by Nina Dreyer
He grinned. When he turned his back briefly to reach for his shirt, Marion’s smile faded. She frowned and pulled herself up on her elbows. ‘John, what’s…’ She pointed to a deep, ragged scar running from his right shoulder and deep into his back, half-hidden under his vest.
John shrugged. ‘That? Oh, nothing. Hunting accident. Of a sort.’ He pulled on his shirt. ‘Now, I’ll see you tonight, won’t I?’ He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her palm. Marion felt herself blushing. ‘Yes.’
He sighed and stretched himself. ‘God, I wish I could take you out instead. To the museum in Kildare Street. You’d love that. Or the theatre. But the times are the times. We’ll show the world what we can do, you and I. Especially you. The greatest talent of our age,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. He frowned slightly when she crinkled her eyebrows. ‘Now, hush, don’t worry about a single thing,’ he said, smiling. ‘Everything is going to be just fine. Smooth sailing from now on.’ He stood up straight and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. ‘The only thing you have to worry about is that I’ll have to keep myself professional around you,’ he grinned, ‘so you’d better not distract me while we’re working. I’ll have to put a bag over your head or something.’
Marion turned her cheek into a pillow and laughed.
John slipped out, quietly closing the bedroom door behind her with one last glance over his shoulder.
Marion drew the sheets and eiderdowns over her head to shut out the creeping dawn. She sank into the feather mattress, stretching her legs and curling her toes. To lie in a room so warm, a bed so soft that you could sleep with bare arms and legs, dressed just in a flimsy cotton shift, to stretch out in crumpled sheets still warm from another’s skin, it was an old luxury she’d almost forgotten.
Chapter Eighteen
In the late morning, Marion walked through the high gilt halls of Clery’s department store. Hettie smiled at her and pulled her along by the arm, while Mrs. McKittrick followed behind like a shadow. ‘Isn’t it just so nice to come in here,’ sighed Hettie, ‘one can almost pretend one is at home, and that there are no roadblocks and armoured cars and grubby slum children everywhere one looks in the streets.’
Marion nodded. A group of little boys had hurtled past her in the street, almost knocking her over, their bare feet splashing through dirty puddles. Stones in hand, for the soldiers. So early it started.
The low autumn sun gleamed on marble counters and mirrored walls, and an intimate hush hung in the rooms. Black-clad clerks were murmuring solicitously to sombrely dressed ladies over racks of hats and gloves, thick silver furs, rolls of lustrous satin and velvet trays of pearls and crystals. Marion breathed in the still air and suppressed a giddy smile. She felt almost lightheaded, weightless, as if some great burden had finally been lifted from her. The feeling of John’s hot breath on her neck, the feeling of finally being drawn into a warm embrace, skin against warm skin…
‘I’ve arranged an appointment with the best seamstress Dublin has to offer,’ said Hettie, ‘we’re going to have you robed like an opera star. Or a countess!’
Marion followed her into a fitting room behind heavy brocade drapes.
‘Don’t be shy, darling,’ said Hettie, flicking her fingers at three attendants who came forward to take Marion’s coat, her boots and her hat.
Marion was placed on a low wooden stool upholstered in velvet, and the attendants stripped her down to her undergarments. She clasped her hands over her chest.
‘I say,’ laughed Hettie, ‘did you… did you knit those?’ She pointed at Marion’s threadbare corset cover and giggled. ‘I would have thought John would look after you rather better than that,’ she said, smiling mischievously.
Marion lowered her head, heat rising in her face.
‘This won’t do at all. Here, you there.’ Hettie began ordering the attendants and the seamstress. ‘No, not powder pink, you silly goose, Miss Hahn is not some debutante. She’s a celebrity, you know. Or she will be, very soon. In fact,’ she turned to the attendants and clapped her hands, ‘you should all take note. This lady is practically a miracle worker.’ She pressed her hand to her chest, just under her thick white fox collar. ‘She healed my own wounded heart, only last night! You will all see her feted in the papers for many years to come, and then you can tell all your little friends-’
‘No, no,’ said Marion, ‘I’m certainly not going to-’
Two of the attendant girls exchanged sharp glances.
