The Talisman (80 page)

‘Then work for me, be my driver.’ Windsor said he would report for duty the following morning. He promised never to say a word about Alex. As Alex began to climb out of the car, he stopped and held Windsor’s shoulder for a moment in a tight grip, and Windsor touched his hand.

The cab stood at the kerb until the front door closed, then moved slowly off. Windsor whistled, he had played that very well. He would be all right now. Things would be all right from now on.

Alex couldn’t face the roomful of talking, laughing people so he gave Scargill the wink and went upstairs to his rooms. As he undressed, he wondered just how far he could really trust George. He soaped his body, he would have to tie George to him strongly, make sure he was well paid but knew his place.

He began to towel himself dry, and caught his reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. He stared, then wiped it clear, looked at himself. His eyes were red-rimmed, he was exhausted. How many more ghosts from the past could rear up and threaten him? No sooner did he make some headway than something or someone dragged him back. Holding the reins of the vast company was a mammoth task in itself, to be working day and night on trying to piece together Edward’s transactions was impossible, he covered his tracks so well . . . He still had no idea where his brother was.

‘Where the hell are you, Eddie; where?’ He was shocked at the desperation in his voice. He wanted to smash the mirror with his fist. He pressed his head against the cold glass, calming himself, but it seemed that every way he turned there was a wall, closing in on him, pushing him under, as if he were drowning. He breathed deeply, he had not felt this violent, so physically angry, since he had been in prison. As it was then, his fury was directed at his brother, at Edward, but it was impotent fury, because he could not discover where Edward had run to . . . unless . . . South Africa.

George Windsor was half asleep. It was six o’clock in the morning, and the last person he expected to call him was Alex Barkley.

‘George? It’s Alex. Sorry to get you up so early, but . . . I want to work out, the way we used to . . . get yourself over to the RAC Club in St James’s . . .’

George was overawed by the ‘gentlemen’s club’ with the marble swimming pool. But he had little time to take it all in as Alex was already dressed in a tracksuit waiting impatiently. ‘Right, put me through it, just the way you used to. I need to be fit, George . . . so let’s get cracking. We do this every morning, same time, okay?’

George set Alex a tough programme. The good life had put a lot of extra pounds on Alex, but he never said a word, pushing himself until it was George who had to tell him to take it easy or he’d give himself a heart attack. Alex laughed, he felt good, and George began to give him a massage just the way he used to, pummelling his body, his big strong hands oiling, rubbing him down. George looked into Alex’s face – it was an eerie feeling, so many years had passed. It was as though Alex knew what George was thinking. He opened his eyes, and his voice was soft. ‘I need a friend, George, don’t let me down.’

George turned him over and began to massage his shoulders. ‘Whenever you need me, I’ll be there, you can depend on me, son.’

Alex smiled, and the two old friends shook hands; then Alex pulled George close and held him for a moment.

Fifteen minutes later, Alex emerged from the changing room in an immaculate pin-striped suit, carrying his briefcase. He looked at his gold Rolex, and his voice was sharp. ‘Right, bring the car round, I can make a couple of calls here while I’m waiting.’

George watched Alex stride to the reception desk. He seemed a different person, but it took only a moment for George to size up the situation. Alone, they were friends, but in public George was no more than an employee . . . So be it, if that was what Alex wanted, that was the way George would play it, just as long as he was paid enough.

Harriet stood in the hall of the manor, her suitcase packed. Dewint gave her a small gift and she accepted it graciously.

‘Where will you go, Mrs Barkley?’

‘Oh, my brother Allard’s got to sell up the old Hall, so I shall be there for a while, you know, sorting through family things. Then perhaps I’ll buy a cottage up there. You must come and stay.’

‘Oh, I would like that immensely.’

‘Where is he? Do you know?’

Dewint couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’m afraid I don’t, I got a card from Mexico, and India, he travels . . . you know the way he is.’

She patted his arm. ‘Yes, yes I know . . . Well this is goodbye. Thank you for being here, for all the times you were so very kind to me. Oh, how are my lettuces?’

