You'll Never See Me Again

by Lesley Pearse

  She was getting a reaction from the penknife, almost like a tingle in the tips of her fingers. She took her hand away because Beatrice was in mid-flow, talking about someone at a party. From what Mabel could gather, because she hadn’t heard the start of it, this person must have upset someone here tonight and it had never been resolved.

  ‘She is apologizing,’ Beatrice proclaimed, once again making very flamboyant gestures with her hands. ‘She said she always knew she should have come to you, Amy, and explained. But you were so angry with her, she was afraid.’

  A round of applause appeared to be the end of that little story. Mabel just wished she knew what the person had done to poor Amy. The woman in question was in the front row, beaming like a Cheshire cat, so presumably she had accepted the apology and forgiven the now dead person.

  Beatrice then turned towards Mabel. ‘Do you have any messages for anyone here tonight?’

  In a flash of intuition Mabel realized the older woman didn’t really want her to display any evidence that a spirit was talking through her. But the suspicion the woman could be a fraud was enough to make Mabel more determined.

  She lifted the penknife, and immediately that faint sensation in her fingertips came back and she felt herself slipping into that same sleepy trance-like state she’d experienced before.

  Mabel came out of the trance to a storm of applause.

  For a moment or two she thought she’d fainted, because she felt so strange and light-headed. But a shabbily dressed woman was standing in front of her, tears streaming down her face. She looked at least thirty-five but was extremely thin and clearly worn down by hardship, so was probably younger.

  ‘I can’t believe you could know so much about us,’ she said. ‘Bless you, Mabel. Thank you so much. I have new hope now.’

  ‘What is your name? I don’t know what you are thanking me for,’ Mabel said, panicking a little. ‘I have no memory of what I said or did. Please tell me.’

  ‘I’m Sarah Painter. You told me it was Harold’s penknife. Harold is my husband. He joined up in 1916, and after only a couple of months I got a telegram to say he was missing, presumed dead. It was awful. I have three small children – at that time, the youngest was still a babe in arms. But you said he’s a prisoner of war and he’ll be coming home, just as soon as they’ve signed some treaty.’

  ‘The Treaty of Versailles,’ Mabel said. ‘That will be later this year, I think. But why didn’t he let you know he was a POW?’

  ‘You asked him that, Mabel. We all heard you, and you told us he said he couldn’t read or write. That was true. He couldn’t. He was so ashamed of it, he never told anyone if he could help it. Even I didn’t know till after we were married.’

  ‘He could have got someone else to write to you,’ Mabel said. ‘Why didn’t he?’

  Sarah shrugged and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Silly bugger was too proud, I expect. You told him off and said he was lucky I still loved him.’

  Mabel was astounded. She really couldn’t believe it was possible to have a conversation with a spirit in such depth. And if Harold was alive, why was a spirit even involved? But as shaky as she was, she knew she had to put Sarah on the right track to get help.

  ‘Well, Sarah, you don’t need to go through someone like me. You get in touch with the Red Cross and they’ll tell you where he is. If he’s alive, you should’ve been getting money too. I presume you do want him back with you?’

  Sarah’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Oh yes, of course I do.’

  ‘Well, that about wraps that one up.’ Beatrice interrupted, her tone a little abrasive. ‘Let’s just hope the message from Harold was accurate.’

  Mabel decided in that moment she would not stay the night with Beatrice. She had a strong suspicion the woman had set her up to fail. Why? It was a mystery to her. Maybe Coral had been overly enthusiastic about the young woman she’d just met, and it had made her jealous? Or possibly Beatrice had fooled Coral about her abilities, and now she was afraid Mabel would find her out and denounce her.

  Whatever was going on, Mabel wasn’t going to stay. She stood up, thanked everyone in the room, and said she was sorry she couldn’t help anyone else tonight, because she had to go home.

  ‘I’m sorry, Beatrice,’ she said, turning to the older woman. ‘But these people here want to see you, anyway. Thank you for supper tonight.’

  With that she picked up her coat and bag and made for the door as quickly as possible.

