| BETTY’S SÉANCE
By Hannah Cundall
I’m doing a spot of baking when the call comes through.
The yeast has worked its magic, the dough has risen, and I’m busy
flouring the table ready for a final kneading session before the bread
gets popped into the oven. Of all the times to be drawn away, this has
to be one of the most difficult. Oh well. There’s really nothing
I can do about it. They’ll just have to take me as I am.
As the light from my little kitchen fades, I am pulled toward another
light source; that of a solitary candle flame. Ever curious, I peer into
the darkness beyond the flame to try to work out where I am and the reason
for the call. The candle is wedged into a wine bottle and wax is dripping
down the glass onto a wooden table – they should watch that, hot
wax will ruin the varnish – and further out from the flame I can
see…urrggh! Fingers!
Honestly, I wish someone would switch on some lights. Spirits are just
as likely to visit in daylight or in a properly lit room, and we’re
just as interested to find out who else is present, too. It’s virtually
impossible here. Though perhaps on this occasion it’s for the best,
as I’m still wearing my apron and tendrils of my hair have decided
to escape from my bun. Oh, and I’ve got flour all over my hands.
‘Betty,’ I say to myself, ‘You look a state.’
Now I know I was a bit slow on the uptake, but I think I’ve worked
it out: the fingers are connected to hands, which are linked, thumb to
thumb, pinkie to pinkie, around a circular table. There are one, two,
three…ten people sitting at the table, and they’re having
a séance.
Next question, then, is there anyone I know? I don’t recognise the
medium, although you wouldn’t forget a face like that - thick black
eyeliner, piercings through her nose and chin, silver skulls on every
other finger and cherry red hair. She lights up almost as brightly as
the candle. She’s in her early thirties and I can tell that she’s
new to this. Maybe she has a family to support, and spends an evening
a week doing séances for a bit of extra money, rather than host
a Tupperware party. It’s a chance to meet people I suppose, from
all walks of life and d-.
I have to confess, I don’t like using the d-word. ‘Passed
on’ is my preference, it’s altogether less final, and gives
people a little reassurance that there might be something else. Which
of course, I can vouch for that. I’ve never been so busy. There’s
the baking, the coffee mornings, chats with the newcomers and frequent
visits to the hospital. If you have a skill in life, you tend to take
it with you, and thankfully a passion for cooking and hearty gossip has
come with me.
I’m scanning the room for a familiar face, and I happen to catch
sight of my old silver ring, inlaid with lapis lazuli. Sally! You’ve
changed your hair colour, love, and had it cut into a bob. Very nice,
but I nearly didn’t recognise you. What on earth are you doing here?
I thought you’d dismissed the idea of an afterlife when Zippy the
gerbil was put down. I suppose that was a few years ago now, and you must
be, let me think, twenty-eight? At any rate, it’s lovely to see
you, and I’m pleased to see that you’re still wearing your
grandmother’s ring.
The medium clears her throat and closes her eyes.
‘Have we any visitors from the spirit world here tonight?’
Bless her. She sounds doubtful. Two of the group, both teenage boys, exchange
silent smirks. One kicks the other under the table.
‘Does anyone out there have a message for one of the group?’
This part always drags. It’s like when a teacher asks a difficult
question in class and nobody wants to answer for fear of being tongue-tied
or utterly wrong. I recall once visiting the Guildhall with my friend
Barbara to watch a spiritual meeting hosted by a top television medium.
Barbara loved the flamboyant performance and the prospect of fame, but
all I remember was the overpowering smell of the medium’s aftershave
and a hall filled with disorientated spirits. At least there were no awkward
silences that day. He wouldn’t let the afterlife get a word in edgeways.
It has taken a while, but my eyes are now fully adjusted to the darkness.
I’ve noticed that in addition to the medium and her nine guests,
there are a considerable number - must be about fourteen - visitors, including
myself, all milling around the outside of the circle. The living room
is starting to become a bit cramped.
Well, I take my hat off to the medium. I don’t know how she does
it, but she can certainly reel them in. I try smiling at a few of the
assembled spirits, but they’re a miserable bunch, and all I get
are blank stares in return. It’s worse than the week I did jury
service. I have a feeling that this particular evening will be a long
one, and I’m beginning to wish I was back in my kitchen. The dough
will be as flat as a pancake by the time I return. So I’ve reluctantly
decided to take matters into my own hands and speed things up a little.
