The Talisman (12 page)

He began to burn from the heat of the sun, so he returned to his room. He had a long bath, then changed for dinner. He was always a little wary of going to the drawing room before the dinner gong sounded, as he felt such an intruder.

At last the gong boomed, and Edward made his way downstairs. He was starving from his walk and his swim. Charlie thumped him one from behind as he moved down the stairs. He was in full evening dress, a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. ‘Just out for the evening, you don’t mind. Oh, Ma, Ma . . . the Henleys want you to call them, I said you’d see them at their fête.’

Edward hung back slightly as Lady Primrose stood at the open doors waving Charlie off, calling to him to enjoy himself. Edward stood in the hall, uncertain what to do.

‘Well dear, it’s just you and me. God knows what Mrs Forbes has come up with tonight . . . now, I insist you sit in the throne, David won’t be down. Do help yourself to wine . . .’

‘Thank you, er . . . where’s Charlie gone, Lady Primrose?’

Lips puckered, she picked at the dreadful mess on her plate, then jabbed at it with her fork. ‘Oh, he’ll be with Lorna . . . they’ve come for a few weeks, all staying at the Waverleys’ . . . Humphrey, what on earth is this? It’s like dead frog.’

Edward ate in silence while she chattered away, hardly touching her food, but the wine decanter was refilled by Humphrey and they both drank liberally. ‘She’s such a darling, awfully pretty gel, poor darling child was so in love with Clarry.’

Edward found it difficult to follow her train of thought. When she mentioned her dead son she stared into space. ‘Lorna is so patient. Charlie’s supposed to be engaged to her, you know, but he won’t name the date. This is dreadful, I can’t eat another mouthful. Why don’t we have some coffee in the drawing room . . . come along.’

Edward, still hungry enough to eat anything and light-headed from having consumed nearly a bottle of wine by himself, dutifully followed her into the drawing room. She offered him brandy and he accepted. He had never had it before and found it a harsh, burning liquid, but he liked it, it relaxed him. He even accepted the proffered cigar.

The fire blazed, the room was hot and stuffy, and the brandy and cigar made Edward feel a little dizzy, but he liked the feeling. He asked Primrose if she would mind if he loosened his tie, and she laughed, crossed over to him and, with one deft finger, unhooked the tie, then loosened his collar. He averted his face, ashamed. Lady Primrose misconstrued his look. He was certainly a very handsome young man, much better-looking than any of the other students Charlie had landed her with. ‘Shall we play some music, sort out something from that pile of records over there – not that other stack, they were Clarence’s.’

She watched him standing over the record-player. He hadn’t refused, hadn’t made an excuse to go to his room. Perhaps he rather liked her. She leaned back and sighed, that would be nice, to have a young man in love with her. She lolled against the cushions and closed her eyes in what she thought was a provocative pose.

Edward had no idea what record was what, and he looked through them at a loss. He chose one at random, placing it on the turntable and winding the handle energetically. ‘The Moonlight Serenade’ drifted out, slightly cracked and at a rather slow tempo as he had not wound the phonograph up properly.

‘I’ve had a disastrous afternoon.’

Edward wound the handle. ‘Pardon?’

‘Shall I tell you something, something naughty? I have been having an affair with Lord Carlton for more years than I care to remember. It’s not as shocking as it sounds, his wife knows, she’s known for about as long . . . she just turns a blind eye. But it’s no good when it’s sort of accepted, is it?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

She laughed, held out her glass. ‘Be a sweet boy and give me a refill, would you, make it a large one. Thank you, sweetie.’

Edward took her glass to the cabinet and filled it, took it back to her and turned the phonograph off as he went. He handed her the glass.

‘Well, chin chin, aren’t you going to join me . . . oh do! Go on, help yourself.’

Edward shrugged and refilled his glass.

‘He’s impotent, well, he has been for the past four months . . . I put it down – haw, haw, haw! That was a slip of the tongue – his factory, or his wife’s factory, is being closed down, not many people are really all that interested in toffee when there’s a war on . . . Come and sit beside me.’

Edward moved closer, but did not sit beside her. He sipped his brandy and stared into the fire. He felt Primrose’s hand touch his head, stroking his hair.

‘You’re very quiet, what are you thinking about?’

‘Oh Christ,’ he thought, ‘she’s making a play for me.’ Aloud, he said, ‘I think I’ll go up and do some work, do you mind?’

