The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  Evelyne had to fight to keep herself from weeping openly. Alex had changed, she hardly recognized him. His broken nose had healed crooked, and his hair was combed back from his forehead, the blond curls flattened with grease. The two warders stopped at the door of the visiting-room and Alex walked forward. He put his hand out to her and one of the warders motioned him back. Evelyne was shocked at the coarseness in his voice when he turned on the warder. ‘I just wanna hold ’er ’and, fer Chrissakes.’

  Evelyne withdrew her hand sharply. She was afraid to ask what he had been up to while on the run. He had not made contact with her, and now he sat there like a stranger. She couldn’t speak, and began to wonder if all the terrible things she had been told about him were true.

  Alex’s bravado began to slip. She was so frail, so helpless, and her desperate, pleading eyes made him want to weep. His voice was softer. ‘I love you, Ma, I love you . . . Don’t worry about me. Don’t come to court – fings’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

  Their time was up, and the warders led him out. He didn’t look back, he didn’t have to, he could hear her sobbing. Alone in his cell he felt full of remorse, and he vowed he would make it up to her, somehow.

  The lawyer Evelyne had hired for Alex came to visit him. Alex told him exactly why he had attacked Taylor, and watched him write copious notes. He listened to everything Alex told him, and spoke reassuringly. He would see what he could do.

  Alex did not see Evelyne as he was led into court. She sat alone in the gallery, hands tightly clasped. The lawyer had told her that, under the circumstances, he felt sure Alex would be sent to a borstal for young offenders. He chose his words carefully as he explained her son’s reason for running away from Oakwood Hall, and told her a full statement had been handed to the court and the education authorities.

  Alex’s case was heard in fifteen minutes flat. The judge, known for his harshness, dismissed the lawyer’s plea for Alex to be returned to reform school. He sentenced Alex to four years in Wormwood Scrubs, one of the country’s toughest prisons, which had a section for hardened juvenile offenders.

  The judge’s voice grated in Alex’s ears. He clenched his hands violently. So much for that sweet-talking bastard lawyer, so much for justice. As he was led down from the dock, he knew his mother was there, and he stared frantically around the courtroom as the warders pulled at his handcuffs to drag him out. He caught sight of her in the gallery and forced a smile, looking up at her . . . But all his cocksure manner had gone, he was just a boy and very frightened. ‘Mum! Mum!’

  They hauled him out, but she could still hear him calling for her, his terrible screams, and she could do nothing. She was still sitting in the gallery an hour later when one of the clerks told her gently that she would have to leave, the court session was over.

  Chapter Two

  If Edward Stubbs felt any remorse for the murder of his father, he never showed it. Even immediately after the killing all he had felt was relief, that Alex had agreed to say that he’d done it.

  He adapted quickly to his new life, putting the past behind him, including his brother. He refused to think about Alex, and was capable of behaving as if he had never existed.

  Edward walked out of the local Post Office in Cambridge and paused, frowning. He had miscalculated and was running very low on funds, lower than he had anticipated. He sighed as he put his Post Office book away, wondering if he could touch his mother for a few more shillings a week. He was on such a tight budget he hardly ever had so much as a spare penny in his pocket. Evelyne had calculated the costs of his gown, his books, all his accessories, down to the last penny, and he could see no way round the situation. He shifted his weighty books on to his other hip and worked it out in his mind. If he left the hall of residence, moved into digs, it would be cheaper. Then he could get a bike so he could ride to college and that would save his bus fares.

  The sun was shining, it was a beautiful clear day, and here in Cambridge there was little sign of the continuing war, apart from the odd pile of sandbags propped around the doorways of the colleges. Edward walked to the river bank and sat down, going over his money once again. His mother had certainly got him living on a shoestring, and it annoyed him. He had his meals in hall, which was cheaper than eating out, but it meant his social life was a void. He couldn’t really join the crowd in the pubs in case he got stuck for a round, that could wipe him out for a whole week. No one else was really aware of Edward’s financial situation, no one really cared, they put him down to being a bit of a loner. His thick cockney accent amused some of them, but it set him apart from the jet-setters.

