Lynda Plante: The Talisman

Later that night, Alex was sitting in a corner of the games room reading a book. A snooker match was in progress, and a group of rowdy lads was arguing about whose turn it was. Kenny Baker, a big sixteen-year-old and the self-appointed ‘guv’nor’ of Rochester House, sauntered in. As he passed the snooker table he picked up one of the balls ‘the Shrimp’ was just about to take a shot at. He tossed the ball in the air, caught it, and held it just out of Wally’s reach. He turned to Alex. ‘Hey, you, skinny Jim, wanna game of snooker wiv me?’

‘You give us the ball back, Kenny, or I’ll stick this cue up your arse. Way I hears it, that’s just what yer like.’ With three boys grouped around him, Wally was full of bravado, but he shrank as they moved quickly to avoid trouble.

‘Well, ain’t yer got a big gob on yer fer a shrimp? Wanna say that again, eh? You wanna say it again?’

Wally sprang around the table, and tried to wheedle his way out of it. ‘I were just jokin’, Kenny, honest!’

Whack! The cue came down across Wally’s shoulders. Next minute Kenny had him lying across the table, and was pushing him down, trying to stuff a billiard ball into Wally’s mouth. None of the other boys did anything to help. Alex watched for a moment, then went back to reading his book. The screams and scuffles got louder as Wally struggled.

‘Leave him alone.’

Kenny turned round and gave Alex a nasty, sickly smile. ‘Well, well, the beanpole can talk! Well I never, yer got yerself a champion, Wally...’

Wally slunk away from the table and closer to Alex. Kenny leered at the boys behind him, keeping a watch on the doors. ‘You fink yer boss around ‘ere, do yer, Stubbs?’

The printed page blurred before Alex’s eyes, but he refused to look up, pretending to continue reading. The next moment the billiard cue cracked down on his knee. Slowly, he closed his book and stood up, as Wally danced around, his little fists up. ‘Come on, Alex, we can take ‘im. He finks ‘e’s so bleedin’ tough, we all know he’s only in ‘ere fer nickin’ shillings from ‘is granny’s gas meter...’

Alex stepped behind Wally, heading for the door. The boys on guard promptly shut it and stood in his way, arms folded. Pushing Wally aside, Kenny faced Alex, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Least I didn’t knife me old man,’ Kenny sneered. ‘That’s what you done, ain’t it, Stubbs? We all taken a beatin’ from our Dads, ain’t we, lads, but knockin’ off yer old man...’

Alex could feel the fury building inside him, and he spoke through clenched teeth, ‘Will you get away from the doors?’

He felt a blow on the back of his neck, and saw stars. He knew he couldn’t take Kenny on, he was so much bigger, so he had to get out. He tried to reach for the door handle, and one of the boys on guard pushed him. He sprawled backwards on the floor. Kenny kicked him hard in the ribs, so hard his breath caught and he coughed and spluttered.

Laughing, Kenny picked up Alex’s book and tossed it aside, then saw the brown paper bag. He tore it open and held the chocolate bar aloft. ‘Gor blimey, what else yer got in ‘ere, Stubbs?’

Alex picked up the pool cue and brought it crashing down on Kenny’s head, then held it crosswise and hit him in the throat. He was caught red-handed with the cue by the warders as they burst into the games room and saw Kenny screaming and clutching his throat.

‘Right, who started this? I want the truth, which boy started this?’

Kenny, Wally and the other witnesses remained silent. The Major rose to his feet behind his desk. He was a massive man, with a vast barrel chest and a waxed, grey moustache. His left arm was stiff, pressed to his side, and a brown leather glove covered his false steel hand. ‘Put them in the detention block... all of them. You’ll be a damned sight sorrier in there. Go on, get out of my sight.’

The warder ushered the boys out and returned to the office. The Major was standing at his desk, holding Alex’s report file. He flipped it open. ‘Keep your eye on Stubbs — not like the rest of ‘em, he’s a grammar-school boy, and cocky with it. When his mother comes next visit, ask her to see me, would you?’

The warden nodded and took out his notebook. He asked what Stubbs was in for, and the Major pursed his lips, then handed the file over. ‘As I said, he’s different. Stubbs knifed his own father. Dear God, what is the world coming to...’

Evelyne was dumbfounded when she was led to the Major’s office, and even more shocked when she was told of Alex’s behaviour. She told the Major over and over that it was very unlike Alex, he was always quiet, and when he showed her Alex’s school reports she was stunned. They were bad; although he wasn’t at the bottom of the class he was still well below his average at grammar school.

Although he felt sorry for Mrs Stubbs, the Major told her that as Alex had been causing trouble in the detention centre, he was denied future visiting privileges.

The next time Evelyne saw Alex was when he was led before the judge to hear what his fate would be.

‘Well, Stubbs,’ said the Beak, ‘you don’t appear to have learned your lesson. On three occasions you were warned to behave yourself. I therefore have no alternative but to send you to reform school for two years.’

Alex stood in the dock, white-faced, and could not bear to look at his mother. He could not believe his ears. Evelyne wept and hung her head, wiping her face with her handkerchief.

Letting herself into the empty house, Evelyne set her gas mask on the kitchen table and, too tired to build the fire, sat alone, sipping a cup of strong, sweet tea. The broken windows had been boarded up, and a large tarpaulin covered the bomb-damaged roof. She had always been a fighter, but now she was giving in. Overwhelmed with tiredness, she sat in the chair. She couldn’t bear to think of Edward, and now Alex had failed her, too.

The train thundered through the black tunnel, and Alex sat opposite Major Kelly, his haversack on his knee. The Major snored, his steel hand hanging limply at his side. Eventually the train pulled into Brighton.

Oakwood Hall was a gothic monster set in large grounds a few miles outside Brighton. Alex half-expected the place to be surrounded with barbed wire, but the manor house looked more like a grand hotel. As the taxi entered the gates, he stared around at the grassy fields and woods.

The hall was oak-beamed, Tudor style, with highly polished oak floors. They waited in the hall as a plump woman, wearing a starched white apron, came down the wide staircase. Alex was ushered in to meet his housemaster, Mr Taylor. He had a thick thatch of straw-coloured hair with a reddish tinge. His eyes were blue, piercing and icy, framed by round wire glasses. Alex could see that he was actually rather a handsome man, with full, red lips and wide cheekbones, very fresh-faced. When he rose from behind the desk he stood at least five foot eleven, well built with broad shoulders. He wore a crumpled tweed jacket and the fashionable, baggy grey flannels. They were held at the waist by a tie, which Alex was later informed was from Eton, where Mr Taylor had been educated.

Taylor gave Alex a quick, sharp lecture, a stamped envelope for his weekly letter home, and, just as Alex reached the office door, he snapped, ‘I run a tight ship, Stubbs. Just do as you’re told and we’ll get along. I’ll have a chat with you at a later date, run along.’

Lounging outside Mr Taylor’s office was Sidney Green. Dapper in his uniform, his hair slicked back with grease, he possessed a natural sharpness. ‘Well, that was short an’ sweet, must be yer lucky day. Name’s Sid, just follow me, I’m ter show yer the ropes... got all yer kit? Let’s get this over wiv, got a game of football. You play footer, do yer?’