Unspeaking, Vi nodded.
‘Tell me his name. It’s better if I know.’ Lilith’s voice was gentle.
‘His name is Gerry and when he – when he died he was on the SS Emma Bates. Torpedoed.’
‘And do you have anything belonging to him? Something I could hold?’
‘No, queen. All we ever had between us was blown to smithereens in the bombin’. I’ve got some pictures and his last letter, but they’re at my sister’s. Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter, but if I can hold an object I get better vibrations, you see. Often I can tell if that person is alive or not. It might have been worth a try.’
‘Gerry was lost at sea at the end of April. I don’t think there’s much hope, now. I’d like to think there was, but I’ll have to be like our mam and learn to accept what I can’t do nothin’ about. It’s better that way, in the end.’
‘But won’t you try? I get such strong feelings about you, Vi. You won’t believe it, but you are a medium,’ Lilith urged. ‘He’d come through so easily to you if you’d only let him.’
‘You owe it to him,’ Fenny urged.
She did, Vi brooded. If Gerry were crying out in Purgatory then it was her duty to help him, and be blowed to Father O’Flaherty’s wrath.
‘I don’t know what to do, Lilith. Your religion’s new to me. I can’t believe that the dead ever come back to us – well, only Our Lord, that is. But I’ll try. Just this once.’
‘Good. You won’t regret it. Shall we sit down? Lucinda’s not here, I see. Not that she’s any great help. Her vibrations are minus! She hasn’t come alive yet, though she’ll be quite a girl when she does. But it’s Gerry who’s important now. I feel he’s got something to say.’ Lilith handed the glass to Vi. ‘Speak into it. Ask it whatever you want to know.’
Hesitantly, Vi took the wine glass, cupping it in her hands as Jane had done, her heart thudding dully, embarrassment staining her cheeks. And then it was as if the glass suddenly shone and sparkled, just as the Cape Town goblets shone and sparkled; it seemed she was holding a telephone receiver and all she had to do was speak into it, to Gerry. Sighing gently, she closed her eyes.
‘Glass, please tell me about my husband. Tell me he didn’t suffer none and tell me he’s at peace. And if you can, tell him thanks for remembering my birthday and tell him that I love him. Be sure and tell him that, won’t you?’
Gently Lilith took the glass, upending it on the table and four fingers reached out to touch it. Slowly, it began to move; firmly and surely it spelled out a word.
‘No!’ Vi snatched back her hand. ‘What does it mean?’ Tears filled her eyes. She had felt so close to Gerry yet now the glass mocked her.
‘Hush. Be still, Vi.’ Lilith’s arms circled her shoulders.
‘How can I be? I wanted to know that he died gently. I wanted him to be at peace. I needed him to tell me so, yet all I get is letter. What’s it playing at? How do you send a letter to a man what’s dead?’
She covered her face with her hands, stifling her sobs, sucking in gulps of air. Loudly she blew her nose then brushed away the tears that wet her cheeks. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. Suppose that thing doesn’t work for Cath’lics, eh? Why don’t you have a go, Jane? See if you can get some sense out of it.’
‘Vi, I’m so sorry. I wanted to try again but I won’t, not if it upsets you.’ Though mingled with disappointment, Jane’s compassion was real.
‘It won’t upset me, queen.’ Vi’s cockeyed grin was back. ‘But that’s my lot. I’m not doin’ it no more but I’ll sit in for you, if you want me to.’
‘You don’t mind? Honestly?’
‘’Course I don’t. Go on. Give the old glass a rub.’ Wipe my tears off it, Jane, and my hopes, she thought. Only St Jude can help me now. Poor, hard-worked St Jude, who gets landed with the hopeless cases. ‘Go on, luv. Get goin’.’
Tenderly Jane polished the glass with her handkerchief then lifted it to her lips. ‘Rob, my darling, send me hope. I’ll wait for ever for you, but say we’ll meet again, soon.’
Carefully, reverently almost, she placed the glass in the centre of the table. Slowly, reluctantly, it moved from letter to letter. Jenny. Forget.
Frowning, Lilith spelled out the letters. ‘Who’s Jenny?’
‘I am. Rob called me Jenny, but it’s all wrong. He wouldn’t say that. The padre at the aerodrome said it but Rob wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.’
‘Now listen, both of you. You’ve been upset tonight and I’m sorry. But please trust me.’ Lilith reached across the table, taking a hand from each, holding them tightly as if to pass on something of herself. ‘Please, I beg you, have faith. Don’t give up. I wouldn’t ask it of you if there wasn’t hope.’
‘I know, queen, an’ I’m sorry I made a fool of meself. I’m a daft ha’p’orth and I know you mean well, Lilith. No hard feelings,’ Vi whispered, ‘but that’s me finished.’
‘Well, I’m not giving up. Rob is alive, I know it,’ Jane choked. ‘He’s somewhere in Europe, trying to get home, and I won’t take forget for an answer. I won’t.’
‘And you won’t be upset, either of you? This is only a setback, remember.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re goin’ downstairs to listen to Tommy Handley and the nine o’clock news.’ Vi was herself again, already accepting that which she had no power to change. It was Jane she grieved for; Jane who so fiercely resisted Fate, who would never accept that anything could touch her first, precious love. ‘And d’you know what? One of these days we’re goin’ to switch on that wireless and the man’s goin’ to tell us it’s all over, just you see if he isn’t.’ One of these days.
Lucinda took off her hat, placed it with her respirator beneath her chair then gave her full, unblinking attention to the American pilot who stood at the bar. Michael Johnson Farrow was tall and good-looking. Devastatingly good-looking. Even the scar that ran from eye to jaw on his left cheek only added to his attractiveness. His eyes were blue, shaded by thick dark lashes and as sharp as his film-star features. Michael Farrow, she decided, was not a man to tangle with; the jut of his jaw told her that. Michael Farrow was a man who would get what he wanted – if he wanted it badly enough. He limped a little, too, though like most of the war’s wounded, he went to great pains to hide those injuries, received in another country’s war.
Lucinda smiled serenely. It was good that she could look at this man so dispassionately yet find him so exciting. Strange that belonging to Charlie gave her protection in a peculiar sort of way; an immunity kind of, against falling in love. Thus protected, she could admire, desire, even wonder what it would be like to be loved, really loved by him, yet feel no guilt for her wanton thoughts. Being engaged to Charlie protected her from herself, too, and it was rather nice, she acknowledged, to have such unfaithful, unladylike fancies, yet not feel one iota of guilt. She’d like to bet he was a good dancer, too; the build of him guaranteed it. And when he danced, his hold would be firm and intimate, and when he kissed it would be hard and gentle, both at the same time. And dry, she shouldn’t wonder. Not like the way Charlie did it. Charlie sometimes slobbered when he kissed her. She really must speak to him about it, once they were married. Surely there was something he could take for it.
‘Say, honey.’ Michael Farrow turned, smiling. ‘No gin. No bourbon. No wine.’
‘Oh!’ She blushed bright red and rid her head at once of such wanton thoughts. Whatever next! She’d be wondering what he’d look like undressed, or something equally delightful. ‘Beer, then?’
‘Tepid