by Alice Miller
Ezra’s expression towards Georgie was level. “What do you make of it?”
She was startled at first, before she realised that he meant the poem.
“I admire it, of course. But I’m less convinced by this old-man’s-ad-nauseam-nostalgia-for-his-lost-love.”
Ezra was nodding sharply. “He can’t move past it. He’s truly stuck in old themes, old style; there’s no development. All Maudlin rants. It’s a sad thing.” He looked fierce. Dorothy had picked up a paintbrush and started to thicken one of the black lines on the white canvas.
“There is something new though, sparer, in some of the work,” Georgie said. “I think he will change.”
“He won’t listen to me. Just keeps writing away to no one. I will be the only one to ever love her, down Ballykillywally way, haw haw.”
“He needs to decide to change himself.”
“I can hardly believe that Joyce is Irish. He doesn’t wallow like our Willy.”
Dorothy sighed and put down the paintbrush and walked back over to the blue armchair, where she crossed her legs underneath her.
Ezra glanced at her, and back at Georgie. “I heard you were thinking of Willy as a mate. I think it’s a terrific idea.”
Dorothy made a noise in her throat. “You do not, Ezra.”
“I absolutely do. She would be good for him. He needs someone to shake him up. Gonne begone! Georgie understands his poetic weaknesses. He needs someone as clever as her to get him back into line.”
“I’m sure he does,” Dorothy said, “but what does she need?”
Dorothy walked her back to the station as the light was starting to leach out of the sky. She was gentle as she kissed Georgie on both cheeks.
“You thought Willy would come out of that badly,” Georgie couldn’t resist saying, “but he didn’t really.”
“You don’t think so? Dear, you don’t know him.”
“And you do?”
“More than you do, yes. He’s stuck in the past. He’s not worth wasting your time over. I do hope you see that.”
Back on the train, as she watched the trees flash past, blurred as the slip from second to second, she thought of Dorothy’s paintings lying around, and she realised that she had not examined them or asked about them, that the men had not mentioned them either. They had talked only of poetry. The retreat was not about Dorothy’s paintings, and still, Georgie felt guilty she had not asked her friend about her own work. As the trees faded into the darkness of the landscape, she resolved to take more notice the next time.
FIFTEEN
SPRING 1916
Every afternoon since she’d received the money from Nelly, and even though she knew she did not quite have the sum required, she had returned to the jewellers, but every time she had found the same Closed sign taped to the door. It looked as though the sign had been scrawled hastily; she wondered if the brother had died at the front and the business was going to be sold. What was the fate of the proud, self-conscious boy behind the counter, and what she had come to think of as Willy’s ring?
Finally, she noticed the Open sign was out once more, and when she entered to the sprinkle of bells, she found the boy standing behind the counter, this time greeting her with a broad smile.
“I knew I would see you again,” he said cheerfully. She realised he was in uniform.
“You see they got desperate,” he said. “They’re even letting me go.” He was already unlocking the case on the far left of the shop, and he pulled out the signet ring. “It’s been waiting for you. I hid it away.” He held it out to her.
“I’m afraid I’m still a little short,” she said.
“Oh, I don’t care,” the boy said.
She handed over all the money she had, and he gave her the ring. “I hope it brings you joy.”
SIXTEEN
Visiting hours were quiet. Georgie was checking the major’s wound when he not only lowered his newspaper for the first time but actually folded it and placed it in his lap. And then she heard him speak for the first time.
“Miss Wetherford. Emma Wetherford? Is that really you?” He was calling over to the silvery blonde woman who came to visit Second Lieutenant Pike.
The silver-blonde head turned. “Major Hammond!” She walked over to him. “Fancy that! And it’s Mrs. Haworth-Ray to you, sir.” She flaunted her ring and scrunched her lips together.
He laughed. “Good Lord, look at you! Charles finally talked you round then. Lucky devil. But—what in God’s name are you doing in this hellhole? Your mother would be mortified.”
