mimed a farting movement.
He never really liked conversations about JC. And he never talked to me about those things. Maybe now he was dead he would have a bit more to say about it all. I found myself quite looking forward to his views. What he said, of course, depended on which of us got to him first.
We were marching, in good order, down Stranraer Gardens. We were coming up to the shabby front door of number 24. We were waiting patiently while my mum groped in her apron for the key. We were stepping over the threshold.
Mrs Quigley stepped in first, her long red nose twitching with excitement. As she moved down the hall she was practically pawing the carpet in her excitement. When she got to the bottom of the stairs she turned round and flung her arms wide. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘oh
yes
! He is very strong. Very, very strong. Still!’
If anyone was going to get on the line to the late Norman Britton, her face seemed to say, it was going to be Marjorie Gwendolen Quigley.
6
Mrs Quigley is a sensitive. I don’t mean she
is
sensitive. She’s about as sensitive as tungsten steel. She is
a
sensitive, the way some people are bus conductors or interior designers. She is in touch with things that dumbos like you and I did not even know existed until people like Mrs Quigley clued us in on them.
She knew, for example, that Emily was going to fail Grade Four Cello. Not because Emily Quigley is tone-deaf and has fingers about as supple as frozen sausages, but because she
knew.
The way she
knew
that that ferry at Zeebrugge was going to roll over and kill all those poor people. Why, you may ask, did she not get on to the ferry company and tell them not to bother with this particular service? Or, indeed, get at the Associated Board of Examiners? She
knew
, that was all. It was fate – right?
She usually keeps quiet about her prophecies until they have been proved correct, but occasionally she will go public a little earlier than that. Remember the nuclear war in Spain at the end of 1987? That was hers. Or the tidal waves off Boulogne in the August of the following year? Seven thousand people were going to die, according to Marjorie Quigley. A lot of us thought that house prices would be seriously affected.
She was extra-sensitive tonight. After she had pawed the carpet, she lifted that long, spongy nose of hers and sniffed the air keenly. Her nose is the most prominent thing about her face. The rest of it is mainly wrinkles, that dwindle away into her neck. On either side of the nose are two very bright eyes. They are never still. They come on like cheap jewellery.
‘Norman!’ she said, as if she expected my dad to leap out at her from behind the wardrobe in the hall. ‘Norman! Norman! Norman!’
‘He wath in the toilet,’ said Emily. ‘I had a thtwong feeling of him in the toilet!’
You could tell that nobody much fancied the idea of trying to make contact with Norman in the lavatory. Marjorie’s nose and mouse-bright eyes were leading us to the back parlour, scene of some of her greatest triumphs.
They always have the seances in the back parlour – a small, drab room looking out over the back garden. It was here, a couple of years ago, that Mrs Quigley talked to my gran. Never has there been such an amazingly low-level conversation across the Great Divide.
‘Are you all right, Maureen?’
‘Oh yes. I’m fine.’
‘Keeping well?’
‘Oh, yes. On the whole. Mustn’t grumble. You?’
‘We’re fine. How are Stephen and Sarah?’
‘Oh, they’re fine. They’re all here, and they’re fine.’
It really was difficult to work out who was dead and who was alive. My favourite moment came when La Quigley, running out of more serious topics, asked my dear departed gran, ‘What are you all doing Over There?’
‘Oh,’ said Gran – ‘the usual things.’
The
usual things
, my friends! They are dead, and they are still running their kids to piano lessons and worrying about whether to have the spare room
He never really liked conversations about JC. And he never talked to me about those things. Maybe now he was dead he would have a bit more to say about it all. I found myself quite looking forward to his views. What he said, of course, depended on which of us got to him first.
We were marching, in good order, down Stranraer Gardens. We were coming up to the shabby front door of number 24. We were waiting patiently while my mum groped in her apron for the key. We were stepping over the threshold.
Mrs Quigley stepped in first, her long red nose twitching with excitement. As she moved down the hall she was practically pawing the carpet in her excitement. When she got to the bottom of the stairs she turned round and flung her arms wide. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘oh
yes
! He is very strong. Very, very strong. Still!’
If anyone was going to get on the line to the late Norman Britton, her face seemed to say, it was going to be Marjorie Gwendolen Quigley.
6
Mrs Quigley is a sensitive. I don’t mean she
is
sensitive. She’s about as sensitive as tungsten steel. She is
a
sensitive, the way some people are bus conductors or interior designers. She is in touch with things that dumbos like you and I did not even know existed until people like Mrs Quigley clued us in on them.
She knew, for example, that Emily was going to fail Grade Four Cello. Not because Emily Quigley is tone-deaf and has fingers about as supple as frozen sausages, but because she
knew.
The way she
knew
that that ferry at Zeebrugge was going to roll over and kill all those poor people. Why, you may ask, did she not get on to the ferry company and tell them not to bother with this particular service? Or, indeed, get at the Associated Board of Examiners? She
knew
, that was all. It was fate – right?
She usually keeps quiet about her prophecies until they have been proved correct, but occasionally she will go public a little earlier than that. Remember the nuclear war in Spain at the end of 1987? That was hers. Or the tidal waves off Boulogne in the August of the following year? Seven thousand people were going to die, according to Marjorie Quigley. A lot of us thought that house prices would be seriously affected.
She was extra-sensitive tonight. After she had pawed the carpet, she lifted that long, spongy nose of hers and sniffed the air keenly. Her nose is the most prominent thing about her face. The rest of it is mainly wrinkles, that dwindle away into her neck. On either side of the nose are two very bright eyes. They are never still. They come on like cheap jewellery.
‘Norman!’ she said, as if she expected my dad to leap out at her from behind the wardrobe in the hall. ‘Norman! Norman! Norman!’
‘He wath in the toilet,’ said Emily. ‘I had a thtwong feeling of him in the toilet!’
You could tell that nobody much fancied the idea of trying to make contact with Norman in the lavatory. Marjorie’s nose and mouse-bright eyes were leading us to the back parlour, scene of some of her greatest triumphs.
They always have the seances in the back parlour – a small, drab room looking out over the back garden. It was here, a couple of years ago, that Mrs Quigley talked to my gran. Never has there been such an amazingly low-level conversation across the Great Divide.
‘Are you all right, Maureen?’
‘Oh yes. I’m fine.’
‘Keeping well?’
‘Oh, yes. On the whole. Mustn’t grumble. You?’
‘We’re fine. How are Stephen and Sarah?’
‘Oh, they’re fine. They’re all here, and they’re fine.’
It really was difficult to work out who was dead and who was alive. My favourite moment came when La Quigley, running out of more serious topics, asked my dear departed gran, ‘What are you all doing Over There?’
‘Oh,’ said Gran – ‘the usual things.’
The
usual things
, my friends! They are dead, and they are still running their kids to piano lessons and worrying about whether to have the spare room
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