No Way to Say Goodbye

by Rod Madocks

  I tracked Kress in that first year, trying to tune in to the processes that were carrying him along. He had been absorbed in the criminal justice system; he was put on remand, and he made occasional bail appearances. His lodgings were gone over again by CID and his van, a works Ford with rust-dimpled sides, was taken apart. Forensic Serology had examined it, looking for blood staining and had found none. It was vacuumed out and the cement and brick dust lodging in all the cracks was filtered and checked for fibres, but there was no recovered clothing from Rachel to check these finds against. Kress made no further admissions to the police, although he continued to toy with his questioners, hinting at his involvement with Rachel, and with others.

  I had not heard further from Catherine but kept by our agreement of not contacting her, confident that she would let me know if something developed. The press continued to speculate and ran stories linking the missing little girls in the Midlands triangle and others that had disappeared in the West Country. I clipped out the cuttings of other disappearances, cases from newspapers and magazines, and kept them in a scrapbook, but could not bear to add Rachel’s press cuttings to the grainy images of that sisterhood of the lost.

  * * *

  The Spiritualist church was located near Pugin’s Catholic cathedral and the Canning Circus cemetery. There was a plaque outside on the white wall of the church informing that it was founded in 1860. I had gone there instinctively, seeking answers but not really believing that I would find any. The church was quite close to Rachel’s old flat and we had passed it many times together. Although brought up a Catholic, Rachel used to say if she would belong to any church it would be the Spiritualist one, although I do not know if she ever attended services. I remember, reading a book about spirit photography at the time, about Mumler and his spirit photographs of the nineteenth century and of mediumship in general. I recall huddling up to the little gas fire in her flat when we were students, with her drying washing hung around me steaming gently while I showed her the photos of ectoplasm emerging from the mouths of mediums. I also spoke about the legions of First World War dead, Raymond among them and Frederick Myers, President of the Society of Psychical Research, who left tantalising, abstruse messages with many mediums in the 1920s. Such was my enthusiasm for the subject that I encouraged Rachel and a few of her friends to dabble in an amateur séance one night. We lit candles and placed the letters of the alphabet on scraps of paper onto a circular, glass-topped, coffee table, then joined hands with each pressing a finger onto an upended glass tumbler. After a few false starts and giggles, we were all surprised when the glass began to move about, sliding from letter to letter, dragging our hands with it. We tried to spell out what it was pointing to, but we struggled to agree on any comprehensible word. At last, as if in a fit of pique the whole table appeared to be moving and bumping up and down under our hands. All at once the candles flickered and one of Rachel’s friends fell backwards, screaming in histrionic fright. She threshed about on the floor so much that her plump little breasts popped right out of her low cut blouse. This brought a halt to the proceedings as we calmed the frightened girl and Rachel never allowed me to repeat the experiment.

  I entered the church one rainy February night. The congregation came in, mainly in pairs, shaking out their umbrellas. They commented on the weather as elderly, smiling attendants handed out hymnals. I took my place at the back of a large room with polished pine benches facing a lectern. Strangely, the walls of the room were covered in chintz wallpaper, giving the impression that this was someone’s commandeered, old-fashioned sitting room. Behind the lectern on the wall was a large plaque showing an emblem of a sunburst over a blue sea. Against the sea was an image of an open book. The words LIGHT appeared against the sun image, TRUTH was shown outlined against the watery element and NATURE appeared in capitals on the open pages of the book. A woman sat in a wooden chair next to the lectern watching the sparse congregation enter and adjust themselves on the plain seating. She was in her middle years, with a strong jaw line and greying hair swept back from her forehead. I fancied that she regarded us with amused, shrewd, compassionate eyes.

  I recognised her at once from the flyer I had been given advertising private sittings from a medium called Mrs Durrand, clipped from a local paper which I found left in the therapy waiting rooms at work. The flyer text ran:

  Sad? Confused? Grieving?

  Private Sittings with Gifted Experienced Local Medium.