“You won’t tell her,” she said, her hand retracted and her voice stiffening. “I am visiting a friend.” She nodded towards Pike. As they glanced in her direction, Georgie pretended not to be listening to their conversation.
“The second lieutenant is your friend? How amusing.”
“We met at Cambridge when I was visiting Eddie,” she said, “and I do try to follow up with my friends.”
“Heavens. Well. Don’t forget to follow up with me then, little Emma. And say hello to your mother for me, will you? I am off to convalescence for the moment; the Hun got me in the side, you see, a real nuisance. But I’ll be up again in no time. Such a pleasure to see you. You’ll give an old man a kiss, won’t you.”
Georgie was amazed that this man could put on this display, when only half an hour beforehand he couldn’t bring himself to wipe an inch and a half of snot from his nose. Now the major’s face was clean and animated, and Emma Haworth-Ray leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Georgie glanced over at Pike, who caught her glance and winked at her.
SEVENTEEN
“It would have killed me,” the woman was saying, “not to acquire it, to come across it in someone else’s drawing room.”
Georgie peered in the doorway of the Radcliffes’ house. A woman was standing in the wide hallway, stroking the arm of a cheap mahogany chair that was aspiring to be a Chippendale; but the arms of the chair, supposed to be sleek, were blunt, and instead of resembling swans’ necks, they looked like the paws of an awkward mammal. The woman was addressing someone out of sight, but after a moment she turned around and noticed Georgie.
“Who on earth are you? Where is Rogers?”
“Excuse me,” Georgie said. “I’m here to see Miss Radcliffe. I am Miss Selden.”
There was a maid standing nearby, the recipient of the woman’s conversation. She bobbed her head at the woman and dropped a sloppy curtsy. “I’ll get Miss Nora, ma’am.”
“I remember you,” the woman said to Georgie, moving away from the chair and squinting slightly, her eyes not reflecting the light. “You’re the one who made that telephone call. You might practise your telephone manner, you know. It was quite off-putting.”
Georgie didn’t know how to reply. Mrs. Effie Radcliffe was a thin, sharp-nosed woman, and her eyes were very big indeed, and so wide-set she gave the impression she could not see right in front of her, but rather could look either side of her, like a fish.
“You had better come in.” Her voice was scratchy with disdain.
Georgie followed her down the hall, catching glimpses of the adjoining rooms. The house was filled with furniture of the kind that was made to look expensive but was worth very little. Then again, as her father used to say, a thing was only worth what someone would pay for it, and Georgie imagined that Effie Radcliffe might have paid a lot for these items. But the curlicued mahogany coatrack did not match the pale sideboard, which did not match the one interesting item, which was a print of Blake’s Newton, his beautiful muscular body crouched over a long white scroll, his cheekbone sliced across his face, his fingers measuring distance on the scroll with a compass.
“In here,” Effie Radcliffe said, motioning her to go first.
Miss Nora Radcliffe was sitting in a small library, and she jumped when the door opened. She was not like some of the other mediums; there were no long trailing scarves or ringed fingers or wild frizzed hair. Instead, she was a skinny, anemic-looking cr
eature, with plaits on either side of her face. She resembled a girl, but the curled lines around the sides of her eyes and the little slant between her eyebrows showed that she was older than that, maybe more than thirty.
The room they were standing in was lined with wooden shelves of books, although there were also gaps where books were missing. Effie Radcliffe indicated for Georgie to sit on the left side of her daughter.
“Nora is very gifted in the study of astrology,” Effie Radcliffe said, seating herself on her daughter’s right. “She always has been, as well as being a talented medium. She has an exceptional gift.”
Georgie sat down obediently, imagining Willy sitting between these two women. “I cast horaries myself,” she said.
“But few people have the intuitive touch that Nora has. It is quite a complex practice, you know.”
Georgie glanced over at Miss Radcliffe. She was shifting in her chair. She passed a sheet to Georgie, wordlessly. It had spaces for her details: date of birth, time of birth, place of birth. Georgie noted down:
16 October 1892, 8:42 AM, the Grove, Branksome Wood, Fleet.
Once she had returned the paper to Nora Radcliffe, the girl looked back at her, blinking.
