Beyond Black. Hilary Mantel
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held out her hand to Colette. Colette put her hand in it, turned up. The narrow palm was drained of energy, almost corpse-like.
I would have liked that, Al thought, all that Victorian fuss and frippery, the frocks, the spirit pianos, the men with big beards. Was she seeing herself, in a former life, in an earlier and possibly more lucrative career? Had she been famous, perhaps, a household name? Possibly; or possibly it was wish-fulfilment. She supposed she had lived before but she suspected there wasn’t much glamour attached to whatever life she’d led. Sometimes when her mind was vacant she had a fleeting vision, low-lit, monochrome, of a line of women hoeing, bending their backs under a mud-coloured sky.
Well now…she scrutinised Colette’s palm, picking up her magnifying glass. The whole hand was bespattered with crosses, on the major lines and between them. She could see no arches, stars or tridents. There were several worrying islands in the heart line, little vacant plots. Perhaps, she thought, she sleeps with men whose names she doesn’t know.
The pale client’s voice cut through. She sounded common and sharp. ‘You said somebody was coming through for me.’
‘Your father. He recently passed into spirit.’
‘No.’
‘But there’s been a passing. I’m getting, six. The number six. About six months back?’
The client looked blank.
‘Let me jog your memory,’ Alison said. ‘I would be talking about Guy Fawkes Night, or maybe the run-up to Christmas. Where they say, only forty shopping days left, that sort of thing.’ Her tone was easy; she was used to people not remembering the deaths in their family.
‘My uncle died last November. If that’s what you mean.’
‘Your uncle, not your father?’
‘Yes, my uncle. For Christ’s sake, I should know.’
‘Bear with me,’ Alison said easily. ‘You don’t by any chance have something with you? Something that belonged to your dad?’
‘Yes.’ She had brought the same props she had given to the psychic in Hove. ‘These were his.’
She handed over the cuff-links. Alison cupped them in her left palm, rolled them around with her right forefinger. ‘Golf balls. Though he didn’t play golf. Still, people don’t know what to buy for men, do they?’ She tossed them up and caught them again. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘Look, can you accept this? The bloke who owned these was not your dad. He was your uncle.’
‘No, it was my uncle that died.’ The client paused. ‘He died in November. My dad died about, I don’t know, ages ago – ’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Run it past me again, will you?’ Grant her this: she wasn’t slow on the uptake.
‘Let’s just see if we can unknot this,’ Al said. ‘You say these are your father’s cuff-links. I say, no, though they may have belonged to the man you called your father. You say your uncle passed last November, and your father passed years ago. But I say, your uncle has been a long time in spirit, but your dad passed in the autumn. Now, are you with me?’
The client nodded.
‘You’re sure you’re with me? I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m slandering your mum. But these things happen, in families. Now your uncle’s name is – ?’
‘Mike.’
‘Mike, and your dad’s – Terry, right? So you think. But the way I see it, Terry’s your uncle and Uncle Mike’s your dad.’
Silence. The woman shifted in her chair. ‘He was always hanging about, Mike, when I was little. Always round at ours.’
‘Chez vous,’ Al said. ‘Well, he would be.’
‘It explains a lot. My flat hair, for one thing.’
‘Yes, doesn’t it?’ Alison said. ‘When you finally get it sorted out, who’s who in your family, it does explain a lot.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a shame your mum’s passed, so you can’t ask her what was what. Or why. Or anything like that.’
‘She wouldn’t have told me. Can’t you tell me?’
‘My guess is, Terry was a quiet type, whereas Uncle Mike, he was a bit of a boyo. Which was what your mum liked. Impulsive, that’s how I’d describe her, if I was pushed. You too, maybe. But only in – not in your general affairs – but only in what we call – er – matters of partnership.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that when you see a bloke you like you go straight after him.’ Like a whippet after a hare, she thought. ‘You say to yourself, no, I must do strategy, play it cool, but you don’t heed your own advice – you’re very much, how shall I say it, bed on the first date. Well, why not? I mean, life’s too short.’
‘I can’t do this, I’m sorry.’ The client half rose.
Alison put her hand out. ‘It’s the shock. About your dad. It takes a bit of getting used to. I wouldn’t have broken it to you like that if I didn’t think you could take it. And straight talking – I think you can take that too.’
‘I can take it,’ Colette said. She sat down again.
‘You’re proud,’ Al said softly. ‘You won’t be bested.’
‘That describes me.’
‘If Jack and Jill can do it, you can do it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You don’t suffer fools gladly.’
‘I don’t.’
It was an old Mrs Etchells line; she was probably using it right now, three tables down: ‘You don’t suffer fools gladly, dear!’ As if the client was going to come back at you, ‘Fools! I love ’em! Can’t get enough! I go out round the streets, me, looking for fools to ask them home to dinner!’
Alison sat back in her chair. ‘The way I see you now, you’re dissatisfied, restless.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve reached a place in your life where you don’t much want to be.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re ready and willing to move on.’
‘Yes.’
‘So do you want to come and work for me?’
‘What?’
‘Can you type, drive, anything like that? I need a sort of, what do they call it, Girl Friday.’
‘This is a bit sudden.’
‘Not really. I felt I knew you, when I saw you from the platform last night.’
‘The platform?’
‘The platform is what we call any kind of stage.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s historical, I suppose.’
Colette leaned forward. She locked her fists together between her knees.
Alison said, ‘If you come into the front bar in about an hour, we can get a coffee.’
Colette cast a glance at the long queue behind her.
‘OK, say an hour and a quarter?’
‘What do you do, put up a “closed” sign?’
‘No, I just put them on divert. I say, go see Mrs Etchells three tables down.’
‘Why? Is she good?’
‘Mrs Etchells? Entre nous, she’s rubbish. But she taught me. I owe her.’
‘You’re