Clouds among the Stars

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘I’d like to say something to him.’ Mrs Leadbetter raised her voice, the better to penetrate the astral barrier. ‘Henry? It’s me, Audrey. I’d like to know what that Cora Smith – the one that works at the travel agent – is to you. Turning up at your funeral with a heart-shaped wreath of red roses and crying her eyes out so we couldn’t hear the vicar’s address – I was never so humiliated in my life!’

  ‘Oh dear, he’s going,’ cried Madame Eusapia. ‘They don’t like to be attacked. They’re very sensitive.’

  ‘He’s sensitive, is he?’ said Mrs Leadbetter grimly. ‘Being dead’s changed him, then.’

  I would have felt sorry for Madame Eusapia, had it not been for the five pounds. We sat in silence once more. Beard twitched the hand that was enfolding mine and there was a sucking noise as our flesh parted briefly.

  Just as I was thinking what a nuisance it was that men were incapable of leaving sex out of any proceeding, the clock stopped ticking and the lamp went out. My stomach stopped rumbling and I could no longer hear Beard’s nostrils. The sudden silence, like putting one’s head under water, seemed to expand in a sort of wave and I felt a tremendous pressure on my eardrums. I looked around, surprised. The coals were burning with an intense blue light. ‘Oh-h-h!’ groaned Madame Eusapia in a quite different voice. ‘You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts.’

  Beard gripped my hand tightly.

  ‘Merchant of Venice,’ whispered Portia in an excited voice but I was too alarmed to speak.

  ‘Oh, blood, blood, blood!’ said Madame Eusapia in a growly baritone.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Beard. ‘Are you a spirit control?’

  ‘I am a very foolish, fond old man,’ replied Madame Eusapia in the same deep tones. ‘Revenge my foul and most unnatural murder!’

  Miss Judd must have opened the window at that moment for an icy wind blasted my hot cheeks, sucked open the door and blew it shut again with a slam. I felt the draught tug at my hair. The woman with the perm gave a little scream.

  ‘Who are you?’ repeated Beard, who seemed to have taken charge.

  ‘I am – Sir Basil Wintergreen,’ continued the fruity voice from the throat of Madame Eusapia. Portia seized my arm. I felt a trickle of terror.

  ‘What do you want to tell us?’ asked Beard peremptorily.

  ‘But that I am forbid to tell you the secrets of my prison house,’ began Sir Basil, ‘I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes start from their spheres, thy knotted and combinèd locks to part –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Beard, ‘but can you tell us what actually happened?’

  ‘Dost thou not read the newspapers?’ Sir Basil sounded grumpy. ‘A vile blow cut me off even in the blossoms of my sin, unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled, no reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.’

  ‘But who did it?’ persisted Beard.

  ‘Ah, he – he with his sharp and sulphurous bolt split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak –’

  ‘Facts first, if you please,’ Beard was probably something like an actuary or a solicitor. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Since I was a man,’ said Madame Eusapia in a voice of gravel, ‘such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, such groans of roaring wind and rain –’

  ‘If we’d wanted the weather forecast we could have turned on the wireless,’ said Beard rudely. Probably he was one of those people who become aggressive when alarmed.

  ‘O Fool, I shall go ma-a-ad!’ raged Sir Basil.

  The curtains streamed out. A violent wind whooshed over us and made the flames leap in the grate until the entire room was incandescent with glittering blue fire. Madame Eusapia screamed. There was a crash and the table shuddered.

  The wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen. Beard struck a match with a hand that shook, lit the lamp and turned it high. Madame Eusapia lay with her face pressed to the tablecloth. Miss Judd said, ‘Oh, crumbs!’ and ran over to her. With the help of Thatch she pulled Madame Eusapia back into her chair. Her head, with eyes closed, lolled to one side. We all looked at each other in silence for a moment or two. My heart was racing and my limbs were tingling with fright.

  Beard was the first to speak. ‘Well! What do we make of that?’ He sounded uncertain, almost cowed. His scalp was glistening with sweat.

