It was Miracle’s idea to set up a psychic academy in Bath, when she saw how confused and frightened I felt when I first discovered that I had this unusual ability to talk to dead peeps.
It’s alright for Miracle - she was born into a bohemian family who positively encouraged her from a young age to talk to the deceased. Unlike me, Miracle wasn’t brought up in a culture where voices in your head meant that you were a sandwich short of a picnic. Miracle’s own mother, Destiny, was a fortune teller for a travelling circus, and she encouraged Miracle to develop her ‘gift’ from an early age. I think, between you and me, Miracle just assumed that everybody could speak to dead people and was somewhat surprised that this isn’t the case, and it kind of scares the pants off you when you suddenly hear voices that are not your own talking inside your head!
The Psychic Café Academy is situated in a huge Georgian building in the centre of Bath. It cost us a fortune, but as Miracle’s new hubby, Max, is an estate agent, we managed to knock the price down by a few thousand pounds on the grounds that the old building was riddled with woodworm. And so the Psychic Café Academy was born and is going from strength to strength. My job is to help people new to psychic experiences accept that they are hearing dead people and are not actually going mad, although I have my suspicions that a few of our delegates are in fact the latter and just want somewhere to hang out. Like Alistair Thomas: a young man in his twenties who claims that he is possessed by Elvis Presley and periodically bursts into song during our meditation time and keeps adding “Uh-huh” to the end of every sentence and announcing that “Elvis has left the building” whenever he goes to visit the bathroom.
‘So when is Jack going to come home?’
‘Still don’t know. The concert isn’t for another five weeks, but their manager wants them to lay some new tracks for their new album because they’ve got the best music producers over from Holland, or something like that.’
‘Well, it’s no good you sulking, young lady. Get on with chasing up that solicitor and before you know it, you’ll be up to your eyes in paint and wallpaper and have that house of yours looking perfect for when he comes home – and hopefully have all the wedding sorted out by then!’
‘Yes boss. Right, must get back to Missy and my mother,’ I say, as I quickly sign the cheque book and hand it back to Miracle.
As I pull into the drive at my mum’s house, I see a familiar figure walking quickly down the street, avoiding my gaze.
‘Clive?’ I call out as the figure turns the corner.
The figure disappears.
‘Did anyone call while I was out?’ I ask my mum as I plonk myself down in the chair.
‘Well, our publisher called to say that she wants to change to title of the book – again. I don’t know what Colin is going to make of all this, I really don’t. Then I had My Garden magazine call to say they want to run a feature about growing miniature vegetables on your window sill. Oh, and then Marjorie called about us doing a tombola for the autumn fete. She’s not sure whether we should have bottles of wine on there …’
‘I meant, did anyone call for me, Mum?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Jarvis called to say that you can pick up the keys to the cottage tomorrow. Larry called to ask if you would be interested in talking to Hello about just letting them cover the reception. Oh, and the florist in town said that red and cream are very popular for a Christmas wedding. I always thought it was unlucky to have red flowers at a wedding, or is that ivy?’ My mum reels off the list in front of her.
‘What? I can pick up the keys for the house?’
‘Yes dear,’ my mum says, nonplussed by the fuss I’m making, and continues reeling off her list to me.
‘Fantastic! And no, I do not want to sell my wedding reception to Hello,’ I add as an afterthought.
‘So, I said that would be fine by you,’ my mum says as my mind starts wandering as to whether I should paint the bedroom in magnolia or lilac. Despite my intentions to marry the love of my life, I actually have no idea which colour he would prefer. Is that wrong? Mental note: call and ask Jack what’s his view on interior design. ‘Hum? Yes, whenever,’ I mutter, looking out of the window to see if Missy has decided to come home for her tea or whether she is going to stay out all night again with her new chap.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Marjorie will be pleased! I thought the 31 would be the ideal time.’
‘Yes, fine.’
What my mother is twittering on about, I have no idea, and I must have one of those bewildered looks on my face that tells the other person you haven’t got a bloody clue what they are talking about.
