by Nina Dreyer
Eilis raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to say something. At that moment, the maid trundled in, heaving a tray. The scent of warm cake and melted butter filled the room.
Eilis clapped her hands. ‘Ah! Here we are. A little something to take your mind off things.’ She waved the maid away and set down plates and silver forks. ‘Happy Halloween,’ she said, grinning mischievously as she laid a thick slice of cake on Marion’s plate. Steam rose from it, and the scent of stewed currants and raisins. ‘It’s barmbrack, one of our little traditions. Go on,’ she said, licking her ring finger, ‘it’s magic. That cake can tell your future for the next year.’
Marion took a bite, closing her eyes to savour the golden butter and curling her toes in pleasure. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
‘Look at us, professional mediums needing cake to tell our fortunes,’ Eilis laughed, taking a slice for herself. She poked at it with her silver fork and eyed Marion closely.
Marion startled when she bit down on something metallic. She held up a napkin and spat out a little copper ring with a shamrock on it.
‘Why, look at that,’ Eilis smiled broadly, ‘you got the luckiest omen of all.’
Marion looked at her in bewilderment.
‘It’s like this, there are little tokens baked in,’ Eilis began counting on her fingers, ‘a rag for poverty, a coin for riches, a thimble for spinsterhood and a ring,’ she beamed, ‘for love.’
Marion suppressed a smile and glanced at her. ‘You put that there on purpose, didn’t you?’
Eilis widened her eyes. ‘Me? Why, I’d never. The barmbrack never lies, just like the Tarot cards never lie.’
Marion smiled at the little ring, sinking back into the cushions, feeling the glow of the port and the cake warming her aching limbs.
Outside, rain pattered the windows, and the wind was picking up. Marion put down her silver fork. ‘And how,’ she cleared her throat, trying to keep her tone light, ‘how is Liam?’
‘Oh, I’ve not seem him for a while. Not for a long while.’ Distant church bells rang six. Eilis glanced at the clock. ‘Well, there’s the Angelus. I’d best get dressed before long. In case tonight is the night he comes home.’ She plucked at her lace cuffs. ‘You never know.’
Marion felt a lump in her throat at thought of Eilis, dressing every evening for a husband who never came home, sitting in the parlour with the dinner all set out, alone, until all the candles had burned down.
‘Now, I’ll still see you at our seance Tuesday night, won’t I,’ said Eilis, brushing crumbs from her chin.
‘Are you sure it’s a good idea,’ said Marion, ‘Mr. Sidney doesn’t want me doing seances…’
‘Sure I’m not a paying customer,’ said Eilis with her mouth full of cake, ‘so how can he mind that? Oh, by the way,’ she set down her gilt-rimmed plate, ‘someone wants to sit in on our seance. To meet you. Now, don’t worry. I know him well. Mister John Kilcoyne, Esquire,’ she said, crinkling her nose, ‘I don’t like him, and you won’t either.’ She gave Marion a long, meaningful look. ‘I’m telling you. Great black eyes on him, like some sort of evil stage hypnotist. But he’s a prominent Salon member, so we can’t be excluding him when he comes sniffing. Don’t worry, it’ll be grand. I’ll make sure he stays in the background. Where he belongs.’
Chapter Three
The following morning, Marion stepped slowly over the thick Persian carpets in the outer rooms of the Salon in Merrion Square. Dusty velvet drapes muffled the noises of soldiers’ trucks, street trams, horse carts and newspaper boys in the streets below. The scent of peat smoke and brandy hung in the still air. Bleary sunlight slanted through the tall windows.
She glanced around the dim rooms. In the corner, under a limp palm tree in a pot sat an elderly medium, peering at the most recent edition of the Proceedings of the London Society of Psychical Research. He squinted at Marion through his pince-nez. ‘You there, young lady,’ he said, ‘see that you’ve wiped your feet, you better not be dragging your street dirt in here.’
Marion ignored him and walked on, her black boot heels clicking over the polished herringbone floors. Behind her, she heard the old man suck in air between his false teeth.
