Authors: Gail Jones
Three hyacinths:
Just that. Three sapphire-blue hyacinths in a single clay pot. They had the gravity of monuments and the perfection of Eden. And they had veins like strings, like those in old human hands.
The baby's head:
She had seen a beggar on the street, a girl not much older than herself, sitting on the footpath with a baby on her lap. The beggar held the baby in some particular way, at some very intimate and loving angle, that revealed its head as a fraction, as a sickle moon rising. Lucy reached into her pockets and gave the mother her single halfpenny, but would have given much more, in gratitude for whatever stirring intuition or clairvoyance or memory had moved her.
The bristle workers:
At the end of their street was a bristle factory: it manufactured scrubbing brushes and brooms in vast prickly quantities. Lucy saw women workers arriving early in the morning in friendly twos and threes, chattering as they entered the wide wooden doors of the building. In the evening she saw them again, sweeping out in larger groups, appearing subdued and exhausted. What she noticed was their hands. Some wore bandages of white linen, and held their hands up, a little way from their
bodies, carrying bags and parcels on their hefty arms. Under the lamplight the large hand-shapes looked almost inhuman. Lucy had no idea what toil the women performed, but saw simply this, that they left the factory, with soft golden light spilling out behind them, looking damaged and worn. It was a small community of women with painful hands.
The glass sheep:
They went to church very rarely, and then to the modest one around the corner with its white-framed brickwork, its weekly homily pasted, pathetically proclaiming, on a board at the front, and its bent metal spire, which held up a sad cross with vandalised spokes. They went for some reason Lucy has long since forgotten and sat bored, resentful and inattentive. Even Neville could hardly pretend his devotion. But a sudden shaft of light from outside hit a window of Christ and his flock, and the sun was instantly visible in the belly of a kneeling sheep. The stained Christ was lovely, as were the wheat sheaves and the clouds and the spikes of green grass, but only the humble sheep appeared truly supernatural, conveying the entire sun in its semi-transparent body. Lucy turned her rapt face towards it and thought to herself: this is God's language; he speaks in gatherings of light.
IN THEIR FIRST
five years or so in London they survived tolerably well. Neville worked at the company, Woodruff and Blood; Thomas and Lucy went intermittently to school; and they all managed their new lives by mutual strategies of hard work, and the suppression of mourning. But in 1866, when Lucy was fourteen, Neville was shamefully dismissed from his position as a clerk; he had been embezzling funds and gambling them, with regular unsuccess, on various loopy schemes and dodgy propositions. It was only his long service to the company that saved him from debtors' prison; besides, he was known as a jolly-good-fellow and an altogether-charming-chap, and thus only, it seemed, incidentally crooked. The family moved to smaller rooms in the cramped East End, and everything they had known once again shifted: Thomas and Lucy must both seek work; and Neville â who claimed in sorrowful tones that all he knew about was spices â was obliged to take whatever odd jobs came his way.
Something in Neville Brady crazed and cracked open. He felt alien in the world, and dislocated. He concocted schemes and designs â to open his own spice-importation business, to immigrate to Canada under a false name, to return to Australia. He would be like Magwitch, he thought, inventing his own Great
Expectations, falling out of visible history into secret possibilities. But unfunded, Neville's concoctions remained distant hopes. Instead, with time on his hands and a sense of inner collapse, he turned to spiritualism of various forms to assure and reconnect him to whatever spirited self he had once, long ago, inhabited: the child who ran along the ship deck, whooping with joy in the sunshine, expecting New Beginnings. Neville attended public talks on phrenology, mesmerism and Eastern religions, on palmistry, seances and gaseous experimentation. He sent away for pamphlets on do-it-yourself divination, scrying and life-after-death experiences. All manner of ghost-trapping and necromancy obsessed him. More specifically, Neville conceived the idea that he must communicate with Honoria: that her untimely death and lost infant and the dreadful consequences with Arthur, meant that something in the order of things, the immemorial order, was out of kilter, out of joint, and dangerously unquiet.
