George finished. “What do you say? I’ve calculated that almost from the start I’ll be netting an overall profit of around forty to sixty quid a month. That will soon clear equipment and loan charges. After that the sky’s the limit.” He kissed her again and she knew he’d had pickled onions with his bar snack somewhere. Probably the Red Lion. If you wanted George between twelve and one-thirty, that’s where he would be. “Just write a cheque, ducks, and I’m on my way.”

  Blanche considered him in silence for a while, saw the edge of doubt and the shade of possible disappointment touch his face and felt all her tenderness for him flower.

  She said, “Pass me my handbag.”

  George gave it to her from the table.

  She took out her cheque book and pen and wrote a cheque and handed it to him.

  George saw that it was for five hundred pounds. He saw also—for he was used to scrutinising cheques carefully because he played such little invalidating tricks himself when pressed— that it was not signed.

  As his eyes came back to her, it was a nasty moment for Blanche. She wished sincerely that she had not had to use such a ruse. But she had to think of the Temple of Astrodel and she didn’t want to get involved with some stranger. Only George could help her.

  She said, “Georgie, love. You can have five hundred as a gift, not a loan. But before I sign you’ve got to do something for me. Something you’re good at doing, something I wouldn’t ask any other man.”

  George, putting on a hearty bonhomie to cover his disappointment (Oh, he knew his Blanche inside out!) said, “You already get what I’m good at, love. You don’t have to ask any other man.”

  “That’s not what I mean, George. And also I don’t like that kind of talk in this room. This is a place—”

  “Okay, Blanche. Okay. What is it?”

  “I want you to do some more work on this Miss Rainbird thing.”

  “Oh, no! Not that!”

  “It’s a Christian thing I’m asking you to do, George. The woman’s unhappy. I want to bring joy into her life.”

  “I want to bring joy in mine, too. Fixing up little suburban gardens. Planting, sowing, weeding. Little rockeries and brick paths.”

  “So you can. I think it’s wonderful and you’ll be a big success. But if you want five hundred from me—and I don’t know who else you’d get it from—then you’ve got to do some more work.”

  George was not ready to give in without a fight. “It’s against my nature, Blanche. Snooping around for dirt.”

  “There’s no dirt. Just simple, charitable acts. Miss Rainbird is over seventy. I want to make the rest of her years on this earth happy.”

  Angrily, George said, “I can’t think why. You’re always saying it’s a much better place up there. No, you just want your old Temple of Astro-whatever-it-is. Well, get that mealy-mouthed Henry of yours to move his fat arse and do the work for you.”

  Blanche sighed. “George, your aura has gone very murky.” She smiled. “You’re like a bad-tempered little boy who wants his presents before Christmas.” She came over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Now let’s be sensible about it.”

  George shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Blanche. But really . . . Hell, I don’t go for the Mrs. Gradidges of this world!”

  “Neither do I, George. They are lost souls. But they can be useful. And think of Miss Rainbird, and helping her. That would be a fine thing to do. And it won’t take you long. A week, two weeks at the most. All you have to do is to trace her nephew, the child of her sister Harriet. Just find out where he is. And when you’ve done it—” she indicated the cheque he held—“well, you’ll have what you want. A wonderful new life, and an occupation which will bring colour and beauty to hundreds of people. Yes?”

  George was silent for a while. Then suddenly he grinned. “You’re a great girl, Blanche. You could talk the wings off an angel. All right, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, George. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Blanche reached forward and took the cheque from him.

  “Hey!” George protested. “That’s mine.”

  “Yes, George. But I’ll look after it for a while so that you won’t be tempted to forge my signature and cash it.”

  “As though I’d even dream of it!” He broke off, chuckled slowly, and went on, “Well . . . Perhaps I would, seeing the colour my aura is at the moment.”

  * * * *

  The next morning George went back to see Mrs. Gradidge. His excuse for a second approach had given him a little trouble, but not too much. He had had plenty of experience in finding excuses for himself in his life, and the answer to this one was not long in coming. Already he had warned Blanche that the expenses of this job might run a little higher than normal. Because he was still a little upset at the bargain she had made with him, he had decided to add ten per cent to all the expenses he charged. He might buy a new van instead of a second-hand one. He would get better and longer service from it.

  Mrs. Gradidge was surprised to see him, but her surprise weakened as he cheerfully asked her if she had any of her excellent tea going and at the same time put a ten-pound note on the table alongside her knitting wool and the Saturday Titbits.

  As Mrs. Gradidge eyed the money bright-eyed, he said, “There’s another ten to come if you can help me. But you’ve got to understand all this is confidential. Just between you and me.” Mrs. Gradidge said, “What’s all this got to do with magazines and papers, young man?”

  “Nothing. That was just a . . . well, way of getting to know you. Actually I’m a private enquiry agent.”

  “A what?”

  “A sort of detective.”

  “Here—I don’t want no trouble with that kind of thing.”