  The Spiritualist National Union

  A Chance to Consult the Spirit World for Guidance and Healing.

  Returnable Fee

  I impulsively rang the number on the leaflet, thinking irrationally that there must be some purpose to my discovering it. I asked for an appointment and a crisp, voice told me, “You will want to attend our service beforehand. We find it is helpful for communication.”

  I found myself here a week later, as the congregation trickled in, watching five or six elderly ladies with grey curls under wool berets, their heads turning to peep round curiously at the congregation, ignored by a Caribbean man sitting alone and erect in a double-breasted suit and by two loaf-haired women with large, gold hoop earrings who looked alike and who sat chewing and staring stolidly ahead. At length Mrs Durrand rose accompanied by soothing opening chords from a Hammond organ. She stepped forward and greeted us:

  “Especially those who have come for the first time tonight.”

  Clear, bell-voiced Mrs Durrand, in a smart twin set and a Hermès scarf, spoke about “our church”, made reference to the Fox sisters, those New England rappers, and about comforting messages she hoped that would be here for us tonight. We sang Jerusalem in a shaky chorus with the rich contralto of Mrs Durrand sounding above all the others. I mouthed the words, angry with myself, embarrassed for being there yet also oddly soothed by the artless simplicity of the place and these people. A prayer for departed pets was then made for they also have a spirit life. “Thoughts of the sick for healing” and “visualisation of healing” followed, announcements for study nights on the history of “our noble movement”, and then a homily from the medium as she paced on the raised wooden dais before us, tall, elegant, hands clasped before her. Her court shoes sounded rhythmically on the floorboards as she paced she spoke about the creative force of the universe, this power that we know as God creating life in all we see around and also the life beyond death. I followed her words and her command of us with some admiration despite my discomfort. At the close of her address she said: “Science has revealed … as we know, matter cannot be destroyed, it is merely energy and it can change its form. That is why tonight, tonight, dear friends, we invite communion with the spirits, from those who now live in the Spirit World, who, I am sure, will reveal themselves to us, to bring comfort and help to those they love.”

  We were then invited to sing a hymn. The organ swelled and, led by the medium, we sang to the tune of a TV advert of the time, “I’d like to help the world to sing”. I also murmured out the last stanza while glancing sidelong at my humble companions singing lustily beside me between the narrow benches:

  Drawing nigh with clouds so tender

  To the gates of paradise

  Then my soul with pure devotion

  Spreads her fondest grateful wing.

  The plodding organ died away. There was a pause that preceded the demonstration of mediumship. I could not help feeling a prickle of apprehension. Mrs Durrand stood in front of us, head bowed, her navy and white scarf heaving as she breathed deeply. The small congregation shuffled and coughed then fell silent. I tried to push thoughts of Rachel out of my mind. I watched with premonitionary fear as the medium stalked around the front of the room going clunk, clunk in her court shoes, her head sunk on her chest, chin buried in her scarf. Suddenly she raised her head, her eyes smiling and serene.

  “I have here a young man sitting with companions, they are very gay, laughing, I think I have the name Norton, no Newton.”

  There was a nervous rustle from us
sitting there before a middle-aged man whom I had not noticed before, replied calmly, “Yes I think I can take it.”

  Mrs Durrand went on, eyes closed again, speaking in an odd, forced intonation.

  “This young man, oh he is laughing, joking, sense of humour is what I get, yes joking with his friends, all those other young men sitting waiting somewhere.”

  “Yes that’s right,” said the respondent, “That’s my uncle; he was a pilot officer, killed in the war. Newton. That’s the name of his aerodrome. He was in a Fairey Battle squadron, most of them were lost.”

  “He says that there is someone else here, someone who passed over later, they are arm in arm.”

  “Yes I understand,” said the man, “That’s my father.”

  “He is saying he was ill but has recuperated in the spirit world, he is rubbing his chest.”

  “Yes, he had cancer,” said the man.

  “Well, he is better now you understand; he wants you to understand that. Fading now…” said the medium as she began to pace again, she stopped and her hand suddenly stretched out and pointed at us.

