Read by Sarah Feathers
“And when, exactly, did you lose your loved one?”
I press my lips together, turning my silence into a rigid smile. I am determined to give nothing away. Let this charlatan work for his guinea.
He sighs understandingly. His breath is warm and stale, like bread left too long near the stove. He is a stout, florid gentleman, who wears a loud green check and smells faintly of pomade. Mr. Fritsch, Medium to the Gentry, does not inspire confidence in me; but to whom else can I turn?
His eyes flick over me; reading me, I see, like some Strand Magazine detective, gleaning what he can and guessing what he cannot from my clothes, my hair, my jewellery.
“He was very close to you, was he not? Ah, how dashing he looked in his uniform!” (A truly intuitive guess, this, in the middle of a war). “Not your brother, no; your sweetheart – though not your husband.”
“But the bond is strong between you,” Mr. Fritsch speculates. “You wear no engagement ring, but perhaps you were … ah yes! - affianced in secret?”
A hit! Oh, a palpable hit and he knows it. My hand rises to touch the ring at my breast and he smiles smugly.
“I no longer wear his ring. It is too painful a reminder.”
Mr. Fritsch pours us both more tea, watching me; smiling.
“And far too obvious a clue. I venture this is not the first time you have consulted a medium, Miss Bedford?”
“It is not.”
“And yet, like an atheist visiting a dozen churches, daring God to be real, you remain unswayed and unsatisfied?”
He has a sophisticated turn of phrase for a confidence trickster; I’ll give him that.
“I remain unconvinced, sir.”
“You do not wish to be convinced, perhaps? You believe that spiritualism is merely cock-and-bull: a sop to the desperate?”
“Indeed not. I should do anything to be convinced. It would allow me to lay down the burden of this terrible uncertainty. To mourn, to move on, perhaps even to love again. Convince me, Mr. Fritsch, and I shall forever be in your debt.”
Mr. Fritsch’s pink, shining nose twitches; he has scented gold, more guineas from the grieving. He smiles so sincerely that I can see his raw-red gums.
“I assure you, madam, that the dead do speak, and speak through me. I hold a fortnightly séance for those who have suffered bereavement. Many clients find it extremely comforting…”
“But I am not bereaved, Mr. Fritsch.”
At last I have genuinely astonished him. He half-rises from his seat. “Then why–“
“Or at least,” I continue, “I may be – I cannot tell. George was lost to me fourteen months ago; lost, quite literally. His company went into the second Ypres engagement and he did not return. His best friend Harry lost his arm looking for him, but no body was found. I continue to hope he is alive, but in a queer way I should almost rather hear that he is dead. At least then I would know at last. You see my dilemma, I am sure.”
He sees; though what more he sees I cannot tell. He is sharper than most; perhaps he even believes in his own abilities. He steeples his fingers and leans back, regarding me in silence.
“I wander between two worlds, Mr. Fritsch. I do not know whether I should wait for George’s return, or bury him in my heart. Is he living or dead? Am I bereaved, or no?
How long must I wait? If my heart were broken, it might mend again; but there is no cure for a heart that has itself become a ghost.”
He nods, buttons his awful jacket, stands wearily and gestures me towards the door.
“Very well, Miss Rose. I am sorry I cannot help you in this matter. Good evening.”
*
When I return home Harry is waiting for me in the drawing-room. I sit and lean my head against his shoulder in silence. He puts his good arm around me tentatively and squeezes me briefly; it’s all he ever does. It’s hard for him too.
“What’s up, old thing? Another charlatan, was he?”
His guileless blue eyes betray nothing of his thoughts. I wish I could read bodies and expressions like the mediums do; surely a more practical skill than talking to the dead – but his handsome face is blank as a fresh page.
“I don’t know. I think – perhaps not.”
“How so? What did he do?”
“When I left … he called me Rose, Harry.”
Rose was George’s pet name for me; only Harry and I know it, now.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know why; I suspect he wasn’t even aware of it.”
I know what Harry will say; his mind is refreshingly direct.
“Perhaps it was mere association? Lilian – Lily – Lily-Rose …”
“I did not tell him my Christian name.”
Harry’s face darkens. “These people talk amongst themselves, you know. Or he could have found it out another way.”
My first name perhaps; but not my secret name. Nor just the tone George used when we said goodbye, when he was weary, and fond, and disappointed that I must leave. I hardly know why I am so adamant that Mr. Fritsch must know something, nor what, exactly, I expect him to know, but –
“I must get to the bottom of this, Harry. Will you accompany me to his next séance.”
He stares at me in surprise, blue eyes round. “Certainly, but what help could I possibly be at a séance?”
I smile and drop a kiss on his pale forehead. “You may hold my hand.”
*
I consider myself a connoisseur of séances: I have attended enough in my quest for answers, and this is typical. Dark velvet, shaded lamps, black-creped, snuffling widows, and a charismatic ringmaster conjuring the spirits. I am a little nauseated, and not just by the closeness of the room.
