The Seance

by John Harwood

  Outside of Alma's room, Mama took no more interest in the housekeeping than in anything else, and I suppose that Papa either did not know what gas and coals ought to cost, or did not care so long as his serene existence was not disturbed. Mrs. Greaves slept in a little room behind the pantry, opening onto a dank, high-walled courtyard. The dining and drawing rooms were on the ground floor; and Papa had the first floor to himself, with the library at the front, his study in the middle, then his bedroom, and a bathroom on the landing, so that there was no necessity for him to ascend any higher; at least, I had never seen him do so. Mama's and Alma's rooms were on the next floor up, along with the room that had been Annie's, and above them the attics. My own little room faced eastward, and often on wintry Sunday afternoons, I would climb into bed for warmth and try to lose myself in the sea of slate and blackened brickwork stretching away toward the great dome of St. Paul's, thinking of all the lives going on behind those endless walls.

  I had always liked Mrs. Greaves, but so long as I had Annie to speak for me, I had been too shy to say more than "yes," "no," or "thank you." And for a long time after Annie had left us, I missed her too much to want to make advances to Mrs. Greaves. But as the months dragged by, I was drawn to the light and warmth of the kitchen, especially on Saturdays, when Violet had her day off. At first I simply sat on a stool and watched; little by little I began to help, until I became quite proficient at peeling potatoes, rolling pastry and kneading dough. Sometimes I was even allowed to polish the silver, which I thought a great treat; all in all, it seemed to me that the life of a servant was far preferable to that of a lady.

  "I think I should like to be a cook when I grow up," I said to Mrs. Greaves one winter's afternoon. It had been raining steadily all day, and through the soft rumble of the stove I could hear water gurgling down the area drain.

  "I can see where you might think that," she replied, "but it ain't like this, most places. There's many a poor skivvy shiverin' in the dark, when she's not wearin' her fingers to the bone, because her mistress grudges her an inch of candle or a few coals, never mind gas like we have in here. Besides, you're going to be a lady, with a house and servants of your own, and a husband and children to look after; you won't want to be peelin' spuds then, believe you me."

  "I shall never have children," I said passionately, "for one of them might die, and then I should be like Mama, and never be happy again."

  Mrs. Greaves regarded me sadly; I had never before spoken so directly of my mother's affliction.

  "The country people in Ireland, miss, would say your mother was away."'

  I looked at her expectantly.

  "Well—'tis only their fancy, mind—they say that when someone is—like that—it's because the fairies have carried her off, and left one of their own in her place."

  "And do the fairies ever bring them back?"

  "Yes, my child ... I lost two sons, as you know, and thought my heart would break; I miss them still, but I know they're safe above. And I had others to think of ..." She paused uncomfortably.

  "How do you know," I asked, "that they are safe in Heaven? I mean, that there is a Heaven? Because the Bible tells us so?"

  "Well, yes, miss, that, of course, and ... because they tell me so."

  "But how can they tell you? Do their ghosts speak to you?"

  "Not ghosts, miss; their spirits. Through Mrs. Chivers—she's what they call a spirit medium—do you know what that is?"

  I told her I did not, and she explained, somewhat hesitantly at first, about spiritualism, and how she belonged to a Society, which met twice a week in a room in Southampton Row, and all about séances, and how the spirits of the departed could visit us from Heaven, which some people called "Summerland," to speak through a medium to those they loved.

  " Then I must tell Mama about Mrs. Chivers," I said, "so she can talk to Alma's spirit, and be happy again."

  "No, miss, you mustn't; leastways, you mustn't let on I told you, or I might lose my place. Your Pa don't hold with spiritualists, so I've heard. And ladies don't go to Mrs. Chivers, only cooks and skivvies like me and Violet."

  "Are ladies not allowed to be spiritualists, then?"

  "It's not that, miss, but they have their own meetings, them that believe. I've heard there's a Society for ladies and gentlemen in Lamb's Conduit Street, but remember, it wasn't me that told you."

  I meant to tell Mama that very evening, but the impulse died, as usual, in the face of her leaden indifference, and I was afraid, besides, of getting Mrs. Greaves into trouble. And so, at breakfast the next morning, I asked Papa what spiritualism was, saying I had heard someone mention it at school. I was now considered old enough to breakfast in the dining room, provided I did not speak whilst Papa was reading The Times; Mama had not been joining us since Dr. Warburton prescribed her a stronger sleeping-draught.

  "Primitive superstition in modern dress," he replied, and opened his newspaper with a disapproving rattle; it was the nearest I had come to seeing him angry. I had already begun to suspect that Papa did not believe in God. He had made no objection when I ceased to attend church after Annie left us, and soon after this I discovered that the book he had been writing for so long was called Rational Foundations of Morality. Its purpose, so far as I could gather from the snippets he let fall, was to prove that you ought to be good even if you did not believe that you would burn in torment forever if you were bad; I often wondered why something so obvious needed a book to prove it, but never dared say so. And when next I tried to question Mrs. Greaves about spiritualism, she changed the subject, much as Annie had done with the foundlings. But the idea that the spirits of the dead were all around us, separated only by the thinnest of veils, became part of my private mythology, along with the gods and goddesses of the Underworld.

