Lynda Plante - The Talisman

When Edward entered the room, he found Allard, dressed in a plum velvet smoking jacket, instructing his porter on how to set the table. It was after three o’clock by the time the lunch began, by which time eight more people had arrived, carrying more champagne, home-brewed wine and caviar. They all got so drunk that the lunch became a shouting match. Edward made a mental note of everyone’s names, and watched his speech to make sure he didn’t drop any aitches. He made himself useful, helping to serve and being very much a part of Allard’s team. All the girls were titled, very young with high-pitched voices, and the girl next to Edward passed him her card and insisted that he look her up when he got to town. They all showered Edward with their cards, and Allard roared with laughter. ‘All after that lean body of yours, Edward old chap. Ahhhh... Henry, come in, come in, you’re very late.’

Henry Blackwell entered, his arms full of flowers. He knelt at the feet of one of the debs and kissed her. It appeared that this was his fiancee. The girl blushed and kissed him back, looking at him with adoration in her eyes. Edward watched the play between Allard and Henry — they were very friendly, but they sat at opposite ends of the table. Edward knew that no one would believe what he had overheard, yet he detected a slight frostiness emanating from the Honourable Henry. He knew why, but he said nothing, knowing intuitively the value of his secret.

Cambridge University was well known for its revues, but the most prestigious of all was the Footlights. Some of its members actually went into the theatre after gaining their degrees. The shows were very professional, and many West End managements paid visits, talent-spotting. This year’s show was one of their best yet, and Edward’s comic monologues were the hit of the night, thanks to Charlie.

Edward had been slightly wary, wondering if Charlie had ever shown any of his work to his friends, but it became obvious he hadn’t. As Edward supplied more and more of Charlie’s monologues, he became quite a star attraction himself, and no one was aware that he had stolen his new-found fame. His mantelpiece was filled with embossed invitation cards for the forthcoming vacation, and he was very careful not to answer any of them, hedging his bets. Now he was accepted as part of the crowd he intended to stay in with them. Walter asked if he would like to spend the vacation with his family in Manchester and was laughed at for his pains. Edward had dropped Walter since he had become friendly with Allard, and no longer accepted the offers of free trips to the pictures. ‘Why don’t you find yourself a girl, Walter? You shouldn’t want to take me with you everywhere you go, doesn’t look too good. You ever had a girl, Walter?’

Poor Walter blushed and polished his glasses, and stuttered painfully that he had known lots of girls, he just didn’t talk about them too much. He had become editor of a varsity magazine called Cambridge Front , and offered to let Edward write for it. ‘I’ve got some great people contributing, Dylan Thomas, Vladimir Mayakowsky and Raj Anand. Would you write one of your monologues for me, Edward?’

Edward’s store of Charlie’s work was running low, but he promised to come up with something for poor Walter.

Allard, who never knocked, just breezed in, his hair standing on end. He started talking before he’d even closed the door. ‘Edward, old chap, it’s about this piece on the ballet dancer, I think it would be perfection if I had a rugby forward with me who changed into a tutu halfway through; it’d be hysterically funny, don’t you think?’ He pranced around the room, proclaiming the monologue about the male ballet-dancer’s position in the world of dancing. ‘Okay, now when I get to this bit...’ He took up a balletic pose and continued in a high-pitched, camp voice, ‘The main problem with the public is that they believe that dancing is for women, and any boy taking it up as a career could be termed a cissy... Now then, when I go on about Nijinsky, I think I should prance around doing the “golden slave” routine from Scheherazade , the costume would be funnier, don’t you think, than what you’ve suggested — the “Spectre de la Rose”. So instead of knocking Nijinsky I’m going to be that other fella, you know, whatsit, Stanislas Idzikovsky, much funnier name, that all right?’

Edward had to cover because he’d never heard of Idzikovsky. Allard took his silence for disapproval. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. ‘Oh, come on, it’s much better. Sometimes you are so earnest... Do I change it or not?’

Edward nodded and Allard beamed. He could snap so fast — one moment all laughs and smiles, the next acting like a bitchy woman. Edward also began to detect how Allard’s voice switched with his moods. One moment he would be dead straight, the next he would be speaking with a camp lisp, savouring his words with that twinkle in his eye. Allard opened the door with a sweeping gesture.

‘For Chrissake, Allard, can’t you even open a door without making a performance of it?’

Allard primped, hands on hips. ‘Listen, who do you think you are, Noel Coward?’

Edward attended the rehearsal, but soon decided he had seen enough and went for a late stroll along the river. He walked on to the small bridge and leaned on the parapet, watching a few students in punts messing about and making fools of themselves. Continuing over the bridge, he cut down the steps to the river bank. He recognized Walter in one of the punts, and couldn’t help but laugh. Walter was obviously extremely drunk. His glasses were askew, and he was clinging on for dear life to the punt pole. Edward had not seen Walter for a few weeks because of his new friends, and he knew Walter was upset about it. He also knew that if Walter and the others were caught on the river at this time of night they would be up before the provost.

Edward walked on but, hearing the hilarity increase, he turned back in time to see Walter flying head-first into the river. The girls thought it was all very funny and smashed their poles into the water close to him as he thrashed around, yelling that he had lost his glasses. The other boys clung to the side of the overturned punt, and one of them called to the girls to lend a hand. They manoeuvred themselves closer. Edward could see it was going to happen and shouted, but he was too late. The two girls were tipped into the water. There was so much splashing that Edward couldn’t see Walter, but he did see one of the girls go under. She came up gasping for air, and he could tell by her terrified screams that she couldn’t swim.

Edward dived in and dragged the girl to the bank. She was near collapse and he turned her over, pumped at her lungs. All around him was pandemonium in the darkness as the boys crawled on to the banks, and Edward shouted again for Walter without success. The girl sat up, coughing and spluttering, and Edward waded back into the water, calling for his crazy friend. Suddenly he spotted him, a little way up the river, floating face down. Edward swam to him, grabbed his inert body and doggy-paddled to the bank, doing his best to keep Walter’s head above water. He shouted to the boys for help as they ran back towards the boathouse, but he could see torchlights approaching. He knew if they were caught they would all have to go before Emmott, and would be in serious trouble. He held Walter for grim death as the torches came closer and closer, scanning the river for the culprits as the two overturned punts gradually sank.

Walter began to cough and choke, and Edward dragged him to the river bank, where he spewed up the water he had swallowed. Walter’s teeth chattered all the way back to the college, and they had to stop occasionally while he vomited. Edward despatched him to his rooms with orders to get a hot drink inside him and to keep his mouth shut about the night’s events.