‘I’ve got a super record somewhere, better than that creepy slow stuff, we’ll have something bright and lively.’ Her whole body broke into a flush as she looked at him. He was so tall, so lean, and his hair coal black. It had grown longer over the summer and it suited him. He was quite the most beautiful boy she had ever seen in her life. There was a quality to him that she found so overtly sexual, even on their first meeting she had noticed it – a strange, animal quality, the way he moved, so guarded, so watchful, his eyes brooding.

Edward turned as she laughed. ‘I was just talking to myself, in my mind, thinking what a handsome boy you are. My thoughts were like those cheap penny-dreadfuls; “animal quality”, you know the sort of thing, “He paced the room like a wild beast, his broad shoulders, his dark, handsome looks.”’

When he looked at her, she couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking, and she didn’t care if it did sound like a cheap novel, his eyes were as unfathomable as . . . somewhere, somewhere she had seen eyes like these before, perhaps in the picture house, some long-forgotten film . . . she got up and went to the gramophone. Edward watched her tossing records about, and downed his drink. He shouldn’t have mixed them. ‘I don’t dance, and I’m a bit drunk, actually, I really think I should go up to my room.’

‘I’ll teach you, this is a tango, come on, up you get, on to those long legs of yours.’ Lady Primrose began to dance, and she swayed across the room as the music crackled from the old gramophone. She was still slim, still able to move like a young girl, and she began to tango. She tugged a shawl from the table, almost overturning the bowl of flowers. ‘Come on, dance with me, dance, hold your arms up, that’s it. Now stamp your feet, as if you were a bullfighter . . . wonderful, da-da, darumrum-rum da . . . da rumpupup daaa.’

Suddenly she threw herself into his arms and clung to him. The sunburn on his back was painful, and he tried to push her away, but she hung on. ‘Please, oh please don’t push me from you, hold me, hold me tight.’

The record stuck, but she didn’t seem to hear it. She hid her face in his shoulder and ran her hands up his arms, murmuring, moaning, ‘You have such a body, such a body, so firm, so young, make love to me, please, please make love to me.’

Primrose grabbed the decanter and pulled him by the hand towards the door. She was drunk and she knew it, but she wanted him, wanted him naked beside her.

Edward allowed himself to be dragged up the stairs, along the corridor and up to his nursery room, where she shut the door and pressed her back against it. She drank from the decanter itself, then swung it in her hand. Edward took off his jacket and hung it neatly on the small child’s chair.

He looked at her through the mirror, her face flushed, and in the dark he could make believe she was young, or youngish, but as she stepped out of her dress he had to turn away, disgusted. She was Charlie’s mother, for God’s sake.

She lay on the bed and held out her arms to him, begging him now, pleading, and it sickened him. He picked up the decanter and took a heavy swig, feeling the brandy hit the back of his throat, then he stood by the bed, looking down at her, and found her pitiful as she writhed in front of him.

‘I have no money, I need money, I don’t have a cent with me, not a penny, Lady Primrose.’

She stared at him, suddenly cold. She pulled the sheet around her naked body, ashamed, and turned her back on him. He slowly rubbed her shoulder, softly, gently.

‘How much do you want?’

‘God,’ she thought, ‘was that my voice, asking how much?’

Edward began to unbutton his shirt, pulling it out of his pants, and he smiled down at her, bent to kiss the side of her head.

‘Ten pounds, I want ten pounds.’

Primrose lay back in his arms and sighed. He had been worth every penny, and she kissed him. The fact that she was paying for it somehow heightened her enjoyment. He looked down into her face, patted her bottom and said that was all she was getting for a tenner. She laughed, searched around for her underwear, and as she gathered it up in her arms she bent over him, over the small bed, to kiss him goodnight. The childish, scrawled writing of her dead son confronted her, and she blushed with shame.

The next few weeks Edward rarely saw Charlie. He was always driving off to visit ‘friends’, seldom back until the early hours, sometimes not appearing at all. Edward spent his days working, walking and practising swimming. The evening began to take on a pattern; if Lady Primrose was home, she invariably came to his room, often the worse for drink, and always clutching her ten-pound note.

One night, Charlie arrived home unexpectedly. Edward and Lady Primrose were in the small child’s bed when they heard him calling. Lady Primrose hastily wrapped her dressing gown around her and was just reaching the door when Charlie burst in. ‘Oh, hello, darling, I just brought poor Edward an aspirin, he’s not feeling at all well . . .’

