Conversations with Spirits Page 4

  Price looked at me for a moment in wonder; then for another in doubt.

  “You know the trick then?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then how could you be so sure how it was done?”

  I sucked hard on the cigarette; then shrugged. “In my experience, logic tends to favour the mundane.”

  “Well…” Price said, after a moment’s consideration, “it has no bearing on my beliefs in spiritualism.”

  “No—you’re wrong,” I responded briskly, “I think it does a lot of damage. Perhaps if theatrical illusion and clairvoyance weren’t so hopelessly entangled in the public consciousness things might be different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some legitimacy could be given to spiritualism if mediums opened themselves up to test conditions. They never do, and so, they are treated with disdain by anyone of an even vaguely scientific frame of mind.”

  “That is not so!” Price replied defensively. “You clearly don’t know what you’re talking about! I know many spiritualist mediums myself and the reason they are unable to avail themselves to testing is because the spirits themselves are wary of such things.”

  “How frightfully convenient!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “And you believed that, did you?”

  “If you keep an open mind—–”

  “There you go again, with your ‘open mind,’” I interjected. “You say I should keep an ‘open mind’ about these things, yet that is precisely what the followers of spiritualism don’t have. Clairvoyants only survive because their customers want to believe in a certain thing—it is the very reason they have pitched up with them in the first place. The medium then provides the ‘proof’ they are looking for and their business is concluded. In terms such as these, I don’t have a problem with spiritualism. It is only when it becomes fashionable and I am beset by people telling me that I am in error because I cannot believe something unreasonable that it becomes offensive.”

  “I have found that there is little point in trying to argue with people that are in such a frame of mind as yours,” responded Price. “Your cynicism is understandable, I suppose—as you say, you’ve had some bad experiences, and sadly—as in so many areas of modern life—spiritualism is not immune from those seeking to take advantage for material gain. However, I do feel as I would be letting myself down if I did not pick you up on some points which you have rather glibly made without a sound understanding of the facts.

  “If spiritualism is complete bosh, as you say, than it must come as some surprise to you that it has risen to prevalence now. Not a product of the war, as you seemed to be suggesting, but, in fact, a movement steadily gaining acceptance over the course of the last seventy-five years—along with many other burgeoning branches of the sciences.

  “Furthermore, spiritualism has a growing and dedicated following of people of all classes—including many eminent doctors, surgeons and chemists. Dr Charles Richet, whom you may recall was recently awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine and Physiology, is a devoted advocate of the spiritualist cause.” I watched as Price’s eyes lowered, falling once again upon my dishevelled clothing. “Out of interest, sir, what is it that you do?”

  I paused in silence; aware that I had been thwarted. Anxiously tugging at my shirt collar, I realised it had come away from its stud.

  “I don’t work.”

  “I see…” Price returned with a look of satisfaction. “Then perhaps there are people better placed to make these judgements than yourself?

  “In any case, I don’t suppose professional people are in the habit of attempting to discredit themselves, so why on earth would they make such stories up?”

  I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray. “Well, I suppose…” I said ruminatively, “because it gives dull people something to talk about at dinner parties?

  “After all, it is surely more compelling to say that you gave a donation to see a demonstration of the mystical and heard a ghostly voice emanating from another realm than it is to say that you paid to sit in the den of some fusty char-woman and listened to a girl talking from behind a curtain?”

  At this, Harry Price looked wildly at me and shook his head. Without another word, he turned to the seat on his far side and collected his ledger. Opening the book, he took up his pencil and set about scratching words into it with such force that it made manifest his inner fury.

  We continued in silence. The journey was becoming tedious, with nothing to mark the passage of time save for those occasions when the train stopped at a derelict provincial station.

  Soon the air in the carriage became cold to the point where there was frost upon both our breaths. Whilst my companion continued to strain his pencil nib, I went about assiduously draining my hipflask. I have no doubt that Price was annoyed by this—as, occasionally, I would suffer from a fit of the hiccups and he would glance my way, muttering some low invective.

  Settling back into the uncomfortable horsehair seat, I pulled up the collar of my fur coat and wrapped it around my cheeks.

  Staring out at the darkened shapes blurring past the window, my mind naturally turned to thoughts of Broadstairs and what the town and its inhabitants might offer. It was with this still in my mind that my eyes closed and I fell into a deep sleep…

  I awoke with a start—jolted back to consciousness by what sounded like a fist banging hard on the glass partition which separated my compartment from the outer corridor.

  As I glanced about the compartment, it occurred to me that I may have been asleep for some time. I was alone once again; and the notion struck me that, since I had not met anyone else on the train, the sound I had heard must have been Price alerting me to the train’s arrival at Broadstairs. I got to my feet and wiped the sleeve of my coat through the condensation that had built up on the window. However, although I could sense that the train was moving slowing and might be coming into a station, I was unable to confirm this, since the darkness outside the window was now complete.

  Opening the door to the corridor, I pushed my head out and caught a glimpse of what I took to be a train-guard exiting one of the darkened compartments further along.

