Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘What you going to build, Mr Barkley, sir? Offices? Warehouses?’

He smiled and said nothing, just instructed the men to complete the fences, he hadn’t decided yet.

Edward noticed a property for sale in Greenwich and studied the brochure. The place was ridiculously cheap, described as ‘a small, stately manor house, giving direct access to the river’. He took a boat trip along the Thames, standing breathing in the cold river air and the sights. He had missed England and was glad to be back. The river, the barges and the bridges gave him a sense of freedom.

The house was so run down that the roof had sunk in, the gardens were overgrown and the access to the river was blocked by driftwood and leftover debris of bombed-out wharves. The estate agent bowed and scraped to Mr Barkley as he opened the front door, and their voices echoed through the dark marble hall. The dusty cobwebs hung in swathes, and everywhere was filled with rubble. One room had been used by tramps — they had left their empty wine and meths bottles, and the stench of their urine pervaded the air.

The master suite overlooked the river, directly across from his old home. He could stand at the window and see where he had been raised. ‘Tell your company, I will give them ten thousand below the asking price, in cash. Contact me at my office tomorrow morning.’

The agent almost fainted as he calculated his commission, and his luck in being the one to be given the keys to show Mr Edward Barkley of the Barkley Company around the old manor. As he locked and bolted the thick oak front door, he noticed, for the first time, the strange carved gargoyles looming from the eaves of the dilapidated roof. He made a mental note to contact his ‘knocker boy’ friends. The old place would be demolished, and there could be a bit of cash made from ‘devils’ heads’ up the King’s Road.

Within one week the deeds belonged to Edward, and within a month of the completion twenty-four builders started work. They were not going to demolish the manor as everyone thought, far from it. Mr Barkley was going to be in residence, and he wanted the best, nothing but the best.

Driving away from the manor house Edward was very happy. The work was going along fine. He turned on the car radio and suddenly decided he would visit his mother’s grave. He veered off the bridge and headed for the East End cemetery.

He stared down at the neatly cut grass, the marble urn filled with fresh flowers. The caretaker told him someone came most Sunday afternoons to tend the grave. Edward tipped him well, very well, and the old man took off his cloth cap. ‘You want me to look out for him, sir? Tell ‘im you was askin’ after ‘im?’

Edward hesitated. It would look strange if he didn’t say something. ‘No, no need, thank you all the same.’

‘It’d be no trouble, guv, you jest gimme yer name an’ I’ll pass it on...’ the caretaker trailed after Edward and looked at the Rolls parked along by the railings. ‘Didn’t catch the name, sir?’

Edward stopped and turned, irritated by the man’s persistence. ‘Barkley, the name’s Barkley.’

The old man pushed his cap back, scratched his head. ‘Barkley... you any connection to the Barkleys, that big tombstone up by the grass verge? Only the geezer don’t do dat one, he does the small one up by the taps.’

Edward shrugged the man off and opened the car door, then as the old boy shambled back into the gatehouse he walked across to the Barkley tomb. It was massive, and an archangel stood on top as if on guard. The Barkley family were titled until 1864, then the title dropped, and the last names added made Edward bend down to brush off the creeping moss.

‘Edgar, Andrew, the dearly beloved sons of Edith and John Barkley... Rest Forever In Peace.’ The whole family had been wiped out in the Blitz, not that Edward felt any pity, it was the dates that interested him. Edgar and Andrew had been born in the same years as Edward and Alex Stubbs.

Edward spent a long time at Somerset House trying to check on the Stubbs family; Freedom and Evelyne had never married — both he and Alex were illegitimate. Freedom’s name was on both birth certificates as the father, but there was no marriage certificate.

Turning to the Barkley family, he made copious notes and detailed the family history. He was informed by the clerk that many records had been destroyed in the fires of the Blitz... There was no record of the deaths of the two boys, Edgar and Andrew, at Somerset House. Armed with a copy of the birth certificate of the dead Edgar, Edward applied for a new passport...

Shortly before two o’clock two Sundays later, Edward arrived at the cemetery. By four o’clock he was ready to give up when he saw the silver Jaguar draw up. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a gut feeling it would be his brother.

Almost able to touch him, Edward stood right behind Alex. ‘Hello, Alex.’

Alex straightened, clenched his fists, and froze.

‘Been waiting for you, came last Sunday too.’

Alex’s stomach turned over. He couldn’t move, and his mouth went dry. He felt the hand on his shoulder like a massive weight, and still he couldn’t turn. The hand rubbed his shoulder, then moved to his neck, skin contact. Slowly, Alex turned to look into his brother’s face. He had to lift his eyes just a fraction, but then Eddie had always been slightly taller. The brothers remained silent as they looked at one another — into each other’s souls. Edward’s hand dropped, but their eyes were locked, each trying to see into the other’s mind.

Edward reached out and traced his brother’s face, the scars, the broken nose, the crushed cheek and the ear, the one bent like an old boxer’s ear. His hands were manicured and soft, his touch gentle. Alex could only see his father, Freedom, standing before him, the thick black hair and black eyes, the straight nose and high cheekbones. Edward was a mirror image of Freedom.

Gently, Edward wrapped his arms around his brother. Alex went stiff, his body rigid, his hands clenched at his sides, ungiving, unwilling to bend to the embrace. He could smell sweet perfume in his brother’s hair, on his soft, shaved skin. He was helpless, so many emotions exploding inside him... He gritted his teeth, waiting until the arms fell away, until Edward stepped back.

This was the moment Alex had been waiting for all these years. His heart was pounding, and he swallowed. He tried to make his voice sound natural. ‘Hello, Eddie — will you have a drink with me?’

Edward smiled, and they both turned and walked away from the grave towards their separate cars. Hands shaking, Edward brought the Rolls behind the Jag. He lit a cigarette and his whole body shook. Jagged pictures flashed before his eyes. He began to sweat. As if replayed again and again, he saw his father coming towards him, his arms open wide... coming towards him, towards the knife...

Alex blasted his car horn, looking back at the Rolls, then waved his hand for Edward to follow. Alex was calm now, icy calm. He had been thrown by Edward’s resemblance to Freedom, it had unnerved him, but now he was back in control. They drove off one behind the other.

Alex stopped to pick up a bottle of rum. He didn’t know why he chose rum, he didn’t care. The Rolls drew in behind the Jag and parked, Edward locked it. He looked around the rundown street, not two miles from where they used to live. He followed Alex up the stone steps to the third landing and neither spoke a word.

The room was spartan, and Edward looked around as he took off his coat and flung it over a plastic-covered chair. The table was laid with one plate, one knife and fork, and one cup turned upside down on its saucer, the teaspoon not in the saucer but lying beside it. Every item in the small two-roomed flat was meticulously placed, even the salt and pepper, the folded paper napkin.