You'll Never See Me Again Page 18

  ‘You see, it doesn’t work,’ she said eventually.

  ‘And I thought really hard about my father. I imagined him in evening dress, going out with Mother to a party or ball. He was a very handsome man.’

  ‘Handsome or not, his spirit didn’t come flitting through this room,’ Mabel giggled. ‘Come on, let’s go out. We were going to see the Roman Baths, if you remember.’

  They had a lovely three days in Bath; they went to the theatre to see a comedy, they looked around the cathedral, shopped and walked miles exploring the town. On their last evening they decided to eat in the hotel restaurant, as it had begun to rain heavily.

  Mabel got changed and then went into Clara’s room to see if she was ready. She was sitting at the little desk in the window writing a letter.

  ‘Just finishing,’ Clara said. ‘I thought I’d better write something to my friend Polly, in Cheltenham. We were at school together and were once inseparable, but she got married and had five children. Now we only see each other about once every five years.’

  Clara signed the letter, blotted it on the blotter, put it in an envelope and addressed it. ‘I’ll give that to the concierge to post for me,’ she said as she got up from her chair to fetch her wrap.

  Mabel looked at the silver pen lying on the desk, feeling drawn towards it. It was a rather masculine pen, chunky and heavy. As she picked it up, she experienced that same strange feeling of being pulled, just as she had the night they went to the meeting with Coral.

  ‘This is your father’s pen, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I can feel him.’

  That warm, sleepy feeling engulfed her again.

  ‘Mabel, wake up! You are scaring me.’

  Mabel heard Clara’s voice, from what seemed a long way off. But it pulled her back to the present, and she was once again standing in the hotel bedroom, the pen still in her hand. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  Clara was very pale. ‘You spoke in my father’s voice,’ she said in hushed tones. ‘For a moment I thought he was here in this room. But I suppose he was – he’d come through you.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he was relieved I had recovered from my illness, that he is glad I’m playing the piano again, and soon I’m going to be known for my picture-book illustrations. He said I should get out and meet more people, and it isn’t good to be alone so much.’

  ‘All that came out of my mouth?’ Mabel was incredulous. ‘I mean it’s all stuff I could say, but not in his voice.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you, but before we came away my editor telephoned me to say she was excited about the sketches I’d sent in for the fairy-tales book, and so were the rest of the Board of Directors. She said the contract was in the bag. I didn’t tell you about it, because all too often these things don’t come off. So how would you know? You weren’t even in the house when the editor telephoned me.’

  ‘It was your father’s pen, then?’

  ‘Yes. He gave it to me a few weeks before he died. I’d always loved the heaviness of it. So you must have channelled him through picking it up.’

  ‘I suppose so. Then it wasn’t just a fluke the other night?’

  ‘It doesn’t appear to be,’ Clara smiled. ‘You talking in his voice was scary, though. I’ve heard about people doing that, but I always thought it was faked.’

  ‘You know I didn’t fake anything. I’d just come in the room.’

  ‘Of course, Mabel, but the one thing this does prove is that you really have got a gift. I don’t know why you’ve only just found it, but I suspect it was brought to the surface by Carsten’s death. Maybe it works either when you are close to someone who is distressed, like those people the other night, or like now, just touching a personal item of someone who has died.’

  ‘Nora, the woman I told you about, she liked to hold things from people,’ Mabel said, still rather dazed by what had just taken place. ‘I feel really shaky now.’

  Clara sat her down in the chair. ‘We’ll go down in a minute and I’ll get us both a brandy before we go out. I’m in shock too.’

  13

  Encouraged by Clara, Mabel wrote to Beatrice Langdon, the psychic in Southampton, soon after they returned from Bath. But because it was nearly Christmas, and there was no immediate response, Mabel put her thoughts about it to one side, and she was soon thinking it was for the best that she couldn’t pursue it.

