You Have Not a Leg to Stand On (7 page)

Mrs Foster had a daughter. Oh my goodness me, did Mrs Foster have a daughter. She wasn't an ordinary girl like our sisters or all these girls in the school, she had come from somewhere else, she was from another planet. She was eighteen and she'd just left her secondary school. She was tall and slender with short blonde cropped wavy hair; she could ride, she could play polo and she could run. She ran properly, like an athlete, not prissy, pussyfooting, with bent arms at the elbows and limp wrists.

After lunch, the whole school would retire to their dormitories, and lie on our beds, completely quiet, for an hour's rest. We'd lie flat out on top of the blanket, arms folded across our chests, and quietly talk about Mrs Foster's daughter. Not in any lascivious way, but how beautiful she was, how different she was, we were so proud she was part of our school. She was our Princess Leia, from Star Wars, not that we knew anything about Star Wars then. But what she was about to do with the fire, would elevate her from ‘Princess' status to ‘Angelic' status.

The African workers seemed to be losing the battle against the oncoming flames. It didn't seem to occur to us, perhaps we should climb down out of the hedge, we didn't realise the main reason everyone was fighting the flames was to save the hedge. We just thought, ‘Goodness, this is exciting, the fire is getting closer.' Out of the corner of our eyes, we spotted her, running like the wind, she was running so fast her feet weren't touching the ground. She ran towards us, over the burning cinders, and through the advancing wall of flames; she was there, with the African beaters, beating with them. It seemed to us, watching from our perch on top of the hedge, they only started to make progress once she'd got there. Someone said ‘She's an angel.' We all agreed, ‘Yes, she is, she's an angel.' Once she was there they quickly got control of the flames, or maybe the breeze turned, but in our minds ‘she' was the one who'd done it. We slowly clambered down through the hedge to the ground, shaking our heads in wonderment.

The following day, as it happened, she was in charge of our ride for the morning. None of us could speak, we just looked at her in awe. She became infuriated, she said crossly, ‘What's the matter with you all, you're normally so chatty.' We couldn't say anything. We just looked at her, coming to terms with our beautiful Princess now being ‘Angelic'. It was some time before we could banter with her again. I wonder if she ever knew the high regard in which we held her. I wonder what happened to her and Mrs Foster, and her beautiful stallion. I was at that school for two years, only two years, of my seventy years. And yet, I remember all I've just described, as crisply and clearly as though it were a film played back again. Nowadays, in the present, I can watch a film on television, and a week later have little recollection of ever having seen it. Nothing has the impact it did then. Having said that, there are significant gaps in my memory when all I can remember is unhappiness. What was to come, of course, would be far worse than anything I had ever endured then.

Kidnapped

The rest of schooling, the primary reason I was there, as far as my parents were concerned, was a haze. I always put myself at the back of the class, looked at the teacher so they thought I was listening, and put my mind far away to my beautiful home. I could be driving around the ranch in the open-topped Land Rover among all the cattle and game with my father. In a funny sort of way I quite enjoyed having the time to picture all the wonderful things, I did in the rest of my life. All the teachers, in all my schools, just burbled on, about what, I have no idea. Eventually, however, I was brought back home, and a tutor called Veronica came from England. In one attentive year she taught me everything I needed to know to pass an exam called ‘The Common Entrance'. If I'd thought this out properly I should have failed this exam, but I didn't. I passed the bloody thing, which opened the door to another wasted four years in an English school. Yet more tightly packed beds in dormitory after dormitory.

The aeroplane landed at London airport after two days flying from Nairobi. We stopped the night at a little place called Wadi Halfa on the banks of the river Nile in Southern Egypt. It's no longer there, well it might be, but it's been swallowed up by the advent of the gigantic Aswan Dam. I was going to be looked after, when I wasn't at school, by my grandmother, who lived in Tunbridge Wells in Kent. My mother had organised for me to be met by a ‘Universal Aunt' to take me across London and put me on a train at Charing Cross, to be met by my grandmother at Tunbridge Wells. I wasn't too keen on the idea of being looked after by my grandmother, I'd met her once before, years ago, and I knew she didn't really like me. The feeling was mutual. So when in Wadi Halfa I bought her an ivory paperknife, carved as a crocodile, to try to placate her. The plan didn't work.

After passing through customs, dragging my vast suitcase, and trolling along the queue of people waiting for other passengers, I spotted a man holding up a card with my name on it. This wasn't the plan, surely a ‘Universal Aunt' was a woman. But I went up to him and said, ‘Are you waiting for me?' He looked down at me, I was very small, especially standing next to my vast suitcase. He said, ‘I've been sent by your Aunt, Mrs. Edwards, to take you back to her house in Hampstead.' This wasn't the plan at all. But I knew I had an Aunt Sheila, and she was Mrs Edwards.

