We That Are Left Page 18

  ‘À bientôt, sir. I should call you sir, shouldn’t I, if I’m going to work for you?’

  ‘I’d prefer Your Excellency. But Gerald will do.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little soon for that?’

  ‘Do you think so?’ The way he looked at her made her flush. Drawing a note from his wallet he gave it to the cabbie. ‘Warrington Avenue. And take care of her. Goodbye, Miss Jessica Melville.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ambassador.’

  As the taxi coughed and leaped away from the kerb Jessica turned, watching him through the back window until the cab lurched, picking up speed, and he was gone, lost between the dappled trunks of the plane trees.

  Mrs Leonard did not look like a medium. She looked like somebody’s aunt. She wore a silk blouse with a paisley shawl, and sensible low-heeled shoes. Her hair was neatly pinned. She asked them if they wished to introduce themselves or if they preferred to remain anonymous. Her accent was educated but she did not pinch out the words in shiny little beads from the front of her mouth like other women of her class. Instead they flowed from her steadily, gently, like a slow-moving river. She asked if they would like some tea.

  ‘No tea,’ Eleanor said, clutching her hands in her lap like a grenade.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Leonard said to Jessica. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘I’m quite all right, thank you,’ Jessica said, though actually now she thought about it she did rather want some tea. The champagne from lunch was starting to give her a headache. She wondered if Mrs Leonard was psychic as well as sensitive or if she could just smell the wine on her breath.

  Mrs Leonard showed them to a small walnut table in a corner of the room and drew the curtains, putting on a dim lamp that softened the edges of the furniture and thickened the air to a yellowish soup. She explained that, once the sitting had begun, she would allow herself to pass under the control of her spirit guide. Feda, she said, was a distant ancestor of hers, the Hindu wife of her great-great-grandfather who had died in childbirth when she was only thirteen years old. Feda was not the girl’s real name but a shortening of it, derived by Mrs Leonard from the letters brought forward when Feda had first started to come through. Since then Feda had always referred to herself by that name.

  While Mrs Leonard was in trance, it would be Feda’s voice that they heard. Mrs Leonard herself would know nothing of the words spoken through her, either during the sitting or afterwards. It was the responsibility of the sitter to speak directly to Feda and through her to the spirits for whom she was communicating. It was easiest, Mrs Leonard said, to imagine it as a meeting between friends, the friends who had gone over and the friends on this side. When she asked if they had ever sat before Eleanor did not answer. In the yellow light her face looked sallow, the shadows beneath her eyes as dark as bruises.

  ‘Trust in Feda,’ Mrs Leonard said gently. ‘With her agency we shall reach those you seek on the Other Side. In the Spirit World there exist what I can only describe as Enquiry Bureaux, where those who are anxious to send messages to their loved ones on earth make contact with those spirits who have grown proficient at coming through. Occasionally these are people they, or you, knew when they lived in this world. Mostly they are strangers. Do not be afraid. They wish you no harm. They come through because they want to help you.’ She smiled at Eleanor, then turned to Jessica. ‘You are not afraid, I think. But you are uncertain. You have doubts.’

  ‘With respect, a great many people have doubts about what you do.’

  ‘Jessica! Mrs Leonard, I apologise, my daughter—’

  ‘Your daughter is right. My sitters are often doubtful. They have many questions and I am glad of it. Scepticism provokes productive investigation, provided of course that the sitter maintains an open mind and a sincerity of purpose. I would ask you only to remember that the seance, like the scientific laboratory, has conditions that must be respected. Disruptive conduct is not only unhelpful, it can be very dangerous. Ask as many questions as you need but do so, I beg you, with courtesy and respect. Feda wishes only to help you. She will do her best to seek for you whatever proofs you require. Is there anything else you would like to ask me?’ The intensity of her gaze made Jessica squirm. She shook her head.

  ‘Very well, then. Shall we begin?’ Mrs Leonard bent her head, putting her hands together. ‘Let us pray.’

  Jessica pretended to close her eyes, watching the medium through the blur of her eyelashes. As she intoned the words in her clear quiet voice a change came over Mrs Leonard’s face, the skin slackening over the bones. Eleanor’s face was clenched with concentration, her eyes squeezed tight as a child’s.

  ‘Amen.’

