The Hypnotist Page 3

  And as I relaxed on the deck of my bungalow on that balmy summer’s evening, the never-ending sky above Dead River Farm might have been a metaphor for the endless possibilities I sensed within my work. What I was beginning to understand in the spring of ’sixty-three is that there are truly no limits to the potential of the human mind.

  But I was wrong about one thing – I thought that Dead River Farm was a relic of a forgotten age that had nothing to do with me. What I failed to realize was that the bewildered young passenger letting himself so fearfully into the farmhouse was Pip, the extraordinary young fellow who would change my life, and the lives of all he met . . .

  And now I’ll ask you to keep looking into my eyes . . .

  Come with me now as I take you deeper and deeper into the hypnotist’s tale . . .

  3

  Lilybelle

  The ragged curtains of the farmhouse were drawn permanently against the sun, so it took a while for Pip to adjust to the gloom within.

  A deep silence sat in the house and yet he felt watched. Above his head a motionless fan was festooned with cobwebs, and on a mantelpiece stood a broken clock – the hands stopped at twenty to nine.

  At the orphanage, every surface had been scrubbed and polished – ‘shipshape’, they called it – so the neglected state of Dead River Farm troubled him.

  Then Pip noticed the eyes – dozens of black eyes staring down at him. They were the glassy eyes of mounted animal heads. Each dead beast and every object in the room was thick with dust.

  In spite of the heat, he felt a shudder run through his body; he caught a movement from a side room and found Zachery, slumped in exhaustion, in a stifling kitchen where fat flies feasted on unwashed pans. When he saw the boy, the old man rose silently, tossed some cold meat and bread onto the table and handed Pip a mug of creamy milk. They ate side by side and did not speak, although Zachery carried out a noisy ritual of tearing and sucking and gasping. Pip realized that with his mutilated teeth, the old man was unable to chew, and this also accounted for the pile of discarded crusts on his plate.

  It was at that moment that Pip heard a sound that brought every hair on his body to attention – a tiny tinkling bell accompanied by a sleepy singsong voice from the back of the house: ‘Zat you, Zach? You brung me a bo-oy?’

  Zachery reached out and gripped Pip’s arm so tightly that he let out a cry and dropped his bread on the floor. The old man pushed his bristly face against Pip’s and hissed, ‘Ah need ter rest now, boy, y’ hear? You go on back and innerduce yerself to Lilybelle. Every taime ye hear that bell ye run t’ her saide. You tawk polite an’ don’t say nothin’ ’bout her ’pearance. Go on now, skeedaddle!’

  Zachery stumbled out of the kitchen and Pip was alone again. He retrieved the bread from the floor and some of the crusts from Zachery’s plate and stuffed them in his pocket for later.

  There was that tinkly bell again, and the sweet melodic voice – ‘Come an’ show y’self.’

  Leaving the plates on the table, Pip returned to the living room, where the glass-eyed herd watched over him. He noticed a dark corridor leading to the back of the house, with a row of mismatched doors and walls papered with fading newspaper. From the far end came the sound of laughter from a television or radio.

  ‘Someone there?’ she cooed. ‘Don’ be shaiy now.’

  The words floated like sickly incense in the air so Pip could not decide which door to choose. At random he picked a battered wooden door and turned the greasy handle. It was the wrong one. Zachery was standing in a squalid bedroom preparing to rest. He had removed his dungarees and was wearing nothing but a string vest on his skeletal torso and a pair of ancient underpants, exposing the thinnest, whitest legs Pip had ever seen. The old man glared furiously and waved him from the room.

  Pip returned hastily to the corridor, hugging the book to his chest. Again he heard the tinkling bell and the teasing saccharine voice. ‘Ah hear y’ now. Don’ ha-ide. Ah’d like t’ see yer purty face.’

  Pip selected another door – a yellowing plastic panel, which slid sideways on uneven runners. Wrong again. This was a foul-smelling bathroom, with a cracked and filthy toilet. It was clear that no one had bathed in months because the nicotine-coloured tub was piled with unwashed clothes.

  ‘Come ’n faind me now. Ah’m longin’ t’ see you.’

