01 - Memories of the Dead (3 page)

Mrs Greengage’s house was a middle terrace with thick
green drapes and a rusty door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Clara and
Tommy arrived a few minutes before seven and politely waited outside the door
until it was opened by a robust lady dressed all in black. She had a slight
squint and observed them through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.

“Clara and Thomas Fitzgerald.”
Clara offered her hand to shake but Mrs Greengage didn’t move.

“You’re a little early.” She
gruffed.

Clara resisted the urge to
look at her watch which she knew would be registering five to seven. She wasn’t
quite sure how to reply but fortunately Mrs Greengage filled the silence.

“You better come in. We are in
the parlour on the far left.” Mrs Greengage bustled down the corridor without
offering to help Clara negotiate the front step with Tommy’s wheelchair.

“I don’t like her already.”
She grumbled.

“Really? And she seemed such an
approachable sort.”

Finally in the door Clara
wheeled Tommy into the parlour as directed and entered a room straight out of
Dickens. There was a velveteen cover on every available surface, mostly in
black or dark green, and fussy fringes edged them all. Knick-knacks littered
the mantelpiece, sideboard and book case. A heavily patterned Persian rug
filled the floor space and fought for dominance in the room with the intricately
decorated flock wallpaper. Clara thought she could be no more over-whelmed
until she saw the parrot.

Perched on a tall stand beside
a circular table the bird was pure white except for its crest which was a vivid
yellow. It raised this crest at the new arrivals in a mildly threatening manner
before saying.

“Hello Clara and Thomas
Fitzgerald.”

“Good lord!” Tommy started in
amazement, “How did they teach it to do that?”

Clara looked at the parrot
suspiciously but it offered no further conversation.

“You can take a seat.” Mrs
Greengage appeared behind them, trailed by an optimistic looking Mrs Wilton.

Clara’s heart sank as she saw
the plainly hopeful look on her client’s face. She wanted to wring Mrs
Greengage’s neck for playing so cruelly on someone’s grief and desperation, but
she remembered Tommy’s words and managed to keep silent as they took their
places at the table.

Mrs Greengage took a chair and
ruffled a veil strategically around her neck.

“This is Augustus,” She
motioned to the parrot, “He is a fifth century reincarnated druid priest.”

“Is he.” Clara said, earning a
sharp nudge from her brother.

“Augustus uses the powers of
the ancients to channel spirits into me. He is a conduit to the afterlife and
as such deserves a little respect, Miss Fitzgerald.”

The slightly off-centre gaze
of the medium pinned Clara and she felt oddly put out that her comment had been
so astutely picked up.

“My normal sessions with Mrs
Wilton involve communication with her late husband, but as we have guests she
has kindly offered to set her own needs aside so I may contact spirits
connected to you, Miss Fitzgerald.”

Clara glanced at Tommy
uncomfortably.

“You must give me a moment to
prepare.” Mrs Greengage pulled her veil over her head so that it nearly
entirely masked her face, then she rested her arms on the table, palms up, with
her thumb and forefinger pinched together.

“Would everyone join hands and
relax.” She whispered from behind the veil.

Mrs Wilton brandished her hand
eagerly at Tommy who took it and, in turn, offered his hand to Clara. She had
her hands tightly balled in her lap, but with everyone looking at her she
reluctantly removed one and clasped Tommy’s hand.

“Take deep breaths.” Mrs
Greengage commanded taking her own long, deep breath, “Clear your mind and
think of the person you would like to contact.”

Clara obeyed, but with
chagrin, and when her mind was clear she filled it with thoughts of her cat,
Roger, who had died when she was twelve. It was a petty act of defiance but it
felt good.

Mrs Greengage was taking
deeper and deeper breaths, her ample chest rising and falling with a rattling
of the pearls about her neck. Tommy grimaced at Clara.

There… is… a man coming
through.” Mrs Greengage whispered in a strained tone.

“Is it Arthur?” Mrs Wilton
asked excitedly.

“No,” Mrs Greengage carried on
a in a singsong voice, “His name is…”

“Albert!” Cried out the
parrot.

Tommy gave Clara an
apprehensive look, but she was busy glaring at the parrot, lips narrowed into a
thin, blood-less, line.

“Does anyone know an Albert?”
Mrs Greengage asked.

