Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “And I suppose you think Primo suits you?” John smirked slightly beneath his beard. “Yes, my Latin was fairly good in the old days, I know the meaning of that at least. Call yourself First? So is that arrogance, or wishful thinking?”

  “Well, to be absolutely honest,” said Primo, “which I hope you appreciate since it’s not a habit I usually indulge in, I can’t actually even remember why I picked that. I certainly never was a Latin scholar. When I first came over, I just wanted to hide my own identity so I chose another. I must have had a reason for taking that name but I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, well,” said John. “As it happens, I know the answer to that as well, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m happy to call you Primo. And if you don’t like the name John, you can call me Wilmot.”

  “Please yourself,” said Primo.

  “I usually do,” said Wilmot.

  Within the swathing knotted mists and their chilly damp, the four fugitives from the bus explosion clutched to each other’s arms, pressing the panic of their bodies into an alignment of hated necessity. Their feet scrabbled desperately as the bridge on which they stood disintegrated. First one leg, and then another, lost security until no solid ground at all remained beneath them. Gregorio began to whimper.

  Then Father Martin gasped, smothered a yelp, and said, “My children, do you feel the wind? It’s alright. We are floating.”

  “It’s alright for you, you old fool,” spat Ayakis. “You’ve got those long skirts. You wear your own parachute.”

  “Well,” said Father Martin with a less than benign grimace, “hang on tight. It’s rather damp up the nether regions, but I’ll see you all down. Have a little faith.”

  “Sweet Jesus, faith in what? The bloody north wind?” wailed Francesco, his grip like claws on the monk’s arm.

  Gregorio whimpered a second time, having scratched his leg on the top branches of a tree. From a great height, they were descending increasingly fast and in minutes they were amongst the leaves, kicking foliage from their faces and the snag of twigs from their clothes.

  Ayakis was becoming excited, stretching down for solid ground, immediately wriggling free from the desperate embrace of his companions. “See. I have done it,” he said, tripping away between the shadows of the trees. “I am in Paradise at last. Now they will come for me.”

  Father Martin had kneeled and was kissing the ground. Old leaves from the undergrowth, little thorns and some damp earth attached themselves to the length of his beard. Gregorio leaned forwards and helped him brush them off.

  Francesco stood straight and stiff and watched the dancing, elated figure of his murderer disappearing between the bushes. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered. “Well, at least now we can get rid of him.”

  But Ayakis was not going far. He came scampering back almost at once, face ashen. His great enthusiasm was paralysed into sudden disillusion and fear. “There are creatures,” he whispered, trembling. “There are wild things. Monsters with huge teeth are waiting there for us. We cannot go further.”

  “Snivelling coward,” shouted Francesco, striding forwards. “There aren’t any monsters in Heaven.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gregorio, cowering back, “we are not in Heaven.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in purgatory?” said Francesco, busy peering under bushes and into shadows.

  “But I believe in hell,” whispered Gregorio. Ayakis had manoeuvred himself directly behind the larger man. Gregorio looked at him over his shoulder. “You, you’ve brought us all to this, you devil. If you hadn’t killed me before my time, I would have grown old and venerable. I would have made peace with the Lord.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Father Martin quietly, “we should all confess our sins now and free our souls from wickedness, to move on in a state of grace into the true paradise we hope awaits us.”

  “I’m not telling you my private confession, you old fraud,” said Francesco. “For a holy man, you’re not doing so well it seems. What did you do then, to bring you amongst the sinners? Molest little choir boys?”

  And Father Martin promptly burst into tears. Gregorio moved quickly away from him. “Is that true father? What did you do to get held back with us?”

  “No,” sobbed the monk, tugging at his beard. “I sinned, but never like that. I loved the little children, all soft and innocent. Then it was the women who tempted me, but they were willing, I swear. They seduced me. I had no escape.”

  “Women,” nodded Gregorio with greater sympathy. “They leave a man no peace. I admit I beat my wife, but she asked for it. How could I resist, when she spoke to me with such lack of respect? And her breasts in that white cotton petticoat! Everything was done to antagonise and entice, and then reject. How can any righteous man stay strong in the face of such incitement to debauchery?”

