Leave Your Sleep Read online

  Leave Your Sleep

  by

  R.B. Russell

  An Unconventional Exorcism

  My father was one of seven boys and all of them married young and went on to have large families of their own. Consequently I ended up with more uncles and aunts than I have ever been comfortable with, and the number of cousins was almost incalculable. When that generation started having children themselves I gave up any pretence of taking an interest.

  My mother, though, knew not only the names of all of these relatives, but also their birthdays and wedding anniversaries. Her own family line had dwindled down to her, an only child, and she was, no doubt, relieved to be spliced onto such a fertile family tree as my father’s. She revelled in all of the relatives she had acquired by marriage and loved all of the gossip, managing to keep up with news of even the most distant of them. Through her I was regularly subjected to reports of their activities. It was rare to visit her without the telephone interrupting; it would always be one of her nephews or nieces calling to keep her abreast of their news. In later years she decided to take up research of our family history at the County Archives and her grasp of the family tree then encompassed not only vast geographical areas, but also several centuries into the past.

  Her one frustration was always my Aunt Imelda, a woman I had always heard referred to as morbidly religious. All that we knew was that this woman had married my Uncle Michael after his first wife had died, and had taken him and his children up to her native Knaresborough some time in the late 1970s. We knew that when they were married Aunt Imelda had only recently become the widow of a very rich importer of tropical hardwoods. Some family members were impressed that Uncle Michael had married into money and I always suspected that they hoped the wealth might be shared around.

  As a child I took even less interest in my relatives than I do now, but I remember Aunt Imelda being talked about because she had apparently insisted that Michael’s children were to be sent to boarding school; reason-enough, I always felt, for disliking the woman. Back in the early years of her marriage to Uncle Michael, though, she did at least write to my mother from time to time, bemoaning the standards of young people, broadcasters and politicians. Her hectoring letters never contained any personal information, though, being more likely to include some improving, religious pamphlet than a photograph.

  When my Uncle Michael died in 1987 Aunt Imelda seemed to quietly slip into an almost Victorian mourning. At least, it appeared so from the distance at which she was observed. A simple, dismal card at Christmas was the only communication between her and the rest of the family, much to the chagrin of my mother. Michael’s children were unknown to us, and it was said they had nothing to do with their own step-mother (although how we knew this was a mystery to me).

  Aunt Imelda would have remained a very shadowy figure if I had not been encouraged to look her up when I moved to Skipton a few years ago. My mother hoped that I might be able to catch up on decades of lost news but I was unwilling to help; there were already too many relatives for me to have any interest in one I had never met. And anyway, I had my own, more immediate family to take up my time and energies. The last thing that I wanted to inflict on my wife and two children was a visit to a miserable great aunt who had never shown any interest in us!

  Some months later, though, I received word that Aunt Imelda was very ill. I had a mental image of her living in some vast, crumbling, Gothic Revival house on the outskirts of Knaresborough. I was convinced that it would be a gloomy pile with only a little light allowed in through close-drawn blinds. There would be aspidistras, I assumed, and antimacassars on the chairs. I even imagined illuminated texts from the bible framed on the walls. I really didn’t relish the thought of having to visit the miserable, decaying relative, and I told myself that if she was very ill then there was the danger of appearing to intrude. Therefore I took what I thought was the correct course and I wrote to her enquiring whether a visit would be welcome. I made a point of explaining that if it was in any way inconvenient or impractical then she should say so without compunction. I must admit that I rather hoped she would put me off.

  Her reply came as a slight surprise. Aunt Imelda wrote to me in a large, clear hand, in biro, on a sheet of what looked like A4 copier paper. She extended an invitation to me to visit, although no mention was made of my wife or children. I have to admit that I was expecting a letter on dainty notepaper, in crabbed lettering, perhaps scented with lavender. Her invitation went some way towards preparing me for the demolition of the stereotype I had created.

