Viridian Tears (13 page)

Michelle swallowed the mouthful of wine. “Thank you.”

“Do you want a mushroom?” Graham held out his fork, a mushroom coated in breadcrumbs speared on the end. When she shook her head he swallowed it. “You do fancy him, though, don’t you?”

“Who?”

“The waiter. You’re making it obvious.” He reached for a bread roll from the basket on the next table.

“Graham, no.” Michelle hissed at him, earning her the attention of the two people who’d just finished their soup.

“It’s fine.” The woman passed him the whole basket of bread rolls. “It’s no trouble. We don’t want them.”

“Thanks.” Graham smiled as he took the basket. “Is there any butter?”

“Sorry.” She added a small saucer of individually wrapped pats to the basket. “Help yourself.”

“See there are nice people about.” Graham buttered a white roll and made a garlic mushroom sandwich. “I bet they noticed you making cow eyes at the waiter.”

“I was no such thing.” Michelle tried not to look and concentrated on her fettuccini, hoping that no one else would see what Graham was doing. What if people thought they were together?

They finished the rest of their starters in silence and filled the gap between courses by Graham eating the remaining bread rolls one after the other, at one point making a sandwich by putting bread sticks inside a bread roll. He seemed delighted by the innovation and showed it to the woman on the next table, who showed polite interest before raising her hand to ask Federico for the bill.

Their main course followed in a similar vein, Graham almost deliberate in his attempts to embarrass her further, culminating in his loud insistence he have ice dream for dessert. Worse than the indulgent smiles of the other patrons, Michelle felt humiliated when Federico presented her with the bill, only to remain at their table while she passed it to Graham.

“My treat on date night.” Graham scowled at the cost and put thirty pounds on the tray. “We should have had the fish and chips I bought. That’s all my spending money for the week. You’ll have to hock your pearls next time.”

“I haven’t got any pearls.”

“That’s right. You sold them before I met you.” Graham stood and slipped his sheepskin coat back on. “Come on, we’d better hurry if you want to catch your ghosts before they settle down to watch telly.”

Michelle didn’t speak a word until they pulled into the drive at Enfield House. “Don’t you dare embarrass me here like you did at the restaurant.” She could hardly control her voice. She desperately wanted to shout at him but was terrified of causing a scene in public. “Honestly, I don’t know what got into you.”

“Being used is what got into me, love.” Graham sat back in the seat and took the keys out of the ignition. “You got it into your head you wanted a piece of Italian Stallion and you manipulated me into taking you to the restaurant. Anybody could see he didn’t feel the same about you. You should thank me for stopping you throwing yourself at him.”

“I was doing no such thing.” Michelle could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. “I was just extending the hand of friendship to him. It may interest you to know he’s happily married, anyway. Just because social niceties are a foreign language to you it doesn’t mean they have to be for me as well.”

“He’s married?” Graham frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Her name’s Lucy and she’s English.” She took a deep breath. “So you can stop being so jealous and possessive, can’t you? Honestly, it’d not like we’re married or anything. You’re not even my boyfriend.”

“No.” Graham opened the door. “I’m not, am I?” He went around the car and helped her out, then trailed her to the front door.

She hesitated before she rang the bell, turning to search his face for clues to his state of mind. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine.” Graham shook his head. “Go on. I won’t say a word out of place.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed his arm and rang. The door was opened by a woman in her late twenties, elegantly dressed with hair like a waterfall of black velvet.

“You must be Shirley’s friend.”

Michelle held out a card. “Michelle Browning, psychic and spiritualist, at your service.”

“So I was led to understand.” She stood to one side, holding the door open. “Welcome to Enfield Hall. Do come in.”

“Thank you.” Michelle tucked the unwanted card back in her handbag. “This is my spiritual guardian and driver, Graham Browning.”

The woman waited for him to enter then closed the door, ushering them through the porch into the hall. Michelle stood for a moment in the checkerboard opulence and admired the black and white motif that swept through the two-storey room. “Lovely floor, I bet that didn’t come from Tiles-To-Go.”

“It’s Italian marble.” The woman stood with straight back and both feet together, her right hand clasping her left. She made no offer to take their coats and seemed to be trying very hard to indicate Michelle, and by extension Graham, were decidedly
persona non grata
. “Just go through the door into the lounge, would you? Or would you prefer the dining room? There’s a table you could knock at.”

“The lounge will be perfectly adequate, thank you.” Michelle stalked through, her heels clicking against the floor. She spied a couple of small faces staring through the banisters of the mezzanine. The woman followed her gaze. “Timothy! Bethany! It’s past your bedtimes.”

The boy stood and Michelle guessed he was around five. “But we want to see granddad too.”

“Your grandfather is dead, darling. He won’t be coming back.”

“But that lady’s a medium, like on the telly.”

“Hardly, darling. She’s a sixteen at least.” The woman gave Michelle an acid smile. “Do go through.”

“Thank you.” Michelle swallowed the lump in her throat and followed the noise of people talking into a room they could have fitted Graham’s whole semi inside. Two of the walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookcases and another with several paintings of, presumably, Burbridge ancestors. The fourth wall was covered in one long curtain. Arranged on three sofas were four people, Shirley and Vera occupied one, a woman with a short blonde bob and a man with the beady eyes of Timothy in the hall.

“Good evening.” Michelle paused in the doorway. “How kind of you to invite us into your home.”

“Madame Browning.” Shirley stood and hurried across a carpet you could lose pygmies in. “I’m so glad you made it. Was your journey fraught with signs and portents?”

