Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “In the kitchen,” said Rita. “I’m just making some tea.”

  Georgia sat on the new padded armchair, floral and bouncy. “Tea again? You know you could just summon it up if you wanted,” she said.

  “I like to make it properly,” Rita called back. “That way I know I’m getting something real.” She came in carrying a tray, teapot and cups. “But you could make some more of that nice cake if you like.” She put the tray on the coffee table and sat down opposite Georgia. “I never had any breakfast.”

  Georgia closed her eyes, opened them again and dutifully handed her mother a small plate of sliced cake.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot since you were last here,” admitted Rita through a mouthful of crumbs. “And I can see the sense in some of the things you say. I hope you noticed I’ve got more light in now, and those lovely big windows can get really sunny. But don’t go getting above yourself. I don’t see the sense of everything. Frankly, some of the symbolism stuff you talk is a load of rubbish.”

  Georgia blinked. “You’ll have to take that up with God.”

  Rita wasn’t amused. “Now there you go spoiling things. That’s blasphemy, young lady. Spoken in Heaven too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and you from further up as well. I suppose you say things like that just to shock me.”

  “So you concede we’re in Heaven?”

  “Well, it’s not much of one,” said Rita. “You come from a nice cosy bit I suppose, but I got the dreary part as usual. They say everyone’s equal, but it’s not true is it, not even over here. Mind you, it gets jumbled up from there to here and those who had it good before don’t always get it good this side. There’s this big, big movie star just a few doors down, though I can’t remember his name now. You’d recognise him if you saw him, but names and reputation and stuff fades here doesn’t it? Anyway, when he arrived he expected a palace with everyone so impressed and loving him like mad, but he got stuck in a horrid dark little house just like mine and he was furious. Now he won’t talk to a soul and won’t go out, and he just sits and glares out of his teeny little window. I’ve got nicer windows than he has.”

  “So everyone is equal then,” insisted Georgia, thinking of Norwen’s speeches.

  Rita shook her head. “I had it poor and dreary before, and I’ve got it poor and dreary now too,” she said. “But I’m ready to admit one thing. You’ve helped since you turned up. Nice windows, nice cushions. The new light shows up all my things really well. So, fair’s fair. That’s down to you. I mean, I always had windows outside, but now I’ve got them inside too, and it’s got real pretty. Mind you, it shows up the dust too.”

  “I always had that trouble when I was alive. You dust the bottom shelf daily, the next shelf up weekly, and the top shelf monthly.”

  Rita pursed her lips. “Your father didn’t bring you up to be much of a housewife, then!”

  Georgia regarded her mother with surprise. “Should he have?” Then she shook her head, banished the cross remarks, and said, “I don’t seem to get dust anymore.”

  “Yes, well, you wouldn’t, would you,” said Rita. “No dust, no grime, no things falling over. So like I said, you got to live in the nice bit higher up.”

  Georgia abandoned her cup of tea which was going cold. “Honestly Mum, you seem to want me to feel guilty about that. Accusing me – as if I took the biggest slice of cake and made sure you only got the crumbs. For Heaven’s sake, stop putting the blame for all your own misfortunes on other people.”

  Rita stiffened. “Who’s blaming who? I know I did wrong, back then. When you were little, it was my fault. There was that pretty lad who I fancied and Maurice was always getting headaches. So, I went where the fun was. I was bloody stupid of course, but I was very young. I’ve told you before, if you want an apology, well, you can have it. I’m sorry. I apologise. But I won’t say no more. It wasn’t easy, being poor with a grisly baby and a miserable sod of a husband. You try it.”

  Georgia sighed. “I did.”

  Rita giggled. “Well, if you’d had more bloody courage, you’d have left them. You obviously didn’t take after your mother.”

  “I just had a long affair instead,” admitted Georgia. “And now I think I should have left my husband and gone with my lover. But at the time, your example wasn’t exactly encouraging. I was a bit haunted – but well, perhaps – at least my daughter was a lot older.”

  There was a short silence. “Self-righteous bitch,” Georgia told herself, but did not say it aloud.

