Her death had been registered in the June Quarter, and since it had occurred after 1969, her date of birth was also given. This meant I wouldn’t have to send for her Death Certificate so I could save myself some cash - although I should probably send away for Wilfrid’s since I hadn’t done so yet. Returning to the Index once again (since I’d forgotten when he died) I found the record, hurriedly copied down the details, then returned home to cast the chart for the moment I’d heard ‘1972.’
At first, I wasn’t sure how to judge this chart since I didn’t feel that I had necessarily been the one who had made contact. I would not, therefore, take the planet ruling the Sign on the Ascendant to signify myself, but would break with tradition and look at it differently.
Once again, the fateful South Node of the Moon was rising (as when Eleanor had found Dorothy in the parish register) suggesting a voice from the past, but which one? Opening my Ephemeris for the date of Edith’s birth, I couldn’t find any planets connecting with this chart, although I did note that her Sun, in Aquarius, was very close to Bill’s. Meanwhile, the Moon applied to the opposition of Pluto. So, more news of the dead then, I thought, assuming that this had not been - as Bill would have said - ‘a message from self to self,’ and I braced myself for a further shock. And, as always, the Cosmos obliged.
A few days later, Wilfrid’s Death Certificate arrived, revealing his change of direction. No longer an artist, he had been employed as a security guard at Her Majesty’s Treasury at the time of his death, which had been registered by Edith Priscilla Pook, of the same London address.
‘His comfort,’ Bill had said, ‘his comfort in his old age.’
Some comfort, I thought - for during his time with her, he had ceased being an artist. She wasn’t going to support him while he painted: she was no Dorothy. No, he could go out and get himself a proper job. Even worse, she had had him cremated. Why hadn’t she buried him with his lawful wedded wife?
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit; and was still brooding over my charts when Annie called round on her way back from her yoga class. ‘Well, poor old Edith,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa and kicking off her pumps.
‘What do you mean, poor Edith?’ I replied. ‘She wouldn’t let him paint. And she had him cremated.’
‘Oh, come on, Gwen. It’s hardly likely she’d have had him cremated against his wishes; and as for his painting, anything might have happened. He might have been in a car crash or something; lost the use of his arm.’
‘In which case he’d have been no use as a security guard – a one-armed security guard sitting on the nation’s gold bullion, I don’t think so.’
‘All right then, if he stopped painting, it was his choice. Or he could have had a breakdown after Dorothy died, or become depressed. That’s more like it. Have you looked at the Astrology? What did he have going on when Dorothy died?’
‘Pluto opposing his Moon, and Saturn opposing his Sun.’
‘Well, there you go then. Something put out his lights.’
‘Yes, yes, but we have free will. The planets are signs, not causes. He didn’t have to go underground.’
‘Okay, so maybe he felt like a change of scene? People do that. They can have more lives than one. You’ve done it often enough. Look at all the different things you do with your time.’
‘Yes, but it’s hardly an improvement - from artist to security guard.’
‘Stop being such a snob!’
‘Well, it’s not - not for a painter. A painter needs light and air, not to be cooped up in some dismal basement. It wasn’t for the money. They weren’t poor. So why did he do it?’
‘I’ve got no idea, but when you think about it, it’s very sad - for all of them. He lost his Dorothy, his inspiration, maybe? Then along came Edith and picked up the pieces. So, sad for her too. All she got was the pieces.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ I said after a while.
‘No.’
‘I’ve been jumping to conclusions again.’
‘What, you? Never.’
‘It suppose it makes sense.’
‘She was a widow, I expect she understood.’
‘Perhaps she was his housekeeper.’
‘Would it matter if she wasn’t?’ Opening her carpet bag, she brought out a bottle of mineral water. ‘I don’t know, Gwen - strikes me you need to be careful not to project your stuff onto them, especially when you’re in this frame of mind. You’re not angry with Edith, you’re angry with Bill.’
