The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  Edward still stood in the centre of the small, square dance floor. The music was so loud it was almost impossible to hold a conversation, so Harriet bellowed, ‘Do you mind, Pierre? Perhaps if I give him one dance he’ll leave us alone.’

  Pierre shrugged and went moodily back to their table. Their friends asked him about Edward – the papers had been full of his château and the party he had thrown. They all watched the couple on the dance floor with interest.

  Harriet danced around while he made pitiful efforts to mimic the strange movements of the other dancers. In the end he pulled her close to him.

  Close to him, feeling him against her, she couldn’t play any more games. He bent his head to talk to her, shouting above the music. ‘I want two minutes with you alone, two minutes.’

  Pierre watched them thread their way among the tables. He had seen the intimate way Edward had drawn Harriet into his arms, the way she leaned close. Whether she liked it or not, he would have it out with her that night. It was obvious she knew the intrepid Mr Barkley very well.

  Harriet and Edward walked along the sea front. He didn’t attempt to touch her – they kept about a foot apart. When they stopped, he laid his hands on the rail, and she did likewise. She was even taller than he remembered, and her body was taut, lithe . . . He could see the strength in her hands as they gripped the rail. Her curly red hair was cropped like a boy’s, and gave her an urchin quality, a tomboy look. He had her to himself, and he was dumbstruck. Not knowing how to begin, he inched his hand closer and closer to hers on the rail, until they touched. The contact helped him, but when he spoke, his voice sounded alien. ‘I love you, Harry, and I want to marry you. I love you.’

  He wanted desperately to hold her close, but she moved her hand away, and he could see her knuckles whiten as they tightened on the rail. She gazed at the sea as she spoke. ‘You know how many times I have dreamed of this moment, dreamed of you saying exactly that . . . I waited, you know, I waited for you . . .’

  He touched her cheek gently, a soft, stroking gesture. He felt her stiffen, turn her head away from him. He couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say to her. Pierre was at the entrance to the club, holding her wrap. He called out. ‘Harry . . . Harry . . . Harry!’

  ‘You are too late, Edward, leave me alone, please, go away from me.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper, but so cold, so unemotional he turned and walked away. He couldn’t help but look back, and Pierre was wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She remained staring out to sea.

  Edward ran along the dark beach, ran until he flopped exhausted on to the wet sand.

  Pierre had to prise Harriet’s hands away from the rail. He guided her to the car and drove her home in silence. When they pulled up outside the barn, she turned to him. In the dim light the tears sparkled on her cheeks.

  ‘I can’t marry you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re freezing – come on, I will make you a hot drink.’

  ‘No . . . I’ll stay with Daisy – it’s better that way. I’m sorry, please don’t ask me to explain.’

  ‘I think I deserve some explanation, for God’s sake. It’s him, isn’t it? Edward Barkley?’

  He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. She gave him a wobbly smile. ‘At least I saved you forking out the price of a ring.’

  ‘This is no time to joke, Harry. At least come inside and talk about it.’ But Pierre could not persuade her to leave the car. Eventually he slammed the door and walked into the barn.

  It was quite a while before he heard the engine revving, then the car roared off. He downed a large brandy in one gulp and hurled the glass at the wall. The next second he heard the screech of brakes outside. He ran to the door. ‘Harry? Harry?’

  Edward Barkley stood in the pitch dark, his Rolls-Royce parked precariously near to the edge of the open well.

  ‘I want to talk to her, let me talk to her.’

  ‘She’s not here . . .’

  ‘Don’t bloody lie to me . . .’

  Pierre shouted, but Edward charged him like a mad bull . . . disappearing down the well with a howl. Pierre peered down the deep hole. ‘I tried to warn you – I’ve a good mind to let you stay down there.’

  ‘Fucking hell, I think I’ve broken my nose.’

  Pierre examined Edward’s face. His nose was intact, but he would have a very black eye. His temple was already turning a dark, angry purple. Pierre handed him a damp cloth. ‘You’ll live. You want a drink?’