  Her house, ‘The Laurels’, was a white painted, 1930s, Modern Movement building in modest grounds given over to lawns. If there had ever been laurel trees in the past, they were now long gone. The house had been designed to appear sleek and streamlined, outrageously modern in its day, with bands of windows and no ornamentation. It was looking a little tired when I visited it, although not actually neglected. I decided that it really wouldn’t have taken much to refresh the paintwork and make it very attractive.

  Aunt Imelda’s letter was in keeping with the large, hearty woman I encountered there. When I knocked at the door a voice bellowed at me from inside, telling me to let myself in. I climbed the stairs to the large, bright living room and she seemed amused by my appearance. She also looked surprisingly well, although obviously unable to move out of her chair. She was housebound she told me almost at once and reliant on help; the problem was her legs, which were bandaged and obviously gave her a great deal of discomfort.

  She immediately said: ‘Your nosey mother has sent you to spy on me.’

  ‘She’s concerned about you. You’ve never kept in touch.’

  ‘No, well, I used to be too busy to write to her, what with Church matters. But now that I’m unable to do any of those things, and I suppose I’ve got the time to write…well…What is it she wants from me?’

  ‘She only wants to fill in the gaps in our family tree. We don’t even know if your step-children are married, or have children themselves.’

  ‘You don’t need to know anything about them. They’ve no interest in their old mother. They never visit me. They were too spoilt growing up and they’re ungrateful creatures.’

  ‘How are you coping? Do you get any help?’

  ‘Well, I used to have a nurse come in twice a day, but now she only comes in the morning. That’s all I need since Bernadette arrived.’

  ‘Bernadette?’

  ‘Your cousin Bernadette.’

  I dredged the name up from out of the dark and neglected pool of our extended family: ‘Uncle Trevor’s daughter?’

  ‘Of course Trevor’s daughter.’

  This seemed strange news, but it took a few seconds to remember why: ‘I thought she lived in the West Country?’

  ‘She does, or did. Then she heard that I was ill, and out of the kindness of her heart she’s come to look after me.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of her.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She dismissed my question: ‘She’s gone out to buy some cakes, so that we can give you tea. I told her that we’d be feeding the five thousand, but it’s only you. We may be eating macaroons into the middle of next week. She always buys macaroons.’

  ‘I only have two children. Mind you, compared to the rest of my family I’m, well…’

  ‘Positively abstemious?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I should tell you that I am an Herodian. I abhor children. I believe that sex is the root of all the evils in this world.’

  ‘I respectfully disagree.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t be the first. Intercourse is necessary, I acknowledge that, but so is defecation.’

  ‘I w
asn’t sure whether bringing along two lively children was appropriate because you were ill. I hadn’t realised they’d be so unwelcome.’

  ‘That was considerate, thank you. I suppose you thought I was on my death-bed?’

  ‘My mother did lead me to believe you were on your way out of this world.’

  ‘Well, I might be. Tell her I might be.’ She chuckled. ‘But I can’t promise exactly when that’ll be. I love my Maker dearly, but he’s in no hurry to see me. Do you believe in God?’

  ‘I’m an agnostic.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then. Well, you’ve every right to choose damnation if that’s what you want. I, on the other hand, will be sitting on His right hand when the time comes. And that may be quite soon. You see, the circulation in my legs has packed-up and they’re talking about cutting them off completely. I get blockages in my arteries and they’re worried that clots could travel up…I could keel-over this afternoon…But then again, it might not happen until next year.’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well, my husband died over twenty years ago. And Jeffery last year. There’s not much left for me here.’

  ‘Who was Jeffery?’

  ‘The Minister at the Church I used to attend. We became very close after Michael died. Then last year, a heart attack took him off as well.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, that’s why Bernadette is such a comfort.’

  ‘I’m glad. She must be company for you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. But, more importantly, she talks to Michael and Jeffery for me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘She’s a Medium.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And you’re a sceptic, obviously.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  Aunt Imelda looked at me with something like pity.

