Madam Bailey - Michael James

Madame Bailey’s wartime parlor is the front room of her council house on Hugh Road, up half a dozen doors from the back of the shops where it T’s into the High Street. Across Hugh Rd is the Londonderry Arms, which is already well attended this Friday evening. The Midland Red buses stop here on the way to and from Birmingham along the High St, so she is singularly well placed to welcome visitors at all hours. She has one now reading the sign on her front door which offers spiritual guidance and aid, with special rates for women with “boys in uniform.” Just inside the front room, to the left of the door, sits a table for two with a lamp and a large, glass ball on an embroidered cloth.

“Good evening, Madame Bailey. I’m Edith and I’m an evacuee from the East End. We got bombed out a fortnight ago.” 

“Good evening, Edith. Sit down, please. How can I help you? Oh, wait a minute.... Do I hear the voice of someone dear to you trying to get in touch?”

“That would be me mum. She died after that last raid. A bit of shrapnel ‘it ‘er in the ‘ead.” 

“Oh, I am sorry. You must be very sad. Do you have a message for her?” 

“Not really. The old thing was on the booze so much after dad was called up she ‘ardly ever knew who she was talking to. And she never ‘ad a good word for me when she did see me, always calling me a lazy sod, and me doing all the cooking and washing. ‘Course I have to do that and more where they billeted me now. But I don’t mind it ‘cause they work all the time too; they run the grocery shop in the High St. and they ‘ave a little girl.”

“Oh, the Pendreys. I know them well. Win comes in here often. She had a nasty car crash just after the black out began. Her husband ran into a car parked on the side of the main road out to Hagley with no lights on. And of course, Win’s car had only small slits across the headlamps. You can’t see much with them.”

“Well, that must be why she has funny spells and turns nasty on me. I dunno what to say to ‘er.” 

“I’ll get in touch with her guardian spirit and ask that she put the brakes on her outbursts. Would you like that?” 

“Oh yes, if it works. I came in to see if you could tell me ‘ow me dad’s doin’? We ‘adn’t ‘eard from ‘im for ages and ‘e wouldn’t know what ‘appened to us or where to send a letter to.”

“Ah, yes, let me look....Your father isn’t on the other side, so he must still be all right. Let me listen now.... Yes, he sends his love to you and tells you to stay strong and brave. Things should start to look better soon. At least you have enough to eat now, he says, since you’re living with the Pendreys . Wait....Here comes a message for your mum from him. He says for you to ask me to tell her he is all right, though cold, tired, and hungry most of the time. She will be beyond all that now so he won’t have to worry about her. She can send messages through us to him if she wants to. Well let’s leave it at that for now, dearie. I’ll see you next time. That’ll be fifteen shillings.”

“Fifteen shillings? Cor blimmey! That’s a whole week’s wages for me! Can’t you make it less for a poor gel what got bombed out?”

“All right, luv. How about five bob?” 

“Here it is. Ta.” 

The front doorbell rings indicating another customer entering as Edith turns to leave. A youngish looking lad enters sheepishly. He has evidently been drinking, for he is unsteady on his feet.

“I’m Madame Bailey. Who are you?” 

“Uhm, I’m Peter Jones. My mates and I were having a pint across the street after work and they ganged up on me and dared me to come and see you. They said I should get you to tell my fortune and that they’d pay for it.”

“I’m not a fortune teller! I am a psychic healer and spiritual guide.” 

“Oh-ah. Well perhaps you can tell me if our factory’s gonna get bombed.” 

“Where do you work?” 

“Oh I can’t tell you exactly. “Walls have ears,” you know. It’s over in Walsall on the other side of the railway lines.”

“You’ve already been bombed several times, haven’t you?”

 “Yeah. Hey listen, can you call up the dead? ‘Cause one of our mates got it in the last raid and I’d like to see if I can get him to give me the nod to go out with his girl? She’s a looker.”

“Oh, now I’m going to be a pimp?” 

“Why d’you take it like that? Can’t you just help a bloke out?” 

“Wait... Sh-h. How long ago was your friend killed?” 

“About ten days.” 

“He wants to tell you there are lots of good looking girls where he’s gone, so don’t be afraid of getting killed or of going out with Dolly.”

“How’d you know her name?” 

“It’s written all over your face.” 

“Crikey, you give me the creeps, you do. I’ve gotta go. How much?” 

“Two quid.” 

“Here. It’s all the change I collected from me mates. Ta-ta.” 

“Ta-ta, luv”. The young woman turns her back on the front door, pours the change into a tin, pulls aside a bead curtain in the back of her parlor, and moves through a doorway into the kitchen. She hums to herself as she goes about making a pot of tea. She takes two small cakes from a tin labeled Digestive Biscuits, places them in the saucer of her tea cup, and sits down to await the moment when the tea will be properly steeped. As she reaches out to grasp the handle of the teapot, the front door bell rings again. She covers the pot with a tea cozy and walks to open the door.

