(1958) Robinson

  ‘He thinks you very unnatural,’ I said, ‘not having a wireless.’

  ‘I can’t please everybody,’ Robinson said.

  ‘I wish he would stop following me.’

  ‘Your own fault,’ said Robinson. ‘You have to keep a man like that at a distance.’

  ‘He has his funny side,’ I said. ‘Have you seen the stuff he keeps in that brief-case?’

  It was in the heat of the day. I was peaceably watching Robinson cleaning a gun. He stood in the cool stone room with his back to a vaulted window which blazed with light. When I mentioned Tom Wells he stopped cleaning the gun. He said, ‘I’ve told him that we are none of us interested in the contents of his bag.’

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘very interested.’

  ‘Not while you’re on this island, you aren’t,’ said Robinson.

  I had been sitting by a high table lolling with my elbows on it, but I stood up quickly. Robinson flung his rag on to the table and hanging up the gun on the wall, took down another.

  ‘Try to conceal your anger,’ said Robinson.

  ‘I take an interest in what I please,’ I said.

  ‘Not while you’re on this island.’

  I left him, and went out to find Jimmie. On the way I took two cigarettes from the box on Robinson’s desk. Thinking it over, I made some allowances for Robinson’s behaviour, for he had recently been harassed by Wells. Only the previous day I had witnessed a scene between them, when Tom Wells had made a dreadful fuss about some documents which he said were missing from his brief-case.

  ‘I say, Robinson, was this case open when you found it?’

  ‘No, it was tight shut.’

  ‘It must have been open,’ said Wells. ‘Some papers must have fallen out. Some important confidential documents. They’re missing.’

  ‘The bag was not open,’ Robinson said steadily. ‘It was lying about thirty yards from the plane near the spot where I picked you up.’

  ‘The papers were in the case before the plane crashed. Now they’re gone. How d’you explain that?’

  ‘I am not an occultist,’ Robinson said.

  I found Jimmie on the patio reclining in a deckchair beside Tom Wells. Miguel was hovering near Tom Wells’ chair, and I could not at first see what they were doing.

  As I approached Wells looked round.

  ‘Robinson there?’ he said.

  ‘No, he’s cleaning the guns.’

  ‘Makes no odds, really,’ said Tom Wells. ‘Only Robinson doesn’t seem to care for these articles. He’s a cranky bird if you like.’

  I lit one of Robinson’s cigarettes and felt in a position to defend him.

  ‘That’s a nice thing,’ I said pompously, ‘to say about your benefactor.’

  ‘Look, Janey,’ he said, ‘all right, so what, let’s put it at the maximum. O.K., Robinson saved my life. Does that give him the right to boss me around for three months?’

  ‘It’s Robinson’s island,’ I said.

  Miguel gazed at us both, back and forth. Meantime, I noticed, spread out on the flat of Tom Wells’ bag, a number of small shining objects of curious shapes.

  ‘I commence to think,’ said Jimmie, ‘that Robinson is become exceedingly cheesed.’

  ‘Pas devant,’ said Tom Wells, casting his eyes towards the child.

  ‘Is not clandestine remark,’ said Jimmie. ‘I declare to Robinson’s face the same.’

  I began to scrutinise the curious objects of silver metal spread out on Tom Wells’ bag. Miguel kept fingering them with delight.

  ‘See,’ said the boy to me, ‘Mr. Tom has given me one of his jewels.’ It was a four-leaved clover, done in metal, attached to a chain. Miguel slung it round his neck.

  ‘That will bring you luck,’ said Tom Wells.

  ‘What is luck?’ said the boy, for although his pronunciation of English was good, his vocabulary was limited to what he had learned from Robinson.

  Jimmie laughed. ‘Is very humorous,’ he said, ‘that the youngster should ask what is luck. Robinson does not speak that word, he does not accord with the idea luck.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about Robinson,’ Tom Wells observed.

  ‘Is so,’ said Jimmie genially. He had not confided to Tom Wells anything of a past association with Robinson, but I could see Wells suspected this. I imagined, and rightly, that Robinson had advised Jimmie not to talk much about himself.

  ‘You would think to hear you,’ said Wells, ‘that Robinson was an old friend of yours, and you’d just dropped in.’

