didnât want to infect people with our grief. In fect them, what a word! It is one thing to die but another thing entirely to do so in such a manner. Murder. No one knew what to say to me. Even the minister. And now the war, the plague. No one knows what to say to anyone anymore â¦â Her voice trailed away.
Soon she fell asleep. He watched her for a long time. She gasped for breath, twitched, whispered words he was unable to decipher. As he cooled her face and neck with a damp cloth, an idea took hold in him until it had assumed the status of a conviction. To care for his mother, to allow her some peace, at least, to ensure she knew no child of hers was guilty of murder: perhaps this was why he had been summoned? Somewhat heartened, he kissed her burning cheek, and returned to his campsite.
7
T hat night, Quinn lay back, snugged into the curve his shoulders had made in the pine needles and stared up at the darkness. The moon hove into view. The forest spoke in its secret tongue, and if he turned his head and pressed his ear to the ground he fancied he might hear the millions of dead rustling in their mass, unmarked graves on the far side of the world. Sarah had always claimed to understand the language of animals and trees, the growls of possums and wallabies. But what of the dead?
The previous year, while on leave in London, he had visited a celebrated spiritualist with his friend Fletcher Wakefield, whose fiancée in Adelaide had died of tuberculosis. Fletcher grinned a lot, one of those fellows invariably described as irrepressible . In their dormitory at Abbey Wood, he talked to Quinn about his late sweetheart and of the wedding they had planned. Although this conversation took many diversions, it always ended with Fletcher regretting how he had missed his chance to tell Doris how much he loved her and how she was without a doubtâwithout any doubt in the worldâthe most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Far too good for me , would generally be the self-mocking postscript. Far too good.
Quinn was reluctant to attend, but Fletcher, who had gone to numerous séances before, assured him the spirits only spoke to those with an open heart and who asked the medium a specific question. The spirits, by their nature, were only concerned with those interested in them. This was perhaps some consolation.
London was teeming with such places at the time and there was no shortage of people wishing to communicate with dear ones who had crossed over. There were women who conjured spirits that rapped on the undersides of tables, men who photographed ghostly faces hovering about oneâs shoulders in velvet-dark rooms, a medium who spoke in the voice of a long-dead Indian chief. Quinn had even heard of a young lady who, from her ears, could draw forth the gelatinous substance of which ghosts were made. To Quinn it seemed the world was suddenly so full of grieving people that to wander Londonâs streets was to feel the press not only of those present and alive, but also to be aware of their collective longing for loved ones killed in the Great War.
Along with eight others, Quinn and Fletcher filed into the wood-panelled parlour of the Marylebone house of a Mrs. Alice Cranshaw whose triplet daughters, it was said, possessed the ability to hear the voices of those who had departed this world, and to relay their messages to those still living.
Mrs. Cranshawâs parlour was warm and dark. The lady herself was stout and middle-aged and smoked a cigarette in a holder while casting an imperious gaze over the throng. Fletcher greeted an acquaintance, leaving Quinn unaccompanied. He felt conspicuous in his uniform and endeavoured to remain unnoticed, but Mrs. Cranshaw beckoned to him and drew him so close he could feel her breathâs wet bluster on his cheek.
âAnd who are you here for, my dear?â
âPardon?â
The woman made an odd movement with her mouth, as if chewing her own tongue,
Soon she fell asleep. He watched her for a long time. She gasped for breath, twitched, whispered words he was unable to decipher. As he cooled her face and neck with a damp cloth, an idea took hold in him until it had assumed the status of a conviction. To care for his mother, to allow her some peace, at least, to ensure she knew no child of hers was guilty of murder: perhaps this was why he had been summoned? Somewhat heartened, he kissed her burning cheek, and returned to his campsite.
7
T hat night, Quinn lay back, snugged into the curve his shoulders had made in the pine needles and stared up at the darkness. The moon hove into view. The forest spoke in its secret tongue, and if he turned his head and pressed his ear to the ground he fancied he might hear the millions of dead rustling in their mass, unmarked graves on the far side of the world. Sarah had always claimed to understand the language of animals and trees, the growls of possums and wallabies. But what of the dead?
The previous year, while on leave in London, he had visited a celebrated spiritualist with his friend Fletcher Wakefield, whose fiancée in Adelaide had died of tuberculosis. Fletcher grinned a lot, one of those fellows invariably described as irrepressible . In their dormitory at Abbey Wood, he talked to Quinn about his late sweetheart and of the wedding they had planned. Although this conversation took many diversions, it always ended with Fletcher regretting how he had missed his chance to tell Doris how much he loved her and how she was without a doubtâwithout any doubt in the worldâthe most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Far too good for me , would generally be the self-mocking postscript. Far too good.
Quinn was reluctant to attend, but Fletcher, who had gone to numerous séances before, assured him the spirits only spoke to those with an open heart and who asked the medium a specific question. The spirits, by their nature, were only concerned with those interested in them. This was perhaps some consolation.
London was teeming with such places at the time and there was no shortage of people wishing to communicate with dear ones who had crossed over. There were women who conjured spirits that rapped on the undersides of tables, men who photographed ghostly faces hovering about oneâs shoulders in velvet-dark rooms, a medium who spoke in the voice of a long-dead Indian chief. Quinn had even heard of a young lady who, from her ears, could draw forth the gelatinous substance of which ghosts were made. To Quinn it seemed the world was suddenly so full of grieving people that to wander Londonâs streets was to feel the press not only of those present and alive, but also to be aware of their collective longing for loved ones killed in the Great War.
Along with eight others, Quinn and Fletcher filed into the wood-panelled parlour of the Marylebone house of a Mrs. Alice Cranshaw whose triplet daughters, it was said, possessed the ability to hear the voices of those who had departed this world, and to relay their messages to those still living.
Mrs. Cranshawâs parlour was warm and dark. The lady herself was stout and middle-aged and smoked a cigarette in a holder while casting an imperious gaze over the throng. Fletcher greeted an acquaintance, leaving Quinn unaccompanied. He felt conspicuous in his uniform and endeavoured to remain unnoticed, but Mrs. Cranshaw beckoned to him and drew him so close he could feel her breathâs wet bluster on his cheek.
âAnd who are you here for, my dear?â
âPardon?â
The woman made an odd movement with her mouth, as if chewing her own tongue,
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