I look around at my peers.
‘Any volunteers?’ I ask. Two large female spirits look at
me and shrug, and a wizened old man scratches his head. It used to be
about as lively as this at the Women’s Institute AGM, I remind myself.
‘No? Well, I’ll go first then.’ I assume my posh Greeting
People voice.
‘Hello?’ No answer. I try again, less posh, but a good deal
louder.
‘HELLO!’ Still nothing. For goodness’ sake, it’s
no good inviting us round, dear, if you can’t hear us when we arrive.
I’ve always disliked public speaking, and now I have the undivided
attention of every spirit in the room. I’d like to disappear, but
unfortunately that’s not an option. Not from this lot, anyway. I
try to get the medium’s attention another way.
‘Excuse me, sorry.’ I work my way around the overcrowded living
room, trying to avoid getting flour on anybody or passing through anyone
in the seated circle. It’s not easy. I manage to reach the medium
and lightly tap her on the shoulder. She jumps four inches into the air
and swears under her breath.
‘Who was that?’ she asks, looking over her shoulder. I think
she’s expecting one of the group to own up, but everyone’s
hands lay palm-down on the table. I was right – she is an amateur.
Now I’m stuck. Do I back off and let Mystic Meg convince herself
it was just her imagination, or do I try to introduce myself and suffer
the subsequent hysteria that may ensue? My peers close in around me, and
the old man winks at me. I don’t really have a choice. I stand behind
her left shoulder and speak into her ear.
‘Um, I’m Elizabeth Turner. No, scratch that. Betty. B.E.T-’
She swings her head round violently. Had I been a living person, I’m
certain she’d have fractured my jawbone, but at last, she’s
tuned in!
‘Betty! I’ve got a Betty!’ Anyone would think she’s
hooked a prize-winning trout, the way she announces it. Sally immediately
looks up.
‘I had a gran called Betty,’ she says simply. ‘She left
me this ring in her will.’ She smiles at the ring, the polished
surface glints in the candlelight. ‘Do you think it could be her,
Carlotta?’
‘Is it you, Betty?’
Believe me, if I could materialise right now, in this room, and say ‘ta-daaa!’
I would. But I can’t. That takes a lot of practice, and I’ve
never found the time.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ I’m racking my mind, trying to
think of a way to prove that I’m here, and that I sort-of exist,
when Carlotta turns in her chair, her hands still on the table, and looks
directly at me. It’s a little unnerving.
‘Wow. She looks like you, Sal. Older, but you’ve got the same
eyes, same smile. She’s got grey hair tied up in a bun, with some
loose strands about her face. She’s wearing an apron and she looks
like she’s been baking – she’s got flour on her hands.’
The biggest grin spreads across Sally’s face, as she remembers me
always cooking in the kitchen, clear as day. Her gaze searches above and
around Carlotta as if trying to catch sight of me through the candle flicker
before I go.
‘Do you have a message for Sally, Betty?’
Ooh, now I’m stumped. I’d forgotten about this bit. My mind
goes blank, just as it used to whenever I was handed a birthday card and
asked to ‘write something’. Shame about the weather? No, too
trivial. Uncle Trevor has taken up Sudoku? Ridiculous. Think, Betty! Everybody
in the room is waiting for one sparkling piece of advice from me, Sally’s
grandmother, who, until recently, was happily ensconced in her kitchen,
and whose only wish is to be back there now.
‘My recipe book – the one that we used to fill with all of
our favourite recipes torn from magazines, written from memory, tried
and tasted – it’s in the attic at your parents’ house.’
I’d completely forgotten about it until now. ‘It’s yours.’
Carlotta repeats this word for word, and Sally is very happy. She evidently
thought it had been thrown away or lost years ago. I’m relieved.
‘And you can practise some of those recipes over the coming months,
because you’re going to have your hands full after the little one
arrives.’
Sally gasps in delight. She doesn’t know! Oh Betty, you’ve
really dropped a bombshell here. But nobody seems to mind. Everyone is
laughing, and Sally is hugging the man next to her, who I now recognise
as her husband.
The faint smell of dough drifts past my nose, as the candlelight begins
to fade.
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