  Two more doors to choose from. The one to his left was unnaturally tall, as if some clumsy carpenter had raised the frame almost to the ceiling. Pip reached out and touched the metal handle. It felt icy to his touch. He pulled and rattled but the door was firmly locked. High above his head Pip noticed a porcelain nameplate screwed to the frame. It was grimy and hard to read in the half-light. Standing on tiptoe, he jumped up and wiped the dirt with his fingertip. It was a child’s name plaque from long ago – a souvenir from a fair perhaps, or a visit to the sea. Pip saw a hand-painted image of two honey bears in hats – one in dungarees and one in a flowery dress. They might have made him smile, had it not been for the name painted carefully between: Erwin. Pip released the handle like a high-voltage cable.

  Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle! ‘Ah hear y’ comin’. You’re growin’ warm.’

  And there was the last door at the very end of the corridor. It was a battered candy-coloured door with a rose china doorknob. On a small table to one side stood a vase of plastic flowers.

  He stood before the candy-coloured door for what seemed like hours. He listened to the deep silence broken only by the tinkling laughter of a TV show from behind the door. He felt the sultry heat, and he was, without doubt, the loneliest boy in America.

  The silvery siren voice called again, trembly and seductive. ‘Why, ah do believe thar’s a precious l’il boy standin’ raight outsaide mah door. Ah cain’t imagine why he won’ step insaide an’ meet Lilybelle.’

  Pip’s heart was pumping furiously and he realized he had forgotten to breathe.

  ‘That’s raight,’ she sang. ‘All y’ gotta do is turn the purty handle. All y’ gotta do is step insaide.’

  Before he could change his mind, Pip seized the rose doorknob, feeling the serration of its petals in his palm. With a gasp of resolution, he swung open the candy-coloured door.

  What he saw sent a tide of dread and confusion surging through his exhausted body. The salmon-pink room contained a double bed, so wide that it almost reached the walls on either side. On tables and shelves stood teetering piles of magazines, discarded burger boxes and empty soda bottles. The smell was almost overwhelming – a choking odour of cheap cologne, masking something fetid below. Pip saw a black-and-white TV set, a shabby collection of soft toys – some wrapped in cellophane – a long-handled bedpan, a chugging electric fan and hundreds of pill bottles. The occupant of the room was clearly an amateur artist because there were dozens of gaudy paintings propped on every surface.

  On the bed itself, amidst twisted sheets and pastel-pink eiderdowns, lay a fleshy landscape of hills, valleys, gorges and caves. And in the centre of that chaotic vortex of flesh Pip saw an extraordinary face beneath an elaborate beehive hairstyle with a faint pink wash. The face was so heavy with make-up that it resembled a porcelain doll. It was a sweet baby face with slow-blinking lashes, rouged cheeks and cherry lips, and it smiled at Pip as the TV laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Slowly Pip began to understand that this was Lilybelle – the landscape was her gargantuan body. Now he made out fat toes, round hands with tiny fingers holding the bell, and the rolls of flesh in a nylon nightie, which were thighs and belly, tumbling from one side of the bed to the other.

  ‘Oh my,’ she sang. ‘You brought a book! What a precious boy you are. Come here, honey chil’. Lemme take a lo-o-ong look at you.’

  Pip’s legs were made of concrete.

  ‘Aw, he’s shaiy. Ain’t that cute! Maybe he ain’t seen a curvesome lady afore.’

  Lilybelle batted her lashes, and Pip realized that although Mr Zachery’s wife was indeed larger than any person he had ever seen or imagined
, her face was surprisingly pretty and her voice was soft as caramel.

  In one tidal wave of emotion, the whole experience of the long journey, the lonely years in the orphanage and the death of his beloved parents erupted from him. He simply could not contain himself. Pip’s eyelids melted beneath a torrent of hot tears. He trembled and shuddered and dissolved.

  ‘Oh Lordy!’ said the doll’s head on the bed. ‘Oh, ah declare, don’t craiy. Ah cain’t stand t’ see a boy craiy. C’mon raight over an’ sit besaide Lilybelle. Look, there’s a li’l place just for you.’ She patted a space beside her.

  At last Pip’s need for human warmth outweighed his fear. He stumbled forward, clutching his book to his heart. Squeezing along the wall, he huddled into a fleshy valley. As he trembled and sobbed, Pip became aware of Lilybelle’s huge pink beehive hovering over him, and her hand gently stroking his shoulder. Apart from the occasional clout at the orphanage, this was the first human touch he had received since the death of his parents four years before.