  There was a silence. Then a faint hum began to vibrate in Mrs Leonard’s throat. Her lips were slightly parted, her head tipped back. She was quite still and yet she quivered with sound, like a strummed guitar string. Very slowly her head began to move from side to side, her mouth making the shapes of words. She did not speak. Her mouth began to move faster until, throwing back her head, she raised herself almost out of her seat, her hands stretched into stars.

  Suddenly she froze, her mouth open, inhaling a long shuddering breath. She held the breath a long time before releasing it but, as she exhaled, all the tension seemed to drain from her body. Her shoulders loosened and her fingers curled and, as she settled back into her chair, the frown on her face gave way to blankness, and then to a childish grimace.

  ‘You know, it isn’t fair to push in, not like that. You have to wait your turn.’

  The voice was high, a child’s voice. There was petulance in it but laughter too. There was a whispering, as though the child were talking to someone just out of sight.

  ‘I have to!’ the child protested. And then in a different voice, the singsong voice of children in schoolrooms, she said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’

  No one spoke. Then Eleanor leaned forward. ‘Is that you, Feda?’

  ‘Yes, Feda. Feda is here.’ Again there was whispering. ‘Feda can’t see your face. Stop laughing.’

  ‘Is there . . . is there someone with you, Feda?’

  ‘Yes. Raymond is here. The girl too.’

  So that was her trick, Jessica thought. To start with someone half-familiar and then reel out the line. She shook her head, impatient with the shiver at the back of her neck.

  ‘The girl?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘Raymond’s sister. With the long yellow hair. She has been here a long time, much longer than Raymond. Raymond takes care of her now.’

  ‘Does Raymond have a message for us?’

  The room was warm and very airless. The headache tightened around Jessica’s temples. She could hardly bear it, the pitifulness of Eleanor’s hope, her credulity. She wanted to scream, to turn on all the lights, to shake Mrs Leonard awake and keep on shaking her until her teeth rattled. Think of London, she told herself. Think of nightclubs and champagne and driving motor cars and falling in love. Instead she thought of Mr Cardoza, the touch of his lips at the corner of her mouth. The uneasiness in her stomach made her feel faintly sick.

  ‘There is someone else here,’ Feda said. ‘I can’t see him well; he is not as solid as Raymond. I think he has not been over long, or not yet learned to build himself. It is not easy, Feda knows, it takes time. But he is very eager. He won’t wait, though I tell him he must.’ She giggled. ‘Don’t joke, this is serious.’

  ‘Who is with you, Feda?’ Eleanor whispered.

  ‘A young man. Feda doesn’t think she has seen him here before. But then Feda sees so many people. He is waving his arms. He is saying something but Feda can’t hear. Stop it!’

  ‘My darling, is that you? Oh, Feda, please, I beg you. Tell me who it is.’

  ‘He is trying to build up the letter but it is hard for him. He shows me N or M, he cannot keep it straight. Or perhaps it is W? What do you mean, can I read? If you are mean to me I shan’t help you, so there.’

  ‘M,’ Eleanor breathed. ‘M for Melville. Oh, Feda, tell me what he looks l
ike.’

  ‘He is tall, not too tall, though. Brown hair. Well-built, not heavy or thick-set but strong. He has brown eyebrows too and a straight nose, a good-sized mouth, not full but not thin either, a nice mouth. There are dents on the sides of it, from laughing. His face is oval. His hair falls over his eyes but he pushes it away with his fingers.’ Again she giggled. ‘Cut it, then, if it provokes you so.’

  It was a lucky guess, Jessica was certain, but she could not help thinking of Theo then, the impatient way he had of jabbing at his hair.

  ‘It was here.’ Blindly the medium pressed the flats of her hands against her chest, then moved them down towards her stomach. ‘Or here? Sudden, he says it was very sudden. Stop it, stay still—I can’t see his eyes, he keeps closing them. He’s teasing me.’

  Eleanor was weeping silently, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘He is still not built up but Feda feels like she knew him. From before. He must have been waiting here for you. He cannot say how long, time slips here, it is hard to count. He is laughing with Raymond, both of them laughing. He likes to laugh.’

  ‘Theo, darling, it’s you, isn’t it?’

