The Talisman (83 page)

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 engagement. 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.’

‘Soup, sah,’ said Dewint, carrying the loaded tray, and found the photograph thrust beneath his nose.

‘This is my son, my son, and I’m going to bring him home . . .’

Edward rushed from the room, knocking the tray from Dewint’s trembling hands. As it crashed on the floor, he heard Edward’s shout and the awful, thundering sound as he fell headlong down the stairs.

Dewint managed to get him on to the sofa in the lounge before he blacked out. He was streaming blood from a head wound, and the panic-stricken Dewint rushed to phone the doctor. When he got back, Edward was white as a sheet, and lay absolutely motionless.

The doctor wanted Edward to go into hospital for a check-up, but he refused. He did, however, agree to remain in bed for a few days. But he never got as far as his bedroom, preferring to lie on the sofa in front of the fire. He stared into the flames for hours on end, or at the photograph of Evelyn, which was always in his hand.

Although Dewint did his best to keep him from drinking, he started again. He tried to get Edward to eat, but met with nothing but abuse. He did allow Dewint to keep the fire built up, but would accept nothing else from him. In the end Dewint just brought trays every mealtime and left them on a side table. They were always there, untouched, when he returned.

He just did not know what to do. Edward had been drinking steadily for four days, and never left the room except to go to the bathroom. Then he would shamble straight back into the lounge. It was obvious to the old man that Edward was very sick. His eyes were sunken, he was unshaven, and bottles were strewn about the room. Late one night Dewint heard the familiar sound of rock ’n’ roll music, the same record over and over again, until he hid his head under the pillow trying to block out the repetitious racket.

The music pounded through the house while Edward desperately sought oblivion. The more he drank, the more his mind reeled. Voices called to him, his head ached continuously. He sweated, his face dripping, so he threw open the french windows. No sooner had he done that than he felt chilled to the bone. Shivering with fever, his teeth chattering, he slammed the window shut and stoked the fire until it blazed, then wrapped a blanket around himself. The heat began to sweep over him again, so he rested his head on the cold, wet windowpane.

Gazing at the river, he saw a fire had been lit by the jetty at the end of the long, tangled garden. Vague, shadowy shapes huddled around it, hands held out to the flames. He was about to scream at them to get off his land when one of them started to sing. The words were distorted by the echo from the river, but soft, as though the singer sang only for himself. The song ripped through Edward’s drunken mind . . .

He pressed his face against the cold, damp window and began to sing the words, dredging them from his past. In the red glow of the flames, the singer turned towards him and smiled. Edward was rigid with fear as the man rose to his feet, still singing softly, but now looking at Edward. The man was Freedom.

‘Come on, Eddie, don’t be afeared, boy. Gimme yer hand, make a Romany of thee.’

Involuntarily, Edward made to move from the window, but pressed close again as he saw a small, naked child walk through the overgrown garden. The child lifted both arms to Freedom, and Edward knew he was watching himself. In slow motion, shimmering in the fireglow, he watched Freedom lift the boy and carry him to the flames . . . The voice whispered close; he could feel the warmth of the man’s breath as he whispered over and over, telling him not to be afraid. A knife glinted and the child’s eyes widened; he sobbed in fear, but Freedom was holding him safely, holding him with those deep black eyes, with gentleness, with such love it was overwhelming . . .

‘Give me thy hand . . .’

The child held up his right hand, and Edward pressed his own flat against the window, wincing with pain as the knife cut clean down his thumb. A single, bright red tear of blood dripped down the child’s hand, and Freedom knelt before him, licking at the blood . . . then turned and spat into the fire. The flames rose higher and the coals burned brighter . . .

Edward backed further and further from the brightness beyond the window, moving away from the memory, away from the sight of his father – moving away from the memory of himself as a boy, the long-forgotten memory of his initiation into the Romany clan. He didn’t want to see any more.

The song started up again and repeated, over and over:

Edward was crazy with fear. Turning to run from the room he was caught by his own image in the mirror – but it wasn’t his own face staring back at him, it was the face of his father. He screamed, ‘Get away from me! Go away!’ But still Freedom’s face remained, and then the tears flowed down his cheeks, terrible, streaming tears. Edward closed his eyes to shut out the face of his father, but it remained as clear if not clearer than the image in the mirror. The tears continued dripping down the high, carved cheeks, falling on to naked shoulders while the eyes stared wide, unblinking.

Edward’s chest heaved as the deeply buried memories surfaced, exploded, and he remembered killing his father, remembered every fragmented second . . .

Once more he was screaming with rage. He was seventeen years old, shouting and punching out at Freedom, screeching that he was going to Cambridge, no one would hold him back – no failure, no has-been boxer, no pitiful loser like Freedom could stop him . . .

Freedom began to undo the thick leather belt from his waist. Now Alex was there, little Alex weeping for them to stop, crying to them not to fight.