Nellie stood at the counter, staring into the distance, absently toying with the crucifix, which she could no longer be bothered to hide.
‘Oy, Nellie!’ Lou Carter called. ‘You gonna bring me me pie, or am I gonna have to eat Polly?’
‘Get a move on hurry up,’ Polly squawked from the cage beside her.
Nellie scowled at Lou. ‘Help yerself.’ She gestured at the cage. ‘Bloomin’ bird’s costin’ me a fortune.’
Polly stamped her feet and let out a squawk.
‘You think I’m jokin’?’ Nellie growled at the bird. ‘Marianne, you got a recipe for parrot pie?’ she called through the hatch.
‘Reckon I could rustle one up,’ Marianne replied, coming over to regard the bird thoughtfully. ‘Probably tastes a bit like chicken.’
Polly turned her back and stared at the wall, while Nellie took the plate of parsnip pie over to Lou and dropped it on the table.
‘Service in ’ere’s shockin’ these days,’ Lou remarked. She eyed Nellie. ‘An’ you don’t look so good yerself. What’s up?’
‘Nothin’ I can’t handle,’ Nellie said, wishing with all her heart that was true.
Lou shovelled a forkful of pie into her mouth. ‘By the way,’ she said, spraying crumbs across the table. ‘Terence said he’ll be back to see you soon.’
Nellie feigned indifference. ‘Man’s been hangin’ around so much recently, I’m beginnin’ to think he might have a fancy for me.’ She fluffed her hair.
Lou snorted. ‘Even back in the day, I reckon he’d’ve given you a wide berth.’
‘He’d not’ve had to try too hard,’ Nellie snapped back, flouncing back to the counter. ‘And tell him that if he don’t give me back my rings, I’m gonna shop him to the police.’
Lou narrowed her eyes. ‘I told you that ain’t my Terence’s way. He don’t need your poxy jewels. An’ even if he did take ’em, which he didn’t, you wouldn’t dare shop him. Unless you’re ready to answer a few awkward questions about your own dealin’s with him.’ She knocked on the window mockingly. ‘By the way, the pavement outside’s lookin’ a bit mucky. D’you think you should give it a scrub?’ She cackled and stuffed a forkful of pie into her mouth.
Gritting her teeth, Nellie stalked back to the counter. Deep down, she didn’t think Terence had stolen her rings. Donald’s picture was still missing too, and as far as she was concerned, there was only one explanation. Although over the past few days, there’d been no more rose water smell and nothing else had gone missing, which made her hope that maybe Gladys had floated off to a higher plane – or whatever it was ghosts did.
Well, there was only one way to find out. Visiting Bert every day had meant she’d not found the time to see Bertha Bancroft yet, but now she took the leaflet out and examined it. ‘Spiritual medium,’ she murmured. ‘Right, Mrs B., let’s see if you can tell me what’s going on.
‘I’m going out,’ she declared, walking into the kitchen.
‘Where? And more importantly, how d’you expect me to manage on my own?’ Marianne spluttered.
‘You’re not on your own. Lily’s upstairs.’ She went over to the stairs. ‘Lily! Get down here.’
‘But it’s her first day off in over a week!’
‘Tough.’
Lily appeared at the bottom of the stairs looking annoyed. ‘Don’t tell me you want me to help out.’
‘All right, I won’t. I’ll only be a coupla hours. I got someone to see, then I’m going to pop up to see Bert.’ She held out the pinny.
‘Bert’s fine. And I need to study. Can’t Reenie help?’
‘No, she can’t. And you can read your books down here, can’t you?’
Lily huffed. ‘Fine.’ She snatched the apron from her mother.
‘Thanks, love.’
‘One hour, Mum. Go see Bert tomorrow.’
‘Two, max,’ Nellie replied, yanking on her coat and hurrying out of the door before Lily could protest any further.
Outside, her eyes were drawn to the once-grand Market Hall on the other side of the square, its white façade was blackened and half the second floor was gone, but the chimney stack still stood, rising defiantly against the grey March sky, as though guarding the ruins. Nellie shuddered. The shell attack that had destroyed the building had also left a large hole in the square, although the only evidence of it now was a black tarmacked patch, standing out like a pool of blood against the lighter cobbles – it always reminded her of the stain that had been left on the pavement. She glanced to the spot where Gladys had fallen, and though she knew there was nothing there, she could still see it in her mind’s eye. Resisting the urge to go back inside and get the scrubbing brush, she clutched at the crucifix.