In the inner parlour, two men sat in front of each other, their hands hovering over a Ouija board. Marion recognised Charlie Kavanagh, tall and lean with a posture like a whipped greyhound. She approached, tugging down her gloves. She slid her thumb over her wrist and winced. The dead did not often leave bruises and cuts, but when they did, they chilled to the bone.
‘My word,’ said Charlie Kavanagh, ‘you’re still around then, Miss Horn?’
‘Hahn,’ said Marion. ‘Not Horn.’
‘Tsk.’ He leaned back, smirking at his friend. ‘I’d say I owe you a pint now, Georgie. Lost the bet that she’d be gone by last week, so I did.’
‘We’re certainly surprised to see you up and about this early,’ said his companion, a stout young man in a suit the shade of wilted weeds.
Marion frowned at their Ouija board. ‘You’re doing it wrong.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Autoscopes only work in near darkness. You have no note-taker. And your traveller,’ she pointed to the triangle of glass and green felt, ‘is made of glass. It must be ebony. Ebony, ivory or wormwood.’
Charlie smiled indulgently, blinking his eyes in mock-surprise. ‘Who knew we had such a little expert in our midst, eh Georgie?’
‘Glass is not conductive to the realm of the dead.’
‘It’s pronounced the,’ said Charlie, a little louder, a little more slowly, ‘not ze. Say it with me. Go on. The.’
Marion sighed impatiently. ‘I have no time to explain this to you.’ She glanced at her pocket watch. ‘I’m looking for Christabel. Is she here yet? Or,’ she cleared her throat, ‘Mr. Sidney?’
The two men exchanged glances. Georgie sucked in his cheeks and made a tutting sound.
‘Miss Hahn,’ a voice boomed from an adjoining parlour, ‘is that you, creeping around? Come in here at once.’
Marion’s heart skipped a beat. It was Mr. Sidney’s voice.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Charlie, a barbed-wire glint in his eye.
Marion hurried past them.
Mr. Sidney had only spoken to her once or twice before. Marion had heard the senior members of the Salon, the charmers, the entertainers, those favoured by the public, refer to him affectionately as Sid. But Marion had never been invited into the honey-warm glow of that circle. To her, he remained Mister Sidney.
She made her way through a tall white door, illuminated by a slant of golden autumn light.
Mr. Sidney sat in a balding velvet chair, leafing through a newspaper.
Marion paused briefly to smooth down her hair. He was the moth-eaten scion of some ancient clan of landed gentry, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He hadn’t even bothered to have anyone iron his waistcoat. No need to impress mere Dubliners, perhaps. He leaned back, licking his broad thumb and tutting at the newspaper with an expression as if an audience of silent onlookers were waiting for his verdict, breaths bated.
‘I said, come here,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Don’t dawdle.’
Marion picked her way through the clutter of armchairs, drinks cabinets and dusty antiques.
Mr. Sidney was glaring at the newspaper in the light of a small lamp, which had been fashioned from the hollowed-out shell of a tortoise. It cast only a morbid glow over the table.
‘You’re the radical,’ he said, just as Marion was about to open her mouth to speak. ‘The radical,’ he put the newspaper down, ‘who swans around in my domain, interfering with my dead. Not content to look for a husband, such as a decent, rational young lady would. And it’s not as if I don’t introduce you to nice young men. What are we to do with you?’
Marion cleared her throat. ‘I wanted to speak with you, sir, as it happens. I have a problem, and-’
‘Of course you do. We all do,’ he sighed.
‘Immortality is beyond our grasp, and every day the world twists itself in knots over some new catastrophe. Sure it’s all useless, completely useless.’
‘The English soldiers. They’re everywhere.’ Marion shivered at the thought of soldiers pounding up the stairs, their torch lights sweeping over the ceilings and cracked walls, dogs snarling, guns loaded, kicking down doors, trailing the smell of horse piss and brandy fumes.
‘Just get used to them,’ Sidney sighed. ‘And not all of them are English, you know. Welsh lads too, Scottish. Ah the bonny earl of Moray,’ he sang softly, ‘oh he micht hae been king…’
‘Many of them are drunk on patrols.’
‘That’s army morale for you nowadays.’
‘But I can’t-’
‘There is a war on, you understand,’ Sidney said, sucking his pipe until the embers glowed. ‘A war of a sort. Our British overlords don’t care to call it that. I wonder, what do you call it?’
