She helped herself to a cup of weak tea and two bourbon biscuits, because that was all there was.
The blonde woman who’d been beside her on the plastic chairs sat down next to her again. She had nice clothes and perfect makeup and a bag that matched her shoes. It stood out among the anoraks and jeans.
‘I’m Sandra.’ She smiled and, before Anna could stop her, she had her head back under the hood of the buggy and was breathing all over the baby.
She sat up again and smiled. ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Anna, ‘he’s very good.’ But he wasn’t Daniel and she didn’t love him the same way she had loved Daniel. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t do all she could to keep him safe from harm.
And that included germs.
She leaned into the buggy herself so that Sandra could not, and rearranged the blankets. The baby’s hand had fallen out and was cold, and she tucked it back in. Then she put her foot back on the axle and resumed the gentle back-and-forth rocking that kept babies so quiet.
‘He your only one?’ said Sandra.
‘No,’ said Anna. ‘Daniel’s four. Nearly five now.’
‘I don’t have children. Couldn’t. Blocked tubes, you know?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, and she was.
‘Oh well,’ said Sandra. ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’ She smiled, then said, ‘Is this your first time here?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think?’
Anna looked around to give herself time. Australia caught her eye. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Don’t be put off by the grotty hall and the carpet,’ said Sandra in a low voice. ‘Richard’s a proper shut eye.
‘What’s a shut eye?’ said Anna.
‘A shut eye is for real. An open eye just pretends.’
‘Pretends what?’
‘Pretends to have the gift. Talking to the dead and all that.’
‘Why would someone pretend?’
‘To rip people off, of course!’ said Sandra. ‘But Richard’s not like that,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s a proper shut eye. Especially with dogs.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Mmm,’ said Sandra and rummaged in her bag. ‘He has a marvellous record, communicating with dogs. People swear by him.’ She took out a thick pile of photographs. ‘This is Mitzi,’ she said, handing one to Anna. ‘She won Top Puppy.’
Anna said ‘Wow,’ although she had no idea whether that was something to be admired or not.
Sandra went on: ‘Richard likes to work from a photograph.’
‘A photograph?’
‘Oh yes – he looks at the photo and he just knows things! Things only the dog would know. It’s like magic.’
Magic indeed. Anna had seen magicians on the telly. You couldn’t see how they performed their illusions, but she knew that that was all they were – sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors. Not real.
Sandra seemed sad and a little bit crazy.
Anna looked doubtfully at the picture. It had been taken outdoors, somewhere on grass, and Sandra was wearing a beige belted safari jacket that made her look like a chubby Swedish commando. She was holding a small apricot poodle almost hidden by a big red rosette. Behind them, Anna could see a blue line that she assumed was the rope edge of some kind of show-ring, and a short row of blurred people in the act of clapping – which was a strange thing, caught in suspended animation.
Anna shivered, even though the hall was not cold.
Sandra leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Most people come here to get messages from their relatives, but dead people are so dreary.’
Anna laughed, then quickly stopped. She hadn’t laughed for a long, long time, and it felt sharp and guilty in her mouth.
‘Have you ever had a message from your dog?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sandra. ‘Almost every time I come.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘All sorts. Richard tells me things that only I would know. Like exactly how she used to give a little bark when she wanted a treat. And how she’d put her head on one side, like this, when I talked to her. And she did those things, you see? He’s ever so good. And he gives me messages from her too. I love you, I miss you.’ Sandra’s eyes brimmed with sudden tears and she held her forefingers under her eyes to stop them spilling over and ruining her perfectly applied mascara.
Anna felt the burn of empathy behind her own eyes, even though she had lost her son and Sandra was only missing a dead dog.
Sandra found a well-used tissue in her bag and blew her nose discreetly.
‘Do you have to pay him?’
‘Who?
‘Richard.’
‘I don’t have to. I make donations to the church-roof fund. That’s only fair, isn’t it? I have a private reading after the service. What Richard does takes time and saps his spiritual energy. But he’s not in it for the money. No real shut eye is.’
Anna nodded, but she glanced up at Australia. It had always been her experience that everybody was in everything for the money. Apart from James – which was why they never had any, of course.
She offered the photo back to Sandra but she said, ‘You keep that. I have loads of them. My phone number’s on the back.’
While Sandra tucked the rest of the photos back into her bag and hooked it over her chair, Anna watched Richard Latham. He was sitting a few yards away with the two ladies who’d seen him on TV, while a half-dozen other people stood around him, listening intently, teacups in hand.
Anna tuned in to what he was saying:
‘… so I went to the hotel in Beverly Hills and there she was, lying in the bath,’ Latham told them. ‘So I said, “Come on Whitney! You’re dead!” And I grabbed her by the hand, and I pushed her through the door to the other side.’
There were murmurs of approval as Latham took a long slurp of tea. Anna noticed he had biscuit crumbs down the front of his jumper.