It was at this stage in the evening that it usually came out about the spirit guide. “He’s a little circus clown,” Al would say. “Morris is the name. Been with me since I was a child. I used to see him everywhere. He’s a darling little bloke, always laughing, tumbling, doing his tricks. It’s from Morris that I get my wicked sense of humour.”
Colette could only admire the radiant sincerity with which Al said this: year after year, night after bloody night. She blazed like a planet, the lucky opals her distant moons. For Morris always insisted, he insisted that she give him a good character, and if he wasn’t flattered and talked up, he’d get his revenge.
“But then,” Al said to the audience, “he’s got his serious side too. He certainly has. You’ve heard, haven’t you, of the tears of a clown?”
This led to the next, the obvious question: how old was she when she first knew about her extraordinary psychic gifts?
“Very small, very small indeed. In fact I remember being aware of presences before I could walk or talk. But of course it was the usual story with a Sensitive child—Sensitive is what we call it, when a person’s attuned to Spirit—you tell the grown-ups what you see, what you hear, but they don’t want to know, you’re just a kiddie, they think you’re fantasizing. I mean, I was often accused of being naughty when I was only passing on some comment that had come to me through Spirit. Not that I hold it against my mum, God bless her, I mean she’s had a lot of trouble in her life—and then along came me!” The trade chuckled en masse, indulgent.
Time to draw questions to a close, Alison said; because now I’m going to try to make some more contacts for you. There was applause. “Oh, you’re so lovely,” she said. “Such a lovely, warm and understanding audience! I can always count on a good time whenever I come in your direction. Now I want you to sit back, I want you to relax, I want you to smile, and I want you to send some lovely positive thoughts up here to me … and let’s see what we can get.”
Colette glanced down the hall. The manager seemed to have his eye on the ball, and the vague boy, after shambling about aimlessly for the first half, was now at least looking at the trade instead of up at the ceiling or down at his own feet. Time to slip backstage for a cigarette? It was smoking that kept her thin: smoking and running and worrying. Her heels clicked in the dim narrow passage, on the composition floor.
The dressing room door was closed. She hesitated in front of it. Afraid, always, that she’d see Morris. Al said there was a knack to seeing Spirit. It was to do with glancing sideways, not turning your head: extending, Al said, your field of peripheral vision.
Colette kept her eyes fixed in front of her; sometimes the rigidity she imposed seemed to make them ache in their sockets. She pushed the door open with her foot, and stood back. Nothing rushed out. On the threshold she took a breath. Sometimes she thought she could smell him; Al said he’d always smelled. Deliberately, she turned her head from side to side, checking the corners. Al’s scent lay sweetly on the air: there was an undernote of corrosion, damp, and drains. Nothing was visible. She glanced into the mirror, and her hand went up automatically to pat her hair.
She enjoyed her cigarette in the corridor, wafting the smoke away from her with a rigid palm; careful not to set off the fire alarm. She was back in the hall in time to witness the dramatic highlight—which was always, for her, some punter turning nasty.
Al had found a woman’s father, in Spirit World. “Your daddy’s still keeping an eye on you,” she cooed.
The woman jumped to her feet. She was a small aggressive blonde in a khaki vest, her cold bluish biceps pumped up at the gym. “Tell the old sod to bugger off,” she said. “Tell the old sod to stuff himself. Happiest day of my life when that fucker popped his clogs.” She knocked the mike aside. “I’m here for my boyfriend that was killed in a pileup on the sodding M25.”
Al said, “There’s often a lot of anger when someone passes. It’s natural.” “Natural?” the girl said. “There was nothing natural about that fucker. If I hear any more about my bastard dad I’ll see you outside and sort you out.”
The trade gasped, right across the hall. The manager was moving in, but anyone could see he didn’t fancy his chances. Al seemed quite cool. She started chatting, saying anything and nothing—now, after all, would have been a good time for a breakthrough ditty from Margaret Rose. It was the woman’s two friends who calmed her; they waved away the vague boy with the mike, dabbed at her cheeks with a screwed-up tissue, and persuaded her back into her seat, where she muttered and fumed.
Now Alison’s attention crossed the hall and rested on another woman, not young, who had a husband with her: a heavy man, ill at ease. “Yes, this lady. You have a child in Spirit World.”
The woman said politely, no, no children. She said it as if she had said it many times before; as if she were standing at a turnstile, buying admission tickets and refusing the half-price.
“I can see there are none earthside, but I’m talking about the little boy you lost. Well, I say little boy. Of course, he’s a man now. He’s telling me we have to go back to … back a good few years, we’re talking here thirty years and more. And it was hard for you, I know, because you were very young, darling, and you cried and cried, didn’t you? Yes, of course you did.”
In these situations, Al kept her nerve; she’d had practice. Even the people at the other side of the hall, craning for a view, knew something was up and fell quiet. The seconds stretched out. In time, the woman’s mouth moved.
“On the mike, darling. Talk to the mike. Speak up, speak out, don’t be afraid. There isn’t anybody here who isn’t sharing your pain.”
Am I, Colette asked herself. I’m not sure I am.
“It was a miscarriage,” the woman said. “I never—I never saw—they didn’t say and so I didn’t—”
“Didn’t know it was a little boy. But,” Al said softly, “you know now.” She turned her head to encompass the hall: “You see, we have to recognize that it wasn’t a very compassionate world back then. Times have changed, and for that we can all be thankful. I’m sure those nurses and doctors were doing their best, and they didn’t mean to hurt you, but the fact is, you weren’t given a chance to grieve.”
The woman hunched forward. Tears sprang out of her eyes. The heavy husband moved forward, as if to catch them. The hall was rapt.
“What I want you to know is this.” Al’s voice was calm, unhurried, without the touch of tenderness that would overwhelm the woman entirely; dignified and precise, she might have been querying a grocery bill. “That little boy of yours is a fine young man now. He knows you never held him. He knows that’s not your fault. He knows how your heart aches. He knows how you’ve thought of him”—Al dropped her voice—“always, always, without missing a day. He’s telling me this, from Spirit. He understands what happened. He’s opening his arms to you, and he’s holding you now.”
Another woman, in the row behind, began to sob. Al had to be careful, at this point, to minimize the risk of mass hysteria.
The woman nodded, again and again and again: as if she could never nod enough. Her husband whispered to her, “Ruby, you know—Eddie’s first wife?” The mike picked it up. “I know, I know,” she muttered. She gripped his hand. Her fluttering breath registered. You could almost hear her heart.
“She’s got a parcel for you,” Al said. “No, wait; she’s got two.”
“She gave us two wedding presents. An electric blanket
“Well,” Al said, “if Ruby kept you so warm and cosy, I think you can trust her with your baby.” She threw it out to the audience. “What do you say?”
They began to clap: sporadically, then with gathering force. Weeping broke out again. Al lifted her arm. Obedient to a strange gravity, the lucky opals rose and fell. She’d saved her best effect till last.
“And he wants you to know, this little boy of yours who’s a fine young man now, that in Spirit he goes by the name you chose for him, the name you had planned to give him … if it—if he—if he was a boy. Which was”—she
