myself saying as if my voice came from a long way away. ‘I have heard of her. It would be most interesting.’
‘We’d better be quick then. Come with me, miss.’
He led me down a labyrinth of corridors, some of which I felt certain were servants’ passageways. Finally, he ushered me through a side door with an entreaty to ‘Enjoy myself.’
I found myself in a larger saloon than I had expected. It had a large, cavernous feel that was cold and unwelcoming. It was blue and it was filled with rows of corn-coloured chairs. These had been placed in rows facing a dais on which a familiar figure in a purple turban sat. The room was less than half full. I made my way down the aisle as quietly as possible and joined the last row of filled seats.
‘Oh-oh-oh,’ moaned Madam Arcana, who was either about to enter a trance or had severe food poisoning. I took the opportunity to appraise the audience. There were a number of girls dressed in plain, respectable dresses and which I guessed to be maids on their day out. There were also a goodly number of shabby-genteel women, who I took to be companions. In the front three rows I could see nothing but large feathered hats and these I took to be worn by older matrons, who formed the backbone of Madam Arcana’s moneyed following. Standing, trembling near the centre was a woman in her early 20s, whose smart but threadbare skirt and jacket, sensible haircut and face devoid of makeup clearly marked her as a vicar’s wife. I imagined her winning the egg-and-spoon race and tumbling along happily in the mothers’ sack event.
‘The Reverend Dipton says the church roof is more important than the refurbishment of the library,’ proclaimed Madam Arcana suddenly. ‘He says the fete should be used to raise money to shelter the faithful of God.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the woman in a nervous voice. ‘Only my husband is quite clear that the roof will last another winter and the children are so short of books.’
Madam Arcana opened her eyes. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I could not comment on the wisdom of the particular spirit you asked me to contact, but only pass on what he said.’
‘You mean,’ said the questioner in a startled voice, ‘that he might be wrong? I thought on the other side …’
‘Has he long been passed?’ asked Madam Arcana.
‘Some six months. Three months before my husband took the parish.’
‘And was he revered as a wise and good man when he was there?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ said the woman in a tone that implied she very well could.
‘He may still be adjusting to the higher vibrations,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘It can take some spirits time to throw off their worldly desires.’
‘You mean we could do as we wanted?’
‘Was there ever any reason why you shouldn’t?’
The woman twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. ‘The vicarage is so very dark and gloomy. It feels as if he is still there.’
‘Then I strongly advise you to have a very happy and busy fete,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘He will see you are looking after his parishioners well and their jollity will extinguish his solemnity.’
‘You mean, like a party?’ asked the woman brightening. ‘Oh, what a jolly idea.’ She sat down very well pleased with what her shilling or whatever the entrance fee had cost her. I could only imagine the scene when she tried to explain her reasoning to her husband or perhaps she would have more sense.
‘Does anyone else have a query?’ asked Madam Arcana.
There followed a number of questions about lost dogs, lost wallets, who daughters should marry and the likelihood of an invasion by Germany. I was not once convinced that Madam Arcana was in contact with any spirits, but the dearly departed’s – or rather her – advice was always gentle, sensible and inclined to make the questioner think for themselves. I almost approved. I could not say whether it was her deception or the inability of those present to listen to plain,
‘We’d better be quick then. Come with me, miss.’
He led me down a labyrinth of corridors, some of which I felt certain were servants’ passageways. Finally, he ushered me through a side door with an entreaty to ‘Enjoy myself.’
I found myself in a larger saloon than I had expected. It had a large, cavernous feel that was cold and unwelcoming. It was blue and it was filled with rows of corn-coloured chairs. These had been placed in rows facing a dais on which a familiar figure in a purple turban sat. The room was less than half full. I made my way down the aisle as quietly as possible and joined the last row of filled seats.
‘Oh-oh-oh,’ moaned Madam Arcana, who was either about to enter a trance or had severe food poisoning. I took the opportunity to appraise the audience. There were a number of girls dressed in plain, respectable dresses and which I guessed to be maids on their day out. There were also a goodly number of shabby-genteel women, who I took to be companions. In the front three rows I could see nothing but large feathered hats and these I took to be worn by older matrons, who formed the backbone of Madam Arcana’s moneyed following. Standing, trembling near the centre was a woman in her early 20s, whose smart but threadbare skirt and jacket, sensible haircut and face devoid of makeup clearly marked her as a vicar’s wife. I imagined her winning the egg-and-spoon race and tumbling along happily in the mothers’ sack event.
‘The Reverend Dipton says the church roof is more important than the refurbishment of the library,’ proclaimed Madam Arcana suddenly. ‘He says the fete should be used to raise money to shelter the faithful of God.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the woman in a nervous voice. ‘Only my husband is quite clear that the roof will last another winter and the children are so short of books.’
Madam Arcana opened her eyes. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I could not comment on the wisdom of the particular spirit you asked me to contact, but only pass on what he said.’
‘You mean,’ said the questioner in a startled voice, ‘that he might be wrong? I thought on the other side …’
‘Has he long been passed?’ asked Madam Arcana.
‘Some six months. Three months before my husband took the parish.’
‘And was he revered as a wise and good man when he was there?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ said the woman in a tone that implied she very well could.
‘He may still be adjusting to the higher vibrations,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘It can take some spirits time to throw off their worldly desires.’
‘You mean we could do as we wanted?’
‘Was there ever any reason why you shouldn’t?’
The woman twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. ‘The vicarage is so very dark and gloomy. It feels as if he is still there.’
‘Then I strongly advise you to have a very happy and busy fete,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘He will see you are looking after his parishioners well and their jollity will extinguish his solemnity.’
‘You mean, like a party?’ asked the woman brightening. ‘Oh, what a jolly idea.’ She sat down very well pleased with what her shilling or whatever the entrance fee had cost her. I could only imagine the scene when she tried to explain her reasoning to her husband or perhaps she would have more sense.
‘Does anyone else have a query?’ asked Madam Arcana.
There followed a number of questions about lost dogs, lost wallets, who daughters should marry and the likelihood of an invasion by Germany. I was not once convinced that Madam Arcana was in contact with any spirits, but the dearly departed’s – or rather her – advice was always gentle, sensible and inclined to make the questioner think for themselves. I almost approved. I could not say whether it was her deception or the inability of those present to listen to plain,
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