  ‘Christ, I feel such a bloody fool.’

  ‘I guarantee you’ll look even more like one tomorrow, you’ll have a real shiner. Here – it’s brandy, but more than likely not the vintage you’re used to.’

  ‘Where is she? I have to talk to her.’

  ‘When you’ve finished your drink I’ll put the storm lights on. You’ll have to back down the track . . . she’s staying with friends.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why don’t you just get the hell out of here before I throw you out?’

  Edward downed his brandy and stood up. He towered over Pierre. For one second he even thought about throwing a punch, but instead he walked to the door. Turning, he held out his hand. His suit was sodden, his face bruised, and there was a helpless air to the big man.

  ‘I love her . . . I’m sorry to come here like this. If I’d been in your shoes I’d have let me rot in the well . . . Harry and me, we go back a long time. You take care of her . . . I won’t bother you again.’

  Pierre had never seen such raw and desperate emotion in a man before. It made him feel inadequate. Edward obviously loved her and, given the choice between the two, Pierre was sure he would be the loser. In truth he already knew he was.

  Pierre told Edward where he could find Harriet. He even held a torch so Edward could reverse safely down the track. Then he walked back to the barn. Half-painted in bright daffodil yellow, it called out her name . . . She was everywhere he looked, and he made up his mind to leave for Paris, cut short his holiday.

  It wasn’t until Pierre had packed that he felt a strange sensation of relief – a confusing and unexpected emotion. He tried to analyse his feelings, and eventually they were clarified by a moth-eaten teddy bear. The small, worn bear sported a hand-knitted vest with the letter ‘E’ embroidered very badly on the front. The bear travelled everywhere with her, and he knew she would be frantic without him. But this was no longer Pierre’s responsibility – it was Edward Barkley’s.

  Edward rang the bell beside the electric gates. There was not a light to be seen. He kept his finger on the button, rattled the gates, but still there was no answer. After prowling around the walls, he got into the Rolls and drove it close to the wall – so close he scraped the wing on the driver’s side. He then climbed out of the passenger door, on to the roof, and scaled the wall.

  Once inside the grounds he made his way to the main entrance. As he stepped on to the porch all hell broke loose – two Dobermann pinschers galloped across the lawn, teeth bared. Edward almost pulled the door knocker off its hinges while he shouted at the dogs. Suddenly, lights blazed in the hallway, he heard voices shouting and the frightened face of Daisy Millingford’s father appeared through the frost glass door panel.

  Edward just made it into the hall before he lost his trousers to the dogs. A gardener in a dressing gown dragged them back, snarling, to their kennels. Daisy rushed down the stairs, pulling her hair rollers out while trying to explain to her father who Edward was.

  In the midst of the confusion, Harriet appeared at the top of the stairs. Edward, in his filthy, mud-splattered suit, sporting a black eye, ran up the stairs two and three at a time. The family looked on aghast, while Daisy shouted that he was Edward Barkley, the Edward Barkley from the château.

  ‘I love you, Harry, I love you . . .’

  Edward showed not the slightest embarrassment at his extraordinary behaviour. Harriet sat on the stairs, her legs shaking. She was wearing a ridiculous, fr
othy pink nightdress of Daisy’s.

  Daisy ushered her family and the housekeeper into the kitchen, leaving the lovers alone, but before she closed the door she took a quiet look . . .

  They were sitting side by side, their arms about each other. If Harriet turned him down now, Daisy would be up those stairs like a hare . . . She closed the door, and tried to explain to her family what was going on.

  Alex woke with a start when his bedroom lights came on. Edward beamed at him from the doorway.

  ‘Alex, I want you to meet my future wife . . . Harry, this is my brother, Alex.’

  Alex stared from one to the other. Harriet was still wearing the frothy pink creation, with the addition of a blanket around her shoulders. Edward had ruined Alex’s suit, and to cap it all he looked as though he’d been in one hell of a fight. Alex was speechless, but Edward was already on his way out.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to get to know each other . . . this calls for a celebration.’

