Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Dora went into the bathroom without answering. She knew she was stupid, but she also knew that Eddie would be back — she knew it.

Edward caught a tram to the East End, with his mother’s necklace and earrings in his overcoat pocket. The guilt clung to him; he wanted to see her grave. He swallowed constantly, using all his self-control to block out the grief that was building up inside him. The closer he got to the cemetery, the worse it was.

When Alex was informed that Nathan, ‘the Chimp’, had been killed in the Blitz, he shook his head in despair. Why was it that every time he trusted anyone, felt for anyone, they were taken from him? Dr Gordon had given him the news, half expecting trouble, while the two warders watched at the open cell door. Over the weeks they had grown fond of Alex, had come to sympathize with him, and he had given them no trouble. This, along with the doctor’s report, persuaded the authorities to allow Alex to be taken, at long last, to see his mother’s grave.

Dr Gordon repeated over and over that they were trusting Alex to behave. The two guards that Alex had grown used to accompanied them.

The green security van with the tiny slit windows drove slowly across London in the early dawn. Alex stared through the small aperture like a child. He was scared — everything looked so different.

Twice they were held up by workmen redirecting traffic around huge bomb craters in the road. Alex took everything in, and his realization that a war was raging while he was incarcerated shamed him.

At the cemetery Edward paid off the cab driver, refusing his offer to wait, and watched him drive away. He wandered among the tombstones for quite a long time, looking for his mother’s grave. Then he stood still, closed his eyes and, when he opened them, he walked directly to her, sensing where she was buried.

The necklace felt as though it was burning in his pocket. No one had told him what to do, he just seemed to know, as he slumped to his knees and began to dig with his bare hands at the soil to the edge of the white cross. He dug a deep, narrow hole, blackening his hands and nails with the soil. His breath heaved in his chest as he took from his pocket the gold necklace and tiny earrings. He wrapped them in a clean white handkerchief, knotted it, then placed it in the earth and filled the hole.

He could hear his own voice, as though someone else was speaking aloud, ‘Don’t haunt me, Mama. Rest, sleep in peace with him — and forgive me.’ He bowed his head and wept, the tears that had refused to come before falling now.

The release was immediate; his body felt cleansed, and he was free. But in his grief he could not stop shaking. He remained on his knees beside the small white cross, then bent his head until it almost touched the centre of the cross.

‘I’ll make you proud of me, I swear to you. I’ll be rich one day, Mama, I’ll be everything you ever dreamed of for me. I love you, Ma. I love you.’

As the prison van pulled up at the cemetery gates, the doctor draped an overcoat around Alex’s shoulders. It was winter, and the rain was lashing down. The strange group stepped out of the van and Dr Gordon reminded Alex of his promise to behave.

At the gate an old woman sat on a beer crate, offering a few bedraggled flowers for sale. The doctor bought a bunch and handed them to Alex, who waited with a warder on each side of him. The overcoat hid the fact that he was handcuffed to one of them.

Edward’s knees were wet from the muddy ground, but he still knelt. There was more, much more he had to say, but he couldn’t form the words. His father Freedom lay with her, but even here he couldn’t say that name, ask for forgiveness for what he had done... He found himself trembling violently, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The steady rain gave way to a torrential downpour, and he got to his feet, pulling his collar up around his ears. It wasn’t the rain that was making him feel this way, it was something else. His heart was thudding and he was flushing hot, then cold. ‘Jesus,’ he thought, ‘what the hell’s the matter with me?’ He turned to walk away from the grave.

A group of four men headed towards him from the entrance. He turned away from them and walked to the lee of a large tomb surmounted by a six-foot-high stone angel, kneeling with clasped hands. He was sweating so his shirt stuck to him, despite the chill rain. Apparently unnoticed, he watched the four men approach his parents’ grave.

Dr Gordon had visited the cemetery previously to be sure he knew exactly where Evelyne Jones was buried. He was thankful for that as he guided the little party through the downpour — he didn’t want the boy to have to search for her. They threaded their way along the narrow path, the handcuffs forcing Alex and the screw to walk very close together. Before the doctor could indicate the grave, Alex stopped and pulled at the handcuffs — he knew instinctively.

The grave seemed small, and its white cross had just enough room for the two names and short inscription: Freedom Stubbs, Evelyne Stubbs. Heart to heart — Camipen-lil, manushi.

Alex laid the flowers gently on top of the cross and bowed his head. He stood as if frozen, making no sound, but the tears streamed down his pale cheeks. It came as a shock when he finally spoke, ‘They left no room for us, no room, as if she didn’t want us buried wiv ‘em. My Dad was a Romany, yer know. In the old days, when a Romany of high-ranking blood — like my father, he was a Tatchey Romany, pure-blooded — well, when they died they destroyed everyfing they owned, ‘cept money, of course. Everyfing they could burn was set on fire, an’ their crockery, pots an’ stuff were broken or thrown in the nearest river. They even destroyed jewellery, an’ if there was a horse it’d be shot. They said it ‘ad to be done or the dead person’d haunt yer. Gypsies believe the ghost hovers near its possessions after death, so it ‘ad to be done.’

Edward had not recognized Alex at first. He leaned against the praying angel and watched. Alex was so tall now, so terribly thin. His face was gaunt and his blond, curly hair was cut close to his head. What shocked Edward most was his brother’s face. With his flattened nose this once-beautiful little brother looked like the thugs Edward had seen in the movies. They were so close he could hear their voices, and yet he could not move those few steps to reveal himself. He had seen the handcuff on Alex’s wrist as he had laid the flowers on the grave. He knew what he had done, knew that those handcuffs should be around his own wrist, but still he could not move. The rain had eased a bit, and he could hear every word they were saying, as if he were standing beside them.

It was time for Alex to leave. Dr Gordon nodded briefly to one of the warders, who tapped Alex on the shoulder. ‘We’ve got to get back now, son, I’m sorry. You all right? Come on, stand up, lemme give you a hand.’

Alex had been kneeling in exactly the same spot Edward had vacated moments before they arrived. He reached out and touched the disturbed earth close to the cross. He could tell it had been freshly turned, despite the fact that the soil was sodden with rain. The warder jerked slightly on the handcuff, and Alex looked up. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

The doctor began to talk quietly as he helped Alex to his feet, mainly to distract the boy as they left. ‘Do you believe those stories, son? Do you think your mother’s ghost is at rest?’

Alex laughed softly, unnerving them all. ‘She was no Romany. He was, Freedom, and he’ll not rest, he’ll haunt ‘im all right. He ‘as to live with what he did, not me. You see, Doc, I know it’s too late to do anyfing about it now, but I never killed ‘im. My brother did it. The ghost’ll be on ‘is shoulder, not mine.’