Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Alex closed his eyes and seemed to deflate completely.

Juliana applauded, leaning on the jamb of the open sitting-room door. ‘Well, isn’t this cosy? Believe me, Alex, all I want is my inheritance, my share, my partnership, nothing more. It will save a lot of time if you sign here and now. I have no intention of taking over, we will continue the double signature, we will both run the Barkley Company.’

Alex spun round, loathing her smirking, beautiful face, but he was already unscrewing the top of his solid gold fountain pen. He snapped, ‘You learn very fast.’

‘I don’t let the carpet get worn out under my feet, as my father would say.’

Evelyn watched Alex as he began signing the documents. Juliana, standing at his side, slowly eased off her soft leather gloves. She then signed alongside each one.

That done, she carefully replaced the cap on the pen and handed it to Alex. ‘Well, partner, will you have lunch with me? I have a reservation at Le Caprice for one-thirty, and I’d like to discuss the data on Father’s computer, it makes very interesting reading... in particular the South African companies. If you agree, I’d like to call a halt to the cloak-and-dagger tactics of my father, bring it all out in the open.’

Alex had to hand it to her, even though he would have liked to wring her neck. He stood back in admiration. ‘I’ll be there, one-thirty.’

She bent and kissed his cheek, taking him right off-guard. She seemed quiet and sincere, meeting his eyes with a warmth he had never seen before. She touched his cheek affectionately. ‘I won’t let you down, I’ll make you see that this was the right, the only, decision to be made.’ As she passed Evelyn on the way out, she gave him not one word of thanks, didn’t even look in his direction.

Neither man spoke a word until they heard her car going away down the drive, then Alex sighed. He felt strangely awkward, even trying to make light of the situation.

‘Well, that’s that. I suppose I should thank you. If any scandal had broken I doubt I’d get my title... Did I tell you I made the Honours List?’

‘Congratulations... Goodbye, Alex.’

Helplessly, Alex watched Evelyn walk from the room. He picked up his briefcase and followed his son into the hall. He had already reached the top of the staircase.

‘What’ll you do?’

Evelyn didn’t look back. Mounting the stairs, he said, ‘Don’t know, not thought about it yet.’

‘If you need me, you know where I am.’

Evelyn laughed softly, and his reply was almost inaudible. ‘Yep, you’ll be at the office with your partner.’

Neither of them was able to say what he felt, they could not even hold each other. The front door closed softly after Alex.

Evelyn lay down on Edward’s bed. He felt drained, squeezed, wrung out. Dewint coughed politely.

‘Excuse me, sah, but I was packing my possessions and, well, there’s a few things Mr Edward left in ‘ere... I found this.’

He handed Evelyn a small, brown envelope. Inside was a worn, flat book, stamped across the front. It was a Post Office Savings book, the copperplate handwriting faint over the stamp, looped and old-fashioned. It was dated May 1921, and bore the name of Evelyne Jones. Between the pages was a photograph that Evelyn remembered being taken the Christmas he had stayed at the manor.

‘Who’s Evelyne Jones?’

‘I don’t know who she is, sah, there was never anyone called Jones livin’ ‘ere. Will you be staying on? Only, I’m almost packed, be off in the morning. Goin’ to Bermuda, sah, I’ve always fancied it.’

Evelyn smiled at the old man. ‘Well, you have a good time... oh, and Dewint, if there’s anything you want from the house, take it, take anything you like.’

Dewint gave one of his formal little nods, and paused at the door. ‘Thank you very much, sah, an’ may God bless you.’ Evelyn’s dark eyes and black hair made him want to weep, he was so like Edward. His high-pitched voice broke, and he swallowed. ‘He loved you, sah, always loved you.’

Bowing out for the last time, Dewint went to finish his packing. Evelyn stared at the ceiling, unconsciously holding the small savings book. He turned it over, then opened it.

In Edward Barkley’s handwriting was a neat list of bank account numbers. They belonged to his first-class Swiss accounts, and they were now made over to his son. The old legacy, left to his grandmother, Evelyne Stubbs, then passed to her son, Edward, still contained one pound, fifteen shillings and sixpence to be withdrawn. Evelyn Barkley held in his hands not only the original legacy, but also access to the vast personal fortune of his blood father. One billion in cash, no strings attached, no partnerships, no ties, just a short scrawled message:

‘This is your freedom.’

Epilogue

One year after the death of Edward Barkley, the Barkley Company, with Juliana and Alex at the helm, was well respected and had moved into legitimate share-trading, reaping vast profits. But the nightmare of the City crash in October 1987 looked set to destroy all they had built.

Panic reigned in the City and within the Barkley organization. The pair worked frantically to salvage their tumbling shares. Alex poured his personal fortune into the failing company until he was at breaking point, but the slide continued until it became an avalanche of loss.

The Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce parked at the edge of the gypsy camp. A filthy, ramshackle, heartbreaking place, hemmed in by iron fences, it snuggled under the foul, fume-filled motorway without a single blade of grass in sight.

George Windsor had driven Alex to the camp on three consecutive nights. Each time, after driving slowly past, Alex had ordered him to take them home. But tonight Alex had made up his mind to go in, even though Windsor had warned him not to.

Threading his way among the broken-down cars, caravans and trailers, Alex finally reached the main semi-circle of wagons. From within could be heard the sounds of television sets and muffled voices. He stood in the darkness, unsure of what to do next.

A hand grabbed him by his fur collar and whipped him round. ‘What the hell do you want, man?’

Two more surly-looking men appeared from the gloom. Shaking with fear, Alex put his hands up, thinking the man was about to hit him. ‘Please, I mean no harm. I need to speak to a dukkerin.’

He was pushed roughly between them as they jeered and laughed at him, pushing him back and forth, their voices rising.

‘Need a what? What the hell you want, man, eh? Eh?’

Lights came on, doors opened and voices yelled for the men to keep quiet as there were kids sleeping. ‘Get out, man, go on, get out!’ Hands touched him, patted his pockets, almost took his wallet. A woman’s voice screeched, ‘What you men doin’? Gerraway from him! You! Come here.’

The woman had an instant effect on the men, and they released Alex.

‘What you want, mun? What you come here for?’

Alex moved nearer, his hands up in a gesture of submission. ‘Please, I need to speak with a dukkerin, is there one among you? A fortune-teller?’

The men behind him laughed, mimicking his voice, but the old woman scrutinized him, sucking her lips into her toothless mouth.

‘Please help me, my father was a Romany...’

‘Bring him in, lads, then leave him be. An’ if yer got his wallet, give it back.’

She sat in a creaking armchair and waved him to another. Her hands, with rings on every finger, were arthritic, gnarled, and she was more lined than any woman he had ever seen. Her holed stockings were as wrinkled as she was, but her eyes, black, small eyes, were bright and young in her strange wizened face.

‘Dukkerin, eh? Where you learn the old language?’