  “I have a lady here, grey hair, with a little dog.” She fixed on me for a moment and I shrunk down on my bench.

  “No, the lines are not getting through.” She said impatiently her finger moving over the congregation.

  “I think we can take it,” said one of the sisters with big hair.

  The medium continued, “She is showing me her feet. I can see feet. They look a bit swollen.”

  “No that’s not Gran,” said the woman looking at her sister beside her who was also shaking her head, her large earrings waggling. “’Er feet weren’t swollen, no.”

  “Yes, I see special shoes, slippers, dear, she is showing them to me. No, I’m not getting through.” The medium moved on continuing to proffer the message until a thin, red-haired woman with anxious eyes and bony shoulders near the front spoke up.

  “Yes. It’s for me I think. It’s my old neighbour, she were good to me. She had bad feet.”

  “She is looking concerned,” continued the medium.‘She is saying you need to take care of your health, not leave things, not put things off, has there been a concern about your health dear?”

  “Yes,” says the cadaverous woman.

  So the messages flowed, vague entities sending ethereal concerns to our humdrum lives. My fear of the occult gave way to discomfort. I began covertly to look at my watch and wondered how to creep away. Then the medium closed the demonstration. There was a prayer of peace and one last bumbling hymn. The congregation shuffled out with a thudding of benches. Tea was served from a large urn in an adjoining room and a lottery draw commenced. I moved to the door, coat in hand.

  “Mr Keyse, I presume?”

  My flight was arrested by Mrs Durrand. I turned to see her cleaving the bowed shoulders of the throng. She put out her hand.

  “Mr Keyse, I am pleased to meet you. Not going, I hope; have we disappointed you?”

  She looked at me shrewdly.

  “Come, I will do your reading now. That is what you have come here for after all.”

  I followed her, still holding my coat, as she walked ahead of me down a dark, narrow corridor and into a lamp lit, smaller room. I became aware that we were followed by the bustling form of an apple-cheeked woman with the twinkling confident gaze of an adept.

  “Rene, my assistant,” announced Mrs Durrand with a brief sweep of her arm.

  We had entered a room with two easy chairs facing each other and a side table upon which stood a vase holding flowering stems of witch hazel. The room was pervaded by a sweet cloying smell. There was also a smaller chair in one corner under a print of Durer’s praying hands. Here Rene took her place after asking me for the modest fee which she tucked into a small metal cash box balanced on her knee.

  “It helps us to continue our work,” she murmured.

  The medium sat facing me smiling; her hair in the lamp light shone gold through the grey. I felt disgusted at myself for being weak-minded enough to be there, yet compelled to go through with it. I took my place in front of her. She had loosened her scarf and I could see a pendant on a chain around her neck in the shape of a heart.

  “Please be at ease, Mr Keyse. You have never consulted a medium?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, I thought not. Simply respond if you understand but if you do not understand the message then please tell me. The spirits sometimes find it hard to communicate.”

  She sat for a moment, her head lowered, breathing deeply. I remained sitting, controlling my urge to run out of the room, to soil myself no longer with this farce. Mrs Durrand suddenly brought up her head. I could not see her eyes, they seemed to have half-rolled in their sockets giving her face a creepy, vacant expression. There was long pause. Silence seemed to press on me in the room.

  At last she said, “I have entities who want to speak to you. Who is there? They are there but I cannot make them out. They are as forms seen through frosted glass. There is a man, he is saying very faintly, how can I say it. Yes, slowly now. Bless you, yes, I translate it, “grief is love, grief is prayer”, he is showing me something, two people standing on a street, a man and a woman, a dog scuffling about, lamplight, darkness, and another woman leaning, stooping low to the dog. Yes I have it. There is someone else there, also wanting to communicate. It is her…”

  Mrs Durrand’s eyes popped open and refocused on me.

  “Has there been a recent passing?” she asked.

  I shrugged, my throat constricted, I felt unable to speak. Her eyes half-closed again.

