Woman Who Spoke to Spirits

by Alys Clare

  Not that concealment has proved all that necessary, for the Sunday afternoon quiet is almost absolute here in Parkside Road, and she has barely seen anybody other than three well-behaved children heading for the park with an older woman, a man walking his dog, three cats and a youth making his furtive way home from the pub and exuding a tell-tale miasma of beer fumes.

  Lily waits. And waits.

  At last, the chocolate-brown front door of the Stibbins house opens and the men and women who have sat in Circle for Albertina’s seance begin to emerge. Drawing back deeper into the foliage, Lily watches.

  A man with very neat hair and a small moustache is ushering people out. He speaks quietly and kindly to some of them, and Lily hears him say to an elderly woman with red eyes, ‘I’m so glad, Mrs Sullivan, that poor Rodney came through for you this afternoon.’ The woman gives him a grateful look and nods. ‘One of my dear Albertina’s best days, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes!’ the old woman agrees fervently, blowing her nose.

  So the man is Ernest Stibbins, just as Lily has already surmised. She would like to study him more closely, but it is not for this that she has been standing here for the last hour or more. She turns her attention to the rest of the people emerging from the house. Two more women, middle-aged this time, who look like sisters. A young woman dressed in black. A saturnine-faced man who shakes Ernest Stibbins’s hand so fervently that the poor man winces. Two more men, one with a soldierly bearing and around the right age to be his older companion’s son. And, last to come out, a pallid, nervous-looking young man in his early twenties in a dark grey suit whose knees and elbows shine with long use and whose cheeks each bear a circle of bright pink, as if from some recently experienced, strong emotion. Like the old woman who was first to emerge, he too has red eyes. He is twitchy, staring rapidly up and down the street as he waits to say goodbye to his host as if he can’t wait to get away.

  Lily watches him nod, shake Ernest Stibbins’ hand and then hurry out onto the pavement. He turns to the left and walks swiftly away. Lily makes herself wait for a few moments and then follows him.

  He keeps up his pace for half a mile or more, crossing streets, turning to the right and then right again. Then abruptly he turns down a little alleyway into a row of mean-looking houses that look as if they are tenanted by a multiplicity of families and individuals. He draws out a key, goes inside – Lily is close enough to see a long hallway chequered with black and white tiles with several doors leading off it – and closes the door behind him.

  What now? she wonders.

  She decides to wait.

  And her patience is rewarded, for not much more than twenty-five minutes later the young man comes out again and makes his way to a rundown cafe two streets away. Lily waits for a quarter of an hour, long enough for three or four other people to go in after him, then opens the door and enters.

  The twitchy young man is sitting on the far side of the crowded cafe. He is the sole occupant of a table for two and before him there is a cup of tea and a plate containing two poached eggs and a couple of tomatoes on slices of bread. He is eating as if he hasn’t seen food for a week.

  Lily goes up to the counter and orders tea and a toasted teacake. They are served with swift efficiency and they are cheap. Turning away, she glances round for somewhere to sit. There are other vacant seats, but she edges nearer to the young man’s table. She has adopted a woebegone expression, as if the world was already too much for her even before she found that there was no empty table in the cafe.

  She is careful not to stare in the young man’s direction.

  Then she hears a timid voice which she knows without looking is his say, ‘Th-th-there’s a spare chair here, miss.’

  Suppressing a whoop of joy at her success, Lily turns, remembers to look suitably startled and replies, ‘Oh, thank you – how very kind!’

  She sits down, making a show of nervously arranging her skirts, removing her gloves, looking for a place to put her little handbag before deciding it’s safest on her lap. She is aware all the time of the young man’s eyes on her. She takes a sip of tea. It’s very good. She picks up the small knife that has been supplied with her teacake and cuts it into dainty segments, selecting one. It too is excellent.

  He is still looking at her. She senses that he’s aching to start a conversation but has not the least idea how. She feels sorry for him, for she also senses that he’s a gentle soul.

  She emits a tiny sigh, not much more than a soft exhalation of breath with a very slight catch in it. He has noticed: she picks up a new intentness in his watchfulness. She takes a small lace-trimmed handkerchief from her little bag and wipes an imaginary tear from her eye.

  He says, ‘The t-teacakes are very good here.’