  Tom Wells was more transparent than I was in his curiosity to know the story of Robinson’s life. In time, I felt, bit by bit, the story would simply come to me.

  Jimmie would talk, Robinson would let fall; and so I asked few questions.

  Tom Wells was constantly pestering us with questions. For my part, I was as close as Robinson. In fact, one of the few grounds on which I understood Robinson was the fear of over-familiarity which I shared with him. The less I said about my past life, the better, to Tom Wells, and on an island.

  ‘It will bring me luck. What’s luck?’ Miguel was saying. He took the metal clover in his brown hands, raised it to his wide lips and kissed it. ‘What’s luck?’

  Jimmie and I were searching the air for a definition when ‘Long life and happiness,’ said Tom Wells.

  ‘Now come over here, sonny, and I’ll show you the signs of the Zodiac. When were you born?’

  Miguel looked blank.

  ‘What month?’ said Tom. ‘You don’t have to give date and year. I shan’t give you a comprehensive horoscope reading unless you’re prepared to pay money for it, see? Got any money on you?’

  I suppose he had a way with children.

  Miguel fondled his clover charm, and giggled with delight.

  ‘What month were you born?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘When’s your birthday, you daftie?’

  ‘Next year.’

  ‘What month? January, February, March, April…? Come along — you pay your money and you take your choice.’

  ‘January,’ said Miguel, as if he were choosing a colour.

  ‘Before or after the twenty-first?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What date in January? First, second, third, fourth…? Make up your mind.’

  ‘First,’ said Miguel.

  ‘That’s my birthday,’ I said.

  ‘No it is not,’ said Miguel, ‘it’s mine.’

  Jimmie said, ‘Is humorous.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Wells to me, ‘you can’t have his birthday. His birthday’s the first of January, see?’

  Miguel danced round Wells, and picked up the glittering trinkets, one by one. Wells regarded him with the greatest benevolence. At that moment I realised that Tom Wells bore a strong resemblance to my brother-in-law, the bookie, Curly Lonsdale. He was about the same age as Curly, about fifty. Like Curly, Tom Wells had a loose mouth in a square puffy face, and would gesture continually with his square hands, fingers outspread. The over-intimate gurgle in the voice was the same as Curly’s.

  The first I had heard of Curly was when my sister Agnes wrote to me ‘Julia has married such a common little man. He’s a Turf Accountant. He looks like one of those that seduce landladies’ daughters in their braces. Julia is of course lucky to marry anyone….

  Years later, after my grandmother’s funeral, I met Curly. I was not surprised to find him fairly frightful, but I was enormously surprised, on this occasion and subsequently, to see how my son took to him. Brian delighted to go spinning off with Curly in his three-year-old Jaguar to the pictures on a Saturday afternoon. The first time, Brian was brought back at half-past eight, brimming with the exotic new world which he had tasted. ‘Curly was carrying seven hundred and fifty on him, he showed me, great bundles of fivers… and after the pictures we had fish and chips in a pretty nice restaurant at Leicester Square, and after that we went to a house to meet a lot of Curly’s friends. They were all playing cards, a
nd there were piles and piles of cigarette ends in the ashtrays and flyers all over the place. And the chaps were terribly keen on the game, they had their coats off.’

  ‘Sitting in their braces,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. And Curly’s going to take me to the races when the season starts.’

  ‘Did they give you anything to drink?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes. There was ginger ale. Sam — that’s one of Curly’s friends — gave Curly a snifter — that’s brandy, you see, and I think he was pouring out one for me, but Curly said, “Something soft for the youngster, Sam, else his old woman’s going to create.” That was awfully funny, because Curly winked at me; and he looked awfully funny.’

  ‘Were there any ladies?’

  ‘No,’ said Brian. ‘No dames. But there was a photo of a smasher on the grand piano.’

  ‘Do you really like Curly?’ I said.

  ‘He’s the best man in our family,’ said Brian, as if there were dozens to choose from. Apart from Curly Lonsdale the only other man in our family was Agnes’s husband, the doctor, Ian Brodie. From any point of view, it seemed to me, Curly was preferable to Ian. One of the things that worried me, as I sat on the patio watching Tom Wells, so like my brother-in-law Curly, winning his way with Miguel, was who had taken charge of Brian since I had been presumed dead; Agnes and Ian Brodie, or Julia and Curly? On the whole, I hoped it was Curly, whom I could never, myself, take to.

