The Virgin and the Whale

by Carl Nixon

  ‘Mum,’ protests Jack, wriggling on the sand. His hair is dry by now and stiff with salt. ‘Stop it. Just tell me what it was. Please.’

  ‘All right, Impatient Boy,’ says Elizabeth.

  It took the man a moment to realise that what he was looking at was a whale. It was the largest type of whale — a blue whale. And this particular blue whale was the largest of its kind, perhaps even the largest whale that had ever lived. He was the king of all the whales.

  The Balloonist and the Tiger stood open-mouthed on the beach, although the Tiger composed himself sooner than the man, and after that tried hard not to seem at all impressed by the Whale. A series of deep echoing calls floated up to them from the great creature.

  ‘He says that he will allow us to ride on his back,’ said the Moon Virgin, still standing in the white foam of the waves.

  ‘Really?’ said the Balloonist. ‘That’s very kind of him.’

  ‘You said us,’ said the Tiger. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘You will need someone to translate.’

  Again, the Tiger bowed his head to the Moon Virgin but more deeply than before. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are we to get up there?’ asked the man.

  ‘We must swim.’

  And without hesitation she turned back to the ocean and, giving a short cry to the Whale, dived in and began swimming away from the beach, over and under the waves, nimble as a dolphin.

  The Tiger followed. The man took the diamonds from his bag, stuffed them into his pocket next to the jibjab thorn and, leaving everything else on the sand, waded into the warm water.

  The waves were bigger than they had looked from the beach. They jostled and shoved and poked salty fingers into his eyes. When at last the Balloonist managed to get out beyond the breakers, he looked around but could not see the Whale. It has changed its mind and swum away, he thought. He was having trouble staying afloat. This was not because he was a poor swimmer but because of the diamonds in his pockets. It is difficult to swim when weighed down by rocks, regardless of how valuable they are. Common schist or greywacke will pull you down to your death as easily as rubies or diamonds.

  The man swallowed a gulp of seawater and then another and began to sink into the blue depths. Looking up through the clear water, he saw the Tiger swimming above him, the great paws stroking rhythmically.

  It was then that he felt ground beneath his feet. Not as deep as I thought, but still deep enough to drown.

  But miraculously the ground was moving, rising beneath him, lifting him through the water and then, into the air. He took a deep gasping breath and looked down. It was not coral or sand he had felt beneath his feet but the great black back — as big as a football field — of the Whale.

  With the Tiger, the Moon Virgin and the Balloonist safely on his back, the Whale turned his great body west and set off in pursuit of the kidnappers’ boat.

  forty-two

  What type of story is this?

  At the very beginning I cast around for words strong enough to carry the burden of everything that would follow. If the opening salvo had been ‘Once upon a time’, from which all else would have flowed true to form, then perhaps around this point in our story Lucky would have undergone a miraculous transformation. The stories that Elizabeth fed to him like spoonfuls of malt in the weeks leading up to his birthday would have nourished him in body, mind and spirit.

  Imagine the scene. The day of his birthday would make an excellent occasion for him to show his wife just how much he had improved. Mrs Blackwell has organised a party to mark the occasion and the ballroom at Woodbridge is decorated with lights and streamers; a string quartet claims one corner. Everyone is present: the host and hostess, assorted relatives and family friends, members of Mansfield’s high society. Of course Elizabeth is there. Perhaps Elizabeth’s parents and Jack have also been invited. Even Booker the Cooker and little Merry are present, although they are flat out seeing to the needs of the guests.

  At some time during the evening, Lucky taps a fork against the rim of a glass and makes a speech. Everyone is moved by his eloquence and sincerity. It would be obvious to them all that even if his memory has not returned, he has acquired a level of wisdom and tolerance that he had previously not possessed. Above all, it is obvious that Sunnyside is not the place for him.