  Her luck was in; she caught the last train back to Dorchester. It was fortunate she hadn’t taken her nightdress and washing things out of her bag and left them at Beatrice’s. But once she’d congratulated herself on that, and how she’d taken the wind out of the older woman’s sails, her mind then turned to how communicating with the dead worked.

  Why would a man’s voice come to her because she’d held his penknife? It was weird enough if he was dead, but astoundingly strange if Harold was alive! This didn’t work like a telephone, after all. Unless, of course, a spirit was acting as a mediator?

  What if Harold was, in fact, dead and she’d got the message wrong?

  That possibility made her stomach lurch and she thought she was going to be sick. He might have been taken prisoner but had recently died of Spanish flu. That could explain it. But now she’d given poor Sarah false hope he was coming back!

  She really wished she’d never gone to the meeting tonight. When she’d thought of catching the train back home on her way to Southampton, she should’ve trusted her instincts.

  14

  Clara was still up when Mabel got home, and over a cup of cocoa Mabel blurted out what had happened.

  ‘I’m not doing it again, and that’s that,’ Mabel said. ‘It’s wrong. That poor woman, I’ve told her that her husband is coming home, and she is so happy. What is it going to do to her if I’m wrong?’

  But to her surprise, Clara thought she was overreacting. ‘I don’t believe you got it wrong. You came out with stuff that only Harold’s wife knew about. I can’t explain why a message from someone who is alive should come through, but why not? Perhaps poor Harold was worried sick about Sarah not knowing, and that’s why it got to you.’

  ‘A bit too convenient, if you ask me,’ Mabel said.

  ‘You are just doubting your ability, and that’s partly to do with that Beatrice woman. If she is putting on a kind of show, and faking it, that is very tasteless and cruel. So maybe the spirits wanted to show her up by speaking through you, with something important.’

  ‘Pigs might fly,’ Mabel said dourly.

  ‘I believe in you, Mabel. I’ve no explanation as to how you could speak in my father’s voice, but I’m so glad you did. It made me happy to hear him. Other people deserve to have that experience too.’

  ‘Maybe so. But I’m not doing it any more.’

  ‘You didn’t intend to do it for me,’ Clara reminded her. ‘Besides, what about the doing it for money, like you said you were going to do?’

  Mabel laughed then; Clara always seemed to be able to make her see the funny side of things.

  ‘There must be a way to make some money without calling up the dead,’ she said. ‘Maybe I need to ask the spirits to tell me how?’

  ‘Don’t close the door on this just yet. There could be some reason why you’ve been chosen to receive messages. Your gift might help someone, like it did me when I heard from my father.’

  Mabel pondered on that for a moment or two.

  ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I know one thing. I’ll never be prepared to do it in a big hall like that again. One on one, maybe.’

  The rest of February slipped past and all at once March came in. As the daffodils sprang up in the garden, so the reported cases of Spanish flu subsided. Mabel wasn’t needed at the camp any more, and the men were all waiting for the day when they could return home.

  At the end of March, Mabel and Clara went into Southampton to do some shopping.

/>   They went down to the quayside first, where they saw a boat docking with hundreds of British soldiers on the decks, cheering and waving. As they watched, jostled by a throng of women waiting eagerly for husbands, sons and sweethearts, the wounded and stretcher cases were brought off.

  They had seen pictures of this very scene in the newspapers many times. But this was the first time they’d witnessed first-hand the real savagery of war, seeing men who had given everything for their country and would now struggle to live a normal life again and to find work. It was just one more reminder of what this war had cost.

  The sight of the wounded took the shine off the day. They still went to the shops, but their hearts weren’t really in it, and although they had intended to stay later and have a meal out, they went back to the station early.

  As they got there, a train was about to leave. A young man leapt out of the train and took the few packages they had in their hands. He helped them both into the carriage, where an elderly couple and another man were already seated.

  The man who had helped them was around thirty, slim, dark-haired with a neat little moustache. He was very well dressed in a dark suit. He lifted their packages into the luggage rack before sitting down opposite them, next to the other lone man who was similarly dressed, and rather alike, but a few years older.