  “I say!” I shouted out, but the man did not seem to hear, and I watched as he opened the door of another cabin and disappeared inside. Leaving my compartment, I went down the corridor after him, but as I approached that section of the train it was suddenly plunged into darkness.

  In the gloom before me, I heard the sound of a compartment door slide open and the creak of wooden floorboards, as someone passed onto them directly ahead of where I was standing. Stepping back, I paused, waiting for my eyes to accustom themselves to the shadows. As they did, I could make out a figure standing motionless ahead. A pale face, partly shadowed by the visor of an old-fashioned guard’s hat, stared expressionlessly back at me, mouth agog. In the half-light, the figure’s complexion seemed grey and, yet, so unlined as to suggest a youth of no more than seventeen years. As he moved forward towards me, I registered an impish glint from his dark eyes and watched as his mouth closed.

  “Hello?” I said, dropping back further down the corridor.

  Moving furtively towards me, the youth ran his tongue across his lower lip. “You ’eard me then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knocked you up. You was asleep. I knocked on the glass.”

  “Oh?” I replied uneasily. “That was you? Tell me, where are we?”

  “End of the line.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Comin’ into Ramsgate again, sir.”

  “Ramsgate?” I queried. “But, I was supposed to be going to Broadstairs.”

  “You missed it twice then,” the guard replied shortly. “When you was asleep.”

  “But…” I protested, “it says Broadstairs on my ticket. Why did no one wake me?”


  The youth shrugged his shoulders: “Not my job, is it?”

  There was a distant screech of the brakes and a resultant tremor, which shook through the train. Thrown forward, I fell heavily onto the youth, who pushed me back. With a hiss from the cylinders, we had come to a full stop.

  “I need to get to Broadstairs. I’m expected. Please.”

  “There’s nothin’ I can do, sir,” he replied curtly. “Won’t get another train now—but it ain’t far.”

  “But…”

  “You need to get off now,” he said firmly, “I ’ave to put down the blinds and put the lamps out.”

  If I was at all prone to self-pity, I would have been greatly rattled that, by falling asleep, my first attempt at subterfuge had resulted in a rather awkward truth. The youth edged past me into another cabin and went about pulling the blinds down over the windows. Feeling at something of a loss, I turned and drifted back down the corridor.

  Re-entering my compartment, I collected my belongings and lingered for a moment, looking through the window. Outside, the darkness mingled with billowing clouds of steam lifting from the train’s pistons.

  I picked up my hipflask from its bed of newsprint and I screwed the lid back on. Returning it to the inner pocket of my jacket, I re-buttoned the fur coat and reached up to retrieve my bag and hat.

  Stepping down onto the platform’s edge, I was struck by a strange tightening sensation in my stomach. Looking across at the deserted station floor, it suddenly occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into.

  CHAPTER III

  The End of the Line

  CARRYING THE CARPET-BAG upon my shoulder, I came out of the gates of Ramsgate station without seeing another living soul.

  Since I had no idea how far I was from Broadstairs, I hoped for nothing more than to ask directions—but the station building appeared abandoned. I wondered how late it was, and, in an absent-minded moment, checked my pocket-watch. Then, remembering that I had not wound it for some months, I returned it to my waistcoat and, instead, looked about in search of a clock.

  I found one mounted on the wall above the deserted guard’s office, caged behind protective metal bars, which set the time at twenty-past-eleven. As it was such a late hour, I decided that a local hostelry would be the best place to acquire information. And so, with that in mind, I drifted out of the double doors of the ticket office and into the night air.

  I went on doggedly, leaving the station-house behind me and plunging into the solitude and darkness of the road. The station building, itself, was oddly isolated—there being nothing around it, save for a number of fields stretching into the distance and—cutting across this—a wide mud path, pitted with cart tracks and cut with shivering puddles. I looked up, considering the changing sky, and observed a disparate band of dark grey clouds heading quickly eastwards, spoiling the otherwise clear winter firmament.

  Pulling up the collar of my fur coat, I followed the moonlighted track, which seemed to lead into a canopy of oak trees. And, with it, complete darkness. With a cold wind stinging my eyes, I struggled onward, all the time cursing myself for finishing my hipflask early, and cursing my travelling companion for not waking me…

  As I approached the clearing at the far-side of the oaks, I was pleased to see the roofs and church-spire of Ramsgate nestled amongst the trees before me. Continuing down the hill-side, it was not long before I entered the outskirts of the town. Here, despite the fact that all the local dwellings seemed shut-up and lifeless, the roads were, at least, macadamised and brightly-lighted with gas.

  Heading into the town centre, I tumbled through a dizzying array of streets and back alleys, passing by a savings bank, a dispensary, a well-appointed town hall and a custom-house, still without meeting anyone at all.

  Whilst the fact that I was free from the clutter of my native London was never lost to me, that I was abroad in a coastal town did escape me for a time. It was only when I travelled past the shop-fronts of one of the town’s main streets that it became apparent to me, for even before the sea itself came into view, I could taste its salt upon the breath of the wind.