I'd only ever heard of her described as odd. Her husband worked in the merchant navy as a stoker, whatever that was, and one day went to sea and never returned, never heard of again. But it did sort of make sense I was being taken, by this nice chap, to what turned out to be a tiny house in Hampstead. It wasn't a house as far as I was concerned. It had a door, one of a row of doors, which opened on to a tiny bit of grass and then a gate opening on to the pavement. Anyway, she greeted me very warmly and seemed genuinely pleased to see me, which was more than I was expecting from my grandmother. She made me a cup of tea and we talked about this and that. I noticed she didn't ask after any of the family, particularly her sister, my mother. It was getting latish so she said she'd make us some supper, sausage and beans on toast and a glass of milk. I noticed there was some sort of nervous excitement about her. When we'd finished and the plates taken and washed, she quickly sat down in front of me, leaned forward, her elbows on the table. She said, almost in a whisper, conspiratorially, ‘Now, I'll tell you why you're here, it's very exciting.' I didn't say anything, she went on, ‘I thought your father was a good man but he's turned out to be as bad as the rest of them,' she paused once more. I said nothing, I'd no idea what she was talking about. ‘From now on, I'm taking you over and I've found a wonderful school for you.' I was beginning to be worried, ‘I've been to see it and I've told the Headmaster all about you, he's longing to see you.' I still had nothing to say, ‘You don't have to go to that awful place your parents are sending you.'

***

On reflection, this was the only sensible thing she said all evening, ‘I'll be looking after you completely, so there'll be no need for you to go back to Kenya.' Again she paused, leaned back, long arms, hands still on the table, a look of glee on her face, ‘Now, what do you think of that?' I looked at her, I tried to say something, I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. ‘I know you must be tired, so why don't you go to bed and think about it, and tell me what you've decided in the morning.' I stood up, I said weakly, ‘Thank you for supper.' My legs were so heavy I didn't think I'd make it upstairs.

My little bedroom was the smallest bedroom I'd ever seen in my life. The bed had a bare mattress, with three blankets folded on top of one another at the bottom of the bed, and a bare pillow at the top. I closed the door and just stood, looking at the bed. Quite suddenly, unexpectedly, a lump came to my throat. I started to cry, not just cry, I silently sobbed, tears gushing down my cheeks. I laid the three blankets out on the bed and got underneath the second, fully clothed. I don't remember taking my shoes off. I was still sobbing when a blanket of merciful sleep smothered my terror and the next thing I knew, daylight had broken through my curtainless window. I sat up completely refreshed. I still had my shoes on. I'd never got up in the morning so easily.

I knew exactly what I had to do, in fact, I felt sorry for her. She'd planned everything in a state of madness, poor thing. I said, ‘I'm very sorry Sheila but I have to do exactly what my parents want me to do, so there's nothing to discuss.' She said, matter-of-factly, ‘Then you'll have to leave right now, and I'll have no more to do with you.' I lifted my incredibly heavy suitcase and staggered out of the front door, and before I'd even got to the gate, she'd slammed it shut. I didn't see her again for another twenty years. I didn't even know in what direction I was going. It was a very ordinary car lined suburban street. Just by chance a taxi came into view, I tentatively put up my arm and he stopped. I said I wanted to go to Tunbridge Wells, but I didn't know what station to go from. I couldn't lift my case into the cab. He laughed, got out and put it in. He started to chat, I didn't know they all do of course, so I followed suit and told him my present plight. He was astounded at my pathetic little tale. He couldn't understand how I ever got into this position to begin with. We pulled up at Charing Cross. He hopped out and carried my case to gate number five, buying my ticket on the way. I fumbled about trying to pay him, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said goodbye and wished me the very best of luck. He chuckled and said, ‘I think you're going to need it.' I was a day late arriving, but my grandmother didn't seem to be that surprised. I told her what had happened, she didn't say anything, she just looked terribly sad, I thought she was going to cry. It was never spoken about again. Years later we invited Sheila to our wedding and she came with a strange man in toe, whom she introduced as Mr. Johnson. The story about her and Mr. Johnson is an extraordinary story in itself. I'll have to expand on that as I go along.

***

Fast-forward thirty years or so. The telephone rang, I picked it up and a voice said, ‘This is the West Dulwich nursing home, Mrs Edwards has just died, you are named as her next of kin. Please tell us what you'd like done with her body?' In a way, I wasn't surprised! She'd have done this knowing it would catch me unawares. ‘And please can you clear her room as quickly as possible.' We rang a local undertaker, they knew the Home well, it supplied regular custom. The following day we went to clear her room. Under her bed was quite enough money to cover her funeral costs. We only managed to muster about six people to the service .Ourselves, my little sister, and one reluctant member of staff from the home. A woman from social services came and an odd-looking man crept in and sat at the very back. This formed the entire congregation. Her two sisters, my mother and my Aunt, were both in their care homes, my Aunt with dementia and my mother with heart disease. I paid the undertakers cash, then and there, We followed them to the crematorium and bade farewell.

We had found, underneath her bed, the keys to her house and it was in this house a very strange story began to unfold. Her house was an ordinary little house, two up two down in quite a pleasant street in Dulwich, South London. The first thing we had to do was to find if there was a will.