One morning Neville told the children of a medium, Madame d'Esperance, whose special talent was for summoning the tragically dead. “Ectoplasm!” declared Neville; “it is ectoplasm ghosts are composed of.” The children eyed their uncle suspiciously as he described an account on a handbill of spirit-world happenings: dead parents and grandparents, uncles and aunts, even next-door neighbours and favourite pets, had been conjured out of thin air at Madame d'Esperance's seances.
“The
gift
,” said Neville, with a fanatical tone. “She has the gift of seeing. Do you understand?”
Lucy and Thomas did not understand. They were embarrassed more by Neville's new enthusiasm than by his loss of work.
It was a thin still evening, flimsy as gauze, when Lucy accompanied Neville, holding his quivering hand, to Madame d'Esperance's Salon of Spiritual Experience. There were three
other customers, all nervy and earnest looking, and a maid servant bade them seat themselves at a round covered table. Candles were extinguished, then Madame made her entrance with a single candle held beneath her chin, so that she looked as if she wore a mask and was already lodged at some halfway point between the animate and the inanimate worlds. She appeared, thought Lucy, as if she would have a better claim with worlds infernal, than heavenly; Lucy suspected this bogus profundity and dramatic mien. In an accent of no known nation Madame commanded the participants link their little fingers in a circle around the table and then with great ceremony blew out the remaining candle.
At this point Lucy became intrigued and excited. In the darkness the others appeared as dapples in a penumbral gloom, shades of people rather than individuals, already transported in their simple and credulous sincerity to the outlandish realm in which linked bodies and gutted candles opened doors almost instantly to the space of death. Someone coughed and someone else bumped the table with an elbow. Anxieties, fantasies, wrenched and deformed griefs, hung as miasma in the air between them.
Before the session Madame d'Esperance had asked her clients to whom they wished to speak, and had elicited slim details and scraps of personal information. One man, a Mr Talbot, a fat weepy widower, was the first communicant, and when the medium summoned his wife she came as a high squeaking voice, issuing with shrill insistence from a corner of the room.
“Tubby!” she called. “Tubby, my love!” (for that was what Talbot had said she used to call him), adding, “for my sake marry again, within the year.”
It was a clear instruction. Lucy heard a gasp of recognition, and imagined Tubby relieved, even delighted, at his ghost-wife's
sound and compassionate advice. The other couple, the elderly Gillams, seeking their lost daughter, were told in straightforward and no uncertain terms that Miriam was invisibly present, floating somewhere nearby, but could only be contacted directly if they returned tomorrow evening. Lucy heard Mr Gillam hush his wife and saw their shapes lean together in commiseration.
When it was their turn Lucy could feel Neville stiffen beside her. Madame d'Esperance slumped in her chair then rose up again, and called out “Honoria, Honoria,” stretching the vowels to excruciating length. And then, to their horror, an apparition appeared.
“Ectoplasm,” whispered Neville.
There was a wavery light, like a reflection from water, and an imprecise face appeared slowly within it, the blurry outlines of eyes and a small mouth, a shadowy nimbus of hair, and a face-shape, definitely a face-shape, drifting high above them, somewhere near the ceiling. It did not speak or communicate, but hovered there in an implicitly posthumous flare, claiming to be the revenant Honoria Strange.
“Behold me!” it commanded.
Although Lucy knew in her heart of hearts that this was not her mother, and imagined devious trickery and hidden contraptions, she was nevertheless captivated by the summoning of such a luminous image. It hung for half a minute or so, an entirely peculiar vision, screened by some inscrutable means unknown, to produce this single liquid face. Lucy heard Uncle Neville let out a sob. Then another, then another, until he had broken the magic circle and dropped his head onto the table. The face disappeared and Madame d'Esperance lit the candle, then pronounced the seance successful and at an end. She said Neville must come again if he wished to hear his dead sister speak.
“Tomorrow,” she repeated. He must come again tomorrow.
When Lucy told Thomas about the seance later that night, they agreed it was specious, fraudulent and probably downright criminal.
“âPartickler when he see the ghost'!” Thomas joked.
But then he felt almost immediately ashamed of himself; mocking Neville was too disloyal. Besides, he had seriously wondered about whether his parents might exist as ghosts, and remembered seeing his father's face, violence-distressed and godforsaken, resting after his death on the hallway mirror. Thomas was too afraid to test his secret speculations. He wished he had not seen the face on the mirror. And he wished he had not told Lucy what he had seen. It was something that would follow him all his life, like having the wrong person's shadow, like carrying an aberration of presence, like dragging into the bright living world some heavy taint of the grave.
