Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
And then you’re having a child yourself, and what do you do? You can’t tell a soul. What do you do then, with no Joseph and everyone thinking you’re not right in the head. And
you can’t hide, not with that hair, not in this city. Runs in the family. Pikey.
Seeing things. That runs in the family too. I never knew why my mother lay so still in her bed, afraid to open her eyes. Until I start to see them. Only I don’t just
see
them: I
feel them. The air vibrating in waves, and me looking from side to side, at Bernard, at Jean. Is this normal? Is this usual? So violent, the whole room shuddering, but the women on the benches are
sitting still and expectant, not at all worried that the earth is crumbling beneath their feet. I couldn’t have known: this was
my
earthquake.
The spirits don’t rise quietly: they roar. Men and women and children. Too many children. Roaring in shades of blue. Turquoise and lapis and bluest blue. Blue like film-light, like
twilight, like winter sky. One of them blue like my father’s suit, gliding through me, making my body hum like a harp.
Pressing their way through the crowd, right down to the front, come the aircraft pilots. They are stinking from the fen; they are shining like sapphires. Coming forward and politely removing
their caps. Buzzing in my ear like flies. They would like to pay their respects to the young lady with the long black hair. They would like to say hello.
The hair is shiny and thick.
Cut from the head of a Russian virgin, says Jean, as if it’s a fact to be proud of. She says I must wear it to bed, so that we can get used to each other. At night, my hands are bandaged
to stop me scratching while I sleep. In the mornings, my neck stiff and my forehead sweating, I’m allowed an hour without it. Then the wig is placed on a dummy head on the dressing table
while Jean oils my real hair and slides the skullcap on.
Hair is a living thing, says Jean, Treat her as your friend. I would if I could, but the dummy wears it now, and she chooses to ignore me. Blank eyes, skin like chalk, a smile like a secret on
her mouth. At first I was afraid of what Bernard might say, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He says I remind him of good times, that I look like an exotic, a real Carmen Miranda. I try to
talk to her, the Russian virgin dummy, but she never says a word, let alone sings a song. At night, her naked head shines like the moon. She has no name.
Every morning, Jean sits me in front of the dressing-table mirror. I get so used to the weight of hair on me that I feel too light without it. I’m clinging to the knobs of the drawers; if
I let go, I might fly away. Today is important: we’re going into the city for something special. The news has spread quickly; it’s only been a month, and already I’m drawing a
crowd. People are asking for private interviews; I’m known as the Girl with the Gift. Bernard and Jean talk about placing an advertisement in the paper, with a picture of me and writing
underneath it. Perhaps that’s what’s so special about today.
Jean has combed the wig, and is fitting it to my head, teasing the hair back from my face and squirting lacquer to keep it in place. I am in the mirror’s eye, but I’m not looking.
I’m waiting for the heaviness that will pin me to the earth again.
Am I going to have my photograph taken? I ask, wondering why she’s taking so much trouble.
Nope. Head still. Look up. Now, let’s go over it again.
This is our practice time. Jean coaches me in the Correct Methods.
The bit beforehand is crucial, she says, People want to hear from them that’s passed over. It’s all they come for.
We encourage them to talk, prising their misery out of them: me handing round the cordial and the crackers, trying to look as if I’m not paying attention. Trying to find
out who’s died. Jean swears by it.
We never say die, says Jean, We say ‘Passed Over’. What do we say?
Passed over, I say, eyeing the dummy.
Ears open, mouth shut, Jean says, Listen and Learn.
Listen and Learn, I say.
It’s not enough that I can
feel
the spirits: I have to interpret them. The first few times, there were so many, I got in a muddle. I have to get the details right;
I have to know who the message is
for
.
Bernard says it’s not the messages, it’s the
message
, I say.
Tch, she goes, He would! But if you get the wrong chap out there, we’ll have a lynching. I don’t want another do like last Friday.
Last Friday was Edward. He came blue as a baby’s eye. Edward, coming through for someone called Mary. So I asked, in the language I had learned,
Is there a Mary with us tonight? I have someone called Edward drawing near. Two hands shot up, one behind the other. One Mary, with a dead son – a son Passed Over, that would be –
and the other with a husband Missing. I didn’t know which was Edward’s Mary, or Mary’s Edward. And the spirits aren’t helpful. They’ve got no manners. They shout all
the time; they won’t listen to reason. Bernard says I have to learn to control it, I have to be strict with them, like a schoolmistress with a naughty child. But the spirits can’t be
fooled: they know they can blow me down with a single breath.
