The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  Daisy stifles a smile. “Class, say good morning to Mr Dinnock.”

  Agnes nudges the ghost, studying his expression for a reaction. “Well, is it him?”

  “I… I think so.” He isn’t completely sure. There is something in the man’s face that reminds him of Arthur; the childlike amusement, the easy smile, but everything else about him is off-key. He is foppish, the ghost thinks, taking in the spats, the bold pinstripe of the suit, the elongated cut of the collar. Somewhat irresponsible-looking. Not what I was expecting.

  In truth, he is a little disappointed.

  “Give him a chance,” Agnes advises, as George sidles to the back of the room.

  As the lesson progresses, the ghost can tell that George is taking no interest. Rather, he seems preoccupied with his left shoe, fiddling with the laces until the ghost wishes he had hands to bat the foot off the man’s knee.

  If Daisy is aware of his discourteousness, she shows no sign; only devotes her full attention to her girls, helping them to practice their handwriting.

  Why not offer to help? The ghost thinks, frustration rising within him. Rather than sitting there, plucking at your ridiculous footwear and looking as though you’d rather be anywhere else but here?

  The humming is simply too much to bear. Even Daisy registers his disinterest at this point, and surveys him, one eyebrow raised.

  The bell rings for morning break. The girls walk out demurely, before racing into a run across the playground. Daisy closes the door behind them, sighs, then waits.

  Finally, she coughs. The sound resonates in the now empty space, highlighting the shift from childish endeavour to adult solitude. “Excuse me?”

  George twitches.

  Has he fallen asleep? The ghost wonders, glancing at Agnes incredulously. She looks as though she doesn’t know whether to laugh or wince.

  “Er, excuse me? Mr Dinnock?”

  “Yes?” He raises his head, and it is impossible to tell whether he’d been fully conscious or not. “Is that it, then?”

  “The children are currently in the playground,” Daisy explains patiently, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Then we’ll start our next lesson, which is needlework. Would you like to be more involved this time? Perhaps you could look at some of their work, or offer some words of encouragement?”

  George snorts. “I’d rather not, thank you. Needlework isn’t my strength at all. No, I’ll just sit here, don’t you worry about me. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Daisy inhales deeply, then starts to pace along the classroom floor. Her agitation is evident. “Mr Dinnock,” she begins, focusing on the floor, “I was given to understand that you wanted to learn how to teach children, so—“

  “—Ah, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick there. My father wants me to learn how to teach. I personally have no interest whatsoever.”

  The ghost splutters. He is lost for words. What an ungracious, impolite man, he thinks, horrified that this creature is a relation of his. Whatever would Arthur say, if he knew his son was speaking to a lady like this? Certainly, if Mother was alive to hear it, she would have given him a piece of her mind and no mistake.

  Daisy looks likewise ruffled, her usual composure shaken. “Then, if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly do you hope to achieve by being here? The headmaster informed me that—”

  “—Look.” George rises, taking great pains to smooth his jacket down. “Father is desperate to find me some form of meaningful activity. As long as he believes I’m doing something useful, everything will be fine. All you have to do is forget I’m here. Honestly.”

  The ghost can sense Daisy’s confusion. She is at a loss as to how to proceed. He fully sympathises with her, for what can one do with a man like this, who seems not to care about societal expectations or polite behaviour?

  Finally, she rests on a desk, and meets George’s eye. “I have been ordered,” she begins, in a louder voice than before, “to train you how to teach, Mr Dinnock. And that is what I intend to do. I appreciate you may not want to be here, but now that you are, I think it’s appropriate if you make yourself useful. So, would you help me lay out the girls’ samplers? Their lesson starts in five minutes.”

  George chuckles. “Gosh, this is a rum deal. If only my friends could see me now, Harry would be in fits.”

  “Why is that?” Daisy asks, challenge alight in her eyes. “Surely they can see that teaching is a respectable profession.”