  ‘I think we have been granted a glimpse behind the curtain that separates us from the hereafter,’ said Thatch, who was shaking, either with rage or fright. ‘And if you hadn’t been so hectoring we might have been privileged to learn something that would have put a very different complexion on our understanding of life and death.’

  ‘What did you want to go bullying it for?’ cried the woman with the perm, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

  ‘If it weren’t for you being so impudent to it,’ said Mrs Leadbetter, her face working with emotion, ‘we might have learned something to our advantage. We’ve never had such a good connection. But there’s always some man has to be a smart aleck and spoil everything.’

  ‘I take exception to that remark!’ said Thatch, sticking out his chin.

  ‘Oh, you can go boil your head –’ began Mrs Leadbetter but Miss Judd interrupted her with a wail.

  ‘Whatever am I going to do about poor Madame? I can’t get her to wake up.’

  Madame Eusapia’s turban had fallen off, exposing a head of grey curls. A bubble of saliva glistened at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘We’ll put her on the sofa,’ said Beard, with a return of his usual bossiness and, though he was the object of collective dislike, we did as he said.

  While he and Thatch struggled with the heavy limbs of the unconscious Madame Eusapia, and the women fluttered about, fanning her and patting her hands, Portia and I looked under the table, behind the curtains, on the shelves of the chiffonier, inside the lid of the piano. I found nothing but dust, dead spiders and a bar of chocolate, its white bloom proclaiming its age. Inside a large Chinese vase was a tin of face powder and half a bottle of vodka.

  ‘I was scared,’ admitted Portia later as we sat in the kitchen at home, drinking tea and eating toast and pork dripping, sprinkled with salt. This was Ronnie’s idea, to save on butter. Actually it was delicious. ‘Of course it must have been faked. Mr Podmore told her who you were and she’d read about it in the papers. But how did she know all that Shakespeare?’

  ‘She mugged it up, of course,’ said Ronnie, who was making dumplings from suet paste, ‘and then recorded it. It’s what they all do.’

  ‘The voice seemed to come straight out of her mouth,’ I said. ‘I looked very carefully all round her chair and felt underneath it. There were no wires or anything. And when she went off into a swoon Miss Judd undid her clothing – Madame Eusapia’s, I mean – and I saw down to her vest. There was no microphone. Could Miss Judd be a ventriloquist?’

  ‘I wish I’d been there.’ Cordelia got up to put on more toast. ‘Do you remember Blithe Spirit? It had Margaret Rutherford in.’

  ‘No,’ said Portia. ‘I suppose Miss Judd must have chucked something on the fire to make it blue. But when the clock stopped there was a weird sensation – a sort of – well the opposite of an explosion. A sort of sucking in of air.’

  ‘An implosion.’ Ronnie put potatoes and mutton chops into a large pot. ‘That’s what a television set does if you throw a brick at it. And the very best thing one can do, in my opinion. Such horrid, vulgar people appearing on it, these days.’

  ‘I felt it too!’ I said. ‘As though my head was being cracked like a nut.’

  ‘You must remember Blithe Spirit,’ persisted Cordelia. ‘There’s this man who’s married again and when they hold a séance his first wife who’s dead comes back to haunt them and she makes fun of the second wife all the time, who isn’t nearly as nice and she gets very angry because she can’t see Elvira – that’s the first wife – and –’

>   ‘What would be the point of it all?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Madame Eusapia meant it for us – me, I suppose, because she didn’t know you were coming. But why? If she thinks I’m going to give her a lot of money her hopes will be sadly blighted.’

  ‘I remember it.’ Ronnie paused in the act of chopping an onion. ‘In the end the second wife dies in a car crash – the ghost tampers with the brakes. And then he dies and ends up trapped between the two of them. Poor Noel had a very low opinion of marriage.’

  ‘Perhaps she wants you to tell all your rich and influential friends?’ suggested Portia.

  ‘Even if Mr Podmore was in on it, it couldn’t have been a recording,’ I pondered. ‘I mean, it was a real conversation, wasn’t it? There weren’t any awkward pauses.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you girls being so gullible,’ said Ronnie as he bent to put the stew into the oven. ‘You sound as though you really believe all that poppycock.’