‘Prepare yourself, Glad. One way or another, you and me are going to talk,’ she murmured, darting through the traffic to the other side of the road.
When she reached the corner of Queen Street, she furtively looked around to make sure no one she knew had spotted her, then, head down, she turned the corner and scurried up the road to the corner of Market Lane where Mercer’s Garage stood. The large double doors that opened onto the forecourt were shut, although the Turners’ van was parked up outside the building. Ducking into the alley beside it, she stopped outside a blue door with a heavy brass knocker. Checking over her shoulder again, she raised it and knocked until the door opened.
‘Where’s the bleedin’ fire?’ A plump woman with blonde hair curled around her lined face, peered out, eyes widening as she saw Nellie. ‘Mrs Castle.’ She smiled broadly and opened the door wider.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs Bancroft,’ Nellie said sheepishly as she came in.
‘No trouble, love. But you’re the last person I expected to turn up on me doorstep. Oh . . .’ she gasped, putting a well-manicured hand on Nellie’s arm, the nails long and red. ‘You ain’t had bad news, ’ave you?’ she whispered.
Nellie shook her head, and the other woman studied her face for a moment, then nodded shrewdly. ‘It’s Gladys, is it?’
Nellie blanched. ‘How did you know?’
Mrs Bancroft nodded to a spot behind Nellie. ‘Cos she’s right there, love. So, if you want a consultation, that’ll be five shillings.’ She held her hand out, and Nellie reached into her bag, pulling out a few coins.
Satisfied, the woman led Nellie up a flight of stairs, her high heels clicking loudly on the bare wood and her ample bottom swaying beneath her tight green skirt.
Upstairs, she opened a door and ushered Nellie into a comfortable sitting room with two brown armchairs either side of a fireplace. Against the wall was a small table, covered in a lace cloth, two wooden chairs sitting on either side. The room was bright despite the dull day, the light flooding through the two large sash windows that looked out onto the street.
‘Now, we can do this in comfort, or at the table. Your choice, love.’
Nellie sat down on the edge of an armchair, clutching her big black bag on her lap, her knuckles white.
Mrs Bancroft sat opposite, her eyes fixed on something over Nellie’s shoulder. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
Nellie looked behind her, but there was nothing there, and she felt goosebumps break out over her arms. Instinctively, her hand went up to her necklace. ‘G-gladys,’ she said. ‘She’s been hauntin’ me.’
Mrs Bancroft looked surprised. ‘Gladys has?’ She looked over Nellie’s shoulder again, then shook her head. ‘I find that hard to believe. What’s she been doin’?’
Nellie explained what had happened over the past few months. ‘I just want her to stop. I know what she wants, but I . . . tell her I promise I’ll do it when I’m ready. And tell her that she’s driving me half mad and I need her to go away.’
Mrs Bancroft sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.
‘Is she still—’ Nellie began, but the other woman held up her hand.
Nellie gulped and looked around the room. It was plain, with whitewashed walls, dotted with a few small paintings of flowers. She’d never been here before, and she felt slightly disappointed that the place looked so ordinary. Her eyes returned to Mrs Bancroft, who sat still as a statue, arms resting on the sides of the chair. People called her Barmy Bancroft, but she didn’t look barmy. In fact, although quite a few years older than Nellie, she looked younger, and was always perfectly made-up.
Finally, Mrs Bancroft seemed to come back to herself. ‘What’s your Donald got to do with all this?’
Nellie gasped. ‘H-he ain’t got nothing to do with this! All I want is for Gladys to leave me alone. Tell her, please.’
The woman sighed. ‘Even if I did, it won’t do no good. Spirits do as they please and they don’t take orders from us. Anyway, she’s gone now. But what you’ve described does sound like hauntin’. Somethin’s been left undone. She needs you to help her finish whatever it is, so she can leave the earth. And until you do, she’ll stay here with you.’
Nellie paled. ‘But I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t do it!’