  Only Dr Parkinson remains unconvinced. He has arrived late and has brought with him two large male orderlies who stand ready to bundle Lucky away if he offers any resistance. Elizabeth accuses the doctor of not having Lucky’s best interests at heart. In a firm, clear voice she informs the entire gathering that Dr Parkinson is interested in Lucky only because of the large bequest he believes the Blackwell estate is sure to give to the hospital if he treats the heir to the family fortune.

  Lucky becomes angry and threatens Dr Parkinson with bodily harm. Who can blame him? Such relentless persecution would test the patience of a saint.

  ‘Proof!’ cries the doctor. ‘He is a danger to himself and others. Seize him.’

  The two orderlies rush forward and, grabbing Lucky, they begin to drag him out the door towards the van with the barred back window that is waiting in the driveway.

  Surprisingly, it is Martin Templeton who reacts first. He has become aware that a great injustice is about to be done. Shaping his remaining finger and thumb into the approximation of a fist, he punches the largest of the orderlies squarely on the jaw. A fierce fist fight ensues between Martin, Lucky and the two orderlies.

  In the chaos Lucky stumbles against a shelf. A fossilised trilobite teeters and then falls. Mrs Blackwell screams. Elizabeth springs forward but she is too late. Lucky is struck on the head, a heavy blow that leaves him bloody and unconscious.

  For a moment all is still. Lucky lies splayed on the floor of the ballroom, the guests gathered around in a shocked circle. They believe that he has been killed.

  ‘No, look, he’s breathing,’ says Mrs Blackwell, kneeling beside him.

  When Paul opens his eyes he sees his wife looking down at him anxiously. Everything comes flooding back — a lifetime of memories, first in a trickle, then in a tsunami.

  ‘Darling,’ he says, ‘where am I? What happened?’

  Just how much tolerance do you have for improbable occurrences if they bring about a satisfying resolution? Perhaps I am pushing matters too for if a telegram arrives a short time later — that very evening — with the news that Captain Jonathan Whitman has finally been found. It turns out he was badly wounded, languishing in a prisoner-of-war camp high in the Swiss mountains, in an area that has been cut off for several months by unseasonable snow. The telegram confirms that he is now safe and well and will be coming home to Elizabeth and Jack as soon as possible.

  Would that story tick all the boxes for you?

  forty-three

  There are only four days left before Paul Blackwell’s birthday.

  It is obvious to Elizabeth that Lucky has made no progress, certainly nothing that Mrs Blackwell is going to be satisfied with. He has remembered nothing that is going to earn him a reprieve from incarceration at Sunnyside.

  Knowing this, Elizabeth has devised a plan. To say that she is proud of it would be untrue. In fact she is torn between her loyalty to her employer and her duty to her patient. She even doubts her own motivation. Is she really putting her patient first or have her own feelings towards Lucky clouded her view of what is right?

  That morning she informs Lucky that they are going back to the museum. He does not object and Martin drives them into town and pulls the car up outside the building on Nelson Avenue. Elizabeth leans forward and gently touches the driver’s shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you stay here, in the car. We’re only going to be inside the main hall.’

  ‘Mrs Blackwell said that I should keep an eye on him.’

  ‘There’s not going to be any problem. He’s been fine for weeks.’

  It’s true. Since the incident with the fish and the knife, Lucky has been nothing but complia
nt. Even so, Martin looks doubtful. ‘Well, it’ll be warmer in here with the engine running. That hall will be like ice on a day like this.’

  The sunny days have been replaced by persistently low clouds and biting winds from the south and Elizabeth and Lucky are both wearing heavy coats. Lucky also has a scarf and gloves and has managed to scrape up from somewhere a black woollen hat, of the type favoured by working men like Elizabeth’s father. Elizabeth has not asked him where he found it but she is grateful that Mrs Blackwell has not seen him in it.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ says Elizabeth.

  Martin sniffs. ‘Right then, but I’ll be here if you need me.’

  Elizabeth is already getting out of the car. ‘I’m sure we won’t. We’ll be an hour.’

  She leads Lucky into the museum. Martin was right, the main hall is extremely cold.

  Elizabeth takes Lucky’s gloved hand in hers. ‘Come on, this way.’

