‘But that’s his karma.’ Guy picked up a ripple of irritation. ‘He would be at a very low level of incarnation. Probably working his way up from a mole.’
At the other end of the table people spoke amongst themselves. Janet wondered if she should go up yet again to see if Trixie could be persuaded to come out. May asked if anyone else thought the chick peas tasted rather odd, and Arno said on no account was she to have another morsel. Tim continued to eat globbily, stopping from time to time to stroke the amber sunflowers on Suhami’s birthday bag.
Suhami herself ate little. She sat watching her father in a condition of growing unease. To someone who did not know him he was giving the impression of the perfect dinner guest. Nodding, talking, listening, smiling - although not eating much. Pretending? Of course. Brutal duplicity was his coinage. He played his games with little else. And there was something now about his glance and the set of his head that she did not like. She felt a sudden rush of panic and wished that she could perform a violent exorcism and vanish him entirely. Heather was speaking. Suhami strained her ears.
‘... and we believe that the only true happiness is to be found in forgetting the self. So we try to lose our individuality in a concern for others. The sick or dispossessed ... the poor ...’
‘The poor ...’ Guy’s voice exploded. Tormenting memories, long suppressed, struck fire. A young boy, kneeling before an electricity meter. Penknife jammed in the slot, unable to get knife or the money out and so feeling a length of chain across his shoulders. The same boy scavenging for fruit and vegetables from splintered boxes behind market stalls receiving great clouts around the head if he was spotted. A hollow belly occasionally crammed with cheap greasy piles of starch so that when the boy grew up he ate nothing that was not an invitation to a cardiac arrest. Richly sauced red meat, towers of chocolate and whipped cream. Lobster Thermidor.
‘... have to be strong ... get out ... get away ... or you go under ...’ Guy trembled and stared blindly around him, carried away by the intensity of his recall, hardly able to form his words. ‘... lice ... the poor ... they’re lice ...’
‘No ... you mustn’t say that.’ Arno leaned forward, pale but determined. ‘They are human beings and so to be valued. And helped, too, for they are powerless. Doesn’t it say in the Bible that the meek shall inherit the earth?’
‘They’ve done that all right.’ Guy gave vent to a goaded yelp. ‘There are mass graves everywhere full of them.’
A stunned silence. Everyone looked at each other unable to believe that they had actually heard such a shockingly cruel remark.
Guy sat motionless, his mouth still open, experiencing a thrill of horror. What had he done? How could he let himself be taunted into such intemperance by a couple of aging hippies when there was so much at stake? He lifted his head, cold and heavy as a stone, and stumbled once more into speech. ‘I’m sorry ... forgive me.’ He got up. ‘Sylvie - I didn’t think ...’
‘You can’t leave anything alone can you?’ Suhami, her face frozen, had also got to her feet. ‘Anything kind or beautiful or good you have to drag down to your own poisonous level. I was happy here. Now you’ve ruined everything. I hate you ... I hate you ...!’
Tim cried out in alarm and cowered in May’s lap. Christopher, grasping Suhami’s arm, said, ‘Don’t darling ... please ... don’t ...’
The others crowded round them all talking at once. Suhami started to cry: ‘My birthday ... on my birthday ...’
Christopher stroked her hair, May stroked Tim’s hair and Ken and Heather swung shiny beams of bright-eyed sanctimony at Guy who stood at the far end of the table - spurned and despised like the plaguey inmate of some lazaretto.
Then, as the soothing babble abated, he became aware of an extraordinary quality in the ensuing silence. The group had pressed more closely together and gave the impression of being both excited and alarmed. Guy felt a cool draught on the back of his neck. He turned and saw a woman standing in the shadow of the open doorway.
Phantom-like she rested against the jamb. She was wrapped in draperies the colour of fog. A huge bunch of cellophaned, beribboned flowers depended from one hand. She moved forwards, slowly dragging in her wake huge swathes of silk and tafetta which shushed and hissed on the bare boards. Half way towards the others she came to a halt, pushing back the misty scarf. At the sight of her huge-eyed, deeply hollowed face and tumbling mass of clay-grey hair the group drew even closer.
Ken murmured in wonder and disbelief: ‘Hilarion’s prediction. It’s come true ...’
The visitor looked round uncertainly and cleared her throat, making a sound like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘I rang the bell.’ A voice so timorous it was almost inaudible. She held out a square of green paper as if in support of such importunity. ‘I was invited.’
Guy, recognising the letter, gave a gasp of outrage and disbelief as he watched his wife, swaying like a narcolept, make for the nearest support, a low backed canvas chair. Reaching it she sank down, storm-cloud skirts billowing, and appeared overwhelmed with satisfaction at this simple feat.
Ken and Heather approached, praying hands to the fore. A few feet away they knelt down, foreheads touching the floor.
‘Greetings Astarte - Goddess of the Moon.’
‘Crescent Queen - lunar radiance.’
‘A thousand humble welcomes.’
Felicity stared at them and blinked. Then Suhami, pale with embarrassed recognition, said: ‘Mother?’ She crossed to the seated figure. ‘He said you couldn’t come.’
Guy winced at the dismissive impersonal pronoun. He watched Felicity’s blackberry lips shake with the effort of forming a reply. Instead she offered up the bouquet. Suhami took it, read the card and said: ‘How lovely - thank you.’
Guy recalled his own flowers forgotten in the porch, then realised that these were his flowers. Of all the bare-faced gall! Nothing he could do now. To rush forward and claim them would appear petty in the extreme. Sylvie would think he had brought no gift at all. She was saying something else.
‘He told us you were ill.’
‘My dear,’ said May, ‘you are ill.’
Not her, thought Guy. Snowed-under or drunk as a skunk. Come down to gloat if things go wrong. Or throw a spanner in the works if they seem to be going right. Just look at them all clustering round. Like some bug-eyed natives in a Tarzan film creeping out of the jungle. Hail white god in iron bird from sky! Christ - what an evening.
‘You poor thing,’ continued May. ‘You look dreadful. Suhami - get your mother a drink.’
‘Oh, yes please,’ cried Felicity and heard her husband laugh.
She caught his eye, her glance unfathomable. He saw it as triumphant and said, ‘You joined the living dead then, Felicity?’
‘There’s no need for all that.’ May produced a tiny plastic bottle from the pocket of her robe. ‘Your wife is quite distrait. Now - hold your hands so ...’ She poured a few drops into Felicity’s cupped palms. ‘Inhale please.’
Felicity did and started to sneeze. May said, ‘Excellent,’ and ‘Could I have a napkin?’
Ken and Heather, still on the moony trail, crowded close to Felicity and asked her if she knew what day it was. Felicity, who hardly knew what year it was, attempted to shake her head. Suhami came along with the drink. Felicity put her hand out two or three times but made no connection. Heather said, ‘Astral space is different.’
May took the glass and folded Felicity’s fingers gently round it. Felicity drank a little then, mind and tongue finally synchronised, started to explain her late arrival. She sounded anxious and defensive as if such tardiness might cost a stack of Brownie points.