Miriam's Talisman (21 page)

‘You don't need to worry too much,' he was saying. ‘We arranged it so that it more or less runs itself. But it will take a few days to move the bulk of the money and the interest payments into your own account.'

‘That should please my bank manager. I'm usually overdrawn.'

‘Not much danger of that now. I'll deal with the bank directly if you like. In the meantime you'll need some pocket money. Would ten thousand do?'

‘Sorry? Did you say ten thousand? What,
pounds
?'

‘Just to tide you over. No doubt there are things you want to do straight away.'

I suddenly wished I'd paid more attention. ‘Look, exactly how much money are we talking about?'

He took a small piece of paper, scratched his pen over it, then slid it across the desk to me. I looked at it for some time, waiting for it to do something. My mind formed the black lines and loops into pictures. A black swan on a white lake, leading a string of cygnets bobbing along behind her. Or was it a sea serpent arching its long neck from the deep, endless coils of body breaking the surface in its wake? Greg's hand was on mine.

‘I know it's a lot to take in all at once. I've been trying to break it to you gently.' He reached into his desk for the brandy bottle.

My stomach twisted with fear. ‘I don't understand. Where did it all come from?'

Greg shook his head. ‘I often asked myself the same question. But it's all quite legitimate. She just seemed to have a knack for making money.'

‘I can't take this! What about Hannah?'

‘Wouldn't take a penny from Miriam. And God knows Miriam tried often enough. Now, this is just between you and me. You know I handle all your mother's finances, the divorce settlement and maintenance payments. Well, Miriam and I have been leaking money into her account for years. Just small, regular amounts, so she wouldn't notice. If she ever found out…well, you know Hannah. Perhaps, in time, she might accept something from you, but I wouldn't broach the subject just yet. Meanwhile I take it you'd like me to continue the arrangement?'

I nodded, then said, ‘But what am I supposed to do with the rest of it?'

‘Well, you could try spending it. Being wealthy isn't all
bad, Cliohna. Who knows, you might learn to enjoy it.'

Greg was laughing at me, but I was close to tears. I was lost. My hand groped at my neck, clutching the talisman. Where was he when I needed him? Some place beyond my reach, somewhere only he and Miriam knew about. I doubted Hannah would know anything, and even if she did she would only deny it. Ireland, that was part of it, along with all the money. ‘Chloe? You all right? You know I'll help in any way I can …'

‘My grandfather, Harold Shaw? You were trying to reach him.' I was grasping for something concrete.

‘And we're still trying. As I said, Miriam left me his address and a phone number. But no answer yet. Here, I'll write it down for you.'

‘You said there was something for him from Miriam. A letter?'

‘That's right. To be sent after her death.'

‘And you still have it?'

‘Yes, I wasn't going to send it until I had made contact personally.'

‘Let me take it to him.'

‘What? To America you mean?'

‘Yes. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?'

Greg shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, no reason at all.'

And that's how it was left. He would inform me as soon as he managed to make contact, then I would go in search of Harold Shaw.

Greg insisted on walking me down the stairs. I think I was still shaking. I refused the offer of another taxi: the house wasn't far away, a sunlit walk through the morning city streets. I needed some time and space to think about the money, but I can only remember wondering if there
would be many blackberries in the orchard this year. I had noticed the tight little knots of fruit appearing a few weeks ago, green and glassy red. I had bitten into one. The dry flesh soured my mouth.

I turned into our side street. There were no front gardens here and the crowded houses shouldered onto a narrow pavement. A line of cars hunched into the kerb. I edged along the path, dusty brick work on one side, glaring metallic paint work on the other. There was a splash of bright red near Fifi's usual parking spot. I wondered how she was, just how bad the damage had been. As I neared I could see that it was exactly the same colour red. In fact…no, it couldn't be. Same make, same colour, but it had to be a different car, just an odd coincidence. Then I read the registration number. There was my old jacket on the back seat and the pile of mint wrappers spilling off the dash board. I ran my hand over the front wing. It was smooth and polished. Last night the metal had buckled like crumpled paper. I had brushed flakes of paint from my fingers. Shards of windscreen had flown all around me. I backed away, groping for the front door. Stumbling through, I trod on a bunch of car keys. There was a folded sheet of paper.

I read the note several times, hoping there was something I'd missed. But there was no explanation.
He
had promised, that was all. I couldn't think about it now, not on top of everything else. I was just thankful the house was empty and I didn't have to explain any of this, or where I'd been all night.

God, I'd been awful to Paul. I waited for the usual pang of conscience, but nothing came. I tried prodding about among the confused numbness of emotion, hoping to feel something, like the reassuring pain from an aching tooth. Nothing. Then a small part of me suddenly wanted to laugh. I went upstairs to pack.

People who say ‘I won't let it change my life' are fooling themselves. Money changes everything—everything you own, everything you do. Already choices were opening up before me like cracks in the earth, yawning chasms of empty space where once there had been the firmness of necessity and obligation. I was supposed to return to work in a few days, but was that really what I wanted to do? I could no longer justify my compliance with Hannah's career plans by the collection of a salary slip. I was certain Miriam had known all this would happen. The money was just a means: it opened up the way.

