‘Watch me rattle his cage.’ Alison positively twinkled as she held up a green T-shirt for her father’s inspection. ‘Want one, Dad? Birthday coming up.’
Bailey folded his arms across his chest and scowled.
Alison selected a yellow T-shirt for herself, paid for it with cash, then joined me back in line. We moved along slowly, amusing ourselves by listening to the conversations going on in the line around us:
– This is the third of her live shows I’ve been to. I’m hoping Lucy will come through.
– Can’t afford two hundred pounds for a private reading, can I?
– She told Sandra that her mother’s ring was just gathering dust and that she should get it sized and wear it!
– Why don’t they ever say, ‘I forgot to tell you about the bank account I have in Switzerland. The number is CH10 0023 blah blah blah’?
I wondered about that last one myself.
Our seats, when we found them, were primo, on the aisle and only four rows back from the stage. ‘I need the seat on the aisle,’ Stephen Bailey insisted, standing to one side as we passed by him into the row. ‘Might have to leave in a hurry.’
‘Bladder,’ Alison whispered as we eased into the plush velvet seats, the red upholstery as yet unbaptized by food spots, bubblegum, or hair oil.
‘How did you get these seats?’ I was impressed. ‘Susan told us the show has been sold out for weeks!’
‘I called the number on Susan’s card,’ Alison said as she sat down. ‘But the waiting list was a mile long, so I went to Plan B.’
‘Which was?’
‘Jon has friends in high places.’ Alison smiled enigmatically.
‘Old school tie?’ I asked.
‘More like those who sail together…’ she giggled. ‘He and this chap share a London club. Apparently ITV hold back a certain number of tickets for emergencies.’
‘Like if Charles and Camilla take a notion to attend?’
‘Exactly. Jon’s mate calls them “Ooops tickets”.’
Feeling grateful that the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall were otherwise engaged, I settled into my seat and admired the set. Bathed in soft lavender light, it looked for all the world like my late grandmother’s living room in Cleveland, Ohio. A round table covered with a lace cloth and an upholstered wingback chair were tastefully positioned on a scrap of oriental carpet. An enormous arrangement of golden daylilies sat in a vase in the center of the table. Giant closed-circuit television screens were mounted overhead on each side of the proscenium which showed the set from different angles. To our right, a long-necked boom camera bobbed and weaved. Nearer the stage, a technician wearing earphones fiddled with a black control box and communicated with someone high at the back of the steeply raked auditorium who appeared to be adjusting the controls at a similar workstation. A second cameraman shouldered his Steadicam, shrugged it into position, and faced the stage. Everything seemed to be ready, but as yet, there was no sign of Susan.
At 8:02 precisely – by the light of my iPhone – a spotlight lit the stage and Susan walked on to it, smiling broadly and waving, wearing a long, dove-gray skirt and matching sweater-coat. A scarf of many colors was twisted into an elaborate knot at her throat.
The applause that greeted the medium’s arrival could have drowned out a launch of the space shuttle.
From a position in front of the armchair, Susan bowed slightly to right, left and center, accepting the accolades, then raised both hands for silence. ‘Good evening!’ she began, but whatever else she had planned to say was drowned out by a renewed round of applause.
Susan laughed, eyes flashing in the theater lighting. ‘Welcome! It’s good to see so many of you here tonight, both new friends and old!’ With a sweep of her arm, she appeared to be acknowledging a rowdy group of individuals in a block of seats to our left who were whooping it up like die-hard Manchester football fans. ‘As you know, I am totally governed by spirits, so I have no idea what’s going to come through tonight. My job is to convey messages, so if a message seems to be for you, if you can relate to it, don’t be shy. Stand up!
‘And here’s the first important message. Do you have a mobile phone?’ She waited a beat, surveying the audience, then continued. ‘Of course you have a mobile phone! I want you to reach into your pocket, or into your bag, and turn that phone off. I’m the only one getting messages here tonight!’
Ripples of laughter accompanied a chorus of chimes, beeps and tweets as those who had forgotten to silence their phones before coming into the theater finally did so.
Including me.
‘Thank you!’ Susan said after the commotion died down. ‘Now, some of you out there are skeptics.’ She pointed a finger, panned the audience. ‘You know who you are. And right now you’re thinking I’ll bet she Googles everyone.’ The boom camera zoomed in for a close-up, and on the screen to our right, Susan rolled her eyes. ‘Like who has time? I barely have time to blog let alone Twitter!
‘And I’m the first to admit to you that I’m not always right.’ Susan paused, cocked her head. ‘Wait a minute. John’s here. Couldn’t wait, could you, John?’ she chuckled.
At the mention of the name John, hands shot up all around the auditorium.
‘Lights on in the house, please,’ Susan said. ‘This John is around fifty, and he has brown hair going just a bit gray, here.’ She flicked her temple with her fingertips.
Among the early arm wavers, only four individuals remained standing. From the stage Susan shielded her eyes with her hand and surveyed the audience, like a Cheyenne Indian scout on the lookout for General Custer. ‘He’s kind of a nervous guy, our John,’ she continued. ‘He’s doing this.’ She pumped her shoulders up and down.
Behind us, somebody screamed, ‘That’s my Jack!’
The boom camera swung around like a giraffe grazing for leaves in a fresh treetop. On the overhead screens, a woman wearing a flowered sundress and a strand of red and green glass beads began to bounce up and down on her toes.
‘This message is probably for you, then,’ Susan said from the stage. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Grace.’
‘Jack passed away recently, didn’t he, Grace?’
Grace sucked in her lips, nodded. ‘Last year, about this time.’
‘He’s saying, “I like what you’ve done with the lounge.”’
On the overhead screens, a fat tear glistened and began to slide down Grace’s cheek. ‘I took down the wallpaper and painted it yellow. It looks ever so fresh and bright!’
‘He’s smiling, Grace. He says he always hated that wallpaper.’ Susan wagged a finger. ‘But he’s also saying, “Don’t you dare touch my workshop!”’
Grace’s hands shot to cover her mouth, then parted slightly to let out a little-girl giggle. ‘He was a keen woodcarver, my Jack. Carved the most comical ducks out of pine. Sold them at the village market on Tuesdays.’ Her voice shot up an octave. ‘I’m keeping yer ducks, luv!’
‘He wants you to know that he’s fine, and that he loves you.’ Susan was summing up, preparing to move on. On the screen, Grace swiped at her eyes with a tissue produced from a handbag somewhere off camera. Susan stepped back, paused, cocked her head then suddenly returned her attention again to Grace. ‘Does the name Leo have any significance, Grace?’
Eyes wide, Grace nodded silently.
‘Jack wants you to know… wait a minute. Yes, OK. He’s telling me it’s fine with him about Leo. Can you relate to that?’