Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She pushed open the door and led the way inside. Georgia followed, looking around, entranced. “Oh, how clever you are. I love it.” There were no deep shadows, no blind, confused corners leading nowhere. The small wooden staircase wound upwards but did not stop blocked at ceiling height.

  “There’s real rooms upstairs,” said Rita.

  Georgia turned. “But no kitchen?”

  “I don’t need that anymore.” Rita shook her head. “It was getting so boring, all that cooking and washing dishes. And the dusting. As soon as I wiped, back the dust came. But I still want my lunch and a decent cup of tea from time to time, so don’t go thinking you’ve talked me out of all my old habits. I’ll live my way like I always told you.” She giggled suddenly. “Not that I’m saying I won’t ever have tea and cake again. But I’ll make them out of my head, not on the cooker.”

  “How could you live any other way here?” said Georgia, sitting herself happily on one of the many wide chairs. “This is so comfy. I really love everything. How did you find it? Don’t tell me you built it yourself?”

  “Well now, shows you’re not such a clever clogs after all,” smiled Rita. “I was brought here of course, and this was waiting for me. In a way I built it, I just didn’t know that’s what I was doing. I did one thing you told me last time. I went and sat in that light. You remember the light?”

  She certainly did. “And I kept thinking about it after I left you last time. I was sure that light was something exciting.”

  Rita nodded, “Well, you’re right, it was. I sat there for hours I reckon, and just dreamed. It was exciting alright. I had so many thoughts, and so much went through my head. I met someone in that light too. Only in my mind of course, but it seemed so real. She was special. Knows even more than you.”

  Georgia grinned. “So you’ve met your guide at last?”

  “Yes.” Rita sighed. “She’s my own lovely angel. I’ll even admit this – I wish I hadn’t been so pig-headed before, and let her in when she came first time. I’ll be seeing a lot more of her now. Anyway, after ages in the light, thinking to myself and then talking to Darial, then I knew. I just left my house and Darial came with me, and brought me here. She said I’d made it with my own thoughts, especially sitting in the light when I’d finished it all off ready for me to move into. I’ve been here ever since. In fact, I only went back to the old place this morning just to meet you there, and bring you here. I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s all gorgeous. Honestly – beautiful. I love it and it’s very near the borders to the sixth plane, you know that, don’t you?”

  Rita nodded. “I know it. I’ve moved right up. You helped with that of course, and I’m grateful, but Darial says I did most of it myself.”

  “I think we all have to do everything ourselves,” said Georgia, thinking aloud. “But everyone helps everyone else. So I came at the right time to help you, but of course you helped me too.”

  Rita looked pleased. “Well, that’s a bit of a surprise though it’s nice of you to say so. But I reckon all I did for you was make a good cup of tea from time to time.”

  Georgia waved towards the picnic basket left beside the doorstep. “We could have tea now. I honestly wouldn’t mind a nice cup of something hot. This is just so cosy. Like grandma’s house in the forest. You know. Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Rita giggled again. “So I’m grandma? Or the big bad wolf? But I know what you mean.” She fetched the thermos and poured two cups. The tea steamed. “I like the neighbours too. There’s only two other cottages, and one has a couple, husband and wife, though they say they weren’t ever married when they were alive. Never even knew each other. But now they’re happy together. A nice couple, they are.”

  Georgia drank her tea. “You see, you’ve helped me in all these ways. Cosy things, family things, mummsy things. Getting to know my real mother after all this time, and feeling good about it. Understanding what happened before, and what’s happening now. And speaking of husband and wife, there’s Dad. He wants to meet you. You don’t have to of course.”

  Rita drank her tea, peeping over the cup’s brim with a frown. “Maybe not yet. He’s got to be faced one day I suppose, but I can’t say I think about him often.”

  “He thinks about you,” said Georgia. Maurice had denied it, but Georgia knew. He was comfortable living on the seventh but bitterness and stuck memories were holding him back from going further.

  “There’s this other neighbour,” Rita avoided the subject of her long unseen husband and waved a generous arm to her left. “He lives in that nice little house right next door. Swedish he is. He was rather young when he came over, but we all look about the same age now, don’t we. Anyway, we’ve made friends.”