  “Yes, but it’s not really the sort of career that suits my personality, I’m afraid. Harry often says that I—”

  “—what does this Harry do for a living?”

  George frowns at the interruption. “He owns a nightclub; not far from here. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, it’s a dashedly grand place for a—”

  “—Well, putting Harry’s nightclub aside for a moment, shall we get to work?” Daisy’s steely expression suggests that he would be foolish to consider any refusal. Wisely, George nods, and traipses to the front of the class, looking every bit like a scolded schoolboy himself.

  “Good for her,” Agnes whispers, hiding a giggle behind the hint of a hand.

  The ghost nods grimly. “Quite.”

  By the end of the day, it is apparent that George is exhausted, both mentally and physically. Daisy’s polite insistence has not wavered, even when met with increasing mulishness and surly tones. The ghost’s respect of the woman grows, and he wonders, perhaps she is a female who deserves the vote after all. Certainly, she has proved herself more mature than his feckless nephew, who, though in his thirties, has the spoiled demeanour of someone far younger.

  Daisy waits for the last of the pupils to leave, then purposefully closes the door, blocking out the noise of the playground.

  “You didn’t enjoy that one bit, did you?”

  George glances up, surprised, then chuckles. “Not much. Did you?”

  “Not really.” With a grin, she sits on the nearest desk, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “So, do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

  “My word, you’re a forceful woman, aren’t you?”

  The ghost notes that the sentiment was meant as a compliment, not an insult.

  Daisy nods. “I can be, from time to time. If I’m to have you in my classroom, I need to understand what’s going on, does that make sense?”

  George sniffs, selects the desk beside her, then rests upon it. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair. My father has decided I’m a useless good-for-nothing and has threatened to cut me out of his inheritance if I don’t change my ways. He believes teaching is a suitable profession, so here I am.”

  “But surely it’s rather beneath your family, isn’t it?”

  George shrugs. “Not really. My grandfather was only a clerk at the Docks, and my uncle works there still, I believe. We come from relatively humble stock.”

  Not so humble, the ghost thinks, bristling. Mother’s Battersea home, though small, had been charming enough; and was one of the better residences in the village. Still, he thinks, if George is used to the finer things in life, then I suppose a cottage in a village is rather downmarket.

  Daisy looks at George shrewdly. “Your father must have worked hard then, to get where he is in life.”

  “Yes, I suppose he has,” George answers bitterly. “That’s all he really enjoys doing, working. Mother is impervious to it, of course. As long as he keeps buying her expensive dresses and jewellery.”

  “You really shouldn’t speak of your mother like that.”

  “You should stop telling me what I can and cannot do.”

  They sit in silence, glowering at one another. The ghost wonders what George’s mother is like; his sister-in-law. Presumably, Arthur must have married well, and given his handsome appearance, he must have attracted someone similarly pleasant to look upon. I must have seen his wife, he realises, knowing that he’s seen George before, some time in the past. But I don’t recollect it. The
thought disturbs him. He treasures his memories, though they are becoming more difficult to grasp, and is petrified at the thought that they might slide away from him entirely.

  “You remind me a little of my mother,” George says eventually, a smile twisting the corner of his mouth. He stands, scoops up his boater from the table at the back of the classroom, then turns to face her. “She has the same sort of forthright manner, especially when she wants me to do something.”

  Daisy smiles. “Do you get along with your mother?”

  “She loves me well enough.” He shrugs. “She’s got a past, though; one that she won’t share with me. But then, we all have secrets, don’t we?”

  For a moment, Daisy’s smile freezes. Her eyes harden and the ghost can tell she’s musing the words, thinking of her own secrets, which glow within her.

  “Yes,” she says, as she stands. “We certainly do.”

  Outside, the weather is still fine; the gentle spring sunshine lightening the monotone grey of the playground. George bids Daisy farewell, half-respectfully, half with irritation, then strides towards the gate, whistling a faded tune beneath his breath.