  As an opening remark its originality leaves quite a lot to be desired, but it is suitably conventional and non-controversial. She quite admires his restraint, for she has the impression he’s just dying to ask her what’s the matter and offer her comfort.

  She picks up the conversational cue. ‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ She looks sadly down at the teacake. ‘I wish I had more appetite,’ she whispers.

  He leans closer. ‘I could not but observe that you appear d-d-distressed,’ he says quietly. ‘Are you unwell?’

  Now is the moment, she tells herself. She imagines she is straightening her back, summoning her courage to go into battle.

  Then she says, ‘No, I am not unwell. But—’ She breaks off with a little gasp.

  ‘But what?’ he prompts.

  And, reminding herself that this is the profession she has chosen, that she has committed herself now and must get used to subterfuge and to misrepresenting herself to kind innocents like this young man whose gentle eyes are looking so anxiously into her face, she sighs again, as if only reluctantly allowing herself to be persuaded to tell her tale, and begins.

  ‘I have only recently lost my fiancé,’ she whispers. He makes a sound of sympathy, of understanding. ‘We were to have been married a month ago, but instead of arranging our wedding I had to watch while his uncle arranged his funeral.’

  ‘How ap-appalling!’ the twitchy young man exclaims. His face contorts into a violent tic, as if his distress has to have a physical outlet. ‘Was it – did it happen unexpectedly?’

  Lily shakes her head. ‘No. Poor Cecil had been unwell for a long time, but both of us hoped and prayed that he would get better in time for the wedding. But he didn’t.’ She hides her face in the very inadequate little handkerchief and says from behind it, ‘His uncle paid for him to go to the coast but it was too late.’

  Silence descends over the little table. She can feel waves of sympathy coming off the twitchy young man.

  ‘How very sad, for b-both of you,’ he says after some time.

  She nods. ‘Yes.’ She draws the word out, hoping to imply uncertainty.

  He picks it up. ‘You sound doubtful?’ he says, his voice rising in a question.

  ‘No!’ she protests. Then, after a moment, ‘Well, perhaps, but I tell myself I have absolutely no cause and am surely being unfair to my dear Cecil, but …’ She stops, as if overcome.

  ‘Unfair?’ he queries.

  ‘Oh, but I can’t!’ she cries.

  He reaches out a hand as if about to touch hers – his nails, she notices, are bitten fiercely back and the tops of the fingers bulge out over them – but then quickly draws it back. ‘Try to t-tell me,’ he says.

  ‘It’s nothing, I am sure it can be nothing, but it’s just that– that—’ She pauses, then, as if in a burst of confidence that she just can’t hold back, says, ‘I am quite certain that it can only have been because of the hardships of his illness and all the anxiety about the future, but latterly it had seemed to me that he became a little off-hand, and I feared that perhaps he was entertaining second thoughts about our marriage.’

  ‘P-perhaps he was unsure of his ability to support you as a husband should, knowing he was so ill,’ the twitchy young man sugge
sts. He stares at her, then adds in a fervent whisper, ‘That must surely have been all it was!’

  She looks up and meets his earnest brown eyes. ‘You are very kind,’ she says with total honesty.

  ‘I know what it is like to lose someone you dearly love,’ he says, so softly that she has to strain to hear. ‘My m-m-mother died in February, and I miss her quite dreadfully.’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ she says.

  He is opening his heart and laying it before me, she thinks. Her guilt at deceiving him is intensifying by the minute. He is being so kind, trying so hard to comfort her. She takes another sip of her tea, once again telling herself very sternly that this is the profession she has chosen and she’ll just have to get used to the more troubling aspects.

  ‘W-would it help,’ the young man says after a pause, ‘if you were to be given one last reassurance of his love?’

  She meets his gaze. ‘Oh, yes, of course it would! But that cannot be, for he left no letter, no message, and—’

  ‘There is a way,’ says the twitchy young man.

  She simply stares at him, not trusting herself to speak.

  And he says, ‘I am a member of a group who attend meetings with a wonderful young woman named Albertina Stibbins.’ His face alight, he leans closer. ‘I was there only this afternoon, and she— Well, never mind that for now.’ He leans back again. ‘Suffice it to say that she has given great comfort to many people, myself included.’ He shakes his head in admiration. ‘She is truly outstanding, and so very kind and gentle!’

