Velvet

by Mary Hooper

  ‘I don’t look like this every day,’ Velvet felt obliged to say. ‘It’s because I’m going out later for Madame.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I’m visiting another famous medium, Miss Florence Cook, to see how she works.’

  ‘How she works?’ Lizzie repeated. ‘Does she employ tricks, then?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Only my pa says that there was someone, a medium, in the paper the other day, who was clapped in jail for extorting a great amount of money out of someone who’d been bereaved. We thought it was your lady at first.’

  Velvet shook her head indignantly. ‘It certainly wasn’t Madame. She’s very highly respected. Why, titled ladies attend her sessions.’

  Lizzie shrugged. ‘Titled ladies went to this medium, too, and she was having them on just the same.’ Perhaps realising that her comments were a little untimely, Lizzie added, ‘Still, I’m glad your Madame is on the level. Is it all right, working for her? Is it exciting?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Velvet said. ‘It’s not like work. She’s so generous and everything’s so interesting. We have all sorts of famous people come to the house.’

  Lizzie gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘What, wanting to talk to dead relatives?’

  ‘Wanting to talk to those on the Other Side,’ Velvet corrected.

  ‘Yes. There.’

  ‘But it’s all treated as quite normal and ordinary. Really! And I work alongside George, of course.’

  ‘Oooh! That handsome fellow who was on stage with her?’

  Velvet nodded. ‘He’s part of the household. Not that we see a great deal of each other, because he’s out a lot driving Madame in her carriage or down at the mews grooming the horses or somesuch. But we mostly have our meals together, although Mrs Lawson is around then and soon puts paid to any larking. Her daughter works as a daily maid and is a terrible forward baggage! Talk about having no shame!’

  ‘But George, now. Do you think that he has romantic intentions towards you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Velvet said, blushing. ‘Maybe. I think he likes me.’

  ‘And if something happened between you, what d’you think your Madame might have to say about it?’

  ‘If George and I . . . ?’ Velvet considered the matter. ‘I think she’d be very happy for us.’

  ‘So you really and truly are not walking out with Charlie now?’

  ‘Charlie?’ Velvet said. ‘Goodness, no! I’ve never walked out with Charlie.’

  ‘He’s been round here, you know. He asked for your address, but I didn’t have it – only Madame’s name.’

  Velvet nodded. ‘He found me.’

  ‘He came back here to tell me he’d called on you,’ Lizzie said with a giggle. ‘Said you’d answered the door and pretended he was a carpet salesman.’

  ‘I had to say that! He arrived in the middle of a special evening at Madame’s.’

  ‘Yes, and the next time he came here he –’

  ‘He’s been here three times?’ Velvet interrupted in surprise.

  ‘Four, I think.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It’s just that this house happens to be on Charlie’s beat – he’s moved police stations now. And he’s got a proper uniform! Made to measure, he looks ever so smart in it. And . . . well, you did just say that there’s nothing between you two, didn’t you?’

  Velvet paused a moment, then nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind if . . . if he and I walked out together?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Velvet after another little pause. It would have been churlish, surely, to say otherwise.

  ‘Not that he’s asked me yet,’ said Lizzie. ‘But I want to be ready for when he does.’

  Miss Florence Cook’s house was almost as grand as Madame’s and its location, on the river at Barnes, even more salubrious, so that despite Velvet’s elegant appearance she was very nervous as she went up the steps and knocked on the front door.

  It was opened by a girl about her own age who greeted her politely and, after ascertaining that she did not wish to take off her jacket, led her towards an older woman, who introduced herself as Miss Cook’s mother. This older lady spoke briefly to Velvet, asking if she’d been before, making sure she was quite at ease and – just as Velvet did at Madame’s – asking who she might be hoping to hear from on the Other Side.

  Velvet told Mrs Cook that she didn’t really have anyone close on the Other Side but was attending out of interest, seeing as it was quite the fashion, and Mrs Cook replied that her daughter was one of the leading mediums in London and so, if ever Velvet did want to contact someone, then this was absolutely the best place to come.