  Georgia stared. “You mean romantically?”

  “Sort of.” Rita put her empty cup down on the table and suddenly stood up. “Look,” she said, and began to take her coat off. The red woollen coat which she had worn like a suit of armour, barricaded in stiff respectability ever since Georgia had met her, now came away. Rita simply took it off, and laughing, threw it to the back of a chair. Underneath she was wearing a dress of flounces, pretty in cotton and chiffon with sweetpea colours and a low scooped neck. Then she shook her head and the tight permed curls loosened and tumbled down to her shoulders. “There,” she said. “I’ve been dying to do that. It happened to me days ago, when Darial showed me how. I only put it all back the same way this morning so I could surprise you. So, what do you think?”

  “I think you look great,” said Georgia. “Younger than me. Prettier than me. I hope your Swedish boyfriend appreciates what he’s got.”

  “Oh yes,” grinned Rita. “He does. I can promise you that.”

  The night was companionable, gathering together those who shared its shadows. Sophie had sat apart, leaving the three men to talk over their glasses of grappa. At first she had read, curled happily into the creaking cane of the old garden chair. Then the evening had cooled and she had wandered inside, letting the drift of masculine conversation become a distant buzz of football, car engines, travel to foreign places and the memories of old friends. Then she was in the silence of the long, high ceilinged rooms with their innate elegance, their antiques, gold framed paintings, flaking plaster walls and ornate carved wood. It was not her home so she had not delved too deeply or explored in any detail the rooms where her mother had once lived, but she sometimes imagined her there, sitting in the sunshine, curled in the shadows, happier than she had ever known her, for here she had been loved and in love. Sophie had only ever known her mother as a forgotten woman, unwanted, middle aged, unfulfilled. She had never really known her at all.

  There was a slight creak of floorboards behind her and she whirled around. “I want you to have this,” said Romano.

  He held a large wooden box, plain polished, with a tiny lock. The key was missing and Romano lifted the lid. Sophie stared in astonishment at the jewellery she had never known her mother owned. The amber caught the gentle light from the wall sconces, the silver lay on the velvet interior in heavy serpent links. Square emeralds between pearls, lapis like vivid eyes in a gold face, rubies as dark as jet and opals like tiny fires. “Oh my God,” said Sophie which was all she could think of to say.

  “Georgia could never take these things to wear in England,” said Romano. “They were my gifts to her over many years, but they would have caused problems with your father, so she kept them here. She wore them often. We had a good life, though spasmodic. I am not a poor man and I liked to buy her the things that looked so beautiful on her. Now they must be yours.”

  It didn’t make sense. “You have to sell them or something. How can you give me things this expensive? You hardly know me.”

  Romano smiled and shook his head. “On the contrary. These are no longer mine, not to sell or to give to another. Nor do I believe I will ever meet another woman to love. At the moment, the idea seems absurd. Everything here belonged to your mother and she would wish you t
o have them, this I am sure. Indeed you are no longer a stranger, and I hope I no longer appear intimidating or intrusive. I believe I have come to know you very well. Many of these jewels will suit you I think and the rest you can sell. They are yours to do with as you think best.”

  Sophie shivered. “This is the strangest feeling. These things seem too grown up for me. Don’t you see me as silly and ineffectual?” She put her fingers under the gold chains, letting them weigh against her palm, cold and heavy.

  Romano chuckled. “Your youth is not a barrier, it is an opportunity. Georgia spoke of you often, even though we had decided it was better not to meet. You are as she described. I have pleasure in watching you. Do you mind?”

  “Gosh, no.” Sophie shook her head, eyes still reflecting gold and silver. “I know you do. I sort of imagined you were thinking what a twit I am.”

  “Am I so remote? So patronising? I hope not,” said Romano. “You lack self-confidence. Perhaps these will give you a measure of what you lack. Confidence inspired only by affluence is a weak foundation, but you can build upon it and create your own determination.” Now he was holding out something else. “There is also the bank account.”