Does he have a moustache? says Mary Number 1.
A limp? goes Mary Number 2.
I’m afraid I can’t quite see him, I said, playing for time.
Ask him when’s his birthday, then!
Ask him did he get my parcel!
On and on, trying to shout each other down in their desperation to claim Edward, who was all the while buffeting against me like the wind off the fen.
How should I know, I shouted back, fed up with all the noise. Jean put her arm round me and called an end to the meeting. In the back room, when everyone had gone, she slapped me on the
face.
Never, ever lose patience, she said, her face hot and close, These people are
full
of grief.
As if I couldn’t understand how that felt.
Afterwards, she declared that I needed Coaching, so that I would be able to tell which spirit was rising: this not only meant learning the language, but handing round the crackers and listening
out for names, for any words of significance, for a clue.
It’s not cheating, said Jean, when I complained, It’s called
research.
It’s called Learning Your Craft. And no back answers from you, lady.
~
Jean is sweet as a plum today. She’s especially sweet. Slow to reveal this surprise, she smiles a little to herself; she hums.
Hewitt’s an odd fellow, she says, her voice milky, But he’s reliable. And one good turn deserves another.
What’s a good turn?
It’ll help your reputation, you know, if it goes well with Hewitt.
If
what
goes well? What must I do?
Just a reading, she says, casually, He wants to talk to his mother. Died last winter of the influenza. All you have to do is sit there and see what comes through.
What if she doesn’t want to talk to
him?
Well, that would be understandable, says Jean, with her familiar cackle. In which case, you’ll make it up. Tell him she misses him. Tell him she says she’s very sorry about Dora.
Who?
Dora, she says with an exasperated breath, Was his fiancee. Ran off with his brother. Look, I can tell you what to say, but I wouldn’t worry – that woman’s mouth went like the
clappers when she was alive, and it’ll be no different now she’s dead. She’ll come through, all right. Just be strict with her and nice to him. None of your larks. You be sweet to
Hewitt, and Hewitt’ll be sweet to us.
How? I say, How will he be sweet?
The hair on my head is warm as an animal skin. Jean smoothes it with the flat of her hand, as if she’s stroking a cat. She answers me slowly, a soft burr.
He owns that lovely shoe shop, don’t he? Get you a pair of nice new shoes. Something suitable for those little feet, she says, Something
divine.
~
The man is eager to greet us; he stands on the step, half in, half out of the door. His top lip beads with anticipation. This is my first meeting with Hewitt.
Aha, Miss Foy! So nice to see you. Do come in,
his hand not quite touching the small of her back, gazing up at her with his pale eyes,
May I say how fetching you look in that coat. And your niece. I saw you last week at the meeting, my dear. Such a gift!
As he locks the door behind us, Jean flicks a look at him, one of her sidelong glances. I’ve seen that look before; she fires it at Bernard when he pretends he
hasn’t been in the drinks cupboard. What kind of fool do you take me for? it says. Hewitt passes behind us, edging towards the back of the shop. I can hear the air rushing through his nose.
I’m taking it in, every detail: the overpowering smell of leather; the long counter with a ledger on it and a glass cabinet in front; the window with an arc of words, just an outline,
unfinished, I’d say. A few dowdy shoes, left feet only, on display shelves. I’m also taking in Hewitt: small and ginger with a beak-like nose, lost, nearly, in his apple face; a thin,
darting tongue; the watery eyes and the tiny voice, a pitch too high, trapped in his throat. And his old-fashioned air, slippery as Vaseline.
In here, he says, too gaily. With a flourish like a barker at a sideshow, he pulls a curtain aside. Beyond it is a darkened room. We’re supposed to pass through, but Jean stops at the
threshold,
I’ll just wait here, she says, very solemn.
Hewitt gives a nod, and lifts the curtain again.
Shall we proceed?
He’s found the correct tone now; he’s whispering like a priest.