  Champagne was served and following this, everyone there – about thirty persons in all – was seated in rows before the curtained alcove at the end of the room. The gaslights were turned off and then Florence Cook entered the room (to applause, Velvet was surprised to note) and went behind the curtain. In another moment this was pulled open and Miss Cook could be seen through a thin muslin screen, awake and smiling.

  Velvet studied her appearance as well as she could, for black blinds hung at the windows and, as at Madame’s, the only illumination was from a single candle. Miss Cook seemed to be in her late twenties and was most attractive, wearing a deep-purple velvet gown. She had long fair hair which was braided with flowers, wore a quantity of silver bangles on her arms and had bare feet.

  She began to speak to the audience and as she did so, a great number of spirits seemed to arrive willy-nilly and be greeted by her. Some brought strange, garbled messages for people in the audience whilst others arrived and then went away again, disappointed, when no one said they owned them. Sometimes, as indeed happened at Madame’s, messages were given to certain people in the audience who seemed to have no knowledge of the person on the Other Side, but Miss Cook assured them that when they got home and pondered on these messages, their meaning would become clear. Miss Cook’s spirit guide (a very learned Oriental man, apparently) was also there and, after being introduced to the audience, conveyed certain wise words through Miss Cook along the lines of ‘Peace be with you’ and ‘Do unto others what you would have done to yourself’, which Velvet did not find terribly enlightening.

  There was an interval when Miss Cook left the room, the lights came up and another glass of champagne was served, then everyone took their seats again and Mrs Cook stood up to announce that during the second half of the evening, her daughter would attempt to materialise someone. This might take some time, she said, so she begged the patience of the audience. They were to remember that very few mediums could actually do such a thing and it was tantamount to witnessing a miracle if it did happen. If any ladies in the audience were of a particularly nervous disposition, then they were advised to leave the séance now, for what they were about to see might alarm them.

  No one left, however, and Miss Cook reappeared and went behind the curtain. In the next room, someone began to play a piano; a mournful air which sent shivers up and down Velvet’s spine. She began to grow a little apprehensive at the thought of what she might see. How real would it be? Was it a spirit, or should it rather be called a ghost or apparition?

  Moments passed and the heavy curtain was pulled back to reveal Miss Cook in an armchair, her head slumped on to her chest. The whole room fell completely quiet and Velvet even forgot to breathe. All eyes were on the cabinet, where, at the bottom, a swirl of smoke had appeared.

  Velvet watched it grow dense and then became aware that something was forming beneath the smoke; something with a more tangible quality, white, like thin-bunched muslin or chiffon. This, she thought, must be the ectoplasm . . . She strained forward in her seat but was unable to see more, for the one candle in the room was behind her and threw barely any light on to what was happening in the cabinet.

  All around, people began gasping and calling out as the ectoplasm grew and formed itself into the rough shape of a person standing next to the m
edium’s chair. A woman started screaming and there was a heavy thump as if someone at the back had fainted and fallen off their chair. Several other members of the audience rose to their feet and Mrs Cook had to stand up and appeal for calm.

  ‘The manifestation comes from my daughter’s body,’ she warned, ‘and it would cause her considerable pain – maybe even loss of life – if anyone were to lay hands upon the spirit form. Please remain in your seats!’

  The spirit form had stopped developing when Miss Cook herself spoke for the first time since the interval. ‘I have a woman here who has partially materialised,’ she said. ‘She may not be fully visible to you, but I can see her clearly. She passed over when she was about seventy years of age. She is a stout woman with her hair in a bun and she wears mourning clothes . . .’

  ‘Is it our dead queen?’ a woman at the back called, and was immediately shushed. ‘Well, it could be,’ she was heard to retort indignantly.

  Miss Cook resumed, ‘She has been dead six years or more. She ruled her household with a rod of iron and her family lived in awe of her. Does anyone claim her?’