  ‘What’s yer name, honey chil’?’

  ‘P-P-Pip . . .’

  ‘Oh! Oh, ain’t that ador’ble? P-P-Pip. I laike that name. You come to stay with us, ah understand?’

  ‘No . . . No, I ain’t. I gotta leave right now. I gotta go . . . some place. Right now . . . tonight!’

  ‘Bless yo’ li’l heart, Pip, ah understand everthang is new to you. Old Zach is a grouchy ol’ billy goat, but he don’t mean no harm. Also I realize you probably ain’t seen a large lady laike me afore. That’s OK. I know mah bawdy ain’t pleasin’ ter the eye. But when we git ter know each other, you’ll learn that Lilybelle is beautiful inside. Truly ah am, Pip. Truly ah am.’

  A vast heat emanated from Lilybelle, as well as a deep musky odour from within the blankets, like the smell of a bear-cave in winter.

  ‘Ah do b’lieve in beauty, Pip. Ah love to hear beautiful songs on the wah’less. Most ’f awl, I love to make beautiful paintin’s. Take a look, Pip. Ah made every one with mah own hands.’

  She thrust a pile of decorated cardboard onto his lap. From behind tear-filled eyes, Pip saw naively painted landscapes of beaches and palm trees. Jungles filled with parrots and exotic animals. All lovingly detailed in tropical colours.

  ‘These are all the places ah’d like to go. But now ah cain’t wawk no more, ah have t’ visit in mah head. Maybe you’d like t’ join me? We cin take a vacation together!’

  Pip wiped his eyes and listened to Lilybelle’s soothing tones.

  ‘Y’ know, ah lie here awl day an’ awl naight. I make mah paintin’s an’ ah stare outside. Ah watched a whole street o’ new houses goin’ up, plank by plank, awl painted white, neat as you please. Can you see, Pip? Look, there’s a strange man sits outside with pah-culiar eyes. Ah see him, but he don’ see me . . .’

  Pip followed her gaze. There was indeed a person sitting on the deck of the bungalow opposite the yard. A curly-haired man of about thirty years, very short in stature; he was working at a portable typewriter placed on a small table. He glanced up as if searching the air for an idea, and although there were some two hundred yards between them, Pip was struck – no, he was dumbfounded by those eyes.

  For some unaccountable reason Pip found himself drifting momentarily away – out of the window, through the stifling heat of the late afternoon and across the dirt track . . .

  And then Lilybelle was tugging at his sleeve and her incessant chatter returned him to the salmon-pink room . . .

  ‘Course, ah got a li’l girl t’ look after me, but truth is, she ain’t strong ’nuff, Pip. She cain’t lift mah bawdy ter . . . you know, clean me ’n everthang. Besaides, she’s what you maight call the silent type, so she don’t never read t’ me. Fact is, Hannah don’t say one word from dawn to dusk. She’s s’posed to clean too, but truth is, she cain’t even care for herself, bless her li’l heart. Only reason ah keep her on is she cooks so good. So y’ see, Pip, tha’s why ah tol’ Zach, bring me back a chil’ who can keep me proper company an’ read t’ me. We cin be friends, Pip. Would y’ like that?’

  Pip said nothing, but he became aware of a profound exhaustion in every limb of his body.

  ‘Sure you would. Now c’mon, don’ waste no time. Turn off the TV. Lemme hear you read. Is tha’ a storybook in your hand?’

  Reluctantly Pip opened the cover. On the inside page, beneath the address of his mama’s school, was a neat pencil inscription:

  For my darling Pip. May your expectations be great.

  Pip could never see those words without recalling the magical day just before Christmas when Mama had first told him about his baby brother or sister, curled so snugly in her belly. They had sat cuddled together, watching the cold world outside, and he had read to her from Great Expectations. She said that although she was head teacher and should never say such an unfair thing, Pip was the best reader in the class and maybe in the whole school. And as if she had arranged it just for him, the sky opened its gentle dark eyes and let loose snowflakes, so fat and slow, it was like a dream. And as Pip sat in the windowseat, Mama went over and took a pencil from her school bag. She sharpened it carefully, creating a perfect wooden spiral, and then wrote, slow and neat, that special inscription inside the book. And she said that from that day, her book would be his. And no matter if she ever forgot when the baby came, he was and always would be her precious Pip. She told him then that he could do anything with his life. That his future was as big and bright as he dared to dream. ‘Yes, indeed, Pip, your expectations are very great indeed.’

