by Mary Mackie
I looked up at that. Oliver?
Vicky let her lip curl, her eyes darting blue daggers. ‘I thought so. I knew at Christmas you were dangling after him. Well, you’re out of luck. He won’t be here. Mother did invite him, but at the last minute he had to go away to Lincoln. Something to do with Thorne-Thomas.’ If my relief showed, jealousy blinded her to it. ‘It does seem to prove that he hasn’t the slightest interest in a little—’ She bit the sentence off, turning away. ‘Come, Tom, let’s go back to the house.’
‘A little what?’ I demanded, but she was stalking away, her back stiff.
It was Tom who answered, eyes bright with mischief as he cupped his hand over another snigger: ‘C.L.B.’
‘Tom!’ Vicky snapped, and he went slyly loping after her, cradling his saucer of crumbs, leaving me feeling cold.
Poor Tom only repeated what he heard others say, but obviously Vicky used my initials as a form of abuse, and to Emmet they were a joke. I was reluctant to ask any of the older members of the family about it because it would look as if I were telling tales, complaining of a silly nickname coined because Vicky was jealous of me. But thank goodness Oliver had elected to be away on business that weekend. Perhaps he was as reluctant to see me as I to see him.
For my birthday dinner party Cook had made a cake, with candles; every guest brought a small gift for me and they sang ‘Happy Birthday’, which made my eyes sting. Even Vicky was there, evidently under orders to be sociable. Everyone tried to make me feel at home. Which, perversely, had the opposite effect – if they had really accepted me, they wouldn’t have needed to try quite so hard.
Near midnight, after Grandmother had gone to her room, when Vicky had also retired and Harry, the oldest of the company, began to consult his watch, Emmet suggested we should all go for a walk to ‘clear the cobwebs’. Most of us were ready for an adventure, what with wine at dinner, youth in the blood and spring in the air. Harry and Saffron declined to go with us, but didn’t stop us, begging only that we be quiet and not alert ‘the Mater’. So out we went, a dozen of us on a heady May night with the waxing moon riding among flying wisps of cloud.
Some had found torches, which was just as well since Emmet elected to take us along the spine of Denes Hill, heading for the sea on a path that wound tortuously through the woods. Brambles tugged at skirts, girls giggled and whispered, boys seized the chance to hold a soft hand or slide an arm round a slender waist. I found myself attended by a young man named James Lacey, whom Emmet characterized as ‘short, but sweet’ – James stood about five feet six. The way dipped down a steep slope into the railway cutting, where the company had built a gate in the fence either side, to allow walkers through, with notices warning them to beware of trains. ‘Choo-choo!’ someone wailed ahead of me. The sound disturbed an owl that came floating ghost-pale across the moon.
Up through the trees and over the last of the wooded rise, the path sloped down to open marshes, along the edge of a drainage dyke and through low sand dunes. By the time we arrived on the beach, where a stretch of rounded pebbles hemmed acres of flat sand, it was past one in the morning. The tide was coming in, rapidly surging over the sand.
‘Anyone for a swim?’ Emmet suggested.
‘What, starkers?’ came the reply.
‘Well, I’m not ruining my best drawers,’ Emmet quipped.
If the young men had been alone they might have done it; as it was, with four girls along, they let discretion decide. The wind was cold, anyway. One of the girls protested at the thought of going back the ‘rough way’ and so we set off down the road to the village, past the station, making for the short cut past the Farcroft farm.
The farmhouse itself lay in darkness: the Farcrofts must have been abed hours before. We planned to creep past and not disturb them, but, shushing each other, whispering and giggling over the adventure, we had hardly passed the fork that led by the barns and down to the house when one of the dogs started to bark. Then another one gave tongue.
Some wag decided to return the greeting, imitating the dogs. Someone else began to howl like a wolf. Stifled giggles egged them on and though, thinking of Philip, I pleaded, ‘Oh, don’t!’ my protest was half-hearted. The joke carried us on until a light flared in one of the bedrooms, the window scraped up and a head came out, bellowing obscenities. Laughing, we fled away from Mad Jack’s wrath, some of the men still howling and barking, speeded by the impotent blast of a shotgun behind us. Breathless and dishevelled, we reached the safety of the gate, but as we trailed home through the woods I regretted my own part in the foolery. Had we disturbed Philip’s sorely needed rest?
