The Talisman

by Lynda La Plante

  Bundles of documents would be left on Alex’s desk – more new companies, more lists of salaries to be paid out, instructions for large sums of money to be withdrawn, all with hastily scrawled messages telling him to lose the transactions in the books.

  Alex worked late every night, not helped by a constant stream of workmen installing Edward’s new toy, the security system. Loose wires hung in every corner of every office.

  Nor was there any respite for Alex when he went home to Mayfair. Barbara would be sitting waiting for him, wanting to go here or there, wanting to be introduced to everyone she could think of, and Alex was so tired he simply wanted to eat his supper and collapse into bed.

  ‘Alex, I’m bored out of my mind, for Chrissake, I sit here all day, I sit here all night! What in God’s name do you expect me to do? I can’t just sit, I wanna do things, I gotta do something . . . is there nothing I can do in the business?’

  Her Texas twang grated on his nerves, and he snapped that perhaps she should take some elocution lessons.

  ‘Fine, I’ll start tomorrow . . . You want eloquence, fine, you mind telling me who’s gonna even hear my goddamn voice? We don’t see anyone, we don’t meet anyone, I am bored! Jesus Christ, I come all this way and the only people I meet are goddamn Americans over here for the season – I bought a horse for the girls, stabled it in Hyde Park, that should keep them quiet. Alex, are you even listening to me?’

  She snatched the newspaper from him and threw it across the room. ‘Alex, will you just listen for a minute, all you have to do is to tell me what to do and I’ll do it, but I don’t know where to begin.’

  Alex got up, kissed her, and apologized. ‘Okay, my love, start donating to charities. Make sure they are the big ones and directly connected to royalty. Donate, then offer your time to help out at functions. You want to meet people that’s the way to do it . . . Then . . .’ He picked up the newspaper and opened it, and Barbara was about to shout at him again when he passed it to her and pointed out an article. ‘That bank’s in trouble. It’s a private bank run by a family. See if you can’t get to them, they’re well connected, but rumours in the City have it that they’re on their way out. See what you can find out, open an account there or whatever, send the lawyers in first and say you want to make a large deposit . . .’

  Barbara moaned that that wasn’t really what she had had in mind, but Alex kissed her neck and unbuttoned her blouse. ‘I think we should maybe take the bank over, the family’s got the connections but they’re broke – that’s your task, sweetheart, so get cracking.’ Suddenly he sounded, even to his own ears, like his brother.

  Barbara donated massive sums to charities, and soon got caught up in so many charity functions she hardly had the time for her elocution classes. She was invited to lunches, balls, dances, teas, and for the first time since she came to England she started to enjoy herself.

  The St James’ Bank was overawed by Mrs Barkley. Her lawyers had paved the way and there was quite a reception waiting for her. She made an impressive entrance – the Rolls, the chauffeur, the furs, but most important was the amount of money she wanted to transfer from her Texas accounts. She was evasive, playing them along and suggesting that perhaps they should take time to think about the arrangements. Next, Barbara invited the bankers to a small dinner party, knowing they would come, and set about making sure her guest list was full of society names.

  Alex was impressed, Barbara was doing far better than he had ever bargained for, although he could do without the frequent dinner parties. He found her circle of ‘friends’ growing in number, and they were useful to him. The dinner parties became bigger and better, and at long last she began to feature in the society columns. Soon she had every gossip columnist eating out of her hand, and paid for it highly. She became close to the American Ambassador and his wife, and began to dominate many charity functions. She was a natural hostess, and learned faster than Alex would have given her credit for. He began to admire her, and to love her even more.

  Barbara was in her element, she had made it, and she was now even more choosy about who she talked with, who she invited to her dinners. Now she was looking for openings to move yet another step upward.

  Barbara’s daughters had both been shipped off to finishing school in Switzerland. On their return to London, the elder girl, Selina, had found it difficult to adjust to her new life and a whole circle of new people, and became very quiet and withdrawn. However, Annabelle, the younger, took to it all with an energy and vigour inherited from her mother. She made many friends, ensuring that they were all from titled families, and moved effortlessly into the young jet set.