  Sophie blinked, hardly breathing. “Bank account?”

  “Your mother had a separate account here,” nodded Romano. “It was necessary that she have access to everything she needed for those occasions when I might be absent for any reason.” He handed her the small package, closed with an elastic band. “Also yours now. There is quite a reasonable amount I believe. No, do not give it back. You must know I am a rich man. I do not need this. It was hers. Now it is yours.”

  “It’s a dream.”

  “Enjoy your dream,” he said. “There is no telling how long a dream may last.”

  Warl leaned over and poked Gregorio in the ribs, poked and prodded until his ribs felt cracked and bruised. “Fatty,” crowed Warl. “Fucking fat ponce. Go get me something to eat.”

  Gregorio hunched over, cuddling his knees and protecting as many of his vulnerable parts as he could. He lowered his eyes, not daring to look straight back. “No.”

  “You shit,” yelled Warl, kicking now. “You’re my slave. Do as I fucking tell you.”

  Gregorio stared across the camp fire to the others still sitting there, their outlines blurred by the dance of the flames and the shimmer of heat. There was Ayakis, darkly brooding and now saying little. His frequent outbursts of hatred and insult, predicting hellfire and the punishment of infidels and blasphemers, had lately stopped. He had become morose and usually quiet. His face, neck and hands still showed the hideous scars of the burning coffee which had almost flayed him just a few days ago. His finger nails had started to grow back, but the man was still in pain. He could barely lift his legs, nor hold anything beyond his food bowl.

  Francesco was also silent. He had not spoken at all since the accident with the boiling water and since the call had come for him from the other world. He had answered that call, as if hoping that someone from somewhere would hear, and come and save him. No one had come and now Francesco, although he continued to splutter for breath, holding his chest as though his lungs were bursting against his ribs, spoke no word at all and nor did he eat or drink. He stared into the fire, lost in memory or thought.

  Father Martin had made friends with Blister. Blister was a long-time member of Pigseed’s gang who was now proving susceptible to religious conversion. He sat for hours with the old monk, listening to the stories and the sermons. Father Martin felt needed, and was content.

  Warl kicked Gregorio again. He had only just returned from a raid deeper into the third border lands, and although the gang had brought back no kidnapped slaves, they had presumably won their battle and were neither hurt nor depressed. Warl was ecstatic, and very hungry. “Heat up that stew, fuckarse,” ordered Warl. “Move it.”

  Gregorio wriggled backwards. “You saw what happened last time with that pan,” he mumbled. “I’m frightened of that fire. I won’t go near it.”

  “Get up, donkey turd,” insisted Warl and aimed another kick.

  As active additions to the fighting force, or at least as efficient slaves, the newest arrivals to the third plane were proving singularly disappointing. Ayakis could barely move. He could neither walk nor use his hands. Francesco was too breathless to crawl. Father Martin was rather too slippery to manipulate, had rigid ideas about what not to do, and was beginning to dampen the enthusiasm of some of the gang. Only Gregorio now seemed worth the effort of his capture.

  But Warl’s kick missed. Gregorio had rolled sideways and the kick swung wide. Warl stumbled forwards, unbalanced. In immediate fury, he turned back and Gregorio saw his eyes turn as small and red as the angry bull his father in law had once escaped in the fields below the monastery mountain. He gulped. Then he did the first thing he thought of. He staggered up and he ran. He ran away from the fire and the gang and the dreary ashes, sparks and heat. He bent his shoulders and concentrated on his sandled feet, and he ran and ran until his bruised ribs hurt like hell and his head felt dizzy and his breath raged like the edge of a saw against the sides of his throat. His mouth gaped open and his tongue swelled huge. The panting became impossibly raw although the few seconds of thought he allowed himself rebelled against such sensations. He was dead after all. He couldn’t be breathing, but he was, and it was just as well. He went on running.

  “Now I like her after all,” Georgia said quietly.

  “You always did. But you allowed irritation with the façade.”

  “I’ve met the boyfriend,” said Georgia. “He seems nice. Sven, he’s called. Immature and sweet and just the right sort of boyfriend for my mother. She’s helping him too, because he’s pretty confused.”

