Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘Yes, you said on the phone... Be back at a quarter to two.’

He strode out into Harriet’s vegetable garden. The line of tomato sticks looked like a miniature army lined up for inspection, and he walked slowly past them. He stopped — attached to one of the rods was a piece of paper, flapping in the wind. He trudged across the frozen soil and looked at it. ‘Edward’ — his name was printed clearly in Harriet’s thick, bold writing. He glanced at the house to see if anyone was watching him, then unhooked the note. There was only one line, in the familiar hand: ‘You were never unkind, just the wrong time of year for lettuce — Harry.’

Pocketing the note, he stood for a long time in the bitterly cold garden. He knew it was no accident — she had just walked out across the fields to die. He lifted his eyes to the horizon, remembering the hunched figure so many years ago, striding off into the night — the night she had taken a shotgun to her horse.

‘He’s still there, he’s still standing there.’

Puzzled, Allard looked at Jinks and she got up, walked across to the window. Her father stood with his back to the house, like a giant, his fur coat flapping in the winter wind. She rubbed her cold arms and asked Allard, ‘What do you think he’s doing, he must be frozen?’

His usually crisp, camp voice was soft. ‘I think he’s saying goodbye to her in his own way.’

Jinks wanted to go to her father then, wanted to feel his arms around her, but instead she stared at him through the dusty window.

The car pulled up outside Mr Postlethwaite’s barn, which also served as a morgue. The elderly bearers, in their black morning coats and toppers, carried the coffin to the equally elderly hearse. As they pushed the coffin in, their feet slid on the icy ground. Mr Postlethwaite murmured to the men that they were going to have a hell of a job getting up the hill, it was hard enough just to stand up straight.

Allard was squashed in between Jinks and Edward in the back of the hired Rolls. Nodding wisely, he said to Edward, ‘It’ll never make it up that hill, any money on it?’

The procession moved off, following the hearse, which seemed bowed beneath the weight of Alex and Barbara Barkley’s ‘floral tribute’, an enormous display of white lilies. Edward and Allard couldn’t help but smile. The hearse’s gears began to grind...

‘What did I tell you, it’s in trouble,’ Allard crowed. Jinks gave him a cold stare to shut him up.

Halfway up the hill, the hearse came to a halt and slowly slid backwards until it bumped into the Rolls. Edward started to laugh, and Allard, his hands over his face, tried desperately not to join in. Their chauffeur reversed frantically, then grabbed the handbrake, but the Rolls rolled on and struck the following car, containing the vicar and three of his parishioners, whose faces looked terrified as they slithered downhill... The parishioners screamed in unison, like three little balding birds...

Three times the hearse attempted the hill, only to slide back. Coats were removed and laid under the back wheels, much to the chagrin of Mr Postlethwaite, whose best tails would bear the tyre imprints forever after. But the hearse steadfastly refused to climb the hill. Allard was now laughing openly, and Edward was wiping away tears of mirth.

Jinks, who had tried so hard not to find humour in the situation, biting her lip until it bled, finally caved in. Edward smiled through his tears, ‘That’s it, sweetheart, you know Harry’s engineered this whole thing — she’s up there roaring with laughter. Can’t you hear her?’

Indeed, Harriet would have split her sides if she had seen her last journey, the coffin tied eventually to the roof-rack of Mr Postlethwaite’s new Morris Minor. The hilarity of the journey was echoed halfway through the delayed funeral service when a wedding party arrived. The vicar took their advent as a cue to speed up the service. The poor organist, his frozen fingers struggling with the keyboard, pumped the bellows desperately for the rendering of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’. He was mortified when his precious organ began to emit what could only be described as a deep, resonant fart.

The bride and groom stood aghast as the coffin was carried from the church, followed by mourners in a state verging on hysteria. Allard, beside himself, had to lean on the door to get his breath, declaring loudly that it was better than any revue he had ever seen.

By this time the hearse had made it to the top of the hill, and Harriet was driven more sedately on the last leg of her journey to the crematorium. In the confusion between wedding and funeral, someone had tied a silver horseshoe to the coffin. It trailed behind, but no one laughed. They were all very quiet, subdued, and the bouncing horseshoe somehow reminded them that they would never hear Harriet’s wonderful laugh again.

That night they drank more brandy than they should have, sitting in the freezing Hall. They all needed sustenance, and the vicar had to be helped home as he had already overindulged at the wedding reception. Jinks took the opportunity to excuse herself when he departed, and went up to her room. She had only just closed the door when her father knocked.

He was wearing his wolfskin coat, and carried the ashes in a small urn. He had tied the horseshoe to it.

‘I wondered if you would like to say goodbye to her? I’m going to the chapel, and I’d like it if you came — would you?’

They walked apart to begin with, Edward carrying the ashes under his arm. Twice Jinks stumbled, and in the end he tucked her arm in his. He knew the way, never stopping once, and he guided her to ensure the branches didn’t slap her face.

‘Okay, we’re here... You all right?’

She nodded, and he pushed the door open. Jinks hung back slightly as he moved further into the dark, broken-down chapel. He bent down and brushed the dead leaves from the small stone slab.

Jinks whispered, ‘She carved his name, she told me all about him.’

He looked up at her and smiled gently. She could see his eyes were brimming with tears. Sitting back on his heels he opened the urn, held the contents in his hand. He trickled the soft ashes between his fingers, spreading them over his dead son’s grave, then rubbed them until they were part of the stone, part of the scratched name, ‘Freedom’.

Jinks walked slowly to her father and stood behind him. He turned, wrapping his arms around her, and cried like a child in his own child’s embrace. He broke her heart as he said her mother’s name over and over... said it so softly, with such tenderness, that she knew he still loved her.

Jinks and Edward travelled back to London together on the fast morning train. He sat opposite her, and when she looked up from her book she found him scrutinizing her. ‘You know, without those bloody glasses you’d be a smasher. Do you have to wear them? Take the damned things off and let’s have a look at you.’

Jinks would not meet his eyes as he removed her spectacles. ‘Shouldn’t this be in a movie? “Good God, Miss Jones, you’re beautiful... ”’ She smiled at her own joke, but he saw the way she avoided his gaze, the embarrassed flush spreading up her cheeks.

‘Untie your hair.’

‘Oh, Daddy, please don’t, people will start looking.’

‘I don’t care — it’s about time someone took you in hand. It’s all right, don’t look so startled, I’m not saying it should be me. But you know,’ he said reassuringly, ‘you look terrible... Your mother never had much dress sense, but one time she came back from Paris and my God did she look a cracker... hair, outfits... You got a boyfriend?’

‘No I haven’t, and please give me my glasses...’

Edward held them away from her and peered through the lenses, then back at his daughter. ‘Are you long-or shortsighted? Contact lenses would be better than these. Here, don’t get all panic-stricken, put them on, go back into hiding.’