My Voice Will Not Be My Own

Vincenzo della Malva

As William was checking his guise in the mirror and putting on the finishing touches, he slipped a toothache candy down his throat. Oh, aren’t we all under the pressures of cares and sorrows? Sorrows, cares and sorrows, he repeated. The Irishman always threatens to sneak up on him with his pesky rhotacism. He often wondered if he shouldn’t reveal his Hibernian heritage—it would perhaps endow him with a native charm suggestive of someone who talks with faeries in the meadows. But no, even if the business of séances and mediumship has a touch of the supernatural, those are barbarous vestiges we struggle to shed. We’re doing important science, ladies and gentlemen—no need for charms or noxious ointments! It’s all about etheric manifestations, telepathic communications; ectenic forces acting at the edge of our comprehension. Speaking of, where’s the cheesecloth? You never know when the need to liven up a dead séance might arise. It’s nasty work to swallow all that fabric and retch it up at will, but it’s all to put faith in myriads of doubting Thomases that never stop nagging us. It wasn’t that long ago, when William first took up the trade, that the spirit world was the kingdom of quick wits and silvery tongues. Now all the ears have to bow to the eyes: it’s not enough to speak with the voice of the dead and glean a secret or two from the minds of the participants. Nowadays it’s all about visible wonders; and the competition is fierce. There’s even stories of someone managing to produce a visible manifestation—got to learn that trick sooner or later, even at the cost of stirring up a real ghost. Alright, the jacket fits to perfection and it’s raggedy enough to impart a sense of authenticity. Not that William has much choice in matters of appearance, God knows he needed money and thank God for Turner, who found for him a group of moneyed believers ready to employ his services. The progeny of the recently passed Mr. Harrington, two of whom, as he recalls, were nursed by tobacco farming and had grown so much to almost have dinner with the lords, had been requesting help in contacting their dear father. Gratiae agimus tibi Domine Deus. Soon it will all be over, eating crubeens and sleeping in musty rooms. He can already see his name on the marquees: William Foxe, the Voice from Beyond.

The dangling copperwatch says it’s ten past seven. The cart must be here—let’s not make Old Mabbot wait. Never stopping in Whitechapel, he said. Don’t you know he only slices up whores? Don’t want to be the one to give the Ripper a newfound taste in mangut. So I’d rather not wait, he said after accepting the job. Ah yes, the ashstick. And the gloves, don’t forget. Leaving his room, William rushed at first, jerking the second-hand suit he bought at the Rag Fair, but as he stepped further on the creaking floor of the flophouse, he slowed down and what was lost in hurry he gained in composure—as if the Irish scamp was leaving his body to make way for the well-mannered gentleman of pure Saxon stock, thinned only by his prolonged stay in the most distinguished places of high learning of the continent. Frankfurt, Wien, Paris bien sur… Surely not in Sligo, under the tutelage of an old Jesuit nimble with his cane.

Old Mabbot, impaired by fog and dim moonlight, didn’t recognize William until he oxtered his blackhat. Bloody hell, you’ve got a talent for disguise. That’s not the only talent I have, William retorted cheekily, and rising up to the carriage, he told the old chap to make haste for Connaught Place. A task that soon proved to be impossible: as much as Mabbot lashed at his horse and shouted at the traffic, the vehicle was engulfed by the unwieldy mass that was London. Even as the day was coming to an end, the Londoners weren’t any closer to the stillness of sleep. The streets were crowded with the usual riff-raff. William had to resign to the fact that Whitechapel would give way to more civilized districts sluggishly. Children with smallpox scurried like vermin scared off by light, either to the grimy dark crannies they slept in or to retrieve a parent drowning in their drink. A young man, likely a coal porter, leaned on a post which stood for his leg lost in some accident long ago. He watched an Italian organ grinder go merrily spend his earned pennies at an inn. Look at the old diseased harlots that populate this place: let’s hope to never be in need of their services again!

London is a purulent coagulate of people and bricks cured in fumes and sickness. Whatever a person yields in the thralls of consumption, there the city finds its sustenance, growing seemingly exponentially. May the whole empire become the City of London if Her Majesty wills it. Among the stillborn ruins of modernity, St. Katherine Cree has the gall to persist despite all the strength and hatred thrown at it by history. The eyes of William went to the stone gate behind the church and the marble skeleton lying in its pediment. We’re sailing toward Hades tonight: Mabbot has been paid his obol, and he wades his boat through the cobblestone Acheron. From here to Hazarajat, this empire of death extends—and all its representatives gather in the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, under the eyes of Wellington, who was, if not anything, a great disciplinarian. But this is too serious a discourse. Must turn away from suffering: Cheapside is showing its stalls now, and there’s no time to dwell on things. And forth, over the hidden old river, nearing Pip’s house. Then through dancing Soho ‘til Bond Street, where everything plundered and manufactured comes neatly wrapped in frills and bows.