  They spent the Christmas of 1918 and the New Year of 1919 at home, just the two of them. The Spanish flu was raging in the town – as it was all over England, and indeed the world – so it seemed inappropriate to celebrate. It certainly wasn’t advisable to spend time in any crowded place. The churchyard was completely full, and they were transporting bodies to a mass grave far away from the town.

  Mabel went up to the camp to help with nursing on several afternoons, but she was even more conscious than before of the importance of keeping her mask on, boiling her aprons after each visit, and endless handwashing.

  Gus was still there, and healthy, and it was good to see him. He said he’d missed her and had worried she might have been taken ill too.

  ‘We are up to thirty deaths now,’ he said. ‘Considering there are over four thousand men in this camp, that’s a pretty low ratio, especially if you compare it with civilian prisons that have a death toll of one in ten. I think it’s because we’ve maintained such good hygiene.’

  That first afternoon back, two more men died, and four new cases came into the sickbay. Clearly, the pandemic wasn’t going to disappear just yet.

  It was early February when Clara answered the telephone and called up the stairs to Mabel that it was for her.

  When Mabel was halfway down, Clara whispered, ‘I think it’s “that” woman.’

  Beatrice Langdon sounded a very gentle soul – on the telephone, at least. She apologized profusely for not responding more quickly and said she’d been helping her daughter, who’d had her sixth child just before Christmas.

  ‘Why don’t you come down on the train to Southampton and we can talk face-to-face?’ she said. ‘Coral spoke so enthusiastically about you that I am a bit worried she might have pushed you too hard.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Mabel agreed. ‘This is all new to me, and I know I need advice and guidance. I didn’t get carried away by Coral’s enthusiasm.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. What about if you came one afternoon, stayed the night with me and went home the next day? The trains are still all over the place. And travelling in winter, with it getting dark so early – and the cold, of course – makes it all very unpleasant.’

  Mabel agreed she’d come the following Tuesday afternoon, and Beatrice promised to put a little map in the post to her. ‘I live just a five-minute walk from the station.’

  ‘Well, well, well, that’s exciting,’ Clara said when Mabel related what had been said. ‘Did she sound normal?’

  ‘Can we judge from a telephone call?’ Mabel laughed. ‘She sounded motherly. But I’ll soon find out if she really is.’

  On the following Tuesday, Mabel went off to Southampton. As she sat on the train, staring out of the window at the winter landscape, she was reminded of a similar view as she left Totnes. How things had changed since then! She was so much more worldly-wise; she knew things now she would never have dreamed of back in Hallsands.

  Even her relationship with Clara had changed completely since her illness. She was still officially her housekeeper, but she wasn’t a servant any longer, more like a companion. It was a pleasant and rewarding arrangement but, in some ways, Mabel wished they’d kept the old one. She knew her place then – what was expected of her – and it was so much simpler. What would happen now, if they fell out and she wanted to leave?

  She hadn’t believed Nora would ever turn nasty, but she did, as soon as she couldn’t get her own way. Clara wasn’t that way inclined, but she’d come to rely on Mabel, and people reacted badly to change sometimes. Would she go to the police and tell them what she knew, out of
spite?

  Thoughts of Martin and Hallsands kept coming to her; perhaps that was because she’d told Clara about them. But a small voice inside kept whispering that the right thing to do would be to go back there and find out how Martin was.

  But she was scared to do that. Martin might have died in the Spanish flu pandemic. Although that would solve her problems, she’d be at the mercy of Agnes, and probably vilified by all her old neighbours. Whatever she found in Hallsands, it wasn’t going to make anything better, and it might make things a great deal worse.

  As for this psychic nonsense, she wished it had never reared its ugly head. To be telling people things that she didn’t even remember afterwards was crazy. What if something came out all wrong, and she upset the person badly? Where would that leave her?

  It was just after four when she arrived at Beatrice Langdon’s house. It was bigger than Coral’s, and terraced, a double-fronted house built at the end of the last century. Mabel liked the chequered tiles leading to the front door, and the pretty tiles in the porch, which were decorated with bunches of grapes and flowers.