  “There’s no trouble. Just the opposite, Mrs. Gradidge. Now, why don’t you make us a nice cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Over three cups of her strong, acrid tea he did, and he had to admit to himself that he did it well. When he wanted to he could talk as though he’d kissed the Blarney Stone. And he kept her well supplied with cigarettes and gave her a flattering deference that made her a warm and ready confidante. The young officer who had fathered Miss Harriet’s baby boy had been called Megan. Miss Rainbird had revealed this to Blanche. He, George, was engaged by the family—a rich Irish one, so George said—who had long been trying to trace the child. Now a man, of course. Young Megan, before he had died of the wounds he had received in his tank engagement, had confessed to the Roman Catholic priest who was giving him absolution that he had seduced an innocent girl of very good family and fathered a boy on her. It was his dearest wish that his family should take the child and make it a Megan. Unfortunately, the officer had died before he could tell the priest the girl’s name.

  “Poor young chap,” said Mrs. Gradidge.

  George agreed and went on to explain that the family had tried years ago to discover the child, but they had met with no success. The matter had been dropped. But in the last year Megan’s father, now a very old man with only a few years to go, had begun to be more and more troubled at the thought that his son’s last wishes had not been honoured.

  “Very strong on that kind o’ thing, them Catholics,” said Mrs. Gradidge. “Not that I ’old with this kissin’ an’ cuddlin’ all week and then going to confession and startin’ all over with a clean slate. Though, no doubt, it’s very handy for some.”

  George nodded understanding^. He explained that his firm had been engaged to have another go at trying to trace the child. And they’d been lucky. They’d found an old army friend of Megan’s who had known about Harriet and Megan. So naturally . . . Well, here he was. But—(It was a masterstroke that had come to him while he burnt his breakfast toast that morning)—when he had reported to old Megan, near dying and longing for his grandson, what Sholto Rainbird had done with the child, the old man had been livid. He wanted nothing to do with any surviving Rainbirds. He just wanted the boy, well, man now, and the Rainbirds were to know nothing about it. The grandson was a Megan and must be found. Wealth and a large estate waited in Ireland for him.

  Mrs. Gradidge sighed. “It’s just like a story, ain’t it? Lovely, really. That old man a-wantin’ to see his grandson, afore he dies.”

  George agreed. It was a truly lovely story and he had made it up for the old hag. And now—and not a breath of this must ever leak out, ever—he wanted Mrs. Gradidge to tell him everything she knew, everything. The smallest detail could be important. Just think, if she helped find the grandson, of the joy it would bring to an old man’s heart and—he knew this would appeal to her—it would be one in the eye for people like Miss Rainbird who just arranged their lives selfishly, never giving a thought to others. And, too, he was sure that, if they were successful, the old man would know about her help and for sure he was the kind who would show his gratitude to her. He’d met him in his castle in Ireland and he was a very, very generous sort. The real better type of Irishman.

  She took it. Hook, line and sinker. And, George thought as he listened to her, you didn’t want ever to think you could live in a village and keep secrets. People like Mrs. Gradidge, and old Gradidge her dead husband, didn’t need any of Blanche’s clairvoyance. They watched points and put two and two together and could spot the coming of events before they happened. Mrs. Gradidge gave him every detail of everything she knew, and swore to God that no one in the village should know about George’s quest. George had his doubts about that, but he was not worried. If it ever did get back to Miss Rainbird— which he doubted—it would take ages.

  Before he left the village he went up to the churchyard to check one of Mrs. Gradidge’s details. At the far end of the graveyard, near the boundary to the river meadows, was a small, plain headstone. It recorded the death in 1937 of Edward Shoebridge, aged six months, only child of Martha and Ronald Shoebridge, with the inscription—Suffer the little children to come unto me for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

  * * * *

  The next day George (and Albert) drove to Weston-super-Mare, looking forward to a day by the sea and the brisk breezes of the Bristol Channel sweeping across the mud flats—if it happened to be low tide.

  And late that afternoon Blanche went by appointment to Reed Court, primed with all that George had so far gathered. On the way up she was considering the exact stage in future meetings with Miss Rainbird (always assuming George would go on turning up information) at which she would introduce hints from Sholto and Harriet that would suggest that Blanche was more than worthy of her hire, that her great gifts merited some suitable, certainly not ordinary, reward. She’d have to watch the old girl on that one. She would wait and take her cue from Henry. He wanted the temple as much as she did and he would know the moment.

  Miss Rainbird, she noticed at once, was looking different. As though some enlivening change had come over her. There was more colour in her cheeks and she was wearing a different lipstick, and the brown velvet skirt with a matching jacket over a cream blouse suited her. She must have been a very pretty young woman. It was a surprise she hadn’t married, thought Blanche. Fresh she looked, and rested. Certainly no bad dreams for the last few nights.

  Without any beating about the bush Miss Rainbird told Blanche exactly what she wanted. She wanted to find Harriet’s son and do the best for him she possibly could and, towards this end, she put herself entirely in Blanche’s hands. From now on she would have no second thoughts about where her duty rested.

  Blanche, inwardly delighted, took the news soberly. Once they came completely over it was easy to deal with and help them.

  She said, “Well, I’m sure that on the other side they will be glad to know that. We’ll see if they have anything to say. But I should warn you, Miss Rainbird, that I’d be very surprised if this time or the next few times they would come right out and give you his name and where to find him. They may not know that yet. Remember it’s been over thirty years since he was taken away from your sister. But I do assure you he can’t be dead otherwise she would never have come to you.”

