The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

His usually crisp, camp voice was soft. ‘I think he’s saying goodbye to her in his own way.’

  Jinks wanted to go to her father then, wanted to feel his arms around her, but instead she stared at him through the dusty window.

  The car pulled up outside Mr Postlethwaite’s barn, which also served as a morgue. The elderly bearers, in their black morning coats and toppers, carried the coffin to the equally elderly hearse. As they pushed the coffin in, their feet slid on the icy ground. Mr Postlethwaite murmured to the men that they were going to have a hell of a job getting up the hill, it was hard enough just to stand up straight.

  Allard was squashed in between Jinks and Edward in the back of the hired Rolls. Nodding wisely, he said to Edward, ‘It’ll never make it up that hill, any money on it?’

  The procession moved off, following the hearse, which seemed bowed beneath the weight of Alex and Barbara Barkley’s ‘floral tribute’, an enormous display of white lilies. Edward and Allard couldn’t help but smile. The hearse’s gears began to grind . . .

  ‘What did I tell you, it’s in trouble,’ Allard crowed. Jinks gave him a cold stare to shut him up.

  Halfway up the hill, the hearse came to a halt and slowly slid backwards until it bumped into the Rolls. Edward started to laugh, and Allard, his hands over his face, tried desperately not to join in. Their chauffeur reversed frantically, then grabbed the handbrake, but the Rolls rolled on and struck the following car, containing the vicar and three of his parishioners, whose faces looked terrified as they slithered downhill . . . The parishioners screamed in unison, like three little balding birds . . .

  Three times the hearse attempted the hill, only to slide back. Coats were removed and laid under the back wheels, much to the chagrin of Mr Postlethwaite, whose best tails would bear the tyre imprints forever after. But the hearse steadfastly refused to climb the hill. Allard was now laughing openly, and Edward was wiping away tears of mirth.

  Jinks, who had tried so hard not to find humour in the situation, biting her lip until it bled, finally caved in. Edward smiled through his tears, ‘That’s it, sweetheart, you know Harry’s engineered this whole thing – she’s up there roaring with laughter. Can’t you hear her?’

  Indeed, Harriet would have split her sides if she had seen her last journey, the coffin tied eventually to the roof-rack of Mr Postlethwaite’s new Morris Minor. The hilarity of the journey was echoed halfway through the delayed funeral service when a wedding party arrived. The vicar took their advent as a cue to speed up the service. The poor organist, his frozen fingers struggling with the keyboard, pumped the bellows desperately for the rendering of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’. He was mortified when his precious organ began to emit what could only be described as a deep, resonant fart.

  The bride and groom stood aghast as the coffin was carried from the church, followed by mourners in a state verging on hysteria. Allard, beside himself, had to lean on the door to get his breath, declaring loudly that it was better than any revue he had ever seen.

  By this time the hearse had made it to the top of the hill, and Harriet was driven more sedately on the last leg of her journey to the crematorium. In the confusion between wedding and funeral, someone had tied a silver horseshoe to the coffin. It trailed behind, but no one laughed. They were all very quiet, subdued, and the bouncing horseshoe somehow reminded them that they would never hear Harriet’s wonderful laugh again.

  That night they drank more brandy than they should have, sitting in the freezing Hall. They all needed sustenance, and the vicar had to be helped home as he had already overindulged at the wedding reception. Jinks took the opportunity to excuse herself when he departed, and went up to her room. She had only just closed the door when her father knocked.

  He was wearing his wolfskin coat, and carried the ashes in a small urn. He had tied the horseshoe to it.

  ‘I wondered if you would like to say goodbye to her? I’m going to the chapel, and I’d like it if you came – would you?’

  They walked apart to begin with, Edward carrying the ashes under his arm. Twice Jinks stumbled, and in the end he tucked her arm in his. He knew the way, never stopping once, and he guided her to ensure the branches didn’t slap her face.

  ‘Okay, we’re here . . . You all right?’

  She nodded, and he pushed the door open. Jinks hung back slightly as he moved further into the dark, broken-down chapel. He bent down and brushed the dead leaves from the small stone slab.

