Thursday afternoon at 2 p.m. Marion turned on the TV, straight after the advert for Safemore’s Stairlifts. Gentle piano notes played over the image of Brendan O’Brian, dark haired and handsome, leaving a white cottage and walking through woodland by the banks of a stream and finally arriving at a cliff top. The camera closed in on Brendan’s face as he gazed at the sunset, jaw tilted upwards, eyes filled with love and compassion. Then the title in green-and-gold Celtic lettering appeared on the screen: Beyond with Brendan O’Brian.
Brendan appeared in his pastel-decorated studio before his rapt audience of mostly middle-aged or elderly women, his hand pressed to his forehead, waiting for the first communication “from beyond.”
Suddenly he opened his eyes and inquired in his charming Irish brogue if anyone knew a J, someone whose name began with J, he was unsure if this was the first or last name? A forest of hands went up. The J left too soon, apparently, leaving a whole heap of money troubles behind. A lady in a blush-colored blouse waved her arm furiously, it seemed she knew precisely such a J. Brendan moved closer and placed a hand on her shoulder.
Holding the microphone near the woman’s grief-stained face, Brendan asked: “Was it James? No, then Jack?” The woman shook her head and whispered, “Jerry.” Jerry, Jerry, of course, repeated Brendan. Jerry wanted her to know that he was awfully sorry for all the trouble she had had over the will, but he was doing fine, his psoriasis had cleared up almost completely on the other side, and he had just passed his pilot’s licence.
The woman’s eyes brightened.
“Yes, Jerry did have psoriasis—he had suffered from it since he was a boy, and I remember once when we were sitting in an airport together he remarked how impressive one of the pilots looked, leading his crew across the concourse in his smart uniform—”
“Well, my dear, you will be happy to know that his greatest ambition has been fulfilled,” said Brendan triumphantly while the audience clapped.
“I’m leaving his love with you.” Then Brendan made a gesture as if he were handing the woman an invisible present.
It struck Marion as a little odd that pilots would even be required “on the other side,” but it was uplifting to see the poor woman’s grief eased by Brendan’s message.
Then Brendan asked if anyone knew a K who liked to dance the foxtrot. One of the few men in the audience, a bald chap with a chubby face, put up his hand.
“Yes, that will be my sister Karen.”
Brendan took his hand from his forehead and made a gesture as if throwing an invisible ball at the man.
A flutter of admiring “ooh”s went around the studio.
“When did she pass, sir?” asked Brendan.
“A year ago. She was knocked over by a drunk driver. Only thirty-one.”
A collective gasp of empathy came from the audience.
“Karen has something to say to you.” Then Brendan closed his eyes and once again pressed his hand to his forehead. His face scrunched up as if he was concentrating on something hard.
“She says keep practicing the cricket with young Thomas. One day he’ll play for England.”
The man nodded in recognition and the audience clapped.
“And something else: Have you been having a bit of trouble with your tummy, sir?”
After glancing around self-consciously, the man nodded.
“I don’t want to frighten you, but Karen says you need to see a doctor about that, right away. Right away,” he repeated.
A shadow darkened the man’s face just before the camera cut back to Brendan. At that point the program went to break, and that ad with the “mature lady” who sits staring out the window all day long watching her grandchildren play in the yard, then suddenly gets the confidence to join them on the trampoline when she discovers Peels Pliable Pads that Marion found so distasteful came on screen. She turned the sound to mute, then lay back on the sofa. She closed her eyes and imagined herself to be walking along that cliff top with Brendan O’Brian.
Perhaps they might find a bench to sit down on and he would take hold of her hand, and look directly into her eyes, silently communicating his affection. Marion hoped the spirits would respect their privacy at this moment and not attempt to interrupt such exquisite intimacy with their messages about psoriasis, missing legal documents, and such. At that moment a crash from the hallway, and the sound of John letting out a cry, interrupted her fantasy. She got up from the couch and found her brother sitting on the lower stairs, his face bright red and beads of sweat covering his forehead. At his feet was the completed model of the Avro Lancaster Bomber, one of its wings broken off.
“John, John, oh my goodness, did you fall?”
Instead of replying, he stared at the ruined model, his clenched jaw trembling.
“Oh, what a shame,” said Marion, kneeling to pick up the pieces of broken plastic.
“Don’t touch it, Marion. Leave it, just get away, get away!” he growled, rubbing his left arm vigorously.
Using the stairs for support, he tried to stand, but as soon as he let go of the banister he pitched forwards, smashing the remains of the model into shards beneath his feet. When John bellowed out loud, she did not know if it was because of the Lancaster’s complete annihilation or his own physical suffering.
Marion moved to catch him; her brother’s frame was so heavy, she was unable to stop herself falling backwards, and the two of them ended up flat on the hallway floor. Using every ounce of her strength, she lifted him up again, then managed to support him into the dining room and get him sat down on a hardback chair.
“What’s wrong, John? Do you want me to get the doctor?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Marion,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I just had a funny turn.”
“What does that mean, a funny turn?”
“It means you should mind your own bloody business, woman, now leave me alone, will you?”
As he swung out his arm to swat her away she flinched in alarm. Then, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, she left the room. As she went through the hallway she couldn’t prevent herself from stamping her foot on the pieces of gray plastic and grinding them hard into the floor with her heel before going back into the living room and sitting down on the sofa. Brendan O’Brian was mutely swinging his arm in the air as if throwing the invisible ball at a young woman in the audience. Marion picked up the remote control and switched off the set, her mind in too much turmoil to concentrate on television.
IN THE NIGHT — 2