On Lucy's second and last visit with Neville to the Salon, Madame d'Esperance employed a planchette. Lucy had never heard of these instruments before: it was a thin piece of wood, shaped in a stretched triangle and mounted on small wheel castors with a pencil affixed to one end, pointing downwards. This device automatically wrote messages from somewhere beyond: it slid around the table, with Madame's guiding hand, forming letters in spidery spirit handwriting. When Madame d'Esperance revealed the message it was completely illegible. There was possibly a T, and possibly a Y, and a word that might, Mr Gillam thought, have spelled out “mustard”. Madame d'Esperance offered various inventive interpretations, but suggested Neville should return to use the little viewing eye of the planchette, which could be swept over a printed sheet of letters. In this way, she claimed, spirit messages â unimpeded â were spelled more precisely.
Lucy dreamed that her mother left scrawled and unreadable messages in dust on the surface of a hallway mirror. Her mystic writing pad. And for many years, on and off, she thought about the seance, and the make-believe face, and the unreliable planchette. She could not forget the anonymous image stretched like a sail upon the ceiling, or Uncle Neville's impassioned sobbing, given up for what he truly believed was his younger sister, recomposed above them, bright and imperative.
THOMAS
,
NOW SIXTEEN
, was apprenticed to a cooper, a job he found tiresome and almost demeaning. Unlike his employer, he could read and write, and thought it absurd that Uncle Neville had arranged things thus, so that he bent wood all day in heat-moulded curves, and held copper rings at the blazing forge, and shovelled away shit from beneath the carthorses. But Neville assured him that it was a short-term measure, a stopgap, he said, until he received sure intelligence of the future from Honoria, from the wise, all-knowing zone in which she now had her being. Neville saw the world simply bisected, the living and the dead, still communing, still corresponding, still offering each other advice, but despite his expensive visits to Madame d'Esperance's Salon, he had yet to discover how to rescue the children from the predicament into which he had cast them.
After only a month at the cooper's, Thomas learned the necessity of initiative and found his own employment, together with an advance in salary to break his indenture. He presented himself at Mr Martin Childe's Magic Lantern Establishment, and pronounced himself desirous of a career in the projection of images. Mr Martin Childe was a barrel-shaped man â he might, indeed, have been fashioned by a cooper â who wore corduroy trousers and jacket and a neck scarf tied
like a flower. He quizzed Thomas on the reason for his attraction to lantern technology and found in the boy a kindred spirit: both loved, above all, the phantasmagoria, the gruesome narratives of horror, spooks and unseemly violence, and neither, it seemed, enjoyed the Temperance slide shows, or the long, pious sequences on The Life of Christ in Palestine. Mr Childe thought Thomas respectable, intelligent and of excellent taste: he offered him a repast of corned beef and sherry and then employment at various tasks â taking admission, sweeping the auditorium, learning, by stages, the mechanisms of gas jets and lenses and star-dissolving taps (whatever they were). He held rectangles of images up to the window and demonstrated the rudimentary physics and optics by which lantern slides, hand-painted on glass, were enlivened by airy expansion into public vision. They shook hands vigorously as Thomas departed.
“Master Strange,” said Mr Childe â who relished Thomas's surname and used it frequently â “welcome, my boy, to the Childish Establishment!” Thomas could hardly believe his luck. He ran home along the High Street, whooping and leaping like a boy on a deck, and burst into their small rooms to greet Lucy and Neville with his eyes fired up and aglow, lively and bedazzling, like twin gas flames at an eight o'clock magic-lantern show.
LUCY COULD NOT
bring herself to seek work in the bristle factory, although the turnover was high and they often had positions vacant. She was disturbed by the thought of damage to her hands, even though she longed â in a way she could not even identify â for a small community of sympathetic women. She was not well educated enough to apply for work as a governess, and had virtually no skills that would recommend her to an employer. The idea of working as a nanny did not appeal, nor did she wish to be a domestic servant.