  “So what?” demanded her mother. “What’s that got to do with courage? Easier for the kid when it’s still young enough to get used to another woman, and forget the old one. I bet you never even missed me.”

  Had she? Could she even remember anymore? “Dad never married again,” said Georgia, looking quickly down into her lap. “Anyway, what happened to the poet or whoever he was?”

  “Bloody useless git,” sighed Rita. “Didn’t last long. I found another, then another. I was never happy. No luck in money, nor blokes. I bet Maurice would be pleased to hear that.”

  Well, he might, actually, and Georgia knew she’d tell him the next time she saw him. She smiled to herself... “Of course he wouldn’t. Dad’s not like that,” she said, knowing it was a lie. Could you lie in heaven? Maybe on the fifth plane you could. “And stop thinking selfishness is the same thing as courage,” she said. “I was selfish too. No courage. But indulgence. And that was the bit I loved best of all.”

  “Sex, you mean?”

  “Oh, Mum,” said Georgia, eyes back on her lap.

  “I like it when you call me Mum,” said Rita. “I’ll make some more tea.”

  Georgia felt she might vomit tea, and shifted uncomfortably in the over-stuffed armchair. “It’s so nice and bright in here now. Tell me everything you’ve changed.”

  “I’m glad you’ve noticed,” said Rita, sitting down again. “It all took a few days and a lot of hard work, but I reckon I got it right in the end. I’ve got a big mirror in the kitchen too, and that reflects light. It’s the light I really like. It was so bloody dull before.”

  “Yes, and that’s fantastic,” Georgia was suitably enthusiastic. “I mean, think of symbolism, so you’ve chosen to see the light. That’s just wonderful.”

  “Well, no need to get excited,” Rita said. “And all this symbolism stuff you go on about, well, I didn’t ask for any of that. It’s not my choice. I just want to get on with my life.”

  “Your death, you mean,” interrupted Georgia. “You’re not still denying that, are you?”

  “Well,” said Rita, “I’m alive now, aren’t I? I’m certainly not lying down dead. I feel alive, so stop complicating matters. Keep repeating those same old bossy lessons, and I’ll stop inviting you around. Honestly! You’re dead, Rita, face facts. It’s all relative, Rita. Think about the symbolism, Rita. Dark is dark so let in the light, Rita. Well, I’m sick of having other people’s ideas shoved down my throat. I’ve heard all that stuff before, never fear, and I don’t like it. You’re as bad as those prissy goody-goodies, so stop being so bloody bossy.”

  “So you’ve had visits from people before, trying to help? What did you say to them?”

  “What do you think?” scowled Rita. “I’ve a mind of my own and I don’t like people interfering. But you, well you’re my daughter so it’s different. But just don’t take liberties. Now I think I’ll go and make a symbolic cup of bloody tea after all, since now I need one myself.”

  “I’ll make more cake,” suggested Georgia, despondent.

  She was into the top layer of icing when Norwen jumped into her head. It was sudden, and made her jump too. “I’m glad you’re here,” whispered Georgia, too confused to keep her voice silent. “I’m not being subtle enough and Mum’s getting fed up with me. I’m not exactly practised with this teaching business. What should I do now?”

  “Stop trying so hard,” Norwen answered. “Your mother’s spiritual progress is not your responsibility. Rela
x and trust. Enjoy discovering her and let her discover you. If you must feel obliged to teach, then teach by example. You are not your mother’s guide.”

  “Does she have one then?” asked Georgia. “She’s never mentioned it.”

  “So, what’s that all about?” demanded Rita, bustling in with the tea. “It’s that telepathy stuff you’re doing, isn’t it? So just stop it. It’s rude. While you’re in my house you can bloody well restrict yourself to talking to me instead of wandering off into your head. I don’t like it. It’s worse than mobile phones and that silly textating stuff.”

  “I was talking to my guide.” Georgia glared. “Don’t you have one too?”

