The Talisman (18 page)

He could hear his own voice, as though someone else was speaking aloud, ‘Don’t haunt me, Mama. Rest, sleep in peace with him – and forgive me.’ He bowed his head and wept, the tears that had refused to come before falling now.

The release was immediate; his body felt cleansed, and he was free. But in his grief he could not stop shaking. He remained on his knees beside the small white cross, then bent his head until it almost touched the centre of the cross.

‘I’ll make you proud of me, I swear to you. I’ll be rich one day, Mama, I’ll be everything you ever dreamed of for me. I love you, Ma. I love you.’

As the prison van pulled up at the cemetery gates, the doctor draped an overcoat around Alex’s shoulders. It was winter, and the rain was lashing down. The strange group stepped out of the van and Dr Gordon reminded Alex of his promise to behave.

At the gate an old woman sat on a beer crate, offering a few bedraggled flowers for sale. The doctor bought a bunch and handed them to Alex, who waited with a warder on each side of him. The overcoat hid the fact that he was handcuffed to one of them.

Edward’s knees were wet from the muddy ground, but he still knelt. There was more, much more he had to say, but he couldn’t form the words. His father Freedom lay with her, but even here he couldn’t say that name, ask for forgiveness for what he had done . . . He found himself trembling violently, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The steady rain gave way to a torrential downpour, and he got to his feet, pulling his collar up around his ears. It wasn’t the rain that was making him feel this way, it was something else. His heart was thudding and he was flushing hot, then cold. ‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘what the hell’s the matter with me?’ He turned to walk away from the grave.

A group of four men headed towards him from the entrance. He turned away from them and walked to the lee of a large tomb surmounted by a six-foot-high stone angel, kneeling with clasped hands. He was sweating so his shirt stuck to him, despite the chill rain. Apparently unnoticed, he watched the four men approach his parents’ grave.

Dr Gordon had visited the cemetery previously to be sure he knew exactly where Evelyne Jones was buried. He was thankful for that as he guided the little party through the downpour – he didn’t want the boy to have to search for her. They threaded their way along the narrow path, the handcuffs forcing Alex and the screw to walk very close together. Before the doctor could indicate the grave, Alex stopped and pulled at the handcuffs – he knew instinctively.

The grave seemed small, and its white cross had just enough room for the two names and short inscription: Freedom Stubbs, Evelyne Stubbs. Heart to heart – Camipen-lil, manushi.

Alex laid the flowers gently on top of the cross and bowed his head. He stood as if frozen, making no sound, but the tears streamed down his pale cheeks. It came as a shock when he finally spoke, ‘They left no room for us, no room, as if she didn’t want us buried wiv ’em. My Dad was a Romany, yer know. In the old days, when a Romany of high-ranking blood – like my father, he was a Tatchey Romany, pure-blooded – well, when they died they destroyed everyfing they owned, ’cept money, of course. Everyfing they could burn was set on fire, an’ their crockery, pots an’ stuff were broken or thrown in the nearest river. They even destroyed jewellery, an’ if there was a horse it’d be shot. They said it ’ad to be done or the dead person’d haunt yer. Gypsies believe the ghost hovers near its possessions after death, so it ’ad to be done.’

Edward had not recognized Alex at first. He leaned against the praying angel and watched. Alex was so tall now, so terribly thin. His face was gaunt and his blond, curly hair was cut close to his head. What shocked Edward most was his brother’s face. With his flattened nose this once-beautiful little brother looked like the thugs Edward had seen in the movies. They were so close he could hear their voices, and yet he could not move those few steps to reveal himself. He had seen the handcuff on Alex’s wrist as he had laid the flowers on the grave. He knew what he had done, knew that those handcuffs should be around his own wrist, but still he could not move. The rain had eased a bit, and he could hear every word they were saying, as if he were standing beside them.

It was time for Alex to leave. Dr Gordon nodded briefly to one of the warders, who tapped Alex on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get back now, son, I’m sorry. You all right? Come on, stand up, lemme give you a hand.’

