All That Was Lost Read online

  Legend Press Ltd, 107-111 Fleet Street, London, EC4A 2AB

  [email protected] | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Alison May 2018

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-78719875-3

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-78719874-6

  Set in Times. Printing managed by Jellyfish Solutions Ltd

  Cover design by Simon Levy | www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Alison May is the author of Sweet Nothing (2013), Midsummer Dreams (2015) and Christmas Kisses (2016). She is the winner of the Elizabeth Goudge Trophy 2012 and has been shortlisted for the Love Stories Award 2015 and RoNA Awards 2016.

  She lives in Worcester where she works as a full-time writer and Creative Writing tutor.

  Visit Alison at

  www.alison-may.co.uk

  or follow her

  @MsAlisonMay

  For my parents – thank you for not being at all like parents in novels

  Chapter 1

  ‘I’ve lost my place.’ Patrice scowled at her manager, who was fussing about, rummaging through the wardrobe at the other side of the hotel room. Barney was always fussing. She could very well do without it. Georgios had never used to fuss, but Georgios was… The thought slowed and somehow slid away from her. Georgios was… Across the room, Barney slammed a drawer shut. Georgios wasn’t here anymore. Of course. Patrice turned her attention back to the local newspaper and pack of index cards spread across the bed in front of her. ‘I need to concentrate.’

  ‘If you’d wear an earpiece, you wouldn’t have to remember all that.’

  She shook her head. Earpieces were for amateurs. Patrice considered herself rather more gifted than that. She glanced through the notes on the cards in front of her and then shuffled them into order. Dead certs went first and last. She’d risk a couple of cold reads if she had to, but not until the audience was warmed up. She’d seen too many people die on their feet because they’d tried to read an uncooperative punter. She turned back to the six-month-old local paper. It was a good story – the deaths were tragic, senseless and premature. For a second her fingertips lingered over the picture of the two mothers. ‘You’re sure these two are coming?’

  Barney nodded. ‘They picked up the tickets last night.’ He was still riffling, ineffectively, through the wardrobe. ‘What am I actually looking for?’

  Patrice sighed. The man was an imbecile. ‘The lilac jacket. It goes with this skirt.’

  He stopped. ‘The jacket I picked up from the dry cleaner’s this afternoon?’ He strode over to the door and lifted the jacket, still wrapped in plastic, from the hook. ‘I told you where I’d left it.’

  Patrice bundled her index cards together, stood and relieved him of the hanger. ‘That will be all for now.’

  She waited until the door to the suite clicked closed before she slumped back down. The jacket, wrapped in its pristine cover, taunted her. According to the tag it had been sent to the cleaners two days ago and picked up today. Logically she must have taken it, or asked someone to take it, to be cleaned, and then told Barney to pick it up. She didn’t remember doing any of that.

  Patrice took four deep breaths. It was what she always did before a performance. It calmed her, ‘centred’ her she supposed the newer spiritualists on the circuit would say. It helped her to remember who she was right now, and all she needed was to keep hold of right now for a few weeks more.

  There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘Miss Leigh! It’s time.’

  ‘I can’t find you.’ The girl on the box office desk flicked through her file of tickets.

  Normally Leo would have charmed his way through this type of tiny mishap, but tonight was different. Tonight he was so close to finding what he’d been missing, and he was struggling to keep the tension out of his voice. Only his wife knew exactly why he was here, and she thought it was a dreadful idea. Leo forced a smile. ‘Somebody called Barry… no, Barney something was supposed to have arranged it.’

  The girl frowned. ‘Miss Leigh’s manager?’

  ‘Yes!’

  She sighed. ‘Well, you didn’t say that, did you? That’s guest list, innit?’

  Leo swallowed down the flippant answer he wanted to give, and accepted the newly discovered ticket. He took his seat towards the back of the stalls and looked around. It was a traditional sort of theatre with red velvet chairs and not enough leg room. It was big though, and pretty much full. The ability to reunite lost souls with their loved ones must be a bankable skill. The woman to Leo’s left leaned towards him. ‘Are you hoping to hear from anyone in particular?’

  The woman looked to be in her fifties, no more than five or six years older than Leo, but she could have been a different generation. Lank grey hair clung to the side of her face, and she was dressed in a too-small polo shirt, leggings and trainers, with a stripe of greying sock at her ankle. She shifted her weight in the seat, spreading her coat over her knees, before turning to look at Leo.

  ‘So, anyone in particular?’

  ‘No. No one in particular.’ That was a lie, but what Leo was looking for was none of her business. He opened his notebook and tried to look engrossed.

  The woman failed to take the hint. ‘I’m here for my Dennis.’

  Leo paused. He was also supposed to be working. He swallowed. ‘Right. And Dennis was your…’

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘Dennis? He was your…’ Leo waited, but the woman didn’t fill the gap. ‘Your husband?’

  ‘No, dear.’ The woman gave a big throaty chuckle that rippled with Benson & Hedges and good humour. ‘Dennis was a Pekinese.’