  ‘This is Ethel of the Well,’ said Tom Wells, picking out one of his trinkets. It was a large-headed female figure. Its mouth was cut wide from ear to ear, its arms stuck flat against its metal sides, and from under the lines of its long straight skirt protruded the representation of a pair of thick curling boots. ‘The original Ethel,’ said Wells, ‘was found in a well in Somerset. She dates back to the sixth century. Ethel has terrific properties as a luck bringer; I could show you hundreds of letters from people whose life has been changed by Ethel.’

  Miguel let the four-leaved clover drop on his breast and made a dive at Ethel of the Well. ‘When I think,’ said Tom Wells, ‘of the business I’m losing. There’s the magazine also, who’s taken it over? I’ve got the proofs of the June number here. Well, we’re lucky to be alive.’ He fumbled in his bag. ‘Listen to this letter from a satisfied customer: “Dear Mr. Wells, My wife and I would like to tell you that we have had incredible luck since you sent us Ethel of the Well. Ethel is certainly the tops. My wife was dogged by ill health for twelve years. Now I have got a better job, and we certainly swear by Ethel. Wishing you congrats and all the best from my wife and I, Yours faithfully, Mr. & Mrs. Harper.” That’s only one out of hundreds from simple ordinary folk. I get a lot of confidences, too. People must open their hearts to someone, mustn’t they? I know thousands of secrets—some of them would open your eyes. Rich and poor alike, they write to Tom Wells.’

  ‘Ethel!‘ said Miguel in hushed awe.

  ‘Then there’s Natty the Gnome,’ said Wells.

  ‘Show me Natty,’ said Miguel.

  ‘To Natty,’ said Wells, ‘I owe the fact that I am here to tell the tale. Mind you, it isn’t the first time Natty has saved a life in an accident. I wish I had the letter here—’

  ‘It would have been luckier if there had been no accident,’ I said.

  ‘There must have been a Jonah on the plane. You are powerless when there’s a Jonah.’

  ‘Show me Natty,’ said Miguel.

  Wells selected from his wares a small charm and handed it to the child. ‘You can keep that,’ he said, ‘I’ve got others.’ It was a dwarf-like figure with a peaked cap sitting cross-legged. ‘Thank God for Natty,’ he said. ‘I’ve always had faith in Natty. We must be losing thousands of orders.’

  I could see Jimmie was as envious as I was of Tom Wells’ salvage. All our possessions had been burnt up in the plane, and we had no form of competition for the attention of Miguel.

  ‘There was to be a full-page ad for Natty in the June number of Your Future,’ said Wells.

  ‘Show me the Future,’ said Miguel.

  ‘Letters pour in daily from every part of the world from thousands of men and women of all ages,’ Wells said, ‘in praise of Natty the Gnome and affiliated products.’

  ‘Mayhaps they now shall cease to write,’ said Jimmie, ‘when they hear of your bad luck which has befallen.’

  ‘What bad luck?‘ said Wells aggressively.

  ‘Show me the Future,’ said Miguel, apparently under the impression it was one of the metal charms.

  ‘Let him see the magazine,’ I said.

  Wells carefully placed his range of lucky charms on the patio floor; he fished emotionally into his bag and produced a paste-up proof of his magazine, which he held sorrowfully before his eyes.

  ‘What’s going to happen about Your Future I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The June number won’t appear, naturally, because this here in my hand is the June number. I prepared it while on tour, and I intended to mail it from Santa Maria to our offices in Paddington. What they are doing at Paddington, I don’t know, I dare not think.’

  ‘Mayhaps they all pack up,’ said Jimmie.

  ‘They won’t,’ said Wells, ‘not while I’m alive they won’t.’

  ‘By now you must be presumed dead,’ I said, ‘like the rest of us.’

  ‘They will know,’ said Wells. ‘Trust them. They know I’m alive, you can be sure.’

  ‘They know all about Mr. Tom,’ said Miguel, who seemed to feel that his friend was under attack.