  He looks at her curiously. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘There’s something we have to do. Don’t ask questions, please. Just follow me.’

  She guides him through the cabinets and roped-off areas and then into another room set aside for items relating to Antarctic exploration. They pass a sled on iron runners; a preserved husky waiting patiently; an almost round egg in an Adelie penguin’s nest of stones. Down a short corridor and out a door.

  Lucky finds himself in the open air. He is standing in the part of the Botanic Gardens at the rear of the museum.

  Elizabeth does not stop. ‘This way.’

  They must pass by the skeleton of the blue whale hanging from its chains beneath the tin roof. This is the first time that Lucky has seen it and he gazes at the bones like a child.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A whale.’

  ‘Is it real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that a creature so huge can really exist.’

  ‘Yes, remarkable.’ Elizabeth sounds impatient. She is in a hurry; they only have an hour.

  But Lucky still hangs back. He runs a gloved hand along the curving jawbone. There is nothing to stop people from touching the skeleton: not a barricade, a rope or even a sign. It was not unknown for children to swing from the jaw, or actually to climb, balancing on the ribs in the cavity where the great heart used to beat.

  Heart size: 9 feet.

  Weight: 2000 pounds.

  But on such a cold day there are no children. There is no one; the space where the heart once was is empty.

  ‘Come with me, please.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  They walk past barren flowerbeds until they come to the furthest gate from the museum. They leave the gardens out of sight of the car, not that Elizabeth believes Martin Templeton would notice them anyway. He is undoubtedly engrossed in his newspaper. But ‘better to be safe than sorry’, as her mother often says.

  The legal firm of Burfoot, Clarke and Small is only a five-minute walk from the gardens. Elizabeth has selected them after a number of discreet enquiries. The firm occupies all three levels of Dalgety Chambers, a large brick building overlooking Victoria Park and a pleasant stretch of the Stratford River. They are met in the reception area by a middle-aged woman with a hawkish countenance who leads them down a panelled hallway to a lift. She silently accompanies them inside and pulls back the heavy metal grille. The cage rattles and judders up to the third floor.

  Mr Burfoot squats behind an enormous desk, his tailored belly jammed against the wood. As they enter the office he places two hands on the rosewood desktop and with a deep grunt thrusts himself laboriously to his feet. The room reeks of cigar smoke and human flatulence and Elizabeth finds it difficult to decide which odour is the more offensive.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he rumbles. His voice is so deep that each word seems to echo within the cavity of his wide and fleshy mouth. Emerging from behind the desk, the lawyer offers Lucky his hand. ‘Ah yes, Mr Blackwell, welcome. It is good to see you again. It has been several years since we last met, before the war, I believe. A dinner party at the McKellar-Smiths’ home.’

  ‘I don’t remember you at all,’ says Lucky.

  Mr Burfoot blinks his small pale eyes. ‘Quite right. It’s refreshingly honest of you to say so. I myself don’t remember half the people I’ve met.’

  Elizabeth’s hand disappears completely inside the lawyer’s grasp. His skin is dry and soft. ‘I am Mrs Elizabeth Whitman, Mr Blackwell’s private nurse.’

  ‘I see. It is nice to meet you, Mrs Whitman. Please, won’t you both take a seat.’

  Mr Burfoot retreats back behind his desk. He sinks with a sigh into his leather chair, which gives a surprised squeak.

  ‘Now, what can I do for you both?’

  Elizabeth tells a version of Lucky’s story.

  Mr Burfoot is a good listener. Only occasionally does he speak, and even then he simply repeats one word: ‘truly?’ It is clear, however, from the growing emphasis that he puts on this single word, combined with the way in which he leans forward as the story unfolds, pressing his girth towards Elizabeth as much as the meeting of the desk and his belly will allow, that his interest is piqued.

  When Elizabeth can think of nothing further to add she sits back in her chair.

  ‘Truly?’