  I remained at Miss Hale's school until I was almost sixteen, growing up in a kind of limbo state in which I was free to read whatever I wished, and walk wherever I wanted, whilst at the same time feeling that nobody would care if I vanished from the face of the earth. My freedom set me apart from the other girls, and since I could not invite any of them to our house, I was seldom invited to theirs. Mama's spirits did not improve; if anything she became more desolate and lethargic as the years passed, dragging herself around the house—which she no longer left at all, even to visit Alma's grave—as if she were being slowly crushed beneath an invisible weight.

  Violet gave notice at last, a few months before I left Miss Hale's, and was replaced, on Mrs. Greaves's recommendation, by Lettie, a quick, intelligent girl not much older than myself. Lettie's mother had died when she was twelve and she had been in service ever since. Though she spoke like a London girl, she had Irish and Spanish blood on her father's side, and her skin was quite dark, as were her eyes, which were large and heavy-lidded, with long, curling lashes. Her long fingers were roughened and callused by years of scrubbing, though she rubbed them with pumice every day. I liked her from the first, and would often help her with the dusting and polishing, simply for an excuse to talk. On Saturday afternoons she would join her friends—mostly servants like herself from houses around Holborn and Clerkenwell—in St. George's Gardens and they would go on excursions together; I often wished that I could accompany them.

  My life continued in this desultory fashion until one morning at breakfast, when, without the slightest warning, my father announced that he was leaving us. "It is high time you left school," he said to me, or rather to his plate, for he avoided my eyes whilst speaking. "You are old enough now to keep house for your mother, and I must have peace and quiet until I have finished my book. So I am going to Honoria—my sister in Cambridge. I have arranged for you to draw an allowance from the bank, sufficient to maintain this house as at present, and also to provide you with a subscription to Mudie's, though many of my books will remain, and you may have the use of them; I am taking only my working library."

  I knew from this that he was never coming back; I had several times begged for a subscription, on
ly to be told that we could not afford it.

  "But Papa," I said, "I already keep house for you"—he had been giving me the housekeeping money every Thursday morning for a year or more—"and how could your life be any more peaceful in Cambridge than here?"

  Light flashed from the lenses of his pince-nez. "I am sure you know what I mean," he replied, "and I do not think anything is to be gained from further discussion. I have let you have your way in many things, Constance, and you will kindly oblige me in this. I have informed Miss Hale that you will be leaving at the end of this term; she will speak to you about it today."

  He folded his paper neatly, rose to his feet, and was gone before I could ask him whether he had told Mama.

  The day passed in a kind of stupor; I remember Miss Hale—who was very small and stout, so that she resembled a medicine ball on legs—summoning me to her room, but I cannot recall a word of what she said to me. It was only when I came home that afternoon, and heard, on my way upstairs, the muffled sound of sobbing from Mama's room, that the full horror of my situation struck me. I stood for a small eternity upon the landing, willing the sobs to cease, before I crept on up to my own room.

  I had given very little thought to the future, beyond daydreams in which, at the end of my time at school, I would marry an intrepid explorer and travel the world with him, while Mama and Papa went on as they had always done. Now I saw that my father had planned this all along: I would be imprisoned here for the term of my mother's life, unless I could harden my heart enough to abandon her as he was doing. And even that I could not do until I was twenty-one, and able to seek a situation on my own behalf.

  Lettie and Mrs. Greaves, though full of sympathy for me, were not nearly as shocked at Papa's desertion as I would have liked. Mrs. Greaves said it was a miracle he had stayed so long, and Lettie remarked that at least he hadn't thrown us all into the street, as her own father had done. And perhaps, said Mrs. Greaves, I could persuade my mother to join the Holborn Spiritualist Society once my father was safely out of the house; it might be just what she needed to cheer her up. Lettie and I exchanged glances at this; Lettie had told me privately that Mrs. Veasey, who sometimes presided at the séances in Lamb's Conduit Street, was given to pumping servants for information about her sitters.

  At last I summoned the courage to go upstairs again and knock at my mother's door. I found her crouched on a little low chair that she kept just inside the entrance to Alma's room. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and she looked so old and shrunken that my conscience smote me. I knelt and put my arm around her stiff, unresponsive shoulders.

  "Your father has told you, then?" she said in a low, desolate monotone.

  "Yes, Mama."

  "It is my punishment."

  "For what, Mama?"

  "For letting Alma die."

  "But Mama, you could not have saved her. And Alma is in Heaven now; you will be with her again one day."

  "If only I could be sure," she whispered.

  "Mama, how can you doubt it? She was an innocent child; how could she not go straight to Heaven?"

  "I meant, that there is a Heaven."

  The idea came to me with the echo of my own question to Mrs. Greaves: Instead of trying to persuade Mama to join the Society, I would summon Alma's spirit myself.

  The following morning I avoided my father by breakfasting in the kitchen, and when I came home from school, he was gone. Lettie told me that he had not gone to the Museum that day; two men with a cartload of boxes had arrived at half past nine to pack at my father's direction, and by two he was on his way to St. Pancras. Dr. Warburton had called half an hour later. My father had left me a letter on the hall table; it consisted entirely of instructions except for the final sentence, which read: "You need not write to me except in an emergency. Your affect father, Theo. Langton."