  Norwen smiled into her mind. “Most souls on the fifth plane are still confused. Otherwise they would move to the sixth.”

  “Well, he died very suddenly,” explained Georgia. “He says he was blown up by a terrorist. It sounds quite dramatic and no wonder he’s confused. Besides, he was always a staunch atheist. It was a bit of a shock I imagine, first the explosion and having to come to terms with sudden death, and then finding he was still alive.”

  “They are very near the upper boundaries of the fifth to the sixth,” said Norwen. “Soon they will move up. They will help each other, and you can help them both.”

  ”Once they’re on the sixth plane it’ll be so much easier to visit,” nodded Georgia. “It’s awfully trying, getting down to the fifth. It feels so terribly heavy and dull and sluggish. It’s always such a relief to get back home here and relax again. But I’ve really grown to like my mother.”

  “You arrived directly onto the seventh,” Norwen pointed out. “A seventh plane spirit should be capable of liking most of those he meets. Even those who have once harmed him.”

  “Well I don’t fancy challenging that theory too far,” smiled Georgia. “No need to go marching down lower than the fifth, thank goodness. I doubt I could find much sympathy for anyone on the first few planes.”

  “They are even more to be pitied,”

  “It’s actually the life plane I really want to contact,” Georgia said with a deep breath. “Sometimes I think I hear him calling. I can see him if I try, by sitting very still and bringing light around me. I like to sit beside water, it helps me concentrate. I look into it and see reflections in the ripples. Then the reflections blur and it’s as if he’s there. Like a beautiful wandering shadow.”

  “You can go further into his mind,” said Norwen. “You can call him, as you call me, and the water will carry your thoughts. It is a good medium, for it is symbolic of spirit. Practise. When I return I will help you.”

  “Return?” asked Georgia. “Do you have to go away?”

  “I do,” said Norwen. “There was someone I knew once. He was not a friend. When I was alive and very young, I met a man in a way that terrified me. Because of him, I relearned both fear and anger, to which I had not previously succumbed. It led to my dea
th. But I have thought very little about him or the circumstances of my dying, for I arrived directly onto the seventh plane and found those of my loving family who were waiting. Now that man has arrived over here. I need to find him.”

  Georgia paused, surprised. “Now that’s a challenge.”

  “I forgave him long ago,” smiled Norwen. “Forgiving does not mean I condone what he did, but his appearance in my life was as right and as planned as any other. His behaviour taught me lessons, gave me the experiences I needed at that time, and concluded the learning I had already designed for myself before my birth. But now I need to speak to this man. I am not his guide and he is not yet ready for any higher guidance, but help must be offered.”

  Georgia stared. “Could I do that? I don’t think so. How do you know he’s died?”

  “There are invisible emotional ties between spirits who have deeply affected one another, whether those ties be of love, or of pain.” Norwen’s voice was already fading from her mind. “I know he has arrived here, just as you will know when your daughter comes, or anyone whom you love. He died very unexpectedly I believe, although he is quite aged. The death was sudden and tense, and he has been confused, just like your mother’s friend. But this man has gone straight to the third.”

  “The third must be horribly black,” Georgia shivered.

  “There is very little light,” agreed Norwen, “although those who inhabit that level find it acceptable for it resonates in tune with their own states.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” Georgia shivered.

  Norwen laughed. “Luck? There is no such thing as luck. But even if there was, I would hardly need it. This will be an exercise of unadulterated love, and an interesting journey. But it will not last long. I doubt I will be welcome.”

  He left her mind abruptly, and Georgia felt him go, almost as if a small wind had brushed the back of her head. She got up then, and walked outside. The sky was its usual cornflower blue and the unseen confines of her garden glittered in the sunlight. She wasn’t sure if there was any true sun, but there was brilliance, and there was warmth, and there was tremendous energy. She sat beside the pool where the same sunlight poured across and turned the water golden. She concentrated, filling herself with the power of the light. Then she saw him, and she felt him close, and touched him back.