he sat at the end of a gate-legged table while I sat on his left. The wallpaper was patterned with an endlessly repeated trellis of bamboo, relieved only by a circular mirror above the fireplace and four chalk drawings of Sealyham terriers on the wall facing me.
For a few minutes Mr. Swithin chattered away about the news and the weather. He did so almost apologetically, as if he knew quite well that I had no real interest in talking to him directly.
Eventually, he entwined his fingers, leaned forward on his elbows and peered into that shadow world through which threads of personality run like just-dissolving colors. I knew not to take too much notice of those spirits who came through first of all. As in life, it was the ones who were keenestto make themselves heard who invariably had the least to say. But only when they had spoken their fill could others, less frivolous and more diffident, be allowed to take their place.
Whenever I try to imagine the afterlife, I find myself envisaging an anxious, shiftless crowd. Lines of colorless people queuing endlessly for a series of public telephone boxes where operators, struggling with defective equipment and only able to speak a few phrases of their language, attempt to connect them to whoever awaits their call.
It is not a happy picture, however much I try to bathe it in an appropriately amber glow. Yet somewhere in there, too courteous to make a fuss or to shoulder his way to the front, is Frank. Of that I have no doubt. In time, he must come through. It is just a matter of being patient, of not expecting too much. In the meantime, though, there are only stray phrases and occasional glimpses to sustain me. A thimbleful of endearment. A familiar white line of parting on a head unaccountably twisted aside. Nothing more. Or rather nothing except for the same amorphous blanket of reassurance, the same anonymous balm.
But today nothing seemed to be strained through the trelliswork. Nothing that anyone with a modicum of discrimination could permit themselves to latch on to.
Mr. Swithin offered a young man with beautiful hands and a port-wine stain down one side of his face. “He’s mumbling a little,” he said, “although I can see his face quite clearly.”
“I have no recollection of anyone like that.”
Swiftly, he transferred his attention elsewhere.
“An older lady with an ample bosom who always took particular care with her appearance?” Mr. Swithin spoke with the regretful air of a butcher who knows that all his choicest cuts have already been taken.
I shook my head.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked. “It can often take some time to work out a connection.”
“Quite sure.”
We continued to sit there. Mr. Swithin’s fingers flexed hopefully away, while the Sealyhams gazed down from the wall. We carried on like this for another twenty minutes. In the end, Mr. Swithin said, “I don’t appear to be having much luck today, I’m afraid. Sometimes it’s just like being lost in a fog.”
Pushing his chair back, he escorted me down the corridor. I glanced into the kitchen as we went past. On the table, two pork chops lay sandwiched between glass plates. At the door Mr. Swithin stopped and exhaled. I took two half-crowns from my purse. Pocketing them in one fluid movement, he asked if he should expect me at the same time next week.
I told him that this might not be convenient — just at that moment I was not sure if I could face any more disappointment. But I could see my terseness had upset Mr. Swithin; it’s not for nothing that he calls himself a sensitive. Softening my tone, I said, “Perhaps I could telephone you when I have decided.”
“Of course.”
He stood aside, holding the door by its top corner so that I had to pass underneath the arch of his arm. In the lift, I satdown on the bench seat as it made its descent. When it reached the ground floor, I found I scarcely had the strength to pull back the gates. Slowly, I descended the steps to the
For a few minutes Mr. Swithin chattered away about the news and the weather. He did so almost apologetically, as if he knew quite well that I had no real interest in talking to him directly.
Eventually, he entwined his fingers, leaned forward on his elbows and peered into that shadow world through which threads of personality run like just-dissolving colors. I knew not to take too much notice of those spirits who came through first of all. As in life, it was the ones who were keenestto make themselves heard who invariably had the least to say. But only when they had spoken their fill could others, less frivolous and more diffident, be allowed to take their place.
Whenever I try to imagine the afterlife, I find myself envisaging an anxious, shiftless crowd. Lines of colorless people queuing endlessly for a series of public telephone boxes where operators, struggling with defective equipment and only able to speak a few phrases of their language, attempt to connect them to whoever awaits their call.
It is not a happy picture, however much I try to bathe it in an appropriately amber glow. Yet somewhere in there, too courteous to make a fuss or to shoulder his way to the front, is Frank. Of that I have no doubt. In time, he must come through. It is just a matter of being patient, of not expecting too much. In the meantime, though, there are only stray phrases and occasional glimpses to sustain me. A thimbleful of endearment. A familiar white line of parting on a head unaccountably twisted aside. Nothing more. Or rather nothing except for the same amorphous blanket of reassurance, the same anonymous balm.
But today nothing seemed to be strained through the trelliswork. Nothing that anyone with a modicum of discrimination could permit themselves to latch on to.
Mr. Swithin offered a young man with beautiful hands and a port-wine stain down one side of his face. “He’s mumbling a little,” he said, “although I can see his face quite clearly.”
“I have no recollection of anyone like that.”
Swiftly, he transferred his attention elsewhere.
“An older lady with an ample bosom who always took particular care with her appearance?” Mr. Swithin spoke with the regretful air of a butcher who knows that all his choicest cuts have already been taken.
I shook my head.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked. “It can often take some time to work out a connection.”
“Quite sure.”
We continued to sit there. Mr. Swithin’s fingers flexed hopefully away, while the Sealyhams gazed down from the wall. We carried on like this for another twenty minutes. In the end, Mr. Swithin said, “I don’t appear to be having much luck today, I’m afraid. Sometimes it’s just like being lost in a fog.”
Pushing his chair back, he escorted me down the corridor. I glanced into the kitchen as we went past. On the table, two pork chops lay sandwiched between glass plates. At the door Mr. Swithin stopped and exhaled. I took two half-crowns from my purse. Pocketing them in one fluid movement, he asked if he should expect me at the same time next week.
I told him that this might not be convenient — just at that moment I was not sure if I could face any more disappointment. But I could see my terseness had upset Mr. Swithin; it’s not for nothing that he calls himself a sensitive. Softening my tone, I said, “Perhaps I could telephone you when I have decided.”
“Of course.”
He stood aside, holding the door by its top corner so that I had to pass underneath the arch of his arm. In the lift, I satdown on the bench seat as it made its descent. When it reached the ground floor, I found I scarcely had the strength to pull back the gates. Slowly, I descended the steps to the
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