Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘I should ruddy well hope so, after the trek down here. Why they don’t get rid of this place, God only knows. It’s rundown, freezing, and the roof looks as if it leaks. I’d say you needed to spend ten to fifteen thousand on the place before it’d be habitable... Social ruddy climbers, this place must be breaking the Judge. He’ll no doubt touch me for money, as usual.’

Richard snapped that perhaps they kept the Hall because they liked it. Not everyone was as obsessed with money as his father was.

‘You ought to know about that, Richard, never having earned a brass farthing — yet you manage to spend more in one week than a man earns in a year of hard labour! If all Eton taught you was to play goddamned backgammon, then I for one wish I’d never sent you there.’

Throwing up his hands in despair, Richard walked out, leaving BB, his father, to take over his position by the fire, warming his rear end.

‘Leave him be, dearest,’ Sylvia remonstrated feebly, ‘you always criticize him. He’s a dear boy, and means no harm... Did you bring your hunting jacket?’

BB bit the end of his cigar, spat it in the fire and bellowed for Fred to get him a drink to warm him up.

The thundering sound of Buster charging down the hall announced the arrival of Mrs Simpson. She proffered her cheek for Sylvia to kiss, while BB complained bitterly about not being able to take a bath after their journey. Mrs Simpson pursed her lips and murmured that there was a war on. BB snorted, ‘Don’t tell me they’re rationing hot water now, Edna, for Gawd’s sake.’

Sylvia could see her sister was furious, so she suggested Edna might tell them when it would be convenient for them to take their baths.

‘Well, come along now, dear, and I’ll show you your rooms and explain the intricacies of the plumbing system at the same time.’

They left BB still hogging the fire, his trousers sizzling. Sylvia followed her sister upstairs, noting Edna’s pathetic attempts at flower arranging. ‘My dear, perhaps you would like me to make a few Christmas decorations? I can paint some twigs and put some coloured balls and ribbons on them — they look very festive.’

‘We don’t really go in for that kind of thing... The gardeners haul a tree up outside the house and the Judge switches on the fairy lights — that, my dear, should suffice. And we’re not sending Christmas cards this year — rather goes against the grain, but there is a war on.’

Sylvia sighed. There was indeed a war raging, but somehow here in the depths of the country it seemed very far away.

Feeling a bit miffed at Sylvia’s condescension, Edna ushered her into her bathroom and explained how the hot water supply worked. Noting how many trunks her sister had brought from London, she said, off-handedly, that they had been invited to the Duke and Duchess’s house party the following weekend. Of course, she would call and ask if she could take her sister along.

The two women were so different, one five foot eight in her stockinged feet, the other five foot nothing. Their only similarity was in their plummy, aristocratic voices, Edna’s hoarse from constant shouting and Sylvia’s husky from chain-smoking. Sylvia must at one time have been very pretty in a doll-like way, with her big, liquid eyes, tiny upturned nose and cupid’s bow mouth.

Edna looked around the bedroom and folded her arms. She loved to take digs at Sylvia, as if they were still children. She’d always been jealous of her younger sister. It was unfair that Sylvia should have all the looks, but the fact that she herself had married a judge, and now mixed with high society, was reward enough. The family beauty was married to a South African, and a rough diamond at that, and Edna never let an opportunity pass to rub it in. ‘I can’t say for certain that the Duchess will oblige — they must have so many guests... It’s rather an honour, you know, to be invited, but then the Judge is very well thought of in these parts. The rumour is that he may even become Lord Chief Justice, did I tell you that?’

‘Yes, you did, dear, and I’m thrilled for you both.’ Sylvia fluttered her eyelashes, which were thickly coated with mascara, and looked so down, so hesitant and nervous that her sister felt quite sorry for her.

‘No doubt Richard will be roped in. Young men are always in demand, there are so few about with the war on... I don’t suppose you’ve got any dresses that would suit Harriet, have you? We really should do something with the gel. She’ll be coming out in a year or two, and she’s not the slightest bit interested in fashion. Would you see what you can do with her? The wretched child cut off half her hair, you know. Her best feature and she ruins it... Well, not the back, it’s just that the front’s gone fuzzy.’

‘I’m sure I can find something appropriate for Harriet... She’s out riding, I hear, with — Edward, isn’t it?’

Edna snorted and strode to the window. With all the students up at the university Allard could at least have brought home someone less peculiar. ‘Chap hardly speaks, you know. Good-looking, I suppose, but I find him rather disturbing. He’s sly in a funny sort of way — can’t fathom out his background at all. Welsh, or his family were, but then Allard was always one for collecting lame ducks.’

Sylvia carefully placed a silver-framed photograph on the bedside table. It was of two blond, angelic-looking boys, arm-in-arm and smiling into the camera. She touched the frame fleetingly, a sad, motherly gesture as if she were touching the child itself.

‘You shouldn’t carry that around with you, Sylvia. A constant reminder like that doesn’t do any good, you know, not after all you went through. I’d put it away somewhere.’

Sylvia ignored her, but she continued, ‘I don’t know why you put up with that husband of yours, I really don’t. He’s so dreadfully coarse and loud. He may be rich, but that’s not everything. Does he still run after the ladies the way he used to?’

Sylvia blinked, her nervous little hands trembling as she began to arrange her pure silk underwear, all neatly packed in layers of tissue paper, in the drawers. But she said nothing.

Edna pressed the point. ‘I do care about you, you know. You are my sister, after all.’

Sylvia shut the drawer very carefully and blinked, gave a tight little smile. ‘And I care about you, my dear. But I am perfectly well now, and BB takes care of us all, in more ways than one. Don’t be cruel about him, he is a good man.’

Silently thanking God that he was also a rich man, Mrs Simpson kissed her sister’s powdered cheek and walked out.

Left alone, Sylvia sat on the bed and looked at the photograph. Her tiny hands fluttered above the two beautiful, smiling boys, then dropped like birds to her side. Her eyes filled with huge tears and brimmed over, staining her cheeks with mascara.

BB walked into the room. For a moment his face puckered with pain, then he assumed a neutral expression and breezed over to lay a hand on her curly, blonde head. ‘Hold on, there’s a good girl, keep yer pecker up — we don’t want you having to go away again, now do we?’

She smiled up at him, and he took out his big silk handkerchief and wiped her tears away as though she were a child. She patted his hand and managed a small smile, saying she was perfectly all right, it was just that her sister sometimes got the better of her.

‘All I know is I got the best of the sisters. By God, I couldn’t survive that creature for long.’

BB watched his wife pull herself together, take her little silk make-up bag and go quietly into the bathroom to patch up her face. He sighed. She was so fragile, he could never tell her everything he felt, everything he was going through. The photograph of the two blond boys caught at the big man’s heart. He gritted his teeth and frowned, then took the frame and laid it face down so the two boys would not be looking at him, not forever making him feel guilty... He wished he could love his last born as much, but somehow he had closed off a part of him when his two eldest sons had died.