Would Jenny like this place? It’s hard not to be swept up in the shopping frenzy, and she never felt the pleasure to buy something that wasn’t strictly necessary. And more often than not, she wasn’t able to buy even that. Poor Jenny was buried in a tattered rag, just enough to cover her diminished body. How much mum cried—so many tears you wouldn’t believe. William peered from his horse-drawn shoebox over the multitude of smiles and eager eyes and the hands and the bags they carried. One day soon, one day soon. And I’ll come with a carriage, one that doesn’t carry hides to tanneries and children’s corpses to cemeteries and whose smell stopped nauseating me already. Hope it won’t stick on me.

Mabbot’s carriage looked like a blackhead on the face of the newly built stucco houses on Connaught Street. They stood like soldiers, neatly in a row. Less than a hundred years ago, they used to behead people here. What number was it again? Ah, yes, twenty-two. Before he’d knock on the weighty door of the Harringtons, Williams made sure Old Mabbot moved along, no need for the customer to see his dirty carriage and malnourished horse and so ruin the charm before the night even began. And between the steadily distancing clops, he patted the brass handle on the door like it was a fine instrument. It was not long before the door opened, and a thin, tall man came out. Yes, I’m Dr. Foxe. A pleasure to be here.

The first of the Harringtons to meet the psychic wasn’t a Harrington at all. Mr. Wilberforce met William at the door right after the butler made him enter. He came in and the candles in the hallway waved with his arrival. So forceful and direct, like his handshake. The death of Mr. Harrington shook us all. Certainly he was in the autumn of his age but still vigorous as ever. He was found dead by the housekeeper in his office—still working, if you can believe it. Clarissa, my wife, has been terribly shaken by the event. But in truth, the whole family is still stricken with grief; there is no endowment large enough to fill the void Mr. Harrington left. Mr. Wilberforce’s face showed a great deal of trust, an assuredness that the night would be fruitful. Usually, nobody does. Dr. Foxe, it’s my understanding that what would take place tonight could bring a modicum of soothing to the whole family. Something so very needed—even the house feels empty now.

Harrington’s family home was a big three-story building draped in wainscoted walls and deep burgundy brocades, behind which bow windows peeked. On every angle there was a new piece of wood-carved furniture: here a piecrust table holding an exquisite floral vase; there, a rococo lectern. Oh, is this Venetian? I recognize the craftsmanship. Every step in the house was cushioned by soft Persian carpets. How much does all this tufted upholstery cost?

The rest of the family was already at the table, surrounding the framed photographic portrait of the Harrington patriarch, looking haggard and bloated in his wool coat. There was a ring on his finger, a compass emblazoned on it. It seemed there wasn’t going to be any time for dinner or other pleasantries that night, as everyone looked anxious to get on with it. But it’d be beneficial if you’d allow me to get to know the family, William said. It’ll help reach the dearly departed more accurately, as there’s always a risk of disturbing another spirit if our minds aren’t better attuned. Yes, in fact, it is quite like an instrument, and by the same token, it is not. It’s akin to being both the guitar and the luthier, if you can bear the paradox. It is my task to prepare the instrument so that it can produce a more tuneful melody. I suppose I can call it my duty. Am I religious, Mrs. Harrington? I am nothing but a Christian when it comes to conduct and morals, but I believe there’s more than what the Bible tells us about the Otherworld. After all, science has so thoroughly illuminated corners of our cosmos that the pious evangelists could have scarcely conceived. The widow had been sterned by time in a way that her husband’s death couldn’t have amounted to much at all. She had a jaw on that would make any husband think twice before giving her grief. That same jaw was etched on her offspring, Charles and Clarissa, each sitting beside her. Charles, the firstborn, had his wife with him, a minute woman trained to be quiet while her husband talked at length about his various businesses in India or wherever Britannia could claim dominion. Clarissa instead ran her pretty lark mouth without a care. Of course, she had read everything about Katie King and Florence Cook. I’m afraid ‘tis nothing but a fraud, darling. I’m a Doctor of Spiritual Sciences as recognized by the University of Cologne, and personally, I can’t suffer parlor tricks of that sort. These people do real harm to the seriousness of our enterprise. No, Clarissa, there won’t be use for a spirit board like they do abroad. Maybe a pen and paper if the spirit wants to communicate in such a manner. Was Mr. Harrington a man of letters? No, of course not. My voice will suffice then. So, I ask all of you to be strong. Once the light is snuffed out, we shall begin making contact: my voice soon won’t be my own, and someone from the place beyond might manifest here in this room. Please lay your palms on the table and let your ears suffice for your eyes, for our show is staged behind dark curtains.

