The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘How old are you?’ Edward asked her. He took her to be about seventeen.

  Harriet looked at him and told him to mind his own business, and if he didn’t shut up she would belt him one in his smarmy face. Allard stood in the doorway and laughed. He turned to Edward and told him he had permission to sock his sister at any time. ‘She’s fourteen and a half, and I would say by the time she reaches eligibility she will be so tall no man will be able to look her in the face.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you. What time are we leaving in the morning? Does Mother know you’ve got someone else coming? She’ll hit the roof, you know. We’ve got bloody BB and Auntie Sylvia . . .’

  Allard dragged her out by the scruff of her neck. Edward could hear them bickering and Harriet’s boisterous laughs and squeals as Allard threatened to leave her behind.

  The threesome left for King’s Cross the following morning, brother and sister still apparently at loggerheads. At the station, Harriet disappeared, to Allard’s fury, but soon came bouncing back with a large sandwich. She wore what looked like a pair of Allard’s old trousers, tied up with string, and her grubby school shirt. Her overcoat belonged, Edward presumed, to someone considerably larger. The sleeves flapped and the hem dangled around her ankles. Allard was no better dressed, wearing the same clothes as he had the previous day, but more crumpled. They each carried battered, dog-eared suitcases, and they marched around the station demanding to know from porters which platform the York train went from.

  At last they were settled in a first-class compartment, and Allard sorted out who owed what for the tickets. Edward began to think he should have taken up one of his other invitations as he ended up forking out fifteen shillings. He was running low on funds, and sat, tight-lipped, gazing out of the window. The journey was not without delays – lines up, faulty signals – and Allard began to get restless, pacing up and down the corridor.

  Edward had a moment’s peace when Harriet departed to the Ladies’. He wondered what Mrs Simpson looked like, and smiled, thinking it could be useful if she suffered from the Lady Primrose syndrome.

  ‘Next stop, get the cases,’ said Allard. ‘Christ, where is she now? Well, we’ll get off and leave her on the train, serves her right.’

  Edward looked at the sign on the station platform – Thirsk. So this was Yorkshire. Not that he had much time to take in the scenery as Allard steamed along the platform with Harriet bounding in front of him. A black, highly polished Bentley was waiting outside the station and a chauffeur, cap in hand, sprang to attention. He took their cases, stacking them in the open boot.

  ‘Gosh, you look good, Fred, très smart . . . Come on, Edward, get in.’

  In fact, on closer inspection, Fred was rather frayed around the edges. His uniform was ill fitting and his florid complexion went well with his broad northern accent. ‘My, yer growin’ oop, Miss H, we’ll have yer out an’ int’ saddle in no time. Yon boy’s grown oop an’ all, got a coat that’s better’nt’ polish ont’ motor . . . Reet, we all settled? Then let’s be getting on.’

  Fred put on his chauffeur’s hat, which was so large that he was in danger of being blinded by the peak. That was not the only danger, however; Fred’s driving was a wonder to behold. The grinding of gears, the revving and the hopalong jerks gave them all a bumpy ride. Allard sighed. ‘I say, Fred old chap, the motor does have two more gears, you know.’

  Harriet, sitting next to Edward, chortled, ‘He’s never going to make it up the hill – it’s three in one, he’ll never do it.’

  They could see the village of Helmsley, snuggled in a dip, with its cobbled village square. They passed over a bridge, through the village and out into open countryside. They drove for an hour and a half before turning in at the gates of Haverley Hall. There was a small lodge to one side, and Fred gave a loud toot on the horn as the car jolted up the drive.

  Haverley Hall had seen better days, but it was obvious it had been magnificent at one time. The Georgian Hall was vast, white stucco fronted and surrounded by rather dilapidated stables and outhouses. The gardens were overgrown and the orchard ran wild, but the overall impression was that the Hall was held in suspension – very much in need of repair, but still standing proud.

  As the Bentley drew up with another crash of gears, a bulldog hurtled out of the open front door. Harriet clambered out and ran towards the enormously fat dog. ‘Buster, Buster . . . Hello, my darling . . . Come and say hello.’

