Good Omens

“I knew a Dave when I was in Hemel Hempstead,” said Mr. Scroggie, a trifle doubtfully.

“Yes, he’s saying, Hemel Hempstead, that’s what he’s saying,” said Madame Tracy.

“But I ran into him last week, walking his dog, and he looked perfectly healthy,” said Mr. Scroggie, slightly puzzled.

“He says not to worry, and he’s happier beyond the veil,” soldiered on Madame Tracy, who felt it was always better to give her clients good news.

“Tell my Ron I’ve got to tell him about our Krystal’s wedding,” said Mrs. Ormerod.

“I will, love. Now, hold on a mo’, there’s something coming through … ”

And then something came through. It sat in Madame Tracy’s head and peered out.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” it said, using Madame Tracy’s mouth. “Parlez-vous français? Wo bu hui jiang zhongwen?”

“Is that you, Ron?” asked Mrs. Ormerod. The reply, when it came, was rather testy.

“No. Definitely not. However, a question so manifestly dim can only have been put in one country on this benighted planet—most of which, incidentally, I have seen during the last few hours. Dear lady, this is not Ron.”

“Well, I want to speak to Ron Ormerod,” said Mrs. Ormerod, a little testily. “He’s rather short, balding on top. Can you put him on, please?”

There was a pause. “Actually there does appear to be a spirit of that description hovering over here. Very well. I’ll hand you over, but you must make it quick. I am attempting to avert the apocalypse.”

Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie gave each other looks. Nothing like this had happened at Madame Tracy’s previous sittings. Julia Petley was rapt. This was more like it. She hoped Madame Tracy was going to start manifesting ectoplasm next.

“H-hello?” said Madame Tracy in another voice. Mrs. Ormerod started. It sounded exactly like Ron. On previous occasions Ron had sounded like Madame Tracy.

“Ron, is that you?”

“Yes, Buh-Beryl.”

“Right. Now I’ve quite a bit to tell you. For a start I went to our Krystal’s wedding, last Saturday, our Marilyn’s eldest … ”

“Buh-Beryl. You-you nuh-never let me guh-get a wuh-word in edgewise wuh-while I was alive. Nuh-now I’m duh-dead, there’s juh-just one thing to suh-say … ”

Beryl Ormerod was a little disgruntled by all this. Previously when Ron had manifested, he had told her that he was happier beyond the veil, and living somewhere that sounded more than a little like a celestial bungalow. Now he sounded like Ron, and she wasn’t sure that was what she wanted. And she said what she had always said to her husband when he began to speak to her in that tone of voice.

“Ron, remember your heart condition.”

“I duh-don’t have a huh-heart any longer. Remuhmember? Anyway, Buh-Beryl … ?”

“Yes, Ron.”

“Shut up,” and the spirit was gone. “Wasn’t that touching? Right, now, thank you very much, ladies and gentleman, I’m afraid I shall have to be getting on.”

Madame Tracy stood up, went over to the door, and turned on the lights.

“Out!” she said.

Her sitters stood up, more than a little puzzled, and, in Mrs. Ormerod’s case, outraged, and they walked out into the hall.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Marjorie Potts,” hissed Mrs. Ormerod, clutching her handbag to her breast, and she slammed the door.

Then her muffled voice echoed from the hallway, “And you can tell our Ron that he hasn’t heard the last of this either!”

Madame Tracy (and the name on her scooters-only driving license was indeed Marjorie Potts) went into the kitchen and turned off the sprouts.

She put on the kettle. She made herself a pot of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table, got out two cups, filled both of them. She added two sugars to one of them. Then she paused.