  ‘What does she do?’ Lily whispers.

  And he says simply, ‘She is in touch with the dead.’

  Lily’s start of alarm is totally genuine, for he has pronounced this extraordinary statement as if he was saying that Albertina made a very good cup of tea. ‘She— what?’ she hisses.

  He is smiling, and the reassurance he is offering comes surging towards her. ‘Do not be afraid!’ he says. ‘I felt just like you do when I learned of her special gift, and I told myself I was not the sort of person to believe such nonsense. But then I went along and sat in Circle, and Albertina—’ He breaks off. ‘It is difficult to explain, but she sees, she looks right into your heart and feels the pain, and she understands the cause, and she offers such help, such wonderful reassurance, and—’ But he is overcome, and cannot go on.

  ‘Cecil was a God-fearing person and a punctilious churchgoer, as indeed am I,’ Lily says with appropriate primness.

  The twitchy young man shakes his head. ‘It makes no difference,’ he assures her. ‘This – Albertina’s gift – surely comes from God. There is nothing to fear, I promise you, and everything to gain.’

  She looks at him for a long moment. ‘Might I truly hear my dear Cecil’s voice? Have his reassurance that he—’ She breaks off with a little gasp.

  ‘That he loved you? That he still loves you?’ he finishes for her. ‘I cannot say for sure, but others have received such reassurances. And you will not know,’ he adds, ‘unless you try.’

  Now, she thinks, is the moment to hang back; to appear uncertain, unconvinced. She stays silent.

  He says, ‘Why not go along to Albertina’s next seance? She lives nearby, I can show you her house.’

  Still Lily does not speak.

  ‘Circle isn’t having the Tuesday session this week but it sits again on Thursday afternoon,’ he says, ‘so why not go and see for yourself? She’s very good, she helps so many people!’

  Lily feigns extreme reluctance. She lets him persuade her some more, then says very shyly, ‘I might find it easier if you were there. Will you be attending on Thursday?’

  ‘No, I can’t, for I am at work all week, but I’ll be there next Sunday.’

  ‘If I can nerve myself to go, will you—’

  ‘I’ll introduce you, of course I will!’ He half-rises, holding out his hand. ‘My name is Carter, Leonard Carter.’

  She takes his hand. ‘Maud Garrett.’

  ‘Let us meet here next Sunday at two o’clock, Miss Garrett,’ he says, resuming his seat. ‘The seance starts at two thirty but Mr Stibbins – that’s Albertina’s husband, he’s really nice – likes us to be there and in our places, sitting quietly, when Albertina takes her seat. We’ll go together, shall we?’

  And she hears herself saying, ‘Very well.’

  On Monday morning Felix reports his experiences of Saturday night at the Peeping Tom to Lily, telling her about the incredible vulgarity of some of the songs. ‘The remainder of the acts were none too sophisticated, either,’ he goes on, ‘with double-entendres, brassy women with far too much flesh on display, animal acts, acrobats in skimpy outfits and a great deal of coarseness in the extreme.’ He refrains from going into detail, although Lily’s interested expression suggests she wouldn’t mind.

  ‘You did well,’ she says, and he feels a disproportionate amount of pleasure at the brief words of praise. ‘And what did Violetta da Rosa think of the evening’s entertainment?’ she enquires. He has explained about managing to take the next-door box, earning a faint nod of approval.

  ‘Violetta da Rosa lapped it up and became scarlet in the face from laughing,’ he replies.

  ‘And you say she was with this man who came to speak to her outside the theatre late on Friday afternoon?’

  ‘She was, and his name’s Billy.’ He tells her briefly about the kiss, and about Violetta’s remarks about finding some sort of place for Billy in her future life.

  ‘So we may surmise that she has very vulgar tastes, and really is serious about marrying Julian,’ Lily muses.

  But Felix still is far from convinced. ‘She may think she wants to marry him,’ he demurs. But before she can ask him to explain – it’s only instinct that informs him here and he doesn’t think he can explain yet – he hurries on. ‘And as to the vulgar tastes, perhaps it was one single visit. A sort of mental aberration; a sudden and unrepeated desire to spend an evening watching the coarsest entertainment that this great city has to offer,’ he says.