  Barbara put all her efforts into making good marriages for her daughters, and she discussed a possible suitor with Alex. It would not only mean a good step forward into society, but a strong business move. The St James’ Bank heir, Conrad St James, was hand-picked for Selina, financial arrangements with the family having been concluded satisfactorily. Alex Barkley took over the bank, giving Conrad a job for life, and in return Conrad married Selina. She had very little say in the matter, led like a lamb to the slaughter.

  The wedding was an elaborate occasion, the cathedral packed with four hundred guests, followed by the reception at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane. It made every society column, and took up the whole of the gossip diary in Queen magazine.

  When the newly weds departed for Rome on their honeymoon, Barbara heaved a sigh of relief. Next, she wanted to get Annabelle married. Annabelle had grown taller, and she had her mother’s perfect figure. Lord Henry Blackwell, who was as shy as Selina, had been earmarked for her. Unlike her sister, however, she did not bow down to her mother, and they fought like cat and dog. She had a mind of her own and a strong one; she knew exactly what she wanted, what clothes she wanted to wear, and she was as adept at social climbing as her mother. With her friends from school, many of them titled, she could always get around her mother by saying, ‘But Lady Somerton’s daughter was with me.’

  Alex let Barbara do exactly as she wanted, content that she was out of his way, for he was in the midst of the takeover of Buchanan House. He had sold off numerous small businesses and was amassing the cash in readiness. He and Edward argued over virtually every sale, every clause, and their terrible rows echoed round the office. Alex was infuriated by his brother, who would appear and disappear at will, always on some deal or other that he had in mind. These were never of interest to Alex, he wanted more and more to move into the City, but Edward kicked against it. ‘Stocks and shares, buddy boy, why get into that, we do all right this way . . . Someone’s got to do the dirty little deals, and we’re way ahead of everyone else. You start playing the stock market and you’ll get your fingers burnt . . .’

  Alex was insistent, just as his wife was climbing socially so he wanted to have the City’s respect. The Barkley Company had a bad name for under-dealing. Alex wanted to move up and out.

  ‘Edward, why break your balls on this club, close it, let it go.’

  Edward hit the roof, screaming at his brother that if he would just go through the accounts he would see why not. They could launder money through it, cream it, just like the old days.

  Trying to keep Edward on the straight and narrow was virtually a full-time job, and a desperate one for Alex. ‘Why? Why, for Chrissake, take these risks? We are legitimate, and yet you always want to branch out into back-alley deals.’

  Edward lost patience, snapping at his brother that he had made the Barkley Company, not Alex. He had made it on the backs of his deals, and if Alex didn’t like what he was doing he could go fuck himself and see how well he would do without Edward. The rows between them became a daily occurrence, secretaries and typists would cringe as the bellowing rang through the office. Edward terrified them all, rampaging along the corridors arguing at the top of his voice.

  Alex had to spend days trying to fathom out what new moves his brother had made. The Carnaby Street boutiques, which Alex had been against from the f
irst, were going from strength to strength.

  ‘I got the nose, buddy boy, I got the nose . . . listen to me, and you’ll be where you want, believe me.’

  The office was still in turmoil, with workmen carrying wires and monitor screens in and out of Edward’s office installing his elaborate security system. Every room was fitted with cameras. Edward’s new toys whirred and bleeped, and he was forever rushing down to the basement to check how they worked.

  ‘How long are these men going to be here, Edward? I’ve got two board meetings this morning, and I don’t want ladders everywhere and white overalls dodging in and out.’

  Edward beamed and told Alex it was all completed, dragged him down to the basement. ‘Okay, now take a look – see, we get anyone breaking in and all the guys down here have to do is flick switches . . . see . . . There’s now a camera in every room, right? They can check out the place with a couple of switches . . . bingo!’

