by Mary Hooper
Velvet’s heart began beating fast as she imagined the scene: George, stretched out on the cobbles, pale, thin and near death, his dark hair awry, beseechingly looking up at his rescuer with sea-green eyes. Oh, if only she, Velvet, had been the one who had found and saved him!
‘I regained consciousness to find her kneeling down beside me saying all manner of solicitous things. I was delirious and thought I was in heaven and she was an angel! She summoned a cab and took me to her house, then called her own doctor and spent two days feeding me nourishing soups. At death’s door, I was, and she pulled me back into the land of the living.’
Velvet looked at him. Whether he’d been at death’s door or not, he would still have been most awfully good-looking, she thought. Finding herself blushing again, she hastily looked away.
There was very little that was gloomy and portentous about the atmosphere of Darkling Villa and although Velvet was not privy to the sessions which Madame gave for the most affluent of her clients, it never gave the impression of being a frightening place where spirits walked or wraiths appeared from the Vale of Darkness. Madame did not give herself superior airs, either, but was always interested and friendly towards Velvet, constantly maintaining a kindly concern in her welfare.
Velvet didn’t have long to wait to witness Madame’s considerable talents at first hand, for there was to be a Dark Circle, a gathering of ten or so eminent people at Darkling Villa, all anxious to contact a relative or friend who had passed over. Mrs Lawson was to bake small savouries which her daughter would serve, there would be glasses of port wine and, after a short recital on the pianoforte by a guest pianist, everyone would be seated for a séance. During this séance, instead of the more casual arrangement with spirits which Madame often utilised, she was intending to go into a proper trance.
On the afternoon of the séance, she spoke to Velvet. ‘I shall want you to be in the front room in charge of lighting. I’ll ask you to turn the lamps down and up at different times. Before that you will be needed in the hall to greet our clients, hang up their mantles and hats, and show them through to the front room, where George will be waiting with the port wine.’ She looked at Velvet carefully as if to judge her reaction and added, ‘I’d like you to stay in the room for the séance. I trust you will be quite happy to do this. You don’t feel apprehensive?’
Velvet said that she did not.
‘Because those experiencing close contact with spirits for the first time can sometimes feel rather overwhelmed.’
Velvet shook her head. There was only one thing she was nervous about. ‘I’m quite prepared to hear messages from other people’s relatives,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I don’t wish for any of my own. From my father in particular.’
‘I believe you mentioned that he quite recently passed over.’
Velvet nodded. ‘Yes, but not . . . peacefully. I was a little frightened of him in life and I don’t want to be in contact with him in death.’
‘What was his calling?’
‘He was a children’s entertainer,’ Velvet replied. ‘Mr Magic. He presided over parties for the children of wealthy people.’ She managed to smile. ‘It’s strange, that, because actually he didn’t like children at all. He certainly hated me.’
Madame put her hand over Velvet’s and squeezed it sympathetically. ‘You’ve survived the past and are a better person for it,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be pleased to know that I rarely get a spirit trying to contact someone who doesn’t want to hear from them. They have better things to do on the Other Side than send messages to someone who is indifferent.’ She patted Velvet’s hand. ‘And besides, I shall be very much occupied trying to channel messages for the ten very important guests I shall have around the table.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Why, I have two Members of Parliament, a very famous novelist and two titled ladies amongst the group.’
‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Velvet asked.
‘Well, when they come in, perhaps say a word or two to put them at their ease.’
Velvet quashed a feeling of panic. She? Speak to members of the aristocracy? ‘How shall I do that?’ she stammered. ‘What shall I speak about?’
‘Dear girl!’ Madame said. ‘You must learn to make small talk! Ask if the weather was clement for their journey here, if there is any likelihood of fog, or if they have come far. Move people who are on their own towards each other so that they may converse.’
