“Miss Dobai has let it be known that she’d like you to join in singing the second of the hymns you’ve all been given, ‘Now Thank We All Our God.’ ”
Easier said than done: the congregation’s hands are bound. Breaking the circuit briefly, they balance the hymn-sheets on their knees or the chair next to them, then reconnect their hands and launch into song once more. Halfway through the first verse, the master of ceremonies takes his own seat. Miss Dobai sits impassive at her table, staring vaguely in front of her. She remains impassive through the second verse; during the third, though, a strange metamorphosis overtakes her. It starts with a few light hiccups, which grow heavier, making her chest and shoulders heave until the hiccups have turned into sobs that rattle her whole upper body. Her eyes roll up in their sockets, red-veined balls of fish-white. One by one, the congregation break off singing, captivated by the medium’s contortions. In the silence, her rapid, gasping breathing can be clearly heard: the gasps are deep, and growing deeper. As they deepen they slow down and even out, until they sound more like the long, yawning groans of an awakening male slumberer.
“Is someone there?” the mousey secretary asks.
The voice groans once more in annoyed response. Then Miss Dobai’s jaws clank into action as the male speaker who’s inhabiting them pronounces a word:
“Morris.”
“Is that Morris?” asks the secretary. “Can you confirm that for us?”
“Yes,” growls the voice, breaking into coughs that shake Miss Dobai’s frame again. “Deeds aren’t right.”
The secretary scribbles in her notepad. “Which deeds, Morris?” she asks. “You weren’t clear about that last time.”
“Property deeds. Cam, Camber, Camley. I was going to transfer before I…”
“I heard ‘ Cam -something,’ ” the secretary says after a pause. “Is it a place?”
“Swindled me out of… affidavit…” Morris’s voice continues, ignoring her question. The words lapse back into groans, which shorten, rising in pitch until they’re more like Amazonian war-whoops. These whoops, having attained their plateau, mutate back into words again, contracting Miss Dobai’s cheeks as they hurtle from her mouth: “Woo yeh-yeh! Comanche Chief here! Yeh-yeh! Kill land-swindler good and proper. Get his scalp. Woo yeh-yeh!”
“Who’s this now?” the secretary calls out.
“Comanche Chief, yeh-yeh!” this new, excited voice informs her. “I scalp white man good and proper. In past; now, no enemies where we are. White and red all friends. Yeh-yeh!”
“Where are you, Chief?” the secretary asks.
“High prairies,” the Chief answers. “Not American but other place. Ancestors of all men here: white, red, yellow…”
Miss Dobai’s cheeks contract still further as a sound of rushing wind runs through her lips. The wind’s sound changes, growing lispy, then separates out into crackling stops and starts. These, too, rise in pitch, till it’s no longer a man’s but a woman’s voice that’s coming from her. The corners of her mouth curl upwards as the sound’s pitch rises higher still and childlike giggles burst into the room.
“Is this Miss Sunshine?” calls the secretary. “Tilda?”
A huge, grotesque smile contorts Miss Dobai’s face as a small child’s voice emerges:
“Not a little Indian girl. No. I’m not. I got long blond curls and big blue eyes, and Billy Parton says I got a snub nose.”
“Can you confirm your name?” the secretary asks.
“Firm… soft…” the little voice giggles again as it replies. “Miss Scarlet calls me Sunshine. Because my hair. My brothers called me Tilly, like the plough.”
“She’s often here,” Audrey whispers to Serge.
“The mother said,” the voice continues, “that she got to wear her bonnet and give answers, or she won’t. But if she does, then she’ll have sweets.”
Miss Dobai claps her hands together rapidly. The secretary scribbles more. The master of ceremonies opens his hands to the audience, inviting their participation. Someone near the front shouts out:
“Is there anyone else with you, Tilly?”
Miss Dobai, eyes still vacant, rotates her head slowly to first one side then another. Two-thirds of the way through its rightwards turn it stops, and Tilly’s voice gasps:
“Oh! The temper boy.”
“Was that ‘temper’?” asks the secretary.
“Temper, tempra, temper-ture,” says Tilly. “Mercury rising. He’s telling Tilly it’s a P.”
A woman to the hall’s left stands up; so do a couple to the right.
“Peter?” asks the solitary woman.
“Tilly hears him say it’s P, then A.”
The solitary woman sits down. Not the couple, though: they’re clasping one another more and more tightly as Tilly continues:
“P, then A; then there’s another one, then L…”
“Paul!” the wife says, her voice breaking. Her husband asks, in a more authoritative tone:
“Paul, is that you?”
Miss Dobai’s head turns a little more, trying to locate either the man who asked the question or the girl who’s answering it, or both. Tilly’s voice comes from it once more, saying:
“Died of influ-, influ-, influ-ence. Paul said it’s very hot. And wet. But now he’s happy again. Hello, Daddy; hello, Mummy. You were always good to me.”
The voice has altered halfway though this last speech: it’s still a child’s, but seems more serious than Tilly’s.
“If this is Paul,” the husband says, “then tell me: do you remember, in the playroom, the big object? The one with the tail?”
“Oh, toy,” Paul’s voice answers. “Yes, indeed. A rocking horse.”
“Well, that was at the nursery school,” the husband says. “But I meant at our house. The object pinned to the wall, with the tail…”
“A bird,” Paul says. There’s a pause, then he adds: “Not a real bird. One made of fabric. With a tail… and string… long string to fly.”
The wife, sobbing, has sunk back to her chair.
“Kite bird,” Paul says triumphantly. “Pinned to the wall. You got it for my birthday.”
Now the husband starts to cry as well. Audrey looks at Serge as if to say “See?” Returning her gaze, he feels a hot and cold rush moving through his veins. Paul’s voice, still issuing from Miss Dobai’s mouth, says:
“You’re having a painting done. Of me.”
“Yes!” chokes the husband through his tears. “Can you see it?”
“Oh yes. I like it. I can see it, and I’m beginning to see from it as it goes on. And it makes Matilda smile, just like the photo. How I like the soldiers in a row, like toast and egg!”
The voice is slipping back into giggly mode. The secretary, scribbling furiously, asks:
“Is it Tilly again? Are you seeing a painting or a photo?”
Again Miss Dobai’s head slowly rotates, getting its bearings on her interlocutors. The grotesque smile returns to her face as Tilly says:
“Two rows of soldiers. Like in school, when the man came with the velvet and the bird. The front ones are sitting, and the back ones are standing.”
Several people have stood up around the hall.
“What regiment are they from?” someone shouts out.
“ ’Jiment?” Tilly’s voice repeats. “The writing has an E in it. And an I, and an L… ”
“Is it the Leicester Rifles?” someone else asks.
“Oh, they’ve left their rifles to the side,” Tilly giggles. “One of them has got a stick, though: in the back row, one, two, three from the left. But he’s not the one who plays with her. It’s the other one, in the front, the raifle boy.”
“What did you call him?” asks the secretary.
“He told her that a part was gone, and he was choking for a bit, then getting better. He was frightened, like when it’s dark; then he passed over, and was comfortable again.”
Two men call out, almost simultaneously:
“What’s his name? What’s he called?”
Miss Dobai raises her hand from the table’s surface and traces in the air an M. Beside Serge, Audrey tenses up. Miss Dobai’s hand then air-draws O. Audrey slackens again, disappointed. The next letter’s R; then S. The hand pauses for a while.