The Seance (4 page)

My mother seemed less desolate that evening; I wondered if Dr Warburton had given her a sedative. Sitting in the chair opposite hers, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift in the warmth of the fire. Then I began to sing in a thin, piping voice, making up sounds to the tune of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, until I heard my mother speak, in a voice trembling with emotion.

‘Alma?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ I replied, in the same childish pipe, keeping my eyes closed.

‘Alma; is it really you?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Here, Mama; the angel said I could come to you.’

‘Why could you not come before, my darling? It broke my heart to lose you.’

I had not expected the question, and did not know how to reply.

‘I wish you would not be sad, Mama,’ I said at last, ‘because I am happy in heaven, and one day you will see me and we will never be parted again.’

‘Soon, I pray. My life here is a torment; I wish it were over.’

‘You must try to be happy, Mama,’ I repeated helplessly. ‘It makes me sad to see you cry.’

‘Do you see me all the time, my darling?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Then
why
could you not come before?’

‘I could not find the way,’ I lisped, and to avoid any more questions began to sing again, letting my voice trail gradually away and my breathing slow. A few moments later I pretended to wake with a start,
and opened my eyes to find Mama staring at me in a way I had never seen before.

‘I think I have been asleep, Mama; I dreamed of Alma.’

‘No, child, you were in a trance; Alma was speaking through you.’

‘What is a trance?’ I asked innocently.

‘It is – what spiritualists do – I wanted to try, but
he
forbade it – he said he would leave me if I ever went near a séance – and now he has left me anyway—’ she choked, and burst into raw, noisy sobbing. I went and put my arms around her, and felt, for the first time in all the years since Alma died, an answering pressure, and my tears mingled with her own.

I went to bed that night happier than I could remember, thinking that Mama was at last emerging into the light. But the very next evening she wanted me to resume my trance; I said that I did not know how I had done it, but would try. As I pretended to fall asleep, I struggled to think of something new to say, but could summon only vague images of white-robed figures bathed in golden light. What were people supposed to
do
in heaven, apart from singing and playing the harp? Mrs Greaves had spoken of Summerland; perhaps heaven would be like a perfect summer’s day in the country, with Alma riding a celestial pony through fields of beautiful flowers. But if Alma was still only two, waiting for Mama to arrive in heaven so as not to miss any of her growing up, she would surely be too small for a pony, even a celestial one ... In the end I abandoned the attempt and opened my eyes, to see the familiar look of desolation settling over her face.

‘Did Alma not come to you?’ I asked.

She shook her head wearily.

‘But Mama, you
know
now that she is safe in heaven; you must not be sad any more.’

‘I cannot be sure – perhaps you were only talking in your sleep – if only I could hear her voice again ...’

I looked at her with a sinking heart. ‘I do not know how it happened, Mama, but I will try again tomorrow,’ I said at last, and soon after excused myself and went upstairs to my room. Already I could feel the black cloud of her misery rising to engulf me, but I knew I could not sustain the deception alone. And so, the following afternoon, I plucked up my courage and went round to Lamb’s Conduit Street, where I walked up and down until I discovered a door marked ‘Holborn Spiritualist Society’ in faded gold lettering, set into the wall next to a milliner’s shop. I stood irresolute for so long that the milliner came out and, when I said I wished to see Mrs Veasey, directed me to another house further down the street. There a maidservant who looked no more than ten asked me to wait, and after a while a stout grey-haired woman, dressed entirely in black, came out to greet me.

‘And what might you be wanting, my dear?’ she said, in an accent that reminded me a little of Annie’s. I began to explain, very hesitantly, about Alma and Mama, whereupon she suggested that we should walk up to the Foundling Hospital, where she liked to sit and watch the children. Something in the way she said it made me wonder if she too had lost a child, but when I ventured to ask she said no, she had never had any. Her husband, a sea captain, had been drowned off the West Indies nearly twenty years ago.

‘He still comes to me sometimes,’ she said. ‘But spirits can’t be commanded, you know.’

She sighed, and patted my hand; a plain, motherly woman quite unlike my imagination of a spirit medium. As we walked, I told her of Papa’s departure, and how he had forbidden us to have anything to do with spiritualism, and by the time we were seated by the statue of the angel I had resolved to trust her entirely, even as far as my pretence at summoning Alma.

‘I know it was wrong to deceive her,’ I said, ‘but Mama has been so unhappy for so long, and if only she could be certain that Alma is safe in heaven, I think she might recover.’

‘You mustn’t reproach yourself, my dear. For all you know, it was your
sister’s spirit moving you to speak; you might have the true gift and not know it yet.’

‘How would I know if I did?’ I asked uneasily.

‘You feel ... taken up ... they are so strong, sometimes, you think they will shake you to pieces. And then when they leave you, emptied out ... like a vessel used and thrown away ... When I was young, like you, I was filled with their light ... now they hardly come to me at all. But you never forget, my dear, you never forget.’