Velvet nodded and relaxed a little. She thought she could probably do that. She would act like her father had acted when meeting one of his customers in the street: all smiles and compliments, pretending an enormous interest that he really didn’t have. The difference would be that she did feel interest – and an enormous respect – for what Madame was doing. To give comfort to the bereaved must surely be one of the most satisfying and important jobs in the world. And after all hadn’t her mother, who’d been educated to a reasonably high standard before marrying somewhat below her, taught her how to make conversation with her betters; how to be polite without being obsequious and to enquire kindly about someone’s status without appearing vulgarly curious?
Early that evening, after a quiet afternoon embroidering a cushion for Madame with the signs of the zodiac and some practice in her best speaking voice of ‘Good evening. So pleased you could come tonight. Have you travelled far?’, Velvet took her place in the hallway. There had been some excitement earlier when the telephone had rung for only the third time since Velvet’s arrival, making her jump out of her skin, and George had taken a message to say that the caller was sick and unable to attend that evening. George replaced the receiver and then picked it up again and dialled ‘0’ for the operator, so that Velvet could hear someone, far away and crackly, speaking on the line. She found this quite amazing – almost as unbelievable as the thought of speaking to spirits.
Velvet was wearing her new emerald-green costume and her hair was pulled back from her forehead with a curved comb topped with a green ribbon bow. Really, she thought, pleased with her reflection in the hall mirror, no one would ever guess at her humble beginnings, would ever know that her mother had taken in washing and that only three years ago, when her father had been going through one of his worst gambling phases (she couldn’t remember now whether it was horses, greyhounds, cards or dice), she had survived for near a week on stale bread someone had thrown into the street for the dogs.
The door knocker sounded and Velvet took a deep breath and opened it. ‘Good evening, madam,’ she said to the woman standing there in the purple of half mourning. ‘Do come in and get warm. It looks like snow, don’t you think?’
The woman, smiling, agreed that it did indeed look like snow and, Velvet having relieved her of her mantle and hung it up, wafted her towards the reception room, where George stood with the port wine. Another knock came and Velvet left the first woman to answer it, a smile ready on her lips.
The smile died away, however, because instead of a hallowed member of society, it was Charlie who stood there. Charlie, wearing his old tweed jacket and a flat cap, with mud on his boots.
He took in what she was wearing, her outfit and her ribbon, her lips shining with the tiniest touch of lipsalve, and his jaw dropped. ‘Kitty?’
It was in Velvet’s mind to close the door with a firm ‘No, I am not’, but she glared at him for just a little longer than she should have done, giving him enough time to stutter, ‘I mean, Velvet, of course. Velvet.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘But how did you know I was here?’ Velvet sighed. ‘Really, Charlie Docker, are you going to follow me wherever I go?’
‘Your friend Lizzie told me. She felt sorry for me, I reckon.’
Velvet looked behind her, but George was occupied speaking to the first lady. ‘You should have come round the back, for a start,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway, I’m not allowed followers, especially tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘We hav
e an evening of mediumship. A Dark Circle,’ Velvet said, unable to stop a slightly self-important note from creeping into her voice. ‘Madame is sitting for a number of well-known clients.’
‘What, you think she’s genuine, do you?’ Charlie’s voice registered amusement. ‘Why, these so-called mediums are two a penny now.’
Velvet turned on him crossly. ‘Please go away. I can’t talk now.’
‘When, then?’
‘Well . . .’ Velvet hardened her heart. ‘Really, Charlie, I don’t want to be unkind but I’m trying to make something of myself now and . . .’ Her voice drifted away. She could hardly talk about her hopes for a future with George when the man himself was standing so close by, and nor could she talk about such hopes to Charlie.
‘Who is this?’ came a sudden voice, and Velvet and Charlie both turned to look at George. In his butler’s dark livery with gold trimmings he was taller, broader and infinitely smarter than Charlie.
Charlie was about to speak up for himself but Velvet answered quickly, ‘No one. A carpet salesman!’
‘My good man,’ George said. ‘This is an area where the quality resides. No one here buys carpets at the door – especially the front door.’