  An elderly maid, wearing a white frilly apron over her black uniform dress, answered the door.

  ‘You must be Mrs Brook,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘Come on in, Mrs Langdon is waiting in the drawing room. Let me take your hat, coat and that bag.’

  The drawing room was lovely; one wall was entirely covered by books, the others with dark green wallpaper. The sofa and armchairs were a dark russet colour and the patterned carpet was also predominantly dark green with splashes of russet and brown. The pictures with their gold frames, the lamps, and even the lovely white marble fireplace, all gave the impression of wealth and comfort.

  Beatrice jumped up from her chair as Mabel came in. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey?’ she said.

  She was elderly, as Mabel had guessed by her voice, but she had vivid green eyes and a creamy complexion. Her hair was covered by a gold and emerald-green brocade turban, giving her a regal and exotic appearance.

  ‘Uneventful, which is good these days,’ Mabel said. ‘I think people are staying home more because of this flu.’

  ‘Let’s get to the point,’ Beatrice said, after asking the maid to bring them tea and cake. ‘Coral said you had no idea you had psychic powers, your gift just manifested itself that night at her meeting.’

  ‘That’s right. I never sought it or wanted it. I did have a couple of unexplained incidents before, but I put those down to an overactive imagination. I’m puzzled, and I don’t understand where this came from.’

  ‘We are all just vessels for spirits,’ Beatrice said vaguely. ‘They pick us, seemingly at random. But I believe, from what I’ve witnessed, they have a knowledge of those who are sympathetic, sensitive people. Hence, of course, why we are called “spiritualists” by many. I think Coral told you that, for some mediums, they have a few visitations, then it ends. Others the gift never leaves.’

  ‘Coral said it’s often people who are grieving or who’ve had other difficulties.’

  ‘Maybe, sometimes, but since this war started so many are grieving. If they all began getting messages from the other side, it would be quite worrying. It’s my firm belief that we are chosen, and some of us have a special role, but once it has been achieved, the spirits no longer come to us.’

  ‘I’ve read about people faking it. They sometimes have a partner in the audience.’

  ‘Yes, there are those people,’ Beatrice agreed. ‘But I’m not one of those, and I know from Coral you certainly aren’t.’

  Over a very tasty supper of a chicken and mushroom pie, they talked a little about their backgrounds. Mabel spoke mostly of being in service in both Bristol and now in Dorchester, only touching briefly on her father being a fisherman and her husband being killed at the Somme.

  Beatrice said she too went into service as a young girl and rose through the ranks to being assistant housekeeper on a big estate in Surrey.

  ‘I found my psychic powers in the servants’ hall,’ she said, and chuckled as if the memory still amused her. ‘I was very junior, and the senior staff tended to hold forth about where they had worked before, grand people they’d met through their work. We juniors were supposed to be really impressed. I was, at first. But then, one day, a footman by the name of Rogers began telling us about how a titled young lady who had been to the house for a weekend party had propositioned him and asked him to come to her room later that night. He was a good-looking man, but I knew he was lying, even when everyone else was hanging on his every word. I also sensed that he had made a pass at the young lady, and because he was afraid she was going to talk, he’d made up this other story.’

  ‘When you say you knew he was lying, do you mean that was a psychic message? Or you just sensed it?’

  ‘They are often the same thing,’ Beatrice said a bit sharply. ‘But that doesn’t matter now. The following evening, down in the servants’ hall, Rogers began embellishing his story and all at once I felt something come over me. Next thing I knew, Cook was fussing over me and said I’d suddenly begun speaking in the young lady’s voice, telling Rogers that if he so much as spoke to her again, she would make sure he was dismissed without a character.