I brushed the dust from my old suitcase and folded some clothes into it. Then I took most of them out again and stood, bewildered, amid my worldly goods. Concentrate on the suitcase. It was small and the plastic covering had split. I had bought it when Angie and I had gone on a bargain package holiday to Spain. It was all I could afford at the time. Now the value of everything had changed. Everything I owned, or nearly everything, had become instantly replaceable. I refilled the case with other things,
presents mostly, books and CDs, a few ornaments and some jewellery. It was soon full. I would have to resort to black bin liners to carry out the rest of my possessions. How did the song go? ‘Carrying her home in two carrier bags.' I was turning into a bag lady. I thought about all those noughts Greg Uson had dashed off and started to giggle.

There was my artwork, of course, folios and the paintings from the walls. They left squares of lightness when I took them down, proof that I had once been here. No doubt she would soon cover up my spaces with someone else. The colour would soon fade and blend in. I left the portrait of Angie for her as a gift. It took several trips to fill Fifi's back seat and boot. Yes, and that was something else. Fifi. No, I couldn't think about that.

I used a silk blouse to wrap up my little green poodle. Made of cheap plaster and flaking into white patches, it's the ugliest thing I've ever owned. I won it at a fairground when I was seven. The few things of Miriam's I had collected went into the car. I dumped most of my own clothes on the bed. They might fit Ruth. Oh, hell no: Lady Bountiful's cast-offs. She would be so insulted. God, how could I be so clumsy? I stowed another bag in Fifiand ran back up to sort through my dressing-table drawer.

There was a sound from downstairs, a key in the front door, then other doors opening and closing. Paul's footsteps echoed on the stairs and I stood by my bed waiting for him to find me. If I closed my eyes I might become invisible. I tried it but the sound of his steps came nearer and the door burst open.

‘What's going on? What's all that stuff in the car?'

‘I'm moving into the cottage.'

His shoulders drooped. He looked at the ceiling, and
then at me again. His voice was deliberately slow and steady. ‘I thought we went over all that last night.'

‘No,
you
went over it—' I stopped myself, determined to remain serene. I was resolute on this so there would be no need for a confrontation. ‘About last night. I had too much to drink. I should have waited. Explained things properly. I'm sorry.'

‘No. It was just as much my fault. You've been through a rough time. I didn't realise that you were—how badly it had affected you. I shouldn't have sprung that dinner party on you. It was far too soon. I see that now. I'm sorry.'

‘You didn't come upstairs then, before you went.'

‘You'd had quite a skinful. We thought it best to leave you to sleep it off. I rang this morning but Angie said you were still in bed. She didn't want to wake you.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘Look, about the cottage—'

‘I told you, I'm moving in there.' I was trying hard to keep the defiance out of my voice. I turned back to the drawer, grabbing at the small personal scraps that accumulate in such places, throwing them into a carrier bag.

Paul walked around to where I stood, hands spread out in front of him as if to pacify an unpredictable animal. ‘It's all right. I've thought about it. I realise this cottage means a lot to you. It would be unfair to expect you to give it up. Well, not straight away. Why don't you keep it on for a while? No need to move in completely. We could go there at weekends. Perhaps spend Christmas there. That could be fun, you know, real tree, log fire, have some friends round for New Year. Then in the spring…well, who knows?'

It all sounded so reasonable, so rational.

Beware reasonable arguments
, Miriam's voice whispered at the back of my head,
they're a honey-baited trap
.

‘That's not what I plan to do.' I continued sorting out the drawer. I could feel something harsh and jagged welling up inside me.

‘You'll be back at work next week. It will be further to travel from there.'

No it won't, I thought, but I said nothing.

‘And it's further from the hospital you know, I'll find it more difficult to get there.' That was true.

‘Actually, I'm not going back to work. I've quit my job.' The words surprised us both.

‘What do you mean? You can't just throw up a job like that.'

‘I can and I have.' Yes, I know I should have explained everything, I owed him that. Instead I was taunting him with feigned irrationality, wielding it like a sword.

‘What do you think you are going to do?' His voice rose ever so slightly, piercing the thin veneer of calm and reason.

‘I'm going to America. It's all arranged. I'm going to find my grandfather, Harold Shaw.' I would not wait on Greg.

‘What? Miriam's husband? But you told me he died years ago.'

‘Well, it seems he's made a remarkable recovery.' I looked up from my packing and smiled sweetly. He was starting to fray round the edges like the cuffs of his jacket. I should buy him a new one. Least I could do.

‘All right, all right. Look, I'll tell you what we'll do. You go back to work. It won't be a problem. Just tell them
you've been under a lot of stress and you weren't thinking straight. You can keep the cottage on, for weekends like we agreed.'

‘No, I never agree—'

‘No, listen to me, Chloe. Go back to work and in a few weeks we can both take some time off and I'll go with you to America. Yes, that's the way forward. We'll both go. We can see your grandfather, if he's still around, and we'll have some time together. There hasn't been much chance of that lately. Yes, that's what you need. A holiday.' He was more confident now, getting into his stride. ‘Besides, you're not used to travelling. You can't go all that way by yourself, can you?'

He did have a point there. I'd hardly been out of the country before, and never on my own. America suddenly seemed a long way away. For a moment I wavered. He must have sensed the weakness in my shield and moved forward, wrapping his arms around me. If he had just left it there I might have given a little. But not Paul. He had to win all the way.

‘There, you see. We've worked it all out. All you needed was a break. I'll arrange it all. Meanwhile, perhaps you could go to your mother's for a few days.'