I had anticipated seeing him in church, but by the time I woke in the morning it was too late to go to service. The weather had changed, bringing another grey sea fret to muffle all the lower slopes, leaving us on a sunlit island with our tennis and our croquet and our swing roped to a tree. Dutifully, we attended evensong – Philip wasn’t there – and ended the day with a singsong and dancing round the piano. Even Vicky enjoyed herself – her talent for ragtime won approval and, James Lacey’s brother, David, having taken a shine to her, she became quite skittish.
When Whit Monday dawned hot, with blue skies promising a fair day, the entire crowd of us walked down to what the family regarded as their special area of the shore, midway between Eveningham and Heacham, where few trippers ever penetrated. Among the sand dunes, a large wooden beach hut provided a place, for those who wished, to change into swimming costume. We spread our rugs and had lunch, then some of the group walked out to meet the tide, some tossed a large ball on the sand, some sat idly, doing what everyone does beside the sea.
I remembered similar picnics around the turn of the century: Mother, John, Frank and their friends – Oliver must have been there, too, just one of the adults. They had had their own circle, leaving the twins and Vicky to play with me, or ignore me, as the mood took them. Even then, I had often been alone in the crowd, wandering off by myself.
‘Dreaming!’ Grandmother had sighed. ‘That child is always dreaming.’
‘We all need dreams,’ someone had said. Who? Why… Uncle John, of course. Infuriatingly, that snippet was all my memory yielded.
At eight I had been a solitary child. Now, a few days away from my nineteenth birthday, I was still alone, walking barefoot along the edge of the sea, warm ripples round my ankles, my toes relishing the feel of ridged sand as my mind drifted back in time. My long hair fell loose about my face and shoulders, brown-black strands fluttering in a warm breeze from under an old straw hat. I had on a loose dress whose hem could get wet if it wished – I didn’t care. I was too busy looking for cockles, picking up shells, collecting stones and fronds of seaweed, aware of the small, plain, lonely girl who still existed inside me. Would she ever find her place?
Lost in reverie, I wandered to where other people were enjoying the beach as the tide rose, covering the dangerous deep channel that awaited the unwary paddler two hundred yards or so from the high-tide line. Waves surged in over sloping sand, green ripples edged with foam, growing deeper by the minute. Not far from me, two young women and a man sported, all in knitted navy bathing suits. Only the man was thoroughly wet; the girls stood in shallows up to their knees, squealing and ducking aside as their companion kicked up gouts of glittering water.
Cutting through the waves directly towards the two girls and their playful tormentor, a swimmer made powerful strokes. He moved purposefully, the sight sweeping me suddenly back to another day on this beach, long ago… mist seemed to gather, denying me the full picture, yet it was important that I remember. I stood half in the present, half in the past, watching the lithe, athletic arms that brought the man closer, until he was in the shallows. With a singe of motion, framed by glittering drops in the sunlight, he rose up from the sea, lifting his arms to sweep water from his face and flick it at the girl who had turned to welcome him. It was John. Surely, it was my uncle John!
The girl flung out her hands as if to ward off th
e cold shower and, shrieking with laughter, spun and fled towards me as the man started after her. She darted past me, fleeing him and yet wanting him to catch her. She didn’t know I was there. Was I invisible? Were they the ghosts, or was I? The young man was near now, his fine body, strong shoulders and long limbs displayed by the clinging bathing suit. He stopped, only feet away, and the mist swirled in my mind. John…
His face seemed to shimmer and the illusion faded, no longer my lost uncle but more familiar, frowning features, lean and brown, gleaming wet in the light. The hostility in his green eyes softened to puzzlement as he studied my face, clearly wondering at my pallor. I probably looked as if I had seen a ghost.
‘Kate?’ he said.
I had to swallow and lick my dry lips before I could utter, ‘Philip! I… I didn’t see you.’
The frown deepened, knotting the muscle between his brows. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’ Trying to gather the scattered shreds of my composure, I said the first words that came to me. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m well, thank you. You?’