  ‘That was terribly good of you,’ Clara said. ‘I think the guard would’ve signalled to the driver to leave, if not for your timely intervention.’

  ‘May I ask where you are going?’ he said, looking so intently at Mabel that she blushed.

  ‘Dorchester,’ Clara responded. ‘And you?’

  ‘We’re going to Dorchester too,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m Thomas Kellaway, and this is my brother Michael. We are going to see our aunt. Perhaps you know her? Leticia Kellaway.’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ Clara said, suddenly a lot more animated. ‘She paints in watercolours, and we met at an art exhibition a couple of years before the war. We got on like a house on fire, and every now and then we meet up for tea in town. But I haven’t seen her in a while. Like everyone else, I’ve kept away from tea shops and other crowded places because of the flu. Do give her my best wishes and suggest we meet up again soon. I do hope she is well?’

  ‘When we spoke on the telephone a couple of days ago, she was fine – delighted that spring seemed to have arrived.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that. But I didn’t tell you who we are,’ Clara said. ‘I’m Clara May, and this is my friend and companion, Mabel Brook.’

  ‘You must be the illustrator Aunt Leticia spoke of,’ Michael, the older brother, said. ‘You live in that pretty cottage by the river. We usually walk along there when we are visiting. A lovely spot. But what about you, Miss Brook, do you paint or draw?’

  Mabel was touched that Clara had said she was her friend and companion, and she had the sneaky feeling it was because she thought Thomas was ideal for her.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘She’s a wonderful cook, though,’ Clara said quickly. ‘And so kind, she volunteered to nurse at the POW camp. I was always terrified she would get the flu too. But as it turned out, I got it, and then she nursed me back to health.’

  ‘That was kind, and very brave,’ Thomas said, his dark eyes looking right into hers. ‘I can’t draw or paint, and I wasn’t a terribly good soldier either, but now that’s all over I’m hoping I can still remember enough about law to pick up my old career.’

  ‘You’ve just got back from France?’ Mabel ventured.

  ‘I was wounded in the leg last October, and I was shipped home,’ he said with a smile. ‘Michael had a far worse wound in the stomach, so he’d been back for three months before I arrived. Aunt Leticia must have moved heaven and earth for us, as we ended up convalescing in the same place in Bridport. They set us free three weeks ago.’

  ‘Are your parents in Dorchester too?’ Clara asked.

  ‘No, they lived in Shaftesbury. We grew up there,’ Michael said. ‘Father died back in 1915, and Mother sadly caught the Spanish flu last year and died too. I assume that’s why our aunt worked so hard to get us into the same place, I think she felt that on top of the horrors of war, our parents departing might be too much to bear.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mabel said. ‘That is incredibly sad for you both. But are you intending to stay in Dorchester now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m hoping to join a law practice there and stay with my aunt for the time being. Michael is a surveyor, but he hasn’t yet decided where he wants to live and work.’

  Michael smiled. ‘He wants me to stay close to him, poor baby brother!’

  They chatted about general things for the rest of the journey, leaving aside the war, Spanish flu and rationing. Then suddenly, in what seemed no time at all, they were coming into Dorchester.

  Thomas put on his hat and jumped out of the train first, before helping Mabel and Clara down with their packages. He then returned to the carriage and retrieved both his and Michael’s suitcases. It was only when he took his brother’s arm that they saw he walked with some difficulty.

  ‘May we call on you both sometime soon,’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I sincerely hope you will,’ Clara said. ‘But telephone first, so Mabel can bake one of her lovely cakes.’

  Andrews was waiting for them with his cab, and when Mabel looked back, she saw the two men walking out of the station, Thomas holding Michael’s arm.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Clara said, guessing she was worried about them. ‘Their aunt lives close by. Michael will be fine to walk that far, I think.’

  ‘They were a pleasant surprise,’ Mabel said as the horses trotted away from the station.

  ‘Very!’ Clara arched one eyebrow, making Mabel laugh.