Dewint walked with her to the door, said it was the wrong time of year for lettuce but her garden was coming along fine. The cab driver took her case, and she gave a small, sad wave of her hand as Dewint shut the door. ‘Now don’t you cry, you silly old man, we’ll see each other again, go back in, you’ll catch cold.’

The cab went off down the overgrown driveway, and he stood on the stone steps until there was no possibility of catching another glimpse. She had not stayed long, and not taken very much, only a few clothes and a couple of ornaments she had made. Most of her time she had spent in the main bedroom, and he had not interrupted her. There had been no divorce – the papers were left unsigned, but it was very obvious there was no chance of a reconciliation. Edward had not been to see her once during her recovery – he had sent flowers, but they really came from Miss Henderson, and Harriet knew it.

Dewint made himself a cup of tea, and then took out his clean, well-pressed handkerchief and cried. The house was dying, neglected, unloved and silent. It broke his heart.

Harriet sat well back in the taxi, resting her head against the leather upholstery. She was fifty-four years old, her hair completely grey, and she had taken the scissors to it herself. She had gained more weight and was now almost rotund. But her eyes were bright as a child’s, sparkling when she passed familiar areas. She bought a ham and tomato sandwich at the railway station, munching as she wandered along to her compartment, looking for all the world like an ageing hippy.

Allard met her at the station, very disgruntled as the house sale was taking a very long time to arrange. He was as grey-haired as his sister, and wore a flamboyant bright silk scarf with a rose in his buttonhole. The rest of his garb was as crumpled and disarranged as usual.

Harriet looked him up and down. ‘You know, for a poof, you are quite the worst dresser I’ve ever come across . . . Aren’t you supposed to be dapper?’

‘Good God, look who’s talking! You’re not exactly straight off the cover of
Vogue
yourself, are you? And what on earth have you got all those rows of beads round your neck for?’

‘I made them, that’s why. We did it in therapy, and I might go into business, you know, a cottage industry sort of thing. See, each one is painted, hand painted.’

‘I think they’re ghastly. Oh Christ this fucking hill, the car’s only just going to make it.’

They chugged up the hill in Allard’s rotting MG and eventually made it to Haverley Hall. The place was as draughty and as cold as ever, and even more dusty than the manor house. Harriet looked up at the crumbling pile and sighed. ‘Ah well – home, sweet home.’

‘Not for long, the sooner we get shot of this place the better. Have you got any idea how much stuff we have got to sort through and sell? Where are you going? Aren’t you going to make us tea? Harry?’

‘I’ll just go to my room and unpack first . . .’

H
arriet put her suitcase on the small familiar bed. Even though it was cold, she opened her window and stared out towards the old stables, then across the fields to the woods.

‘I’m going for a walk.’

Allard stood at the bottom of the stairs hands on his hips. ‘But you’ve only just got here. I’ve not stopped for a minute, I’ve not had time to go for a walk.’

‘Oh shut up, you look like a demented lurcher.’

‘What?’

She marched to the front door. ‘It’s a cross between a greyhound and a wolfhound, very skinny, usually rather bald and with a very snipey nose.’

‘I know what a lurcher is, and it’s a damned sight preferable to a baby elephant.’

She went out wagging her finger. ‘I won’t forget that, Allard.’

She walked for miles along small winding lanes, the sounds of the crows screeching above her head. Three young girls on their ponies trotted by with their smart jodhpurs and black riding hats . . . memories of her childhood swept over her. The riders entered a field and began to canter; she closed her eyes to the sound of their hooves. Babba boom . . . babboom . . . she belonged here, her father had been right. As she made her way back to the Hall swishing a stick against the hedgerows, she wondered what her life would have been like if she had never met Edward, if he had never taken her away.

Allard was sitting in the kitchen by the fire. He held up an old family photograph album. ‘There’s some hysterical snaps of us. Remember that old Brownie camera Pa had . . .? There’s not one with an entire body in it. Great one of Buster, just his arse, rather fitting as his raspberries were about all he was good for . . .’

Allard continued snorting with laughter as he turned the pages. She put the kettle on and took one of the scones Allard had bought from the local bakery. She lathered butter over it, and with her mouth full leaned on his shoulders to look at the photographs.

‘Who’s that?’

