45

Mr Franklin D. Huff

I interrogated Mrs Meadows closely when she returned to the cottage.

‘Miss Hahn seemed in … in good spirits, when you finally met up with her, then, did she?’ I enquired (nonchalantly straightening the rucked-up corner of a seagrass rug with the end of my crutch).

‘Yes, excellent spirits!’ Mrs Meadows confirmed.

‘No sign of … uh …?’ I persisted.

‘Mildew?’ Mrs Meadows rejoined tartly, following it up with a mischievous giggle.

(This referred back to a bad joke I had once made to Mrs Meadows at Miss Hahn’s expense; something along the lines of: ‘I’m not sure if she perspires so much as exudes a slight mildew.’)

‘Oh yes. Ha ha. Very funny,’ I muttered, ‘very witty …’

I gamely steeled myself for the requisite coruscating aside from the imaginary Miss Hahn, but of course none was forthcoming. Instead a child’s voice sighed, I always thought her so very beautiful, Mr Huff. A bright light in her that shone out of her chest through a tiny hole. Because there was this little chink, Mr Huff, chiselled between her ribs by the cruel forces of the world through which the Holy Spirit came and went. Like her heart was a dovecote, Mr Huff! And sometimes I would call him out and he would fly to my hand or land on my head and perch there a while. The Spirit was so strong in her, Mr Huff! But she never knew. And Our Lady told me not to tell her. So I always kept it a secret, Mr Huff, exactly as Our Lady had asked me to …

The voice of the imaginary Miss Hahn had generally been possessed of a quiet and unobtrusive quality, but this voice, this child’s voice (with its suggestion of a gentle Irish lilt) was like the sound of a wood pigeon suddenly taking off. It had the strangest … almost an echo. But it wasn’t a voice, so much as something whirring or something being dropped. Or dry leaves being sucked up into a mini-tornado. Impossible to explain. And when it spoke I saw … how to describe it? A kind of golden dust, a tiny shower of glitter, but very golden and very fine, flitting rapidly around the room, like a shooting star or … or … a brilliantly camouflaged moth with traces of gold beneath its wings. It would land and then mark the spot and then move off, and the gold dust would remain for a moment before evaporating with a sound like an orchestral wind-chime, but not nearly so … so strident … as if … as though the wind chime was crafted from ancient bamboo, almost.

‘… or three?’ Mrs Meadows wondered.

‘What? Uh … Sorry?’ I chittered, staggering slightly.

Mrs Meadows was in the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea.

‘Two bags or three?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t care,’ I murmured. ‘Three.’

‘But there are only four left.’

‘What?’ I scowled.

‘There are only four bags left.’