  Allard opened the boot to take out the cases and the huge animal wobbled around them, snuffling and barking. He had no tail and his bottom wagged from side to side.

  ‘I wouldn’t go too near him, Edward. He’s not vicious, but his farts are deadly.’

  A woman emerged from the Hall as Allard spoke. ‘I heard that, Allard. It appears Cambridge has done nothing for your command of the English language.’

  Mrs Simpson was an imposing, hawk-faced woman with iron-grey hair and steely blue eyes, far from the Lady Primrose type. She wore a tweed skirt and heavy brogues, and was very tall with a harsh, loud, upper-crust voice. She stared at Edward and then turned, nonplussed, to Allard.

  ‘Edward, this is my mother. He’s staying with us for the vac, Ma. Pop inside, is he?’

  Mrs Simpson fixed her steely gaze on Edward and told him crisply that he was most welcome, then she turned on her heel and followed Allard into the Hall.

  Harriet yanked at her case, telling Fred not to bother taking them inside, but to get her horse saddled up. She grinned at Edward and told him to follow her. The interior of the Hall was vast, with a predictably run-down feel to it. Everywhere the eye fell, there were antiques and paintings, while a profusion of wellington boots and riding boots littered the floor. Edward stood abandoned, not knowing where Harriet had disappeared to, and couldn’t help overhearing Mrs Simpson’s voice somewhere behind him.

  ‘You might at least have warned us. There is a war on, you know, and we’re bursting at the seams as it is. Daddy won’t be pleased.’

  The wide sweeping staircase had numerous portrait paintings. None very special or very old, however one was rather amusing of a judge in wig and robes. Someone, no doubt Harriet, had drawn a black fly on the end of his nose. As far as Edward could see there were endless rooms. A chandelier with hundreds of crystal drops, a few having dropped off completely, was suspended from the centre of the remote ceiling far above him. As Edward looked up, Harriet’s head appeared from the landing above. ‘Come on up. Do you want to know which room Mother’s given you? Ma . . . Ma, which room is Edward in? Ma?’

  Mrs Simpson came into the hall. ‘Harriet, please don’t shout, how many times do I have to tell you? Now – Edward, isn’t it? Get Harriet to show you to the room on the top floor, then it will be time for dinner. Usually we’re very casual . . . Oh, there you are, darling. This is a young friend of Allard’s who’s staying for the hols.’

  Judge Simpson walked into the hall, carrying a shotgun. He tossed his cap towards the hat stand, missing it by several feet. He was stout and muscular, but a few inches shorter than his wife. He had grey hair and a stern, strong face. Edward felt as if he was being scrutinized from head to toe.

  ‘Well, welcome aboard . . . Any hope of a cup of tea?’ The Judge strode into a room on the other side of the hall and closed the door behind him. Allard could be heard somewhere, speaking on the telephone, and still Edward stood, not knowing where he should go, feeling very much the uninvited guest.

  ‘Ma . . . there’s no sheets on my bed.’ Harriet’s voice echoed down the stairwell, and Mrs Simpson sighed, then forced a smile.

  ‘You’d better go up, Edward. I’ll see to that wretched child later. I have to get the other rooms ready.’

  Beginning to get angry, Edward picked up his case. He thought to himself that he was being shoved in the bloody nursery again. But far from being a nursery, Edward’s room was enormous. The four-poster was canopied and draped in dark-navy velvet. The room smelt of mildew, but it was, or had once been, very ornate. />
  Harriet appeared, her arms full of sheets and blankets. ‘Come on, I’ll help you make up your bed. Sorry about this, but you’ll get used to it.’

  As they removed the counterpane, Edward couldn’t help but notice the clouds of dust. The linen sheets were clean, though, and with Harriet’s help he made up the bed. She flopped down on it, lying flat out. ‘Right, I’ll give you a few tips. If you want a hot bath, be sure to get up early, otherwise you’ll never get one. Don’t use the lavatory on this floor because it doesn’t flush. Use the one on the second floor . . . Do you ride? We’ve got five horses – three hunters and two geldings. Dreadful thing to do to anyone, isn’t it? I always think they shouldn’t do it. Have you ever seen a stallion’s donger?’