  Alex ran his fingers through his hair, then gestured for Harriet to sit on the bed. She curled up like a cat at the far end and scrutinized him. He flushed, and tried to think of something to say.

  ‘I told him not to wake you, but he insisted. This isn’t my nightie, it’s Daisy’s.’

  ‘Ahhh, I see – that makes all the difference.’

  She giggled, and he looked up shyly. Suddenly she crawled up the bed to sit closer to him. She took his hand, kissed his cheek. ‘You look so uncomfortable – you’re not at all what I expected.’

  ‘I could say the same for you.’

  Again she giggled infectiously, and Alex began to relax. She had certainly taken him by surprise – she was not at all the type he would have expected Edward to be interested in, let alone want to marry. She slipped her arm through his as if she had known him for years, and started to tell him how she had first met Edward. Alex had never met anyone like her; as with everyone else who came in contact with Harriet, he fell instantly under her spell.

  Alex went shopping with Harry to help her choose her wedding dress. She cavorted around the designer shops, tripping out of the changing rooms in creations worth thousands, the dreadful veils perched on her bouncing curls. She never seemed to tire, and Alex found her exhausting, and often infuriating. Eventually they chose a simple white silk dress in the new, short length. It was even shorter on Harriet, as she was so tall. She didn’t want a veil, choosing instead to wear a small crown of daisies.

  Alex also helped Edward buy a suit, and discovered how well matched the couple really were – both were tremendously impatient, and neither had any real interest in style.

  None of Harriet’s family was invited to the wedding. Harriet went to great lengths to find a chimney sweep to act as witness. Alex worried about him turning up in his filthy overalls, but Harriet roared with laughter and said she had promised to pay him extra if he did just that, and carried his brush; it was supposed to bring good luck.

  On the morning of the wedding Edward was panic-stricken, and made Alex go and check that Harriet was getting ready. Between the two of them Alex was exhausted. It was not enough for Harriet for the pair of them to spend their pre-nuptial nights in separate bedrooms – they had to be in separate wings of the château. She would not sleep anywhere near the groom until she had a signed, valid contract to do so.

  The two of them were boisterous, like noisy children, and very obviously in love. Edward showered gifts on his bride-to-be – little boxes of jewellery were delivered, unpacked, inspected, and laid out on Harriet’s dressing table. Alex never saw her wear a single piece. She was forever dressed in a pair of old shorts and a tee-shirt, and barefoot.

  Harriet screamed for Alex – her new satin shoes were too tight. He was kept running from one wing of the château to the other as bride and groom yelled for cufflinks, knickers, socks . . . He managed to get Edward ready, and planted him in the hall to wait for Harriet. He was about to collect her when she called down the stairs, ‘Both of you close your eyes and hum the “Wedding March”, I’m coming down . . .’

  The brothers stood side by side, humming in unison, then both opened their eyes and stopped at the same time. Harriet was moving slowly down the stairs, the white dress setting off her golden tan, the daisy garland framing her face. She was like a child, looking so innocent it was hard to believe she was nearly twenty-nine. Alex had grown to understand why Edward had been obsessed with her, wanted her – now he saw something else about her he had never noticed before. Harriet resembled their mother, in the colour of her hair, her tallness, and her smile.

  Edward whispered, ‘I love her, Alex, my God, I do love her.’

  It was not until they were sitting in the registrar’s office that Alex realized Harriet was barefoot. She gave him a sweet, secretive smile, and turned to Edward with such adoration that Alex found himself close to tears.