  Francesco stared at them both in amazement before hooting with laughter. “What a pair of old hypocrites. Both scared of your own pricks! I was certainly master in my own house, but I never beat my wife nor would ever have considered such a thing. An Italian knows how to treat a woman.”

  “Yes, one after the other,” sniffed Gregorio. “I may have given my dear Helena many beatings though only under severe provocation, but I was never unfaithful to her. Never.”

  “Probably impotent,” smirked Francesco.

  Ayakis, staying close and looking frequently and warily towards the far trees, now exploded into vehement indignation. “You infidels,” he spat, “with your libidinous devilry. You have no discretion, no respect. You disgust me with your foul talk and your violence.”

  “Violence?” roared Francesco. “Look who’s talking!”

  They had forgotten all about the monsters, but it was the moment that Pigseed chose to walk into the sunny clearing and introduce himself. He had been enjoying himself for some time, eavesdropping from a distance. New arrivals on the third plane were his speciality and he was dressed appropriately in his best leather hide, crocodile patterned leggings and carved wooden mask with a massive curve of false canine teeth.

  Everyone, including Francesco, promptly threw themselves onto the ground. Pigseed laughed, and beckoned the rest of the gang to follow him.

  Primo was caressing the harpy in his new bedroom. She did not always enjoy coming into the house, though she frequently roosted above his open roofed pool-room. This time, however, he had brought her indoors himself. He had fallen in love with his curtained bed, and since he was already in love with the eagle, he liked to enjoy them both together.

  He relaxed on the sinking billow of mattress, lounging against the padded back-rest, surrounded by the continuous movement and song of the taffetas and silks, shaded by the thousand tones of saffron, gold and russet. Against his chest with her beak snuggling his neck, the harpy lay in an ecstatic devotion of slumber. She was snoring. Primo called it a purr. His fingers combed the back feathers of her powerful wings, scratching a little at the back of her neck, fingertips crawling then to the top of her head where her itches usually congregated.

  She was a large companion with which to share a bed, being a bird of unusual size, but her weight did not affect him here where the physical existed only as an eccentricity of expectations, so Primo shut his eyes as the harpy did, and began to snooze.

  When he opened his eyes again, there was a remarkably beautiful young woman sitting beside him. He had neither heard nor felt her arrival, but he could damn well see her now and was distinctly surprised. His reaction woke the eagle, who blinked twice and squawked before spreading her wings and stretching, which almost knocked both Primo and the young lady off the bed.

  The apparition was gorgeous, and more voluptuous than saintly. With magnificent blue eyes, long strawberry-blonde curls, a delicately pointed chin and the sweetest unfurrowed smile, she looked like a benevolent but provocatively appetising Madonna. She wore, with a deep furrow of cleavage, a long belted gown of blue silk, exactly the same colour as her eyes.

  “What the fuck?” said Primo with
distinct irreverence.

  “I take it you weren’t expecting me,” said Wilmot.

  “I don’t think I even like her,” said Georgia, biting her lip. “And you can’t strike me dead for not honouring my mother and having mean thoughts in heaven, because I’m dead already. So I just have to be honest. I’m sort of glad she ran away and abandoned me as a kid. I’d have grown up to hate her. I used to think Dad was a pain, but she’s worse. We have nothing in common. Are you sure she’s my mother?”

  “Do you imagine,” asked Norwen gently, “that I did a google search to find her, and so could be mistaken?”

  Georgia was too glum to giggle. “So why don’t I like her? I want to like her.”

  “You’ve grown a great deal over the years of your life,” Norwen pointed out. “As a child perhaps you had more in common with both your parents. But as you all three grew in experience, so those experiences took you in different directions.”

  “So why am I bothering to spend all this time and effort helping someone I don’t really like who no longer seems like my mother?”

  “Because,” said Norwen with gravity, “you enjoy it.”