A stone-cold room with the blackout still on the window, and beyond it, a kitchen. A room with an acrid smell, full of murder. I have to concentrate on what there is, but my legs are jumping. In
the corner is a velvet stool placed in front of a daybed. A cushion on the bed, with a quilt folded over the end. That smell is murder. I know in a second that his mother died in this room. Hewitt
invites me to sit on the daybed, takes a matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and fiddles with the lamp on the table. As he waits for the flame to catch, his hands tremble. I’ve never done a
private interview before – a reading, Jean calls it, as if I’m a fortune teller – but she was right. I don’t need to worry: as soon as Bernard lights the wick, there’s
a chill against my eye, as if I’m peeping through a keyhole. His mother comes instantly, blue as the flame, hot as pig-fat, furious.
You. Sit
– I find myself saying the words, pointing to the velvet stool at my feet. Trying to control her, I reinterpret:
Sorry, I say, Your mother would like you to sit here. Hewitt takes his position. His face is ecstatic. The bald patch on the top of his head shines like a moonlit pond. I have a terrible urge to
cuff him, knock him sideways onto the rug. It isn’t me. I sit on my hands. I’m trying to do as I’m taught, I’m trying to interpret the waves of heat his mother sends out. I
don’t always understand the things the spirits say, and this was no exception. Sometimes I’m able to stop the worst of it before it comes out. Not this time.
Who bribed his medical?
she says, glowing like coal.
I was unfit, he says to me, in an injured tone, but before he can finish she’s laughing in my ear.
Unfit. That’s you all right
, she says,
Is that why she left you?
It comes out in a blurt. I put my hands over my mouth and clamp it shut. Why can’t she say nice things,
or tell him something useful. But they very often don’t, Bernard says. The spirits are selective, he says. That’s why we are interpreters. That’s why we must take control.
Hewitt’s mother moves behind me, butting against my back, heavy as a clog. Not another word, I say in my head. You just behave.
No, no – I say, putting my hand to my head, playing for time – She’s telling me that
she’s
unfit.
Perhaps she means her illness? he says, At the end, you know, she was very sick.
Sick of you, maybe. Not sick of life
.
I can’t say that.
She means Dora – I lie, watching Hewitt’s amazed face – She says that Dora wasn’t fit to clean your boots.
HaHaHa! Very good, girl. Considering that’s all she ever did.
In the dim light, Hewitt’s eyes shine like jelly.
She said that?
Yes. And how sorry she is for you – all the while his mother in a storm around me – Sorry that you’re all alone. But it’s for the best, she says. You’ll find true
love soon. Someone worthy of you.
Hewitt grabs my knee, clutching at the fabric of my skirt as if he’s about to tear it off. He starts to sob, pulling me sideways towards him. His mother laughs again.
He’ll have that
off
you in a second if you don’t watch out
, she says.
Serves you right for getting carried away
.
She says she likes what you’re doing to the shop, I lie again, wrenching my skirt back.
Yes – he smiles tearily at this new thing – I’m reinvesting, tell her.
Reinvesting my arse. Spending my money! That’s my money down the drain.
If she shouts any louder I’ll go deaf. I’ve warned you, I tell her.
And I’m warning you. He’d murder his mother for a ha’penny. Why d’you think I’m here? Why d’you think you’re there?
I’m very sorry but she’s fading, Mr Hewitt, I say, bending low to avoid her buffeting my head.
Are you feeling faint? he asks, peering up at me, May I get you a glass of water? He goes into the kitchen and lights a lamp, turning up the wick so that I can see a wall stacked with small
white boxes, a sink with a basin on the drainer. He brings me a drink.
It was very – brief, he says, resuming his position on the stool, Not really what I expected.
I’m sorry, Mr Hewitt. Sometimes they rise for only the shortest time. Sometimes, they . . . they don’t wish to spend too long away from Heaven.
‘Too long away from Heaven!’ hoots Jean back at me, However did you think of that, child?
We’re walking down St Giles Street towards the Catholic cathedral; I’m telling her about the reading. She’s very pleased that it went so well, after all. When
we first came out into the front of the shop and found her surrounded by the ring of shoes that she’d been trying on, she looked furious. But I did all right, she says. She says I’m
learning fast.