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘He was with me sixteen years.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s a long time for a Peke. They have terrible problems with their insides. All the toy breeds do.’

  ‘Okay.’ Leo didn’t quite know what to ask next. He glanced at his watch. 7.27 p.m. It was going to be a very long three minutes.

  ‘Do you have dogs, dear?’

  Leo shook his head. The woman shook hers too. ‘Oh.’

  This was a room full of believers. For most of his life, Leo hadn’t really thought about what came after you died. But these days, he was sure. When people were gone, they were gone. You just had to find a way to accept it.

  Leo looked around the theatre again. He’d never been to anything like this before. Among the usual hum of pre-theatre chatter there was something else. Here and there he could see the odd person sitting alone, staring straight ahead. And there were couples, heads bent towards one another, waiting to see if tonight would be the night.

  The house lights went down and an announcer’s voice filled the theatre.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, Patrice Leigh.’

  Applause. The curtains opened. The stage was empty apart from a stool and a small high table, with a jug of water and a glass.

  As Patrice Leigh walked onto the stage, some people in the crowd stood and cheered. For
a moment, the room took on the feel of an evangelical rally, but Leo’s eyes were fixed on the woman on stage. He’d watched clips online, of course, and read interviews, but this was his first time seeing her in the flesh. A breath caught in his throat, but his brain wouldn’t provide the language to make thoughts about the moment. He didn’t even know what word he ought to ascribe to her. What had he hoped to feel? Some sort of connection? Some spark of belonging? Leo forced himself to breathe. The idea was ridiculous, of course. The woman on the stage was a stranger. He tried to look at her like a journalist. What would he write in that all-important opening paragraph to a Sunday supplement interview? He was the king of the opening paragraph, the description of how the waiter’s head turned in recognition of the starlet approaching the table, or the summary of the superstar’s dressed-down shirt-and-jeans combo. How would he describe Patrice Leigh?

  The woman on stage could easily pass for a decade younger than her sixty-seven years. She’s stylish, but never threatening. She could be the mother of the bride at an elegant country wedding, or the wife of the mayor of any of a hundred market towns, but she’s not. She’s Patrice Leigh, the woman who’s built a fifty-year career on the claim that she can talk to the dead.

  Leo shook his head. Not claim that she can talk to the dead. This wasn’t going to be a job where doubt was encouraged, and it was a job. Whatever else it was going on, it was still a job.

  On the stage, Patrice bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the cheers and smiled at her audience before raising her hand for quiet.

  ‘Good evening, everyone.’ Her voice was warm and somehow homely, the kind of voice you’d expect to offer you a nice cup of tea. ‘It’s really lovely to see so many of you here tonight. Now tell me, raise your hands, who’s come along this evening hoping to hear from someone in particular?’

  Hands shot up all over the room, including from the bereaved Pekinese owner next to Leo.

  The woman on stage nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. I can feel that there are a lot of people in need here tonight’

  She stood silently for a minute. ‘You know I can’t promise that everyone who’s hoping for contact will find exactly what they’re looking for, but there are already a lot of spirits trying to come through. There are some incredibly strong feelings there in the spirit world. And that’s why I do this.’

  The woman’s voice cracked ever so slightly, and she continued more quietly. Leo shifted forward in his seat.

  ‘I do this to try to give people some peace, not just to all of you hoping to hear from a loved one tonight, but also to all the spirits who do me the honour of sharing themselves through me. It’s a real blessing to be able to bring these two worlds together.’

  The applause started again. The woman smiled.

  ‘Shall we make a start? I can already feel spirits desperate to come through. This is where I’d be overwhelmed without my spirit guide. I made contact with Stanley the first time nearly fifty years ago now. He’s been my constant guide in the spirit world.’

  Another burst of applause, apparently, for the long-departed Stanley.

  ‘I do need quiet though, just for a moment, while I establish my link with Stanley.’

  She closed her eyes.

  The woman next to Leo nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘He was killed at the Somme, you know.’

  Leo nodded and obediently noted Stanley – Somme on his pad.

  On the stage, the woman staggered slightly. Some members of the audience gasped, but she held up her hand for calm.

  ‘Stanley is telling me there are so many people waiting to come through, but there is one that feels particularly urgent. I’m getting a name. Paul. No. Sorry. Phil. Phillip. Is there anyone here who that name means anything to?’

  There was quiet from the audience. Patrice turned slightly towards the wings. ‘Can we have the house lights up a notch?’

  The lights came up.

  ‘Thank you. So I have a Phil or Phillip coming through very strongly. He’s right here besides me.’

  Two hands went up at opposite sides of the theatre. One of the hands stood up towards the front, and the woman on the stage moved towards her.

  ‘The name means something to you?’

  Leo peered forward. The person standing was a woman. Leo could only see her profile but he guessed she was in her forties.

  On stage, Patrice staggered slightly, putting her hand out towards the stool to steady herself. ‘Oh. There’s a lot of emotion here. Phillip really is desperate to be able to speak to you.’