Alex had been kneeling in exactly the same spot Edward had vacated moments before they arrived. He reached out and touched the disturbed earth close to the cross. He could tell it had been freshly turned, despite the fact that the soil was sodden with rain. The warder jerked slightly on the handcuff, and Alex looked up. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

The doctor began to talk quietly as he helped Alex to his feet, mainly to distract the boy as they left. ‘Do you believe those stories, son? Do you think your mother’s ghost is at rest?’

Alex laughed softly, unnerving them all. ‘She was no Romany. He was, Freedom, and he’ll not rest, he’ll haunt ’im all right. He ’as to live with what he did, not me. You see, Doc, I know it’s too late to do anyfing about it now, but I never killed ’im. My brother did it. The ghost’ll be on ’is shoulder, not mine.’

The doctor walked back to the van in silence. He couldn’t take in what Alex had just told him – could not believe that Alex was in prison by his own choice for a murder he did not commit.

The prison van was out of sight before Edward could move. He averted his face as he passed the grave. If he had been determined before, it was now an obsession with him to succeed in life. His guilt on seeing what his brother had become had sickened him. But Alex was a millstone around his neck from which he would never be free, and he wished him dead. The realization that he hated Alex released him from all ties. He would repay Alex, but that would be the end of it. From now on, Edward was alone.

E
dward’s renewed determination to succeed was defeated on his return to Cambridge. The dreaded summons to appear before the Army Recruitment Board was waiting for him. He slumped down in the chair in his study.

Walter appeared within moments. ‘You want to come along to the Marlowe Society, do you? It’s next week, should be good fun. I’ll pay for your membership, what do you say, Edward? It’s a jolly good society, they do plays. I wondered if I could get a part, what do you think, Edward?’

‘They’ve got me, the bastards, I’ve got to go before the ruddy board, could get called up. Shit, this is all I need right now, with exams coming up.’

Walter told Edward he wouldn’t have that problem, not with his eyesight. Suddenly Edward became very interested in Walter’s vision, asking if he was long- or short-sighted, how much he could and couldn’t see, and Walter, who was rarely asked anything personal, launched into a long, boring speech about his myopia.

Edward leaned back, smiling. Old Emmott had given him the hint and now he would take it. He wasn’t going to be called up by anybody, he was going to make damned sure of that. He dismissed Walter with a wave of his hand and as soon as he had left, Edward began practising a convincing myopic squint. Later, he paid Walter an unexpected call, having rarely bothered to visit him before. Walter’s desk was a mess of papers and documents, but Walter’s spare pair of glasses also lay there.

Edward walked into his interview with the Recruiting Board wearing Walter’s glasses. The Marlowe Society would have been astonished at his performance, as none of the board members were fools, having seen every trick in the book pulled by undergraduates reluctant to join up. Edward was a first-class student, one they would have shipped into the intelligence offices where he would have spent his time deciphering codes and developing new ones. Many students had been used in this section, particularly those in Edward’s field.

He had sat up for a whole week, his eyes red-rimmed, paying close attention to the way Walter used his glasses, and particularly the problems associated with shortsightedness. They could not fault him, although the medical officer gave him stringent tests. He examined Edward’s eyes, but did not give a very detailed report. Edward sighed with relief when he was passed over, but he would have to continue wearing glasses. He paid a visit to a local optician and bought a pair with plain glass lenses.

Although he joined the Marlowe Society, Edward felt ill at ease. He wasn’t exactly ignored, but there were so many strong personalities that he paled beside them. He was asked if he wanted to act, in which case he would have to audition before being accepted, or if he wanted to submit script ideas for the forthcoming ‘Footlights’ revue. Walter introduced him to the other members, but he only half listened. He was thinking he wouldn’t bother coming to any more meetings, and would have left immediately if Allard Simpson hadn’t made an appearance. Allard was the star of the company, outrageous and brilliantly funny. He came sweeping in, wearing an opera cloak and jodhpurs with high brown boots. He told them that they must have new material, they were running dry, and if they had to give any more concerts with that idiot trombone player they would fall apart. All the members were set to work to find new pieces, Edward among them. Not that he had any intention of wasting his valuable time. He dismissed it from his mind and continued to study.

