Situation Vacant

Can you Adam-an’-Eve it! Take my eyes off her for one minute and she’s at the booze, again!

I told them when I got back the last time, there is no way I can continue being her temporary spirit guide if she keeps on getting tanked every time she holds a séance. I said, I don’t care if that means I get kicked out of the Clairvoyant Instruction Department and put on the graveyard shift teasing lapsed Catholics, inhabiting her is like materialising in the middle of Victoria Wines after a herd of stampeding buffalo.

I mean, what kind of advert is that for the business? I tell you, it’s bad enough they’ve kept her on the books in the first place, but after two schooners of sherry she’s three sheets to the wind, and hamming it up like a chorus-line diva in Rep. Oh well, needs must when the Devil drives, I suppose.

Anyway, dearheart, my name’s Justin, and I understand from Despatch you’re here to have a look at one of our vacancies before considering taking her on, right? The Try Before You Fly deal? It says here I’ve got you for an hour or so – give you some idea as to which techniques work best, and a little touch of cultural exchange thrown in at the same time. Certainly would be nice to get a little bit of culture around here now and again, I can tell you, but... Well, you’ll have to pardon my ignorance, but what sort of manifestation are you?

Bless you! What? Oh, I see! Forgive me, love, but I thought you’d sneezed! A Chindi? That’s a new one on me, that’s for sure. An Indian spirit – and a clockwise one at that? Oh…

What? No, got to admit, love, it’s not one I’m familiar with. To be totally honest with you, I’ve always stayed with the more Christian side of the business. Ever since coming out of Purgatory, in fact. Mind you, that’s never stopped me being curious about some of the overseas branches – but the notices don’t come up all that often on the Situations Vacant board, so when Barry suggested we put ourselves forward for some cross-pollination I was all for it. He went on to propose it at our local area AGM, and a whole lot of us got behind him and did a little campaigning as well.

Barry? Used to be one of the high priests of Osiris. Lots of gold, chunks of bling, and a to-die-for all over tan under his loin cloth? Yep, that’s him. Used to have a swanky little sarcophagus on display at the V&A – sometimes even went out on exhibition tours, the lucky thing. That was until he got repatriated to the Museum of Cairo, poor lamb. I said to him, I said, the only way to survive, chucks, is to moisturise until the cows come home.

Oooops! Sorry about that. What? The bit about the cows. Well, being sacred and all. Sorry? The other Indian? Oh, right! Native American – oh dear, how embarrassing!

Pardon?

No, not for you, love, for me! You must think me a right dizzy mare!

Anyway, cut a long one short, the idea sort of gets through to Central Office, who for once actually take an interest and think it’s a good publicity move. So then they asked if there were any of us CHITs who were prepared to give it a trial run? Well – sorry?
CHITs?

Actually, it stands for Cosy Hauntings In Transit. We’re sort of more your non-violent end of the spectrals – though Maurice over in Chiswick has been known to throw a really mean hissy fit from time to time. Trust me. Once he gets into one of his poltergeist moods, love, then no amount of Clarisse Cliff is safe, regardless.

Myself? Well, before I got loaned out to CID, I used to haunt three or four nice little cottages out Hampstead way, up near the heath. It was nothing serious, and usually the inhabitants were there just renting for a while. I’d tastefully hang around until someone came along, then I’d manifest myself – dolled to the nines in white – and make with a bit of ooooh-ing and aaarh-ing. I’ll have you know, before I was transferred, I was quite famous for my aaarhs. It’s true, I won’t lie. Several researchers commented as such in their books – Great Haunts of England, that sort of thing. Not that I take much notice of the critics, you understand, but I should have gotten an award for the amount of work I put into my aaarhs.

Anyway, this isn’t telling you about the vacancy, is it? Though I have to admit, if it was up to me, I would have retired her years ago, despite her international success in the Eighties. However, management have seen fit to see how you get on with Madame Rosita Consuella Montoya, “psychic to the stars.” The trouble is, love, the only stars she normally sees are those stuck on the label of the cheap Greek brandy she sometimes gets a taste for.