  The medium clapped her hands together in delight. ‘He says right first time.’ Then she yelped, wriggling in her seat. ‘Theo is tickling Feda. He’s laughing. And crying a little too. You are! He says he can’t believe he has come through at last. He tried, he says he tried to reach you but he never had the strength.’

  ‘My darling, darling boy—’ Eleanor’s voice cracked.

  ‘Theo says don’t cry. He is mended now. Nearly as good as new.’

  ‘And happy? Are you happy, my darling?’

  ‘He is nodding. He says when he first waked up he was sad, it was dark and cold and there were so many lost boys, so much pain and wretchedness, and he was afraid, but now it isn’t dark, it is summer every day and he is happy. He misses you terribly but they are all together, the lost boys. Another family. And they are always laughing.’

  ‘Tell me what it’s like, where you are.’

  ‘He says he wishes you could see it. He says it’s like home, roses, huge roses and wood pigeons calling and green meadows where the grass is so long you can lie down without anyone seeing you. They play football and swim in the river. Like being a child again. Except for the brandy. Now he’s teasing Feda, he says she’s not allowed, but Feda doesn’t care, so there. Feda thinks brandy is horrid.’

  So did Theo, Jessica thought. And Theo played cricket.

  ‘He says he has been trying to come through by himself. But though he tries and tries he flounders.’ She stumbled on the word and frowned. ‘What’s “flounders”? I thought it was fish!’ There was some whispering and then she gave a shriek. ‘Oh! Theo has a dog, a big dog, brown, too big for Feda. It’s jumping up, Feda doesn’t like it. But Theo says not to be afraid. He says it’s kind. Something P, Feda can’t quite catch it. Patch? Pug? Is it a pug dog?’

  ‘Jim Pugh’s dog?’ Eleanor pressed her knuckles against her mouth. ‘You’ve found it? Oh darling, I’m so glad. Remember how you loved that wretched thing?’

  ‘He didn’t!’ Jessica cried. She could not help herself. ‘He never liked it. And anyway it wasn’t brown. It was white.’

  Feda let out a peal of laughter. ‘Should Feda say so? Out loud? Theo says he knew it, he knew you would be like this. He’s laughing. A party? A party when you were small, too small maybe to remember, but Theo remembers. Poor conjuror, he says. Like the Spanish Inqui—not fair, too difficult for Feda.’

  Jessica frowned but she did remember. A Christmas when she was four or five, a magician hired to entertain the children. Handkerchiefs all tied together and a bouquet of paper flowers and a real live rabbit in a top hat. She had held the hat upside down, feeling inside its lining for the trick.

  ‘He says this isn’t magic, not this time. He says to ask him something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything. Something only he knows.’

  Jessica stared at the table. Then she looked up. ‘Who am I?’

  There was more whispering, a burst of childish laughter. ’Theo is teasing Feda. He doesn’t give it clearly. He is bringing a letter, Feda can’t make it out. Is it M? Now he has more. He is spelling something out. Mess? Feda’s making a mess? He is laughing and Raymond too, but it isn’t funny. Stop it or I won’t try again. Be serious. So not M? Stop laughing. Mess is not a name. Jessica. You’re Jessica.’

  Jessica closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘Messica,’ Eleanor breathed. ‘Miss Messica Jelville.’

  ‘He is fading,’ Feda said. ‘There is a noise, a rushing noise, it is like the air going out of Feda, like there is a hole through my stomach. It is not Theo’s fault, he did not know he did it. Feda is giddy. Like a merry-go-round.’

  The medium whimpered, pressing her hands to her head. Then, very quietly she folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

  Eleanor was weeping. Beside her Mrs Leonard took several slow deep breaths, in and out. Jessica bit her lip, trying to steady the thumping of her heart. The silence went on a long time. Then Mrs Leonard opened her eyes.

  ‘He came?’ she asked Eleanor softly.

  Eleanor nodded, smiling over her handkerchief.

  ‘He was strong enough to come through plainly?’

  ‘As though he were in the room.’

  Mrs Leonard nodded. ‘I’m glad. And you?’ she asked Jessica. ‘Did you find the answers you sought?’