  Jinks whispered, ‘She carved his name, she told me all about him.’

  He looked up at her and smiled gently. She could see his eyes were brimming with tears. Sitting back on his heels he opened the urn, held the contents in his hand. He trickled the soft ashes between his fingers, spreading them over his dead son’s grave, then rubbed them until they were part of the stone, part of the scratched name, ‘Freedom’.

  Jinks walked slowly to her father and stood behind him. He turned, wrapping his arms around her, and cried like a child in his own child’s embrace. He broke her heart as he said her mother’s name over and over . . . said it so softly, with such tenderness, that she knew he still loved her.

  Jinks and Edward travelled back to London together on the fast morning train. He sat opposite her, and when she looked up from her book she found him scrutinizing her. ‘You know, without those bloody glasses you’d be a smasher. Do you have to wear them? Take the damned things off and let’s have a look at you.’

  Jinks would not meet his eyes as he removed her spectacles. ‘Shouldn’t this be in a movie? “Good God, Miss Jones, you’re beautiful . . . ”’ She smiled at her own joke, but he saw the way she avoided his gaze, the embarrassed flush spreading up her cheeks.

  ‘Untie your hair.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, please don’t, people will start looking.’

  ‘I don’t care – it’s about time someone took you in hand. It’s all right, don’t look so startled, I’m not saying it should be me. But you know,’ he said reassuringly, ‘you look terrible . . . Your mother never had much dress sense, but one time she came back from Paris and my God did she look a cracker . . . hair, outfits . . . You got a boyfriend?’

  ‘No I haven’t, and please give me my glasses . . .’

  Edward held them away from her and peered through the lenses, then back at his daughter. ‘Are you long- or shortsighted? Contact lenses would be better than these. Here, don’t get all panic-stricken, put them on, go back into hiding.’

  She put them on and looked around quickly to see if any of the passengers had noticed. Then she gazed out of the window and whispered, ‘Got rather a long nose, and if that wasn’t bad enough I’m cross-eyed, my left eye . . .’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Look at my finger . . . Come on, look at my finger and I’ll tell you if you’re bloody cross-eyed or not – that was your mother . . . My God.’

  ‘See, I told you.’

  ‘No . . . you don’t understand – Miss Jones, you are beautiful – you are beautiful!’

  Jinks laughed, and he loved the deep, throaty sound of it. She put her hands up to cover her face . . . She needed to be cared for, given confidence in herself. Suddenly he knew who could do it . . . His daughter looked plain, dowdy, but with the right help she could make the best of herself . . .

  Barbara replaced the telephone receiver and tapped it with her perfectly manicured nails. Edward had rarely, if ever, called her over the years. He had said little about why he had suddenly contacted her, just that his daughter needed her help. They would be driving past her house on the way to Greenwich, and Barbara could think of no reason to refuse. Jinks, on the other hand, had been furious with her father.

  ‘What? Auntie Barbara? I’m not going! How could you, you know Mother detested her.’

  ‘You don’t have to like the woman, for Chrissakes, just use her. She knows just about everyone, and she’s got great style.’

  Jinks was waiting for her father outside the station as the
car was brought up from the parking bay.

  ‘Barbara’s brought up two daughters of her own, and she has contacts. You’ll like her, once you get over her duchess act.’

  Jinks sat moodily at his side. ‘She was always foul to Mother, didn’t even come to her funeral, and now I’m supposed to go round and see her. Well, I won’t. I don’t need her, I don’t need anybody.’

  ‘No? Grow up, sweetheart. You look like a frump, and you could do with someone to give you a hand. Don’t think because you’ve got brains life is going to be an easy ride.’

  ‘Oh, I see! It’s a bit late, isn’t it?’

  Edward braked sharply to a stop and turned towards the glowering, petulant girl. ‘Maybe I am too late for you to care about what I think or feel, but it’s not too late for you to make the best of yourself. Stop behaving like a spoiled brat, a stinking rich kid! You want to get out? Well? Yes or no?’

