Remember Me

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Will Bernard be wearing that?

  Tch, she says, hiding a laugh, Here, take these. And stop scratching!

  She hands me two pewter jugs. I’m to rinse them under the tap and fill them with clean water. In the huge sink which she calls a trough, I rinse the glasses piled up on the draining board. We put the jugs and cups and glasses on the trestle table. Jean pours a thimbleful of cordial into each jug,

  Makes it taste like barley water, she says, pulling a face. She opens a little bag of crackers and tumbles them onto a tin plate, centres it, and stands back.

  Refreshments, she says, with nothing in her voice. We both stare at the spread; it looks mean.

  That’s all there is, she says, Nothing to be had in those bloody shops.

  She takes an envelope from her handbag and waves it at me.

  I’ll give this to Happy out there, she says, And you – handing me a silver bowl – Put this on the table at the front door. And stay there with it. You never can tell with this lot.

  What will Bernard say? I ask.

  Bernard has yet to see me in his wife’s wig. Jean pauses. She’s about to say one thing – I can read it in her face – but she stops herself.

  He’ll say stop that bloody scratching! Now get to that door before they can sneak in.

  The women, when they arrive – and it is all women, apart from a boy clutching the arm of his mother, and a very elderly man on his own – have to pay. I try not to show my surprise. I stand quite still in the doorway with my body in someone else’s dress and my feet in someone else’s boots, and an itching, heavy head of someone else’s hair, watching the money fill the tray.

  You fool, you fool, you fool. I say it in my head as they file through, watching the money mount up, until there’s just me at the door, standing there with a tray full of coins. But then, as the evening begins, I think again: No, I am the fool.

  Bernard steps up on the stage while they’re still finding their seats. There’s rummaging and coughing, and people fiddling with umbrellas. I can see them all. Row upon row of melancholy faces, waiting for the start of something extraordinary.

  The usual, says Jean, from the corner of her mouth.

  It doesn’t feel usual to me. Underneath the wig, I’m getting more than an itch, more than a burn; a crawl of ants all over my head, and static heat, like an electric current, lifting me with a jump off the floor. Something pulling me up from the skin of my neck. I’m on tiptoe. Bernard, from the stage, looks at me. His arm held out straight to one side, introducing his new, special niece, showing me to the packed hall, presenting me to the gathering. I’m not ready.

  It isn’t like seeing a ghost, Bernard said, before we went on – as if that was a common enough thing to happen. He was looking a bit like he’d seen one himself, staring at me with his big, heavy eyes. He took my hands between his; they were ice.

  You must be ready for whatever comes through. Don’t be alarmed if it happens. Be calm, and whatever else you might forget, remember: it’s not the messages that are important, but the message.

  That’s what Bernard said to me. But I’m not prepared for this at all.

  the gift

  You can tell them that you think your life’s a tragedy even though you’re only fifteen and you’ve been stuck in the middle of a field for years on end because you were left there by a strange little man who could have been a circus act in another time, left there to live with a skinny old woman who looked like the woman on the clock in the city centre, and just like her, she only gets to go outdoors when it’s Fair. Which is never if you’ve got blackout on the windows and no one comes to visit and you’re afraid to put a foot through the door. And how if that doesn’t drive you mad, then the first other person you see for years on end turns out to be the most lovely-looking creature you’ve ever set your eyes on, and what’s more, he thinks you’re lovely too. He calls you Beauty. And you’ll both have a beautiful life together. Oh yes, you plan it and describe it and rehearse it, lying in each other’s arms and breathing him in and breathing in the scent of the moss at his shoulder and not feeling the same kind of hunger any more, but a new one, sharper and more acid and more sweet. This hunger will boil your blood. Thinking, this is it for me, we’ll have a place to stay but we won’t have roses round the door because we live in the country and are sick to death of it; the stinging grass and the leaden sky and the animals and the insects, the flying things that drop in your ear in the middle of the night. What we want is a car. We want a car to take us to sea, where we can swim and lie naked in the soft dunes and see the birds fly over our heads and the waves coming in and out like a breath. We’ll go really fast, all over, and further than that, really fast, really far, just me and you, down to the coast, to the end of the world. But the baggy old aunt discovers your secret, and if she can’t have the little man then you sure as hell can’t have that flint-eyed giant. Then he’s gone, dropping from the sky like a hawk. You’re sent back to your grandfather – because you’re a child, really, just a child. That boy had no right to be meddling with you, even though he’s not much more than that himself, because you’re not right in the head, are you? You’re not right in the head.