  Velvet knew, of course, that it could not be her mother, whom she had never known to be anything but sad and overworked.

  ‘I believe the lady belongs to my family,’ a man called out.

  ‘Her name is . . .’ Miss Cook paused, then continued, ‘her name is the name of a flower.’

  ‘No. My mother’s name was Eleanor,’ the same man said, disappointed.

  ‘But my mother’s name was Violet,’ a lady’s voice came from the front row. ‘It sounds like her – she wasn’t a shrinking violet, that’s for sure!’

  Miss Cook smiled. ‘She’s laughing about what you’ve just said. She’s quite a different character from the way she was on earth. Is there anything you wish to ask her?’

  Given such an opportunity, the woman was suddenly struck dumb.

  ‘Should I perhaps ask her if she is with your father?’ Miss Cook suggested gently.

  Through the medium of Miss Cook came the answer, ‘We have met, but we are not as we were, for we are in spirit.’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman said, and sat down again.

  ‘You must make peace with the person you’ve been avoiding, for they mean you no harm,’ said either Miss Cook or the spirit of Violet (Velvet wasn’t sure who it was). ‘Remember what I told you. Remember my last words to you before I came to the Other Side.’

  There was more in this vein and Velvet watched and listened as closely as she could, trying to remember everything so she could report back to Madame. She tried to make sense of the spirit form, hoping to see if it was attached to Miss Cook in some way. It was too smoky in the cabinet to tell, however. Did the ectoplasm emanate from under Miss Cook’s bare feet? Was that a human shape which could be seen, or just shadows? What was the strange, filmy-like material? Could it all really be true?

  Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Mr Grey’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grey. Do be seated,’ said Madame Savoya. As the client looked at her, surprised and about to speak, she added, ‘I will be referring to you as Mr Grey in the interests of both your confidentiality and mine, and your real name will not be recorded in any notes.’

  ‘Right-o!’ said Mr Grey cheerily.

  ‘Thank you for using my private entrance to this house, and please continue to do so.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’ Mr Grey nodded. True to his name, he had thick grey hair and a full, fluffy grey beard which went some way to softening his craggy features. ‘And – if you don’t mind me asking – why am I Mr Grey, and not Mr Brown or Mr Black?’

  ‘A very good question,’ Madame said. ‘I name special clients of mine, those who come for private sessions, by the colour of their auras.’

  ‘Auras, spiritualism, mediums – all these words are new to me,’ said Mr Grey, ‘although I know from the newspapers that all the top people are doing it. You can see my aura, eh? And what might that be when it’s at home?’

  ‘An aura is the luminous glow which surrounds you and all living things, but which can only be seen by those of a spiritual nature, such as myself.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’

  Madame looked at Mr Grey consideringly. ‘But I’m afraid your aura does not glow with colour and light, as it should, but is a rather sad grey. Hence your name.’

  Mr Grey heaved a sigh. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Doesn’t surprise me at all.’

  ‘But, my dear sir, we hope to be able to change that. Perhaps, in time, we will be able to get in touch with your beloved wife. When you have made your peace with her, your aura will glow with colour once more.’

  ‘Right-o!’

  ‘I believe you said that it was she whom you had wronged?’

  ‘It was indeed. I’ve been a wicked man in the past, you see. Most wicked. It would ease my mind greatly to know that my wife has forgiven me.’

  ‘We have all done things we are ashamed of,’ Madame reminded him gently.

  ‘But some have done more than others,’ Mr Grey responded.

  George tapped on the door, came into the room and, after bowing and shaking hands with Mr Grey, sat down on a footstool ready to take notes.

  ‘I know you’ve already met George. It was at Ascot, I believe,’ said Madame.

  ‘Indeed. We are both racing men. Racing, the sport of kings!’ Mr Grey said expansively. He then frowned and looked at George. ‘But, if you’ll pardon me for asking, young man, why doesn’t someone like you, with such a job, win every time he goes racing? You surely know which horse is going to come in first?’