‘Yes.’ My voice was too light, too breathy. ‘Home for the weekend. Emmet’s home, too, with some friends.’
He glanced beyond me, his cheek twitching. ‘We saw them. That’s why we didn’t go any further. I didn’t realize you were with them.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’ What were we doing making this ridiculous small talk? I felt weak and dazed, realizing how much I had longed to see him. How I ached to be in his arms! But what I said, bitterly, was, ‘I suppose if you’d known I was there you’d have given us an even wider berth!’
I expected him to take offence, but instead he moved closer, responding to the message in my eyes rather than to my words. He lifted a hand as if to touch me and I’m sure I swayed towards him, but—
‘Philip?’ The girl’s shrill voice came from my left. ‘Philip!’ She was short, curvy, her pretty face shaded by a straw hat, mouth pursed and eyes snapping a warning at me. ‘I want some ice cream. Are you now coming?’
He hesitated, glancing from her to me and back again before making his decision. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m coming.’ About to move off, he paused again and looked me up and down, the frown creased again on his brow. ‘Was it you came rowdying past the farm in the small hours yesterday morning?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I’m sorry. We’d been having a party. For my birthday. I’ll be nineteen on Friday.’
‘Then it’s time you grew up a bit and stopped behaving like a spoiled brat. You – and the rest of your blessed family. Come on, Lou.’ And he turned on his heel, grabbing the girl’s hand as he dragged her away.
‘Nice seeing you,’ I called stupidly after him, but if he heard he made no response. The girl named Lou was saying, ‘Kate who? Who is she, Philip? She gave me the shudders. She’s got witch’s eyes.’
Her complaints faded as they moved away, leaving me feeling more alone than ever. Until I saw him in front of me, I hadn’t realized how strong my feelings for him still were.
* * *
Win Leeming had not found any answers at her old convent school, but she was about to embark on another path: she wanted me to accompany her to a spiritualist meeting. ‘There’s no one else I can ask, Kate,’ she said, her eyes huge and limpid behind her glasses. ‘The others would only laugh at me. I know it’s not logical. But Mrs Bly, the medium, is going to try to contact her mentor, W.T. Stead. Twenty years ago, he wrote a story exactly predicting the Titanic disaster, but…’ She shivered a little, glancing round as if fearing listeners. ‘He didn’t heed his own warning. He was on board, too – he died with Stanton. Oh, Kate, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important to me, you know that. But I have to try. If I could just be sure that Stanton is happy… I keep dreaming about him, lying at the bottom of the sea, trapped and alone.’
I would have liked to refuse: for me, clairvoyance was more burden than blessing, an intensely private thing about which I seldom spoke. My unseen friends came when they chose, not to any summons of mine, nor with dimmed lighting, dancing trumpets or rapping tables. I suspected those who used their powers to make money, or for notoriety. From all I had heard, Mrs Bly was an attention-seeker.
But I said, ‘Of course I’ll come,’ and laid my arm about my friend’s bent shoulders, hoping to stop her thinking such awful thoughts.
The meeting was to be held that Friday – on the last day of May, my birthday. When the day came, Win didn’t appear at breakfast so she missed seeing the flurry of cards that came for me; I asked the others not to trouble her by mentioning the significance of the day. Among the cards was one with a poignant picture of a man sitting by a lily-pond, gazing at a reflection of a dark-haired girl. The verse was a paean to regret and lost chances and, for a moment, I let myself imagine it might be from Philip. It wasn’t, of course. It was signed simply ‘O.G.W.’ in a neat, slanting hand I recognized: Oliver Wells, who else?
The simple, subtle appeal of the card touched me more deeply than impassioned speeches might have done. In calmer mood, I understood why Oliver had acted as he had over Miss H, and my own behaviour seemed brattish, deliberately rude to someone who did not deserve it. Would I ever learn how to handle men?
That evening I was on my way downstairs when Mrs Armes intercepted me. ‘Your friend Mr Wells is here. He’s in the front room with Miss Leeming.’
Oh, Lord! Not knowing how to interpret the leap of response inside me, I went into the parlour, where Win was in tears.
Oliver snapped to his elegant feet at sight of me, looking perturbed. ‘You can’t be serious, Kate! I came to invite you out to dinner to celebrate your birthday and— What is this nonsense about a seance?’
