Bereft by Chris Womersley

message for Mr. Wright. Thank you, sir, that will be ten shillings. Is there someone known to Emily … Masters , is it? Pasters? Marsden? A child, I believe. The … mother, perhaps? An aunt? No? Aaah, Miss Wilcox. Glad you were able to come this week. I know , it’s rained non-stop, hasn’t it? Still, it could be worse. Mr. Conroy. Mr. Conroy, is your wife feeling better? Good, good …”
    Quinn backed from the parlour to wait for Fletcher in the hall. He was desperate to get away and only hoped Mrs. Cranshaw wouldn’t confront him again. People bustled past, some clutching pieces of paper, their faces distorted by sorrow or joy. When Fletcher joined him, he was downcast, as there had been no word from his fiancée. He spoke already of visiting another medium, one that was particularly adept at conversing with young ladies who had crossed over.
    Quinn was adamant that he would never let Fletcher persuade him to attend such an event again. They put on their hats, shuffled through the heavy door and were stepping down to the wet and shining street when they heard the thump of footsteps. A voice called out to them. Quinn turned to see the red-haired girl hurrying towards them along the carpeted hall, pinching her dress at the knee to forestall tripping on its hem. Her face was flushed and, before he could query Fletcher for guidance on what might be happening or how to respond, the girl had bounded down the stairs, pressed herself against him and flung her arms about his waist.
    â€œThank you ever so much for coming,” she whispered before stepping back inside with evident reluctance. The whole episode lasted barely five seconds, but a fresh unease gripped Quinn’s innards.
    Mrs. Cranshaw herself then swung into the hallway behind the girl, eyes ablaze, her mouth as tight as wire. She looked from the girl to Quinn to Fletcher. Unsettled and confused about what had actually transpired, Quinn straightened his crumpled tunic and fastened the remainder of its buttons. His breath fogged out in front of him. Drizzle needled through the halo of a streetlamp. How on earth had he allowed Fletcher to drag him to this terrible place?
    Mrs. Cranshaw had by now rested a hand upon the red-haired girl’s shoulder—and not entirely maternally, Quinn thought. Indeed the girl stumbled backwards as her mother—if this woman really were her mother—shoved herself off and set sail down the wet stairs. Fletcher addressed the fast-approaching Mrs. Cranshaw with a remark that she should keep an eye on the girl, who seemed a trifle rattled after her experience with the dead. Mrs. Cranshaw ignored the comment as she placed herself before Quinn.
    â€œWhat did she say to you?” she demanded in a low voice.
    Sunk into the collar of his tunic against the damp air, Quinn wanted to be elsewhere, somewhere warm. He grasped a prong of the iron fence. The cold, wet metal reminded him that in two days he would be back in France and he sensed the pointless shrug of his heart.
    Mrs. Cranshaw stepped closer. Rain gathered on her eyelashes. “I must ask you again: did she say anything to you, sir?” Her breath hung in the air between them as thick as candle smoke, an impression augmented by its waxen scent. She looked him up and down, as if expecting to notice something that might alert her to what had occurred between him and the girl. “We charge for messages from the other side, you know.”
    Over Mrs. Cranshaw’s shoulder, Quinn spied the girl still standing in the hallway, her body hunched as a question mark.
    â€œMr. Walker, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, sir, what did Margaret say to you?”
    â€œNothing. She didn’t say a word.”
    â€œAre you sure, boy?”
    â€œYes. Quite sure.”
    Mrs. Cranshaw dug out something from her lower lip with her tongue. Again she inspected him but, eventually, muttering under her breath, waddled back up the