‘I’m not angry with him anymore,’ I replied. ‘I never hold onto anger for long. I’m an Aries.’
‘Well even so, leave Edith alone. She did you a favour in the library, I’d say. I should think she was a really nice woman.’
‘I’m sure she was,’ I replied. ‘Of course, we don’t know that it was Edith in the library.’
‘Who else could it have been?’
‘No idea.’
‘Was it a woman’s voice?’
‘No, it was neutral. It didn’t have any particular character. Well, it didn’t say much!’
‘Hmm, it is very odd.’ She took a sip of water. ‘I know you’re not sure about Reincarnation, but it must have crossed your mind, surely, at some point in all of this, that you could be a reincarnation of Dorothy?’
‘Well, I do talk to myself when I go to her grave.’
‘No, I’m being serious. There are so many connections between you.’
‘No, it doesn’t add up for me, Annie, and I really don’t like the idea of Reincarnation.’
‘Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not true.’
‘Yes, but when you consider the way we behave, and what we’re doing to the planet, there’s hasn’t been a lot of progress. We’re as careless now as we’ve always been. And when you consider the moral calibre of people who lead charmed lives, are they really reaping their karmic rewards? If they did so well in previous lives, how come they’re not better people, morally, in this one?’
‘Okay, fair point,’ she replied. ‘But it’s more complex, I think. I always think of Karma as habit - not you reap what you sow.’
‘Yes? Well, I still think it isn’t fair. It’s hard enough trying to make amends for what you’ve got wrong in this life, never mind one you can’t remember. No, it’s just another dogma, Annie. People should make up their own minds and not believe in any dogma.’
‘Isn’t that dogmatic?’
‘No, it’s the only way to live. You can’t have other people telling you what to believe because then you really are in Hell. And, of course, it’s the only way I can bear it - what happened to my father - knowing he suffered in a good cause, fighting totalitarianism.’
‘Yes, but how can we be sure our cause is good? Is there ever a just war?’
‘That one was.’
‘But some people chose not to fight, not to kill. Can you say they were wrong?’
‘Yes. They were wrong.’
‘How can you say that if you think people should think for themselves?’
‘Because you don’t stop men like Hitler by turning the other cheek and appealing to their inner qualities, you stop them with a bullet or a knife, and you owe it to humanity to do that.’
‘So, what if Dorothy turns out to have been a pacifist?’
‘I’ll never speak to her again.’
Funnily enough, it didn’t once occur to me during my search for Dorothy to think she had ever been anything other than a sterling patriot, prepared to make enormous sacrifices in her personal life for the greater good while valiantly battling the forces of darkness in the Blackout. I imagined her digging for victory; I imagined her driving ambulances; I imagined her offering shelter to bombed-out victims of the Blitz. I did not imagine her attending meetings of pacifists in the church hall, buying goods on the black market, or entertaining Peter in some secret love nest while the sirens wailed. Indeed, I could not imagine, when details of the Electoral Register arrive
d from Richmond Library, how Dorothy could have summoned up the energy to carry on an affair at all - unless Peter was the care-attendant.
There are no electoral records for the War Years, but in May 1945, Dorothy had her elderly mother living with her. And Wilfrid’s elderly father too. Still, at least she didn’t have to cater for any lodgers.
Peter wasn’t her lodger, or a displaced person, or a bombed-out victim of the Blitz. He wasn’t there. And neither was Wilfrid. He returned to live with Dorothy in October 1945. So, where was Wilfrid - too old, at 53 - for military service when he wasn’t dwelling in the marital home? He could have been in hospital, I supposed, but then surely Dorothy would have put his name down on the registration form. Could he have been engaged in War work?
The historian I spoke to at the Imperial War Museum didn’t think so. ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives?’ Not one of Wilfrid’s.
‘Thank you,’ I said, putting the ‘phone down, by now ice cold.
