‘Mum!’ I hiss. ‘We’re about to start. Can you please do that later and come and sit down!’
‘Oh, sorry dear, I thought while you got yourself prepared I would make sure we had enough cups and saucers for the break,’ my mother whispers back. She scuttles back into the main hall.
‘Um, Mum?’
‘Yes dear?’
‘Lights?’
‘Oh, sorry, silly me.’ My mum goes back to the kitchen and switches off the bright fluorescent kitchen light that has bathed the hall in artificial light, promptly bangs into something, shouts “Ouch! Who put that stupid tea urn there?” and eventually joins us at the table.
‘I wonder if my John will come through tonight?’ she whispers excitedly to Mrs Samuels – the one with one leg shorter than the other, not that you can tell – who is sitting to her right. Mrs Samuels burps her reply.
‘Ooo, excuse me, dears, I have trouble digesting my tablets sometimes.’
Oh God, give me strength.
‘Right, is everyone ready now?’ I ask impatiently. I could really do without this tonight. I’ve still got loads of boxes to unpack at home and with Missy deciding to go AWOL again, I should really be at home to see if she’s turned up for her dinner. I wonder what Jack is doing right now? Not entertaining members of the Women’s Institute by holding a séance, I’m sure. I expect he’s at some swanky club, schmoozing with celebrities in preparation for the band’s up and coming performance.
‘Make everyone link hands, Sam,’ Ange instructs me, shaking me out of my domestic worries and reminding me why we are here. ‘Now, I’m told you might feel funny to start with, but just keep with it and don’t break the circle.’
‘What do you mean, you’re told?’ I ask out loud. All faces turn to me.
‘Oh, don’t worry, she often talks to herself,’ Gem says with a smile.
‘Look, I’m new to all this too you know!’ Ange reminds me. ‘How many séances do you think I’ve done? Just cos I’m dead doesn’t mean I spend my days conducting séances, you know!’ she tuts.
‘Right, if everyone can hold hands with the person next to them and please do not break the link,’ I instruct, as I close my eyes and pray that this will go well.
‘Ooo, isn’t this exciting?’ I hear my mother say excitedly. I open one eye and stare at her.
‘By the power of the Almighty Spirit, we ask that you allow us to connect with you on this special night of All Hallows’ Eve. We ask that you will come forth and allow our two worlds to become as one this evening. We come in peace and …’
‘Oh crap, they’re coming!’ Ange whispers nervously in my ear.
‘… allow your loved ones to …’
Holy shit! As Batman said to Robin, or at least he would have if they were holding a séance and he could see what I can see right now.
As I open my eyes the room is full of people. Not just the people around the table, but other people. Now, I know I’m no Carol Vorderman, but the fact that there were originally only fifteen people in the room when I shut my eyes and now there is something like thirty-five people in the room, leads me to believe that there are another twenty people in this room. And I have a feeling that they are all dead. I deduce this from the fact that the extra guests all look as though they have been put on a hot wash for far too long and the colour has been washed out of them – in other words, they all look like ghosts, which suggests to me that my unexpected guests are not of the living variety. Like I said, holy shit!
CHAPTER NINE
OK, now this is way outside of my comfort zone! Last year, when I discovered quite by accident that I had this ability to hear voices ‘from beyond the grave’ and equally discovered that I could make a substantial living from this unusual occupation, I thought, okay, this is a little odd, but at least I can provide a roof over my head, which is more than I could do with a degree in psychotherapy and treating people with unusual phobias. And I have to say I have, over time, got used to it.
However, it’s quite a different kettle of fish when you suddenly discover that you can not only hear them but can also see the dead buggers – and you’re the only one who can. If other normal people could see them too it wouldn’t be so bad, but as I look around the room at the members of my circle who have a pulse, they are either looking at the bad décor or have their eyes tightly shut. Gem still has her eyes closed and is swinging her head gently in time with the dolphin music. My mum is smiling contentedly to herself. Marjorie, who still has her eyes tightly shut, has a look of firm concentration on her face as if she is summoning up something sinister. There are no visible signs to say that anyone else in the room can actually see what I can see – which is pretty nerve racking, to be honest.