  ‘Honestly, if you’d been there, you’d have been convinced,’ said Portia. ‘It was extremely alarming. I’m almost ashamed to admit it but I went cold all over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been frightened at all,’ said Cordelia. ‘I’d have asked it questions about what it was like to be dead. And whether there’s such a thing as hell. Because if there is I don’t give much for Sister Imelda’s chances, the mean cow. You two were idiots not to say anything. I wouldn’t ever be scared of a ghost.’

  As it happened, later events proved this to be a vain boast but I was too fond of my little sister ever to remind her of it.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Honestly, it did sound like Sir Basil’s voice. Voices are as distinctive as faces, really, aren’t they? I mean someone’s only got to say hello on the telephone and you know who they are.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculously easy voice to mimic.’ My father put on his Basil Wintergreen face, which involved screwing up his eyes and protruding his tongue slightly between his lips. ‘“I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad … thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossèd carbuncle In my corrupted blood –”’

  Pa projected his voice, tremulous and lisping, to the acoustic tiles and the other prisoners and their visitors turned to stare. A warder moved hastily in our direction, and lingered watchfully, fingering the whistle on his belt. The nice old lady sitting next to me, clucked sympathetically and said, ‘Don’t you take it personal, love, they’ve a lot to try ’em here when all’s said and done.’ She was visiting her son, who had hairy backs to his hands and “knock twice’ tattooed on the narrow expanse of his forehead.

  ‘That sounded just like Basil,’ I said. Actually it wasn’t nearly as good as Madame Eusapia’s impersonation but I did not want to upset Pa, who seemed gloomier than ever.

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Oh, pretty well. Still not going out of doors because of the bandages. But she sends you her fondest love. She’s very anxious about you and always asks me how you’re looking, whether you’re eating enough, getting exercise, all that sort of thing.’

  My father frowned at me. ‘If I believed a word of this tarradiddle, I should be seriously worried that your mother was showing signs of a personality disorder. That idiot Ronnie’s always telling me how concerned she is and I let it go because I know all actors have trouble with the truth. But I expect more of you, Harriet. I wouldn’t be surprised if her hairdresser isn’t more often in Clarissa’s thoughts than I am.’

  I felt myself blush, remembering that Ma, only that morning, had grumbled about her enforced separation from Stefano, the colourist at Turning Heads. ‘Ronnie’s awfully kind, really.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said my father unexpectedly. ‘He visits more often than anyone.’

  ‘Oh, Pa, I’m so sorry! It’s just that Mr Podmore often doesn’t let me go home until after five, so I can’t get here before the end of visiting hours. And you know what Rupert said – I’ve got to keep my job.’

  ‘I know, darling. Don’t take any notice of my bad temper. It’s just this place getting on my nerves. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be shut in with unrelieved ugliness. The window in my cell is so high up you have to stand on a chair to see out. There’s nothing to look at, anyway. More barred windows, brick walls as grey as the square of sky. I’ve stopped bothering. You’re very sweet and loyal and come more often than any of the others.’

  ‘It’s difficult for Portia,’ I rushed to defend her. ‘She has to work even longer hours than I do. Jessica Delavine likes her to go with her to feminist rallies and usually they’re in the evening.’

  ‘How does she like the sisterhood? I suppose they’re all as plain as suet puddings.’

  ‘Oh, Pa! It’s just that sort of remark that makes them cross. You men have got to learn to value us for our characters and brains, instead of the way we look.’ My father smiled cynically. I had to admit it was about as likely as pigs learning to prefer Beowulf to a roll in the mud. ‘Anyway, they aren’t all plain by any means. Jessica took Portia to this women’s club, somewhere smart in Pall Mall. There were lots of women in suits and ties with short haircuts who tried to make assignations with her. Portia said she must have been very dim not to realise Jessica’s a lesbian. Apparently she’s ferociously ancient and has a little white beard so Portia didn’t think of her in connection with any kind of sex.’

  ‘So I’m not the only one who judges by appearance.’ My father’s eyes brightened a little. ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Portia said the atmosphere was amazing. The women were all intelligent and stimulating and fun to talk to. I can’t see why sexual orientation should have an effect on personality. Perhaps only women with strong characters will admit openly to homosexuality.’