  ‘You see,’ said Tom, ‘I have friends among the Occult. There’s no getting away from it; they know what’s going on in the world. I’m not talking about a lot of ignorant fortune-tellers, mind you; these are scientists of every description and in every sense of the word. Some of them have letters after their names. They are people that have devoted their lives to the study of the unknown. I am not an adherent, mind you, of any particular group. There are countless methods of probing the mysteries of the universe. I number among my acquaintances distinguished psychometrists, clairvoyants, Karma interpreters, astrologers, yoga spiritualists, divine healers, astral radiesthetists, saliva prognosticators, and so on and so on. They are men and women of vision. It’s the quality of the medium that counts, naturally. I go in for quality. All my friends are of high esoteric quality.’

  He lapsed into a sigh of exhaustion, content merely to spread his square hands palm-up before him, as if they spoke for his cause.

  ‘Mr. Tom’s friends know,’ said Miguel.

  ‘Listen to the innocent child,’ said Tom Wells. ‘He’s got the right ideas, that boy.’

  ‘Is this the Future?‘ said Miguel, holding up a medallion with cabbalistic signs in red enamel round its perimeter.

  ‘That’s the Chaldean Contact Medallion, sonny. You’ve picked a winner there. Real enamel lettering. Astounding potency, and puts an end to ill-health, exhaustion, fatigue, insomnia, etcetera. It is also an infallible aid to joyous achievement. You can also keep that one, I’ve got plenty.’

  ‘Show him the magazine,’ I said, ‘that’s what he’s asking for.’

  Tom Wells frowned surreptitiously at me. ‘It’s a bit beyond him,’ he whispered. ‘Your Future is mainly for those who have passed through the early talismanic stages of spiritual attainment.’ He tapped his sheaf of papers. ‘We have serious articles here,’ he said, ‘by professors.’

  ‘Give me Your Future,’ said Miguel.

  ‘Give him Your Future,’ I said.

  ‘It’s only in proof form,’ said Wells. ‘He won’t understand it. It’s my only copy. He has the charms, that’s sufficient.’

  Miguel seemed to feel a sense of deprivation.

  ‘I want Your Future,’ he observed to me.

  ‘For shame,’ said Jimmie, ‘withholding these documents from the little child.’

  ‘He can have it to look at,’ said Wells, ‘but I want it back, mind, and I don’t mean maybe.’

  Miguel grabbed the pasted-up proof
s and started turning the pages. He seemed to be attracted by the pictures in the advertisements, but did not waste time on the text.

  ‘I told you,’ said Wells, ‘it wouldn’t interest the child.’ Miguel sensed that his treasure was about to be removed. He clutched it to his chest and said, ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘No,’ said Wells, ‘give it back.’

  ‘Is cruelty,’ said Jimmie, ‘to give to a child and then withdraw.’

  At that moment Robinson appeared. Miguel hastily grabbed from the step where he had laid them his three lucky charms, and clutched them fiercely, together with Your Future.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ said Robinson. He was looking at the litter of lucky charms on the floor of the patio around Tom Wells where he had laid them out.

  Tom Wells placed a hand on his ribs to indicate pain. ‘This is Mr. Wells’ range of samples,’ I said. ‘They are all vibrating with luck.’

  ‘I was decent enough to hand over that rubbish to you,’ Robinson said to Wells, ‘on condition you kept it to yourself.’

  Tom Wells closed his eyes and rubbed his ribs.

  I picked up one of the charms. ‘This one is Ethel of the Well,’ I said, ‘guaranteed to___‘

  ‘What have you got there?‘ Robinson was looking at Miguel.

  The boy handed over the proofs, keeping the charms clenched in his other hand.

  Robinson tore the proofs several times across. We all gasped.

  Eventually Wells said, ‘That’s an actionable offence. If there wasn’t a lady present I’d tell you what I think of you. That’s my property you’ve destroyed. And while we’re on the subject I’d like to know what’s happened to the papers that are missing from my case. They were top secret.’

  Robinson said to Miguel, ‘What have you got there?’ The child opened his hand and showed him the charms.

  ‘Give them back to Mr. Tom,’ said Robinson, quite nicely.

  ‘They’re mine,’ said Miguel.

  ‘They are harmless things,’ I said.

  ‘They bring you luck,’ said the boy.

  ‘Listen to me, Miguel: these are evil things,‘ said Robinson, ‘you must give them back.’