  Alex looked around the room and sighed. He was beginning to think Edward was paranoid. At times he acted so crazily. His hair was longer than ever, and he wore his denim jeans and cowboy boots every day. While Alex was striving for respectability, Edward was joining in with the ‘Swinging Sixties’. The rock music from Edward’s office was so loud at times that Alex couldn’t hear himself think.

  ‘Edward, maybe you need some kind of rest, you know?’

  Edward swore at him, said he was simply moving with the times.

  ‘Bit old, aren’t you, to be wandering around like a hippy?’

  Edward roared with laughter. ‘Brother . . . maybe I’m making up for all the lost years of hard labour I put in, so what?’

  Alex quietly reminded him that he himself was more than familiar with hard labour. Edward flung his arms around him in one of his crazy gestures. ‘Hey, trust me, you got to trust me, Alex old son. I know what I’m doing – you do your thing, man, and I’ll do mine, okay?’

  Alex hesitated, then asked point-blank, ‘She’s bad again, isn’t she? Harry?’

  Edward was suddenly deflated, and made a strange, half-hearted gesture. ‘Always comes out at strange times, you know. I was on tenterhooks when the Judge died, but she coped, right as rain. But she’s acting up now . . . I dunno what to do, Alex, I just don’t. She joined some fringe theatre, all I hear about is this bloody play, she’s obsessed with it . . . I don’t know if it’s in her mind or what, she’s wearing black from head to foot all the time now, and she’s started shutting herself up in her studio again.’

  Alex suggested she should see a doctor.

  ‘Not as easy as all that, she’s so paranoid.’

  ‘Well, that makes two of you. With all this equipment you’ve been installing I’d say you were one and the same . . . if you like, I’ll invite her over, or call and see her.’

  ‘Sure you can fit her in? With your busy social schedule I’m amazed you have time to get into the office. But thanks and no thanks. How’s your takeover doing?’

  Alex was immediately on guard, murmuring that it was going along fine. But Edward was already striding down the corridor, not even interested.

  Barbara was not too pleased to be told at the last moment she had two extra guests, Edward and Harriet. She rearranged the table, moved her place cards in a desperate bid to seat Harriet where she would be the least trouble.

  Dinner was set for nine o’clock, by eight forty-five there was still no sign of them. Alex called the manor only to be told they had just left. They did not make an appearance until after nine and Barbara was furious. Her guests sat very formally sipping cocktails as Edward, wearing a white tuxedo but no tie, strolled into the sitting room. Harriet remained in the hall wearing what could only be described as an assortment of scarves pulled together to form a dress . . . she also had one wrapped around her head, but worse than her appearance was the fact that she was holding a pigeon she had found in the drive. She appeared at the door as everyone turned to stare. ‘Edward, what should I do with it? It’s got a clubbed foot! The poor thing’s starving.’

  ‘Give it to the butler.’

  Barbara’s butler, Scargill, turned from handing round the drinks tray. Barbara gave him a look, waved her hand, and knew by now the chef would be throwing a fit in the kitchen. In the end it was Alex who removed the pigeon and took it outside. He simply threw it out of the back door and then assured Harriet it was being fed and cared for.

  Dinner was announced and Edward, deep in conversation with a New York banker, sat down in the wrong place. This put all the seating arrangements out, and so it was musical chairs until at last everyone was seated.

  The consommé was being served by two white-gloved waiters. Harriet was seated next to a judge, and she fell into a deep conversation about her father and his prostate operation. Everyone had finished their soup and the waiters hovered as Harriet hadn’t touched hers. Edward leaned on his elbow and enquired if she had finished, everyone was waiting. ‘Oh sorry, you can take it away . . . sorry, Barbara, but we were talking about my father.’

  Barbara enquired how Judge Simpson was and Harriet looked astonished. ‘Oh he’s dead, didn’t you know?’ Everyone murmured their condolences, and Alex quickly changed the conversation.

  Harriet grew very quiet as she knew nothing about banking, and had no interest in political matters. She couldn’t help but notice how at ease Edward was and felt more than inadequate. She also noted what a very good hostess Barbara was . . .