‘That’s sorted then. Lovely.’
‘Mum, I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ I admit.
‘Oh, Sammy, you are funny sometimes, love.’ My mum laughs as she makes her way to the phone in the hallway.
‘Missy! Missy!’ I yell into the garden in a bid to persuade my cat that she cannot live on love alone. I know that falling in love is supposed to do funny things to your eating habits, but this is ridiculous. Missy has never been known to turn down a tin of salmon Sheba. To echo the words of Madness, ‘It Must Be Love’.
‘Yes, yes, Marjorie. It’s all booked. You can officially let the other members know that Samantha will be available on Halloween to conduct the séance. Yes, yes, she’s really looking forward to it. No, I don’t think Princess Di will come through, but then you never know, she’s really very good.’
Hang on a cotton-picking minute!
‘Mum!’
CHAPTER FOUR
Oh my! You should see the cottage! Crystal Cottage. Our new home! When I picked up the keys from the solicitor’s office, I literally ran up the tiny cobbled path that leads to the emerald green front door. Despite being autumn the front garden is still full of flowers and it looks like the scene on a picture postcard or a box of fudge. I’ve never owned my own home before and it’s a fabulous feeling!
Our new home is situated in the tiny village of Castle Combe, twelve miles from Bath city centre. It’s one of five Cotswold cottages at the top of Market Cross Road. From my kitchen window I can see the old village water pump, which provided water to the entire village in days gone by. Castle Combe has been hailed by the British Tourist Board as the prettiest village in England and it doesn’t disappoint. The whole village is typically quaint. Despite there only being a population of around three hundred and fifty, the village has a museum, its own school, a pub and even a hotel, not to mention the famous Castle Combe racetrack.
A babbling brook runs right through the centre of the village and I’ve been informed by Mrs Jackson from the Old Post Office that the village is in much demand from film producers. Not only was Dr Doolittle filmed here, but more recently, the fantasy film Stardust was filmed here too. The Old Post Office was originally a fifteenth century weavers’ cottage and is no longer a post office, but a rather dainty little gift shop and Mrs Jackson has told me to make sure that we put net curtains up in the cottage as soon as possible. Apparently, thanks to the British film industry, the village attracts a large number of tourists who think it’s quite acceptable to walk up people’s garden paths and peep through their windows.
According to Mrs Jackson, the tourists think nothing of banging on the doors of the cottages and asking if they can have a look round. Also according to this sixty-something lady who has lived in the village all her life, someone, they’re not quite sure who, told the British Tourist Board that magical pixies once occupied the cottages that dot the village. Now the tourists think nothing of knocking on the doors and asking to see the little village sprites. Poor Mr Brent, who lives in Brook Cottage, has even had people camping out on his front lawn in a bid to catch a lucky pixie. Don’t people have better things to do with themselves? Obviously not.
So, here I am: keys in hand and standing in the small hallway of our new home, which echoes with every step I take. There’s a slight chill in the air but once I discover where the electric supply is
and turn on some lights, a warm glow is cast over the three-bedroom cottage, making it feel like home. Jack is going to love this place. There’s even enough room for his guitars and train set. What is it with men and train sets? Not only have I discovered that Jack is a secret fan of Garfield the cat but it also transpires he’s a closet Hornby enthusiast and has boxes upon boxes of ‘N’ gauge rail track, miniature engines and a vast number of what look like miniature shrubs, although they could be tiny trees; I’m not altogether sure, or that interested to be honest.
‘Yoo-hoo! Are you in?’ a voice calls from the hallway.
‘Yes, in here!’ I shout back from the living room, where I am in the middle of trying to reassemble an IKEA coffee table. Why I didn’t just put it in the removal van as it was, instead of dismantling it in order to fit it into my little mini, I’ll never know. And why have I still got six screws left over?
‘I thought I would pop in to see how it’s all going. I’m Gemma, by the way. Gem. I live in Rose Cottage, two doors down.’ A petite young woman introduces herself.
