Remember Me (20 page)

They’re simply showing their appreciation, he said, helping himself to his night-time brandy, Think of it as a sign of respect.

Of respect? she cried, Not respect for the dead, that’s for sure – and pointing her finger at me –
She’s
turning it into a pantomime.

She is doing no such thing, he said, relocking the cabinet in the sideboard and easing himself down into his seat. There was an ache of silence in the room. They often bickered, but this was an
argument brewing. I’d never seen Bernard so stony. He held his glass up to the light and gazed through it, as if it held an answer.

What she is doing – he said, after taking a long, measured sip – Is bringing us good fortune. That’s all there is to it. Jean spoke no more about the clapping that time, but
the way she did my hair before the next meeting, scraping it against my scalp and jamming the wig down on my head, I knew that despite the finality of Bernard’s remarks, Jean definitely
thought there
was
more to it.

Let’s not have any hysterics tonight, she muttered, prodding my shoulder with a stiff finger, Let’s not get things out of proportion. This isn’t the music hall, you know.

But the applause had nothing to do with me. By the end of the following evening, not only was there clapping, there was a man standing on a chair, with his fingers in his mouth,
whistling. People were out of their seats. Bernard was standing too.

The idea for the advertisement came after we were given notice on St Giles hall. Jean had mentioned a photograph once before, so when Bernard said we should place an advertisement in the paper,
with a picture of me, Jean’s reaction was a surprise.

Why not a photograph of you, Bernard? You’re the attraction, after all. It’s your life’s work.

Not pretty though, am I? he said, with a sudden, mirthless grin, Not a crowd pleaser, like this one.

Jean went quiet. She looked over at me, back at him, back at me.

You call that pretty? she said, You need your eyes testing.

~

Bernard got his own way. We went, all three of us, to a studio he knew on Colegate. The photographer was a tall, bald man with a bent back. He leaned on the arm of the sofa,
offered me a cigarette from a silver case.

She don’t smoke, said Jean, And she don’t take any clothes off.

She’d got the idea just by looking: the room was full of framed pictures of young women, smiling coquettishly over a bare shoulder, lying on a rug in a swimsuit, pouting,
with their hands in their hair.

We don’t want her looking like a tart, said Jean, frowning at a gallery of simpering faces, She’s a clairvoyant, not a showgirl. Are you sure we’re in the right place? she
asked Bernard, who was trying not to notice the pictures. He gave the man an embarrassed smile.

We’d like her. . . enigmatic, a little mystical, he said, Nothing too . . . flamboyant.

The man said he would do his best.

~

According to the picture in the newspaper, I am half mystery, half wonder. All hair. There’s a swirling vapour around my head that wasn’t there in the studio, and
two points of light, like tiny slivers of stars, in each eye. It looks exactly right.

He’s certainly done some work on that, says Jean, holding the paper at arm’s length in front of Bernard and his breakfast, I don’t know about packing them in. Looks to me like
she’ll scare them off.

Bernard raises his head from his plate of porridge.

Well, I think she looks marvellous – it really captures the mood, doesn’t it, Win?

It’s just like it is, I say, wanting to take the picture from Jean and hide it in my room so I can look at it again later. I’ve never had a photograph of me. I didn’t know my
eyes had pieces of the sky in them.

No good asking her, says Jean. ‘It’s just like it is!’ – What’s
that
supposed to mean?

Bernard sighs, and pushes his plate away. Jean is peculiar these days, argumentative for no reason. This morning it’s the photograph that’s vexing her, but any
little thing can set her off.

What she means, my dear, is that it is a very good likeness.

It’s beautiful, just beautiful.

Bernard tries his best, but that isn’t what I mean at all.

It’s different, I say, trying not to make Jean angry, It looks like the feeling – when they come through. Like my hair is doing that,

I say, pointing at the vortex of light in the picture. Bernard is nodding in agreement.

Yes, Jean, you see, that’s how the Gift manifests itself to her. The photographer has simply interpreted her aura. And, in my opinion, he’s done very well.

My aura, yes, I say, wanting to sound like Bernard, That’s exactly how it looks.