  ‘You say you’re an agnostic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When it comes to Spiritualism are you sceptical or do you disbelieve?’ she asked.

  ‘Sceptical, I suppose. I don’t know. I’m inclined to disbelieve, but I’ve never met a Medium. I ought to keep an open mind.’

  ‘You’ve met your cousin Bernadette before, surely?’

  ‘Not since she was ten years old, probably. How old is she now? In her twenties?’

  ‘Early thirties. And she’s good. I must say that she’s brought me a great deal of comfort. A great deal.’

  I nodded, hoping to suggest that I understood, or sympathised, but I did not quite know what to make of the situation.

  ‘How does she communicate with them?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Now, that’s something that I don’t entirely understand. She sees them, and they talk to her, but I see nothing. It seems so unfair, when you think about it. I mean, I knew Michael and Jeffery for years, and they show themselves to her, but not to me. I’m the one who loved them, and knew them.’

  ‘I suppose it’s a gift?’

  ‘Bernadette says that she’s always had it, but couldn’t use the skill properly in the past. It was only once she started going to a Spiritualist Church that she realised what she was capable of. And then she had to practice. She attends regularly, though I can’t say that I approve of what they get up to. It’s not what I call Christianity.’

  ‘But you’re convinced?’

  ‘Of Bernadette’s authenticity? You think she might be trying to delude an old woman?’

  ‘No, I’m not suggesting that. I mean, I hardly know her. We haven’t met in years. But I’m sure she’s sincere, and if she thinks she sees your Michael, and Jeffery, then I’m sure she really believes it.’

  ‘Your reasoning isn’t at all sound!’ she scoffed. ‘You admit that you don’t know her, but you trust her. Why on earth should you? And you say, that if she “thinks” she sees something, then she must “believe” it. You betray your disbelief.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare to pronounce on something I don’t understand.’

  ‘It seems to me that’s just what you’re doing!’

  At that moment there was a noise from below and a distinct pressure-change. The front door must have been opened. I could then hear someone coming up the echoing stairs.

  ‘There she is now,’ pronounced Aunt Imelda. ‘You can meet your cousin, the impostor.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ I insisted, and got up out of my chair.

  Cousin Bernadette came in, still wearing her coat, and unless I had been told who she was I certainly wouldn’t have recognised her. Exceedingly tall and skinny, she might have been good-looking if she did not have such an unfortunate mouth. She didn’t seem to be able to close it to hide her rather large and yellowed teeth.

  ‘You must be Nathaniel,’ she asked suspiciously and I agreed that I was. She held out her hand and I shook it.

  ‘You’re a couple of years older than me?’ she asked.

  Aunt Imelda broke in to the introductions: ‘I was telling Nathaniel how you keep me in contact with Michael and Jeffery.’

  Bernadette blushed impressively and looked determinedly at her coat buttons, which she seemed to find difficult to undo.

  ‘I don’t like everyone knowing what I can do, Aunt Imelda,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Nathaniel suggested it’s a gift,’ the old woman said.

  ‘It is,’ Bernadette agreed, looking up at me hopefully, searching for support, or encouragement.

  I smiled at her, perhaps misleadingly. I was still trying to keep an open mind, and I certainly didn’t want to upset her. However, our Aunt had no such worries:

  ‘He thinks your gift is for misleading silly old women like me!’

  ‘I said no such thing,’ I told Bernadette, who was looking between us, not sure which was sympathetic, if either.

  ‘Aunt Imelda is making mischief,’ I said.

  ‘Am I?’ the old woman asked loudly. ‘But this is something to discuss over a cup of tea. Put the kettle on Bernadette. You’ve bought enough macaroons for the three of us, I hope?’

  ‘I thought…’ she replied, flustered, ‘that there would be more people…well, never mind.’

