Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

“I have to get back soon,” Al said. “They’re building up in there.”

“So if it’s not a switch—”

“About the job. You could sleep on it.”

“And it’s not a tap—”

“You could ring me tomorrow.”

“And it’s not somebody whispering in your ear—”

“My number’s on the leaflet. Have you got my leaflet?”

“Does your spirit guide tell you things?”

“Don’t leave it too long.”

“You said he was called Morris. A little bouncing circus clown.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds a pain.”

“He can be.”

“Does he live with you? In your house? I mean, if you call it ‘live’?”

“You might as well,” Al said. She sounded tired. “You might as well call it ‘live’ as call it anything.” She pushed herself to her feet. “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

“Where do you live?”

“Wexham.”

“Is that far?”

“Just up into Bucks.”

“How do you get home, do you drive?”

“Train and then a taxi.”

“By the way, I think you must be right. About my family.”

Al looked down at her. “I sense you’re wavering. I mean, about my offer. It’s not like you to be indecisive. More like you to take the plunge.”

“I’m not quite sure what you’d want me to do. I’m used to job description.”

“We could work one up. If that’s what’s worrying you. Write your own, why not? You’ll soon see what needs to be done.” Alison was rummaging for something in her bag. “I may not be able to pay as much as your last job. But then, when you’ve looked at my books, you’ll be able to tell me what I can afford. And also, it’s a quality-of-life thing, isn’t it? I should think the schedule will be more relaxed than in your last job. You’d have more leisure.” Then she said, as if she were embarrassed, “You wouldn’t get rich out of me. I’m no good for lottery numbers or anything like that.”

“Can you hang on for a minute?” Colette said. “I need to know more.”

“They’ll be waiting.”

“Make them wait.”

“Yes, but not too long. Or Mrs. Etchells will catch them.” Al had found a tube of mints in her bag. She proffered it to Colette. “Keeps the mind alert,” she said. “What I need, you see, is someone to keep the diary straight and make sure I don’t double-book. Liaise with the management, wherever I’m on the platform. Book hotels. Do the accounts. It would be good to have someone to answer the phone. If I’m with a client, I can’t always break off.”

“You don’t have an answering machine?”

“The clients would rather hear a human voice. Anyway, I’m not very good with electrical things.”

“So how do you do your washing? In a tub?”

“No, the fact is—” Alison looked down. She looked harried. “I can see there’s a lot I’m going to have to explain to you,” she said.

The truth was, it emerged, that whatever message Alison left on her machine was liable to become corrupted. Other messages, quite different ones, would overlay it. Where did they come from? “There’s no simple answer to that,” Alison said. She checked her watch. “I meant to eat but I’ve been talking.”

“I’ll bring you a sandwich in, shall I?”

“I never eat when I’m reading. It’s not professional. Oh, well. Do me no harm to be hungry, will it? I’ll hardly waste away.” She patted her tummy, smiled miserably. “Look, about the travelling, I do travel a lot, and I used to drive, but I don’t anymore. I think if I had a friend with me, I could manage, so we could split it, you see.”

“You need a navigator?”

“It’s not so much that.” What Alison needed, she explained—picking again at the sugar straws, opening them and putting them down—was a warm living body beside her, as she drove from town to town, fayre to fayre, and from one Psychic Extravaganza to another. Otherwise, a spirit would come and sit in the passenger seat, and natter on while she tried to negotiate an unfamiliar one-way system. “Do you know Bracknell? Bracknell’s hell. All those roundabouts.”

“What’s to stop the spirits from climbing in the back seat instead? Or have you got a two-door?”

Alison looked at her for a long moment. Colette thought she was actually going to answer the question. “Look, Colette,” she said softly. She had got four straws lined up now, and she moved them about, delicately, with one finger: changing the pattern, shuffling and reshuffling. “Look, it doesn’t matter if you’re a bit sceptical. I understand. I’d be sceptical myself. All you need to realize is that it doesn’t matter what you think, it doesn’t matter what I think—what happens, happens all the same. The only thing is, I don’t do tests, I don’t do tricks for people to try to prove myself, because I don’t need to prove anything. Do you see?”

Colette nodded.

Alison raised a finger to a girl who was serving and pointed to the cafetière. “A refill for you,” she explained. “I can see you’re bitter. Why shouldn’t you be? Life hasn’t treated you well. You’ve worked hard and had no reward. You’ve lost your home. And you’ve lost a lot of your money, haven’t you?”

Colette’s eyes followed the trail of brown sugar curling across the table; like an initial, trying to form itself. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

“I laid out a spread for you. After you’d gone.”

“A spread?”

“The tarot cards.”

“I know. Which spread?”

“Basic Romany.”

“Why that?”

“I was in a hurry.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw myself.”

Al got up and headed back towards the main hall, handing a ten-pound note to a girl as she passed, pointing to the table she had just left. That’s far too much, Colette thought, two pots of coffee, ten pounds, what is she thinking? She felt a flare of indignation, as if it were her own cash that had been spent. She drank all the coffee, so as not to be wasteful, tipping the pot so its muddy grounds shifted. She went to the LADIES, and as she washed her hands she watched herself in the mirror. Maybe no mind-reading in it, she thought. No psychic tricks needed, or information from spirit guides. She did look like a woman who had lost her money: lost her lottery ticket in life, lost her dad and lost her home.

That summer they laughed a lot. They acted as if they were in love, planning for each other treats and nice things to eat and surprising each other with thoughtful gifts. Alison gave Colette a voucher for a day spa in Windsor; I won’t come, she said cheerfully, I don’t want some foul-breathed anorexic lecturing me about my cellulite, but you enjoy yourself, Colette. Colette dropped into Caleys and bought a warm throw, soft mohair and the colour of crushed raspberries; lovely, Al said that evening, just what I need, something to cover me up.

Colette took over most of the driving, finding that she didn’t mind at all. “Change the car,” she said to Alison, and they went out to a showroom that very afternoon. They picked one because they liked the colour and the up-holstery; she imagined herself, putting two fingers up to Gavin, and when the salesman tried to talk car sense they just giggled at each other. “The truth is, they’re all the same these days,” she said loudly. “I don’t know much, but I do know that.”

Al wasn’t interested, she just wanted it done with; but when the salesman tried to trap her into a finance deal, she slapped him down smartly. She agreed on a delivery date, wrote a cheque; Colette was impressed by her style. When they got home she rummaged through Al’s wardrobe and threw out the worst bits of Lurex. She tried to smuggle the “silk” out, in a black bin liner, but Al went after the plastic bag and retrieved it, drawing it out and looping it around her arm. “Nice try,” she said to Colette. “But I’m sticking with it, please.”