Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

She had left that original tarot pack in the boy’s room, inadvertently. She wondered if he had ever taken it out and looked at the pictures; whether he ever thought of her, a mysterious stranger, a passing Queen of Hearts. She thought of buying another set, but what she read in the handbook baffled and bored her. Seventy-eight cards! Better employ someone qualified to read them for you. She began to visit a woman in Isleworth, but it turned out that her specialty was the crystal ball. The object sat between them on a black velvet cloth; she had expected it to be clear, because that’s what they said, crystal-clear, but to look into it was like looking into a cloud bank or into drifting fog.

“The clear ones are glass, dear,” the Sensitive explained. “You won’t get anything from those.” She rested her veined hands on the black velvet. “It’s the flaws that are vital,” she said. “The flaws are what you pay for. You will find some readers who prefer the black mirror. That is an option, of course.”

Colette raised her eyebrows.

“Onyx,” the woman said. “The best are beyond price. The more you look—but you have to know how to look—the more you see stirring in the depths.”

Colette asked straight out and heard that her crystal ball had set her back 500 pounds. “And then only because I have a special friend.” The psychic gained, in Colette’s eyes, a deal of prestige. She was avid to part with her 20 pounds for the reading. She drank in everything the woman said, and when she hit the Isleworth pavement, moss growing between its cracks, she was unable to remember a word of it.

She consulted a palmist a few times, and had her horoscope cast. Then she had Gavin’s done. She wasn’t sure that his chart was valid, because she couldn’t specify the time of his birth. “What do you want to know that for?” he’d said, when she asked him. She said it was of general interest to her, and he glared at her with extreme suspicion.

“I suppose you don’t know, do you?” she said. “I could ring your mum.”

“I very much doubt,” he’d said, “that my mother would have retained that piece of useless information, her brain being somewhat overburdened in my opinion with things like where is my plastic washball for my Persil, and what is the latest development in bloody EastEnders .”

The astrologer was unfazed by her ignorance. “Round it up,” he said, “round it down. Twelve noon is what we use. We always do it for animals.”

“For animals?” she’d said. “They have their horoscope done, do they?”

“Oh, certainly. It’s a valuable service, you see, for the caring owner who has a problem with a pet. Imagine, for instance, if you kept falling off your horse. You’d need to know, is this an ideal pairing? It could be a matter of life or death.”

“And do people know when their horse was born?”

“Frankly, no. That’s why we have a strategy to approximate. And as for your partner—if we say noon that’s fine, but we then need latitude and longitude—so where do we imagine Hubby first saw the light of day?”

Colette sniffed. “He won’t say.”

“Probably a Scorpio ascendant there. Controls by disinformation. Or could be Pisces. Makes mysteries where none needed. Just joking! Relax and think back for me. His mummy must have dropped a hint at some point. Where exactly did the dear chap pop out, into this breathing world scarce half made up?”

“He grew up in Uxbridge. But you know, she might have had him in hospital.”

“So it could have been anywhere along the A40?”

“Could we just say, London?”

“We’ll put him on the meridian. Always a wise choice.”

After this incident, she found it difficult to regard Gavin as fully human. He was standardized on zero degrees longitude and twelve noon, like some bucking bronco, or a sad mutt with no pedigree. She did call his mum, one evening when she’d had a half bottle of wine and was feeling perverse.

“Renee, is that you?” she said.

Renee said, “How did you get my name?”

“It’s me,” she said, and Renee replied. “I’ve got replacement windows, and replacement doors. I’ve got a conservatory and the loft conversion’s coming next week. I never give to charity, thank you, and I’ve planned my holiday for this year, and I had a new kitchen when you were last in my area.”

“It’s about Gavin,” she said. “It’s me, Colette. I need to know when he was born.”

“Take my name off your list,” her mother-in-law said. “And if you must call me, could you not call during my programme? It’s one of my few remaining pleasures.” There was a pause, as if she were going to put the receiver down. Then she spoke again. “Not that I need any others. I’ve had my suite recovered. I have a spa bath already. And a case of vintage wine. And a stair lift to help me keep my independence. Have you got that? Are you taking notice? Bugger off.”

Click.

Colette held the phone. Daughter-in-law of fourteen months, spurned by his mother. She replaced the receiver, and walked into the kitchen. She stood by the double sink, mastering herself. “Gavin,” she called, “do you want peas or green beans?”

There was no answer. She stalked into the sitting room. Gavin, his bare feet on the sofa arm, was reading What Car?

“Peas or green beans?” she asked.

No reply.

“ Gavin !” she said.

“With wot?”

“Cutlets.”

“What’s that?”

“Lamb. Lamb chops.”

“Okay,” he said. “Whatever. Both.”

“You can’t.” Her voice shook. “Two green veg, you can’t.”

“Who says?”

“Your mother,” she said; she felt she could say anything, as he never listened.

“When?”

“Just now on the phone.”

“My mother was on the phone?”

“Just now.”

“Bloody amazing.” He shook his head and flicked over a page.

“Why? Why should it be?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“What? Renee?” Colette sat down on the sofa arm: later, when she told the story, she would say, well, at that point, my legs went from under me. But she would never be able to recapture the sudden fright, the weakness that ran through her body, her anger, her indignation, the violent exasperation that possessed her. She said, “What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?”

“It happened this morning. My sis rang. Carole.”

“Is this a joke? I need to know. Is this a joke? Because if it is, Gavin, I’ll kneecap you.”

Gavin raised his eyebrows, as if to say, why would it be funny?

“I didn’t suggest it was,” she said at once: why wait for him to speak? “I asked if it was your idea of a joke.”

“God help anybody who made a joke around here.”

Colette laid her hand on her rib cage, behind which something persistently fluttered. She stood up. She walked into the kitchen. She stared at the ceiling. She took a deep breath. She came back. “Gavin?”

“Mm?”

“She’s really dead?”

“Mm.”

She wanted to hit him. “How?”

“Heart.”

“Oh, God! Have you no feeling? You can sit there, going peas or beans—”

“You went that,” he said reasonably.

“Weren’t you going to tell me? If I hadn’t said, your mother was on the phone—”

Gavin yawned. “What’s the hurry? I’d have told you.”

“You mean you might just have mentioned it? When you got around to it? When would that have been?”

“After the food.” She gaped at him. He said, with some dignity, “I can’t mention when I’m hungry.”

Colette bunched her fingers into fists, and held them at chest height. She was short of breath, and the flutter inside her chest had subdued to a steady thump. At the same time an uneasy feeling filled her, that anything she could do was inadequate; she was performing someone else’s gestures, perhaps from an equivalent TV moment where news of a sudden death is received. But what are the proper gestures when a ghost’s been on the phone? She didn’t know. “Please. Gavin,” she said. “Put down What Car? Just … look at me, will you? Now tell me what happened.”