  Jessica shrugged. She wanted to get out of that airless room, out into the street where the raw wind smelled of coal and blew away the past that clung to her like cobwebs. She waited in silence as Mrs Leonard turned on the lights and her mother made an appointment for another sitting the next week. She knew she should be glad. Mrs Leonard was her golden goose, the Trojan horse from whose belly she might besiege London and lay it waste. But all she could think of was Messica. By her sides her fingers stretched and curled, sifting the air for the dust of him.

  When Mrs Leonard opened the parlour door a creamy ball of fluff bounded in. She picked it up. It snuffled happily in her arms, its tongue lolling like a pink petal.

  ‘This is Ching,’ she said. ‘She is always excitable with new sitters. So many strangers in the house at once, of course. And here is my husband with your coats and hats. Thank you, my dear.’

  Outside it had grown dark. The street was clogged with fog, curls of yellow-grey like wisps of sheep’s wool snagged around the street lamps. Jessica crossed her arms tightly across her stomach, hugging herself close. Beneath her fur hat her mother’s eyes shone.

  ‘Oh, Jessica,’ she sighed, squeezing Jessica’s arm. ‘Do you see now? How death does not part us? He was there with us, just the same as ever.’

  Her breath made ghosts in the air. Jessica looked away. ‘Was he?’

  ‘How can you even doubt it? The initial M for Melville, Jim Pugh’s dog, the party with the magician. Messica Jelville. Who knows of that but us?’

  Jessica did not answer.

  ‘For God’s sake, what else must he do?’ Eleanor cried. ‘What manner of hoops must he jump through before you accept that he’s still with us? That he is not gone?’

  Jessica closed her eyes. She could feel the press of it at the back of her throat, the sharp point of all the terror and grief she had swallowed and never acknowledged, not just for Theo but for them all, all those thousands and thousands of laughing young men who had never come back. So many lost boys. What good did it do, to think about them now? The War was over. The guns were silent. The battlefields swarmed with armies of Chinese coolies, paid to salvage what remained of Flanders from the mud and bones. Already, they said, the flowers were beginning to come back. Why then would anyone want to make themselves remember? Was it not unbearable enough to lose them once, without losing them again by appointment every Thursday afternoon?

  The fog tasted of sulphur and rusted metal. She thought of Mr Cardoza and of the other soft
-palmed, soft-bellied old men in the Savoy Grill stroking the stems of their champagne saucers with their fat fingers, fingers that had never held a gun, fingers that would beckon and prod and paddle the flesh of girls who should have been kissing their slaughtered sons, and she wanted more than anything to be in Hampshire where the air was clear and smelled of gorse and lichen and the salt lick of the sea.

  What was gone was gone. There was no getting it back, however hard you wished.

  18

  Scientific experiments did not always deliver the expected results. This, Mr Beckers said, was why experiment and not theory was the engine of science. The facts were the facts, whether you could explain them or not. In 1911 Ernest Rutherford had aimed a beam of high-speed radium alpha particles at a sheet of thin gold foil. If atoms were diffuse spheres of electrical charge then most of the alpha particles should have passed straight through the foil; a few might have been slightly deflected. Instead, some of the alpha particles ricocheted straight back. It was, Rutherford was later to remark, like firing a 15-inch shell at a piece of tissue paper and having it bounce back and hit you. Rutherford realised that the atoms in the gold foil contained a tiny but very powerful concentration of positive charge that repelled the positively charged alpha particles.

  He had proved the nuclear structure of the atom.

  Oscar thought about Rutherford’s experiment a great deal in the weeks after his mother’s funeral. He had known when she died that she was gone for ever. There was no God and no aether, no ectoplasm or survival, despite the sensational stories in the popular newspapers, the first-person accounts of levitations and manifestations and conversations with the dead, the spirit photographs and the scientific proofs. The dead were not gathered on the Other Side, transmitting their messages of love and reassurance like radio waves for mediums to receive. At Rhyl, while they waited to be demobbed, he and several of the other officers from the Royal Engineers had occupied themselves with constructing primitive crystal sets on which they picked up a ghostly blend of voices, the dots and dashes of Morse code, and the crackling hum of static. Sometimes there were shrieks. It seemed like a kind of magic, a door opening to worlds concealed behind worlds, except that it was not. It was quite simple, once you got the hang of it. Electronic transmitters converted sound waves into electromagnetic waves and the crystal set converted them back into sound. It was beautiful and fascinating but it was not magic. There was no transmitter for the dead. The dead were gone.