  Thomas telephoned two days later, in the morning.

  ‘May we call in on you this afternoon? We thought we’d walk along the riverbank, as Michael needs to exercise more.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure to see you both again. Please come to tea,’ Clara said, waving her hand at Mabel joyfully. ‘About three?’

  ‘Are you matchmaking?’ Mabel chuckled. ‘Tea, indeed. I’d better rustle up some scones and a sponge.’

  ‘You liked Thomas, didn’t you?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, but why would a gentleman like him be interested in me?’

  ‘Because you are pretty, kind and stimulating company.’ Clara put her hands on her hips and glared at Mabel. ‘Don’t you dare put up obstacles. It will be soon enough to consider those if you fall in love and want to share a life together. For now, you just get to know him, have some fun, and be happy. That’s been in short supply for some time!’

  As Mabel made the sponge cake and the scones, all at once she thought of Carsten when he was eating the picnics she’d made last summer. She had a clear picture of him stripped to the waist, muscles rippling, and the sun on his blond hair making him look like a Greek god. When she called him to eat, he always put on his shirt, much to her disappointment. She wondered what Thomas would look like without his, and almost immediately felt cross with herself for thinking such cheeky thoughts.

  Thomas and Michael arrived almost on the dot of three, wearing light-coloured linen jackets and panama hats. This time, Michael had a walking stick. Both men were more handsome than she’d remembered, with golden-tinged skin, thick shiny hair and perfect teeth. But it was their eyes that she focused on – deep, dark forest pools, with the kind of long eyelashes any girl would wish for.

  Clara had decided it wasn’t warm enough to have tea in the garden, but she’d opened the French windows to let the garden in. She’d also dressed the table in a very pretty green cloth with matching napkins, and got out her best china.

  Mabel’s sponge cake with chocolate butter icing was on a raised cake plate, and the scones and dainty sandwiches were on a two-tier cake stand.

  Thomas looked at the table and smiled. ‘This is the kind of image we used to imagine in the trenches,’ he said. ‘Not ju
st me either, the enlisted men too. As they drank their big mugs of strong tea I’d hear them talking about their grandmother’s best tea set, scones, chocolate cake and dainty sandwiches.’

  ‘Really?’ Mabel said. ‘I would never have thought that.’

  ‘One day I heard a rather rough chap say, “I could never understand why the wife liked to go to tea shops. If I get back, I’ll take her to as many as she wants to go to. I’ll sip the tea from a bone china cup, delicately wipe my lips on a napkin, and never, ever say I’d rather have a mug of strong tea and a slice of bread and dripping.” Some of the other men clapped. They knew just what he meant.’

  ‘Let’s hope when the soldiers get home, they show a bit more appreciation for their wives,’ Clara said as they all sat down. ‘At the art class I used to run in Dorchester, the things some of the wives told me! One of their husbands complained his wife didn’t write him enough letters. She was writing to him most days. But except for that letter of complaint, he’d never written one to her!’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Leticia has told us a few stories like that. One farmer’s wife told her that she’d delivered their first baby, all by herself in the morning, when her husband was out in the fields. He came home at noon for his dinner and flew into a temper because she hadn’t got it ready,’ Michael said.

  ‘Has she left him now?’ Clara asked. ‘I’d have gone, at once.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Thomas said. ‘But you’ve got to remember, there is nowhere for most women to go if the marriage turns out to be a bad one. I’m hoping now the war is over, the government will show more flexibility on many things, especially giving women the vote and finding ways to help the very poorest people in our society.’

  ‘Sandwiches?’ Clara said, passing the plate round. ‘Egg and cress, or cheese and tomato. You’ve made me feel guilty now, Thomas, that I have so much. And I don’t do guilt very well.’

  The men laughed at that. Mabel smiled too, but she knew that, despite Clara’s privileged upbringing, the comfort she lived in, and her sometimes quite harsh remarks about the working classes, she was in fact very sympathetic towards them, and kind-hearted and generous to everyone. She just never wanted to expose that side of her personality.