  As they drove home, Edward yawned. Harriet was biting her nails. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You went very quiet.’

  ‘Well I felt a bit out of my depth, the white-gloved treatment is a bit over the top.’

  He drove up the manor house drive. ‘Maybe, but sometimes it’s good for business.’

  Harriet lay awake most of the night. She made elaborate plans to begin working with Dewint. To redecorate the manor, and get lots of white gloves . . . suddenly she could hear the Judge, his booming voice bellowing through the old Hall . . . ‘For God’s sake, Edna, that fella looks as if he’s in a black and white minstrel show, the Duke’s comin’ for a bite to eat, not a ruddy cabaret.’ She slipped out of the bed and crept to the window. She loved to look out of this particular window, down to the big oak tree.

  His approaching death had frightened her father, his bluster had gone, and when she had sat with him, he had cried . . . held on to her hand. ‘How’s my country gel then, eh? Good of you ta come up and see us, place always quiet without you . . . this is where you belong, not in that filthy city.’

  The Judge’s request to be buried with his favourite hunter was dismissed as senile ramblings. After his funeral Harriet found the old horse’s grave. The horse her pa had refused point-blank to send to the glue factory. He had dug the grave himself. She laid a bunch of wild flowers and a small card . . . ‘From Your Country Girl’.

  As the train arrived back in London, her heart had already begun to ache for the fields, for the fresh clean air, but Edward wasn’t there, and where he was, she had to be.

  Alex was preparing for the takeover of Buchanan House, a twenty-three-million-pound deal. The news hit the City, and Mr Alex Barkley’s face began to appear in the Financial Times columns. He was referred to as a new breed of tycoon. He began to relax. Maybe his brother was right, he should let Edward get on with his side of the business. He negotiated the renaming of Buchanan House, listing all the subsidiary companies they could combine. He thought about going public, so he had many meetings with brokers and financiers, closeted in his office or in the boardroom for hours on end. The poised, whirring cameras were soon forgotten, became part of the walls. But Alex was unaware of just what a tight security system his ‘dear’ brother had had installed. Although Edward’s office appeared as it always had, the mammoth desk had been modified, as had the walls. Behind five oak panels were monitor screens, and his desk was computerized, the sides opening up to reveal the controls. Without moving out of his office, Edward Barkley could tape and record every meeti
ng that took place in the building. Every single negotiation, every single phone call that went in or out of the Barkley Company, he recorded. By this method, Edward felt free to roam, leave London whenever he wanted, assured that his office was ticking away all by itself.

  Edward had decided that a meeting with Ming was called for. It was not particularly urgent, he just wanted to get away from London, from Harriet – she was heading for one of her depressive bouts. He knew it was wrong, that he should tell her what he was doing, but he did his usual disappearing act anyway.

  Dewint had the unfortunate task of telling her, one that often landed on his frail shoulders. Her play was about to open, and Dewint knew how important it was for her to have Edward there on her first night – she needed his approval. She had worked so hard, and at long last she had her Equity card. But she took it very well, shrugging her shoulders and saying it was only to be expected. Dewint tried to make up for Edward’s absence, telling her that by the time he returned from New York the play would have had a chance to ‘run in’, and her performance would no doubt be better for the experience.

  This was her first professional engagement, one she had worked hard to get. She had joined the Bush Theatre at Shepherd’s Bush as an assistant to the stage manager. She was an obvious choice for the part of Christina in their production of The Soul of a Whore, and so far the rehearsals had gone without a single hitch. As the opening night approached, Harriet’s nerves were in shreds. This was no passing whim, as Edward had believed at first, but a serious stab at making a career for herself. She had made considerable donations towards the running of the theatre, and although no one liked to admit it, this had swayed the company into not only staging the production but also offering her the role. They were touched when she insisted she auditioned like anyone else, even though she was the ‘angel’. She didn’t want to destroy the play’s chances of success. Harriet had won the role fair and square, and her position in the company was confirmed.