘We’ll never open the bloody thing, look at it.’

Skye gritted his teeth and swore, squinted at the numbers.

‘Baby, what you doing? Skye, honey, what you doing?’

Skye muttered to Edward to keep still, they had come this far and he was not going to give up. He walked to the bedroom, smiling sweetly as he carried the bottle towards the beached whale on the bed. ‘Sorry, the first one I took out wasn’t chilled enough, just let me open it...’

When Skye popped the cork out of the bottle with a loud bang, Edward nearly had a heart attack in the next room. Suddenly Skye went crazy. He leapt on top of her, ramming the neck of the champagne bottle into her mouth so hard that she gurgled and flayed the air with her hands. He sat on top of her and pushed the bottle to the back of her throat.

‘What’s the combination of the safe, you fat bitch? The combination — now!’

She tried to fight him off but she was choking, the bottle being forced further and further to the back of her throat. The champagne frothed and bubbled down her chins and her eyes bulged, then she flopped. Her body went limp, and a horrid gurgling began in her throat. Skye removed the bottle and slapped her face from side to side.

Edward was searching the desk when Skye appeared with a gun in his hand. He walked to the safe and blasted at the lock, bullet after bullet.

‘Jesus, you crazy? For Chrissake...’

Letting the gun fall to his side, Skye stared as the safe door swung open. He began to hurl the contents out. Bundles of bank notes fell around his feet as he scrabbled and searched. He checked inside envelopes and folders. ‘Where is it? Where the fuck is it? The bitch, the bitch!’

Edward stood frozen at the window — what if someone had heard the gunshots? There was silence, ominous, but it gave Edward confidence that no one had heard. He went into the bedroom, leaving Skye searching like a madman. The scene that met his eyes made him want to vomit — the grotesque sight of Julia on the bed, mouth wide open, eyes popping out of her head. The sheets and body dripping with champagne. He shouted to Skye, ‘Get in there and clean the bottle and glasses, your prints’ll be all over the bloody room. I’ll look for it, go on, move, those shots could bring the law any minute.’

Edward filled a carrier bag with jewels and cash, then dragged Skye out. They left by the back way, wiped the door, then ran across the gardens and down two streets to the car. This time Edward drove, slowly and carefully, so as not to attract attention.

They returned to Skye’s bungalow and Edward tipped the contents of the carrier bag on the bed. There was at least fifteen thousand in cash, but the jewels and the gold bangles were worth, he knew, at least twenty to thirty thousand more. He examined Skye’s birth certificate and slipped it into his pocket.

The newspaper reported that Julia’s houseboy had been arrested and charged with her murder. The motive for the killing was obviously robbery.

Neither Edward nor Skye waited around to hear the outcome of the murder trial. The houseboy was jailed for life.