We opened the front door and the scene that confronted us was so awful, revolting with the smell of decay, and putrefying mould. If it had been left up to me, which it was really, I would have closed the front door, looked on Google for a few house clearance firms nearby, walked the hundred yards to the High St.and told a couple of house agents to sell it. And that would have been that. My wife said that that was taking the easy way out. We had a responsibility which had been, unwittingly, thrust upon us and we were to deal with it to the best of our ability. So that's what we did. But that insistence cost her, her health for a long time to come. The house was contaminated. But it also yielded a very strange story, and quite a lot of money for both my mother and my Aunt, not that they needed any, they were both beyond caring about anything. Fairly soon, in our delving, we came upon the name of a solicitor. My brother-in-law Douglas quickly found the name of the firm she'd used. They were well-regarded and the original solicitor was still there. He was astonished to hear from me. It turned out, more than twenty years ago, my aunt had drawn up a will but had never completed it. He's become a friend and still deals with our wills. On further delving, in box upon box brought out to me in the front garden, if that's what you can call it, many bank accounts began to appear. Not just one or two but fifteen or sixteen. They all had money in them, they all were savings accounts. My mother had felt guilty, as she was relatively well-off while her sister seemed so poor, she'd made regular payments into Sheila's account for years. It was a savings account and the payments my mother had made were all there, untouched. She'd also had regular payments from social security, so they must have come to the house, seen how she lived and made no further investigation.

Another strange thing she'd done was to write all her letters, private or letters of complaint, in longhand, quite neatly and with a carbon copy. This was whether they were to the council, to the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Prime Minister of the day. The points she was making usually started quite sensibly, well considered and often provoked a reply. Her arguments then very quickly became exaggerated, and fell apart. She was a religious fanatic, a born-again Christian, so she often quoted sections of the bible to prove her point.

A lot of her private letters were to Mr. Johnson. She only ever referred to him in that way, his Christian name never came up and she only ever referred to herself in the third person. So her letters would start something like this, Dear Mr Johnson, Mrs Edwards wonders whether Mr Johnson would like to come to tea next Saturday afternoon. Mrs Edwards' Servant, Agnes, will be present so there would be no impropriety.' Poor Agnes was a simpleton. She'd been looked after by social services and one day was taken along to a church meeting for an afternoon out. Her life then suddenly took a dramatic change for the worse. My Aunt offered to give poor Agnes a loving home and look after her. The offer was taken up immediately. While sitting in the front garden in my wheelchair, being brought all theses boxes of papers, the next door neighbours introduced themselves, wondering what was going to happen to the house. We naturally turned to the subject of Mrs. Edwards and Mr Johnson. On hearing who I was, their manner changed remarkably, shocked and reticent. They became lost for words and started to move away and I quickly realised what was happening. I explained her whole family found her difficult, impossible to deal with, so we were going through her belongings to see if we could find a will prior to placing the house on the market. They offered to make us a cup of tea. It's extraordinary how a cup always has a calming effect. So we all sat together, they in their garden and us in Sheila's garden, with the low hedge between us, and talked about nothing in particular. The weather is always safe. Local politics, the council, bin collection, then slowly back to the strangeness and the peculiar behaviour of their neighbour, Mrs Edwards. They'd lived alongside one another for quite a long time and at first got on reasonably well. He'd help her out with small jobs around the house, although she'd never changed anything from the day she moved in. She'd bought the house about twenty years before, fully furnished, even the pictures hanging on the walls. She then became imperious and started treating him as though he were a lowly paid employee. Another example of her behaviour was when my Aunt Carmen, her sister, had once asked us, as we happened to be driving through Dulwich, to drop in a little posy of flowers just to say hello. My wife was standing there, on the front doorstep, holding her little posy, waiting for the door to be answered. Sheila suddenly appeared, door flung open wide, she half shouted, ‘What are you doing here, clear off.' And slammed the door shut. My little wife came back to the car in shock, holding her posy in front of her, and said, ‘I've just been told to clear off.'

They were aware of the arrival of Poor Agnes, who, very quickly became a slave. The whole scene was Dickensian. The brown peeling wallpaper, the piles of boxes against the walls and up the stairs and the smell, the smell was repulsive. My wife tracked it down to a drawer in the bottom of a wardrobe where she found a corpse of a cat and a note lying on top saying ‘God will resurrect my beautiful Bengy.' My little sister found another box, with another cat, with the same message. The bank accounts revealed she, Sheila, was receiving an extra allowance for looking after Agnes.

Soon after the appearance of Agnes, Mr Johnson moved in. Mr Johnson was a ‘preacher'. They were aware of orders being barked at Poor Agnes, then shrieks of jeering laughter when she didn't know what they were shouting at her to do. To give Agnes her due, she must have had more sense than Sheila reckoned on because one day she escaped and scuttled off to the Town Hall, where she was gibbering on in apparent terror. Somebody must have had the wit to realise this poor woman needed help and she very quickly found her way back to her original carers, who immediately summoned Sheila. She burst in, all care and kindness, ‘Agnes dear, dear Agnes we've been so worried about you, thank goodness they've found you.' Agnes shrieked with terror, Sheila shrugged it off, ‘Poor Agnes she must be delirious at being lost.' At last they did the right thing for Poor Agnes. She lived out her days in a kind, caring home for people in her situation.