Angel of Brooklyn (13 page)

Six weeks later, the whippoorwill was fully complete. A ball of brown and cream in a brown-leaf setting. Elijah, back from Jacksonville, admired it.

‘You have to look twice to see the bird,’ he said. ‘The camouflage is excellent.’

Beatrice stood back. She thought the bird looked frightened, and perhaps a little lonely.

‘Naturalistic,’ her father said, rubbing his hands together. ‘One of my very best attempts, don’t you think?’

He was more than pleased with himself. He’d heard on the grapevine that Professor Ratchett’s specimen had barely lasted a fortnight.

‘That would make for a very short paper, and a waste of a good brass cage,’ he said. ‘And you know something else? If that so-called professor offered me that half-witted buff-collared nightjar, who didn’t know the difference between Pontiac and El Paso, I’d be telling him, in no uncertain terms, that I just wasn’t interested.’

FRAGILE

BEATRICE THOUGHT SHE
heard a scratching at the door, then the scratching turned into knocking. It was Madge.

‘It’s Frank,’ she said, looking quickly over her shoulder. ‘He asked me to come. He said to give you this.’ She held out a piece of crumpled paper. It had been folded and refolded. ‘I’ve read it. I don’t know what it means.’

‘Come on in, come and sit by the fire,’ said Beatrice. ‘There’s fresh tea in the pot. How’s Frank?’

‘He’s recuperating, slowly.’ Madge hesitated before following her inside. ‘He has good days and bad.’

Beatrice stood by the window unfolding the paper. In dark, thick pencil it said:
Did you ever have a twin? Were there more of you? I have seen. I believe. I have missed them
. She could hear Madge rubbing her hands as she read it through twice.

‘Did Frank write this?’ said Beatrice finally.

‘It’s his handwriting.’

‘I don’t have a twin. I’ve never had a twin.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ said Madge, quickly taking the paper from her and pushing it into her pocket, ‘it’s just some stuff and nonsense. He’s been having lots of peculiar dreams, and the medicine, it’s very strong, it makes him ramble on, and then he gets all agitated. I’ve had to send the boys off to their aunt’s.’

‘Is he getting any better?’ Beatrice asked, sitting at the table and pouring cups of pale-coloured tea. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He hurt his back,’ said Madge. ‘He really can’t remember how he did it.’

‘Was he in hospital?’

‘A field hospital. They did what they could.’

‘Did he bring back any news?’

‘About Jonathan you mean?’

Beatrice looked down, taking a sip of her tea; it tasted of the fields, of the wet world outside. ‘Jonathan and the others. Are they still together?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. He’s home, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘And I’ve wished for that every hour – Jonathan, back where I can see him. Where was Frank fighting?’

‘France.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

Beatrice looked disappointed. ‘I just wanted some news.’

‘I wish I could help you,’ said Madge, pushing her cup away. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Don’t forget to tell him,’ said Beatrice, managing a smile.

‘Tell him what?’

‘No twins, just me.’

Suddenly Madge stopped. Her face was burning. ‘Thing is,’ she said, ‘I was going to ask …’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s this word, he keeps on saying this word.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s foreign. French. It sounds a bit like bully bass.’

‘Bouillabaisse?’ said Beatrice.

Madge looked relieved. ‘Yes, that’s it, that’s the word exactly.’ She paused. ‘So what is it?’

‘It’s like a broth,’ said Beatrice. ‘It’s made with shellfish, and fish, it’s really very pungent.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m positive.’

‘Fish broth,’ she said, shaking her hand and smiling. ‘Really? Is that all it is now? A broth?’

‘Beatrice!’

Beatrice turned. Lizzie was leaning over the farm wall, waving at her. Beatrice put down the slop bucket, patted Bertha on the head, and went to see what the matter was.

‘It’s nothing really,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s just that Al Riley’s mother has organised a spiritualist evening. She’s desperate to hear from Al. Her husband doesn’t approve, so I said she could have it at my house tonight. We’re all going to be there. The medium’s quite well known. She’s supposed to be very good.’

‘Most of them are charlatans,’ said Beatrice.

‘This one isn’t. Ada once saw her at the Varieties. A woman in her row heard from her husband. She knew all sorts of things about him. Even the name of his dog.’

‘All right,’ she smiled. ‘It’ll get me out of the house.’

‘And you never know who you might hear from,’ Lizzie smiled, waving over her shoulder.