“I am not sure I should say this,” she said in a quiet voice, “but perhaps you are also aware—that there is someone who has come here before, with your astrological data. Who is also interested in what the stars have in store for you.”
There was a knock at the door, and the butler opened it. “I’m ever so sorry to interrupt, but there is a telephone call for you, my lady.”
“For me, Rogers?” Effie Radcliffe stood up. “You must excuse me.” She peered from her daughter to Georgie and bustled herself out of the room.
Nora Radcliffe waited for her mother to leave.
“You were talking about Mr. Yeats,” Georgie said.
“The person doesn’t use that name. But you are—connected to—the person in some way.”
“Yes. And I’m interested in your script, from what I’ve heard about it. Do you think we might try now?”
“Now?” Nora Radcliffe said, as if she would prefer to simply discuss astrological issues, as if a séance were not the entire reason for Georgie’s visit. She glanced up at the ceiling. “I suppose we can try.” She concentrated for a moment on the large notebook in front of her, like she was counting inside her head, before she closed her eyes.
The room was silent. The girl’s eyebrow twitched, but her hands stayed still. Georgie looked away, trying not to disturb her. She could hear faintly the sound of the girl’s mother, her voice carrying down the hallway from the telephone. Above the table, a small window looked out on a triangle of soil which might have once been a lawn, with a thin slice of afternoon sun. She thought of the hospital, of the light through the high windows falling on the beds. She thought of Second Lieutenant Pike holding her notebook, turning the pages as though they belonged to him.
There was a sharp intake of breath, and she turned to see the girl’s body quivering.
Nora Radcliffe pressed the pen to the empty page but could not seem to move the pen on the paper. Her eyes stayed shut. Her hand paused and shook. Her body crouched over the page, now more like a hunchbacked creature than a woman. She changed the grip on the pen, holding it between her thumb and her fist.
Now the pen drew a shaky curve. It was not a letter, just a half circle on the page. Her hand lifted and made another half circle.
“Is someone there?” Georgie said.
The pen hovered above the page, as if it were deciding whether to reply. Finally, in mirror text, it made a shape, a thin S, and to the right of it, an A, and an M, until it spelled out
THOMAS
The girl’s eyes remained closed. The pen was still clutched at the same painful angle. Georgie lifted her own hands from her lap and clasped them together before asking the question.
“Why are you here?”
The air felt as if it had thickened, and Georgie struggled to breathe. She watched the girl write for a solid minute, the words appearing slowly:
THE ONE YOU THINK OF KNOWS
NOT HIS OWN MIND
ONLY I CAN MAKE PROPHECIES
FOLLOW ME OR YOU WILL BE LIKE THE CHILDSPARROW
WHO FALLS BEAKFIRST
FROM ANOTHER’S TREE
Georgie frowned.
“What do I have to do?”
FIND THE OLD STORY
BEFORE IT FINDS YOU
DO NOT LET IT REPEAT
“Where? Where do I find it?”
The pen hovered above the page a moment more, but at the moment it pressed once more against the page the door opened, and Georgie saw, for a second, the looming face of Effie Radcliffe in the doorway. The pen dropped to the floor. When she looked back up, the woman had slipped away.
But Nora Radcliffe had opened her eyes. She took a long breath in before recovering her voice.
“I’m so sorry.” Her head drooped between her shoulders. Georgie noticed the door to the hallway remained open.
After a moment the girl raised her head and saw the writing in front of her. Her head snapped to attention.
“Something—something happened?” She looked from the text to Georgie and back at the text. She seemed genuinely surprised, although Georgie wasn’t sure whether to believe her.
They both stared at the notebook for a minute. Laid out on the pristine page, the words did seem to have been summoned from somewhere else; it was difficult to imagine they were the product of this young woman’s mind. Nora Radcliffe was staring down at the strange words, breathing out with her lips pursed as if she were whistling.