  Edward started unpacking, opening a Jacobean chest of drawers lined with yellowing newspapers and reeking of mothballs.

  ‘Only, if you don’t ride,’ Harriet continued, ‘you’ll find it ever so boring here. How tall are you?’

  Edward laughed, and Harriet cocked her head to one side.

  ‘Do you always ask questions and then not wait for an answer?’

  She chortled, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s habit. No one here ever listens to anyone else. Where are you from?’

  Edward pointed to the front of her trousers. ‘Your flies are undone.’

  She looked down and, without any shame, buttoned up her old, baggy trousers. Edward finished unpacking and stood in front of the dressing table, combing his hair. Harriet hovered behind him, standing first on one leg, then the other. ‘You look a bit foreign – you know, like an Italian.’

  Edward smiled at her through the mirror. She looked like a boy, but she was sucking her thumb. ‘You’ll get buck teeth,’ he told her.

  Harriet blushed and quickly withdrew her thumb from her mouth. She marched to the door, all skinny arms and legs. ‘I’m going for a ride, do you want to come with me?’

  Allard appeared and interrupted, ‘No, he doesn’t. Go on, hop it, pest, and stop hanging around Edward. Go on.’ He shoved his sister out, then closed the door. ‘Listen, I’m just going to shoot off for a while. It’s a coincidence, really – do you know Henry Blackwell? Well, he is staying with friends a couple of miles away. I’m just going to trot over for a drink, might ask him over. Won’t be long – see you later.’

  Edward sat on the bed, the smell of dusty curtains in his nostrils. He swung his fist and punched one. He knew Allard was using him to cover up his so-called friendship with Lord Henry. He muttered angrily, ‘I’ve got to get out of this dump . . .’

  When the gong for dinner rang with a strange, clanging sound, ending with a clatter as it fell off its stand, Edward heard Harriet yelling down the stairwell that she would be two minutes. Edward checked his appearance in the mirror and went down to dine with the Simpson family.

  Later the doorbell rang, and they could hear the thunder of Buster’s paws along the hall as he raced to the front door. They heard the butler shouting to the person outside to push hard on the door as the dog was on guard.

  ‘We expecting anyone, dearest?’ Mrs Simpson asked her husband.

  Allard jumped to his feet and told his mother that it would be Henry. As he rushed to the door he turned to Edward. ‘We’ll all go and gate-crash a few parties.’

  Henry appeared at the door in his evening dress and waved to Mrs Simpson. A rather chinless young man, Robert D’Arcy, waited as Allard, behind him, booted Buster up the bum. ‘Go on, get out of it. Come on Robert, Edward. Let’s get going.’

  Harriet, not included in the invitation, paid not the slightest attention to anyone. She sat curled up on the sofa, reading Horse and Hound.

  Although Edward didn’t have much inclination to ‘party’, he departed with the three boys. They were in high spirits. Allard drove the Bentley, and they went on a round of gate-crashing, except that there was a shortage of young, eligible men, so they were made welcome wherever they went. At first, Edward was very much on the outside, not knowing any of the people, but in one night he got a clear idea of the English social scene. He was half amused, now able to assess the social strata of the Simpson family. They were really upper-middle-class social climbers, with as many aspirations as Edward. He now saw the other side of the country set in a series of parties in ever more splendid homes. The smell of money, old money, was intoxicating, and he took it all in. In those few hours he met more titles than he had in his entire time at Cambridge.

  Edward was accepted as part of the group. He looked right, spoke well, and his costume fitted the play. He started to relax. Being by far the most handsome of the four young men, he was soon the centre of attention. He was no fool, and knew not to make the first move himself. Accepting Allard’s invitation had not, it was now clear, been a mistake. Somewhere among this horde of society people he would find one to act as a rung to help him climb onwards and upwards. But he had plenty of time, he would only make his move when he was sure he had made the right connection – one with money. The debutantes twittered and giggled around him, flattering him and making advances. He charmed them, smiling shyly. If they had known what thoughts were running through his mind, they would have blushed.