OK, Sam, deep breath. I close my eyes again and hope that when I open them there will be nothing but the bad interior design to distract me. Not so. As I gingerly open one eye, I notice that the greyish people are still standing behind the living people in the room. Maybe I should have put more chairs out.
I’m not quite sure what to do now. I mean, I’ve done the initiation bit and requested that someone show themselves, but I don’t know what the protocol is now that they are here and Ange doesn’t seem to be helping much. The only thing I’ve heard from her is, ‘Bloody hell!’ when she too noticed the increase in party numbers, which wasn’t very helpful if the truth be told.
OK, so what to do now? Um … right. Maybe I should just speak to one of them. I look around at the new guests. There is a pretty young woman standing behind Mrs Jackson. I wonder if she knows her. An Afro Caribbean man with a personal stereo with headphones attached to his head is dancing behind my mother, and bugger me, if I’m not mistaken, that’s a Viking looking very Vikingish in all his furs and pointy horned hat, standing behind Mrs Horsham. That will please her. I understand from my mother that Mrs Horsham is very fond of history and belongs to the Bath Historical Society. As I look around the room I notice a little boy dressed in a grey flat cap and short trousers, and with a cheeky smile on his face. He wouldn’t look out of place in a scene from Oliver! He stands behind Marjorie and winks at me. I take this to be my cue to ask him a question.
‘Right, please don’t be alarmed,’ I begin, as I look at the members around the table. Some have dared to open their eyes; others have decided to keep them permanently shut tight. ‘It looks as though we have some … some um … extra guests here.’ All eyes open as the WI members look around the hall, obviously unable to see what I can see.
‘Now, I’m going to ask one of them a question to see why they are here,’ I say. My voice must sound like Minnie Mouse. It’s risen by at least two octaves.
‘Um … hello little boy. I’m Samantha. What’s your name?’ I ask the little boy who is standing behind Marjorie. Marjorie, who has now opened her eyes, is wondering why I’m looking straight through her.
‘You’ve got a little boy standing behind you, Marjorie,’ I say by way of explanation as to why I’m looking at her like a mad woman. Marjorie looks behind her and then back at me.
‘Alright missus,’ the little boy says in a cheeky Cockney accent. ‘Me name’s Tom. She’s a nice lady, ain’t she? I likes her clothes,’ Tom says with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Marjorie, do you know a little boy called Tom?’
Marjorie, who actually looks a little bit terrified right now, shakes her head.
‘Well, he’s standing behind you and he says you’re a nice lady,’ I add.
Marjorie smiles nervously.
‘She ain’t related to me, or nuffin. I just like her. I used to live ‘ere, you know.’ Tom looks around the big hall. ‘It weren’t like this when I were a lad, mind you. It were me ‘ouse once.’
‘Is there anyone you would like to talk to here, Tom?’ I ask.
‘Nah, I just thought I’d drop in, tis all.’
‘OK, well, you’re very welcome to stay with us, Tom, and it’s very nice to talk to you,’ I say, giving him a smile.
‘Cheers,
missus.’
My eyes are directed to the Afro Caribbean man who is still dancing behind my mum.
‘Hello,’ I venture.
The man is dressed in a shirt that would be in keeping with something that you would probably wear on a holiday to Hawaii – in other words, it’s very loud! In fact, it’s something my brother Paul would love. The man takes his headphones out of his ears and waves at me.
‘Yo baby! How’s it hanging?’
I’ve never been referred to as ‘Yo baby’ before and certainly not by a ghost. I stifle a laugh.
‘Umm, fine, thank you. Are you here to talk to anyone in particular?’
‘Nah, am just chillin, man. You know, man.’
OK then. Moving on quickly, I decide to pass on the Viking for a moment as I see the pretty young woman who was standing behind Mrs Jackson. She is now in the corner of the room. As I look at her, she looks away.
‘Are you here to talk to someone?’ I ask her.
She points to herself and I nod.
‘My name is Alice,’ the young woman says quietly.
