Chapter Eight
I open my eyes. The first thing I notice is an open letter in my hand. Written in black ink are the words: Let me explain. Meet me in the usual place at midday.
I stare at it. I have no idea who the letter is from or where ‘the usual place’ might be.
I don’t even know who I am. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, which are buzzing with the evident challenges of this new adventure.
What should I do? Someone’s going to be mightily disappointed when I don’t show up!
My heart sinks and I curse the vocation I’ve chosen for the lengths I have to go to to settle souls!
I sweep my eyes over the room. I’m standing in a square-shaped sitting room on a fine Persian rug.
There’s a white, marble fireplace in the centre of one wall, but the grate is empty.
Above it, on a generous mantelpiece, is a big brown clock with a gold face.
Its black hands mark the time: eleven o’clock.
I have one hour to find out where I need to be.
Of course, I have no way of knowing whether the woman I have possessed would want to be there.
Let me explain. It feels very much like a letter from a man.
Have they had a row? Is she having an affair?
A note like this is unlikely to be from a husband.
It reeks of subterfuge. Good Lord, I find myself in the most mysterious of situations. Why can’t things ever be simple?
The room is naturally warm. I glance out of the sash window and notice a mature cherry tree with bright, almost phosphorescent leaves.
Cherry trees usually blossom in April, so it must be May.
Sunshine is tumbling in with the blithe abandon of spring.
I hear the rumbling sound of a car in the street below, and the merry tweeting of birds.
Tuning in now, I can also hear a dog barking in the distance and the sporadic laughter of children, followed by the loud patter of scampering feet, which gradually dies out.
I turn my attention back to the room. I suspect that it’s mine because why otherwise would I be in it with a letter in my hand?
It’s cosy and decorated with an eye for colour: bold wallpaper depicting thick green vines, fat purple grapes and hummingbirds; an apple-green sofa with scatter cushions, purple upholstered chairs, occasional tables displaying trinkets and books, standard lamps with fringed shades and a wide bookcase against the back wall.
Framing the window are heavy green curtains with an elaborate tasselled pelmet.
Through the glass I can see elegant Georgian town houses opposite, typical of provincial southern English towns. I’m pretty sure I’m in Seacombe.
I need to find out who I am, and the date.
I begin to race about the room looking for clues.
There’s a round table in front of the window upon which stands a glass vase of cut flowers – alliums, lilies and green, leafy foliage – and various magazines: Time faces reveal an enormous amount about a person’s character. But there doesn’t seem to be one.
I’m on the point of leaving the room to further explore the house when the door opens and in walks a harassed-looking maid in a black dress and white apron.
She’s large-boned and wide-hipped and has the careworn face of a woman who has worked hard all her life and has little time for vanity, or self-indulgence.
Judging by her greying hair and wrinkled skin, I guess she’s about sixty.
‘Ma’am, the scissor-grinder is at the door.
What shall I tell him?’ She speaks slowly with a soft, West Country accent and seems irritated at the interruption.
‘Would you like the clocks attended to?’
‘Yes, please,’ I reply, doing my best to sound authoritative.
She sighs heavily and shakes her head. ‘The range is playing up again and Cook says that if Bunsen doesn’t mend it well and good this time, she’ll give in her notice. How is she to provide for yourself and two hungry young women without a range?’
‘Two hungry young women?’ I repeat dumbly, wondering who the hell is coming for dinner.
‘Sorry, Ma’am, young ladies,’ she replies with emphasis.
I smile weakly. How can I squeeze more information out of her?
But she is gone.
I decide to find my bedroom. I step out onto a landing.
I’m on the first floor. I peer down the stairs.
There’s a hall where the maid is talking to the scissor-grinder.
It’s got a tiled floor – white squares and black diamonds – and a large, gilt-framed mirror which hangs above a wooden console table.
Upon it is a silver plate full of letters.
My heart thuds in my chest at the prospect of finding out who I am via those letters.
I wait for the maid to escort the scissor-grinder off, to the kitchen perhaps, and then hurry downstairs.
Halfway down, on the landing, is a big arched window that lets in lots of light.
Through it I see a sumptuous garden, lovingly tended with tidy borders of clipped box, pink and purple delphiniums and an assortment of shrubs.
At the bottom of a neatly mown lawn is an old apple tree, beneath which a round table and four chairs promise peace and shade.
I continue down to the hall and seize upon the letters.
Before I open them, I grab the opportunity to look at my reflection in the mirror.
It always knocks the wind out of me the first moment I see a strange face staring back.
A face that moves according to my will, but which doesn’t belong to me.
I blink a few times in astonishment, liking very much what I see.
I’m beautiful but no longer in the bloom of youth.
My beauty is neither classical, nor obvious.
It lies in something deeper than perfect proportions and pouting lips, and I run my fingers over the contours in fascination, taking in every detail.
Mrs Skipton is undoubtedly a woman of intelligence, sensitivity and charm.
Her grey-blue eyes are the colour of washed denim.
Her eyelashes are long and naturally dark.
Fine laughter lines fan out into her temples and the skin on her eyelids is a little slack.
What strikes me, above all else, is the gentle, compassionate expression that shines out of her eyes.
I can see that she’s a woman of empathy and kindness, and I’m glad that I’ve taken possession of someone who is good.
I remind myself of the apparent rules of timesliding – that, by the Law of Attraction, I’m drawn to possess someone of a similar vibration to me.
Mrs Skipton must be in her late thirties or early forties, which is older than I am, but she must be of a comparable character.
Her hair is dark brown and gently greying.
It’s pinned carelessly into a low chignon at the nape of the neck, with loose strands curling prettily about her heart-shaped face.
Her nose is long and slightly aquiline, her lips curling by nature, which, together with the laughter lines around her mouth and eyes, suggest she has a good sense of humour.
Her skin is slightly tanned from the sun with a light sprinkling of freckles over her nose.
She has altogether a very appealing face.
Satisfied that I now know something of this woman I have embodied, I peer through the door and notice a flamboyantly decorated dining room with a big oval table and six high-backed chairs, upholstered in fuchsia pink and green velvet to match the walls.
There’s a fireplace, a mantelpiece with the ubiquitous clock, two gold cherub candlesticks at either end, and an array of stiff white invitations, embossed in swirly gold writing, leaning up against a brightly coloured abstract painting.
There’s something magical about physical letters and invitations.
In my time everything is sent via email and paperless post, which feels cold and impersonal by comparison.