  Georgia paused, bit her lip again, started to speak, changed her mind and said, “Yes. I do. And I like helping her. Is that disgustingly smug? And I like being able to show her things, and I even like feeling superior. But that’s not nice of me, is it.”

  “But human,” Norwen suggested.

  “So should I stop?”

  “Of course not,” said her guide at once. “Continue with what you enjoy. Your efforts help her a great deal. Eventually you may well find that you like her after all, once you understand her more deeply. And her attitude, needs and gratitude will teach you even more than your father’s explanatory lessons do. We always learn more when no one is attempting to teach us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As the pale green shadows strengthened into evening, they sat around the long table, Romano at its head and Wayne to his right. On the other side sat Sophie and Julian, holding hands in nervous anticipation. “If I go into a trance,” said Wayne, “you have to make sure I don’t fall off the chair.”

  Romano smiled somewhat carefully. “Is this likely?”

  “Well, no,” admitted Wayne, “but other people do that, don’t they? I do sort of feel like it’s a trance when I call on the other side. Things go different and blurry. I mean, it is all real, you know.”

  “Oh, we believe you, of course we do,” said Sophie. “Don’t we, Julian?”

  “Without a doubt, my darlings,” said Julian. “Just tell me what to do. I’m happy to light candles, fetch the wine, close my eyes, anything you all think might help get us in the mood. Will the table rise up, do you think?”

  “I doubt it,” said Wayne. “It never has before.”

  “I trust not,” said Romano. “It is a very heavy table. Besides, I am rather fond of it the way it is.”

  “But I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine,” said Sophie. “It might help me relax a bit. I’m not scared of course, but it’s all a bit, well, nerve-racking.”

  “An excellent idea,” nodded Romano. “Lubrication is so good for the throat.”

  Sophie and Julian retrieved the wine from the fridge, grabbed glasses and corkscrew.

  Wayne said, “But don’t turn on the light. I don’t want candles and all that theatrical stuff, but not electric light either. This murky twilight is perfect.” He accepted a glass of wine, and smiled. “I reckon I’m ready. What about the rest of you?”

  They nodded. Sophie and Julian moved closer together.

  At once Wayne said, “I told you someone was here. They’re coming through already.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched him intently. Julian stopped breathing.

  Wayne continued, “I’m getting a message.” He closed his eyes, bowing his head a little, hands tight clasped on the old wood, wine glass forgotten. “It’s quite strong. I’m getting a T, a Ted or a Thomas perhaps. Tamsan? No, it’s a man. Todd. Terry. Well, anyway, he’s fine. He says he died of a heart attack. Does this mean anything to anyone?”

  It didn’t.

  “I have someone called Jim,” said Wayne. “He’s saying something about yellow hair. An auntie, or maybe a daughter. With blond hair. Or perhaps it’s him who’s blond. And there’s a Dotty or Dorothy, who seems very eager. She’s showing me roses, or perhaps its rhododendrons. I think she was a keen gardener.” Wayne’s voice was getting faster, like a small engine fired from an invisible source. “Now there’s a Sean. Name’s definitely Sean. He died recently, a blood disease, leukaemia perhaps, but he says he’s fine now and really happy. No one should worry about him.”

  “Believe me,” said Romano gently, “we don’t.”

  “There’s an old woman,” Wayne said. “Someone’s granny. I think she’s Hungarian. Does anyone have a Hungarian Nan? Her name’s Juliette, or Joanna or maybe something Hungarian that just sounds like that. I can hear her quite clearly. She wants to send a message to her granddaughter.”

  Julian looked hopefully at the others. They looked blankly back. “I don’t think any of us have Hungarian grannies,” said Julian. “I have a French one, but she’s still alive. In Bristol.”

  “It’s going cloudy,” said Wayne with a touch of disappointment. “But I can still hear something. Oh yes. Now there’s a middle aged man. Says his name’s Norman. Used to be a builder. He died suddenly. He’s showing me a ladder. Perhaps he fell off it. I’m not sure.”

  Romano poured another glass of wine.