  Rita poured the tea with a dismissive scowl. “Oh, I told you. People used to come. All superior and showing off their fancy auras. Always talking about love and soppy forgiveness. I sent them packing, like everyone else in this street does. We don’t like snobby do-gooders here and as soon as one of them turns up we all go inside and slam our doors. That shows them.”

  Georgia couldn’t resist the answer. “No wonder you’ve been sitting in the dark for ages.”

  “I’ve heard all that stuff before,” said Rita. “Now it’s my turn to talk, so try listening for once. You’re so keen on this symbolism stuff? Right. So let’s have some more changes around here, and you can help. I reckon you’re better at it than me, so how about a vase of flowers? A window box maybe, and some pretty ornaments on the mantelpiece. And while you’re at it, I’d like the recipe for that nice cake you keep making.”

  Georgia was obediently concentrating on chrysanthemums when her focus was interrupted. Someone was shouting from across the street outside. Rita stood and went to look out of the window, peering suspiciously from the shadow of the curtains. “Come on,” she said, turning back to Georgia. “Something’s going on. Let’s go and have a look.”

  “It’s your name being called,” said Georgia. “If you’ve got other visitors, I’ll leave. I can come back another time.”

  “Hang on,” said Rita.

  Someone was pushing through her front door. Impatient with the ill-fitting barrier, the man had decided to walk straight through. He was large and bearded and looked pleased with himself. “I did knock, but no one heard me,” he said, booming slightly. “So anyway, you’re being called from the other side. We heard it, my wife and me. It’s you lot they’re asking for.”

  “Looks like most of the street has heard it too,” said Rita crossly as a large crowd began to group around her front door, several others pushing into the living room. “Bugger off, all of you. If it’s for me, then I can answer it myself thank you very much.”

  “A telephone call?” asked Georgia in total confusion.

  “That’s her,” someone shouted. “It’s not for Rita, stupid. It’s for that woman she’s got visiting her. What’s her name, Rita, her in the pink dress? What’s your name love?”

  Avid faces pushed in upon her. “Me, I’m Georgia,” she said, stumbling backwards.

  “That’s the one,” shouted several together. “Come on, get your call, love. We’ll help you set it up.”

  “Was me got the call first,” bellowed the large bearded man. “I should be the one sets it up.”

  “Bother,” said Rita, trying to push several hefty bodies from her room. “My first call ever, and half the bloody street gets in on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They sat facing each other on the banks of the pool, toes in the water. The sun blossomed on a circle of water-lilies, which had not been there before.

  “Oh well,” said John, hitching up the damp hem of his toga, “if you’re going to be attached to the old idea of cause and effect, at least relinquish the insistence on sequence.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” demanded Primo. “Even supposing I wanted to, that is. Things happen in some sort of order, even over here.”

  “They never did,” said John, “which is why cause and effect was always a dodgy idea. But hang onto your outworn beliefs if you wish. Far be it from me to upset your smug sense of security.”

  “Patronising old twit,” said Primo again. “I’m not fucking stupid you know.”

  “Which is why you have fewer excuses,” said John. “Think about it. A soul needs a set of lessons. Gets reincarnated. So along come the appropriate lessons. Cause and effect! Except that the poor sod firmly believes that what’s happening to him is the cause of his misery. He doesn’t realise that the misery is the cause of what’s happening.”

  “Still cause and effect,” sniffed Primo, kicking away a frog that was getting amorous with his toe.

  John shook his head, long silver hair, long silver beard, and wedge of tangled silver moustache. “But the effect doesn’t relate to that particular cause,” he said. “The lessons he’s getting relate to something he did in a previous life which made him ready for a new potential to be fulfilled. He increased his potential, and to live up to that he needed a couple of difficult experiences. But those harsh experiences weren’t punishments, they were rewards for having grown spiritually, expanding his potential for further growth. The new set of events flooded in to encourage that growth. They weren’t caused simply by what he did at all.”

  “Okay. Maybe I’m stupid after all.”