  And then you’re having a child yourself, and what do you do? You can’t tell a soul. What do you do then, with no Joseph and everyone thinking you’re not right in the head. And you can’t hide, not with that hair, not in this city. Runs in the family. Pikey.

  Seeing things. That runs in the family too. I never knew why my mother lay so still in her bed, afraid to open her eyes. Until I start to see them. Only I don’t just see them: I feel them. The air vibrating in waves, and me looking from side to side, at Bernard, at Jean. Is this normal? Is this usual? So violent, the whole room shuddering, but the women on the benches are sitting still and expectant, not at all worried that the earth is crumbling beneath their feet. I couldn’t have known: this was my earthquake.

  The spirits don’t rise quietly: they roar. Men and women and children. Too many children. Roaring in shades of blue. Turquoise and lapis and bluest blue. Blue like film-light, like twilight, like winter sky. One of them blue like my father’s suit, gliding through me, making my body hum like a harp.

  Pressing their way through the crowd, right down to the front, come the aircraft pilots. They are stinking from the fen; they are shining like sapphires. Coming forward and politely removing their caps. Buzzing in my ear like flies. They would like to pay their respects to the young lady with the long black hair. They would like to say hello.

  eighteen

  The hair is shiny and thick.

  Cut from the head of a Russian virgin, says Jean, as if it’s a fact to be proud of. She says I must wear it to bed, so that we can get used to each other. At night, my hands are bandaged to stop me scratching while I sleep. In the mornings, my neck stiff and my forehead sweating, I’m allowed an hour without it. Then the wig is placed on a dummy head on the dressing table while Jean oils my real hair and slides the skullcap on.

  Hair is a living thing, says Jean, Treat her as your friend. I would if I could, but the dummy wears it now, and she chooses to ignore me. Blank eyes, skin like chalk, a smile like a secret on her mouth. At first I was afraid of what Bernard might say, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He says I remind him of good times, that I look like an exotic, a real Carmen Miranda. I try to talk to her, the Russian virgin dummy, but she never says a word, let alone sings a song. At night, her naked head shines like the moon. She has no name.

  Every morning, Jean sits me in front of the dressing-table mirror. I get so used to the weight of hair on me that I feel too light without it. I’m clinging to the knobs of the drawers; if I let go, I might fly away. Today is important: we’re going into the city for something special. The news has spread quickly; it’s only been a month, and already I’m drawing a crowd. People are asking for private interviews; I’m known as the Girl with the Gift. Bernard and Jean talk about placing an advertisement in the paper, with a picture of me and
writing underneath it. Perhaps that’s what’s so special about today.

  Jean has combed the wig, and is fitting it to my head, teasing the hair back from my face and squirting lacquer to keep it in place. I am in the mirror’s eye, but I’m not looking. I’m waiting for the heaviness that will pin me to the earth again.

  Am I going to have my photograph taken? I ask, wondering why she’s taking so much trouble.

  Nope. Head still. Look up. Now, let’s go over it again.

  This is our practice time. Jean coaches me in the Correct Methods.

  The bit beforehand is crucial, she says, People want to hear from them that’s passed over. It’s all they come for.

  We encourage them to talk, prising their misery out of them: me handing round the cordial and the crackers, trying to look as if I’m not paying attention. Trying to find out who’s died. Jean swears by it.

  We never say die, says Jean, We say ‘Passed Over’. What do we say?

  Passed over, I say, eyeing the dummy.