  I do not remember feeling anything at all; I went numbly up to my room and began to rehearse for my séance, watching myself in the mirror through half-closed eyes and trying to recall how Alma used to sound. All that would come was a vague impression of her chanting nonsense words to the tunes of hymns; and I could not tell whether it was a true memory, or something Mama had told me, or a confused recollection of something I had done myself.

  My mother seemed less desolate that evening; I wondered if Dr. Warburton had given her a sedative. Sitting in the chair opposite hers, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift in the warmth of the fire. Then I began to sing in a thin, piping voice, making up sounds to the tune of All Things Bright and Beautiful," until I heard my mother speak, in a voice trembling with emotion.

  "Alma?"

  "Yes, Mama," I replied, in the same childish pipe, keeping my eyes closed.

  "Alma, is it really you?"

  "Yes, Mama."

  "Where are you?"

  "Here, Mama. The angel said I could come to you."

  "Why could you not come before, my darling? It broke my heart to lose you."

  I had not expected the question, and did not know how to reply.

  "I wish you would not be sad, Mama," I said at last, "because I am happy in Heaven, and one day you will see me and we will never be parted again."

  "Soon, I pray. My life here is a torment; I wish it were over."

  "You must try to be happy, Mama," I repeated helplessly. "It makes me sad to see you cry."

  "Do you see me all the time, my darling?"

  "Yes, Mama."

  "Then why could you not come before?"

  "I could not find the way," I lisped, and to avoid any more questions began to sing again, letting my voice trail gradually away and my breathing slow. A few moments later, I pretended to wake with a start, and opened my eyes to find Mama staring at me in a way I had never seen before.

  "I think I have been asleep, Mama; I dreamed of Alma."

  "No, child, you were in a trance; Alma was speaking through you."

  "What is a trance?" I asked innocently.

  "It is—what spiritualists do—I wanted to try, but he forbade it—he said he would leave me if I ever went near a séance—and now he has left me anyway—" she choked, and burst into raw, noisy sobbing. I went and put my arms around her, and felt, for the first time in all the years since Alma died, an answering pressure, and my tears mingled with her own.

  ***

  I went to bed that night happier than I could remember, thinking that Mama was at last emerging into the light. But the very next evening she wanted me to resume my trance; I said that I did not know how I had done it, but would try. As I pretended to fall asleep, I struggled to think of something new to say, but could summon only vague images of white-robed figures bathed in golden light. What were people supposed to do in Heaven, apart from singing and playing the harp? Mrs. Greaves had spoken of Summerland; perhaps Heaven would be like a perfect summer's day in the country, with Alma riding a celestial pony through fields of beautiful flowers. But if Alma was still only two, waiting for Mama to arrive in Heaven so as not to miss any of her growing up, she would surely be too small for a pony, even a celestial one .... In the end I abandoned the attempt and opened my eyes, to see the familiar look of desolation settling over her face.

  "Did Alma not come to you?" I asked.

  She shook her head wearily.

  "But Mama, you know now that she is safe in Heaven; you must not be sad anymore."

  "But how can I be sure? Perhaps you were talking in your sleep—if only I could hear her voice again..."

  I looked at her with a sinking heart. "I do not know how it happened, Mama, but I will try again tomorrow," I said at last, and soon after excused myself and went upstairs to my room. Already I could feel the black cloud of her misery rising to engulf me, but I knew I could not sustain the deception alone. And so, the following afternoon, I plucked up my courage and went round to Lamb's Conduit Street, where I walked up and down until I discovered a door marked "Holborn Spiritualist Society" in faded gold lettering, set into the wall next to a milliner's shop. I stood irreso
lute for so long that the milliner came out and, when I said I wished to see Mrs. Veasey, directed me to another house farther down the street. There a maidservant who looked no more than ten asked me to wait, and after a while a stout grey-haired woman, dressed entirely in black, came out to greet me.

  "And what might you be wanting, my dear?" she said, in an accent that reminded me a little of Annie's. I began to explain, very hesitantly, about Alma and Mama, whereupon she suggested that we should walk up to the Foundling Hospital, where she liked to sit and watch the children. Something in the way she said it made me wonder if she, too, had lost a child, but when I ventured to ask, she said no, she had never had any. Her husband, a sea captain, had been drowned off the West Indies nearly twenty years ago.

  "He still comes to me sometimes," she said. "But spirits can't be commanded, you know."

  She sighed and patted my hand; a plain, motherly woman quite unlike my imagination of a spirit medium. As we walked, I told her of Papa's departure, and how he had forbidden us to have anything to do with spiritualism, and by the time we were seated by the statue of the angel, I had resolved to trust her entirely, even as far as my pretence at summoning Alma.

  "I know it was wrong to deceive her," I said, "but Mama has been so unhappy for so long, and if only she could be certain that Alma is safe in Heaven, I think she might recover."

  "You mustn't reproach yourself, my dear. For all you know, it was your sister's spirit moving you to speak; you might have the true gift and not know it yet."