‘Oh, hi, Samantha, Sam,’ I say, brushing my hair from my eyes and holding out my hand to her. Isn’t it always the way? The minute you look like shit is the minute you will be introduced to someone new. I think it’s one of those things that qualify as Sod’s Law.
Gemma, an aromatherapist, is in her early thirties and married to Simon, who is serving in the army. They moved into the village last year and according to Mrs Jackson, my reliable source of village gossip, Gemma is very proactive in the village. If a problem needs sorting, it’s Gemma who people generally turn to. And also according to Mrs Jackson, it’s not been unknown to see Gemma running down Market Cross Road, chasing tourists down the hill, in a bid to stop them bothering the neighbours. She’s a one woman neighbourhood watch.
‘I thought you might need this,’ Gem says, handing me a bottle of red wine. ‘I remember when we moved in. Oh, what a nightmare! There always seem to be more boxes than you originally packed, don’t there?’ She smiles at the sight of the many storage boxes that litter every room in the house.
‘Oh, you are a life saver, thank you!’
‘Don’t mind if I don’t join you. I’ll stick to the orange juice,’ Gemma says, waving a bottle of orange juice in the air.
‘No, not at all, although it could be a while before I locate the …’
Out of her back jeans pocket Gemma produces a bottle opener in the shape of a naked man. I think me and Gemma are going to get along just fine.
‘Ooh, I like her. Can I join you? Can I? Can I? She’s preggers too!’ Ange, my spirit guide, says and I hear her clapping her hands in glee. Trust me to get a spirit guide who likes a drink or two. I do my best to ignore her.
‘So, it looks like Si is going to have to serve out in Afghanistan,’ Gemma says as I follow her up the stairs with a box marked ‘bedroom stuff’ on it.
‘Oh no. When is he going?’
‘Probably by the weekend.’ Gemma shrugs. ‘That’s the chance you take when you marry into the army. We’ve spent three years in army accommodation and I wanted a nice place for us to settle down, especially with this little one on the way.’ Gemma pats her stomach.
‘What, you’re pregnant?’ I stare at her stomach, which shows no visible signs of a baby.
‘Ha, told you. And you call yourself a psychic!’ Ange laughs.
‘Oh, shut up you!’
‘Pardon?’ Gemma says.
‘Oh no, not you. Sorry … I was just …’
‘Talking to someone on the other side?’
‘How …?’
‘Mrs Jackson told me… Well she told the whole village actually that the Crystal Ball was moving here. So don’t be surprised if you get more visitors than the rest of us. Mrs Jackson claims she doesn’t like the intrusion of tourists, but between you and me, I think she loves it. Especially as she is the only gift supplier in the area. It does wonders for her business. I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts selling crystal balls soon.’
‘Well, if you see me talking to myself, you’ll know why.’
By the time Gem leaves it’s gone seven and the majority of boxes have been unpacked; what haven’t, have gone into the cupboard under the stairs. Having moved two flats’ worth of furniture into a three-bedroom house, I think we are going to have to sell what I’ve got left over in storage, including Jack’s beloved retro beanbag in the shape of a giant Rubik’s Cube.
‘Have you moved everything in then?’
This is Jack’s first question when he phones me an hour later.
‘Well, almost. Unfortunately we don’t have enough room for your beanbag, or the hanging wicker chair, or the didgeridoo you insisted on bringing back from Australia.’
‘You haven’t sold them? Oh, dear God, tell me you haven’t sold them!’ Panic rises in Jack’s voice.
‘No, I haven’t sold them…’
‘Phew, thank God. You never know when a didgeridoo will come in handy.’
You know, I think Jack is serious. I daren’t tell him that I’m planning to donate his beloved objects to the local charity shop. I’m just hoping that he forgets about them when he sees how fabulous his train set looks in the ‘train room’, as the spare bedroom has now become. I’ve spent the past hour and a half hooking pocket-size sections of track together and sticking tiny trees down with Blu-Tack in an attempt to make it look like a miniature landscape. I’ve even put in some little figures to look like they are waiting on the platform for a train to come – I say figures; they’re actually Santa and two snowmen from Mum’s Christmas cake last year.