‘You should have reminded me it was your birthday,’ Win sniffed. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘It’s not important,’ I assured her. ‘I promised I would go with you and so I shall. I’ve already had my birthday dinner, at Denes Hill.’
‘If you insist on going to this meeting,’ Oliver said, ‘then I equally insist on accompanying you. Any kind of undesirable might be there. Who knows what may occur?’
‘He’s probably right, Kate,’ Win agreed.
Before I could muster argument, Oliver swept up a bouquet of hothouse roses from a chair and presented them to me. ‘Please,’ he murmured, his eyes expressing much that could not be said in front of a third party. ‘Please allow me to escort you. I shall not be happy unless you do.’
When he looked like that, so handsome and sorrowful, with his hands full of expensive flowers whose perfume spread a scented aura round us, I was unable to refuse.
* * *
Mrs Bly, the famous medium, had booked a public hall in the Brompton area. Though she made no entry charge, collection plates lay ostentatiously on a table by the door. The hall was half full when we arrived, with more people gathering. I managed to have Win sitting between Oliver and me – my nerves were on edge without the added turmoil of having him too close.
On a stage framed by black felt curtains, a venerable gentleman in a clerical collar began the meeting with a prayer and a minute’s silence to remember souls ‘recently passed over’. At this, Win groped for my hand and held it tightly, a handkerchief pressed to her face, while I heartily wished myself elsewhere. Next, the white-haired cleric introduced Mrs Bly, who came slowly from behind the curtain leaning on a stick, an elephantine figure with dyed black hair, dressed in voluminous black. Against that darkness her face was pale as she spoke in a surprisingly soft voice, warning us that she could guarantee nothing: the spirits would decide if the evening was propitious. All she could do was seek to become an instrument, through her spirit guide, the Red Indian Chief, Black Hawk.
‘Tommyrot!’ Oliver muttered, and someone shushed him.
Seating herself in a throne-like chair, Mrs Bly folded her hands in her sleeves as the lights dimmed, leaving only her moon face floating in limpid darkness. Then her head drooped; a silence spread; the hall held its
collective breath. In the darkness my eyes played tricks, forming vague moving shapes and flying sparks on the edge of vision. But if my flesh crawled it was more from distaste than the presence of ghosts.
Win’s sharp nails bit into my hand as Mrs Bly’s head snapped up with a jerk that made the audience gasp. The medium was apparently wide awake, but the voice that now emerged from her was loud and sonorous, totally unlike the meek tone she had employed in her introduction.
I had to admire her talent for picking up clues from her audience, fishing around with hints until someone rose for the bait, and was hooked. There was a moment when I felt Win stiffen in response to, ‘I’m getting an S – a name beginning with S. Someone recently passed over, I think. Simon? Stephen? Stan—’
‘Stanley!’ a woman across the hall cried. ‘It’s my Stanley. Stan, love, it’s me, Esme!’
The show went on, sometimes crude, sometimes clever, but never quite convincing enough, not for me. The writer W.T. Stead ‘came through’, much to the joy of his sister, who was in the front row – probably an old friend of Mrs Bly’s, if Mr Stead had been the medium’s mentor. But what he had to say from the beyond was no more illuminating than any of the more personal messages we heard that evening. Gradually, Win’s hold on my hand became less desperate and I guessed she too had seen through the trickery.
Then, just as Mrs Bly seemed to have exhausted her repertoire, there came a finale that shocked even me. She appeared to be jolted out of her chair, jerked to her feet like a marionette on strings, and a different voice came from her throat, a lighter male voice, saying urgently, ‘Katie. Be careful, Katie! Don’t—’
A woman not far from us shrieked and leapt up, sending her chair clattering to the floor. ‘It’s me. It’s me! I’m Katie! Oh, God… it was our Bert. It was!’ As she began to sob loudly, the medium’s huge bulk shuddered. She slumped, and people rushed from the wings to support her as she apparently came out of her trance and looked about her in a daze. In the darkness around us, voices began to speculate: at least one other woman claimed to be the intended recipient of the message, while others remembered Katies they knew, who were in possible danger.