  ‘I’m afraid spiritualism doesn’t quite work like that,’ Madame said. ‘A medium is a mere vehicle through which important messages from those on the Other Side are conveyed. Who might or might not be going to win the two-fifteen on a certain day is of no concern to the spirits.’

  ‘Besides, a good medium does not operate for profit,’ George put in. ‘It would be completely against everything Madame believes in.’

  However, Mr Grey had moved on to more important things. ‘They call it the sport of kings,’ he said, ‘but when I consider how I neglected my dear wife and child, and kept them in penury whilst I gambled everything I owned, it seems to me now that it is the sport of fools! Oh, I deserve to suffer for my past sins –’

  ‘My dear sir,’ Madame interrupted, ‘you must look forward. And at least your interest in racing led to your marvellous win – and to your meeting George.’

  Mr Grey shook his head reflectively. ‘A six-horse accumulator. So much money that it changed my life. Well, I say it changed my life, but it merely changed the way I live. There’s a difference, you know.’ He paused for Madame and George to nod. ‘Money can’t change the past, can it? Money can’t erase a lifetime of cruelty. Money, in all its –’

  ‘Mr Grey, I’m going to try and help you,’ Madame said swiftly. ‘To do so, I’ll have to concentrate on you, my especial client, and on you alone. I intend to put all my endeavours and strength into contacting your late wife.’

  Mr Grey nodded eagerly. ‘I want to tell her how sorry I am, how desperately sorry for all the wicked, wicked things I did and . . .’ He stopped here, convulsed by sobs.

  ‘Mr Grey, I beg you to pull yourself together,’ George said, handing him a handkerchief. ‘Madame will do her very best to contact your wife, even if it means neglecting her other clients. If you wish, she will concentrate all her resources on you and your problems.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I want,’ came the muffled reply.

  ‘It may prove extremely difficult and it may take some time because, if you’re being truthful in your assessment of your past life and did indeed treat your wife badly, she may not want to return and speak to you. Madame will therefore need to use every ounce of her strength and ability to entice her back.’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ Mr Grey said. ‘I’ll pay whatever it takes.’ He suddenly reached forward and seized Madame’s hand in his own. ‘I hav
e been a cruel man – and not only to my wife. I had a beautiful daughter who should have been looking after me in my old age, but I treated her so badly that she deserted me.’

  Madame extricated her hand, massaging it gently where Mr Grey’s nails had dug into her palm. ‘I dare say you had a hard life, though, and found a wife and child too much to cope with.’

  Mr Grey looked up at her, seemed about to agree with her sympathetic judgement, but then changed his mind. ‘Oh no, I was proper wicked, I was. My wife died too young; I drained all the life out of her. And my little girl, why, she found herself a dog once, made a pet of some little puppy she found wandering the streets . . .’ He broke down here, and George began to speak but was interrupted with, ‘Oh, but I was a wicked beast! I told her the dog had fleas and couldn’t come into the house. Do you know what happened then?’

  Madame and George shook their heads.

  ‘It froze to death on the coldest night of the year. Found it dead on the doorstep, I did, stretched out next to the boot-scraper.’

  Madame shook her head, removed herself from the reach of Mr Grey and closed her eyes. ‘I am now going into trance, Mr Grey.’

  ‘If you would be so kind as to remain silent until Madame speaks again,’ said George.

  ‘And when she does speak again, will my wife be there with her?’

  ‘I very much doubt it will happen that quickly,’ said George. ‘It may take several visits to the Other Side before your wife can be located. However, rest assured that Madame will achieve this in the end.’

  ‘I know I’ve got to be ready to take the stick when she does find her, but I’m prepared for that,’ said Mr Grey. ‘I was Mr Magic, the children’s entertainer, you know. You don’t find many of us around, do you?’

  George put his finger to his lips to silence Mr Grey, but not before he and Madame had exchanged a secret look of utter astonishment.