The seance was arranged to take place in Aunty Mabel's Parlour in Croyden Hill. Someone had failed to do the maths: it would be a squeeze, especially with the rosewood dining table hogging the centre of the room decked with the ouija board and fresh candles, but it was better to meet somewhere the dear departed had spent time, and nobody could think of any walls that held so many memories of Bert as those (except the legion), even though the cracks had been papered over with bold blowsy blooms in flocked orange and brown. As everyone arrived a mountain of coats grew on Granny's sagging bed. There was no social order there, camel hair coats were flung on top of donkey jackets, mackintoshes on top of ponchos, Madge's fur wrap struggling for air at the bottom. There was a constant to and fro down the narrow corridor from the bedroom and the parlour and greetings could not be ignored, a curt nod here, a fond embrace there, a wink, ; it was an intricate weave of body language and feet as we congregated beyond the front door.
"Maybe we should have gone to George's, it' certainly is going to be cosy" Aunty Mabel trilled nervously adjusting chairs.
"That's it love, if only we had you're gift for foresight," Uncle Bob muttered acidly. Aunty Mabel ducked the verbal blow expertly, used to the sniping belittlements that came her way and chivvied the guests into the room.
"Welcome, welcome, in you come now. Take a seat. Coats in the bedroom John, we're going to be as warm as toast in here."
Ezra arrived, her usual mix of haughty bustle and condescension. She stared glacially at each member of family in turn, assessing her superiority. Uncle Bob was the only one immune to this behaviour. Undeterred by its blatant hostility he came forward to great her, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. He was not quick enough though, as Ezra put up her hands to ward him off.
"No thank you Bob. You know I don't do counterfeit affection. I know we all agreed to be here for this sham but let's not pretend any of us would be together otherwise." Usually oblivious to the sting of words, more familiar with doling them out than receiving them, Bob looked hurt for a moment but quickly recovered and with great decorum and chivalry bowed slightly and pulled out a chair for Aunt Ezra. Long ago My mother told me they had once been close, loved each other even, but what ever lay between them, forgiveness was still a long way off.
The family were finally gathered, everyone seated about the table, the wallpaper flowers bending in, making the room feel even more crowded. Aunty Mabel took her seat in the circle and lit the candles with a long taper, taking control of the room instantly.
"It is time, to remember those who have passed and speak with them in the present. Let us link hands to complete the connection. Rita, as you are on my right you will have your hand on the planchette with me. Is that alright dear?" Rita nodded nervously. Aunty Mabel ceremoniously placed her hand in Uncle Bob's, offering the other to Rita and everyone else followed suit, all in an attempt to determine what stake they would have in great Uncle Bert's meagre estate: war medals, a silver snuff box, savings bonds, the ceremonial sword. Uncle Bob and Aunty Mabel, having cared for Bert in the last few years of his life were probably hoping for the lion's share. If Mabel could sway the spirits to convince everyone she was the rightful heir to the whole lot she would, but more than anything she wanted to keep the furniture. It was rather too good for the upstairs flat she and Uncle Bob shared but I have to say I hoped they would keep it, I didn't fancy being roped into moving it again after the struggle we had on the stairs getting it up here. Ezra had a craving for something but her desires were a mystery to everyone, possibly even herself. As for me, I had no great expectation, but hoped for the old Lyons biscuit tin stuffed with black and white photographs. All of those photographs had a story to tell, a secret to whisper like torchlight on mysteries and I badly wanted to be their confidant.
Aunty Mabel's countenance changed as she settled into the role of medium. She became still and grave, breathing deeply.
"All Hallows' now gather to share your secrets and desires one letter at a time. Share with us your wisdom through the veil of night." Agatha tittered and Aunty Ethel cleared her throat meaningfully, then gave her a sharp dig in the ribs for good measure, at which the titter became a squeak. "Enter our presence through the seams of memory" Aunty Mabel continued "and give us answers to our earthly concerns. Bert, Albert Heather, are you there? Come into the bosom of your loving family once more. Speak with us. Give us a sign."
The planchette twitched beneath her hand and began to glide across the ouija board, hesitantly at first, them more purposefully,
'G
O, S
U CK, E GG S, BITCH'.
The witch sat on the balcony outside the parlour window, hidden by the trellis, twirling a tress of black silky hair, cackling to herself with the satisfaction of a job well done as she viewed the ensuing mayhem as the seance scattered and fled.