“Are you quite well, Miss Radcliffe?”
Miss Radcliffe’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, and she pressed her lips together and squinted.
“It’s only—” She paused again, and coughed, and as she stared at the doorway where her mother had been standing, words came pouring out of her. “I am not a fraud,” she said in a low voice. “The voices do come to me. But they wear me out. And they do not always come.”
“I see.”
“I am worried that if I try again now, I might—get stuck—or worse. I admit I am scared to try.”
“I don’t want to make you ill,” Georgie said.
Miss Radcliffe was reaching into her pocket and produced some coins, which she offered to Georgie.
“You must pay Mother when you leave.”
Georgie shook her head. “I can pay.” That was already more than good enough, she wanted to say. Miss Radcliffe was looking blankly at the empty doorway, as if she weren’t listening.
“May I take this with me?” Georgie said, indicating the page.
Nora Radcliffe nodded and tore it out of the notebook to hand it to her. Georgie took it and folded it carefully. When Georgie offered her hand to shake, the young woman grabbed it. Her grip was tight, her hand sweaty and cold. “I hope you will come back.” Her eyes were lined with a greyish rheum.
After Georgie stepped out into the hall, she stopped a moment. Was it worth sacrificing her place in the Order for this? All those years of work for a few minutes of communication too vague to give her anything to properly chase up? Of course not. But there was something, she thought, looking down at the folded paper in her hand. Willy had been right. There seemed to be something in it.
“How did you find it, then?” Effie Radcliffe had returned, holding a thick appointment book with a gold spine. She opened her book and flicked through the pages.
“Very interesting.”
Georgie had found her purse, and collected some coins to pay Mrs. Radcliffe. She even tipped her, feeling sorry for the girl. The woman accepted the money without comment. “You would like another appointment.”
Georgie glanced over the woman’s shoulder at the book, which was showing July and August. There were many more empty appointment slots than the woman had led her to believe on the telephone.
“Perhaps you might come again soon?” Effie R
adcliffe said.
“Please,” Georgie said.
EIGHTEEN
Later, in the dormitory, she felt restless. From the handful of mediums she’d gone to before she joined the Order, she knew they were exhausting; even with bad ones, the hope you would discover something led to a nervous agitation that, when it was over, left you weak and useless. And Nora Radcliffe had not been at all bad. Or had she? Sometimes it took a few hours for you to realise that it had all been a ruse, that you had been manipulated.
Dorothy had written to say that they should meet now that she was back in London. But there was no new note from Willy, although he, too, must be back in London. Now when Georgie reread his last message, it seemed cold, distant. She was beginning to doubt him. Perhaps she was naive to have believed they could ever marry. That new poem was evidence enough. She is foremost of those that I would hear praised. Had Dorothy and Nelly been right all along? Could the real reason for his failure to write to her be Maud Gonne, his old love of so many decades, still pulling him back to her? Or someone else, maybe; there were plenty of other women with creamier skin than her own. She found herself doubting the Radcliffe girl too. There was the overeagerness of the mother, presiding over it all, and the little quiver in the girl’s forehead, as if she were anxious that the game would be found out. The spirit—spirit—had given nothing away. What if Harkin found out she had gone? She would lose her place in the Order, and it all would have been for nothing. Did Willy’s determination to believe the Radcliffe girl come from some weakness in him? In any case, she knew she would keep her next appointment—and in doing so, maybe she was just as weak as Willy.
She had recovered the flask of brandy Dorothy had given her, unscrewed the lid, and sipped. That was better. It was windy outside, and the old building seemed to settle and resettle in the wind.
She took another sip. At least no one would come in and bother her. Really, it didn’t matter that what he’d written was distant. It didn’t matter that he might not be thinking of her. That she had a drink mattered. That she had the time to drink it. That her father, whom she would never see again, nonetheless still had a remnant of thought remaining in the air, a spindle of memory, a spatter of words, right around this drink, like a fruit fly gliding on the surface. He was not simply the dust. That mattered.