Beatrice had met a spiritualist in New York. A Hungarian woman who, for the price of a meal, would hold your hand, roll in her seat and give you messages from beyond in a strange crackling voice. Beatrice had seen women clutching handkerchiefs and swaying in the doorway of the East Side Cafeteria, the medium’s favourite place for Polish sausage and borscht. Sceptical men would be found wiping tears from their eyes when she moaned their mother’s name, and they would hand her extra money for another glass of wine. Nancy had visited her, hoping to hear from a boy called Eugene Parker, her first love, who’d drowned in a pond, just after his sixteenth birthday. Nancy had bought the woman a two-course lunch, and they’d sat in her favourite curtained booth, holding hands. Nancy was certain that she’d felt strange vibrations, moving up her arms. But she had been disappointed. The woman described a boy, but the boy wasn’t Eugene. ‘She said he was tall, and thin, like a long piece of string,’ said Nancy. ‘But Eugene was as stocky as they come.’

‘Are you a believer, Mrs Crane?’ said Lionel. He’d been one of the first to arrive at Lizzie’s. He’d brought pamphlets about the spiritualist movement, endorsed by his friend Conan Doyle.

‘I haven’t yet made up my mind,’ she told him, which she supposed was the safest thing to say.

Lizzie appeared with a tray of rattling cups and saucers. ‘I’m nervous. Just look at my hands. The children are sound asleep upstairs, thank goodness; I don’t want to be giving them nightmares. And I’ve been thinking about ectoplasm,’ she said, putting down the tray. ‘Does it leave a mess?’

‘Is she here yet?’ said Ada, pulling off her coat.

‘No.’

‘Well, let’s have a cup of tea anyway, I’m cold to the bone, and some of these mediums don’t like to eat or drink before they start performing.’

Lionel cocked his head. ‘Performing?’ he said. ‘These people are
special
. They are gifted, and they are generous enough to use that gift with others. They’re certainly not theatricals.’

Ada held her hands over the small licking fire. ‘It’s all the rocking and groaning that gets me. Why do they have to do that? When I saw her at the Varieties, she was good, but she was acting like something from
King Lear
. He was on the week previous, shouting and beating his chest in the wind. It fair wore me out.’

‘They have to attune themselves,’ said Lionel. ‘Their body is the vessel for the departed person to use. It’s an extremely sensitive instrument.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Ada. ‘Where’s Madge?’

‘She’s going to be here at the last minute,’ said Lizzie. ‘She doesn’t like leaving Frank for too long.’

Mrs Riley appeared, bringing a sudden gust of air. ‘The medium’s on her way,’ she said, unwinding the scarf from around her neck. ‘She’s at the top of the lane. We should go and knock for Madge.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Lizzie. ‘I said I’d tap lightly on the window, in case Frank’s asleep.’

‘Is his back any better?’

‘Madge said he can hardly move an inch,’ said Lizzie. ‘Funny thing is, I saw them dancing the other night, though I didn’t like to mention it.’

They sat in a circle around the table in the parlour. Lizzie had used her good lisle cloth and her best brass candlesticks. The medium was wearing black. A large cameo brooch was pinned at her throat. She had a long sombre face and tightly scraped-back hair.

‘I am a spiritualist,’ she told them. ‘I am not a Madame Zaza, or a gypsy from the fairground. I’m Dora Barnes. Mrs Dora Barnes, plain and simple. I come with no airs or graces. Now, let us all join hands. We need to make a circuit.’

Lionel nodded sagely, as if he did this all the time. Beatrice remembered Morecambe and wondered if Dora Barnes talked in riddles like the palmist. Suddenly, Mrs Barnes closed her eyes, and let her head flop down, like her neck had just snapped. The women looked around. Lionel had his eyes closed, as if he might be praying. Perhaps they should do the same? With his pamphlets and his nodding, he seemed quite the expert. Mrs Riley was biting her lip. She had a photograph of Al in her pocket. It was her favourite. He was
laughing
by the boating lake at Barrow Bridge. It had been a good day. Perhaps he’d look down from wherever he was, and remember it?

In the small light from the candles, Mrs Barnes began humming and circling her waist. Her shoulders twitched, then her face, and in a low trance-like voice she started speaking.

‘
I am here. I am free and ready to hear you. Come. Come to me. Come to me now!
’

‘Is that her, or the ghost?’ whispered Madge.