  “Look at it this way. You’re alive, three lives ago,” said John, picking up a stick and making lines in the soft earth by his side. “I don’t know who you are. King Charles, Julius Caesar, it doesn’t matter. But you’re an earnestly affectionate young chap with a lot of credulous energy. You try hard, you write sentimental poetry or something, and so you manage to increase your spiritual potential. You stretch it a bit, like elasticated stockings. Which, of course, is what material living is all about.”

  “Okay. So I’m a saint with varicose veins. Go on.”

  “Well, maybe not a saint, but you try to be nice to your wife and you read books, so you grow.” John peered at Primo from beneath his singular ledge of silver eyebrow. “So, having struggled to do your very, very best, you promptly die. Young, I suspect, before you become thoroughly jaded and stuff up the good work you’ve achieved so far.”

  “Doesn’t sound like me at all,” said Primo.

  “Quiet,” said John, “and listen. You have a pleasant few years in Paradise, and finally agree to reincarnate. You and the Source work it out and agree on the perfect destiny for next time around. With a few groans, you get it together, and get reborn. And what are you born as? A nice handsome prince as a recognition of all your previous efforts? No, like hell you are. You’re a poverty stricken idiot with a club foot, and your mother is a vicious old hag who hates you because she already has thirteen kids and not a penny to feed them with and can’t afford condoms and it’s ancient Mesopotamia anyway so there aren’t any chemists.”

  Primo grinned. “So, who’s she, this poor old hag of a mother? Someone I stole from in the previous life? My sister, who I spat at?”

  John grinned back. “No way. She’s the sweet little boy who used to live next door, who you always gave sweets to even when you were in a rush to catch the train.”

  “Carry on,” nodded Primo. “So my mother’s the angelic little boy from next door, who now has thirteen brats and hates us all. What delicious surprises come my way next?”

  “Oh, the usual misery,” said John. “You grow up starving and beaten. It makes you sour. You end up beating your own wife and abusing your own kids. You spend ten years in goal, and get shot by a passing street gang by mistake on the first day after your release.”

  “Cosy,” nodded Primo.

  “So, that’s your beautiful reward for being so good the time before,” said John. “See, it was a reward in a way. Perhaps, more accurately, a prize. First prize. You were given the chance, the encouragement, in fact the certainty, of regression, in order to start again and fulfil your increased potential with the full understanding of how to fill it. Though no regression is actually a regression of course. It’s another fo
rm of growth, since sometimes you have to experience the depths and move on in spite of it – though really because of it. Growth depends on regression sometimes. See? No nice sequential straight lines.”

  “And the next life after that?”

  “Guilt, remorse, and some sort of behaviour to justify the remorse that you’ve already got stuck in your gullet from the last life, which you can’t even remember.” John scratched his beard, which was tickling inside his toga. “And, what’s even more confusing to someone with an insistence on believing in simple cause and effect – the sequences of these lives could go backwards. Depending on when society’s conditions are suitable for the new experiences you need, that is.”

  “Bugger off,” said Primo pleasantly.

  “So,” continued John, “when I tell you that your house is expanding because you’ve met me, because talking to me has increased your awareness, it’s no good bleating about how the house grew first, before I even turned up, though naturally you had to be ready for both. Sequences don’t matter and cause and effect is just a code. Forget karma as some primitively brutal eye for an eye type of rubbish, since that nonsense is as short sighted as any eye for an eye stuff automatically would be. And by the way, you might not be an idiot, but sometimes you’re bloody stupid all the same.”

  Primo, unblinking, surveyed his visitor. “You don’t sound at all like one of those bloody irritating do-gooders.”

  “And how many,” said John, “bloody do-gooders have you ever allowed to get close enough to talk to you anyway? Yes, I thought so. So how the hell do you know what they sound like?”

  “Not like you,” repeated Primo. “And they don’t look like you either. So why all the Ghost of Christmas Past stuff?”

  “Oh, I always fancied a bit of dressing up,” said the old man. “I used to play-act a fair bit when I was alive. I just thought it might amuse you. Start you listening.”

  “And I don’t like the name,” said Primo. “John’s a totally boring name. Unimaginative. Common. It doesn’t suit you.”