‘Maybe I can help with whatever it is? Find a way to calm Gladys’s spirit and get her to leave you alone.’
‘Could you really do that?’ Nellie asked eagerly.
Mrs Bancroft shrugged. ‘I won’t know if you don’t tell me what it is that’s got her celestial knickers in a twist. So come on, what gives? Maybe if it’s Donald that’s worryin’ her, I can try to contact him?’
‘No!’ The thought that she might bring Donald back from the dead made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Then she laughed shortly. ‘Hark at me thinkin’ you could speak to Gladys, let alone Donald. Until now, I never even believed in this nonsense. No offence, love.’
Mrs Bancroft regarded her calmly. ‘If I took offence at everyone what thought my gift was nonsense, I’d ’ave gone stark starin’ mad by now. In any case, he might not want to be contacted. His last years were hard ones, so I reckon he won’t want to come back. Whereas Gladys weren’t ready, and she’ll have had things on her mind before she went. Things she wanted to do. And now she’s reaching out to you to do them.’
Nellie shook her head. ‘I can’t help her. Tell her that. Tell her to leave me alone. There’s nothin’ I can do.’
Mrs Bancroft sighed. ‘All right. Let me see if I can get her back.’
She closed her eyes again. Suddenly she stiffened and her neck stretched back against the chair. ‘There’s trouble comin’,’ the woman whispered. ‘Not from where you think. Across the water and . . . close to home. Things you think are true, are false,’ the woman continued. ‘Vengeance . . .’
‘Vengeance for what?’ Nellie squeaked.
Mrs Bancroft waved her hand to shush her. She paused. ‘I see a reunion . . .’ Mrs Bancroft’s brow furrowed. ‘Two reunions. Dead are not always dead,’ she murmured. ‘The living are not always who they seem . . .’ Suddenly, she opened her eyes and stared across at Nellie blankly, her blue irises almost obscured by her dilated pupils. Then she shook her head and seemed to come back to herself.
‘That’s all I got, love. But looks like you’ve got a few surprises in store.’
‘But what about Gladys?’ Nellie said, disappointed. It all sounded like gibberish, the sort of thing any fortune-teller might spout. She stood up and began to pace. ‘She’s driving me to the edge of me sanity. Only a wicked and vengeful ghost would do such a thing!’
‘Look, all I know is what I’ve told you. And like I said, Gladys passed suddenly, so chances are she’s sticking around.’
‘Jasper don’t believe me. He says it’s probably someone out to cause mischief. If it weren’t for the smell, I’d probably think the same. I can’t stand it! Rose water on my clothes, in my room! And this—’ she held the crucifix out ‘—this is Gladys’s, but I swear we buried her with it!’
Mrs Bancroft examined the necklace and shrugged. ‘She really is trying to get your attention, isn’t she? And it’s not unusual for a spirit to leave their scent. Whatever it is, my guess is she won’t leave till you’ve carried out her wishes.’
The air raid siren screeched at that moment, and Nellie stamped her feet. ‘Goddamn and blast the bloody siren! Go to hell!’
Then she dropped back into the armchair, put her head in her hands and started to sob.
Mrs Bancroft came across and crouched in front of her. ‘Listen, love, it can’t be that bad. Gladys were a good soul, she don’t mean you harm. Spirits don’t change much from the people they once were. But all the other things I said – that weren’t about Gladys and what she wants. That’s now. It’s on its way. So be careful, all right? But it ain’t all bad – like I said, I see a reunion.’
Nellie looked up at her, wondering who the hell she had left to reunite with. ‘You said two reunions.’
Mrs Bancroft frowned. ‘I don’t know . . . It was vague. Maybe that message weren’t for you. Sometimes the wires get crossed. Come on, we need to get to the shelter. Just a small cellar, but it does the job.’
As they walked back downstairs there was a hammering at the door and while Mrs Bancroft went to answer it, Nellie stumbled down the dark stone steps to the cellar. It was damp and mouldy with just a few rickety wooden chairs; a far cry from the comfortable shelter she’d created under the café, but she barely noticed.
If what Mrs Bancroft said was true, then the only way to stop Gladys driving her mad was to confess what had happened with Donald and risk making everyone hate her. The choice was impossible, because whatever she did, she lost.