(The room goes dark and silent.)

WILLIAM:(stately) We call upon the spirits of the dead, that they might present themselves to us, fair in appearance and demeanor. We, in particular, beseech the presence of Mr. Harrington, recently departed from this mortal plane so that his loved ones can speak to him once again.

(William begins to chant a muttered droning melody, steadily increasing in volume.)

WILLIAM: mhmhmmhmhmhmmhmmhmmhmMHMHMMHMMMHMMHM

CLARISSA: Is he entering into a, what is it called, a trance?

WILBERFORCE: (under his breath) Hush, darling.

WILLIAM: mhmhmmhmhmhmmhmmhmmhmMHMHMMHMMMHMMHM

CHARLES: Father would never participate in such a frivolous operetta. This is just a waste of time and money, if I say so myself.

MRS. HARRINGTON: Clarissa, when is the ghost going to appear?

WILLIAM: mhmhmmhmhmhmmhmmhmmhmMHMHMMHMMMHMMHM

CLARISSA: I don’t know, Mother.

MRS. HARRINGTON: Weren’t you supposed to be the expert in all these lugubrious things?

WILLIAM: (stopping his chanting and clearing his voice) I feel a presence in the room. Something is coming to reach us from…

(A thunderous crack brings everyone to silence. It seems to come from somewhere above them, William is as startled as the Harringtons.)

WILLIAM: (in a trembling voice but still with perfect composure) This is certainly a communication attempt from the other side. Do not break the circle! This is a most delicate moment.

CHARLES: (less sure of himself) Pure buffoonery.

MRS. HARRINGTON: (in a chiding tone) Charles, were the spirit of your father really here, would you still be this arrogant? I wouldn’t take the chance.

WILBERFORCE: A weird feeling has come over me.

WILLIAM: (with a solemn tone) Is the spirit of Mr. Wilbur Harrington here with us? If the response is in the affirmative, please let us know with one more rap.

(William strikes his knee on the table’s leg, but nobody notices as it is overpowered by another crack coming from the same unknown place.)

CHARLES: By Jove!

WILLIAM: (quiet and unsure of what to say next)

CLARISSA: (sighing loudly) Daddy dearest, Aah! I’m going to faint!

(Another noise is heard in the darkness, this time louder than before.)

WILBERFORCE: (shouting) Dr. Foxe, stop the séance! Clarissa darling what has befallen you?

(Everyone but Lady Harrington gets up from their seat, chasing darkness before the butler rushes in the room with a lit candle, revealing the poor Clarissa lying face down on the table. Charles and his wife check on their mother, who remains unfazed, if a bit dumbfounded. Wilberforce helps his wife stand up and she seems to regain consciousness after a providential splash of water brought by the housekeeper. Sir Harrington’s picture has fallen to the side from the commotion.)

WILBERFORCE: How do you feel, darling? There, it’s nothing.

CLARISSA: (with a weak voice) I felt it, love. I felt the ghost of my father here in this room. Oh God, it was so terrible.

WILLIAM: (getting closer to Clarissa) Certain symptoms have to be expected when dealing with such phenomena. Women, as feeble-hearted as they are, are prone to suffer some momentary…

MRS. HARRINGTON: Are you implying I should have fallen on my knees in terror, Dr. Foxe?

WILLIAM: Different people have different reactions, Mrs. Harrington. Something about one’s personal relations to the spirit might cause a specific reaction. Maybe there’s something more arcane at work even. We must continue the experiment to glean a more precise explanation.

CHARLES: It’s just a noise. Nothing to be afraid of.

WILBERFORCE: Doctor, may I have a word in private?