  As Bernadette shuffled out towards what I assumed would be the kitchen I turned a stern look on Aunt Imelda:

  ‘That was very naughty of you. I didn’t say she was misleading you at all.’

  ‘You thought it, though, didn’t you? Look me straight in the eye and deny it.’

  ‘When she comes back in, you’re to be nice to the poor girl.’

  ‘Oho! So you’re feeling sorry for her now? Look, if she wants to come up here and look after me it’s up to her. If she thinks that she’ll put in a couple of months of nursing and then get something in my Will then it’s at her own risk. Maybe I’ll leave something to her, maybe I won’t.’

  This stunned me.

  ‘Is that why you think she’s here?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s hardly going to admit it, is she?’

  ‘Do you believe she sees your husband, and this Jeffery person?’

  ‘She gives an old woman comfort.’

  I smiled at Aunt Imelda, deciding that I understood. Without thinking I said: ‘You cunning old devil!’

  ‘That’s no way to talk to your aunt!’ she bridled, but there was a smile underneath it.

  ‘No,’ I admitted, trying to fathom this woman. ‘I wouldn’t have suggested it to some frail old thing who was being taken advantage of. But perhaps you’re taking advantage of Bernadette?’

  She laughed now: ‘You know, I always thought your family a little, how shall I put it, lacking in spirit? Wet. But it’s nice to see you’ve got some gumption. Your mother always struck me as a little pathetic; desperate to be loved. And as for poor little Bernadette!’

  ‘I’m sure you are capable of compassion,’ I teased her, slightly uncertainly, but she took it in good part and laughed again.

  ‘Take that up with my children!’

  We could then hear Bernadette coming back down the passage towards us. Aunt Imelda
raised her eyebrows, shifted her weight in her chair, folded her arms and prepared to meet her niece.

  ‘Now, be nice,’ I warned her.

  ‘The tea’s in the pot,’ said Bernadette awkwardly when she returned. ‘Aunt Imelda teases me, but she’s in a lot of pain.’

  ‘An awkward patient?’ I asked and received a friendly smile of agreement.

  ‘Pish!’ the old woman exclaimed. ‘Now, see if you can convince Nathaniel of your gift. Who else do you see here?’

  ‘It’s not a party trick, Aunt Imelda,’ insisted my cousin.

  ‘I didn’t say it was. Nathaniel’s a sceptic, though. Is there anyone here for him?’

  She looked at her feet, shifting her weight from one to the other awkwardly.

  ‘There is!’ insisted our Aunt, pleased. ‘Who is it?’

  Bernadette looked up at me and said quietly, ‘Your grandfather is here.’

  ‘Really, which one?’ I asked levelly.

  ‘Your mother’s father.’

  ‘Well, do say hello to him for me.’

  ‘He can hear you. It’s just that you can’t communicate with him. Well, I assume you can’t?’

  ‘No, I can’t see him,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Well, he’s standing over in the corner, looking out the window. He was a great countryman, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘He wants you to know that he didn’t suffer when he died. He’s with his wife now.’

  I nodded, unable to believe a word of what Bernadette was telling me, but feeling that I had to be polite. It seemed to encourage her, though.

  ‘He says that you and your wife took part in an anti-foxhunting demonstration recently?’

  ‘Yes, we did. There’s a hunt local to us. We don’t approve.’

  ‘He says it’s simply what they do in the countryside. It’s part of the natural order of things and not at all wrong.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said simply.

  As my mother would have said, Bernadette had ‘over-egged her pudding’. It was likely that she would have heard through the family that my grandfather was ‘a great countryman’, probably direct from my mother herself. She had probably heard from the same source that my wife and I had recently protested against our local hunt. Bernadette had put two and two together but her mathematics were not sound. My grandfather abhorred fox-hunting; he would shoot foxes as vermin, but he hated to see people on horseback ineffectually tearing about the countryside and glorying in the kill. I had caught Bernadette out, but I decided that I would not say anything.