Mrs Wilton shook her head in
disappointment. Tommy took a sidelong look at his sister and then said;

“My father’s name was Albert.”

Clara looked at him sharply,
but he refused to acknowledge her. Mrs Greengage was speaking in a drowsy voice
once more, her head dipping to her chest.

“Albert is a strong character,
he came through very quickly. He is wearing a tweed suit and has a small
moustache. Does that sound familiar?”

“Yes.” Tommy admitted.

“He has a gold watch in his
hand, he is pointing at it, trying to indicate the time maybe? No, the name,
the name on the watch.”

“Edwards and Sons.” Tommy said
softly.

“Yes, that’s it. But he
doesn’t seem happy, he is trying to give me the watch. Is it lost, this watch?”

“No, not lost.” Tommy said
uncomfortably, “Shut in a drawer, that’s all.”

“Ah, that explains it. He is
showing me the watch and then putting it on. He wants you to wear it.”

“Really?” Tommy gulped
awkwardly.

“It will help, he thinks.” Mrs
Greengage drew a raspy breath, “Now he is looking for Clara. Clara, are you
there?”

Mrs Wilton and Tommy both
turned to Clara expectantly. She glared at them and kept her mouth firmly shut.

“She’s here.” Mrs Wilton
answered for her.

“She doesn’t like this does
Clara, she thinks it is nonsense.” Mrs Greengage’s voice had taken on a
child-like quality and now she teased out the words, “Clara, Clara, daddy’s
little girl, all grown up and with a mind of her own. A mind she is proud of,
but what does daddy think of her running around playing detective?”

“Don’t you dare.” Clara hissed
though her teeth.

“Albert doesn’t approve,
hardly lady-like, is it? He wants you to give up the whole business, Clara.”

Tommy held tightly to his
sister’s hand as she trembled with contained anger.

“You are putting words into my
father’s mouth.” Clara said as calmly as she could manage.

“No dear, he is putting words
into mine.” Mrs Greengage seemed to be smiling beneath the veil, “Why can’t you
go get married Clara, like a good girl, he says? He only wants to see you settled.
This business of yours will only end in heartache and for what? Chasing around
for lost dogs and missing relatives? Albert is really unhappy.”

“If you think I am fooled by
these lies…” Clara began but Tommy pinched her hand and motioned to Mrs Wilton
with his eyes.

“Albert is moving back.” Mrs
Greengage whispered, “Back, back into the mists. Goodbye Albert. He sends his
love to his dear children and now he is gone and the mist is clearing.”

“Gone!” The parrot squawked
merrily.

Mrs Greengage pulled back her
veil and blinked her eyes as though coming out of a dream.

“Did Arthur come through?” She
asked innocently.

“No.” Sighed Mrs Wilton, “And
I was so hoping to be able to speak to him about paying the greengrocer.”

Tommy stared at her mystified,
but was then distracted by Clara standing.

“There are refreshments.” Mrs
Greengage waved at a side table, “First time guests often find a sherry
necessary.”

“I am not staying, thank you.”
Clara was pulling on her gloves as fast as she could.     

“Clara!” Tommy hissed at her,
“Remember what you are here for!”

Clara paused with one glove on
and visibly composed herself.

“Perhaps a small sherry.” She
said with difficulty.

Mrs Greengage sprang up and
started organising drinks. Stiffly Clara returned to her seat.

“Interesting, wasn’t it?” Mrs
Wilton whispered across the table.

“Enlightening.” Clara said
dryly.

“Fancy your father coming
through first time.” Mrs Wilton continued, “That is pretty special.”

“It was a little frightening.”
Tommy conceded.

“Don’t be afraid.” Mrs
Greengage had returned with the drinks, “It is like talking to someone on these
new telephones.”

“Except the caller is dead.”
Tommy said bluntly, “And this thing about the watch?”

“Spirits are just people and
they have their own desires and wishes. Your father wants only the best for
you.”

“How long have you been a
clairvoyant?” Clara interjected, but Tommy was relieved to see that she looked
calm and ready to unravel this puzzle.

“Since I was a child. “ Mrs
Greengage said slowly and with a slight hint of hesitancy, “I inherited the
gift from my grandmother, she was descended from a Romany family.”