  She turned away from him, shrugging her shoulders. Edward restarted the Rolls and it surged forward. She had one hell of a stubborn streak in her, and he could see the way she clenched her hands as she fought to control her temper. He reached over to pull her closer, but she resisted, and in the end they continued their journey to Mayfair in silence.

  Barbara was waiting for them in the small drawing room. She looked as immaculate as ever, and viewed Jinks with a critical, almost professional, scrutiny.

  ‘Dear God, you should have brought her to me before. My darling girl, don’t you realize what most women would give to have a figure like yours? Clothes, darling, are designed for you – not that I could recommend the ones you have on, but with those long legs you’ll be a dream to dress. Have you ever been to the Paris collections?’

  Jinks wouldn’t look at Barbara. She mumbled that she had been to Paris with her school; then, suddenly, she tossed her head back and squinted at Barbara through her glasses. ‘Besides, I’ll be going to university, not frightfully interested in Paris, or clothes.’

  ‘Yes, darling, I can see that.’ Barbara cocked her head to one side, then flicked a half-smile to Edward. ‘God, she’s like her mother . . . which university?’

  Proudly, Edward told her that Jinks had gained coveted places at both Oxford and Cambridge. Barbara lit a cigarette, not impressed in the slightest. She let the smoke drift from her nostrils, still looking Jinks up and down.

  ‘Ghastly places . . . why the hell don’t you go to Vassar? At least you’d be out of this freezing country. English universities breed excellent, horsey frumps. If Evelyn had won a place I’d be over the moon, but females . . . No, no, I don’t think you should go, darling. Big world out there – what do you want to do with your life? Bury it?’

  Jinks blushed, tucking her size nine feet beneath her chair. She gave her father a helpless look, wanting to leave. Barbara took a large diary from her desk drawer and thumbed through it, making murmuring noises, then snapped it shut.

  ‘I can start Thursday week, taking you around London, just to get a few outfits to travel to Paris in. I’m going anyway, I always go for the collections, and Jinks can travel with me. Darling, those glasses – why on earth don’t you wear contact lenses? You’ll regret it later in life – you’ll get an awful mark across your nose and red lines under your eyes. If you’ll be here at nine, I like to start early to avoid the crush of unwashed humanity. Edward, I’ll call you with our itinerary, because I like to have everything arranged. It’ll be expensive, but worth it.’

  She rang a little gold bell on her desk, a signal that they were leaving. Edward picked up his coat and laughed. ‘Thanks, duchess, I appreciate this and so does Jinks. She’ll be here, and you call me or Miss Henderson for anything you need.’

  In truth, Barbara did behave as if she was royalty, enjoying herself, almost flaunting herself in front of Edward. He shook her hand as they left, and Jinks said a polite ‘thank you’.

  As the butler closed the front door Jinks snorted, ‘Oh, God, what does she think she’s playing at? And the voice? She’s coming on stronger than the Queen Mother.’

  Edward held the car door open for his daughter and tapped her on the nose. ‘Like I said, sweetheart, use her. She’ll have every designer in Paris fighting to dress you.’

  The Rolls surged into the Park Lane traffic. Jinks remained silent, chewing her nails, a habit she had picked up from her mother, and Edward pulled her hand from her mouth.

  ‘Don’t bite your nails. Your mother always chewed hers, bad habit.’

  But Jinks paid no attention, thinking over what Barbara had said. ‘What do you know of Vassar? My going there? Only, I was actually thinking about it myself . . . Maybe I should look into it before making a decision. The important thing is, is what they have on offer better than I could get from Oxford or Cambridge? Education-wise, I doubt it very much.’

  ‘That’s my girl. We can be on the first plane to New York if that’s what you want.’

  ‘What? And miss my shopping spree with her ladyship? No need to rush things. I’ll get Miss Henderson to contact them, send me the details. I just want to get one thing straight, though – I’ve no intention of becoming some glorified debutante for you or Barbara. It’s an out-of-date farce now anyway. But maybe I should travel, think seriously about Vassar. You think it would be a good training ground? I’m not really interested in the trappings of the English colleges.’

  ‘All depends on what you want to do, sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh, I know exactly what I want to do – go into business.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Anything particular?’