  Miss Rainbird said quietly, “But why can’t they come right out with that information?”

  Blanche said, “Because they won’t know. How many people are there in the world, Miss Rainbird? Millions and millions. Your sister and brother will know things you don’t know—but they still have to find him. Looking down on this earth, can you imagine, even with their powers, how difficult that may be? People who have crossed over find their loved ones and the ones they have been close to in their lives quite easily because of the sympathetic etheric spirit-waves between one another. But how do you find a stranger in a crowd when you don’t know what he looks like and he knows—as I suspect must be the case here—nothing about you? But don’t worry, they will be working on it and they will be having Henry’s help. Shall we see what the situation is?”

  Miss Rainbird nodded. For a moment she had been tempted to question the logic of Madame Blanche’s remarks, but had refrained. She had put herself in her hands. It was a bargain which she felt bound now to honour . . . at least for a while. The abnegation of her own logical habits and natural scepticism had to be accepted.

  Miss Rainbird felt a new excitement in her as she watched Madame Blanche lean back in her chair and begin to go through what was now a familiar transformation. Watching the strain on the woman’s face, the change in her breathing and the movement of her hands on her pearls, she remembered her start of horror at the foot of the stairs where Sholto had fallen, and saw in her imagination a small boy with a bird on his wrist or hand. . . . Inwardly she prayed that she was not being duped. She would be a fool not to broaden her mind sufficiently to accept some extra-terrestrial form of life and communication.

  In a slow, heavy voice Madame Blanche said, “Is that you, Henry?”

  “Yes. It’s me, Blanche.” The words came in the man’s voice, through Madame Blanche, which Miss Rainbird had heard before.

  “My goodness, Henry. I don’t often see you with such a beaming smile on your face. A real old sober-sides you are normally.”

  “I smile,” said Henry, “because I’m happy. Can’t you feel it all around you? It comes through you, Blanche, from your friend, Miss Rainbird. Her mind is at rest, there is a warm tranquillity in her heart, and she knows where her path lies. Tell her we are all happy for her.”

  Madame Blanche said to Miss Rainbird, “You hear that, Miss Rainbird?”

  “Yes, Madame Blanche,” replied Miss Rainbird, who with a small part of her mind was not sure whether she liked being referred to as Madame Blanche’s friend.

  To her surprise Madame Blanche said, “You must not call Miss Rainbird my friend, Henry. I am her guide. Friendship can only be claimed when it cannot be denied.”

  Henry gave a small laugh. “From here, Blanche, your little social distinctions amuse us. But you will be friends.”

  “Maybe, Henry. But we have other things to think of just now. Why have you closed the vista suddenly, Henry? You’re standing in the shadows.”

  “Because the Word is all-powerful, Blanche. There is no need for light to give it meaning.”

  “You mean they are not coming?”

  “No, they are not coming, Blanche. Not this time. The true measure of Miss Rainbird’s love for them lies now in what she does on her own. Her labours will be a testament of her sincerity. They will help when she needs it but there will be no sudden miracle. True miracles are only simple acts of faith and the long-pursued cherishings of our loved one’s desires.” Madame Blanche laughed. “That’s a bit woolly, Henry. What you mean is they’re not sure themselves, but they’ll give Miss Rainbird what they know and what they will in future find out.”

  “That is true, Blanche. You see,” his voice went solemn, “neither of them are in the Upper Brightness yet. Many things are still denied to them. But they will arrive. Eventually everyone arrives at the Upper Brightness. Until then they have their difficulties. But Miss Rainbird must not be disappointed. If she will go to them they will help her.”

  “Henry!” Madame Blanche’s tone was firm. “Don’t start talking in riddles. How can she go to them?”

  “To their resting place, Blanche. Not far from it she will find the name of the child, but the child is not dead. In the spring she has placed the daffodils there and in the summer she has strewn the grass with the purity of white roses. Suffer the little children to come unto me for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. Ask if she knows what I mean.”

  Despite the warmth of the room Miss Rainbird felt her body tremble with a spasm of coldness.

  Madame Blanche asked her, “You understand, Miss Rainbird?”

  Her throat suddenly dry, Miss Rainbird said, “Yes, yes . . . about the flowers, yes. But the child is dead. Has been for—”

  Henry said sharply, “One dies and another lives. A body perishes but a name lives, Blanche. Do you see the man, Blanche?”

  With an irritation that surprised Miss Rainbird, Blanche said, “I can’t see anything, Henry.”

  “Try.”

  Miss Rainbird watched Madame Blanche’s hands go up to her temple and saw the slight quiver of her fingers as she pressed them hard against the skin. Slowly she gave a small, half-sobbing cry and then said, “Yes, I see, Henry.”

  “Tell Miss Rainbird what you see.”

  “It’s not very clear, Henry. He keeps coming and going, and there’s something beside him. . . . Ah, yes, that’s better.” She laughed abruptly. “It’s a motor-car, Henry. Looks a bit old-fashioned.”