already knew. “Will I meet him at work?”
Alison closed her eyes. “Sort of,” she offered. She frowned. “More through work, than at work. Through work, is how I’d put it. First you’ll be sort of colleagues, then it’ll get closer. You’ll have a—what’s the word?—a long association. It may take a bit of time to get close. He has to warm to you.” She chuckled. “His dress sense is a bit lacking, but I expect you’ll soon fix that, darling.” Alison smiled around at the audience. “She’ll just have to wait and see. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Colette nodded. She kept up an inner monologue. It is, it is. I have hope, I have hope. I will get a salary rise—no, not that. I will get a place of my own—no, not that. I must, I had better, I ought to look around for a new job, I ought to shake my life up and open myself to opportunities. But whatever I do, something will happen. I am tired. I am tired of taking care of myself. Something will happen that is out of my hands.
Alison did a few other things that night at the Harte and Garter. She told a depressed-looking woman that she’d be going on a cruise. The woman at once straightened her collapsed spine and revealed in an awestruck voice that she had received a cruise brochure by the morning post, which she had sent for because her silver wedding was coming up shortly, and she thought it was time they exported their happiness somewhere other than the Isle of Wight.
“Well I want to say to you,” Alison had told her, “that you will be going on that cruise; yes you will.” Colette marvelled at the way Alison could spend the woman’s money. “And I’ll tell you something else; you’re going to have a lovely time. You’re going to have the time of your life.”
The woman sat up even straighter. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she said. She seemed to take on a sort of glow. Colette could see it even though she was four rows away. It encouraged her to think that somebody could hand over a fiver at the door and get so much hope in return. It was cheap, compared to what she was paying in Brondesbury and elsewhere.
After the event, Colette walked to the Riverside station in the chilly evening air. The sun made a red channel down the centre of the Thames. Swans were bobbing in the milky water near the banks. Over towards Datchet, outside the pub called the Donkey House, some French exchange students were dipping one of their number in the water. She could hear their excited cries; they warmed her heart. She stood on the bridge and waved to them with a big sweep of her arm, as if she were bringing a light aircraft in to land.
I won’t come back tomorrow, she thought. I will, I won’t, I will.
The next morning, Sunday, her journey was interrupted by engineering works. She had hoped to be first in the queue but that was not to be. As she stepped out of the station, there was a burst of sunshine. The High Street was crammed with coaches. She walked uphill towards the castle and the Harte and Garter. The great Round Tower brooded over the street, and at its feet, like a munching worm, wound a stream of trippers gnawing at burgers.
It was eleven o’clock and the Extravaganza was in full spate. The tables and stands were set up in the hall where the medium had done the demonstration the night before. Spiritual healing was going on in one corner, Kirlian photography in another, and each individual psychic’s table, swathed in chenille or fringed silk, bore her stock-in-trade of tarot pack, crystal ball, charms, incense, pendulums, and bells—plus a small tape machine so the client could have a record of her consultation.
Almost all the psychics were women. There were just two men, lugubrious and neglected: Merlin and Merlyn, according to their name cards. One had on his table a bronze wizard, waving a staff, and the other had what appeared to be a shrunken head on a stand. There was no queue at his table. She wandered
Alison closed her eyes. “Sort of,” she offered. She frowned. “More through work, than at work. Through work, is how I’d put it. First you’ll be sort of colleagues, then it’ll get closer. You’ll have a—what’s the word?—a long association. It may take a bit of time to get close. He has to warm to you.” She chuckled. “His dress sense is a bit lacking, but I expect you’ll soon fix that, darling.” Alison smiled around at the audience. “She’ll just have to wait and see. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Colette nodded. She kept up an inner monologue. It is, it is. I have hope, I have hope. I will get a salary rise—no, not that. I will get a place of my own—no, not that. I must, I had better, I ought to look around for a new job, I ought to shake my life up and open myself to opportunities. But whatever I do, something will happen. I am tired. I am tired of taking care of myself. Something will happen that is out of my hands.
Alison did a few other things that night at the Harte and Garter. She told a depressed-looking woman that she’d be going on a cruise. The woman at once straightened her collapsed spine and revealed in an awestruck voice that she had received a cruise brochure by the morning post, which she had sent for because her silver wedding was coming up shortly, and she thought it was time they exported their happiness somewhere other than the Isle of Wight.
“Well I want to say to you,” Alison had told her, “that you will be going on that cruise; yes you will.” Colette marvelled at the way Alison could spend the woman’s money. “And I’ll tell you something else; you’re going to have a lovely time. You’re going to have the time of your life.”
The woman sat up even straighter. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she said. She seemed to take on a sort of glow. Colette could see it even though she was four rows away. It encouraged her to think that somebody could hand over a fiver at the door and get so much hope in return. It was cheap, compared to what she was paying in Brondesbury and elsewhere.
After the event, Colette walked to the Riverside station in the chilly evening air. The sun made a red channel down the centre of the Thames. Swans were bobbing in the milky water near the banks. Over towards Datchet, outside the pub called the Donkey House, some French exchange students were dipping one of their number in the water. She could hear their excited cries; they warmed her heart. She stood on the bridge and waved to them with a big sweep of her arm, as if she were bringing a light aircraft in to land.
I won’t come back tomorrow, she thought. I will, I won’t, I will.
The next morning, Sunday, her journey was interrupted by engineering works. She had hoped to be first in the queue but that was not to be. As she stepped out of the station, there was a burst of sunshine. The High Street was crammed with coaches. She walked uphill towards the castle and the Harte and Garter. The great Round Tower brooded over the street, and at its feet, like a munching worm, wound a stream of trippers gnawing at burgers.
It was eleven o’clock and the Extravaganza was in full spate. The tables and stands were set up in the hall where the medium had done the demonstration the night before. Spiritual healing was going on in one corner, Kirlian photography in another, and each individual psychic’s table, swathed in chenille or fringed silk, bore her stock-in-trade of tarot pack, crystal ball, charms, incense, pendulums, and bells—plus a small tape machine so the client could have a record of her consultation.
Almost all the psychics were women. There were just two men, lugubrious and neglected: Merlin and Merlyn, according to their name cards. One had on his table a bronze wizard, waving a staff, and the other had what appeared to be a shrunken head on a stand. There was no queue at his table. She wandered
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