‘Does anyone know a young woman by the name of Alice?’ I ask the members.
Mrs Jackson gasps.
‘Mrs Jackson, do you know a young lady called Alice?’
‘She’s my mum,’ Alice confirms.
Oh, my goodness. I didn’t realise that Mrs Jackson had any children. Despite her being the main source of information and gossip in Castle Combe, no one seems to know much about Mrs Jackson’s history.
Mrs Jackson shakes her head then looks down at the table.
‘I died when I was four. I drowned. But I’ve grown up now, look,’ Alice informs me and does a little spin, making her floral dress float around her legs.
‘Um … Mrs Jackson, are you OK? If you don’t feel comfortable with this I can tell Alice to come another time?’
Mrs Jackson has tears in her eyes.
‘No, I’m fine. I don’t know of any Alice,’ she says, still avoiding my eyes.
‘She does know me! She’s my mummy,’ Alice says, obviously upset.
‘She’s a grown woman now. She told me that she passed when she was four years old. She drowned, she tells me. But she’s grown up now. She looks very pretty. She looks like you.’
‘Tell mummy I’m fine, really, and that I’m always around her. I like what she’s done with the shop.’
I relay the message to Mrs Jackson, who still won’t confirm that the young woman is in fact her daughter.
‘She still has the last picture I drew, on her fridge. It’s supposed to be the Tower of London, but it looks more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa – I was only four at the time though!’ Alice giggles.
‘Alice is telling me about the picture you saved. The last one she drew for you. You still keep it on your fridge. She says it was supposed to be the Tower of London, but it looks more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’
Mrs Jackson looks up. Tears are rolling down her cheeks.
‘Tell her I love her and always will. It wasn’t her fault and she must stop blaming herself for what was an accident,’ Alice says quietly.
‘Mrs Jackson, Alice says she loves you and always will. You have to stop blaming yourself. She says it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ is all Mrs Jackson can say.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Well this is bloody depressing!’ A man’s voice booms out around the room and I see that it’s coming from the Viking. As Vikings go he’s pretty much in keeping with what the historians say they looked like. Hum, I know, bizarre, hey?
‘It’s like a bloody morgue in here! Where’s the bloody banquet?’ he shouts, and then laughs a hearty laugh.
Dressed in his Viking costume with a fur cloak tied with rope around his neck, a hat with two great horns coming out of it and a huge, bushy ginger beard, he looks every inch the Viking. He’s a large man with a booming voice and I wouldn’t like to be the one who got on the wrong side of him. I hope he doesn’t start raping and pillaging any time soon.
‘Um … hello … sir …’ I stutter. ‘Mrs Horsham, I don’t want to alarm you but you have a rather large Viking standing behind you.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Mrs Horsham swivels round to see him – and obviously she can’t.
‘Is he handsome?’ she asks.
‘I like her. She can be my wife!’ the Viking says in a Scandinavian accent, and roars with laughter.
‘He says he likes you and wants you to be his wife,’ I say to Mrs Horsham, who blushes slightly.
‘What’s she doing with that blithering idiot husband of hers anyway?’ the Viking bellows.
I can’t say that!
‘Well, that’s what he is, a blithering idiot! She would have made a fine wife of mine.’
‘What else does he say?’ an excited Mrs Horsham asks me.
‘Um … he says you would have made him a good wife,’ I add cautiously, although I don’t think I would have wanted to be a wife of a Viking. Can you imagine it? The minute you had a disagreement about what to have for tea he’d be shouting and waving his axe about at you.
‘Ooh, how lovely!’ Mrs Horsham says, a smile spreading across her face. Well, at least someone here in the room is happy!
In the past hour I have managed to give most of the members of the Women’s Institute a message from someone they either know or may possibly have heard of. Unfortunately, my dad didn’t come through for my mum; despite my best efforts to ask him to come and join us, I was informed that he was out. Out? I mean, where do they go? Out to the Heaven Pub? Out spiritual shopping? I did, however, manage to get my Aunt Rosy, my mum’s sister, to come through and they ended up bickering with each other over the new title of Mum’s book. My mum and my Auntie Rosy were always bickering, so it was nice to know that they would continue to do so in the afterlife.