  Coming to the end of a long thoroughfare, I followed a wooden sign advertising the ‘West Cliff Bathing Machines’ and crossed a square, lined at the end with carved-stone railings; overlooking a harbour. With my hands pressing the balustrade, I stared out at the dark rolling abyss on the horizon. Below me, the tide was in and the foaming waves dashed against the chalk cliffs. The fresh sea air caused such a feeling of lethargy in me that before I had got another twenty yards I was clutching my chest and unsure if I could continue. I lighted a cigarette to calm my nerves, whilst I frantically searched the area. Then, up ahead of me, I saw the unmistakable shape of a tavern, hanging dropsically over the cliff-face.

  I moved on, hurrying down a wide asphalt path that stood between the cliffs and a number of immaculate white residences.

  Pressing on, the blackened silhouettes of the buildings ahead became more than just one amorphous dark shape on the horizon. As I drew closer I could make out a succession of dimly-lighted windows beneath a tall tower, which I took to be a disused lighthouse.

  The sign above the pub door read: The Belle Vue Tavern, but it seemed that the place was entirely locked up. I pressed my face to the darkened glass on the doors, longing to hear the burr of human voices or the screech of wheezy fiddles, but there was nothing. For quite a long period—I suppose simply because I had no better way to pass the time—I continued to stand in the doorway, hopelessly turning the handle.

  “You’ll not get en there,” said a gruff voice from somewhere behind me. “Not ento the Belle Vue—not now…”

  I quickly turned about, but saw nothing but mist lifting off the empty roadside.

  Suddenly, a man lurched out from the shadows of the tavern’s outhouses, wandering into the hazy light of the road. His dress and general aspect indicated a degree of vagrant wretchedness that only came from years of living without proper shelter. The section of his face that was not consumed with a thick, wiry beard had the sort of weathered look of old leather. Despite the darkness, I was aware of his eyes fixed upon me.

  “Sorry—didn’t see you there,” I said, cocking the brim of my hat. “Please, tell me, do you know if there’s a public-house or tavern somewhere about that’s open?”

  The man scratched his head thoughtfully. “What day es et?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Fursday?” he replied, evidently surprised by the news. “An’ what time es et?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Near mid-night, I’d say.”

  “Mid-night?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you might try The Moonlighters.”

  “‘The Moonlighters?’ Where’s that?”

  The man paused, turning his face away from me and staring distantly down the path. Pawing the tangled curls of his beard for a moment, he hesitated, apparently lost in thought. “Well…” he said finally, pointing to the next house down, “et’s that one there, esn’t et?”

  I crossed to where the man was standing, but, as I made my approach, he darted away. With sure-footed haste, the man rushed down the track and, sliding between a pair of dilapidated barrels, padded up a wooden stairs which led to a roof. There, silhouetted beside a chimney pot, he turned to watch me.

  The next building down did turn out to be another public-house, for above the door was a sign on which the words ‘The Moonlighters’ had been recently re-painted. With a creak, the door shunted slowly forward and I stepped inside.

  The bar was cut into small compartments like pawnbrokers’ boxes, with each specific area’s label printed on gilt glass with flourishing patterns. One said ‘Bottle’, another ‘Retail’, then ‘Snuggery’ and, finally, ‘Ladies’ Bar’.

  The entire pub app
eared to be deserted. But when I looked again—and my eyes had better adjusted to the fuzzy lighting of the room—I realised that there was a woman seated by the hearth. In the half-light, I could make out little more than a mass of skirts and petticoats, her face being obscured by an old-fashioned bonnet. As I approached her, the woman lifted up a hand and gestured towards another door adjacent to the one through which I had entered. A brass sign read: ‘Gentlemen’s Bar’.

  I turned back and thanked the woman, but she made no effort to reply and so I left her and walked into the next room.

  As could be expected, I suppose, as soon as I edged through the doorway, the locals stopped short, mid-way through their drinks and conversations to scrutinise me. With a faltering smile which, in truth, only confirmed my status as a stranger—I carefully closed the door behind me and crossed to the bar.

  The barmaid, who had also been viewing me with a look of amused intrigue, put down the chamois she was using to polish the brasses and walked towards me.

  “What can I get you?”

  “I’m sorry…” I responded with an embarrassed smile. “I don’t know what you have.”

  “Well…” she said, turning and surveying the scores of pumps and bottles in her midst. “Stock or mild ale. London stout and porter. Or spirits.”

  “Cherry brandy?”

  “Coming up, sir,” she said, turning towards a shelf on the back bar.

  With ordering a drink, interest in me seemed to wane. Soon, the silence I had encountered upon my arrival ebbed away and conversation resumed.

  The atmosphere inside the saloon was thick with pipe smoke and steam from a damp log that crackled and hissed in the hearth. I removed my hat and coat, taking the opportunity as I did to better absorb my surroundings. It was a long, darkly-wainscoted room of ancient appearance, lighted dimly by gas lamps and fortified by gnarled wooden beams that led up to struts in the ceiling.

  Staring across the room from my position at the bar, I could see through a number of wide bay windows that lined the far wall. Outside, waves shimmered in the moonlight, giving the observer the curious sensation of being adrift at sea.