She patted my hand again and sighed deeply, and I found tears pricking my own eyes.

‘But if they don’t come to you . . .’ I ventured. Mrs Veasey did not immediately reply. On the other side of the railings, the foundling girls were gathered about the yard in two and threes and fours, or playing at jump-rope; they might have been the very same girls that Annie and I had watched ten years before.

‘We must help people believe,’ she said at last, ‘like your poor Mama. There isn’t a medium in London who doesn’t pretend, sometimes, and how can it be wrong to bring comfort to them that mourn?’

‘And – do people have to pay to come to your séances?’

‘Goodness no, my dear; we take up a small collection afterwards, and those that can afford it give what they can. But no one in need is ever turned away.’

‘Mrs Veasey,’ I said after a pause, ‘have you ever
seen
a spirit?’

‘No, my dear, not with these eyes. The gift didn’t take me that way. But you know, my dear, there’s something about you ... I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were chosen.’

‘But I don’t
want
to be chosen,’ I said, ‘only for Mama to be happy again.’

‘That’s a sign of a true gift, my dear, not wanting it. And as for your Mama, why don’t you bring her to our meeting tomorrow?’

‘Mama has not left the house for years,’ I said, ‘but I should like to come to you myself, if I may.’

At half-past six the following evening, therefore, I let myself out of the house, telling Mama that I had a headache and needed to walk. She had sunk further towards her old blank misery, but I did not want to risk another summoning until I had seen how Mrs Veasey conducted a séance. It was the first week of June, and still broad daylight, but the evening chill was already upon the air. The Society’s door was open; I went up a narrow staircase, as Mrs Veasey had told me, and into a dim, panelled room in which the curtains were already drawn. The only furniture was a large circular table, around which half a dozen people were already seated, including Mrs Veasey, who sat with her back to a small fire of coals. She greeted me warmly, introduced me to the circle, and invited me to sit opposite her, between a Mr Ayrton, whose wife was on the other side of him, and an elderly woman called Miss Rutledge. There was also another middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Bachelor, and Mr Carmichael, an immensely fat man whose several chins spilled out on to a vast expanse of waistcoat. He had moist, pale eyes, and wheezed softly as he breathed.

These people, as I would learn, were Mrs Veasey’s regular sitters. Several others appeared during the next few minutes until the last place at the table had been taken, whereupon Mr Ayrton rose and shut the door. He then invited us to join hands and sing ‘Abide with Me’, which we did rather discordantly, along with several other hymns, while Mrs Veasey slumped lower in her chair and appeared to doze.

Mrs Veasey had told me about spirit controls, but I was still startled when she began to speak in a gruff man’s voice, greeted by Mr Ayrton as ‘Captain Veasey’. The messages were commonplace but affecting; Mr Carmichael, for instance, was told that Lucy was watching over him as always, and that his ‘present difficulty’ would resolve itself very soon, whereupon he gave a great wheezing sigh, almost a sob, and bowed his head. Everyone in the circle received a message, and I saw how the sitters hung upon every word. The message for me was ‘Alma says you have done right’, and even though I knew that Mrs Veasey’s trance was feigned
– indeed I thought her left eyelid quivered very slightly as she (or rather the Captain) spoke – it still brought a lump to my throat.

She had ceased to speak, and I thought the séance had ended, when her eyes, which had been closed throughout the performance, flew open, apparently fixed upon an invisible object floating somewhere above the table.

‘Alma,’ said the Captain’s harsh voice, ‘Alma will speak through Constance.’

There was a collective gasp from the sitters; the hair rose upon the back of my neck. Mrs Veasey started violently, and seemed to become conscious of her surroundings.

‘Miss Langton,’ she said hoarsely, ‘you must do as he bids. Close your eyes, and summon the image of your sister.’

Her voice was urgent, peremptory; I could not tell whether she was feigning or not. I closed my eyes, feeling my companions’ hands trembling in mine, and tried to fix my mind upon Alma. After a little I became aware of a faint buzzing vibration running up my arms and through my body.

‘I can feel the power,’ said Mrs Veasey. ‘Is there anybody here?’

It is only pins and needles, I told myself fearfully, willing the vibration to stop. But it seemed to me that words were welling up in my throat, threatening to choke me if I did not speak, and to forestall the sensation I began to chant in my Alma-voice, as I had done the other evening, sounds to the tune of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, and slowly the tension relaxed and my hands ceased to tremble.

‘Alma,’ said Mrs Veasey, ‘tell us why you have come.’ The hoarseness had left her voice.

‘For Mama,’ I piped.

‘You have a message for your Mama?’

‘Tell Mama . . .’ I paused, thinking rapidly. ‘Tell Mama . . . safe in heaven. Tell Mama to come here.’

‘We shall. And – would you like to speak to anyone else?’

I did not reply, but lapsed back into my chanting, letting it gradually die away, and a few moments later pretended to wake.