  The ghost watches him, and wonders.

  “Did you want to follow him?” Agnes asks. The air stills, and she becomes more visible, her shawl mottled and worn in the light.

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think it would be a wise idea.”

  “Why not?”

  I do not know, the ghost thinks. He just believes it to be true; that facing his brother would be the worst thing he could possibly do. But he cannot tell Agnes that. She couldn’t possibly understand.

  Instead, he drifts away, allowing himself to be carried on the subtle breeze.

  THIRTEEN

  — 1878 —

  I’D NEVER HAD any great fondness for circuses. However, Eleanor’s begging soon wore me down. How could I say no to her, after the turmoil she’d been through recently? Although she’d recovered well after losing the baby, I could see it still tormented her; especially on those quiet nights, when she was sewing by the fire. If a circus could help remedy that, then so much the better.

  I was prepared to admit that the procession had been an impressive spectacle. The people of St Katharine’s Docks and beyond had poured from their houses to witness the succession of gaudy caravans, strutting horses and dancing performers, gambolling, leaping and juggling as the circus continued its relentless march into the city.

  Arthur accompanied us, as he so often did, and the open excitement on his face amused me. Here he was, a full-grown man, lit up like a school-boy at the sight. I told him as much, and he laughed, pointing at the great beast that lumbered at the back of the procession. An elephant, no less, trunk ambling from side to side like a branch in a breeze.

  “Surely even you can’t fail to be thrilled by that.” Arthur poked me in the ribs, as though daring me to disagree.

  I rolled my eyes, remembering similar experiences from our youth. Eleanor and Arthur had always been the most excited to see the arrival of a circus or funfair in town, and had taken great delight in ensuring that we all accompanied them, whether we’d wanted to or not.

  “I never imagined an elephant would be so large!” Eleanor gasped, clutching my arm. “It is quite monstrous!”

  “Yes, it is a remarkable creature,” I admitted, giving her a smile. We waited until the last of the circus had passed, then retreated to the house.

  “So,” Eleanor said, smiling in Arthur’s direction, a complicit grin that left me in no doubt as to what was coming next, “can we go to the circus tonight?”

  “Yes, let’s!” Arthur beamed, hands on hips.

  I looked at the pair of them, then laughed. How could I resist the two people I loved most in the world? “Goodness me, it’s just like the old days,” I said, linking arms with them both. “Go on then, you’ve talked me into it.”

  That evening, Arthur sent his brougham as promised, complete with the driver he’d hired recently, a taciturn chap with an impressive drooping moustache, who went by the name of Higgins. As we clambered inside, Eleanor giggled, her excitement evident. It was a relief to see her looking so much like her old self again.

  “So,” Arthur declared, rapping at the glass. The brougham lurched into motion. “Are we all ready to enjoy an experience we’ll never forget?”

  “I certainly am,” Eleanor replied, settling into the leather seat.

  “My word,” I exclaimed, “you make it sound as though we’re travelling to the moon or something.”

  “Don’t be a sourpuss, brother. It’ll be marvellous fun.” Arthur winked at me, then added, “Don’t you remember how we used to beg Mother and Father to take us to the circus, when we were young?”

  “I remember you begging them,” I retorted.

  “And you too, don’t pretend you didn’t,” he laughed. “You were fascinated by the Strong Man, if I remember correctly. You wanted to know if he could really bend steel with his bare hands.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing the lions,” Eleanor said.

  I scratched my chin. The prospect of seeing the animals wasn’t one I entirely relished, especially as they always appeared so miserable in their tiny cages, but I was happy to overcome my reservations for this night, at least.

  Soon, the carriage reached the green. The sight of the big top was awe-inspiring; a soaring behemoth of red and yellow, illuminated by several surrounding oil lamps, mounted on poles in the ground; their pungent smoke curling trails into the darkening sky. A painted sign at the entrance, complete with a rough illustration of a rotund ringmaster, declared Captain Otto’s Circus of Wonders, though I thought the name seemed rather grandiose for what appeared to be a rather standard circus. Already, the field was crowded, and I stared at the sight of so many people, their silhouettes milling around the smaller attraction tents. Beside me, Eleanor rubbed her hands in glee.