  “Is there anyone here who recently lost a brother? No? Well, a sister perhaps? No?” Wayne sighed. “Everyone’s crowding in. It can get confusing. Now there’s two women. One of them died at Christmas, a few years ago now I think, but she’s talking about a Christmas gift she never got. Or perhaps she means dying wasn’t a good Christmas present. Anyway, she’s wearing a red coat and I think her name’s Rita. Mean anything to anyone? No?” He sighed again and reached for his wine glass. Romano leaned over and refilled it. “Things are getting muddled,” said Wayne. “There’s a kid called Paul in a dark uniform. Maybe died in the war, but he doesn’t look old enough. And a big man with a dark beard. He’s got huge shoulders and a bit of a beer gut. I think his name’s Bert or Benny or Bernie. Anyway, he wants to talk to his wife.”

  Wayne opened his eyes again and looked around with a slightly sheepish smile. “Well, I suppose it’s fairly obvious his wife isn’t here. This happens sometimes. They just push in you see and it’s hard to siphon out the ones that don’t matter. That is, of course they all matter, but they aren’t all relevant.”

  “I am sure we sympathise,” said Romano. “Perhaps a short break would be in order. We have plenty of time, if you would sooner continue with this tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want to give up yet,” said Sophie. “I really thought we’d get Mum. Would tomorrow be alright for you Wayne? You’re not totally exhausted or anything?”

  “Tomorrow would be just great,” said Wayne. “I can try and clear my thoughts between now and then. Some mediums have guides you know, and that makes things easier, but I never got a guide. All those Red Indians and ancient Egyptians, it sounds so silly and that put me off.”

  “I’d love to get a Red Indian,” sighed Julian. “Medicine beads and peace pipes and all those luscious feathers. It’s all so deliciously exciting.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it exciting so far,” said Sophie. “But if you can get all those other people, I’m sure you can get Mum too, if we keep trying.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Wayne, pushing back his chair and raising his glass, “you could try calling on Georgia tonight, all of us. Sort of ask her if she’ll agree to come through next time.”

  Romano stood rather abruptly, and the others followed him into the kitchen. “I bet he always talks to her, every night,” Sophie whispered to Wayne. “And I bet she comes through to you tomorrow. Which reminds me. Are you coming to me tonight?”

/>   Wayne smiled and squeezed her groping fingers. “So impatient? But I think maybe not. Perhaps I need to conserve my strength.”

  Chattering, whispering, disappointed but conserving the excitement of optimism and hope, the group retired to the kitchen, the hub of the house. The echoing anticipation of the other room was banished. Romano carried his glass to the old cooking range and began to heat the iron hobs. The others automatically grouped around, passing the pots, knives and ingredients, group therapy, sizzling olive oil in the pan, the red juice spilling from tomatoes, each face peered over to admire and absorb the perfumes.

  Romano mothered his guests with a gentle, almost puzzled charm, as if he had not quite decided or discovered why he encouraged them all to stay, to sleep and to wander, and to invade his home, his privacy and his pain. But he felt needed, not used, and it kept the desperate future a little further away. “And if this works, and she comes indeed,” he murmured to himself, “then I will understand it all at last.”

  “What was that?” said Sophie. “Did you ask for oregano?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not this time. I was talking to myself. A bad habit of those who usually live alone. Now, let us carry our plates back into the room of shadows and séances, and discuss the next step over dinner.”

  At the same table and sitting in the same places, they watched each other eat. “You still want to, don’t you?” insisted Julian, crumbling his bread. “Do it all again tomorrow I mean. We can’t give up now.”

  “Heavens, yes,” said Sophie. “I’m keen as ever.”

  “Well, personally I find it all too exciting,” said Julian. “Not totally successful yet, but still such fun. I’ve a few dead relatives myself of course, but I just couldn’t think of anyone with the names you came up with. I daresay I’ve known the odd Terry or Jim from time to time, but no one special I can remember. But you did get a Rita tonight, and actually I did know a Rita once. She was the girlfriend of some guy who rented my basement before Sophie came, but I only met her once. Besides, she’s probably still alive.”