So, Dorothy was looking after her mother. Wilfrid was not at home. He returned in October. By this time, she would have been seriously ill. Was it guilt, remorse or duty, I wondered, that brought him home in time for her to die?
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the telephone.
‘I should think she knew very well where her husband was,’ said Richard, ‘and in all likelihood, it is perfectly innocent. You don’t know where Wilfrid was when he wasn’t with Dorothy, but you do know where Bill was when he wasn’t with you. That ought to be enough knowledge!
There’s a very real danger, you know, Gwen, of the dead alienating us from life. Now, you have always lived in stories. You have a Mercury Karma. So, it’s all very well what you’re doing with your writing and so on, but keep it in perspective. Don’t become obsessed by it. Do other things. Go out more and socialise. You don’t know, yet, what it means, but you will find out.’
‘Yes, but what will I find out? It’s beginning to really unnerve me now, the way Dorothy’s life seems to mirror my own. It’s not fun anymore. Why do you think that is?’
‘You know I can’t answer that question for you.’
‘Yes, but I’d like to hear what you think. You believe in Reincarnation.’
‘I do, and you don’t.’
‘But I would still like to hear what you think.’
‘All right, but remember this is just my opinion. It is possible that you are a reincarnation of Dorothy. There are many parallels, and in the Astrology too. But my feeling is that it’s too soon. I could be wrong, but my feeling is that hers was a Life Interrupted.’
‘A Life Interrupted?’
‘That’s my guess. Now, aged seventeen, you were very ill. You nearly died. You had the same operation as Dorothy. Fifty years ago, when surgery was less advanced, no doubt you would have died. And you were born with Neptune at the Nadir - which is anaesthesia. So, you could be a reincarnation. But I’m inclined to doubt it because it’s too soon. And yet there is something to explore here because we carry the memory of this kind of injury in our body.’
‘Are you saying Dorothy tuned into me because we had a similar wound?’
‘Possibly. Her Sun conjoins your Leo Ascendant. It is possible that she observes, relives something through you.’
‘You’re not saying I’m possessed, I hope.’
‘No. Possession is different and very rare. You and she are in the same consciousness, but it isn’t ordinary consciousness. You are aware of one another. It’s reciprocal. Now, it’s pointless trying to analyse and say, what does she want? What must I discover? It’s not about that kind of knowledge. You’ve already done that. You got your History Degree. No, if Dorothy turned out to have, like you: blue eyes, blonde hair and an allotment, what would this prove? The coincidences, the synchronicities maintain your interest. That’s the point. So that you do not give up, and you will complete.’
‘Yes, yes, but complete what? How can I complete it if I don’t know what it is?’
‘Stop asking that kind of question. Trust! You are so trusting in some ways. You always have been. But not always in the right way.’
‘I trust Dorothy,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘And I trust you.’
‘Ah, well, you could be making a mistake there. And Bill?’
‘Bill,’ I said, after a long pause, ‘reflects my own scepticism. I argue with him because of my own doubts.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So, what do you think?’ I asked Dorothy. ‘I suppose you’d think me a heretic.
Was it a Life Interrupted? I could have cried when he said that, I really could. I don’t know why. Oh, I don’t know, Dorothy. I don’t know what to believe.
When I was a child, I used to think God was dreaming. And I used to worry, what will happen if he wakes up? Then again, I thought it miraculous, because when my father dreamed, he could see. So, I imagine that’s why I thought: this is what God does, he dreams us and we come true.
But my father didn’t see me in his dreams, Dorothy. Not really. He pretended to. But he only ever dreamed of people he’d already seen.
Oh well, you know me, Dorothy, I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve only got to go to the Battlefields and I’m dreaming it over and over again. I dream about all sorts of people, actually, and most of them I’ve never met. Which is what bothers me - now I come to think of it - how come I don’t dream about you? Because I’ve met you, Dorothy, haven’t I? Of course I have. See you soon.’