‘Of course you are, darling. You and John. Talk of the town! Oh, you make such a marvellous pair, the two of you, he’s so frightfully good-looking, like that gorgeous American movie actor. I say,’ Hettie raised her eyebrows, ‘will you be doing stage performances? Like the American mediums do?’
Marion froze. She shook her head sharply. She’d done stage performances. Many, many stage performances. Drinking in the barking applause as she’d disgraced herself under the hot stage lights… She recoiled from the memory as if it was a live electrical wire.
‘Oh, well, you would look very fine on a stage, especially when we get you attired properly.’ Hettie ran her fingertips along rolls of thick lace and shimmering silk. ‘Now, let us have something more like this. Dignified. A little ominous, perhaps.’
The attendants brought out racks of corsetry and began measuring and fitting and dressing Marion. Thin corsets, low-cut and hugging the thighs, not the high, boned ones Marion had been wearing for years. She felt almost naked under the snow-white chemise. ‘Is this decent,’ she asked, glancing at Hettie.
‘Not decent at all,’ said Mrs. McKittrick, who sat propped on a stool in the corner, ‘those modern things are as sinful-’
‘Oh, so help me heaven,’ cried Hettie, ‘I am certainly never going back to those old-fashioned contrivances, it’s like being wrapped up like a mummy!’
Two attendant girls turned a full-length mirror, and Marion stared at herself as she was dressed in a long gown of wine-red velvet, with a collar and sleeves embroidered with black crystals. The seamstress knelt at her feet and began pinning up the hem.
‘What’s that around your throat? Is it a necklace? My,’ Hettie laughed, ‘it looks almost like something a man would wear, so severe. Not like you at all.’ She snapped the medallion out of Marion’s curled hand before Marion could stop her, and turned it around in her little white fingers. Marion felt trapped, like a dog on a leash. ‘What a curious design. Very pretty, in a quaint sort of way. Is it an antique?’
Marion shook her head stiffly. ‘It is… quite new.’
‘What does the design mean? Is it, what do the clever people call it, folk art?’
Marion swallowed dryly. She hated seeing it in Hettie’s fingers, as if it was just a trinket. ‘It symbolises the power behind the sun. It is a charm of good luck. It is called a Hagenkreutz. What the English word is, I don’t know. A hooked cross.’ Marion gently took the medallion back and slid it back under her chemise. It felt warm against her skin.
‘I say, that’s clever, and actually,’ Hettie leaned closer with a conspiratorial smirk, ‘really rather appropriate, don’t you think? A good luck charm to carry us through this dismal place. Oh, I meant to show you this.’ She grinned and pulled a folded newspaper from her brocade bag, rustling the pages. ‘It’s the Irish Catholic, and just wait till you hear-’
‘What are you reading that Popish taig rag for,’ said Mrs. McKittrick.
‘Oh, I made my chambermaid get it for me. She stole it from the cook, who reads it every night with her little eyeglasses on,’ Hettie chirped. ‘My, she is the queerest little creature, my chamber maid, I can barely understand a single word she says, do you know, she’s one of those native sorts who says torty-tree instead of thirthy-three! Now,’ she cleared her throat and looked excitedly from Marion to Mrs. McKittrick, ‘yes, here we are,’ she began reading in a voice like a heaving walrus, barely containing her giggles, ‘the intervention of two alleged spiritualists at the execution of the brave young Irishman Li
am Hurlihy early Monday morning is a satanic inversion of all things holy and pure, and we note with repulsion and outrage that this fiendish plot was allowed by the authorities at Mountjoy Goal. No patriotic Irishman can stomach this violation of the law of God, and the severest condemnations-’
‘That’s popery for you,’ sniffed Mrs. McKittrick. ‘All superstition, no sense in them, no education, that’s what I say.’
Marion winced as the seamstress pricked her with a needle. ‘Pardon, Miss,’ mumbled the seamstress, her mouth bristling with pins.
‘Oh, he must have been so frightened, that Hurlihy chap,’ Hettie breathed, her face glowing. ‘Tell me, was he desperately terrified? Did he weep? These wild, uneducated types always weep in the end, we hear.’
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss this in front of…’ Marion bit her lip and nodded at the seamstress.
‘What? Oh!’ Hettie adjusted her ostrich-feather hat. ‘Don’t fuss over the staff, they’re always so busy-busy-busy, much too busy to listen to our idle chatter.’