Who was her previous? Tiresome Tommy. Sorry, Sir Thomas d’Du Sodall, or something like that. He’s one of those mockney Tudor types, all fifteenth-sixteenth century. Came down to London, upset a queen, and ended up feeling the executioner’s chopper. His party piece at the office Christmas ‘do’s is to stick his head under his arm, and then say “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Well, he still thinks it uproariously funny, but after the twentieth time? Let’s just say the shine’s been off it for a while, and leave it at that, okay?
Apparently, so gossip has it, on his death he left behind a stately home somewhere, half a dozen illegitimate offspring, and a particularly resilient strain of syphilis usually associated with livestock.

What happened to him? Well, it’s a bit of a sad story really. It happened about a month or so ago. He’d been doing his best for Rosie – channelling, passing messages on, offering words of sympathy, that sort of thing – only this one evening, after the show, she gets a craving for yet another bloody drink. Gin and It, but without the It. So, off she goes to the sideboard, drags out one of those big green litre bottles of Gordon’s only to find there’s less than a gimlet’s worth in the bottom. As quick as you like, she’s got the top off and is downing the dregs just when Tommy decides it’s time to depart. No sooner has he started to exit than he finds the world’s turned green and he’s looking at it through the inside of the gin bottle!

Well, she’s none the wiser, and Tommy doesn’t believe in Velcro, so the next thing is she screws the cap back on with Tommy’s head still in the bottle. To add insult to injury, on her way out to the off-licence she then throws him into the dustbin, along with another half dozen empties. Meanwhile his poor headless body doesn’t know which way to turn. It wasn’t until a couple of hours later some of the Baker Street Irregulars find it had wandered down into the Underground and had been going round and round the Circle Line, long after the trains had stopped running.

Anyway, after a quick check of the roster they go over to Madam Rosie’s, find the gin bottle poking out of a black bag in the side alley with the rest of the rubbish, bring it back to HQ, and finally reunite Tommy’s head with his body.
Was he grateful? Was he Eckersly! The first thing he does is book himself a bed in the Crippen Memorial, on the grounds he’s suffering from Post Traumatic Séance Disorder, and then calls Souem, Grabbit & Runne to see if he can claim for loss of hauntings.

I told him; Tommy, you stand as much chance as a hamster in a microwave. Then, lo and behold, the company’s taking him to court for being in breach of the Hauntings & Spirits Act – i.e., not following company safety procedures, and also for materialising in an improper place.
So, in a nutshell, that’s how this position came up.

What’s she like to work with? Well, all things considered, I’ve worked with worse, and she’s really not such a bad old pet once you get to know her. She usually holds her sessions of an evening – Tuesdays and Thursdays – and she’s a little bit of a traditionalist – dark velveteen plush, low lighting, postcard in the newsagent’s window, that sort of thing. Very retro, I know, but most of the punters still expect those kind of props, for which I blame television. Usually I speak as I find, but don’t let me get started on that one, okay?

Anyhow, she really shouldn’t be that much work, provided you don’t mind her drinking, that is. Basically it’s two shows a week, then you’re either on-call, as per the roster, or free to do a bit of freelancing. The Tower of London were looking for a couple of stand-ins a week or so back, while some of the regulars go off on their holidays. Not my cup of tea, to be honest. I can do the walk-ons quite happily – even rattle a few chains from time to time – but it’s all that doublet and hose routine. Call them what you will, love, but tights are tights, and I’ve never done drag in my life – or death, come to that.

So, can I assume you’ll be taking over from me as of Thursday? Wonderful! Here’s hoping you enjoy it twice as much as I have!

Where next for me? Well, I’ve just accepted a booking down in Portsmouth, hanging around the naval dockyard. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays it’s the Victory, Tuesdays and Thursdays it’s the Mary Rose. Full wardrobe – wooden leg and parrot optional. Never done it before, so I’ll definitely be sailing uncharted waters.

Still, a change is as good as a rest, as they say. And there’s no rest for the wicked, love, believe-you-me. Rushed off me feet some days…