  ‘Well, banking, of course – didn’t Mother tell you?’

  Edward turned his head sharply. For a moment he thought she was joking. She wasn’t – she gave him a direct look, then turned to gaze at the traffic. She smiled. ‘One day I’ll be taking over the Barkley Company, won’t I? Stands to reason I should know what I am doing.’

  He said nothing, concentrating on his driving. The thought had never entered his head that his daughter would consider entering the family business.

  As if she was reading his mind, she said softly, ‘You didn’t expect me to want to, did you? I suppose it would be different if I was your son. If I was your son I would automatically presume I was going to work in the company. Evelyn . . .’ She turned and stared at him, and he kept his eyes on the road, wondering how much she knew.

  ‘What about Evelyn?’

  ‘I was just thinking . . . he’s in France, so if I go to Paris with his mother I will no doubt meet up with him. Did you know Uncle Alex sent him there? About the only place that would take him, so I hear.’

  ‘And where did you hear all this?’

  ‘Miss Henderson, of course. She and I are just like that.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘She’s always taken care of me. She never forgets my birthday, she never forgets.’

  Edward found her directness, her quietness, unsettling. He realized that, though his daughter might be gauche, there was a strength in her, an edge he hadn’t bargained for and didn’t quite understand.

  ‘So you’ll go to Paris with Barbara, will you?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and then took off her glasses, polishing them with her fingers. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it. As you said, use her – I don’t have to like her, or her son.’

  ‘What do you think of Evelyn?’

  Her reply almost caused him to run into the car in front of them. ‘Oh, him . . . he reminds me of a gypsy. Unfortunately, he behaves like one. He was expelled for stealing – pitiful when you consider the opportunities he has. Oh! Would you drop me at the corner? I think I’ll go and see some friends. Dewint’s packing all my bags for me. There’s not a lot I want from the manor, anyway. I’m moving in with two girls, it’s all arranged.’

  Edward pulled the car over and she immediately reached into the back seat for her overnight case. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I thought we could have dinner tonight?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve a previous engag
ement. Another time, maybe.’

  He withdrew his hand as the car door swung open. She slammed it shut, then tapped on the window. ‘If I decide I’m interested in Vassar, could we go to New York?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.’

  She strode off without saying goodbye. He had been wrong in thinking his daughter was nervous – there was an arrogance to her, a mannish quality. She was so tall, taller than most of the men she passed in the street. He realized he had no idea who her friends were, or where she was going. He sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel . . . There was so much that he didn’t know about his daughter, and it was strange, because he didn’t feel a great deal of affection for her at that precise moment. If anything, she reminded him of Allard . . . He slapped the wheel. ‘Christ, that’s it, that’s who she’s like – bloody Allard.’

  Suddenly he felt old and tired, and he swung the car back into the traffic, heading for Victoria. He spent ages trapped in the rush hour, and by the time he reached Greenwich he was in a foul temper.

  Dewint greeted him with brimming eyes, and for one moment Edward wondered what on earth was wrong with him. Then he realized it was only a few days since the funeral. Dewint asked if his flowers had arrived, and Edward said they were the best there, everyone had remarked on them. In actual fact he had no recollection of them. Heavy-hearted, he walked up the stairs to his room, pausing as the full realization struck him. She would never be coming home, he would never see her again. He felt helpless.

  ‘You know, we would never have been divorced? I loved that crazy lady – I loved her, Norman, you know that?’

  ‘I know you did, sah. I’ll bring up some nice home-made soup.’

  Edward loosened his tie and looked around. The place was in need of redecoration, it was tired like himself. The few family photographs around his dressing-table mirror caught his eye. One was of Evelyn that Christmas when he had arrived on their doorstep. It was the last time the house had felt lived in. He picked up the snapshot and lay on his bed, looked at the cheeky grin that stretched from ear to ear . . . He muttered to himself, he should never have let him go, never let him leave the house that night. He stared at the picture until his hand flopped to his side. Evelyn belonged to him, he was his son . . . He sat up, slammed his fist against his other palm. ‘I’m going to get him back, I’m going to bring my son home.’