Lynda Plante - The Talisman

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.’

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.