  ‘Apparently, Rogers got up and went to slap me, but the other servants stopped him, and he rushed out. Well, I think all the other servants just thought I was good at mimicry. They didn’t understand. But as it turned out, Rogers made a nuisance of himself a second time. Unluckily for him, the young lady’s maid was within earshot and reported him to the mistress of the house, telling her what had been said, and what had happened the previous time.

  ‘When this reached the servants’ hall, they were naturally astounded to find her story matched mine. I became a minor celebrity for a short while. Of course, I didn’t understand what I’d done, or how I’d done it. It was sometime later, when I’d seen or sensed more things, heard messages, that I began to realize I had this … well, I don’t know what to call it. Power? Gift? Anyway, it’s been both a blessing and a curse.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ Mabel said. ‘I’m almost hoping mine will never erupt again.’

  ‘Are you willing to join me at a meeting to see what happens?’ Beatrice looked hard at her, and Mabel didn’t know if she wanted her to say yes or no.

  ‘I think I have to, don’t I? If only to satisfy my own curiosity.’

  ‘I believe so.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘Well, I’m holding a meeting in a week’s time, and I’d like to introduce you to my audience. Come down in the afternoon and stay the night again with me. We can discuss after the meeting how you want to proceed.’

  Clara could hardly wait for Mabel to get through the door to hear how she’d got on.

  ‘Was she nice? Old? Weird? Were you scared?’ She directed questions at Mabel like rifle fire.

  ‘Yes, she was nice, oldish, not weird really. Lovely home, and I’m going there again next week for my first meeting.’

  Over a cup of tea Mabel told her friend what had been said, especially the story about the footman in the big house.

  ‘She was cagey about who she worked for,’ Mabel said. ‘They must have been top drawer to have footmen. I’m not keen on staying with her, though. It makes me feel like I’m caught in a web.’

  Clara smirked. ‘You are funny, Mabel. I’d be far more worried about you going to stay in a guest house than staying with another woman. But I suppose you mean it makes you beholden to her?’

  ‘Yes, that’s about it. I didn’t like to ask about money, either.’

  ‘That will come after you’ve done the first public meeting with her.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose, but I am doing this for the money, Clara, not for the good of my soul. Is that bad of me?’

  Clara roared with laughter. ‘You have more sides than a thruppenny bit,’ she said. ‘You’d nurse sick men, who might give you a disease that will kill you, for nothing more than love, but you want money for getting messages from the dead!’r />
  ‘You should’ve seen Beatrice’s house,’ Mabel said indignantly. ‘She was in service and got the house by her “powers”. Why shouldn’t I get something out of it too?’

  ‘Well, I love my art, but I expect to be paid for it, so I suppose there’s no difference between us, really.’

  ‘You are always so reasonable about everything,’ Mabel sighed. ‘But I have my real work to do now; fires to light, dinner to cook. I don’t want you sacking me just yet!’

  ‘As if I would,’ Clara said. ‘I’d be living in a pigsty within a few weeks, and be half-starved too.’

  Mabel was extremely nervous when she arrived at the meeting with Beatrice. On the train journey down she’d been tempted to catch the next train back and forget all about it.

  But Beatrice reminded her that the worst thing that could happen was nothing; no spirits with messages coming through, and she’d be left feeling a bit silly. And she reassured Mabel that, if this happened, everyone would understand.

  The hall was packed – nearly a hundred people – and Beatrice charged them each a shilling for entrance. She first explained to her audience that Mabel was a novice, and therefore they couldn’t be sure whether she would receive any messages at all. She asked if anyone wanted to give a special item to Mabel to hold.

  Several small items were handed to Mabel, which she laid on the table next to where she was sitting. While Beatrice began her display, which Mabel felt was somewhat theatrical, with much waving of arms and strange guttural sounds from her throat, Mabel rested her hands gently on the items. There was a pocket watch, a penknife, a tie pin, a brooch and a small silver box. She concentrated on how they felt under her fingers, ignoring what Beatrice was saying close by her, and the audience in front of her.