‘Me?’
‘You bloody Belgians,’ he said, puffing smoke at the ceiling. ‘I suppose you don’t call it anything. Sure you’ve your own problems, having been so resoundingly flattened by the Boche. Never mind we all went to war to save you. From all over the Empire. You might show a little concern for poor old Ireland in return.’
Marion shifted the balance of her feet and drew breath to speak.
‘I wonder what the British call it,’ Sidney continued. ‘A bother, I imagine. A situation, maybe? I sometimes ponder, in my lone hours, how old Cromwell would have referred to his own campaign of slaughter. An opportunity, I posit. A golden opportunity, splattered with the blood of Irishmen. What do you think, Miss Hahn?’ He stared at her, waiting for a reply.
He was like a barometer out of kilter. You could never quite tell if he was joking or speaking in dead solemnity.
‘The curfew, and the soldiers, they interfere with the important work of dealing with the lost dead.’
‘See?’ He tutted. ‘That’s you Continental types. All the same. Straight to the point, and no regard at all for the feelings of us ordinary decent Irishmen.’ He patted his belly and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Remind me. Who was it hired you?’
‘You did, Mr. Sidney.’
‘My mistake, then.’
‘Sir?’
‘You have some explaining to do.’ He folded his meaty hands and fixed her with his stern eyes. ‘Do you know who came to me this morning? In a state of abject terror, jabbering about Poltergeists and knocking sounds?’
Marion bit her lip.
‘That’s right. Christabel Smythe.’
‘I came here to speak with her. Reassure her.’
‘Don’t bother yourself. I’d say she’d rather see the devil himself come to life than clap eyes on your fine face again, after what you put her through. She’s quit my Salon over your little night-time adventure.’
‘You ordered me to bring her, sir. I was against it-’
‘I expected you to keep things under control,’ Sidney raised his voice, ‘evidently, I was wrong. You’ve ruined that girl, she won’t even sleep with the bloody lights off anymore.’
Marion took a deep breath. ‘She was never in any true danger. She was miles away when the soldiers kicked in the-’
‘What? What are you on about?’
‘The house was raided, sir, that was why I wanted to ask you-’
Sidney’s face reddened. ‘Well then don’t go out after the bloody curfew!’
‘They raid at all hours. Not just at night. And you know I can’t perform visitations during the day, with people-’
Sidney let out an audible sigh and rubbed his forehead.
‘It is true,’ said Marion, ‘we are all helpless against the,’ she swallowed, ‘the English soldiers. But I need your help, sir. I need an introduction, so that I may apply to the Dáil Eireann to be allowed to go out at night through the city.’
Sidney blinked at her, pipe paused mid-air between the table and his open mouth.
‘The Dáil Eireann,’ Marion said again. Perhaps he hadn’t understood her. She’d practised the pronunciation for days. ‘The Provisional Government. Since they claim that they’re the legitimate government of Ireland,’ Marion went on, ‘I feel sure they must have an authority to… to issue exemptions…’
Sidney stared at her with a look of mounting disbelief.
Perhaps he needed a little more explanation, she thought. That was only reasonable. ‘The soldiers are a threat, sir, but I believe it wise to take precautions also against the gunmen. I know they are out there at night, the gunmen, or, I should say, the Volunteers, the Irish Republican Army. They might mistake me for some sort of spy and fire at me. I felt that perhaps, given your standing and connections, you might approach the Sinn Féin Provisional Government on my behalf… and…’
Sidney put down his pipe. ‘Are you insane?’
‘Sir?’
‘Were you dropped on your head as a child? Certifiable,’ he shook his head and seemed to gesture in disbelief at an unseen audience. ‘Me, approach the Provisional so-called Government on your behalf? All of this is a light comedic opera to you, is it?’ He gestured to the windows. ‘With a full chorus of gunmen and soldiers for you to arrange to your liking?’
Marion clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. ‘How am I to perform my work if-’
Sidney jumped from his seat, glowering. ‘What on earth gives you the impression that I’d associate myself with the bloody Shinners?’ He stabbed the air with a thick finger. ‘Do you know what they’d like to do to the likes of me?’