Mrs Barnes stopped. She opened her eyes, and shook out her hands. ‘The connection has been broken. Whilst I am in transit it is most unwise to chatter. Complete silence and concentration is required by all. If you cannot do this, then please leave the circle.’

‘Sorry,’ muttered Madge.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Mrs Riley.

‘You may,’ sighed Mrs Barnes, pressing at her forehead.

‘Well … if we’re hoping to hear from someone in particular, should we be thinking about him? Asking him to leave a message?’

‘It can certainly do no harm, though I should warn you all, the spirits talk through me. I am not a personal telegraph service. If they want to talk, they’ll talk. Many of them prefer to be left alone, and are silent.’

Mrs Riley, looking disappointed, rubbed the sepia-coloured face in her pocket.

‘Now, let us reconnect.’

They held hands, looking somewhat chastised, Madge glancing quickly at the clock on the mantelpiece. How long would this take? Mrs Barnes had started swaying again, her face creased and tight with concentration, her breathing becoming louder, and faster, as she called out to the spirits.

‘I am with a man,’ she said, in a voice that was her own, only deeper. ‘He has been a long way from home.’

Mrs Riley opened her eyes, and then quickly shut them again. Her heart was racing. Belgium was miles away, but was nineteen old enough to be a man? The army said it was, and she was sure her Al would think so.

‘He was important in life, but now all that has gone.’ Mrs Riley’s mouth drooped. Al was never important. Not in that sense. ‘Is Alice there?’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘He would like to speak to Alice.’

The women opened their eyes, shrugging and looking perplexed.
Lionel
and Mrs Barnes were still concentrating, but as it was her house, Lizzie thought she ought to be the one to put her straight.

‘There’s no one here called Alice,’ she whispered.

‘Do we have an Alice connection?’ said Mrs Barnes, her voice a little strained.

‘It’s my mother’s name,’ said Madge.

‘It’s where my grandma lives,’ said Lizzie. ‘Alice Street, in Bolton.’

‘It’s my sister’s middle name,’ said Ada. Then suddenly she flushed, almost dropping one of her hands. ‘My baby,’ she swallowed. ‘I called a baby Violet Alice. The middle one.’

‘Is she this side of life, or beyond?’

‘Beyond.’

‘The Alice he wishes to speak to is this side of life.’

‘I could take a message to my mother,’ said Madge. ‘I’m seeing her tomorrow.’

‘
Alice, I still love you
,’ said Mrs Barnes, in a voice like a growling dog. Madge pulled a face. She could hardly tell her mother that. What on earth would her father say?

‘The spirit is fading fast. I have another voice, waiting to connect. Let us concentrate.’

The circle squeezed their hands tighter. Beatrice, who was sitting next to Mrs Riley, was sure her hands would be bruised in the morning.

‘The voice is a little unclear,’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘Perhaps the spirit has just passed over. The voice seems to be somewhat dazed, and slightly confused.’

Mrs Riley swallowed. Al had never been good with words. And he’d only been gone a month.

‘Please be patient, whilst the spirit tries to connect.’

Mrs Barnes began to hum. ‘The spirit is new to the world on the other side,’ she said. ‘I have a male. He is telling me that he is whole again, in mind and body. He is telling us to believe.’

‘I believe,’ said Mrs Riley.

‘The spirit is sending me music, a signal to you all that it was something he was fond of. I see the colour green. A muddy kind of green.’

‘A soldier?’ mouthed Mrs Riley.

‘The noise is very loud,’ said Mrs Barnes, rolling her head as if she was in great pain. ‘Oh, the noise! It could deafen you. Speak up, sir,
speak
up, I can’t hear you! The world is exploding! Speak up! Ahh,’ she sighed. ‘It has quietened. He tells me he has sons. He has two sons. Sir, can you give me their names?’

Mrs Riley sighed.
Oh Al, where are you?
she thought.
Just one word would make all the difference
.

‘This new spirit gives me the letter B. His sons are B. Both of them. And you, sir,’ said Mrs Barnes, ‘do we have a letter for you?’ Mrs Barnes’ voice was almost singing the words. A gust of wind started banging at the window. ‘F. The man is giving me an F!’ She was triumphant. ‘The letter F is the initial of his name.’

Madge shot up. ‘That’s my Frank,’ she said. ‘The B’s are for our Billy and Bert. I only left him half an hour ago.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Lizzie. ‘It can’t be for you, Frank isn’t dead.’

‘Well, he could be by now,’ said Madge, heading for the door.