  Pip did not tell that story to Lilybelle, or show her the pencilled words, but because she had stroked his shoulder and shared her paintings, he showed her the illustrations that brought the story alive.

  As her swollen fingers turned the pages, Pip listened to her laboured breathing, loud and heavy through her nose.

  At last Lilybelle pushed the book across to him and said flatly, ‘Ah wish ah hadn’t seen them pitchers, Pip. Ah wish you’d never let me see. When ah see beaut’ful pitchers laike that, ah wanna toss ma paintins on the stove. That book o’ yours makes me feel dumber than a bucket o’ hammers.’

  She collapsed on the pillows with a heavy sigh. ‘Bless yo’ li’l heart, Pip. Ah know you didn’t mean to cawse no trouble. Now read. Go on, read the story.’

  That was when Pip was confronted with an awkward truth. The fact was, he hadn’t done much in the way of reading in the orphanage, and now the long words and old-fashioned language of Dickens were too much for him. However, his mother had read the story to the whole class so many times that he knew it almost by heart. With the aid of memory, his stunted literacy skills and the richly detailed line engravings to fire his imagination, Pip began to tell Lilybelle the story in his own way. In that stifling bedroom deep in the South, he conjured up the foggy marshes of Kent, where his namesake, Pip, an orphan just like him, had knelt before his parents’ graves. Then, suddenly, ‘the most fearsome man you ever seen jumps out the mist. His name is Magwitch, see. He’s an escaped convict and that’s the name fer a fellah who breaks outta jail. He comes up to Pip an’ he says, “You breathe one word an’ I’ll cut your throat from ear t’ ear . . .”’

  ‘Oh mah!’ squealed Lilybelle, fanning herself with a magazine. ‘That’s the most shockin’ thing ah ever heard!’

  And so the storytelling sessions began. And for those hours, Lilybelle and Pip lost themselves entirely. Pip described the dilapidated mansion belonging to Miss Havisham, a weird and wealthy spinster, dumped at the altar and dressed for ever in her fading wedding dress. Pip was just attempting to bring alive her adopted daughter, Estella, when there was a quiet tap at the door.

  The shock of the unexpected sound brought Pip’s imagination racing back across the foggy marshes, over the ocean, and through the years to where he sat perched on Lilybelle’s bed.

  ‘Ah smell summin’ naice!’ sang Lilybelle. ‘Come on in now. We’re gettin’ hungry!’

  And very slowly, the rose-petal door
knob turned and an enormous tray entered sideways through the doorway, piled high with steaming food. Behind the tray was a girl.

  Seeing Pip sitting there, she seemed to panic, and he had barely a moment to take her in before she had shoved the tray on the bed and disappeared. Pip was left with a fleeting vision of a wild, ochre-skinned girl of about his age. Her feet were bare and her clothes were a ragged T-shirt and jeans. It was the gleaming black of her hair and eyes that affected him most. Those angry oval eyes – and to his surprise, Pip realized that she was a Native Indian girl.

  Lilybelle barely acknowledged the girl. She was staring happily at the tray, which overflowed with food – fried potatoes, baked beans, charred chicken wings, wodges of thickly buttered cornbread and a bowl of lurid pink blancmange beneath an avalanche of whipped cream, scattered with multicoloured sprinkles.

  Pip’s head was reeling. The girl had affected him more than he could comprehend – she appeared scruffy and poor and wild, but to Pip’s mind, she was disturbingly beautiful. There had been no girls at the orphanage, but this one had agitated parts of his being he never knew existed. Again and again, his thoughts returned to that smooth-skinned copper face with the high cheekbones and complex almond eyes. The girl had made not one sound, and yet those angry eyes had yelled at him, Whoever you are, you are not welcome! Do not look at me! Do not speak to me! Do not try to know me!

  And now she was gone. And Pip was left rattled and reeling. What was that phrase he had heard? Love at first sight. Pip had never understood its meaning – and yet . . .

  And yet . . .

  And yet . . .

  Pip turned to Lilybelle, chewing contentedly on a chicken wing. He whispered, ‘I seen a girl . . .’