‘But I –’ Charlie began.
‘Away with you!’ George pointed down the road and Charlie, after a moment’s glance at Velvet, retreated. The door was closed behind him. ‘You have to be firm with these fellows,’ George said.
Velvet nodded, swallowing hard.
Another knock came. For a moment, Velvet, horrified, thought it was Charlie back again, but it was actually a distinguished-looking man with a walrus moustache whom she presently discovered was the famous novelist and cricketer Mr Arthur Conan Doyle. He brought with him a small clique of ladies, all of whom seemed (to Velvet, at least) to be terribly interested in George, asking him about a cold he’d had the last time they’d seen him and vying to tell him of their experiences in horseless vehicles. Velvet, stung with jealousy, found some compensation in the fact that Sissy Lawson was reduced to being a dumb maidservant, albeit one who was deliberately brushing herself up against George whenever she passed him.
Madame was due to come down from her rooms at eight o’clock, and a little before this George whispered that Madame would like to say a few words to Velvet. She went upstairs, rather apprehensive that Madame might have used her psychic talents to somehow deduce that she’d had a male caller at an inopportune time, but it appeared that she merely wanted to make sure that her clients were at ease.
‘I do find that if a sitter is too agitated or upset it disturbs the spirits and they don’t appear,’ she explained to Velvet.
Velvet assured her that all was in order downstairs and that her clients seemed perfectly happy.
‘George tells me you are managing very well with the small talk,’ Madame said. ‘Of course, I knew you would. Has anyone been speaking of anything in particular? About those dear loved ones they hope to hear from, perhaps?’
Velvet had heard several things spoken of: it was the anniversary of someone’s passing, Mr Conan Doyle had made a trip to Dartmoor, and someone’s deceased aunt had spent her last years cultivating a wonderful rose garden.
‘How interesting.’ Madame nodded her thanks. She was wearing a new gown, its bodice encrusted with pearl and coral beads, and looked, Velvet thought, especially lovely. ‘Was there anything else?’
Velvet shook her head. ‘It was mostly talk about the weather – oh, and a gentleman’s dog had died and he was wondering if dogs passed to the Other Side.’ Velvet waited for Madame to respond to this latter statement, for Velvet herself had been wondering the same thing, and if dogs passed over, then what about cats, rabbits, horses, cows and so on? Why, if they all went on, then the Other Side must be fair teeming with livestock.
Madame, however, did not have anything to say on this subject, she merely spoke to say that she hoped it would be a successful séance. ‘My clients rely on me so much,’ she sighed. ‘Some of them merely exist from one séance to the next, waiting for news of their nearest and dearest, waiting to be told how to live.’ She shook her head. ‘They cling to me like leeches, some of them.’
‘But think of the good that you do, Madame!’ Velvet cried. ‘No job could be more worthwhile or more admirable.’
‘Ah. If you say so.’ Madame smiled weakly and then seemed to rally a little. ‘Would you ask George to seat our guests around the table, please, and then announce me.’
Velvet curtseyed. ‘I will, Madame.’
These instructions being carried out, on Madame’s command Velvet extinguished the two lamps, and the large front room, apart from the dim glow of a candle burning on the sideboard, was plunged into almost total darkness. Standing at the back of the room ready to turn on the lamps when directed, Velvet could only see those sitting around the large table in faint silhouette. She was, however, enjoying gazing upon the lowered head of George – such shiny and thick black hair! – who was sitting opposite Madame.
Madame explained to the assembled company that George was becoming sensitive to spirits in his own right and it was especially helpful to have him in the circle when there were other gentlemen present. ‘Of course, we hope that many spirits will attend us this night,’ she continued, ‘and that those who arrive at our Dark Circle troubled will hear from their loved ones and go away with lighter hearts.’
‘Amen to that!’ Mr Conan Doyle intoned, and the others murmured agreement.
Rapt, Velvet held her breath, waiting. She felt strangely moved, almost tearful with the honour of being present at such an important occasion.