A smart-looking army officer is standing there in the dusk, obviously a little uneasy as he looks up and down the street, then follows her into the parlor.

“How can I help you, young man,” asks Madame Bailey somewhat severely. 

“Would you be related to Alice Bailey whose books are published by the Lucis Trust in America, by any chance?” he asks quickly as if concerned she might vanish before his eyes. He has a German accent particularly noticeable in making “th” sound like a “z” and the “r’s” gutteral.

His hostess sits at the small table and motions for the soldier to do the same. While she smooths her hair back using first the left then the right hand, she looks at him steadily out of both eyes.

“She was my mother,” she answers simply. “Have you read her books?” 

“Two of them,” is his reply. “Can you help me? I have a rather peculiar request.” 

“Tell me.” 

“I want to ask forgiveness of someone I wronged who subsequently died. I have to find out if there is any way I can obtain her pardon before I go to the front, which could be quite soon.”

“Did she die in childbirth or after?” 

“I gave Gretchen some laudanum to put in her mother’s nightcap so we could spend the night together without being bothered by her. The woman kept on drinking alcohol after the nightcap and never awakened. The drug was revealed in an autopsy and the girl was charged with murder and convicted of manslaughter. While in prison she gave birth to our child which she suffocated. She saved the state the trouble by hanging herself in prison.”

“What is your name?” 

“Heinrich Faust. And yes, I’m from Germany. I got out in ‘37 through my business connections in Switzerland.” 

“Let me be frank with you. I sense that you don’t have a lot of time to waste with illusions either of your own making or of others, so let’s dispense with them altogether.” (She pauses.) 

“Heinrich, do you understand me if I say there’s no such entity as a dead person, that in fact, the phrase is an oxymoron?”

“No, I cannot say I do.” 

“All right, try it this way: A person is a living creature of the specie homo sapiens, briefly, a living human. The word includes a body, a personality, and some other attributes. A cadaver is not a person; neither is a ghost. So call the dead whatever you want but not “people.”

“What then, “spirits”?” 

“Have you ever met a spirit, a ghost?” 

“No.” 

“Neither have I. Look, Heinrich this is my place of business; here I make my living, such as it is. People come in here prepared to communicate with the deceased and I enable them to do so, or at least to think they do. But if I took myself seriously, I couldn’t operate as a business; I’d get caught up in people’s griefs and illusions. I’d have to carry their loads, have to commiserate with them, and that would include you. You can see how limiting that would be for me.”

“Then you are unable to help me.” 

“That is correct. However, I can give you some advice which may help you in the difficult times ahead. It would be essentially the same as your priest would give you.”

“And that would that be?” 

“To ask forgiveness of the whole universe, including of yourself and Gretchen. To go on asking without expectation until you feel it has been given and you are free of guilt. And, incidentally, to give up the notion that you’re going to make sure you get killed in action by volunteering for dangerous missions. Ist das klar, Heinrich?” She rises and stands next to the door. Heinrich rises also and lays a pound note on the table.

“Ja, alles klar. Vielen dank, Fräulein Bailey! Just one more thing. Asking forgiveness of the universe, is that like begging forgiveness of sins in a confessional and saying fifty Hail Marys, then receiving absolution? Because if it is, it won’t do for me. I need a forgiveness that is beyond mind, that reaches deeply into my soul, that touches the core of my being.”

“It’s not like a confessional at all. This requires hard work, weeks of application, long sessions of prayer burning the midnight oil. Your guilt won’t be shrugged off with a glib confession.”

“Oh; what then?” 

“May I suggest a prayer my mother taught me which appears in her books? Say it morning and evening.”

“Please do.” 

“It’s called the ‘Great Invocation’ and it goes like this: 
“From the point of light within the mind of God Let light stream forth into the minds of men. Let light descend on Earth.

From the point of love within the heart of God Let Love stream forth into the hearts of men. May Christ return to Earth.

From the centre where the will of god is known Let purpose guide the little wills of men -- The purpose which the masters know and serve.

From the centre which we call the race of men Let the plan of Love and Light work out And may it seal the door where evil dwells.

Let Light and Love and Power restore the Plan on Earth.

They shake hands quite formally and in silence. He bows his head quickly to hide his emotions, then leaves, appearing to Miss Bailey to be deeply moved. She smiles to herself as she picks up the money and puts it in the tin. Then she goes back into the kitchen to drink her tea. It is still warm. And so is she, visited by thoughts that she might have helped someone turn an awkward corner in his life.

                            ***