Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward smiled his thanks, and Emmott gave him a direct look, then returned to his studies. He believed Edward to be academically brilliant, with a great future ahead of him. It was rare to find a student who was so diligent, but Emmott’s uppermost thought was that Edward was the first student he had ever come across who touched on his own obsessive interests. Emmott’s life centred on study, stretching his mind inside that domed forehead. Edward had the same yearning, Emmott recognized his hunger for knowledge and would have liked to express it in words. He didn’t, however; not many virile young men wanted to be told they were akin to a bent cripple.

Edward went to the radio factory, where they offered him three shillings a night on the late shift. He had to sort and examine plastic washers, a boring, tedious job, but he needed the extra money for the sports jacket he was saving for.

He had to get permission from the college to work, but of course Emmott gave it, so Edward had a special pass for the three nights a week. His good looks made him very popular with all the factory women, and some of them hovered around his table with cups of tea and home-made biscuits. They were all after him, but he found them coarse and he hated the way they giggled behind their dirty hands. They wore headscarves knotted at the front, and it made them all seem unattractive, but most of them came from the farms around Cambridge where they could lay their hands on butter, eggs and milk, and so he charmed them and played them along.

The digs were the pits, but he bore with them because they saved him money. One night he was working in his room when he heard the ‘toot-toot’ of Charlie’s car horn below. He burst into Edward’s room, then stopped and sniffed. ‘Good Lord, place stinks of cabbage, or cat’s piss. Listen, old chap, you fancy coming for a spin? Not seen you about.’

Edward refused, saying he wanted to finish an essay.

‘Why not show your face at the rugger match, Sat’day, should be a good game... won’t change your mind, eh? Few jars at the Duck and Feather?’

Edward shook his head and Charlie bounded out. Edward looked out of his window as Charlie hopped into his MG. There he was with a strapping blonde sitting beside him. He waved to Edward and careered off. Edward sighed, Charlie never seemed to worry about anything, least of all finances, and although petrol was rationed Charlie was never short. Edward had heard he got all the boys’ petrol rations in exchange for alcohol.

When Edward went to collect his mail from residence, he found a letter from his mother. He hated her letters, they always depressed him. There was little mention of Alex, only a paragraph to say his brother had got into trouble, but there were no details. Whenever Edward saw his brother’s name in his mother’s writing he felt a certain amount of guilt, but he always assured himself that he was doing what they had both wanted, therefore it was all right. Evelyne mentioned that she had not been feeling too well, but she hoped he was fit, and working hard. She would write again soon. There was no mention of the extra money he had written to ask her for and, angry, he ripped the letter into shreds. He was sick and tired of working at the radio factory with those stupid bitches tittering and nudging each other every time he inadvertently touched them. He had now taken on another part-time job, one school-kids usually did, sitting watching for incendiary bombs for three shillings a night. He would sit by the sandbags with a torch hidden under a blanket and do his reading.

Edward hated being poor, and began to resent the sight of Charlie and his crowd as they steamed around town, in and out of the dance clubs, their days seemingly revolving round a desperate search for pleasure. They all suffered from hangovers, and several times Edward had seen Charlie staggering across the quad, wearing his pyjamas under his cords and jacket, on his way to the Dot to join his ever-increasing circle of friends. They danced and drank, their eyes always open for new girls, and then they would go on to Leo’s where they would down Pimm’s or whisky. They were known to be in a permanent alcoholic haze, always hunting out the women in Woolworth’s or Boots, wheeling around the town laughing too loudly and propping each other up as they made their way unsteadily back to college during the blackouts.

Edward worked all the hours that God gave him, and yet was never late for a single lecture. Charlie, on the other hand, played hard all night and caught up on his sleep during lectures. Edward presumed that Charlie spent most of his days sleeping off the booze, until one afternoon he passed the rugby pitch. He stared in amazement at the game, which he couldn’t begin to understand. The boys, covered in mud, hurled an odd-shaped ball backwards and forwards, while rows of men stood on the touchline, waving bottles of beer. He had been impressed by Charlie, however. Small as he was he was a little demon on the pitch, zigzagging through the larger men like an eel. He was so obviously popular that it needled Edward, and he stayed to watch. He started to laugh when he saw Charlie in the centre of the scrum, and joined the cheering when it seemed that Charlie’s team was ahead. He watched Charlie fighting at the side of the pitch, yelling and striking out at the linesman, which was greeted with cheers and shouts from those on the touchline.

When the match was over Edward followed the crowd into the local pub, and there was Charlie with his hair plastered down after his shower, ordering beer all around, and as always the centre of attention. ‘Eddie, my boy, come over and meet the team; everyone, this is Big Eddie, we should rope him in, look at his shoulders... come on Eddie, have a beer.’

Although it upset him to be called ‘Eddie’, Edward accepted the beer, and afterwards it seemed only natural to go with them all to the restaurant for a booze-up. The food kept on coming, even though rationing was in force, and it was good. The proprietor obviously knew Charlie and was bowing and scraping and allowing them to sing at the tops of their voices.

Edward began to get a little uneasy as the drinking got heavier, the coffee had been and gone and he wondered how the bill was to be paid. He was in a very difficult situation. He had to admit he was enjoying himself, but he kept one eye on the waiters as they began adding up the cost of the food and the drinks. ‘Okay, everyone, it’s twenty-five bob a head, and I think that’s jolly reasonable, so let’s have a cheer for Angelo! All together now — For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow...’

Charlie was prone on the floor, and his pal Freddy took out a wad of notes and shouted that he’d take care of Charlie’s share. Two other players passed their hats round the table. Edward was tight-lipped, angry because he had allowed himself to be drawn into the binge. Now he had to pay for it, and pay for it dearly. This meant that he would have no cash for the rest of the week.

He made it look as if twenty-five shillings was nothing, but considering he could get a three-course meal for three shillings and sixpence it was an outrageous amount of money. He dropped his share into the cap, picked up his coat and walked out. That would be the end of his mixing with Charlie and his pals.

Edward worked late at the radio factory, doing double time and hating every minute of it. By the time he got home it was after twelve. The landlady warned him that she would have to report him, he was supposed to be in by ten-thirty. He wanted to hit her, but he controlled his temper and smiled, and told her there had been a bomb scare at the factory, so he had had to stay later than normal.

Charlie breezed into the lecture the following afternoon and squeezed in beside Edward. He pressed up close and whispered, but Edward couldn’t hear. ‘Can you help me out, I’ve got nothing done, not had the time, just fill in a few pages for me?’