(Wilberforce leads William through a corridor just behind the room where the séance was taking place. The murmurs of the Harringtons echo behind them. Wilberforce’s face has turned from the epitome of jolliness to a terribly serious frown.)

WILLIAM: If this is about your young wife’s health, I can assure you…

WILBERFORCE: (confrontational) This is not about my wife, you two-pence huckster.

WILLIAM: I beg your pardon?! If you believe I had anything to do with the phenomena we all have witnessed and that has so distressed…

WILBERFORCE: (downright aggressive) I know you had nothing to do with it because I and my wife are behind this whole charade. There’s a reason you’re here tonight, there’s a reason the spirit has responded so conveniently, and there’s a reason my wife fainted in the other room.

WILLIAM: (apologetic) I am afraid I don’t understand. I was tasked with trying to reach the ghost of Mr. Harrington so that the family could get some solace from that. That is all I know, and that’s all that I’ve been trying to do tonight.

WILBERFORCE: I don’t know if you genuinely believe in what you’re peddling. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re here to put words into dead Wilbur’s mouth. That’s the reason you’re here and that’s the reason why my wife fainted. We needed some time, a little intermezzo to arrange things properly.

WILLIAM: (genuinely curious) And the rapping? The noise coming from nowhere?

WILBERFORCE: Just the maid upstairs conveniently listening from the dumbwaiter and instructed to strike when needed.

WILLIAM: I don’t know what to say. I…

WILBERFORCE: I’ll tell you what to say if you just listen to me. Upon the execution of Wilbur Harrington’s last will, a great injustice has been committed. My wife was entitled to the family Cornish estate. Her father told her so repeatedly. Charles must’ve gotten in the father’s ears and it went to him instead, the useless sod.

WILLIAM: (upset) You want me to soil the honor of my trade with fraud.

WILBERFORCE: Please, spare me the gag. Keep it for the others, especially Mrs. Harrington. Convince her that her husband’s will was for the villa to go to my wife. Besides, I will make sure you are compensated adequately.

WILLIAM: (inquiring) On top of the already agreed cachet?

WILBERFORCE: Sure, you greedy hog.

WILLIAM: (regaining his jolliness) Then it shall be done. Just this once, of course, I wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation. Tell the maid to stop with the rapping. I need the full concentration of everybody.

(Wilberforce turns his back on William, and they go back together to the sitting room.)

WILBERFORCE: (whispering unseen in William’s ear as they enter the room) Now once again, with gusto.

WILLIAM: (with gusto) Sorry for the delay, but I needed to reassure Mr. Wilberforce that his dear wife was at no risk. He prodded me every which way on the effects of spiritual phenomena on the weak. He is truly a devout and caring spouse. Now, shall we continue?

MRS HARRINGTON: Is it advisable to go on?

WILLIAM: Not only is it advisable, it’s necessary. As we all can attest, we have disturbed the spirit of your father. That is undeniable. And even if, as I am sure was the case in life, he was the most doting and loving, there’s no telling what a spirit might do if not properly sent back to the other side. And as for poor Clarissa’s health, her husband can attest that I gave my word she won’t be in any danger. Isn’t that so, Mr. Wilberforce?

WILBERFORCE: You won’t have to fear anything, darling dear Clarissa.

CHARLES: (trying his best to assert himself) Of course. This is nonsense.

CLARISSA: (wryly) Are you afraid our father will say something unpleasant about you? Is that why you’re so dismissive?

CHARLES: (emotionally, maybe too emotionally) Father and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but he knew he had brought up a son well worthy of such a father. If death hadn’t taken him so suddenly, if he could speak now, I’m sure he…

CLARISSA: Well, isn’t this the reason why we’re here, to hear our father speak again?

CHARLES: Nobody is going to speak to you from the grave, Clarissa.

CLARRISA: Well, if you’d be so kind as to shut your mouth for a moment, maybe then somebody else, be it dead or alive, would speak.

CHARLES: (rising angrily from the table and gesturing toward his wife) Get up, darling, and let us leave! I’m not going to stand having both my intelligence and my dignity insulted.

MRS HARRINGTON: (loudly) Stop with all this childishness. I knew your father better than the both of you, and he would be ashamed of your bickering. Hasn’t your father taught you any manners, Charles? Or do you think his death has relieved you of any filial duty towards me? Now, let Dr. Foxe proceed with his experiment, and we shall draw our conclusions later.

