Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘Do you want a photograph?’

‘Oh, we all know Miss Harry, no need for that. Have you been down to the Feathers at all?’

Jinks snapped, her nerves in shreds. ‘My mother is not in the pub, Sergeant...’

Allard ushered the policeman to the door giving Jinks a frown. ‘My niece is obviously a little upset... thank you for coming.’

Before the door had closed, Jinks said in a fury, ‘Too damned right I am more than a “little upset”. Now think, think of anyone she could have gone to see... Allard, I’m talking to you.’

‘I’m just going to make us a cup of tea. Really. This is typical of her, absolutely typical, you have no idea how dreadful she was when she was little.’

Jinks was close to tears as she followed him into the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and there was her mother’s handbag. ‘Allard, is this Mother’s?’

He filled the kettle. ‘Well, it’s not mine, so that proves she can’t have gone far. When she comes back in, I am going to have it out with her. Total wanton disregard for our feelings.’

Jinks had a strange foreboding, she felt icy cold. ‘Allard, will you see if any of her coats are missing...?’

Allard inspected the row of old coats on the hooks by the kitchen door. Mud-stained wellington boots were all jumbled, left where they had been kicked off. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. ‘The chapel, she was always skiving off there. We can give it a shot, but we’ll have to walk, no through road — and it’s quite a way. Perhaps we should wait until morning, what do you think?’

‘No, we go right now... better get a torch.’

They were out of breath by the time they reached the woods. Allard was cursing the cold, the mud, and the branches that scratched at his face as he pushed through the dead bracken. Their breath steamed in front of them, whirling in the torchlight, and Jinks grew quieter and quieter. Her mother would have been here all night, and it was freezing. More than twenty-four hours had gone by. Allard kept stopping to get his bearings, still swearing. He shouted to Jinks to keep up, she’d get lost.

At last they arrived at the derelict chapel in the overgrown clearing. Ivy crawled over the roof and walls, and weeds burst through the stones. It had a ghostly air in the feeble beam of the torch.

Putting his shoulder against the door, Allard heaved. The door creaked open on its rotten hinges. Jinks held the torch, stepping into the chapel first. She knew they would find her mother.

Caught in the beam of light, Jinks saw her. She dropped the torch, sobbing. ‘Oh, Allard, she’s there... she’s there...’

Harriet was huddled in a corner, a bunch of dried flowers in her rigid hands. Beside her was a tiny grave, obviously newer than the others, on which she had scratched the name ‘Freedom’ with the penknife that lay at her feet.

Dwint heard the door open. He looked out from his top-floor window as a black taxi came down the drive. He wrapped his dressing gown round him and pulled on his slippers. The lights had been turned on in the hall, the drawing room and the study. Dewint leaned over the banisters. ‘Miss Jinks, is that you?’ Edward’s voice boomed out. ‘No, it’s me, you old faggot.’ Dewint gasped as Edward strode out of the drawing room.

‘How are you doing, old fella?’

‘Oh, I’m doing fine, sah. Welcome home.’

They stared at each other. Dewint had not changed at all, but Edward had put on a lot of weight, although he was still a handsome, awesome man. He had no luggage apart from an old worn leather case. Tossing his coat to Dewint, he rubbed his hands, saying he was hungry. Then, as if he had been gone no more than a few days, he marched into the kitchen.

Dewint bustled after him and began frying up bacon and eggs as Edward sat at the scrubbed kitchen table. He never mentioned where he had been or what he had been doing, and he didn’t even ask after Jinks. He seemed preoccupied with scratching at one of the cracks in the table with his knife... Suddenly, just as Dewint was about to crack an egg into the pan, Edward got up, opened the kitchen door and walked into the garden. The light from the kitchen enabled Dewint to see him touching the big old oak tree, and then he watched as Edward slowly placed his arms around the tree and pressed his face into the bark. As he put the bacon and eggs on the table, he saw that Edward had scratched the letter ‘H’... The loud ring of the telephone almost made him drop the plate. The phone call was from Allard, enquiring if Dewint had any idea where Edward was. When Dewint replied that he had just come home, there was a pause, and then Allard said that Harriet was dead. Dewint continued to hold on to the phone long after Allard had rung off. Eventually Edward came in and took the receiver from him and replaced it.

‘Oh, sah, it’s bad news, it’s bad news.’

Edward patted his shoulder, and walked slowly up the stairs.

‘It’s all right, old fella, I know. You don’t have to say anything.’

Edward caught the first train, and Allard met him at the station. He gave a brief nod and bent almost double to squeeze himself into the car. There were dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and the inevitable cigar was clamped between his teeth. Allard muttered obscenities as they crept up the steep hill towards the Hall, convinced they were not going to make it. The only time Edward spoke was to remind him that he had a first gear... The car jolted and, with smoke streaming from the exhaust, they eventually made it over the top. Crossing the small humpbacked bridge, they coasted through the village of Helmsley and on to the Hall.

Jinks was waiting, sitting among stacks of furniture.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ was the only greeting Edward gave her as he followed Allard into the kitchen. ‘Kitchen always was the warmest place in the house.’

Jinks followed them and leaned against the door.

‘Congratulations,’ Edward said to her. ‘It’s something to be offered places at both Oxford and Cambridge. Have you made up your mind yet?’

‘I don’t think this is either the time or the place to discuss that,’ she replied. ‘Did Allard tell you about the arrangements? She’s to be cremated. We couldn’t really have a coffin here with the state the place was in so Mr Postlethwaite — he runs the funeral parlour — he’s got her... she’s at his farm. He has some sort of morgue, where he keeps... Oh God, it sounds awful... Is Uncle Alex coming?’

Edward appeared completely unaffected by his wife’s death. He blew on his hands for warmth. ‘No, they’re busy, wouldn’t you know. They’ll probably send an ornate wreath.’ He found it difficult to meet his daughter’s eyes. It had been a long time since he had seen her. She looked older than her seventeen years, with her thick glasses and her thin, pointed nose pink from the cold. Edward tried to make conversation, huddled by the fire in his great fur coat.

‘Right, what’s to be done? Have you arranged everything?’ Somehow he just knew she would have, he could tell.

Jinks found it hard even to talk to him, he dominated the kitchen and her. She didn’t mean it, but her voice sounded brittle, unforgiving. ‘We all go to Mr Postlethwaite’s and follow the hearse to the church. The vicar’s arranged the ceremony, two o’clock, and afterwards we drive to the crematorium. It’s quite a way, almost to York.’

Edward looked at his watch and suggested they get a bite to eat before they left. Jinks declined and said she would wait for the car. He still could not look at her. ‘Fine, I’ll see you later. I’ll walk to the Feathers, be there if you need me.’

As he opened the kitchen door, Jinks blurted out, ‘It was an accident, she never meant to kill herself.’