Lynda Plante - The Talisman

The nurses whispered together, checking his pulse, his drip. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Barkley? Your brother’s waiting to see you. Feel like a visitor? Yes?’

Alex was in such pain he could do nothing. His bandaged head throbbed, and he felt as though a truck had run over his face. He could smell the familiar cologne, the heavy, sweet, musky smell, and knew his brother was in the room.

‘Hey, you still using that whore’s perfume spray?’

Edward laughed and held Alex’s hand. ‘That’s my brother talking! How are you feeling?’

‘Terrible, bleedin’ terrible. Me ‘ead feels like someone kicked it in.’

Edward remained at the bedside until Alex slept. He came every day, and even spent two weeks with Alex at a rest home in the Alps. It had really only just begun, there would be more plastic surgery, involving a series of operations.

Alex’s nose was remodelled, his cheeks built up with bone taken from his hips. His ears were reshaped, his jaw rebuilt, and his teeth capped and straightened so he no longer had to wear a false plate. His face was black and swollen for many months, and he grew depressed and irritable, as if he would never be free of the bandages or the pain.

Edward discussed his brother’s progress with the doctors, and worried about his fits of depression. Alex had been away from London, from the world he knew, for almost a year, and had grown so dependent on Edward he no longer even asked about his club. The surgery had given him a complex; he didn’t want to go out, aware of the tell-tale scars, and said he felt everyone was looking at him. Instead of giving him confidence in himself, the operations had done the reverse. He had never lived in such luxury or been so well taken care of, and he was at a loss how to accept it and deal with it. He was not ready to go home, yet Edward knew he must start preparing him for his eventual return. He planned a short holiday, driving through the south of France.

Alex sat sullenly at his side, wearing dark glasses, hunched in his seat.

‘I got you some records, for speech therapy... you listening, Alex?’

‘Yeah, you gonna make me a friggin’ film-star next, are yer? Feel a right git, all these bleedin’ operations and fer what? I look like a bleedin’ patchwork quilt.’

‘They’ll heal. You should stay in France, learn the lingo.’

‘Yeah, I hear you. Who’ve I got to bleedin’ talk to, meself?’

The trip was a disaster. They argued and bickered their way through village after village until eventually Edward’s patience snapped. He was almost ready to throw in the towel when he discovered Alex in his hotel room, staring at his new face in the dressing-table mirror. The swelling and bruising had indeed gone, and there was the ghost of the old Alex, the handsome face nearly healed.

Alex turned to Edward and smiled. ‘Hey, not bad fer an ex-con, what you think?’

Edward knew then that Alex was on the mend. The following morning he had arranged a special trip, refusing to tell Alex where they were going, saying it was to be a surprise. They tried out their schoolboy French as they headed towards Cannes.

Later that afternoon Edward showed off his surprise — the Chateau La Fontaine, his gift to Alex. A twofold gift, because he was more than aware that Alex needed even more time to adjust to his new image. Edward wanted him to start losing his East End accent, wanting him to adapt at his own pace to his newfound wealth. He calculated, not in weeks or months, but in years, so he set up a project, yet another carrot that would also keep Alex occupied, and would free Edward from his nursemaid duties. He knew he had made the right decision as they drove through the chateau gates.

‘Imagine, Alex,’ Edward told him, ‘imagine what you could do with this place! You have carte blanche, as much cash as you need. Go ahead, take it back to basics and build yourself a palace.’

The Chateau La Fontaine, buried in the hills only an hour from Cannes, was originally built in 1769. During the occupation, the Germans had taken over the property and let it run to ruin. The once-splendid gardens and orchards were overgrown and tangled, but somehow the chateau, even though crumbling at its very core, retained a magnificent power.

Alex began to work on it with trepidation, then slowly the excitement of the massive undertaking took hold. He set the wheels in motion to completely reconstruct and refurbish the chateau.

One of the estimates he obtained for the interior, from Michelle Marchalle of Marchalle Fabrics, came in under budget. The company sent a representative to meet Alex and discuss the project in detail. So Alex met Miss Imura Takeda and within half an hour he had offered her the job.

Miss Takeda, who wished to be known simply as ‘Ming’, was a diminutive Japanese woman. She had arrived at their first meeting in her small Citroen, and he had been taken aback by her composure and businesslike manner. She was wearing a Chanel suit and was perfectly groomed, her glossy black hair cut in a heavy fringe reaching almost to her perfect almond eyes, and cropped short into her delicate white neck.

Ming offered to cook Alex dinner at her home. He found her workshop and apartment in a small, rundown cobbled street in Cannes. She gave him a calm, small bow as he entered her showroom. There were only two pieces of furniture on display, a small table and a single chair set against a cream silk wall and standing on a highly polished wooden floor. A tiny white vase contained an arrangement with a single flower.

Ming led Alex through to her workshop, where again the furnishing was sparse, with four girls working on designs at two trestle tables. The walls were plain with only two prints hanging, and there were stacks of fabric samples in fine wooden frames. Alex was shown designs, materials, and careful copies of original wall-hangings that Ming had drawn.

‘I am most grateful, Meester Barkley, that you have chosen my company. We are very small but I give you my word that the work will be done to a very high standard.’

She made tea, her movements quick yet unhurried, and placed before him perfect cups of the finest bone china he had ever seen. She watched him touch the table, bowed her head.

‘It is very beautiful, yes?’

Alex, sitting on a low cushion, nodded and sipped his tea.

‘The table is seventeenth-century Chinese. Many people think only of porcelain for that period but, you see, many pieces of Ming furniture were also made.’ Ming giggled as she said the word ‘Ming’, then whispered that it was not her real name, but one she had chosen for her work. ‘Many people in the trade simply call this period of furniture “Ming”.’

They continued their conversation while Alex watched her tiny hands prepare the most delicious supper of raw fish and vegetables. Ming gave him a book on seventeenth-century Chinese furniture, which as soon as he arrived home, he spent the rest of the night reading.

Alex grew increasingly enamoured of Ming. They travelled across France together in her little Citroen, attending auctions and antique fairs. They flew to Paris for the major ‘in house’ auctions, and he was guided by her taste and flawless eye for detail in everything. She would make him walk mile after mile through every fabric section of every store, never satisfied, until she found exactly the right texture, the right shade. Her own company set about hand-dyeing silks, and she employed six Japanese women to begin making up the drapes.

Alex was aware of the change in himself. Ming introduced him to the high priests of Paris couture, and under her influence, a hint here, a word there, he set about buying his own wardrobe. Hesitantly, he asked for her approval, and gratefully accepted her advice.