It would be stretching the bounds of credibility way too far, I know, to say that it was on this very day that I met the elderly gentleman who would introduce me to someone who may have known Dorothy – so I won’t. But it could have been on this day, and it was certainly after the Autumn Equinox that I met Mr Stone in the churchyard. I know because I was bagging up fallen leaves, and there was damp chill in the early evening air.
‘That’s a terrible cough,’ I said, as he approached behind me along the path, wearing a grey gabardine, belted at the waist. ‘Are you sure you should be outdoors?’
For a moment, he hesitated, unsure whether to respond to a strange woman on a grave; but then curiosity, or politeness, got the better of his good judgment.
‘It is a very chilly evening, yes, indeed.’
‘You should be at home, tucked-up by the fire with a good book and a hot toddy.’
‘Yes, that would be rather nice. I would enjoy that. But I’m afraid I have business in the church this evening.’
‘Couldn’t someone else do it?’
‘Not really. I’m the Church Warden.’
‘Oh? How interesting.’
‘I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use. This evening, I’m working on our accounts.’
‘Well, I hope they’ve got the heating on in the Church.’
‘I shan’t know that until I get there.’
‘Oh, no, of course. I’m sorry, I must let you get on. But I wonder if I could quickly ask you a question before you do?’
And, being the perfect gentleman, he agreed. Yes, he did know someone who may be able to help me – when she returned from her holiday - a Mrs Verity Hawes, whose connection to the church went back for over fifty years.
‘A little before my time here,’ he added wryly, handing me her telephone number, before shuffling off, coughing.
‘He probably had bronchitis,’ said my mother on the telephone. ‘And you kept him out in the freezing cold chatting.’
‘I didn’t pin him to the ground, you know.’
‘Bronchitis can be deadly in a man of his age. It can easily turn to pneumonia.’
‘Oh, Mum, why go down that route? You should be pleased. He knows someone who knew Dorothy.’
‘May have known Dorothy,’ she corrected. ‘Still, I suppose this old girl may have known someone who can help us.’
‘Yes, let’s be hopeful, shall we? I’ve got a good feeling about this.’
‘Oh, you and your feelings. Never mind feelings, let’s talk practicaliti
es. How long have we got to wait before she gets back?’
Frowning, I reached for my cigarettes. ‘I’m not really sure.’
‘Not sure? Didn’t you ask him?’
‘No, sorry, I forgot.’
‘Well, go back to the church before he goes home and find out!’
When I got there, however, the Church was in darkness; the graveyard deserted - apart from Lily who was sheltering a couple of drinkers under her golfing umbrella. She gave me a chipper wave which I quickly returned before hurrying off. By now, I was feeling the cold, and also hungry so I decided to go for chips, taking the side gate to avoid the entrance to Bill’s road. But alas, my precautions were in vain. Just as I reached the crossroads, I saw him walking towards the bus stop on the opposite side; head bowed, shoulders hunched, and wearing his old brown fleece. Should I call out to him, I wondered. He didn’t look too happy. But before I could make up my mind, a car drove too close to the kerb through a dip in the road, splashing me with old rainwater up to my waist. Oh, would you believe it. Wasn’t it just my luck?
Ah, but the tide was turning. Within a day or so, I got home from school to find the horoscope I’d ordered from an astrologer in London sitting on my doormat. Wrongly delivered, the students next door had finally seen fit to return it.
‘Yes, very interesting,’ I thought, mulling it over with my cup of tea. I would have to edit the text, of course; removing all mention of, ‘neglecting the needs of the body,’ and, ‘idealising military men.’ But, on the whole, it was very good; very detailed and accurate: my mother would be pleased.
Urania
Urania is the muse of astrologers; and it is under her auspice that I now include the somewhat abridged version of Dorothy’s horoscope which I read to my mother on Sunday the 8th of October during the Planetary Hour of Venus, while holding the text some distance from my face because I’m quite long-sighted and I’d forgotten my specs.
To You The Stars Page 12