  “I will ask again, … she is there, on the threshold, a young woman, yes, standing upright now, I can see her hair… I sense pain, a sudden passing.”

  Her face convulsed and she clutched at her brow but kept on speaking, “Water, trees, a brow of trees, an impression of stillness and she is saying, a haven … no I can’t catch it.”

  She gave another grimace and a shudder then jumped in her seat, moaning and humming. Her chair made a cracking noise. I felt startled and my skin crawled with a shameful fear. I also started forward and put my hand out as if to steady her as she swayed quite close to me.

  “Do not disturb her love, let her work, it might harm her if you touch her,” murmured Rene behind me.

  After a long pause Mrs Durrand spoke again.

  “I have seen something, something bad, a presence of it, something not rubbed out, you cannot rub out, and also I see a loving spirit. I sense love and pain, a soul finding its way like those stairs at night, laughing now, says she can’t always see, needs a light to show where she is going. Keeps saying one word like an echo, I can’t catch it — art heaven? Alf heaven? No, it’s not English, I don’t know if I have got it.”

  She made another jerking grimace.

  “I’m losing them now.”

  She rolled back in her chair with another cracking sound making me jump again, and then she sat erect breathing heavily. She opened her eyes and took out a hankie from her sleeve and pressed it to her mouth. I again smelt the cloying lilac scent. Her eyes opened again looking at me as if out of a long tunnel.

  “They have gone dear.”

  Mrs Durrand continued staring at me for a moment then her gaze rolled over the room in an unsteady way as if she was disorientated. Her companion moved forward to give her a glass of water. She said, “I’m sorry that I could not get much, I hope you could take something from it dear, we cannot tell what the spirits bring. That one took a lot from me. Show him out Rene please.”

  I left the church having declined their offer of a cup of tea, feeling shaken. The wind tore at me outside and I slipped into a nearby phone booth. I opened the door with a creak and confronted the smell of piss and musty damp. The stink in there was a relief after the cloying atmosphere of the church. I stood for a moment in silence, my forehead resting against the chill glass of the booth. Then I rang Louie, selfishly looking for flesh and companionship, wanting to dispel that f
eeling of murmurous loss that the medium had engendered. The phone rang at Louie’s nurses’ residence, an abrupt female voice answered and there was the sound of feet in the corridor as Louie was roused. She sounded tired, telling me she was on early shifts. We had not spoken for several days. I asked if we could meet that night although it was already getting late.

  “Ok, we’ll go for a drink,” she agreed reluctantly.

  I chose the Lions as a place to meet; large Victorian sculptures that crouched facing each other in front of the Council House on the main square; a favoured meeting place for lovers. An hour later I could make out her blonde hair bobbing through the crowds of late week revellers. She wore a full, billowy, print dress with a leaf pattern coming down to the calf, over which she wore an Alexon coat swinging open as she strode across the square towards me, a ciggie already in one hand.

  The gold chain gleamed on her ankle as she perched next to me on a bar stool, one red-nailed hand resting proprietorially on my knee as she scanned the smoky bar for her cronies. I was so glad to see her. So many things about her made me grateful to be with her, her acceptance, her intuitive sense of my need for companionship and her robust presence that cleaved away ghosts.

  Louie had the effect of making the memory of that little room in Canning Circus recede. I felt so grateful for that but somehow could not express that feeling to her. After the alcohol had dispelled my initial caution, I mentioned going to a spiritualist church and she instantly detected betrayal, her antennae were sharp like that. Her mouth twisted scornfully and she blew out a puff of smoke, “You want to tell me about it?” I shook my head, more bottles of Pils were ranked in front of us and we gazed out at the bar in our alliance, listening to the roar of a hundred shouted conversations, looking out at the drinking throngs, gangs of lads in shirtsleeves despite the chill weather, girls larking about rubbing crisps into each others’ hair and laughing. A song on the sound system playing the anthem of the time again and again, the languid voice of the singer sneering above the tumult, “You’ve got a heart of glass, a heart of stone, just you wait until I get you home.”