  ‘Yet both she and this Billy know the Peeping Tom by its familiar abbreviation,’ Lily reminds him.

  ‘Perhaps I should check,’ he says reluctantly.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother,’ she says.

  He sighs. ‘I’m glad you said that. I have to admit to a certain relief – I think that once was probably enough for me, since the entertainment value of Philip Maguire and his Amazing Farting Dachshund would undoubtedly pall rather quickly.’

  Lily gets up abruptly and hurries out of the office and towards the kitchen, muttering something about a cup of tea. She pulls the door half-closed after her, which is quite unusual, Felix reflects, as they normally leave it open. But then he hears a chortle of laughter, swiftly suppressed.

  It is in that moment that he realizes he really rather likes Lily Raynor.

  As they drink the tea Lily says, ‘We need more insight into Violetta. I cannot write my report to Lord Berwick based solely upon your two brief observations of her, useful though they are.’ That puts me in my place, Felix thinks. ‘Let me see …’ Lily muses.

  He spots a way to really impress her. ‘She has a theatrical agent, just as I suspected,’ he says.

  She fixes him with that cool stare. ‘You appear to know quite a lot about the world of entertainment,’ she observes. ‘First your familiarity with that music hall, now an awareness of an actress’s professional habits.’

  There is the hint of a question in her intonation.

  ‘I worked in a theatre for a while,’ he says shortly. ‘Backstage.’ It was a tiny theatre near Seven Dials and the work had been awful, consisting mostly of cleaning the stinking lavatory, mopping up sick (one of the lead actors had a drink problem) and being sworn at by temperamental artistes of both sexes and everything in between.

  ‘Hm,’ Lily says. Then, ‘Go and see Violetta’s agent, if you can find out who he is.’

  ‘I already know,’ Felix says, trying not to sound smug.

  Her raise
d eyebrows suggest he has failed. ‘Perhaps you should tell him you’re a journalist requiring background for a series of articles,’ she suggests.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s a good idea.’

  But as soon as he is sitting down facing Maurice Isaacs across an acreage of fine mahogany desk, he is very glad he didn’t succumb to the temptation to misrepresent himself. The dark brown eyes in the lean face are extremely shrewd, and Felix knows quite well he lacks sufficient experience in the world of newspaper and magazine reporting to pose convincingly as a journalist. He lacks any experience, come to that.

  ‘It’s extremely good of you to see me,’ he says as Maurice Isaacs pushes a tiny cup of very dark coffee towards him. ‘I’m a lifelong fan and I want to compile an account of Violetta’s career, and I am very much hoping you can—’

  ‘What do you plan to do with this account?’ Maurice Isaacs interrupts.

  ‘Have it printed privately and circulate it among like-minded fans,’ Felix replies. He is thinking on his feet and not at all sure of his ground.

  ‘I’ll need to see it.’

  ‘Naturally!’ Felix says with what he hopes is a disarming smile.

  Not quite disarming enough, apparently, for Maurice Isaacs leans forward and says, ‘Lifelong fan?’

  One of Felix’s maxims for survival in a tricky and often hostile world is that when telling lies, it’s best to stay as near as you can to the truth. With total honesty he says, ‘I first saw her in Secrets of the Convent when I was fourteen. I was staying with a school friend and his parents – it was the holidays, and we were both at Marlborough – and we were supposed to be going to Humphrey’s – that’s my friend’s – godfather’s house to play bridge, but the godfather drank quite a lot and was easily outwitted, so Humph and I went to the theatre instead.’ Warming to his theme, his mind flooding with happy memories, he goes on, ‘It was wonderful! Well, she was wonderful, and Humph and I were – er, we were overwhelmed.’ He suspects that this clever-eyed man can well imagine the reaction of two sexually frustrated fourteen-year-olds to being in a darkened theatre faced with Violetta’s gorgeous, creamy flesh bulging out of her brutally tight corset and knows precisely what Felix means. ‘I can still see her in that costume if I close my eyes,’ he adds dreamily. ‘Burgundy silk really suited her.’ He tells Maurice Isaacs about the postcards, hoping that a man who is an astute businessman himself will appreciate another’s budding talents.