  Ears open, mouth shut, Jean says, Listen and Learn.

  Listen and Learn, I say.

  It’s not enough that I can feel the spirits: I have to interpret them. The first few times, there were so many, I got in a muddle. I have to get the details right; I have to know who the message is for.

  Bernard says it’s not the messages, it’s the message, I say.

  Tch, she goes, He would! But if you get the wrong chap out there, we’ll have a lynching. I don’t want another do like last Friday.

  Last Friday was Edward. He came blue as a baby’s eye. Edward, coming through for someone called Mary. So I asked, in the language I had learned,

  Is there a Mary with us tonight? I have someone called Edward drawing near. Two hands shot up, one behind the other. One Mary, with a dead son – a son Passed Over, that would be – and the other with a husband Missing. I didn’t know which was Edward’s Mary, or Mary’s Edward. And the spirits aren’t helpful. They’ve got no manners. They shout all the time; they won’t listen to reason. Bernard says I have to learn to control it, I have to be strict with them, like a schoolmistress with a naughty child. But the spirits can’t be fooled: they know they can blow me down with a single breath.

  Does he have a moustache? says Mary Number 1.

  A limp? goes Mary Number 2.

  I’m afraid I can’t quite see him, I said, playing for time.

  Ask him when’s his birthday, then!

  Ask him did he get my parcel!

  On and on, trying to shout each other down in their desperation to claim Edward, who was all the while buffeting against me like the wind off the fen.

  How should I know, I shouted back, fed up with all the noise. Jean put her arm round me and called an end to the meeting. In the back room, when everyone had gone, she slapped me on the face.

  Never, ever lose patience, she said, her face hot and close, These people are full of grief.

  As if I couldn’t understand how that felt.

  Afterwards, she declared that I needed Coaching, so that I would be able to tell which spirit was rising: this not only meant learning the language, but handing round the crackers and listening out for names, for any words of significance, for a clue.

  It’s not cheating, said Jean, when I complained, It’s called research. It’s called Learning Your Craft. And no back answers from you, lady.

  ~

  Jean is sweet as a plum today. She’s especially sweet. Slow to reveal this surprise, she smiles a little to herself; she hums.

  Hewitt’s an odd fellow, she says, her voice milky, But he’s reliable. And one good turn deserves another.

  What’s a good turn?

  It’ll help your reputation, you know, if it goes well with Hewitt.

  If what goes well? What must I do?

  Just a reading, she says, casually, He wants to talk to his mother. Died last winter of the influenza. All you have to do is sit there and see what comes through.

  What if she doesn’t want to talk to him?

  Well, that would be understandable, says Jean, with her familiar cackle. In which case, you’ll make it up. Tell him she misses him. Tell him she says she’s very sorry about Dora.

  Who?

  Dora, she says with an exasperated breath, Was his fiancee. Ran off with his brother. Look, I can tell you what to say, but I wouldn’t worry – that woman’s mouth went like the clappers when she was alive, and it’ll be no different now she’s dead. She’ll come through, all right. Just be strict with her and nice to him. None of your larks. You be sweet to Hewitt, and Hewitt’ll be sweet to us.

  How? I say, How will he be sweet?

  The hair on my head is warm as an animal skin. Jean smoothes it with the flat of her hand, as if she’s stroking a cat. She answers me slowly, a soft burr.

  He owns that lovely shoe shop, don’t he? Get you a pair of nice new shoes. Something suitable for those little feet, she says, Something divine.

  ~

  The man is eager to greet us; he stands on the step, half in, half out of the door. His top lip beads with anticipation. This is my first meeting with Hewitt.

  Aha, Miss Foy! So nice to see you. Do come in,

  his hand not quite touching the small of her back, gazing up at her with his pale eyes,

  May I say how fetching you look in that coat. And your niece. I saw you last week at the meeting, my dear. Such a gift!

