thought, you are a size twenty-six. And you are ashamed of it. The thought was so loud, inside her own head, that she was amazed it didn’t jump out into the hall. ‘No,’ Al was saying, ‘please give the mike back to this lady, I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed her and I want to put it right.’ The woman was reluctant, and Al said to her neighbour, ‘Just hold that mike steady under her chin.’ Then Alison told the fat woman several things about her mother, which she’d often thought but not liked to admit to. ‘Oh, and I have your granny. Your granny’s coming through. Sarah-Anne? Now she’s an old soul,’ Al said. ‘You were five when she passed, am I right?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Speak up, my love.’
‘Small. I was small.’
‘Yes, you don’t remember much about her, but the point is she’s never left you, she’s still around, looking after the family. And she likes those cabinets you’ve got – I can’t quite make this out – a new kitchen, is it?’
‘Oh my God. Yes,’ the woman said. ‘Yes.’ She shifted in her seat and turned bright red.
Al chuckled, indulging her surprise. ‘She’s often with you in that kitchen. And by the way, you were right not to go for the brushed steel, I know they tried to talk you into it, but it’s so over and done with, there’s nothing worse than a dated kitchen when you come to sell, and besides it’s such a harsh look at the heart of the home. Sarah-Anne says, you won’t go wrong with light oak.’
They burst into applause: the punters, the trade. They are deeply appreciative over information about their kitchen fittings: they marvel at your uncanny knowledge of where they position their bread bin. This is how you handle them; you tell them the small things, the personal things, the things no one else could really know. By this means you make them drop their guard: only then will the dead begin to speak. On a good night, you can hear the scepticism leaking from their minds, with a low hiss like a tyre deflating.
Someone in uniform was trying to get through. It was a policeman, young and keen, with a flushed face; he was eager for promotion. She worked the rows, but no one would own him. Perhaps he was still earthside, employed at the local station: you did get these crossed wires, from time to time. Something to do with radio frequencies, perhaps?
‘This lady, have you got ear trouble? Or ear trouble somewhere in the family? Slowly, the barmaid lurched across the hall in her platform shoes, the mike held out at arm’s length.
‘What?’ the woman said.
‘Ear trouble.’
‘The boy next door to me plays football,’ the woman said, ‘he’s done his knee up. He was getting in trim for the World Cup. Not that he’s playing in it. Only in the park. Their dog died last year, but I don’t think it had ear trouble.’
‘No, not your neighbour,’ Al insisted. ‘You, someone close to you.’
‘I haven’t got anyone close to me.’
‘What about throat trouble? Nose trouble? Anything in the ENT line at all? You have to understand this,’ Al said, ‘when I get a message from spirit world, I can’t give it back. I can’t pick and choose. Think of me as your answering machine. Imagine if people from spirit world had phones. Now your answering machine, you press the button and it plays your messages back. It doesn’t wipe some out, on the grounds that you don’t need to know them.’
‘And it records the wrong numbers, too,’ said a pert girl near the front. She had her friends with her; their sniggers ruffled adjacent rows.
Alison smiled. It was for her to make the jokes; she wouldn’t be upstaged. ‘Yes, I admit we record the wrong numbers. And we record the nuisance calls, if you like to put it that way. I sometimes think they have telesales in the next world, because I never sit down with a nice cup of coffee without some stranger trying to get through. Just imagine – double-glazing salesmen…debt collectors…’
The girl’s smile faded. She tensed. Al said, ‘Look, darling. Let me give you a word of advice. Cut up that credit card. Throw away those catalogues. You can break these spending habits – well, you must, really. You have to grow up and exercise some self-control. Or I can see the bailiffs in, before Christmas.’
Al’s gaze rested, one by one, on those who had dared to snigger; then she dropped her voice, whipped her attention away from the troublemaker and became confidential with her audience. ‘The point is this. If I get a message I don’t censor it. I don’t ask, do you need it? I don’t ask, does it make sense? I do my duty, I do what I’m here for. I put it out there, so the person it applies to can pick it up. Now people in spirit world can make mistakes. They can be wrong, just like the living. But what I hear, I pass on. And it may happen, you know, what I tell you may mean nothing to you at the time. That’s why I sometimes have to say to you, stay with that: go home: live with it. This week or next week, you’ll go, oh I get it now! Then you’ll have a little smile, and think, she wasn’t such a fool, was she?’ She crossed the stage; the opals blazed. ‘And then again, there are some messages from spirit world that aren’t as simple as they seem. This lady, for example, when I speak about ear trouble, what I may be picking up is not so much a physical problem – I might be talking about a breakdown in communication.’
The woman stared up at her glassily. Al passed on. ‘Jenny’s here. She went suddenly. She didn’t feel the impact, it was instantaneous. She wants you to know.’
‘Yes.’
‘And she sends her love to Peg. Who’s Peg?’
‘Her aunt.’
‘And to Sally, and Mrs Moss. And Liam. And Topsy.’
Jenny lay down. She’d had enough. Her little light was fading. But wait, here’s another – tonight she picked them up as if she were vacuuming the carpet. But it was almost nine o’clock, and it was quite usual to get on to something serious and painful before the interval. ‘Your little girl, was she very poorly before she passed? I’m getting – this is not recent, we’re going back now, but I have a very clear – I have a picture of a poor little mite who’s really very sick, bless her.’
‘It was leukaemia,’ her mother said.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Al said, swiftly agreeing, as if she had thought of it first: so that the woman would go home and say, she told me Lisa had leukaemia, she knew. All she could feel was the weakness and the heat, the energy of the last battle draining away: the flickering pulse at the hairless temple, and the blue eyes, like marbles under translucent lids, rolling into stillness. Dry your tears, Alison said. All the tears of agony you’ve shed, the world doesn’t know, the world can’t count them; and soberly, the woman agreed: nobody knows, she said, and nobody can count. Al, her own voice trembling, assured her, Lisa’s doing fine airside, the next world’s treated her well. A beautiful young woman stood before her – twenty-two, twenty-three – wearing her grandmother’s bridal veil. But whether it was Lisa or not, Al could not say.
Eight fifty, by Colette’s watch. It was time for Al to lighten up. You have to start this process no less than eight minutes before the end of the first half. If the interval catches you in the middle of something thrilling and risky, they simply don’t want to break; but she, Al, she needed the break, to get back there, touch base with Colette, gulp a cold drink and redo her face. So she would begin another ward round now, picking up a few aches and pains. Already she was homing in on a woman who suffered