“Did she conduct séances?”
Clara asked without a hint of malice.

Mrs Greengage took several
moments to answer.

“It was not the ‘done thing’
in her day.” She finally replied.

“Come, come, Spiritualism is
not exactly new.” Clara persisted.

“Some people view the power to
speak to the dead as a little unsettling. My grandmother preferred to keep
things private.”

“And now?”

“Now?”

“You hold séances.”

Mrs Greengage paused.

“Times are changing.” She said
darkly.

Tommy sipped his sherry with a
frown and watched his sister out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t sure what
to make of the whole event; the news about the watch had unsettled him. How
could anyone know about that except for himself and Clara?

“Have you anymore questions?”
Mrs Greengage asked directly to Clara.

“Only one. Is it common for
spirits to come through with riddles instead of clear messages?”

Mrs Greengage looked perplexed
for a minute and then her eyes fell on Mrs Wilton and she grasped Clara’s
point.

“Not common, no. But everyone
is different whether they are dead or alive.”

Just then the parrot gave a
strangled cry and fell from its perch with a thud to the floor.

“Augustus?” Mrs Greengage
said, anxiously reaching out for the bird.

“Dead drunk.” Tommy whispered
in Clara’s ear, motioning at Mrs Greengage’s sherry glass, “He was helping
himself.”

“Augustus?” Mrs Greengage had
the parrot in her hands and was shaking him gently.

“Oh dear, should we consult a
vet?” Mrs Wilton fluttered.

The medium now had her ear to
the bird’s chest. Augustus’ head hung back limply, a thin grey tongue protruded
from his beak.

“He’s dead!” Mrs Greengage
wailed.

“Let me see.” Tommy reached
out for the bird which was handed over by the distraught clairvoyant.

Tommy gently splayed out one
of the bird’s wings and felt down between the edge of the feathers and the
ribcage for a heartbeat. The room fell silent as everyone awaited the verdict.
After failing to find a heartbeat Tommy felt the bird’s tongue, which was cold
and dry. He spent a few more moments looking for any sign of life, then shook
his head morosely at Mrs Greengage.

The medium burst into floods
of tears and Clara overcame her previous feelings to reach gently forward and
clasp one of her hands.

“These things happen.” She
soothed.

“Oh dear.” Mrs Wilton looked
uncomfortable from one person to the next, “Oh dear.”

Tommy carefully laid the dead
parrot in the centre of the table, its wings neatly folded close to its sides.

“I’m terribly sorry.” He said.

“He was in his prime.” Mrs
Greengage sobbed, “I bought him before the war. He lived through the German
bombardment, even if the stress did cause him to lose most of his feathers. He
had just finished growing them all back!”

There was a timid knock on the
door.

“Go away Ernie!” Mrs Greengage
snapped.

But the door opened anyway and
a little balding man with a moustache crept in.

“I heard the noise.” He said
softly, “What has happened?”

“Augustus is dead!” Mrs
Greengage wept.

The man called Ernie shuffled
around the table and patted the fraught clairvoyant lightly on the back.

“There, there.” He said
absently.

“There, there!” Mimicked Mrs Greengage
angrily, “Did you not understand, Augustus is dead!”

“Yes, yes… of course, dear.” Ernie
looked anxiously at the guests.

“I think this is Mr
Greengage.” Clara whispered to her brother, “Perhaps it is time we excused
ourselves.”

“Definitely.” Said Tommy.

Clara rose from her seat and
coughed politely into her hand.

“Perhaps we had best be going?”
She suggested.

Ernie nodded.

“Yes, perhaps that would be
best.”

With a flummoxed Mrs Wilton
following them the Fitzgeralds left the hubbub of the terrace house and stepped
out into the relative calm of the night.

“Well I never.” Mrs Wilton
said as she stood on the garden path and looked back at the house, “Do you
suppose the spirits took him?”

“Beg your pardon?” Said Clara.

“Spirits! They can be a
dangerous business, they can draw the very life-force of a medium.”

“Yes, I read about that in one
of those books I got from the library. It was top of the list on warnings.”
Tommy added.

“Honestly!” Clara scowled at
the pair of them, “What nonsense! Birds die all the time. Our great aunt was
forever buying new canaries because the last one had popped its clogs only
after a month or so of singing in the sitting room.”