“Don’t talk such rot, Shirley.” The man, whom Michelle assumed must be the boy’s father, put down a cigar. “I’m sure there were plenty of road signs but she’d have only seen portents if she’d passed the gypsies on Markham Road.”

“Well may you scoff, George, but Madame Browning has the gift. You’ll see.”

Michelle forced a smile. “Where would we be without skeptics and unbelievers, Mr. Burbridge? I just met your son in the hall. I don’t think he shares your disbelief.”

“I wouldn’t take that as a mark of faith.” George chuckled as he retrieved his cigar. “He still believes in Santa, the tooth fairy and the concept of free speech. Of course he believes in ghosts. He sees them every day.”

“Your son can see the spirit world?”

“On every damned television channel he can get.” He puffed his cigar.

The woman with the bob waved the smoke away. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house, George.”

“Why not? It’s my house.”

“Our house. Daddy left it us both.”

“Actually, it’s my house.” Shirley led Michelle to the sofa she’d been sharing with her mother. “Madame Browning? This is George, of course, my late husband’s eldest. His wife Angela answered the door, I believe. This is Beatrice, Eddie’s daughter.”

The woman with the bob inclined her head. “Don’t mind my brother. He’s not always such a bore.”

“How do you do?” Michelle stopped herself from curtsying. “This is Graham. He’s my spiritual rock, as it were. He makes sure my astral self isn’t carried away by the spirits.”

“Ah. Happens to me all the time.” George chuckled. “Whisky, gin, brandy…”

“Enough, George.” Shirley scowled at him. “May I take your coat, Madame? Would you like a drink before we start?”

“Thank you.” Michelle put her handbag on the sofa and slipped off her jacket. “Perhaps a glass of water?”

Chapter 13

“You’re not really going through with this?” George took another puff of his cigar. “Spiritualism has been debunked for decades.”

“That’s not true at all. Look at all the programs about ghosts on the television. Of course we’re going through with this.” Shirley took and envelope from her bag and passed it to Michelle. “If anyone can call Eddie from the afterlife it’s Madam Browning. She’s the real thing.”

“According to whom?” Angela appeared at the doorway. “Her website? I had a read through it this afternoon. I simply adored the caveat ‘Results not guaranteed. Spirits already in a higher place are generally disinclined to answer a spiritualist’s call.’ Genius.” She took her seat next to George. “I’ve sent the kids back to bed on pain of no television tomorrow.”

“What’s the point of having a séance anyway?” George took a sip of his drink. “This woman is a fraud, Shirley. You’ve got as much chance of calling up Father’s ghost as finding a partridge in a pear tree.”

“Yes, Mr. Burbridge.” Michelle pulled some candles out of her handbag. “But we manage to find one of those every year. Is there something I can put these candles on? I wouldn’t like to drip wax over the table.”

“There’s a mat.” Shirley nudged Vera. “Get her a mat from the dining room, would you?”

“No need.” Beatrice slid one out from a drawer in the coffee table. “There’s one here.”

“Lovely.” Michelle lit the three candles one after another and placed then on the tablemat. They were thick candles of the sort used in church and stood easily on their own. “Would someone turn the lights out please?”

The room looked much smaller with the lights off and candles lit. Michelle held out her hands. “I need us all to link hands. It makes a bond between us that the spirits can recognize.”

“It’s like being in church.” Beatrice smirked and held out her hands. With a heavy sigh George took one of them and his wife’s in the other. Angela linked with Vera, Vera with Shirley and Shirley with Michelle. Graham slid into the larger gap between Michelle and Beatrice to complete the ring.

“There’s a reason you hold hands in church.” Michelle looked across the coffee table at Beatrice. “They got it from us.” She took several deep breaths. “By the power of the circle, we call you, spirits. Come to us those who would impart their knowledge. By the power of the living flame we call across the boundary between the worlds. Come heed out summons, dear spirits of the departed beloved. By the power of our need we call on you, spirits of the recently passed. Come heed our need and gain closure.”

The candles flickered and Michelle let go of Shirley’s and Graham’s hands. One by one the others followed suit.

“I see a spirit approaching.” Michelle’s voice took on a hypnotic, singsong quality. “Speak, spirit. Use me as your sounding board.”

“Is that you there, lad? I see you.” Michelle’s voice sounded thin and papery.

“It’s my Gran.” Graham grinned at the others. “She often acts as a go-between. Hi, Gran.”

“Graham? Who are these people with you?”

“They want to speak to someone who’s passed beyond, Gran. Someone who was close to them.”

“A man? He’s coming.” The thin voice went quiet. “He’s a bit on the portly side and he’s wearing a suit. He’s dripping. Dripping, dripping. The poor man drowned.”

“Tell him we want to speak to him, Gran.”

“He knows. He knows.” The voice faded entirely. Michelle’s eyelids fluttered and her body stiffened, her fingers splayed to their full extent as the spirit would took possession of her. Her head rocked from side to side as if she was being buffeted by high winds. She moistened her lips and spoke with her own voice. “I can feel your presence, spirit. Who are you and what do you want here?”

Her voice dropped by more than an octave. She knew his voice. There’d been a recording of him on the My Video! page on the internet. There were several of his speeches as deputy mayor but one particularly useful one of a candid after-dinner conversation with his family. Michelle had studied it many times. She knew it was his voice. She knew the East End burr to his words, his habit of clipping sentences like they were gold coins he could sell by the ounce and his use of the vernacular when he was stressed.