Allard touched the faded black-and-white snapshot. ‘Fella called Charlie, your husband took over his rooms at Cambridge, he was killed at Dunkirk . . . Christ, here’s one of me in the Footlights’ revue. Well well, fancy the old man keeping that, I would have thought he’d have tossed it.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I’m in drag and you know what he was like . . .’

He snapped the book closed, his initial good humour gone. ‘Christ, he was a bastard even then.’

Before she could stop him he had thrown the book on to the fire.

‘Allard, you shouldn’t have done that . . . I would have liked to look through it. No matter what Pa said or did he never kept you short . . .’

Allard gave her a pinched, vicious look. ‘I was actually referring to Edward. He took more than Charlie’s rooms I can tell you . . .’

‘Why did you bring him home that Christmas?’

‘You know, I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe to use him as a cover for my flirtation with Henry . . . who knows, who cares, all in the past now . . . anyway you look at it he certainly trod through our lives. Family is littered with his wreckage . . .’

Allard went into the hall changing the subject, intent on sorting out all the furniture for the forthcoming auction.

Harriet gazed into the fire as the photographs charred into tiny black flecks.

Allard was pulling off the dust sheets from the dining-room chairs. He heard her going up the stairs and threw the sheets aside. ‘Harriet . . . are you going to help me or not? You haven’t done a thing, not a single thing since you arrived . . . Harry?’

She looked down to him, almost at the top of the stairs. ‘I am not wreckage, Allard. If I had the choice, I would choose him again . . . whatever place, whatever time, there could never be anyone else.’

Allard applauded. ‘When you get through playing
Gone With The Wind
, do you think you could come down here and give me a hand packing up?’

The gong from the first landing was thrown over the banisters. ‘How’s that for starters?’

Allard and Harriet had never got on all that well, even as children. Now they bickered over what they should do with tables, chairs and pictures. Allard kept one room filled with the things he wanted, and it was crammed to the rafters.

Harriet launched into a tirade. ‘How on earth are you going to fit all this junk into a cottage? You keep on grabbing everything from the “for sale” pile.’

‘I do not, I simply do not, I am preparing for my old age, and I intend to live it out in comfort, so mind your own bloody business. Some of this old stuff is worth a packet and we won’t get a good price from those local idiots.’

Jinks pushed open the front door. She could hear their voices arguing away but could not see them over the jumble of furniture piled almost to the ceiling. She called, ‘Mother? . . . Mother?’

‘We’re up here, darling – at last, someone who can act as referee. Helloooo, my lovely girl, how are you?’

‘Hello Mother, Uncle Allard – I’m wonderfully well, how are you two?’

Allard was covered in dust, his face grimy. ‘Bloody awful if you must know. Your mother is doing nothing but causing havoc here. I was doing perfectly well without her. I wish she’d never come.’

Harriet swiped at him with a duster. ‘Half of this is mine and I want to make sure my daughter gets her fair share. If you would excuse us, Allard, we are going into my room, for a private conversation.’

Allard muttered that he didn’t give a toss what they said about him and he watched Jinks pick her way up the stairs to reach her mother.

Jinks was no longer surprised by her mother’s appearance. She had not really changed, despite her grey hair sticking up on end and the beads clinking around her neck as she bustled along the landing. Jinks couldn’t help but smile as she slipped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘How are you?’

‘Well, it’s very difficult, you know. Allard’s really a little bit odd, he really is. And so finicky about what he eats. Come on, let’s have a good natter. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive for weeks.’

Harriet closed her bedroom door and moved to the bed, patting it for her daughter to sit beside her. Jinks felt a sudden surge of emotion, so strong she hugged Harriet tight, kissing the top of her head. ‘I love you Ma, I love you so.’

‘Oh, this isn’t like you, what are you being so soppy for? Now then, wait until you see what I’ve got and he – him downstairs – he knows nothing about. It’s our secret . . .’

Harriet opened a bag, tied up with string, and began to take out jewel cases, so many that in the end the bed was covered with them. Jinks reached over to open one and promptly had her hand slapped. ‘No . . . don’t you dare open one. There’s a story to each, and I want to sort them out so you can see them in order.’