‘I’d like everyone to put their hands on the table with their fingers spread out,’ Madame said. Everyone did so. ‘And would you please make sure that your little fingers are touching those of the people on each side of you. This is to ensure unity between us, and to make certain that there is no cheating of any description.’
Madame’s left little finger, Velvet noted, was touching that of a lady with a tall, feathery decoration in her hair, and her right hand touched that of Mr Conan Doyle. George, she could not help but note, was sitting next to a young lady with pink ribbons in her hair who was remarkably pretty.
When Madame finished speaking, the only sounds in the room were a man’s wheezy breathing and the distant noise of traffic. Velvet held her breath, tense and expectant, as Madame’s eyes closed, her breathing became more laboured and her head fell forward.
After several more moments, she lifted her head and said in a level tone, ‘I have a lady here in spirit, a lady who loved roses. She is telling me that her name began with a letter at the start of the alphabet. A, B or C, perhaps. Will anyone claim her?’
There was a little gasp of excitement, then a lady responded by saying that this surely was a dear aunt of hers, for her name had been Barbara and she had grown roses in her walled garden.
There was a murmur around the table at this, which turned to startled exclamations when a pink rose suddenly appeared, flying through the air to land in the middle of the table. Velvet gasped aloud, so surprised was she. Where had that come from? It was winter and roses were very much out of season.
Madame laughed. ‘Your aunt is being very playful!’ she said, and then put her head on one side as if listening. ‘Oh, Barbara says roses grow in heaven,’ she reported, and the woman who was Barbara’s niece gave a sob of joy.
‘Barbara’ then spoke of different relatives who had passed on before her, saying they were content, then she was succeeded by a gentleman spirit who knew Mr Conan Doyle had visited Dartmoor and who wondered if he intended to set his next story there.
The imposing figure of Arthur Conan Doyle shifted in his seat. ‘I certainly do,’ he said. Then he added, amidst some laughter, ‘Can the spirits tell me if it’ll be a success or not?’
Madame next spoke of an old gentleman who said that today was the very anniversary of the day he had passed over, causing a young lady present to give a little s
cream in surprise. He did not have much to say, but asked if a last photograph of him could be put in a frame and placed on the mantelpiece, and his granddaughter promised to do this.
Madame moved on. More messages were delivered, flowers fell from nowhere (another rose, plus some more seasonal tulips), then a whistle sounded and a bell tinkled, both unseen by human eye. Velvet was awestruck and completely overcome by Madame’s abilities. She was surely the best and cleverest medium in London!
At the end of the session, with the guests departed, George took himself off to lock up the house and wind the clocks. Velvet collected up the sweetmeat dishes and took them downstairs where, Mrs Lawson having retired to bed, her daughter was polishing crystal wine glasses. Knowing that Sissy had a long walk home, Velvet offered to finish them for her.
Sissy shook her head. ‘That’s all right.’ She smirked at Velvet. ‘Quite all right,’ she repeated, making Velvet look at her curiously. ‘Because when I stay late I always get walked home by Mr George, you see.’
Velvet didn’t hesitate in her response. ‘But of course. Mr George is far too much of a gentleman to allow any girl to walk home on her own.’
Then she went to her room and fumed.
Madame Savoya’s First Private Sitting with ‘Lady Blue’
‘How very pleasant to see you, my lady,’ said Madame Savoya. ‘I’m delighted that you decided to come and see us privately.’
Lady Blue smiled. A frail-looking, painfully thin woman of well over seventy, she was still in full mourning, though her husband had been dead over a year and one might have expected to see the black enlivened by touches of purple or cream. ‘I had to come to you,’ she said, adjusting the spotted veil which covered her face, ‘for you’re the only medium who has been able to bring my husband close.’
Madame nodded. ‘I believe I did form a special bond with him. Your husband was a very devout and gentle soul; his spirit seemed to reach out to me.’