  She paused and turned her body towards where Phillip was, apparently, standing. She held up her hand and nodded.

  ‘He’s very anxious that you know that he’s okay. Phillip was your son, wasn’t he? Carole? He’s telling me that you’re Carole?’

  In the audience, Carole nodded. ‘He was my baby. When he died…’

  The woman on stage shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me. It was very sudden, wasn’t it? I’m seeing a flash of red, very strong red. A red car? An accident, a car accident.’

  Another nod from the audience.

  ‘The other car was going too fast, wasn’t it? Phillip was driving his new red car, wasn’t he? But it wasn’t his fault.’ She turned again to ‘Phillip’. ‘Oh, darling!’

  Back to Carole. ‘He’s worried that you’re cross with him. He wants you to know it wasn’t his fault. I think Phillip needs to know you’re not cross with him.’

  Leo could feel himself getting drawn in, straining to see Carole’s reaction. She was shaking her head.

  The woman on the stage spoke again, more softly this time. ‘I think Phillip needs to hear you say it.’

  Carole’s voice was quiet. ‘I know it weren’t his fault. He was a dead careful driver. That’s why we let him have the car.’

  ‘Phillip hears that. That’s so helpful for him. Already he’s so much more at peace, and… oh no. I see. I see.’

  Patrice’s voice tailed away.

  ‘It wasn’t just him, was it?’

  Carole shook her head.

  ‘I know. He’s telling me. Tariq, was it? The lad that was with him.’

  Someone gasped loudly further along the row from Carole. On stage, the medium turned towards the noise. ‘Is that Aisha? He’s saying Aisha to me. Stand up, my love. You’re Tariq’s mum?’

  A second woman stood alongside Carole. ‘And you came here together tonight?’

  The women nodded.

  ‘That’s wonderful. Oh, your two boys were such good friends, weren’t they? And I can tell that you’re feeling they went too young. Far too young.’

  She paused again listening to the spirit. ‘Tariq wasn’t quite eighteen when he went, was he?’

  ‘He would have been eighteen last month.’

  ‘I know. He’s telling me. Your boys are both here. They’re together. They’re telling me they had a wonderful celebration for Tariq’s birthday in the spirit world. That was just last month, he’s telling me. They are both safe now. They’re both at peace.’ She took a couple of steps towards the front of the stage. ‘They’re here. Is there anything you want to say to them?’

  The second woman, Aisha, spoke. ‘Just tell him I love him.’

  ‘You can tell him, dear. He can hear you.’

  The theatre held its collective breath as she spoke. ‘I love you, Tari.’

  ‘He hears you.’ Patrice paused again, listening to the spirits. ‘He loves you too. And he’s asking you to give his love to someone. Fatima? Yes. Fatima. That’s the name he’s giving me.’

  ‘That’s his sister. She’s only a baby.’

  The woman on the stage held out her hand. ‘She’s so young. Tariq wants you to remember him to her, and he wants you to know that he’s going to be watching over his little sister.’

  Leo could hear Tariq’s mum crying now. The other mum put an arm around her, with her eyes fixed resolutely on the stage.

  ‘I’m feeling so much contentment from your boys in the spirit world. They’re tell
ing me that they don’t want you to put your lives on hold. That’s what they’re saying to me.’

  Both mothers wept, holding onto one another as their sobs bubbled upwards and echoed around the auditorium. Leo turned his attention back to the woman on the stage. She stared at the two mothers, and nodded very gently to herself.

  ‘The boys have to go now. Our time with friends in the spirit world is, sadly, limited, but they’re well. They’re at peace.’

  The two mothers retook their seats. On the stage, Patrice Leigh turned to her audience.

  ‘I think we’ve all shared a very special moment there.’

  The applause was loud and lengthy. They’d come here to see Patrice consult with the spirits, and they were getting exactly what they’d paid for.

  Leo stared for a second longer at the woman on the stage before making his way up the aisle and out of the theatre. He headed onto the street. Leaning on the wall of the theatre, he pulled a cigarette he rolled earlier from a holder in his pocket, lit it and took a long drag. He’d been meaning to give up for ages. He’d been going to give up when he was thirty, and then forty, and then definitely forty-five. He’d promised his mother – God rest her soul – that he was quitting. He pulled his phone from his pocket. A missed call from Marnie. He touched the screen to ring her back.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Hi.’

  There was silence for a second. His wife hated the telephone. Leo could chat for hours to a friend on the phone, but Marnie detested the thing. She only ever made brisk, purposeful calls.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Leo didn’t answer.

  ‘I mean, have you talked to her yet?’

  ‘No. I just saw the start of the show.’ He listened to his wife breathing on the other end of the line. She had a way with silence that Leo didn’t share. It made him want to explain, to justify, to make her approve. ‘I’m going to take the job though.’

  More silence.

  ‘I mean the money’s decent, and the freelance stuff’s dried right up.’

  ‘That’s not the reason. Is it?’

  ‘It’s part of it.’