Edward lay on the bed, naked apart from a sheet draped over him. He had tanned to a dark brown from his sunbathing, and Charlie was quick to take in the situation. He lolled at the door. ‘Just thought you should know, Ma, I’ve sort of said we’ll throw a dance before I go back up . . .’

Lady Primrose covered her embarrassment fast, clapping her hands with delight and telling Charlie it was a wonderful idea. She then beat a hasty retreat. Charlie remained at the open bedroom door. ‘You got a cigarette, old chap?’

Edward sat up, reached for his trousers and tossed a packet of Craven ‘A’ cigarettes to Charlie.

‘What was she doing up here? Trying to grope you?’ Charlie lit the cigarette, tossing the match aside. He had a smirk on his face. Edward shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘Too much study, old fella, not enough play . . .’

‘Look, Charlie, you owe me, you know. I could have got a job – you said ten bob a week. I’m not one of your fancy friends, I need the cash.’

Charlie wandered about the room, puffing at the cigarette. ‘I’ll pay, for Chrissakes . . .’

‘You should have done some work, you know. Emmott’ll haul you over the coals next term.’

‘I think it should be fancy dress. We’ve got loads of costumes up in the attic, should be great fun . . . You could wrap a few sheets around you, come as Rudy Valentino . . . You okay? What’s up?’

Edward broke out in a sweat. He could see himself, sitting at the kitchen table with Alex, his mother, and the scrapbook. Freedom’s face, the programmes, the boxing pictures. He could hear his mother laughing, ‘They used to say your Dad was the image of the film star, Rudolph Valentino . . . see, look at this picture. Look, Eddie, here’s another. This was in Miami . . .’

‘Eddie, you all right?’ Charlie moved closer to the bed and Edward shrank back from him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, nothing, just . . . You mind leaving me alone?’

Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and wandered out. Edward opened the window. He was panting, nausea swept over him. He couldn’t get the picture of his father out of his mind. He began to pace up and down the room, feeling the walls closing in on him. He dressed, crept downstairs and out into the garden. It was a clear summer night and he slowly began to shake the panic inside him. He sat on a bench, leaned back and closed his eyes.

‘Hello . . . I saw you out here. Did Charlie suspect anything?’

The last person he wanted to see was Lady Primrose, wrapped in her floating pink negligée. He sighed, gritted his teeth. She put her arms around his neck.

Standing up at an unlit window, overlooking the gardens, was David Collins. He could see his wife fawning over some fellow who, to his mind, looked like a bloody gypsy. He sipped his medicine, his mind as clouded as his drink, then turned away from the window, missing the sight of Edward pushing Lady Primrose roughly away.

‘Oh, you brute, that’s what you are, a brute . . . let’s go inside, I want you, darling, I want you.’

Edward gripped her arms and pushed her away again, making her stumble backwards. She began to be afraid of him. ‘Eddie, is something wrong, Eddie darling?’

He wanted to slap her over-made-up face, felt his hands clenching and unclenching. If she tried to hold him one more time, he didn’t think he would be able to control himself. ‘I don’t like being called Eddie. My name is Edward, for Chrissakes, Edward.’

Lady Primrose, with all the confidence she could muster, told him that she knew who he was, there was no need to be cruel.

‘You don’t know me, none of you know me. If you must know, you disgust me, disgust me as much as my own pitiful circumstances do. Now leave me alone.’

She made the mistake of putting her arms around him as he walked away from her. He turned and slapped her so hard with one hand that she fell on to the gravel path. ‘Get off me, you old hag, for God’s sake get away from me.’

She started to cry, her make-up running, begging him not to call her old. He had said she was beautiful, said she was beautiful . . .

‘I’ll say anything if I’m paid for it, darlin’, now get lost, hear me, fuck off.’ The cockney accent, so carefully disguised, burst out of him, and he walked away cursing himself for letting it slip. He wasn’t worried that he had struck her, hurt her, only angry that he had let his accent slip.

The fancy-dress dance never materialized. The following morning Edward found Charlie sitting at the breakfast table. He looked up with a glum smile as Edward joined him. ‘Look, old chap, I think we should beat a hasty retreat, get the hell out of here . . . About this cash I owe you – I feel really rotten about it so if you agree, there’s a whole load of stuff up in the attic. You sort through it, take what you want, sort of payment in kind. Then we’ll be on the road . . .’