One morning Edward’s bedmaker handed him a folder of papers he had found beneath the mattress, and Edward flipped it open to find numerous essays in Charlie’s handwriting. He found himself laughing as he read page after page of notes and drawings, done for Charlie’s own amusement. It gave him an idea. He copied all the papers and gave some to the society as if they were his own work.

Allard called on him to say the pieces were wonderful, and he wanted to put two into the latest Footlights offering. He wandered around Edward’s room remarking on the paintings, then stopped in front of a portrait of an army officer and tapped it. ‘This your father?’

Edward told him it was an uncle, and the others were assorted members of his family. In response to Allard’s enquiry about where he lived, Edward invented a house in Kensington.

‘You must come over to my place during the vacation,’ said Allard, wandering around Edward’s study, picking up objects and setting them down. He slumped into a chair. ‘Very impressed with the decor. My old man wouldn’t give me a pot to piss in, he’s so tight-fisted. Old boy’s a judge. They’ve got me studying law to follow in his wake. I hate it all, only reason I’m here is the Marlowe Society. If I weren’t so good, they’d have sent me down. Have you been before the Recruitment Board yet? I’m lucky, following in Pa’s footsteps in more ways than one – I’ve inherited his flat feet.’ Lounging in the chair, he asked if there was anything to drink, then invited Edward to join him for Sunday lunch – a few friends would be driving down from London to join him.

Allard was a strange-looking boy, very tall and pale with a thick mop of bright red curls. His eyes were slanting and very blue, and, although his hooked nose and small mouth were not good features on their own, together they made Allard very striking. He wore outrageous clothes, always with a flower in his buttonhole, and a sweet perfume wafted around him at all times.

As Edward had no drinks to offer, Allard uncurled his long legs and made for the door. ‘We’ll have to work a bit together on your material, so get a few bottles of plonk in. I like to wet the whistle . . . see you Sunday.’

Edward smiled to himself. ‘Mr Popular’ would be very useful and, apart from that, Edward liked him.

The Sunday lunch proved to be an eye-opener for Edward in more ways than one. He arrived promptly at one o’clock, and Allard appeared in his dressing gown, swearing that he had no idea it was so late. He opened his wallet and sent Edward to collect the champagne he had ordered for the luncheon, and Edward went hastily, angry with himself for not realizing, as usual, that this crowd didn’t behave as if they were at school, doing everything promptly by the clock.

When he returned with the champagne, he could hear Allard’s angry, high-pitched voice. ‘I promise you he’s just the writer, for God’s sake, there’s no need to get hysterical – I hardly know him, he’s just early for luncheon, that’s all. You really are so stupid! You know how I feel about you, why always ruin everything by being obsessively jealous? It’s too tiresome . . . you’d better go and change.’

The reaction to Allard’s tirade was an outburst of sobbing, so Edward decided on a strategic retreat. When he was halfway down the stairs, he heard a door slam, then running footsteps. The Honourable Henry Blackwell, head of the union and ‘Mister Snob’ himself, ran past Edward in tears.

When Edward entered the room, he found Allard, dressed in a plum velvet smoking jacket, instructing his porter on how to set the table. It was after three o’clock by the time the lunch began, by which time eight more people had arrived, carrying more champagne, home-brewed wine and caviar. They all got so drunk that the lunch became a shouting match. Edward made a mental note of everyone’s names, and watched his speech to make sure he didn’t drop any aitches. He made himself useful, helping to serve and being very much a part of Allard’s team. All the girls were titled, very young with high-pitched voices, and the girl next to Edward passed him her card and insisted that he look her up when he got to town. They all showered Edward with their cards, and Allard roared with laughter. ‘All after that lean body of yours, Edward old chap. Ahhhh . . . Henry, come in, come in, you’re very late.’

Henry Blackwell entered, his arms full of flowers. He knelt at the feet of one of the debs and kissed her. It appeared that this was his fiancée. The girl blushed and kissed him back, looking at him with adoration in her eyes. Edward watched the play between Allard and Henry – they were very friendly, but they sat at opposite ends of the table. Edward knew that no one would believe what he had overheard, yet he detected a slight frostiness emanating from the Honourable Henry. He knew why, but he said nothing, knowing intuitively the value of his secret.