WILLIAM:(pleading) I beg all of you. If you don’t want to run the risk of ghostly unpleasantries, join me once again in the séance.

MRS HARRINGTON: Charles, you heard the doctor. Even if you believe this is all fiction, you wouldn’t let the spirit of your father wander endlessly? Wouldn’t you want him to rest?

(Charles looks wounded but bends to the will of her mother. Clarissa, looking at him, can’t hide a sly smile. Then everyone, seemingly convinced by William, put their palms back on the cold wooden table. As the candles are again snuffed out, Williams resumes his murmuring. He calls for the spirits again.)

Can you imagine a spirit answering the call? Could you believe your eyes if a glimmer of light suddenly coalesced in the shape of a woman? And as the presence becomes felt, the sitting room of the Harringtons washes out from view like a blotch of dirt under heavy rain. In William’s eyes, everything is blurred, like a photograph left too long in its acid bath. Where are the Harringtons now and their petty squabbles? Can’t even remember their faces, to be honest. The only thing left is the ghost, which is approaching like the classic cold draft.

You might believe this is a dream, or a nervous hallucination brought on by the pills you swallow. You might reassure yourself with a litany of “this isn’t real, this isn’t real.” Of course, it isn’t real, you dunce. What’s real about any of this? Not the ghostly summoning, nor the mediumship, nor the Harringtons’ grief. But this is the stage where words become flesh or ectoplasm. We’re such stuff dreams are made of, indeed.

And where’s William Foxe now, the modern-day witch of Endor? Is he still seated, frozen in fright at this apparition, at reality doing a number on fiction once again? The story he created has lost its plot, and the characters are suspended, neither dead nor alive. William is no more, but then again, he never existed. The ghost knows, of course it knows. It knows because it is Jenny’s ghost that’s coming out to meet William from beyond, almost as diaphanous as she was the day they buried her.

That would have been a fine day for rain, instead of the golden rays of light pouring over the scant few present at the burial. Although it does give a beautiful hue to the casket, doesn’t it, William? It almost looks like lacquered oak instead of common ash. The last light she’ll see before the Day of Judgement. Hurry up and blow your trumpet, Gabriel! Poor Jenny, buried in the dust gray clothes she barely owned. Poor Jenny, whose hunger was her only friend. It would have been better. Tell it how you want it, William. It is but a story. It would have been better if mass was said in the new big church by Reverend Gillooly himself, a big requiem mass with all the fixings and a good homily to nourish the soul. If the whole church triumphant had been here, it would have been better: if all the saints followed the procession and the angels carried the casket singing the Te Deum, and then a good deal of weeping women behind, among them the Queen. And look, there’s St. Peter jingling his keys. Of course, Jenny wouldn’t dwell in Purgatory or half-live as an unsettled spirit. Of course, she’d go right to Heaven. Instead of being interred, her body would be lifted swiftly by the clouds up to Jesus. And we’d all watch in solemn prayer at Jenny’s departing from the sublunar world. That’s a good way to go if one has to go. Mum would agree.

But de profundis clamavi ad te Domine, the priest recites rotely. Listen to my voice, William. If you would try to dig my bones from the earth and then fail to find my remains livid and worn out by the maggots, would your heart jump in joy or fright? No, you’d sink your hands deeper in the dirt, digging further and further until you’d find that you’d made that tomb your own. Do you remember your prayers? Say a prayer for the dead. Requiescat in pace… Come on, you need to say your prayers. Kyrie eleisons and all that. After all, you’re a murderer. There’s always a murder in every story, since humanity’s beginning or just thereafter, says the Bible. We’ll go together through the Land of Nod, Cain.

Help me remember, Eoin. Oh, I’m always forgetting. Was it always within you the idea of William? Was it at my funeral, or was it on the ferry to Glasgow where you drowned Eoin? I remember looking at the sea that night after we danced and kissed behind the fishmonger and feeling those murky waters calling us to a better future. Another chapter in the book, a travel diary before the plot really starts.

It doesn’t matter now. As a child, they told you the story of St. Brendan and Mannanc Mac Lir, and you’ve read your Dickens and those penny dreadfuls. One day, they’ll tell the story of the amazing spiritualist William Foxe. I’m merely a page waiting to be written over. A scrap of paper stripped from a book. So go on, William, tell them a story. Spin a great yarn. I’ll play their resentful father and you’ll play the medium. Forget about me, diving Eoin and Ireland green. I won’t tell. It will be our secret.