  He had tried hard to be part of the crowd, even rubbing his new grey trousers so that they looked worn, scuffing his shoes and rolling his gown in the road so it didn’t look so shiny and new. Most of the students wore baggy cord trousers with white cricketing sweaters, their shirt collars undone and ties hanging loose on their chests, ready to be tightened up fast if they saw their tutors. Edward only had an old, grey sweater Freda had knitted for him, and he wanted a white Cambridge one and dark green cord trousers, wanted them so much and was so frustrated – he couldn’t even afford an extra pint of beer after classes.

  The first months had been the hardest, as he had had to adjust to his new life. He found his background such a hindrance that he quickly covered it up as much as possible. All his books had been second-hand, and those he couldn’t afford he borrowed from the university library, like all the students who couldn’t buy their own. Edward was well aware that many students were in a similar financial position, but they were not of the same class. There were very few working-class boys, most of them were middle or upper class, and he was therefore an oddity, knew it and hated it.

  During his first few days he had overheard one of the students talking outside his window. ‘Thing is, according to my old man, never make friends in the first term, means you are stuck with them for the rest of your time here. You can get some frightful bores, you know, dreadful fellows, but first-termers are so nervous and desperate for pals that they latch on to quite the wrong sort of chap. I never spoke to anyone in my first term, jolly glad too.’

  Edward said ‘jolly glad too’ to himself, using a high-pitched, plummy voice. He took what the idiot had said to heart, and during his first term he watched, listened, and worked like hell. He was reading geology, and his tutors were helpful. He was learning fast, and he didn’t want to appear vulnerable to the other students.

  His tutor, Professor Huston, detected Edward’s discomfort with his own background from the word go. He tried to assure Edward that, contrary to being ashamed of his roots, he should be proud. However, his advice fell on deaf ears, and he watched with interest as Edward kept himself to himself. He could not help but notice that the boy was gradually losing his accent.

  The process was by no means easy. Night after night Edward sat in front of his mirror, practising the vowels over and over again, gradually interspersing his conversation with ‘Oh, I say’, ‘Jolly good man’ and ‘Whizz-o’. He had no idea that his attempts at aping the upper classes were mimicked and ridiculed by the rest of the students in his tutorials. He was the source of many a night’s entertainment as they copied his broad cockney voice and followed it with ‘Oh, holly hood, old bean.’

  Edward had walked all the way across Cambridge to look at his new lodgings. He was very dispirited that they were in a large, Victorian house where the rest of the rooms were let to travelling salesmen, chefs and domestics from the colleges.

  All students ‘living in’ bought any furnishings and fittings left by the previous tenant. Edward’s room contained nothing but a small bed, a chair and a desk. The previous occupant did not even bother to ask for payment. Edward brought nothing other than his books to his room. He hung no posters on the walls, it was as bare as the day he moved in. He reckoned that even with his scholarship he needed at least forty-five pounds a term, and that was cutting it fine. He hadn’t joined any clubs or organizations, h
e didn’t take part in any of the sporting events. He had never played rugby at his school, only football, and he had never been keen on cricket so he didn’t bother with sports at all. He made careful notes in his book, initial expenses, university fees, college fees, board and lodging, personal expenses, and a few possible additions. His mother had bought his cap and gown, had it made up by a Jewish tailor in the East End, and had also bought him two shirts and two pairs of trousers. He hated everything he wore. He wanted a sports jacket in brown, the fashionable colour that year, but all he had was an old black jacket of his father’s and a raincoat.

  He lay back on the river bank and closed his eyes. He was free for the afternoon, he had no lectures until the following morning. The sound of someone sobbing made him sit up and look around. He couldn’t see anyone, but the sound continued and he got to his feet and searched around, eventually finding a pair of green cord trousers sticking out from beneath some bushes.

  ‘You okay? Hello . . . you okay?’

