assumed it would be your usual sponsored walks and coffee mornings. No wonder the staff writers had farmed it out.
Beryl noticed my reaction and grinned. ‘We’re not screwballs, you know. Quite your everyday sort of people. We have accountants in our group, PAs, bus drivers. Bob’s a fireman.’
‘And we have a Postman Pat.’ David grinned.
Beryl smiled at him with the sad acceptance of parental disappointment.
I made a note about the Spiritualist group. ‘So how did you raise the money? It was a fair bit wasn’t it – a thousand pounds?’
David replaced his teacup into the saucer and leant towards me. ‘£1050,’ he said and watched me write it down again. ‘It was £1031.75. I made it up with my own money. People like nice round figures.’ He looked at my notepad. I didn’t write it down.
‘Wow,’ I said to Beryl. ‘Not bad.’
Mrs Bennett tested her tea with her tongue. ‘We’re getting more of the general public coming along to meetings now than ever before. But believe it or not, there are still a fair few people out there who have some odd notions about Spiritualism.’
No kidding, I thought. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘In this day and age …’
‘Yes, I know.’ Beryl made a tutting noise with her tongue and rolled her eyes. ‘So, we thought, well, why don’t we do some open evenings? Get local people in so they could see we were just ordinary people – doing our stuff to help others out. And of course we wanted to raise money for Polly’s charity.’
‘Mum’s a medium,’ David said. ‘Very talented too.’
‘I do my best,’ said Beryl, a proud little grin appearing on her lips.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Is that what you did then? Er, medium nights? What do you call them?’
Beryl opened her hands and spread them across the table. ‘Evenings of clairvoyance,’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘Yes, we put on quite a few and also ran a series of taster afternoons.’
I wrote that down in my notepad. ‘Which were what?’
‘I call them old skool,’ said David and laughed.
‘He means they’re old-fashioned,’ Beryl said gently. ‘There’s a few of us that have practical skills – reading the tea leaves; auras; dream interpretation, that sort of thing. A young lady, Tanith, from the neighbouring village is one of them Witchens.’
David leant in to correct his mother. ‘She’s a Wiccan.’
‘She does a lovely tarot, don’t she, David?’
Bennett Junior nodded. ‘Very accurate.’
‘So we got together and ran about ten of those. One a month. With volunteers selling tea and cake. And we hosted evenings. All the funds came through suggested donations.’
‘And you raised that much?’ I asked, doing a rough calculation in my head.
‘Some of the recently bereaved can be very grateful when they make contact with loved ones on the other side. It helps, you know.’
I wrote that down in my notepad and then flipped it shut so I could take a gulp of tea. ‘So, do you have practical skills, David?’ I turned slightly to him. He was on my left side facing the door.
‘Numerology,’ he said brightly. ‘Numbers. And astrology.’
‘Right,’ I said, searching for the right word to express limp engagement. ‘Interesting.’ It sounded so disingenuous I asked Beryl quickly, ‘And what about you, Mum? Do you have more skills? Other than clairvoyance of course?’
Beryl nestled into her chair and beamed. ‘Palms. Chiromancy, I like to call it. Always been able to do it. Even before I had the calling to clairvoyance. It’s just something I’ve grown up with.’ She chuckled. ‘I can see in your face that you’d like to have a go.’
‘Oh.’ She wasn’t that great a clairvoyant – I hadn’t thought about it. But the idea had a certain appeal. ‘What, now?’
‘Won’t take a moment, love.’ She patted the chair to her side. ‘Come and take a seat.’
I placed my teacup next to my notebook and swapped chairs. Beryl put her cup down and rubbed her hands. ‘They’re a bit cold, so ’scuse me.’ Then she picked up my right hand. ‘David, love, could you fetch my specs. They’re beside the cooker.’ David scurried over and came back with a small brown case. Beryl popped the glasses over her nose. She examined the skin of my palm and stroked a couple of fingers, then peered down at the left side of my hand.
After a minute she cleared her throat. The smile that hung upon her chocolate lips faded. ‘Were you very ill when you were young, dear?’