Marion stepped back. ‘You speak so harshly of the English, I thought you were on their side…’
Sidney looked at her as you might a rambling child. Then he picked up the newspaper and slapped it down in front of her on the table. ‘Do you see that there?’ He pointed to a headline. ‘Sure the British can be great loons when it suits them, but that? Rabid lunatics, that’s all your Shinners are, shooting away at our own Irish policemen? Fellow Irishmen? That one there, a father of four. Shot in the back. Do you think I’d applaud that? Do you? Do you think I want that?’
‘Forgive me.’ Marion bowed her head.
Sidney stared at her for a moment. Then he seated himself with a heavy creak.
‘Dáil Eireann, indeed!’ He snorted and shook his head. ‘Why don’t you just go up to them yourself? Yes, there’s a thought, waltz up to the next gunman you find and ask him for a special bloody pass. Or maybe you’re afraid. Is that it?’ He sucked at his pipe. ‘Afraid of your brave Shinners?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should be. Soldiers don’t harm people for no good reason, but those maniacs might. I should have thought of this long ago.’
Marion looked at him with a pale shimmer of hope.
‘From now on, all visitations are banned. Off. There. Done. Happy now?’
‘Please, my job-’
‘No,’ he held up a hand, ‘I’ve had enough of it now, with your hauntings and your carry-on. You’ve lost me a bloody fine new recruit. And another thing. Suppose you were to get arrested, or shot dead, prancing around like that at all hours. How long would it be before word got out, eh? That a member of my Salon was frolicking around like that, at night, alone? You’d disgrace my entire operation.’
Marion clenched her hands. ‘But I’m only trying to use my skills to aid and soothe.’
Sidney threw his hands in the air. ‘Sure what other possible bloody use would your skills have? What are you, some sort of banshee?’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘give me another job, then.’ A deep chill spread in her gut. Her savings were meagre, stuffed in a blue biscuit tin behind her dresser. She had less than two weeks’ wages to look forward to, but her landlady, Mrs. Skeehan, was owed one of them for rent and board. Marion would barely have enough left over to get her as far as Calais. The length of the ravaged wasteland that was the Continent would stretch between herself and her long-abandoned home, and she would have to walk. Baref
oot. Home in shame.
‘No. I’m done with you, my girl.’
‘Let me sit with the others,’ Marion said, ‘please. I have a lot of experience doing private readings for-’
‘I’d sooner set fire to my own hair than put you in front of paying customers.’
‘Mrs. Hurlihy has been letting me sit with her at the Ouija board, she says I have a talent…’
Sidney sighed and seemed to deflate a little. ‘Eilis Hurlihy is kinder than most. But don’t waste my time with your pleas. You can take it up with the new management.’
‘Sir?’
Sidney picked up his pipe and looked at her. ‘I’ve had enough of this bloody mess. Murder gangs and curfews and bloody politics. Sickening. Impossible to get any decent mediumship done in times like these, with shootings and chaos everywhere. And now you, marching in here demanding a special note for the bloody Shinners! Going back to my own ancestral home now, so I am. Gorse Hall. You young ones can stay behind and decide for yourselves what to do.’
‘Who will take your place?’ Marion knotted her fingers. The Salon revolved around Mr. Sidney. It would all unravel now.
‘I’ll announce my decision at the gathering this weekend. And then, when you know who will take over from me, you can try to convince him or her instead of your cause, and good luck to you. Look,’ he sighed, ‘in fairness, I only gave you that job with the haunted houses because nobody else would go near them and well, you seemed desperate. You were, weren’t you? I can always tell a desperate woman. A desperate woman, single, straight off the boat. No questions asked. There will probably still be a place for you at this table. Maybe. Now be off with you now, you mad yoke,’ he said, picking up his newspaper.
Marion swallowed hard before turning to leave.
‘And Miss Hahn?’ Sidney held up a finger. ‘Don’t you ever go spouting such nonsense at anyone else. Not ever. Do you hear? Dáil Eireann, me bollocks.’ He snorted, rustled his newspaper and settled back to read. ‘You’ll only have yourself to blame.’