He said that was what her Gypsy mother had done to him. She’d taken hold of his soul, imprisoned it within the thick, crazed glass of her crystal ball. She’d never let him go until he cracked. He warned his daughter against glamour. She had listened.
Fran stared at her brothers and her mother as they went on to talk quietly, half articulately, about other things. About riding out to Barnard Castle. Selling bits of junk from dead people’s houses to the greedy antique dealers. They were making plans, chuckling and hoarding. I haven’t got anything to do with them, Fran thought, and had a pang of missing her father, dead seventeen years.
“I’m going home,” Fran said, after lunch. No coffee. “I’m walking back.”
“You’ve hardly been here,” her mother said.
The thing about being under spells, her father said, is that you never know. You wake up one morning years after, and see that your life and your most crucial decisions have been made up while you were living half-asleep.
TWENTY-FIVE
I took my knitting with me. But as soon as Tom opened his mouth, I knew I wouldn’t get any done. He was compelling. Like he always was.
He said, “I want you there, Elsie. Even if all you’re doing is knitting, you are still by my side, giving me strength. I need your strength when I work with Liz.” Even though I wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘work’, I went to support him.
Knitting relaxes me. It takes on a life of its own. When they get going the needles rattle and whirr, and it seems as if they’re working me, instead of the other way round. Hospital bedsides are a good place to go knitting. You can chew up all the empty hours. Sitting by Liz I went through ball after ball.
I was making baby things. I said they were for a friend. Sexless yellow things, booties and little dresses. Only I knew who they were really for. I was embarrassed. When Craig and Penny were together and living round mine, those few, brief weeks, this was my — what do you call it? —subterfuge. I said I was stocking up with baby clothes for a friend of mine. And all the time I meant them. I was imagining a Christmas birth for their child. I was hastening them on with my needles. Grandmothers have to dream like this.
That’s all gone now. Here I am, still making the stupid things. I can’t seem to stop. They’re perfect.
I have the beginning of new booties on my lap as Tom begins to talk. He’s taking over from Nesta. Nesta has warmed Liz up. She’s drawn her out into her half-trance. Now Tom can talk with her. Work with her.
What nonsense has Nesta been pouring into Liz’s head? If what Tom says is right, then Liz can understand everything Nesta has been saying. They have a link.
I asked her, “Nesta, what did you say to her? What did you tell Liz to make her talk?”
That was last night. Tom insisted we went round to Nesta’s house. He had seen the piece in the paper. He wanted to know what gift the woman had, that she could speak with the afflicted like this. Tom was very eager. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was covetous of Nesta’s gift.
What all the women say is right. Even after the bonfire Nesta’s house is a pigsty inside. It’s like she never lifts a finger. The windows were filthy, brown with dirt, inside and out. In the living room where she invited us to sit on her manky old settee, I counted six half-emptied bottles of Coca-Cola. She was friendlier and chirpier than usual, glowing from her exposure in the paper. Already a clipping was in a flowery frame on top of the telly.
Tom repeated my question. “Why was it you, do you think, Nesta, that Liz responded to? What did you say?”
Nesta looked him up and down. She knew she had power here. She could see how keen Tom was. She seemed to decide to help, and thought hard. “I was just talking…with Big Sue, the first time it happened. We were just talking about the telly and that.”
Tom nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin. He looked like he was going to pray. That was how he carried on when he was religious. A great shadow would come over his face. His nose all hooked and his mouth grim. He has got that religious look back and it makes me wonder if that means God’s coming back into our lives. I hope not. We’ve been getting on so well these past few weeks.
“The telly?” he asked.
Nodding sagely, Nesta said, “We realised that she likes it when we talk about stuff on the telly.” She sat right back in her armchair, looking composed and pleased with herself. She looked like she was in a documentary. “We were talking about Heartbeat — you know, with Nick Berry —and she joined in. She said something to us and that’s when they were sure that she was coming back to proper life.”
“Do you think you are responsible for Liz coming back?” Tom asked.
“Oh, no,” said Nesta, full of meekness. “But I think I’ve done my bit to help.”
Tom nodded. He seemed to struggle with an important idea until he told her, “There is a bridge between this life and another. Liz was crossing that bridge. I think you have called out to her in a loud and friendly voice. And I think she has heard you, Nesta.”
“Good!” said Nesta.
“Her spirit has given pause for thought on its journey. She is caught on the bridge and can be coaxed either way. If she wants to, she can come back, by following your voice. You have shown her a way. Given her spirit the chance to decide.”
Nesta smiled. “She must like the sound of my