  The trousers wriggled and the bushes parted, and he recognized the chap from lectures, but realized he had no idea of his name. He was small-boned, with delicate features and big, china-blue eyes, red-rimmed from weeping. The boy blushed at being caught. ‘Oh God, I didn’t think anyone would be around here.’ He spoke with a very refined, upper-class accent, and took a small, crumpled linen handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose. This seemed only to start his crying all over again, and he flopped back into the bushes. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’ve had dreadful news, I can’t cope at all.’

  Unsure what to do with the boy, Edward hovered by the bushes.

  ‘I’ll be all right in a while, really, it’s just . . . Oh God! This is so embarrassing.’ He wiped his eyes and sniffed, but for all his apologizing he seemed quite unconcerned at being caught weeping, hidden in the bushes. ‘I say, do I know you? Think I’ve seen you around, haven’t I?’

  Edward sat down beside him and introduced himself, and the boy held out a slender, delicate white hand and shook Edward’s big paw. ‘I’m Charles Collins, everyone calls me Charlie. You’re the frightfully keen chap, aren’t you? Where do you hide yourself, you never go to the clubs.’ He sighed again and stared into the river, picked up a stick and began ripping little twigs off it, throwing them into the water. ‘Just got the old telegram, my brother missing in action, they don’t hold out much hope of finding him, judging by Ma’s letter. Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m going to start again.’

  Much to his surprise, Edward found himself putting an arm around the boy’s shaking shoulders. Charlie was easy to be with, and so unembarrassed by his sobs.

  ‘Have you been up before the conscription board?’

  ‘I’m on the waiting list along with everyone else. Frightful, isn’t it, putting me dreadfully behind with my study programme. Mind you, what’s the point if they’re going to tog you up in the old khaki, what?’

  Edward realized that Charlie, even though he didn’t look it, must be a couple of years older than himself.

  ‘All my pals are on tenterhooks, absolute tenterhooks, I mean, they’re whisking them off willy-nilly, clutching their rifles, poor souls. I say, do you know Edgar Willard? Well, he went before the board four months ago, got such jolly good marks in everything that they told him to stand by for officer training. Anyway, the adjutant told him he could be called up but he was to take his exams, it’s not on . . . I say, you don’t know Henry Fullerton, do you? He’s waited so long that his plans have been changed goodness knows how many times now. He lives from day to day, lecture to lecture, very firm believer in kismet. Fabulous fellow, nothing worries him, he says he’s resigned to whatever happens, whether it’s Aldershot, the Tripos, the Maginot Line or, worst of all, his college bills.’

  Edward listened, fascinated. He had never heard of any of Charlie’s friends, but Charlie seemed not in the slightest bit interested in whether he had or not, keeping up such a fast, steady flow of chatter that Edward’s brain reeled.

  They walked along the river bank, but Edward had to go back to retrieve Charlie’s jacket from the bushes. He noticed it was of very fine quality, like the rest of Charlie’s clothes. Charlie chattered on and threw sticks into the water, and then he started to cry again because he suddenly remembered his brother, Clarence, and threw his arms around Edward.

  ‘Actually, that is only part of my troubles, one of many, dear chap. You see, I have been so preoccupied with all this war effort that my studies have taken a turn for the worse, and my tutor really hauled me over the coals last Monday. I’m not even going to take the exams, they don’t think I’m up to it. Father will have a fit, not that it would be anything new, he’s been having them since the day I was born. It’s Ma that’s my real trouble, she’ll throw such a tantrum . . . You see, she adored Clarence, and with him gone all her bloody-mindedness will be directed at me. God, what am I going to do?’

  They had walked all the way back into town along the river bank, and Charlie had not stopped talking for one moment. As they passed people they all called out his name, everyone seemed to know him, and the gatekeeper laughed and made a joke as they entered the gate to the hall of residence.

  ‘You want to have some tea, Edgar, you’ve taken such good care of me? Do come along, I’m top floor, number eighteen, say about four-fifteen? Super . . . cheerio.’