Wednesday, 14 October 2015
Friday, 2 October 2015
Walking Bryher
Recharged with a minted pea and goats cheese ciabatta I enjoy the view from Hell Bay's terrace watching the swallows dart, flirting with the currents of air. Three white swans paddle incongruously on a briny pool, buffeted sideways by a determined sea breeze affecting the usual calm composure and making them look slightly flustered. I finish my drink and watch as the finches gather to stake a claim on any crumb I may have dropped. It is tempting to leave the biscotti for them but this sort of behaviour is firmly discouraged: years of tourist generosity has turned them into a menace, however appealing.
Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy, ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide. Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.
Time to move on, first to the horseshoe of sand at the far side of the pool a bay of glinting ruffles in the afternoon sun. It is far too inviting to ignore and I give in to my desire to remove my shoes and feel the abrasive grittiness of granite seed sand beneath my feet. I will have silica sparkles painted on my skin, walk with the silvered shimmer of a goddess for the afternoon.
A bright orange shell catches my eye, it's tiny curl disappearing to nothing. I pick it up. It will be the first of many such treasures no doubt, squirrelled away in the seam of my pocket to be rediscovered and bring me back to this moment, a time machine.
I carefully clamber over the sun bleached rounded pebbles at the back of the beach and over the shallow dune dotted with daisies and sea pinks and look back at the arc of beach as I rub the sand from my toes. Shoes on I check my cap is secure before heading out of the sheltered bay and up onto the moorland heather. Once there my footfalls bounce on the peaty ground as I glance periodically over the rocks towards the sea, hoping for a glimpse of seal. They are in pup and I have heard their rough bark of labour coming from the rocky outcrops but they are wise enough to stay away from beaches populated by humans and their dogs. This is a precarious time for them, giving birth, keeping their small pups safe, no time for careless sunbathing . I am always hopeful though that I may see a sleek head eyeing me as it bobs back and forth, up and down in the rocking sea. I have been known to stand quite entranced for five or ten minutes , quite convinced that I have spied a seal, waiting for him to turn and slide away between the waves before I realise it was a boulder all along.
The seagulls glide and cry over the rocks, bickering over their right to a favourite perch but it gives me great joy to see three dumpy, ungainly shapes flying low to the sea and then disappearing behind a rocky headland. Puffins are the clowns of the air, their faces painted with gaudy colours but do not be fooled, they are masters of the dive and catch. A shag, fresh from its own fishing trip stands sentinel on a rock hanging its wings out to dry.
My time well spent I turn inland to cross towards the channel and catch the boat home. The water is high and I must make it back to the church quay for my ride back. I make one last stop at a small green painted kiosk. A local farmer selling his produce by the farm. He has too many demands to be waiting here but I choose some tomatoes and a courgette and place the money in the honesty box. What happiness to know that I can feast on Island produce bought at source, crab from the sea and sun warmed veg' straight from the earth. I arrive at the quay in time to marvel at the mass of water that has reappeared since the low tide. Where I had walked on dry sand the water is now over five metres deep and there is only one way home.
Between Islands
Donning my neoprene shoes I prepare to walk on water. It is only a thin film, no miracles here other than the ebb and flow of a Spring Tide revealing a horseshoe of sand bars normally six feet under or more between Islands. It is an odd sensation to stride out on to land normally hidden by tides, but last night a blood red super moon hung in the heavens casting her spell and today the miraculous is made possible for all mortals.
There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.
There is a moonscape of sandbars and flattened dunes normally hidden in the channel between two islands. Sun glitters on the puddles,opaque moonstone and aquamarine, left between rippling ribbons of sand. The beauty is only marred by the sulphurous smell seeping from the sand, making its escape from the blanket of sea that normally smothers it.The seagulls look slightly perturbed at having their fishing ground removed and stalk in and around the small puddles of sea that are left, trying their luck. I try to pinpoint landmarks I have known well; plumb Island; Cromwell's castle; Hang-mans rock, and find from this new perspective everything relates differently to each other. There's a metaphor for life there somewhere.
New born rivers of seawater collect in hastily formed oxbow lakes and rutted channels, a hurried geography of creation, making their mark before slowly sinking away into the sand. Alien forms of drying seaweed lie impotent on the sand without the sea's support, revealing their forms of leathery curls, turgid greens and bristly hairs. A small boat grounded by the receding of the tide reveals its underside in desperate need of a bikini wax, a beard of bristles clinging to its bottom.
It is with regret that I reach the other side of the channel and I am filled with a desire to go back and watch the sea encroach towards me. But this would be madness, already the moon hold on the tide slackens and the sand bars are are returning to their watery graves, my footprints washed away from the sea's bed.
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