As if by Magic Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘is absolutely wonderful. My word, I wish I’d known you lived in London. I’ve had the most ghastly time.’
    Jack sat back in the armchair once more and stirred his coffee. ‘Why did you come here?’ he asked curiously. ‘I know how you came to be in hospital, of course, but what brought you to London?’
    â€˜It was the legacy,’ said George. He looked at Jack’s enquiring face. ‘It’s a long story.’
    â€˜I love long stories,’ said Jack cheerfully. ‘Especially when they’ve got legacies in them. Go on.’ George hesitated and Jack reached for a cigarette. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened to you after the war?’ he prompted. ‘Did you go home? Back to South Africa?’
    George hesitated once more and Jack could see him trying to think of the right words. ‘I did go back,’ he said eventually. ‘I’d been longing to go back but I don’t know . . .’ He paused. ‘I tried to get into the routine of the farm once more but after the war and flying and so on, it all seemed so dull. My mother had died while I’d been away and although my father was pleased to see me, I’d changed. He couldn’t really understand what life had been like in France, Jack, or in the prisoner-of-war camp, and when I thought of what I’d been through, none of that ordinary stuff seemed worth bothering with any more. I couldn’t settle.’
    Jack nodded. ‘You weren’t alone in that feeling.’
    George looked up. ‘Wasn’t I? I don’t know. I didn’t fit in any more. It was as simple as that. It might have been different if I’d had brothers and sisters but there was just me and my father. To be fair to him, I think he was ill. Anyway, he died a few months after I got back and then there really wasn’t anything to keep me on the farm any longer. I sold up and headed north. I did a few things after that, including running a seaplane, a Short 184, along Lake Nyasa with a couple of pals. That was tremendously good fun while it lasted but the plane got damaged in a storm and we couldn’t fix it. I lost a good bit of the money from the farm on that plane. Then I picked up a nasty dose of malaria and ended up back at the Cape. I tried all sorts of things – tourist guide, the railways, overseer at the diamond fields – and finally ended up taking parties to hunt big game. I got as far as Matabeleland. It was all going well when I came down with malaria again. I was looked after by the White Fathers on a mission station near Tulali.’ He took another drink of coffee. ‘And that, in a roundabout way, is what brought me to London. They had a stack of old newspapers. I was flicking through them one day when I saw my own name in a paper dated December 1921.’
    Jack leaned forward. ‘Your name?’
    â€˜Yes. It was an advertisement which said that if George Lassiter, late of my old address, and thought to be resident in South Africa, would apply to Marchbolt, Lawson and Marchbolt, solicitors of London – it gave the address – I would hear of something to my advantage. You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather.’
    â€˜I can imagine. And this was your legacy, was it?’
    â€˜Yes, it was, but I’m afraid it didn’t come off as I’d hoped.’ George took a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully. ‘I wrote to the solicitors and when their reply came, I was thunderstruck. It stated that the legacy – it was a legacy – had been paid in February 1922 to Mr George Lassiter and virtually accused me of attempted fraud.’
    â€˜Good grief,’ said Jack, sitting up. ‘What did you do?’
    â€˜I was furious. The solicitors had quoted the address of the farm in the advert and used my name and I thought someone had calmly stepped in and swindled me out of what was rightfully mine.’
    â€˜But