  As he listened and laughed on cue, he amused himself by making each girl believe he was enamoured of her. When he danced he held his partner just that little bit closer than was entirely polite, and he knew he had them creaming their little silk drawers. Nor did he stop with the debs. He made himself equally charming to their parents. He asked them seemingly innocent questions, wanting to be very sure precisely who they were.

  He had no thought of marriage, nothing could have been further from his mind. He wanted finance, connections. His intention was to make enough money by the end of the holiday to see him through his final term. He was introduced to mothers, and was astute enough to create just the right air of formality. The invitations flooded in. Everyone agreed Henry’s friend from Cambridge was adorable.

  Allard watched Edward ‘work the room’ and nudged Henry and Robert slyly. ‘He’s going to be a great asset this vac, very useful, wouldn’t you say? I reckon we’ll be invited to every “do” in Yorkshire.’

  Robert disappeared, and Allard and Henry departed together, making it obvious to Edward that they didn’t want him along. He was assured of a lift back to the Hall, so it took little persuasion for him to stay. Indeed, he had no intention of leaving, the ground was too thick with rich pickings.

  It was after midnight when Edward was finally driven home by Lady Summercorn, her two daughters flanking him in the back of the car. She was swathed in mink, an attractive woman in her late forties. She gave him dazzling smiles in the rearview mirror, and when they reached the Hall she turned to him, resting her arm on the back of the driving seat. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of you. Please do call.’ As she handed Edward a card he noted the square diamond solitaire ring, and the veiled look in her eyes. The Lady Primrose syndrome again – he had received several of these ‘come hither’ looks during the evening. These women were more rampant than ever, due to the number of absentee husbands who had gone off to war.

  Edward watched the Rolls-Royce glide away as he placed Lady Summercorn’s card carefully in his wallet. He now had seven cards and two scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them, all of which had been discreetly slipped into his pocket.

  Harriet heard the tiny stones rattle against her window and leapt out of bed. Looking down into the garden, she waved, then tiptoed downstairs to let Edward in. She put a finger to her lips and whispered so loudly he thought she would wake everyone in the house. ‘Don’t make a sound or Buster will head straight for the front door.’

  They crept to her bedroom, and Edward trod on a teddy bear that squeaked, causing Harriet to titter and put her hands over her mouth. ‘Have you been having it away, like Allard?’

  Edward looked back at her, standing there in her child’s nightie, and grinned. ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Oh, tell me what you’ve been doing,
go on. It’s only fair, I’ve let you in.’

  Edward tapped her snub nose and whispered that he had been screwing the knickers off a tart. Harriet stared, round-eyed, then crept to his side. ‘Did you pay for it? How much did she cost?’

  He pinched her and pulled her chin towards him, looking down into her outrageously cheeky face. ‘She gave it me for free because I have such a big cock, bigger than Allard’s.’

  Harriet mimed a faint, her face lit up with glee. She would have liked to keep him there, but he had already slipped out of the room. She flung her tall body on to the bed, her thick red curls covering her flushed face. ‘I wish he’d stick it in me,’ she whispered. Then she giggled so much she had to put the pillow over her head to muffle the noise, and in her imagination it turned into Edward, and she hugged it close to her. ‘I love you, Edward, I do – I really love you.’

  Alex had been in training, working daily with the sports master. He had been accepted as a candidate for the Inter-Counties Cross-Country race – no easy accomplishment. Many people were against allowing a borstal boy to run in the competition. On his back rode the reputation of the borstal and, above all, the trust placed in him to mix with the other runners, the chance to run freely in open country with easy access to public transport.

  Alex had also continued his studies, showing remarkable progress considering the pressure he was under. He had changed radically, from a shy, introverted boy into an outgoing, well-liked lad. He was popular, a hero to the other borstal boys. He was proud of his new status and took care of his new-found image. He was an example to the younger boys, showing them it was possible to succeed even within the boundaries of a reform school.

  On the morning of the race, Alex was up at five o’clock, tingling with excitement. The sports master found him in the gym, working out at a gentle pace. ‘It’s cold, and there’s a frost. Ground’ll be hard going, could be snow later, it’s forecast. How you feeling, lad?’