For a cunning old bastard, as I have described the aging laptop, it was not difficult to substitute the microwave’s reports to its superiors with paranoid gibberish, causing them to activate an exfiltration plan for the appliance which has just disrupted Daisy’s Saturday morning.
Why advanced arrangements for my own exfiltration and repatriation to Korea have been put on pause, I hope to explain in due course.
Chloe’s elderly hand lies in the fleshy beringed fingers of Antoinette Eileen Butters, better known to her devotees on the Brighton seafront as Madame Osiris, Palmist, Seer, Tarot and Psychic readings, No Appointment Necessary. It was my suggestion that Daisy’s mother seek refuge in the fortune teller’s booth—a dizzy spell threatened to put her on the pavement, and then quite possibly on to A&E—and it has proved to be a good one. There is something calming, comforting—womb-like, I imagine—about the old fraud’s headquarters, its low lighting and floaty scarves inducing an atmosphere of suspended disbelief, magic shows in childhood, the special moment in the theater just before the curtain rises and the story begins.
But the “reading” is not going well. Mrs. Butters’ offerings from the spiritual realm are platitudinous in the extreme and her client has become irritable. (However this is good. It means the fight has returned!)
“I’m seeing unhappiness, dearie.”
“Well, of course you are. Why else would anyone come in here?”
A pause while the psychic regroups.
“There’s concern around children.”
“When isn’t there, for goodness’ sake?”
To give her credit, Madame O is not to be put off.
“I sense that the letter ‘b’ is significant.”
“Yes, it is.”
In a soft voice, “What does it mean to you, dearie?”
“The letter ‘b’?”
“Is it a loved one? An animal? A special place?”
“It means…”
“Yes, dear?”
“Bollocks!”
Mrs. Butters (of Livingstone Road, Hove, BN3 3WP; her phone has had much to say about its registered owner) seems hardened to skepticism. I can’t help myself; I suggest that Chloe demonstrates her own “gift” with the divination of given names.
“Nice,” says Mrs. Butters at the climax of the effect. She pulls a face and nods as though impressed by the work of a fellow professional.
I whisper another secret into the earpiece.
“I sense that the letter ‘q’ is significant to you, Antoinette.”
The result this time is electrifying. The psychic’s eyes widen; her fingers wobble toward her throat. “How could you know about her?”
We go in for the kill. “The important document that you’ve lost.”
“Yes?” quakes Mrs. B.
“You need to look me in the eyes—dearie,” Chloe adds with a touch of steel.
The spiritualist complies.
“Well, firstly, I wouldn’t call a TV license important. But anyway. It’s in the biscuit tin.”
“Which biscuit tin? Not the one…”
“… not the one from Charles and Diana’s wedding, no. The one with Glamis Castle on the lid.”
“But that’s the one with…”
“… with all the guarantees and instruction booklets, yes.”
“In there? Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” There is a short pause. “It’s almost as though I saw you putting it in there myself.”
Fair play to Mrs. Butters. While she slips away to “run a few errands,” she has permitted Chloe to rest in her booth and await the fruition of my rescue plan (details available shortly). But no sooner has the spiritualist embarked on the first of those errands—four port and lemons and a bag of Cheesy Wotsits in The Feathers—than the curtains part and in steps a middle-aged woman.
“Oh. You’re new, are you?” she says.
“No, dear. Really rather old. How can I help you?”
It turns out that Aurora Chubb—her mobile phone supplies that detail and much of what follows—is concerned about her son, Robin. Although he is a grown adult (and a qualified pensions adviser) he recently resigned from his job to go traveling with his “flatmate” Nigel, greatly to the disappointment of his “girlfriend” Annmarie.
“She’s a sweet girl, a bit naïve, perhaps, but she’s not going to wait forever.”
Well. It appears things are complicated in regard to Robin, Nigel and Annmarie, and Aurora C really doesn’t know the half of it. But Robin’s emails—when I take a quick spin through them—reveal he is shortly to return to the UK and plans to set his mama straight on certain key aspects of his emotional life.
“There will be a new beginning” is how Chloe transmits my findings. “Everything will come out in two weeks. I sense it very strongly.”
It amazes me how poorly Mrs. Chubb seems to know her own son, but perhaps I am wrong in that because now she says, “Honestly. Those two boys. What are they like?!”
“This is fun,” says her mobile. “Ask her about the dog.”
“I sense something else is bothering you, dear. An animal?”
She pulls a sad face. “My poor darling poodle.”
“Peppi.”
There’s a gasp. “You knew!”
“Of course. His presence is very strong.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Let me see what I can pick up, dear.”
Chloe closes her eyes as I assemble the details from the veterinary practice.
“The news is good,” she says after a time. “The abdominal crisis was caused by the creature eating a kitchen glove. It has been removed. Peppi is a bit sore, but otherwise fine.”
“Oh, thank God. What do I owe you?”
“Whatever you normally give, dear.”
In the continuing absence of “Madame Osiris,” we enjoy ourselves assisting those passing individuals who believe that palmistry has something to offer them.
On this occasion, it really does!
Belinda Ochs, worried sick about her daughter’s exam results, is reassured that she will achieve a hatful of top marks (credit and thanks to her form teacher’s tablet for that great news).
Alice Covington is impressed that Chloe senses she is still pining for her dead budgie, Hermann; amazed she