  The smell hit us as soon as we stepped out the brougham; roasting chestnuts, burning oil and the heady tang of the animals. We immersed ourselves in the crowd, giving ourselves over to the noises, the sights, the strange and unusual at every turn. Arthur immediately made a path for the coconut shy, then afterwards, he protested that they’d been nailed to the posts, though I personally believed he was a rotten aim. He always had been, even when playing cricket back at school.

  “Look!” Eleanor tugged at my elbow, pointing through the crowd. “There’s your Strong Man!”

  “I think I should have another go at the coconuts,” Arthur grumbled, looking mutinously over his shoulder.

  “You really shouldn’t.” I pulled him towards us, trying to divert his attention. “I know you don’t like losing, but you’ve already wasted over a shilling.”

  “Keeping count, were you? You should come and work at our bank if you’re so good with numbers.”

  Eleanor batted us both. “You two are like children! Come on, let’s go and have a look.”

  The Strong Man had already attracted a sizeable crowd. Although his plinth was small, the sign over his head was not; a richly decorated plank declaring him to be Ivan, the Strongest Man in the World. I was somewhat disappointed by the reality of the man himself; not much taller than I, with muscles that were sinewy rather than bulging. However, his chest was an impressive girth, and currently straining out of what looked like some sort of leopard-skin vest.

  “My friends!” he shouted suddenly, in a guttural, unfamiliar accent. “In a moment, I shall take this iron crowbar and bend it, using only one hand and my teeth. If you would like to see this, please, drop a penny in the pot. My son, Ernst, will be bringing it around.”

  A boy dutifully emerged through the crowds, energetically shaking what looked like a small bucket. He glared as I handed over the money, as though my coin had personally insulted him, before disappearing through the crowds.

  He’s a charming little chap, I thought, still able to hear the rattling of his pot, as he made his
way back to the stage. Still, I suppose he’s never been educated, nor raised in the ways of polite society. I couldn’t imagine a worse sort of life; always on the move, never settling; it wouldn’t suit my temperament whatsoever.

  “You look deep in thought,” Eleanor commented, just as the performance began to start. I smiled, shook my head, then turned my gaze to the stage.

  True to his word, the Strong Man took his crowbar in hand, then made a performance of repeatedly hitting it against the side of his plinth, calling on members of the audience to test it for him. I began to grow bored. Arthur yawned, then caught my eye and grinned.

  “Now, it will be done!” With a roar, the Strong Man took the bar between his teeth, and after a series of elaborate eye-rolling and grunting, proceeded to bend the metal. The crowd clapped rapturously. I looked at my brother and shrugged.

  “Not quite as exciting as I’d been expecting,” I murmured into his ear.

  “No, I rather agree. I’m sure it was much more thrilling when we were younger. Let’s go elsewhere.”

  We wandered through the throngs of people, and all the while, I kept my eyes on my wife, noting the gleam in her eye, the renewed energy of her step. This was what she had needed, I could see that now; something to refresh her senses and help her to feel alive once more. I vowed to take her out more often, into the city, to galleries, exhibitions, museums, regardless of whether we could afford it or not. Everything I had, I would gladly give to her, just to see her smile.

  She noticed my gaze and bit her lip. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

  I leant across and whispered in her ear. “Because I love you. Is there any better reason?”

  “You are sweet.” Kissing me on the cheek, her eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. “Oh, look over there! They’ve got a Fortune Teller!”

  I turned, then groaned. “No, really, Eleanor. Anything but that. It’s all stuff and nonsense, you know.”

  “I know, but it will be fun, won’t it?” She looked at Arthur, who nodded enthusiastically. “Please?”