Friday Reading - Family Lines

Continuing the story of Lucy's search for her missing sister, Deborah. This week Ma consults a psychic.

6 July 1980

Now the sightings have begun. So far you’ve been seen in the following places:

Busáras

The bar on the B+I to Holyhead

Under Clery’s clock

Shop Street in Galway (Wha??)

Copies of you are breeding faster than rabbits. Or have you become a ghost?  

  The gardaí phone to say they’re ‘pursuing a report’ or they have a lead. For a couple of days we’re all on a high. There’s an energy surge in the house that could light Henry Street at Christmas. Ma shines the windows (about time too). Da weeds the front path. I turn up the radio and it obliges us with chirpy tunes, ‘Yes I like piña coladas and gettin’ caught in the rain . . . ’. Phone rings. Sarge tells us the trail’s gone cold. And we all fall down.

  Soapy drew a blank at the relief agencies and advised us to pray. That put a stop to Ma’s religion kick. Thank God.

  Next she tried a psychic. She heard a woman on the radio talking about sixth sense and auras and all the people she’d supposedly found. The woman claimed to accompany the missing person on their journey – sometimes their last.  I said I’d go with Ma, for company and curiosity, and yeah, okay, maybe a little bit because I thought it might work. The woman told Ma to bring an article of your clothing, preferably unwashed.

  What’s she going to do – sniff it? I wondered.

  Don’t be smart, Ma said. It’s for the aura.

  We brought a tee-shirt which had a strong aura of fabric conditioner but maybe psychics can see past their noses.  

  Mrs. Smith lives in a flat on Charlemont Street. That was the first disappointment. I’d expected her place to be like the fortune teller’s booth at a circus – all glass balls, smoky lanterns and exotic drapery. In fact it was boringly normal: brown three-piece suite, kitschy prints, lace curtains and some busy lizzies on the windowsill. Mrs. S herself was a frumpy looking woman, about the same age as Ma but less inclined to make herself look younger. Except for the hair which is dyed ice pop orange, and the lipstick applied above her thin lips. She wore a bright red jumper over her black dress and a small gold cross on a chain. She said the red was to fend off the evil spirits. I suppose the cross was to convince us she wasn’t a satanist.

 She offered us tea and biscuits (Kimberleys and custard creams — boring or wha?) Me and Ma perched on the settee, both of us as nervous as if we were in the Principal’s office. When Mrs. S had poured the tea she settled into a chair opposite and simpered expectantly.

  Ma raised her cup and saucer in a shaking hand but waited for her to speak first move.  

  After a long silence Mrs Smith asked Ma to describe you and the day you left.

  Ma told the story, glancing at me now and then to confirm the details.

  I nodded and looked at Mrs. Smith but she wasn’t looking at us. She was sat back in her chair with her eyes closed. I was sure she’d let out a snore any minute.  

  When Ma’s story came to an end Mrs. Smith opened her eyes and sat up, quite business like. She asked for the article of clothing and I handed her the tee-shirt. She examined it as if she was thinking of buying it, but curled her lip a bit when she saw the St. Bernard label.

  Leave it with me, she said, and phone me in a week’s time. That’ll be twenty-five pounds for the consultation.

  Me and Ma gaped at her.

  She reached her hand over the table and Ma crossed her palm with cash.

  Bitch! Ma exploded when we were walking to the bus stop. Twenty five fecking quid for five fecking minutes. Auras my arse. The only aura she understands is the shine of money.

  Well anything is worth a try, I said to calm her down.

  Not when it’s daylight robbery. I’ve a good mind to report her to the gardaí.

  Let’s wait and see what she says next week.

Mrs. Smith’s aura hung around me for days afterwards, like a dream you can’t shake off. It wasn’t so much that I believed she had special powers as that I was afraid she might have them and that she’d tell us something we didn’t want to hear. We can’t afford to lose all hope.

Remember the time you brought me to a séance with those weird people who’d moved in down the road? You were the only one who made contact with a spirit. You looked like you were having a fit, and when that baby’s cry came out of you I broke into a sweat. You said you didn’t remember anything afterwards but you gave up on the séances after that. (I always wondered did you have a thing for the boy in that house. What was his name? Loudon?) Then it was the tarot cards. I spotted them under your pillow, so don’t deny it. I was nearly going to ask you to read mine but I went off the idea. Knowing what the future holds is a bit like skipping to the end of a book before you start it. Now I wonder what you were looking for?

  Da wasn’t keen on us seeing Mrs. Smith again. He said Ma was only tormenting herself.

  And what am I supposed to do? Sit around counting the days off the calendar?

  (Did I tell you she wants to give up her mornings at Gina’s salon so that the house is never empty? Da says no, partly because of the money but also because he thinks it’s better for us all to be out and about like normal. The gardaí have their work numbers.)

   No, Da said. But this woman can’t bring Deborah back.

  She can maybe tell me if she’s alive or dead.

  Da shrank – you know what he’s like - pulling his head in like a tortoise disappearing into its shell. We’re not allowed say the D-word.

  Ma phoned Mrs. Smith a week later and she asked us to visit again.

  Another twenty-five quid gone west, I suppose, Ma snorted. Three weeks’ worth of tips.

  We went all the same.

  Mrs. Smith did the tea and biscuits routine. Still no chocolate biscuits. She could have at least bought some with the cash Ma gave her.

  When she had poured the tea Mrs. Smith looked at Ma and then at me, pulled herself up as straight as she could, and said, Deborah is alive.  

  Ma fell apart I patted her back.

  Is she safe? Ma asked between sobs.

  Quite safe.

  Is she coming home?

  I don’t know.

  Where is she?

  I can’t tell you that. She doesn’t want you to know yet.

  Ma looked up, fit to throttle Mrs. Smith.

  She wants you to know she’s safe.

  She could have sent a post-card. Ma sniffled. If you really are in touch with her tell her from me that we’re in bits over her and she’s to contact us. We’ll welcome her with open arms no matter what she’s done.

  I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Mrs. S shook her head then asked for her fee.

  When Ma handed over the money Mrs. S returned your tee-shirt as if she’d been holding it ransom.

  At the door, she sighed, These journeys are exhausting. So many people come seeking their loved ones. And I can’t always give them comfort. The world is such a hostile place.

 Ma was feeling pretty hostile on the way home. We both were. One minute she was giving out about Mrs. Smith, next minute about you.

  Do you believe her? I asked Ma.

  I don’t know, she said. I don’t know anything anymore.

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Thank you for joining me on What’s the Story? For those who have just arrived, this chapter is the sixth in my novel Family Lines. You can find the previous chapters in recent posts here.

Let me know what you think of the story so far!