‘So what are your plans for tonight?’ Jack asks.
I look out of the kitchen window and down the dark road.
‘Well, apart from sorting out where I’m going to put everything, I’m waiting for Colin to turn up with Missy – again. That stupid cat! I brought her with me this morning in the cat basket and as soon as my back was turned, she escaped and managed to walk the twelve miles back to Mum’s house.’
‘How do you know she walked? She might have caught the bus. Or hitched a lift.’
‘Very funny. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Mum’s going to send Colin over with her in a bit.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s in love, that’s all. And so am I,’ Jack says in a mushy voice.
‘Me too, but I wish you were here, Jack. It’s a lovely place, but it’s, well … it’s just not the same without you. It’s too quiet here on my own.’
‘Well, only a few more weeks and then I’m all yours. Oh, I’ve just had a thought; you can put the didgeridoo on display in the living room. It’ll look nice in there. Oh, and don’t forget we’ve got that boomerang too that your brother gave us; you could put the two together, make a kind of Aussie theme.’
Oh crap!
As I wait for Missy to make her return with Colin, I pack away the multitude of cosmetics that promise to make me look younger, more beautiful and glossier, into the bathroom cupboard.
Screech!
The trees outside scratch against the bathroom window, making me jump. I know it’s only the wind, but I feel really nervous being here on my own. It’s cold in the cottage too. I’ve managed to locate the heating switch, but I think the radiators need bleeding, or something.
As I close the bathroom cabinet, I notice that the mirror has misted up and I rip a piece of tissue from the tissue holder and begin to wipe the condensation that has built up on the glass. All of a sudden the lights begin to flicker. I look up at the ancient light fitting and memo myself to get it checked out.
‘Holy shit!’
As I turn back to the mirror I see a face staring back at me – and unfortunately it’s not my own reflection, or if it is, then I’m in trouble and the face creams definitely do not do what they say on the packet. The image is grey and hazy and only remains for a few seconds, but it is definitely not me looking back at myself. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman. It’s kind of
grey and wrinkly. Oh shit! What with seeing the woman at the radio station and now this!
I’m still not totally comfortable with the fact that I can hear dead people. I certainly don’t wish to see them as well, thank you very much! I must phone Miracle.
Before I get the chance to go downstairs and find my mobile, the bathroom door swings shut and a cold breeze brushes past my face.
‘Ange,’ I say out loud, ‘now would be a really good time to help me out here, please! What’s going on?’
‘Oh, piss off!’ Ange snaps.
Oh, just brilliant! Miracle did tell me that if I ever have any questions or need help then I should call on my spirit guide. Trust me to get a spirit with an attitude!
‘Ange! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you to shut up earlier.’
‘Whatever!’
The small room is like an icebox and I can hear a buzzing noise coming from the spare bedroom. As I pull on the door handle, the door opens as suddenly as it had shut. I walk gingerly across the wooden landing and slowly push open the door to the spare room.
‘What the …?’
My gaze is directed to Jack’s train set and the small locomotive that is whizzing round and round the track at high speed. The tiny carriages and freight wagons being towed by the engine are on the verge of flying off the tracks. The icy breeze I felt in the bathroom has followed me and blows at my hair. Inside the front carriage are Mr Snowman and Santa.
‘Oh shit! Ange? Dad? Anyone?’ I scream, but it falls on deaf ears. Oh, I do not like this one little bit. This is way too supernatural and too far out of my comfort zone.
Since my dad made contact with me last year for the first time since he died, I haven’t been able to make contact with him again. Miracle says it was because at the time he knew that I was in trouble and that he’s probably been busy since learning the ropes up there. Busy? Learning the ropes? I mean, what is there up there to learn that is more important than helping me out right now? It’s not like I’m used to all of this and automatically know what to do, you know!
Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People Page 3