The attendants exchanged looks again. Marion clenched her teeth.
‘Now, how many frocks do you need, darling? Ten at the very least, I should think. A whole trusseau, like a fine bride!’ Hettie began ordering dresses and coats, boots and stockings, hats and gloves and purses and earrings, and Marion looked on, dazed, as a parade of furs and trims, tassels and frocks passed under her eyes.
Two hours later, they left the fitting rooms, followed by three shop boys loaded down with parcels and bags.
‘Oh, let’s go to Bewley’s for tea,’ said Hettie, ‘I do so love those fine rooms they have, it’s really almost like being home. Do come, darling,’ Hettie pouted and took Marion’s arm. ‘You know,’ she leaned closer, ignoring the cashiers and attendants’ bows and greetings, ‘I’ve ordered heaps and heaps of books on spiritualism, and you and I shall have such fun together, and you can tell me all about it! Perhaps over cocktails and-’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs. McKittrick, ‘Miss Hahn does not have time for anymore parties, she’s due to give me a reading in an hour, aren’t-’
Marion’s heart jolted. She stopped dead in her tracks.
‘What’s wrong?’ Hettie and Mrs. McKittrick turned to her.
Marion stared straight ahead.
Eilis came striding down the aisle, pale and haggard but with head held high. A retinue of women followed her, one of them Liz. Eilis swept her imperious gaze over the crowds and counters, her fists tight by her side. She hadn’t seen Marion. Maybe she didn’t recognise her in these fines clothes. Marion’s throat thickened. Eilis would be here to be fitted for her widow’s weeds.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Hettie, ‘ha ha, a ghost! How droll I am.’
Eilis looked up and saw her. She stopped, held up a hand to her friends. Then she narrowed her eyes, made a gesture as if to spit on the floor.
Marion took half a step towards her and opened her mouth to say something.
Eilis spun around on her heel and marched out, her friends glaring at Marion as they turned to follow. Liz said something loudly in Irish. It sounded like a curse.
‘Nothing is wrong,’ Marion said, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears. ‘Nothing at all.’
Later that afternoon, Marion made her way to one of the parlours in the Salon, her face burning at the thought of Eilis scowling at her, her grey eyes glistening with contempt in the pale wintry sunlight. The memory sat in Marion’s mind like a pebble in her shoe.
She laid a hand on her chest and glanced at her pocket watch. Mrs. McKittrick would be here any moment for her seance.
Time to be calm. Work to do.
Eilis’ words echoed in her mind, from that evening long ago when they’d walked arm in arm to the inner sanctum of the Salon, and Eilis had smiled so warmly at her and lovingly shushed her. We mustn’t bring worldly concerns into these rooms. Shut out the living world now, Marion, with all its squabbling and worry.
That was the night John had spoken to her for the first time. Standing there in the shadows, twirling his silver lighter round and round in his fingers like a magic trick. Marion wished he was here now, with his easy grin.
She plucked at the collar of her new gown and glanced around the room. It was one of the small parlours with the late afternoon sun glimmering through a vine-shaded window that looked onto the quiet back lanes. Moss-green carpets covered the old pine floor. Mrs. McKittrick would feel more at home here than in the lightless heart of the Salon. But of course, she’d be anxious. That was the norm these days. Anxious sitters clutching tear-sodden handkerchiefs in trembling fists.
A gramophone player stood gleaming in the windowsill, its bronze funnel spouting like a back alley weed flower. Marion cranked the handle and let the needle slip into its groove in the record with a crackle. A woman’s voice warbled sweetly, ‘… light may fade from view, the night may fall from the blue, but I’ll be waiting for you on the road to Calais…’
The door creaked open, and Mrs. McKittrick marched in without knocking. She stood for a moment in the middle of the room, hard-postured and dressed in a severe suit of tweed. Some clients were eager to shake hands, to touch, but Mrs. McKittrick kept her hands to herself, nodded curtly and perched herself down on the edge of her seat by the table, fingers resolutely dug into her handbag.
