Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Edward walked around the house. It was filthy, every room filled with dust and dirty dishes. Eventually he opened a door on the same landing as BB’s bedroom. It had been converted into an office, and there were papers in every corner, stacked almost to the ceiling. The desk was a mess of open drawers, and more papers were strewn across it and the floor.

Edward remained in the room for most of the night, and by morning his back ached and his eyes itched from reading. BB was broke. How he had been living in London God alone knew — probably on credit. Edward struck the desk with his fist — BB, the great financier, had lost everything in the Wall Street Crash. He had only useless mines and overdrafts — Edward took his fury out on the papers, hurling them across the room. Judging by the mess, that was more than likely what BB had done himself. He went to BB’s room and looked at the big, beached whale as he snored and right there and then he wanted to kill him. But he closed the door, went to his room and sat hopelessly on his bed, beside his unopened suitcase. He lay across the musty-smelling bed, and then was gripped by a sudden, terrible wrenching pain. He doubled up, clutched his belly. He was terrified, what in God’s name was the matter with him?

The pains swept over him in engulfing waves. They would subside only to come back, wrenching and shaking his body... Sweat dripped off him and he felt them coming again and again... He rolled on the bed, his legs thrashing, in agony...

Slowly, as the sun came up, the pain diminished. He lay exhausted, gasping for breath. An overwhelming sense of grief and loss engulfed him. He touched his face, half surprised to find he was crying, the tears streaming down his face. He got up and stared at himself, stared at the weeping man in the mirror.

He ran down the stairs, leaping the last ten to the landing below, kicked open BB’s door and grabbed the startled man. BB was sober but confused, and Edward was like a madman.

‘Call London, call London, you have to call London... listen to me, you have to call London...’

Somehow he got through to BB, who unearthed the telephone number. Edward snatched up the receiver and waited for what seemed an interminable age of misdialling, operators’ voices and strange noises, until finally he heard a distant ringing tone.

BB fought to get his befuddled brain into order so he could speak. Edward gripped his arm so tightly it was like a vice. ‘Speak to them, ask them if everything is all right, now, speak to them now.’

BB took the phone, breathed in and licked his lips. ‘Hello... hello, can you hear me? It’s BB! What? It’s a terrible line, hello? Allard, it’s BB, just making the yearly how-de-do call. Everything all right there, old chap? Can you speak up, it’s difficult to hear...’

Edward released his hold on BB’s arm, his eyes searching the man’s face. He wanted to grab the phone from the pudgy hand, but he contained himself. He was sure the Simpsons wouldn’t approve of him even trying to speak to Harriet. He wished he’d just asked for Allard, made some excuse to speak to him.

BB listened, his face red, the sweat trickling down his chin. He mopped his brow with a dirty, stained handkerchief. ‘I can’t hear? What...? Oh, Sylvia? Well, she’s not too good. Is everything all right there?’

BB battled with the bad connection, his voice rising. ‘What? She is? No... no reason, just rang to say hello... what?’ He looked at the phone and shook it. Edward could hear the buzz of the dialling tone... He seized the phone.

‘It’s no good, been cut off. Lines are always bad, terrible connections.’

Edward’s eyes frightened him, deep, black eyes.

‘Harriet? Did they say anything about Harry?’

BB scratched his head. His eyes filled up and he looked at Edward, helplessly. He was hardly able to recall what had just been said to him. ‘Think they said something about her being a bit under the weather, not “coming out” this season... What is it, lad? What’s wrong, what have I done?’

Edward felt his whole body relaxing, the pain in his stomach eased and he slumped into a chair. ‘Nothing, nothing... Sorry if I yelled at you, I just... I just had a gut feeling... an odd feeling.’

The pains had subsided completely, the awful wrenching at his belly was over. BB stuck his hands in his pockets. Tufts of white hair stood up on end around his bald head. Edward stared through him, and then his eyes focused on the old man. His voice was quiet now. ‘I need you, BB — need you to make my fortune. What a joke, what a fucking joke. You don’t even know who I am, do you? Do you...?’

BB’s face puckered as he sat in the chair, his feet planted wide apart, a shell of the man he once was.

It was all coming back to him now, he remembered who Edward was. He slumped before the younger man, head bowed in shame. He could find no words to express his feelings. He was a drunkard, a bankrupt, and a liar. Edward clenched his fists in anger as he saw the light dawning on the old man. BB’s voice was hoarse, whisky-soaked. ‘Allard’s friend... yes, Eddie. Oh God, my mind’s so fuddled.’

Edward gripped him tightly. ‘Then you’re going to have to get straightened out, you’re all I’ve got. We’re partners, you and me, and we’ll do it on a handshake. I’ll get you back on your feet, I don’t know how the hell, but, by Christ, I’ve not come all this way for nothing. Shake... shake, BB.’

The old man looked Edward in the eyes and shook hands. He gave a wobbly smile. ‘We used to play draughts... yes, yes, I remember... You played a good game of draughts. I’ve not played for a long time now, a long, long time.’

‘We’ll play anything you want, BB... after I’ve made my fortune.’

BB thought he was joking, but Edward’s face was like a mask, with no trace of humour. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile.

The birth had been easy for Harriet. Even so, she had screamed the place down. The midwife had blushed at her language, and the doctor had laughed as Harriet kept up a steady flow of verbal abuse. She had swung her fists in the air, writhing around on the old-fashioned bed. ‘You bloody amateurs, what in Christ’s name are you doing? Get that stupid bitch out of here, I want a vet! A vet knows better than you two! Ohhhh, Jesusssss...’

But when the baby was born, and laid on her breast, Harriet softened. She glowed like every other mother the doctor had seen. She held her son in her arms, not wanting to part with him even to be washed. He weighed eight and a half pounds and was perfect, with a mop of jet-black hair. His eyelashes were so long they brushed his cheeks. His tawny skin was neither reddened nor wrinkled... he was like a doll, sleeping contentedly.

‘Oh, look at his fingers, Auntie Mae, have you ever seen such perfect hands — and his toes, each one is simply perfect.’

They were beautiful together, she with her rosy-red cheeks and her auburn hair tumbling around her shoulders. The baby was strong, his tiny fists clenching and unclenching. He had such a pair of lungs the whole farm knew his arrival had been accomplished successfully. The lads all gathered outside Harriet’s window, and she held up her son with pride.

‘See, what did I tell you? It’s a boy! Look at him, isn’t he just wonderful?’

Harriet was so strong and healthy she was up and about the following morning, singing at the top of her voice. Auntie Mae was preparing her breakfast when she burst into the kitchen.

‘I want eggs, bacon, porridge and tea, and — oh, yes, toast, with lots of marmalade — your home-made stuff. Oh, don’t bother with a tray, I’ll eat down here — he’s had his breakfast. Guess what his name is — go on, guess.’

Auntie Mae shook her head in wonder. Most women spent at least a week in hospital when they had babies, and here was Harriet charging around the kitchen. She was stuffing food into her mouth like a naughty schoolgirl. In all truth she really was just that, her aunt thought to herself. She ruffled Harriet’s hair and Harriet gave her a bear-hug, then nuzzled her neck. ‘I think I am happier than I have ever been in my whole life, my son is... Oh, Auntie Mae, he looks just like his father.’