Thank you so much – says Jean, acid – For enlightening us. How silly of me not to notice your
aura.

~

We rehearse every spare minute, to prepare for the opening night. Bernard has moved his chair into the bay window, trying to make the parlour look like a stage. He’s been
teaching me words. He calls it the Language of the Afterlife, although a lot of it is just being polite to the people in the audience, repeating the things they say. Jean calls it the gift of the
gab. She says there’s more to it than parroting. When I’m alone in my room, I practise my words on the Russian dummy. She never smiles, never weeps.

The vibration is with us now, I say, holding my hands outstretched, Bear with me, madam. Move closer, sir, if you will. A little closer. Would this be your husband, madam? I can see a church.
The dummy smirks on.

Or perhaps it is your son drawing near. Was he to be married? I have the letter M, you see.

Bernard says always read the face. The face will tell you everything. Look beyond the skin, he says. Because no matter what you think you can see, if you don’t say the right words, people
won’t understand. And names are slippery; names are like grease, Bernard says. All you have to do is hit on the right letter, and the look on their faces will help you.

M or N, it isn’t clear. I am but a lowly interpreter, madam. Please forgive me if the name is incorrect. The dummy says nothing.

~

Bernard is singing. When he gets to the last line of the hymn, reaching for the note like a girl in a high, trembling voice, I have to come out and stand in the centre of the
window, raise my arms, and say,

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re honoured to have your company this evening. Please take your seats.

I’m no longer allowed to stand at the front door collecting money in the silver bowl. Bernard says it’s undignified for the star to be seen ‘consorting with hoi polloi’,
so he’s formulated some new rules: I have to remain in the back room of our venue until the singing is finished and the light comes on above the stage. Then I must walk out with my arms
raised, just like we do in the rehearsal. Bernard’s had some handbills printed that we are supposed to give out to people in the street; it shows the photograph of me, with the words
‘Winifred Foy, Clairvoyant Extraordinaire!’ on one side, and on the back, a list of Testimonials from Satisfied Customers. Bernard made them up. A little embellishment, he said, and
only what he’d heard spoken, anyway. He’s given out fifty already; and he’s instructed us to carry a few about our person, he said, should the appropriate occasion arise. I love
it when Bernard speaks like that; he could give lessons to the King.

Jean is fizzing. She keeps to the kitchen, scrubbing the floor, the stove, scouring the tabletop, boiling vegetables until the room is full of steam and she is glowing with sweat. She mutters
under her breath whenever I’m near.

Don’t. Want. You. Out. Here – she says, rasping the brush across the tiles – Fraternizing with the hoi polloi. What will Bernard think?

~

I’ve finally managed to get it right, the words in the correct order with the correct tone, my arms raised in welcome, the slight smile on my lips.

Beautiful, says Bernard, Perfect!

Jean doesn’t wait to hear more. With her headscarf in her hand, she marches into the parlour.

I’m supposed to run myself ragged with the refreshments and the setting out and the hoi bloody polloi – snapping the scarf in front of her

–
and
stand there like a skivvy at the door! And madam there –

snapping it at me

– gets to sit round the back doing sweet fanny adams.

We can get a person to stand in on the door if you like, says Bernard, his voice meek as ever.

Like who?

Bernard doesn’t answer directly. It’s become his way, as if slowing down the conversation will ease the tension. It has the opposite effect on Jean, whose face goes
purple in the waiting. He pulls the chair back away from the window, smooths the covers, carefully repositions the cushions. He doesn’t look at her.

I’ll make some enquiries for next week’s meeting. And afterwards, we can advertise, find an assistant.

But she
is
the assistant, insists Jean, We can’t afford to
pay
anyone.

Oh yes we can, says Bernard, Winifred’s a great success. The whole city is talking. So I’ve decided: we’ll be putting up our entrance fee.