Marion sat down on the other side of the table and pulled up her chair. ‘Before we begin, I-’
‘Hettie Brock swears by your abilities, but she’d believe anything, and I’m going to make up my own mind, and I’m telling you now, I only want to hear from him,’ said Mrs. McKittrick, tapping a fingernail on the table. ‘Mr. Kilcoyne said you’d be able, so he did. Said you’ve a speciality. And I’m not going to tell you who he is, because that’s only an invitation to fraud, as has happened with many other supposed mediums. I’ll be watching you closely, so I will. It’s no help to you that you’re Hettie’s special little friend now, I’ll not let you get away with anything, so don’t chance it.’
Marion nodded and began lighting the candles on the table with a match. She watched the woman through the corner of her eye. Something was wrong. Askew. She could feel it, creeping up behind her.
The candles fluttered and threw strange shadows over Mrs. McKittrick’s tense face. ‘Here,’ she continued, sniffing, ‘I’ve brought along some things to help you on along, see here.’ She dug into her handbag. ‘I’d a mind to bring his scarf or his pipe, but Mr. Kilcoyne said most especially to bring his letters or photographs.’
‘Mrs. McKittrick…’
‘So here they are,’ she laid out a stack of faded letters, neatly tied with a brown string, and several photographs. A blurred sepia likeness of a blank-faced man in a tall white collar. Marion had seen hundreds of that same photograph, an endless parade of men, their postures stiff from the photographer’s metal neck clamp.
‘I’ve also brought along his account book, from the bank, because he did take such very great care of it, that did always matter a very great deal to him, got to have the accounts in order, and-’
‘Mrs. McKittrick…. Joanna.’ Marion placed her hand over hers and gazed at her steadily for a long moment. She glanced briefly at the letters and photographs, despairing at the woman’s naivety. An unscrupulous charlatan could surmise a dense autobiography of the man with just a glance over these artifacts.
Mrs. McKittrick seemed to wilt, angry tears were pressing behind her pale, raw eyes. The gramophone spluttered to a halt.
‘You’ve tried to make contact for some time, yes?’
Mrs. McKittrick nodded, thin-lipped.
‘And you’ve not yet been successful?’ Marion kept her voice soft and hushed as velvet.
Mrs. McKittrick shrank in her seat. Her mouth quivered. Marion watched her intently. For a moment, it seemed that she was going to either run from the room in tears, or she was going to bare her teeth and howl.
‘I will be successful now,’ Mrs. McKittrick said, slowly
regaining her hard posture. A strange hunger burned in her face, a bottomless pit of hunger. ‘Do you hear me?’ She leaned closer, careful not to touch the table itself. ‘You will find him for me,’ she said in a low, gravelly voice, ‘you will find him and you will give me a message straight from his lips, or so help me Lord God Almighty,’ she stabbed one of the photographs with a sharp-nailed finger, ‘I’ll be here till you give me an answer.’ She raised her voice. ‘All the others said well regretfully this and regretfully that, they won’t do right by me. Is it my accent, is that it? Not good enough for you fine Dublin folk and Continental types, is that it? Is it?’
‘Many of the other mediums have lived sheltered lives so far,’ said Marion quietly. ‘They just don’t understand how much grief hurts. The pain of lost lovers, widowhood-’
‘And you?’ Mrs. McKittrick narrowed her eyes. ‘How could you understand the pain of widowhood?’
Marion lowered her head. ‘Let us begin-’
‘I heard you gypsies never married,’ said Mrs. McKittrick, ‘except by your pagan and unholy pacts. Not decently in the eyes of God, like us.’ She stared hard at Marion.
‘Perhaps we have more in common than you think. Now, give me your hand.’
Mrs. McKittrick reached out, a little too eagerly, nearly tipping over a candle. ‘There, what does that say then?’
Marion closed her fingers around Mrs. McKittrick’s wrist, feeling for the faint pulse.
She opened the basement door in her mind.
Just a crack at first.
Images came through, snippets, half-garbled words and echoes of broken songs long lost. She closed her eyes and let her mind sink back into darkness. The images swirled and became louder. ‘There is a child. About four or five. Pale curls in white ribbons bows. She is… watching over you.’
Mrs. McKittrick’s wrist grew very hot.
Marion heard her draw a handkerchief and breathe into it, heavily. ‘What was her name,’ asked Mrs. McKittrick, her voice thin with strain, ‘you must tell me her name, so that I know this is real.’