Harry’s good hand is warm in mine; Mr. Fritsch holds my other in a rough dry grip. The circle must be unbroken, so the lady to Harry’s right has her hand upon his armless right shoulder, to her evident distaste. As newcomers, Harry and I occupy the place of honour by Mr. Fritsch, to grant us the best view of his parlour trickery, no doubt.
The lamps are dimmed almost to blackness, and “Let us begin,” says Mr. Fritsch, in hushed and reverent tones. “Is there anybody there?”
Stifled sobs from beneath the veils. Harry squeezes my hand; I am grateful for him. If I see or hear anything, I must know it is no illusion, and Harry is the most level-headed man I know. George and he were – are – alike in many ways, yet opposites in so many others. Had George been in love with me for as long as Harry, he should have proposed to me twice over by now. It took him only two months after Harry first introduced us. George always knew – knows – what he wants, and how to get it.
“Is anybody there?” Mr. Fritsch repeats, somewhat impatiently. Do the lamps brighten fractionally? Does a cool breath stir the fine hairs at my nape? No. There is nothing.
“There are many just outside the circle, but they are shy,” coaxes Mr. Fritsch. “Won’t someone step forward and speak? Won’t one of you dry your mother’s tears, soothe your sweetheart’s pain?”
The heavy air stinks of hope. If George speaks and I hear his voice, I shall know at last that he is gone. I will give him up – I will forget him, for I cannot bear another of these sessions. Oh, but what if he is alive! If nothing comes of this, if it cannot be proven he is dead I must wait. I will wait. I promised him.
A violent sneeze breaks the expectant silence. It is the black-draped woman opposite me.
“Excuse me,” she sniffs, “I am allergic to pollen. That vase on the mantel …”
A giddy-sweet smell suffuses the room; it is the scent of lilies, from the tall flowers above the fireplace.
“Mrs. Harris,” Fritsch sighs, “those are silk. There is no pollen.”
Mrs. Harris cannot reply; she is too busy sneezing in explosive paroxysms, but Mr. Fritsch ignores her, gripping my hand even tighter, insisting that the circle remain unbroken.
And then the lights go out completely.
In the sudden blackness, the lily scent changes, twists and dissolves in the air like ink in water, becoming a different, softer aroma, sweet but not so cloying, like powdered sugar, like Turkish Delight, like –
I turn cold. Mr. Fritsch must have manufactured these effects somehow, to frighten or convince me. The stuttering lights, the silent circle, the scents of lily and rose. Somehow he knew George’s name for me; somehow this is happening through him. The smell of roses is overpowering now, and the circle is coughing and choking; it is like drowning in petals. I can barely breathe through the thick, syrupy miasma and Harry and Fritsch have tight hold of my hands on both sides.
Nonetheless I struggle to stand, to shout my defiance of Fritsch’s cruel trick, but at that moment I feel a warm finger laid across my lips, and the scream dies in my throat. I sink back down, and the finger becomes a hand, four fingers gently pressing my mouth closed. I kiss them and taste the salty warmth of George’s fingers, and I feel his thumb stroke my jawline just as he used to.
I cannot believe it. I must believe it. Tears tumble down my cheeks; I sob and keen like any hysteric, tugging uselessly at Harry’s and Fritsch’s iron fists, so that I can hold George’s hand at last, press it to my lips and keep it there. But just as I finally loosen Harry’s grip, the hand over my mouth is snatched away, as though it had never been.
*
Harry said he had never seen me in such a state. He said that he and Fritsch had to carry me out to an ambulance-cart, and that for a week I did not stir or speak, but lay with my eyes quite wide, so that the nurses kept having to close them. For a week my life was despaired of, and Harry sat by my bedside talking and reading to me; anything to strengthen the loose thread that connected me to the living world.
And so it was that when I awoke finally, before I opened my eyes, the first thing I heard was him declaring (at last!) his love for me and regretting aloud that he had never had the courage to confess it after George’s loss. He was holding my hand, and I squeezed it faintly to show that I understood, and he gasped a little, then wept and called the nurses to witness the miracle of my resurrection.
After that, it was natural enough that we should marry; after all, one cannot mourn forever, and much was laid to rest in that week I spent as a ghost between worlds, neither living nor dead, just as George once was to me. I was unable to find Mr. Fritsch, nor thank him for finally bringing peace to my heart; but what I am most thankful for is that some part of George still remains with me, and always shall.
For when I walked down the aisle on my father’s arm, my hand was held by an invisible hand; when I leaned too far over the hotel balcony on the morning of our Brighton honeymoon, an invisible hand stayed my fall; and when Harry’s arm drapes over my waist in sleep, I lie awake and stare at the cloud-chased moon until the invisible fingers of a second hand lace themselves into mine.
The Hand in the Dark by C.T. Kingston was read by Sarah Feathers at the Liars’ League Cock & Bull event on Tuesday 8 February 2011 at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London.
C.T. Kingston is an actress who loves to write. Her work has appeared on various flash fiction websites, and she has nearly finished writing her first play. Comments and job offers to [email protected].
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