  As he locks the door behind us, Jean flicks a look at him, one of her sidelong glances. I’ve seen that look before; she fires it at Bernard when he pretends he hasn’t been in the drinks cupboard. What kind of fool do you take me for? it says. Hewitt passes behind us, edging towards the back of the shop. I can hear the air rushing through his nose. I’m taking it in, every detail: the overpowering smell of leather; the long counter with a ledger on it and a glass cabinet in front; the window with an arc of words, just an outline, unfinished, I’d say. A few dowdy shoes, left feet only, on display shelves. I’m also taking in Hewitt: small and ginger with a beak-like nose, lost, nearly, in his apple face; a thin, darting tongue; the watery eyes and the tiny voice, a pitch too high, trapped in his throat. And his old-fashioned air, slippery as Vaseline.

  In here, he says, too gaily. With a flourish like a barker at a sideshow, he pulls a curtain aside. Beyond it is a darkened room. We’re supposed to pass through, but Jean stops at the threshold,

  I’ll just wait here, she says, very solemn.

  Hewitt gives a nod, and lifts the curtain again.

  Shall we proceed?

  He’s found the correct tone now; he’s whispering like a priest.

  A stone-cold room with the blackout still on the window, and beyond it, a kitchen. A room with an acrid smell, full of murder. I have to concentrate on what there is, but my legs are jumping. In the corner is a velvet stool placed in front of a daybed. A cushion on the bed, with a quilt folded over the end. That smell is murder. I know in a second that his mother died in this room. Hewitt invites me to sit on the daybed, takes a matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and fiddles with the lamp on the table. As he waits for the flame to catch, his hands tremble. I’ve never done a private interview before – a reading, Jean calls it, as if I’m a fortune teller – but she was right. I don’t need to worry: as soon as Bernard lights the wick, there’s a chill against my eye, as if I’m peeping through a keyhole. His mother comes instantly, blue as the flame, hot as pig-fat, furious.

  You. Sit – I find myself saying the words, pointing to the velvet stool at my feet. Trying to control her, I reinterpret:

  Sorry, I say, Your mother would like you to sit here. Hewitt takes his position. His face is ecstatic. The bald patch on the top of his head shines like a moonlit pond. I have a terrible urge to cuff him, knock him sideways onto the rug. It isn’t me. I sit on my hands. I’m trying to do as I’m taught, I’m trying to interpret the waves of heat his mother sends out. I don’t always understand the things the spirits say, and this was no exception. Sometimes I’m able t
o stop the worst of it before it comes out. Not this time.

  Who bribed his medical? she says, glowing like coal.

  I was unfit, he says to me, in an injured tone, but before he can finish she’s laughing in my ear.

  Unfit. That’s you all right, she says, Is that why she left you? It comes out in a blurt. I put my hands over my mouth and clamp it shut. Why can’t she say nice things, or tell him something useful. But they very often don’t, Bernard says. The spirits are selective, he says. That’s why we are interpreters. That’s why we must take control.

  Hewitt’s mother moves behind me, butting against my back, heavy as a clog. Not another word, I say in my head. You just behave.

  No, no – I say, putting my hand to my head, playing for time – She’s telling me that she’s unfit.

  Perhaps she means her illness? he says, At the end, you know, she was very sick.

  Sick of you, maybe. Not sick of life.

  I can’t say that.

  She means Dora – I lie, watching Hewitt’s amazed face – She says that Dora wasn’t fit to clean your boots.

  HaHaHa! Very good, girl. Considering that’s all she ever did. In the dim light, Hewitt’s eyes shine like jelly.

  She said that?

  Yes. And how sorry she is for you – all the while his mother in a storm around me – Sorry that you’re all alone. But it’s for the best, she says. You’ll find true love soon. Someone worthy of you.

  Hewitt grabs my knee, clutching at the fabric of my skirt as if he’s about to tear it off. He starts to sob, pulling me sideways towards him. His mother laughs again.

  He’ll have that off you in a second if you don’t watch out, she says. Serves you right for getting carried away.

  She says she likes what you’re doing to the shop, I lie again, wrenching my skirt back.