  ‘It’s true that gay actors are as plentiful as blackberries but not many actresses own to it. So Portia approved these monocled sapphists.’

  ‘She was introduced to this girl called Suke – she’s a writer, I’m not sure what kind – Portia said she was the most fascinating person she’d ever met. They had lunch the next day, at Suke’s flat. Apparently Suke makes all her own furniture. She’s very good at carpentry and all her curtains and things are hand-dyed and hand-woven. She’s got a workshop and a big loom in the garage. Suke disapproves of things made in a factory. She thinks machines are evil because they deny people the joy of creation. Portia says Suke could easily sell the rugs and cushions and things but she isn’t interested in money – only Art and Truth. They ate brown rice and miso, with berries and nuts that she’d gathered in the park for pudding, served in shells she’d found on a beach in Bali. I assume she walked and swam there rather than flying in an evil, joyless plane. Portia says Suke’s so high-minded she makes her feel ashamed. Suke has explained some fundamental errors in her thinking – Portia’s, I mean. Suke’s thinking is, of course, beyond criticism. This afternoon they’re going to the dentist together. Suke’s going to hold her hand and read poems by Sylvia Townsend Warner to her while she has her tooth fixed.’

  ‘My poor Harriet. It seems it’s not only me who’s suffering.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dear girl, of course you’re bound to be jealous. You and Portia have always been so close.’

  ‘I don’t know what you – Well … Oh dear, I suppose you’re right. I am rather jealous. Naturally I’ve never minded about her men. But I’ve always taken it for granted that no other woman could be as important to her as me.’

  ‘It may be just the friendship that Portia needs. She looked wretched, last time she came. Not just the broken tooth but something about the eyes. Disenchanted with the world.’

  ‘It’s very selfish of me to mind.’

  ‘Portia’s always needed excitement. Imagining she’s in love with this girl will be the distraction she needs. And probably she’ll get something in return, for a change – kindness, attention, affection. I’ve always wondered why more women aren’t lesbians.’

  ‘Oh, Pa, you are a wonder!’ I looked at him with love. �
�There can’t be many fathers who are so tolerant and wise.’

  ‘Thank you, Harriet.’

  Pa looked pleased by the compliment and I had the glorious feeling that we perfectly understood each other. I knew I had never been his favourite daughter. Strangely, for an actor, my father was not good at dissimulation when it came to his children. Cordelia and Ophelia were his darlings, with the former perhaps a nose in front. Unsurprisingly, as he was her only son, Bron was my mother’s favourite. That left Portia and me to champion each other. We had accepted this state of things and had not resented the favourites. But I treasured those times when I felt Pa and I were in harmony.

  ‘How’s Marina?’ This was the moment to be generous.

  ‘Haven’t seen her this week. Now I’m no longer headline material there isn’t much point, from her point of view.’ It was true that for several days now there had been no more than two or three reporters hanging about outside Winston Shrubs.

  ‘Have you quarrelled?’

  ‘No. There never was an affair, you know. We played around a little but it wasn’t in earnest. Marina’s too much of a narcissist to want hot breath melting her mascara.’ I tried not to show my relief. ‘Actually I’m rather sick of all that sort of thing,’ he continued. His voice took on a confidential tone. ‘I’ve had the devil of a time recently with a very tiresome woman who won’t let go. I never meant the thing to be serious, never even liked her above half, to tell the truth, but she was quite pretty and very enthusiastic in the bedroom. Now she keeps threatening to kill herself if I don’t leave Clarissa. I think she’s more than a little crazy. I’ve forbidden her to visit me any more, so she sends the most ridiculous presents instead. The caviar’s welcome, I admit, but there are three of us living, sleeping and defecating in a cell twelve feet by ten. The quadraphonic loudspeakers and the badminton set had to be sent straight back.’

  ‘How did you manage to stop her coming?’

  My father looked a little shame-faced. ‘I told her we must be discreet. A scandal just now might prejudice public opinion against me and affect the outcome of my case.’