  In a way, Alex was happy to be going back to London now. It was a long time since he had tended his beloved mother’s grave. She could be proud now, happy – her sons, the brothers, were together again. Alex did not yet know just how wealthy Edward was, but he was soon to find out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex, with Mr and Mrs Edward Barkley, returned to London. Alex moved in to Edward’s manor house at Greenwich. The heavy, flocked wallpaper, the windows draped in velvet, the motley collection of furniture from Tudor to Victorian, appalled Alex’s new-found taste. Squashed in alongside antiques were modern leather sofas, anything that had ever taken Edward’s fancy was purchased without a thought of its matching or suiting the manor. There was a sense of decadence, of weight, to the house which Alex found overpowering. Among Edward’s purchases were many old oil paintings, a selection of which hung down the wide, sweeping staircase. Edward surveyed his home with pride, and indicated the portraits. ‘This is your new family, aunts, uncles, parents – take your pick. I got us a good cross-section of ancestors – army fellas and a few sea captains.’

  Alex unpacked his bags and gazed out of the bedroom window, across the river. There was the office block, the Barkley Company Ltd sign facing the manor. He was ill at ease – he had only been away five years and yet he felt as if it had been a lifetime. Edward pounded up the stairs, shouting for Alex to get a move on as he wanted to take him to the office.

  Harriet rushed from room to room, shouting down the curved staircase. She stuck her head over the banister. ‘What time do we expect you back?’

  Edward was already walking out to the drive. He waved and said they would be late, then gestured for Alex to get a move on. It was Alex who blew Harriet a kiss and said, ‘I’ll get him to call you – see you later.’

  Alex had met many of Edward’s employees, and his head spun. They all shook his hand, addressing him as ‘Mr Barkley’. Edward showed him off as though he were a prize racehorse, laughing and joking, telling stories about how he managed to persuade his brother to leave their estate in France. Edward carried bundles of magazines featuring the château. No one questioned his story about Alex, or Alex’s position as his partner. It was unnerving, as if they had somehow been expecting him.

  At long last Alex made it to the inner sanctum, the top floor. Edward flung open the door to an empty office and bowed. ‘I’m right next door. You employ as many secretaries as you need, Miss Henderson here will show you the ropes.’

  Miss Henderson, a plain nervous woman in her late thirties, gave Alex a small nervous smile and bade him welcome.

  ‘I’ll need a desk, a chair, anything will do for now, a telephone and a good calculator.’

  Miss Henderson made fast shorthand notes as Edward roared for her to hurry to his office. She excused herself, and left Alex alone in the empty room. It was not empty for long as everything he had requested came to him with remarkable speed. He set to work, and at lunchtime Miss Henderson brought in coffee and sandwiches. Two secretaries followed behind her with arms full of files. Alex already had two stacks either side of his makeshift desk. He looked enquiringly at Miss
Henderson.

  ‘Mr Edward has instructed me to bring all the company files to you. He said he will be back in two to three weeks, something unexpectedly turned up. The car keys and house keys are in reception.’

  Although stunned, Alex said nothing. For Edward to up and leave on the first day, without a word, amazed him. But he had little time to be fazed by his brother’s disappearance as the office began to fill up with files, brought in by four typists.

  It was after eight when Alex received a telephone call from Harriet. He had completely forgotten to ring her as he had promised. She went very quiet when told that Edward had been called away on business, so Alex made the excuse that it had been very urgent. Harriet hung up.

  Over the next few days Alex hardly saw Harriet, as he left very early each morning and returned late. He had made up his mind to move as soon as he could find a suitable house.

  One evening when he arrived home, exhausted, he discovered Harriet, covered in paint, decorating one of the bedrooms. The paint was a very bright yellow, and he raised his eyebrows. ‘This the nursery?’

  He was surprised at her sharp reaction to his innocent question.

  ‘No, no . . . it’s going to be my studio – there won’t be any nursery. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on, I want this finished as a surprise.’

  Alex put the brittleness of her manner down to his imagination, his tiredness. Later, alone in his room, he put a call through to Ming. Her soft voice soothed him, and she agreed to come to London as soon as he had found a suitable house. She mentioned that her company was doing very well, and she would have lots of ideas and fabrics to help furnish his new home.

  Alex began the mammoth task of reviewing the company files. They continued to be brought into the office all week, and he worked on them throughout each day. The only reason he took time off from the office was to view houses. Eventually he found one to his liking in Mayfair.