  Mr Burfoot’s final utterance is a loud full stop to her tale and for a moment there is silence in the office. A tram can be heard rattling along the street below. The lawyer’s head turns slowly on his shoulders (seemingly without the aid of anything resembling a neck) so that he is now staring at Lucky.

  ‘Let me be quite clear about this. You say that you have absolutely no memory of your former life? None whatsoever? You don’t remember your childhood, your parents, your home or even your own wife?’

  Lucky nods solemnly. ‘That’s right. I remember none of those things.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Mr Burfoot emits a loud grunt of astonishment. ‘How extraordinary. May I inspect your wound?’

  Without waiting for an answer, the lawyer once more comes out from behind his desk and with surprisingly deft fingers parts Lucky’s hair. Leaning in, he peers at the scar. The white latticework left by the stiches is plain to see, and a lump the size of a shilling where the bone has been replaced by steel.

  ‘May I touch it?’

  ‘All right.’

  Lucky feels the light caress of the man’s corpulent finger.

  ‘Extraordinary.’ Mr Burfoot steps back and Lucky unconsciously rearranges his hair. ‘And just to clarify, it is solely because you have no memory that your wife intends to have you institutionalised?’

  Elizabeth interrupts. ‘His behaviour was quite erratic when he first came home but he was confused and anxious.’

  ‘As you would be if you didn’t remember a thing and people kept on insisting that you must remember,’ says Mr Burfoot.

  ‘Exactly.’ Elizabeth smiles gratefully.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Well, it is undeniably a fascinating case. In fact, it is undoubtedly unique. One minute, please.’

  Now that Mr Burfoot’s interest is aroused the lawyer’s whole demeanour has changed. He moves almost swiftly across the room and throws open the door. His secretary, sitting at her desk in the outer office, looks up in surprise.

  ‘Miss Sellers, I want you to go to the first-floor library. I need all the case notes relating to grounds for involuntary committal to a mental institution.’

  ‘A mental institution?’ she repeats.

  ‘That’s right, everything you can find from here and the United Kingdom. I will also require the relevant statutes. Well, don’t just sit there with your mouth open, I need them immediately.’

  When the woman does not leap to her feet, Mr Burfoot grunts. ‘I’ll come and help you find them myself.’ He turns back to Lucky and Elizabeth. ‘Make yourselves at home. Someone will bring you a cup of tea if you ask.’

  And then he is gone, huffing down the corridor lik
e a steam train in a tunnel, Miss Sellers trailing behind him.

  Elizabeth closes the door. ‘I like him.’

  ‘How long will this take?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait. Not long, I hope.’

  There is a grandfather clock in the office that loudly ticks away the minutes. Elizabeth opens a window to expel some of the fug from the room, then sits down again. She fiddles anxiously with the edge of the chair. It has been forty minutes since they left the museum. Martin Templeton will probably check on them when their allotted hour expires. She will have to think up a plausible lie as to why they have left the museum.

  It is another twenty minutes before Mr Burfoot returns, balancing a stack of half a dozen leather-bound books, which he awkwardly deposits on his desk.

  ‘I’ve got Miss Sellers and two of the juniors looking for other cases that might be relevant, but here are a few things to be going on with. I doubt we’ll ever find a case that’s exactly the same, but there are bound to be some broadly similar precedents in case law.’

  ‘Are there many families who try to have someone committed?’ asks Elizabeth.

  ‘Oh yes. It is remarkable how many families are keen to institutionalise at least one of their members. I myself have an older sister who would be a lot less bothersome if she were in a lunatic asylum.’ He opens the largest of the books and turns to a page marked with a strip of paper. ‘Here is the relevant act: the Mental Deficiency Act of 1913. As it stands, the law is quite simple. Your wife can certainly have you institutionalised on grounds of diminished mental responsibility as long’ — and at this point he reads from the book — ‘as three suitably qualified and independent medical professionals of good character unanimously agree on a diagnosis of significantly diminished responsibility attributable to a recognised mental illness.’ He replaces the book on the desk. ‘The signature of a justice of the peace is also required, however I imagine that is merely a formality in a case like this. So there you have it.’