  Edward hadn’t liked to point out that Charlie had got his name wrong, and he was in no hurry to go up to number eighteen for tea. He went to the main hall for his tea instead, and then regretted it when he saw Walter Miller approaching him. The boy wore such thick glasses that he looked Chinese, and he suffered from appalling acne. He had latched on to Edward almost from their first lecture. Walter was extremely clever, working diligently all the time, and when he wasn’t studying he went to the pictures. He sat down and asked Edward if he had seen the new W. C. Fields comedy at the local picture house. In his broad Lancashire accent he told Edward all about the film. ‘It’s very funny, Eddie, he’s got such a bucolic humour he has you splittin’ yer sides, lot better than that ruddy Gunga Din at the Rex.’

  Edward hated to be called Eddie, and loathed the way Walter latched on to him. Walter loaded jam on to his bread and made slurping noises as he ate. He talked about wanting to see The Return of the Scarlet Pimpernel, it was part of a double feature at the Cosmopolitan. Edward listened with only half an ear to Walter’s theory that Hitler had ordered Leslie Howard’s plane shot down because, in his portrayal of the Scarlet Pimpernel, there was a definite insult to the Third Reich. Walter squinted as Edward suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘You want to come, I’ll pay for you, Eddie, I don’t mind, really I don’t.’

  Edward looked for a moment as if he would hit Walter, then he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall. He was angry because he had used Walter a few times, used him because he couldn’t afford to go to the pictures, and now he regretted it. Walter only hung around him all the more.

  Edward made his way to number eighteen, even though he told himself he didn’t want to bother with fools like Charlie. The door was ajar, and music thudded out from a gramophone, but he thought he could hear Charlie’s high-pitched sobbing and gasping despite the music. When Edward pushed the door open it was his turn to gasp. Even though it was light outside, the blackout curtains had been drawn, not only across the windows but also from the ceiling, making the room look like a tent. There were candles on every available surface, and on a long monk’s refectory table were massive, dripping silver candlesticks holding huge, gothic monastery-type candles. The table top was a sea of wax.

  Tears were running down Charlie’s cheeks, but he wasn’t crying, he was helpless with laughter and surrounded by a group of very pissed friends. He waved to Edward and shouted to everyone to welcome ‘Edgar’, then continued with his story, laughing so hard himself that it made everyone around him laugh, even though they didn’t know why.

  Edward slipped into the room and sat to one side, picked up a silver gobl
et and poured himself some wine. He had never seen such an untidy room, there were clothes strewn everywhere, books and papers tumbled on the floor, all over the unmade bed. An old gentleman pottered around trying to empty ashtrays and wipe the debris of toasted teacakes, wine and jam from the table and every other flat surface. Charlie held everyone in rapt attention as he acted out his date the previous day with Gloria, from the local ladies’ lingerie shop, pulling hysterically funny faces as he did so.

  ‘When I asked for a pair of knickers she replied, “What size?” and I, looking her over very carefully of course, as you all know is my way, I said, “Your size will do, my darling,” and she wrapped them up and I made the grand gesture and said, “My dear, they are for you, on condition that we have a date.”’

  Charlie went into such peals of laughter that he fell across the table. He took another gulp of wine, filled his goblet again and swung his arm, spraying everyone close to him with red drops. ‘No, wait for the punch line, chaps . . . Later that night, back at her flat – have I told you how well stacked she was? My dears, a good thirty-eight C cup if ever I’ve had my hands round . . . Anyway, when I stripped her she was wearing the damned things, still had the price on them, and I have to say that was the best fifteen-and-sixpence I have ever spent.’ He swung back in his chair as everyone hooted with laughter and thumped the table with glee.

  Everyone wanted to get their stories in about who had done what to whom, and in the rowdy room no one noticed Edward beating a hasty retreat. As he left, Charlie was launching into a detailed description of how he was working his way through all the counters in Woolworth’s. He was now past the cosmetics and on the record section. ‘I aim, before the term is out, chaps, to have had every single woman in Woolies.’

  Edward returned to his rooms and lay on the bed. He found their tales of sexual prowess faintly ridiculous. He had not seen one woman in Cambridge he would bother to speak to, let alone have sex with. Not that he had been inundated with offers – far from it.