Lynda Plante: The Talisman

During the Second World War Blitz on the East End of London, Freedom Stubbs, the Romany ex-British Heavyweight Boxing Champion, was killed by his eldest son, Edward. Edward had just received confirmation that he had won a scholarship to Cambridge University, the fulfilment of a long-held dream of his mother’s. To enable him to continue his studies, his younger brother, Alex, agreed to confess to the killing of their father.

The two brothers were parted: Alex going to jail to await sentence and Edward to university. Neither of them went to their father’s burial, but many East Enders showed their respect, saying farewell to their gentle champion by walking silently behind the hearse. The mourners were joined by gypsies who came from all parts of England. Freedom had been not only their champion, but also the son of a dukkerin, and a prince of royal Romany blood.

In the past, Romanies of high rank were buried with their most valuable possessions. All their other belongings were burnt to ensure that the soul of the dead would rest in peace and not haunt the living. Freedom was buried in his best and only suit. During his life he had become a kairengo, a house-dweller, so there was no vargon or caravan wheel to burn, but, ironically, his house had burned down in the Blitz. His wife, Evelyne, left alone with the gypsies by her husband’s grave, was asked if a talisman could be buried with Freedom, as was their custom. It should be something gold, and honoured by the dead man.

Freedom had no talisman, but Evelyne promised that she would return to place in his grave the one item of value the family still had. This was a gold necklace, and was accepted by the gypsies as appropriate for their royal prince.

Freedom Stubbs had given the necklace to his wife, given it with pride and love when he was the British Heavyweight champion, when the long-awaited World Championship was to be his next fight. The necklace represented his success, and even when he lost the title, along with his winnings, even when the family had sunk into poverty, it was never sold. The gypsies were right; it was Freedom’s talisman, and with it in the palm of his hand it could be seen that he had once achieved something, he had been somebody. So it was right that he should lie in his grave with the gold that he had fought so hard for; it was right he should be given the dream that was so very nearly his.

The promise was made in good faith, but the forthcoming trial of Evelyne’s younger son, Alex, made it appear wasteful, even sinful, to bury such a valuable possession in a grave. Evelyne felt that when Alex was released from jail they would need the financial security the necklace could bring them.

The unquiet soul of Freedom began to weep, reaching out to the son who had inherited the powers of the dukkerin. The restless spirit with soundless footsteps began to haunt the living...

Two weeks after the burial of his father, Alex Stubbs was sent to a remand home, Rochester House, a large Victorian building with a six-foot wall and another six feet of barbed wire on top. Not exactly a prison, yet it still had the feel of one, and for those boys sent there Rochester House was anything but homely. They all wore grey shorts and socks, with navy blue pullovers over white vests, and black plimsolls. There were strict rules and regulations. Rochester was an assessment point, a halfway house until the boys went before the ‘beak’ to be sentenced for their crimes. It was therefore imperative that they obey the strict regime. Many of them would, after assessment, be released, but those with a past record would be sentenced and transferred to the reform schools.

The boys’ hair was cut short to avoid nits spreading, and they all smelt of carbolic from the showers, and of mothballs from their institutional sweaters. Their ages ranged from ten to sixteen. Alex, being fifteen, was placed in a dormitory with the older boys, all of whom were already hardened to reform school life, having been in and out of institutions since they were ten.

Alex was terrified, but he never showed it. His fear made him silent, a loner. His manners, his gentleness and his obvious intelligence set him apart. He was a grammar-school boy, and that was something in itself. During classes, Alex soon learned not to answer all the questions put to them by the teacher. Any boy standing out as ‘different’ or ‘special’ would be tormented. He learned fast, even going so far as to make deliberate spelling mistakes in his essays. At grammar school he had been at the top of his class in maths, but at Rochester House he made sure he achieved only average marks.

The boys had little or no privacy. Throughout their waking hours they were watched and monitored by the warders. The head warder of the school, Major Kelly, was a threat to all the boys living under him. If they didn’t behave, the staff would report them to ‘The Major’, whose name was enough to instil order.

Even at night Alex could find no comfort in sleep. He tried to blank out from his mind the terrible pictures of his dying father wrapped in his mother’s arms, tried not to hear the sounds of his mother’s weeping. He willed himself once more to conjure the dream he had dreamed when he had first been held in jail. The dream that had given him peace, had comforted and cleansed him.

In the dream Alex had been running up a mountain bathed in sunlight, lush green grass beneath his feet, and above him a brilliant blue sky. It was surreal and yet tangible, and running he had felt free, heading towards the very peak of the towering, magnificent mountain. Then he heard the thunder of hooves, ringing and echoing around the mountainside. Still he ran on, filled with joy, breathing the sweet, clean air... and then he saw, breaking through the clouds with his raised hooves, a black, shining stallion galloping towards him. Astride the horse sat a man with flowing, blue-black hair, at one with the beast. Alex lifted his arms to the man, calling to him as if he represented his own free spirit. The rider was his father, he was Freedom... ‘Don’t go, don’t go,’ Alex cried. But the rider had passed by, into the clouds, which closed like a grey curtain behind him.

Alex had recaptured his dream, but now it turned into a nightmare. There was no rider, no stallion, just the suffocating, grey cloud enveloping him. He was awakened by his own cry, his body drenched in sweat. He pulled the rough blanket around him, shivering now, afraid his cry had been heard by the other boys in the dormitory. He was not alone. Around him he could hear the muffled sobs of boys as frightened as himself hiding beneath their sheets, all of them afraid of tomorrow.

Fights broke out in class, and in the yard at recreation time. Bullies, already hardened to the system, took delight in tormenting first offenders.

Alex watched closely and remained apart, ignoring taunts, ignoring any incitements to argument. He had heard the whispers behind his back. Somehow the boys had learned why he was there, that he had committed murder. This gave him some standing among them, and a slight aura of menace.