My little Cockney boy, Tom, spent most of the time running around the hall or standing next to Marjorie and smiling up at her in awe, and well he might. I understand, again from my mother, that Marjorie is a very respectable pillar of society. She is not only on every committee in the South West, but is also one of those women, a bit like Joanna Lumley, who could do a twelve hour shift down a coal mine and still come out looking immaculate.
The Viking kept trying to interrupt me to ask me to ask Mrs Horsham if she would marry him and in the end I had to risk a beheading and politely tell him to wait his turn. Actually he was quite accommodating – between you and me I think the man is in love.
Mr Brent had a message from his late father. Mrs Samuels – the one with the medication and one leg shorter than the other, although I have to say, Mum’s right, you can’t tell; it’s amazing what they can do with shoes nowadays – received a message from her mother. Mrs Bannerman, the one who won the coveted second prize for her unusual preserve, received a message from an ex-lover! To look at her you would never imagine that the sixty-year-old woman could possibly have had a love affair. Her grey hair is tied neatly into a bun and she’s not what you might call a fashion queen. Rather, her chosen attire is more suited to Ann Widdecombe than Nicole Scherzinger. She blushes when I tell her who I have with us in the room – a very charming, middle-aged French man by the name of Stephan.
‘Oh my!’ Mrs Samuels says. ‘I feel quite faint.’
‘Do you think it’s her medication?’ my mum whispers to Marjorie.
‘I think it’s more to do with Stephan,’ Gem giggles to me.
Ange has been no help whatsoever and the only time she has spoken to me is to ask again if I can find out if it really is a Lulu Guinness handbag or if it’s a fake from the market, as the fakes are so good nowadays, you can hardly tell they’re fakes.
‘Er, a little bit busy here right now, Ange,’ I remind her, and then predictably she goes off in a sulk again. Grrr, damn spirits!
‘You’re doing just fine, Sammy Puddleduck,’ I hear my dad say. ‘Just remember to close down properly when you’ve finished,’ he advises. I
look at my mum who is whispering something to Marjorie and decide not to tell her that I have just heard from Dad. I feel all warm inside and yet sad at the same time. ‘Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll be there. And tell your mum I love her,’ my dad says, as if reading my thoughts.
Before I can ask him anything else I suddenly see a ghostly figure standing directly behind Gem. I look at Gem and then at the grey figure behind her. I can’t make out whether it’s a man or a woman and with all the dead people bustling about in the room right now, it’s a bit difficult to concentrate. The person stretches an arm out and touches Gem on the head, making her turn round.
‘Did something just touch me then?’ Gem asks.
I nod. ‘I can’t make out who it is though, Gem,’ I whisper, still staring intently just above her head. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them again there is nothing there. Nothing but a ghostly, grey figure.
‘I’m so sorry …’ the voice whispers. I still can’t make out whether the person is a man or a woman, young or old. I just don’t know.
Sam, are you OK? Gem asks. ‘Do you know who it is?’
I look at Gem and then back to where the hazy image was. It has gone and in its place is the regulation fire extinguisher on the wall. For a moment I have a really uneasy feeling.
‘Um … no, I couldn’t get anything for you, Gem, sorry.’ I mentally ask Ange if she can work out who it was, but Ange is subtly moving handbags around the room.
Can you stop that and concentrate please, Ange! I say in my head.
‘Oh, sorry, sweetie. I just wondered what she had in her handbag. I reckon it’s a fake meself,’ Ange muses. ‘I can’t see a genuine label on it.’
Trust me to get a fashion-conscious spirit!
‘OK,’ I say, as I break hands with Gem and a woman on my left who I don’t know at all, ‘I think that’s about all we have time for tonight, I’m afraid.’ I rub my eyes. ‘I hope you have all felt that it was an interesting demonstration and thank you for coming tonight.’ I nod to my mum to give her the cue to go and pop the kettle on for refreshments.
Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People Page 6
