Lynda Plante: The Talisman

‘I hate to be called that — Juliana, my name is Juliana.’

The memorial service was, as Barbara had planned, an ornate show of wealth and social contacts. Cars were parked along the Strand almost to Trafalgar Square. The small St Mark’s Chapel was filled to capacity and press photographers clustered outside snapping politicians, film stars, actors... It was an elaborate but exceptionally well-organized circus.

Barbara had invited four well-known Shakespearian actors to read verses, and they stood in the small vestry rehearsing their lines as though getting ready for a theatrical premiere. In some ways it was — out in the pews were some very famous people, and one never knew when luck would strike. Why not at Edward Barkley’s funeral?

Alex and Barbara were the last to arrive. Barbara’s grandchildren were acting as ushers. Every pew was filled, and the rows of elegantly attired people looked around to see who was there. Two rows of exceptionally beautiful women, all dressed in black, sat in the centre of the chapel. No one knew who they were, but all eyes were upon them. They looked neither to left nor right. Jodie and her girls mourned Edward Barkley, some of the older ones more than the new young breed of girls. Jodie had brought them all from the still-flourishing Notting Hill Gate house. She was soon to own it outright — Edward Barkley had remembered her in his will.

Jinks sat well back, her hat pulled over her face to make sure she was not photographed or pressured into giving an interview. Jinks was not emotionally disturbed in any way by the showiness of the occasion — far from it. She took surreptitious glances at her watch, wondering how long it would go on.

A few seats in front of her Miss Henderson wiped the tears from her eyes. She turned and gave Juliana Barkley a small, intimate smile.

Alex was growing impatient. Yet another actor stepped up to the small, lily-bedecked rostrum. His voice rang out as he began Christina Rossetti’s poem, ‘Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand...’

Alex turned to Barbara in fury. ‘Who chose this? Why this?’

Barbara looked round the chapel quickly, then glared at Alex. She whispered that it was Dewint’s idea, apparently Edward had liked it. Alex bowed his head — it had been his mother’s favourite poem, the one she had recited to him when he was a child. He gripped the edge of his seat, gritted his teeth. He could hear his mother’s voice.

‘Damn Barbara, damn her interfering bloody memorial service...’ he cursed silently. ‘Damn you, Edward, for this charade.’ He could feel himself ready to explode, ‘I’ve got to get out of here...’

Alex half rose from his seat, and was saved an embarrassing moment as the congregation stood to sing the final hymn.

Standing hidden in the shadows at the very back of the church was Evelyn Barkley. He had only just made it. He had been released from prison ahead of time, his lawyers having requested for him to be present. He had watched Alex’s face during the proceedings, and his mother, sitting there like royalty. Before the end of the service he left, feeling unable to cope with everyone at the Savoy, unable to return to the house in Mayfair... His good intentions were already fading. He didn’t want to talk to his mother.

Evelyn arrived at the manor house, he had nowhere else to go and no money. Dewint came walking painfully up the overgrown gravel drive. He wore razor sharp creases in his trousers, his stiff-collared shirt and black tie, a thick black arm band around his jacket sleeve. He had to support himself with a stick, his arthritis was so bad. He had been allocated a seat at the very back of the church, and had wept through the entire service. When he saw the boy waiting, he couldn’t walk another step, he recognized him immediately but couldn’t speak.

‘Hello, it’s Dewint, isn’t it? I hope you don’t mind, I wondered if I could stay over for the night. It’s Evelyn, Evelyn Barkley.’

‘I know who you are — come in, sah, we’ll go the back way, Mr Edward put a newfangled lock on the front door and I’m blowed if I can fathom it out...’ The pixie face crumpled, and he apologized as he took out a neatly pressed handkerchief. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sah, but I just can’t get used to not having him come home.’

Evelyn helped the aged servant round to the back door, and they entered the kitchen. Having Evelyn there gave Dewint something to do, and he bustled around muttering about making up a bed, and that it would be best to use Mr Edward’s as the spare rooms had not been slept in for years. He appeared not to need his walking stick, and fussed over Evelyn like an old woman.

Evelyn wandered around the house. It was in dreadful disrepair, and creaked and groaned. Shutters banged, and it was obvious that Dewint had not dusted or cleaned for months. Evelyn pushed open the door to what had once been Jinks’ bedroom, the neat rows of toys still there, as if waiting for the child to return. Evelyn flushed as he remembered her — she was someone to whom he had to make amends, the funny little girl with the cross-eyes and lopsided pigtails... He had not seen her at the memorial service and he wondered how she had taken the death of her father.

Eventually he found his way to the master bedroom. The four-poster bed had been made up, and he touched the linen sheets. He noticed that his uncle’s initials were embroidered on everything, sheets, towels, pillowcases, even his shirts in the wardrobe...

Dewint smiled at Evelyn’s interest. ‘Oh, that was Miss Harriet, she took a course in it. I’ve even got a few embroidered tea towels. She did it with a machine, very professionally... If you have everything you need, sah, then I’ll say goodnight, sah.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Dewint.’

‘Will you be staying for the reading of the will, sah? The whole family’s coming, Mr Edward stipulated it. It’s to be read in the dining hall.’

‘If it’s all right with you?’

‘Oh, yes, I would like it, it’s good to have someone here.’

Evelyn waited until the old boy had gone up to his attic, then went back downstairs. The lounge was shuttered and dark. There were ashes left in the grate from the last fire... Then he realized there was something missing — he remembered there had been a large, ornate mirror over the fireplace.

He lifted the dusty lid of the old-fashioned record player, and twisted his neck to read the label of the record still on the turntable. He chuckled — it happened to be one of his favourite groups, The Doors, the lead singer long-since dead. He switched it on, settling back on the old, worn velvet sofa. Jim Morrison’s voice boomed out.

Evelyn switched it off, scratching the record in his haste. The room was stuffy, and he pushed open the french windows looking over the river. He breathed in the cold night air, then noticed something was written in the dust on the window. He deciphered the scrawl: ‘Evelyn... Evelyn... Evelyn MY SON... MY SON... MINE.’

Dewint tried to persuade Evelyn to contact his parents, but he refused. He remained in the manor house until the morning the will was due to be read.

Alex could not believe his eyes when Evelyn opened the door to him. ‘When did you get here?’

‘Just arrived, lawyers told me the will was to be read at the manor, so I came straight over.’

‘I see — well, you could at least have called me. You all right?’