~ ~ ~

Everything would have gone according to plan, it would indeed have been a great success, if it wasn’t for that visit to Hewitt’s shop. He’d called at
Bernard’s house the day before; Jean was in the kitchen and I was keeping out of her way, sitting in the parlour, doing one of Bernard’s jigsaws. I saw Hewitt through the window, coming
up to the gate. He rang the bell once. No sound from Jean, no footsteps in the hall. I held my breath, heard the flap of the letterbox as he lifted it, imagined him peering through the hole like a
pig in a pen. Then he was gone, crossing the road at the end of the street. I thought I wouldn’t mention it to Jean. She wouldn’t need to know. But Hewitt wasn’t looking through
the letterbox, he was dropping off a card. Jean brought it into the parlour, a smile of sly amusement on her face.

You have a suitor, was all she said.

She held the card up to the light, turned it this way, that way, enjoying the power of the words in her hand. Then slowly, carefully, she read out the message on the back:

‘To my dear Winifred. Kindly do me the honour of visiting me at my premises tomorrow morning. I shall send a car. Yours, as always.’

He’ll send a car, will he? Well, my dear Winifred, you must certainly
do him the honour.
Hark at old Hewitt – Mr Rochester more like!

~

To please Bernard, to not annoy Jean, I went. The car dropped me at the end of the road, and from there I walked, willing one foot to follow the other, right to the door of the
shop. It was locked. The closed sign was up. Through the window, I could see he’d got a new serving girl, as sullen as the last one. She was leaning her elbows on the glass counter, cupping
her face in her hands. When she saw me, she started, and rushed to open the door.

He told me to keep a lookout. He’d kill me if he missed you. He’s in the back room, she said, nodding at the curtain, You can’t go in, he’s with a customer. Running
late.

I waited on the bench near the fire, trying not to look at her. She was not making the same effort; she was staring at my head.

Is that a dye? she asked.

I couldn’t tell her it was a wig. I said yes, it was a dye.

My mother does hers Venetian Blue, she said, To take away the smoke stain. It’s called a rinse, you know, Venetian Blue. It doesn’t end up blue, it rinses out. That’s why
it’s called a rinse. You should try it.

I might. Thank you.

Black’s a difficult colour to pull off, don’t you think? she said, walking round the front of the counter, standing above me with her arms folded on her chest, Unless you’re
Scarlett O’Hara.

It was quiet for a minute, then she looked at me again, with mocking in her eyes.

You’re not, are you? You’re not
the
Scarlett O’Hara?

Spite in the air, an old, familiar scent. Looking up into her face, I saw the mark under her pink chin; fainter now, but unmistakable: the birthmark shaped like clover. This is
Alice Dodd.

Alice Dodd shook her head when I said my name; she didn’t know me. Finally, I realized she might remember who I used to be: I was Patricia Richards, but she would have
known me after that time, when I was Lillian.

Might as well be Scarlett O’Hara for all it means to me, she said, Nope. Don’t ring any bells.

She took up a duster from the counter, wiped it in a halfhearted way across the glass, and sat down next to me.

Beats me why a person just can’t be who they are, she said, So why are you pretending you’re that old bag’s niece? All the time she spoke, Alice kept her eye on the curtain,
just in case Hewitt appeared. I’d only been out of Jean’s company for half an hour, and already I’d made a mistake. I was too eager; in my attempt to find out about Joseph,
I’d said too much.

We were sent away together, I said, trying to change the subject, We were sent to the fens. In a wagon. You must remember that.

I wasn’t sent with no one, she said, I was on my own. On a bloody farm with some stinking cows. Worked me like a slave. I think I’d’ve remembered if
you
were there, She
took her eyes off the curtain and stared at me.

With that hair.

And your brother was sent away too, wasn’t he? I asked, trying to sound casual.

Her face froze.

It weren’t his choosing, she said, after a beat, He hurt his shoulder in a fall. The army wouldn’t have him. He was always falling, that one.

I remembered the first time I saw Joseph, balancing on the bridge. He told me how he watched me at Aunty Ena’s house, how he climbed along the parapet of the church tower
to do it, surveying the land below.

It’s like being a bird, Beauty, he said, You can almost put your wings out and fly. Just like a bird in the sky.

And I remembered enough of Alice Dodd to know not to ask anything of her. I pulled out a handbill with my picture on it, and wafted it in front of my face.

If you’re too hot I can douse that fire a bit, she said, Can’t open the door when Hewitt’s got someone in the back. God knows what he does in there.