Free Street Kid by Judy Westwater

from the number one realm, Chief Running Water, hardly ever came through. When he did, my father acted as though it was a supremely magical moment which we were all blessed to have witnessed. Other guides were Pedro, a Mexican bandit, who’d been shot; Imaki the Eskimo (he was very nosy); and Dr Samakasan, a highly educated Hindu man. Chief Running Water and Pedro both sounded like something out of a Western. I thought their accents were very over the top, especially when my father overdid it with his ‘Adios amigo’; but it made for a good show.
    One evening, we visited the house of the brother of Freda’s friend Madge. We were ushered into the parlour where a few guests had already gathered. This was a key moment for my dad, and I watched him ease himself around the room gleaning as much information from the guests about their loves and losses, money troubles, and future plans as he possibly could. They seemed so eager to unload their stories.
    I stood apart from the guests, feeling self-conscious in my frilled party dress, hair pulled back from my face with a Kirby grip. I found it hard to take my eyes off my father,partly through habitual fear, but also because he was the kind of man people did tend look at. Now, as I watched his elegant six-foot frame bending caringly over a dark-haired young woman, I thought he could have been Gregory Peck. He was acting the priestly role so well. I could tell from the woman’s haunted-looking eyes, and the quiet way she was talking to him, that she’d lost someone dear to her and was telling my dad about it. He’d scented her grief and longing a mile off, and I knew he’d move in on her later once the seance was in full swing.
    When everyone had gathered at last, we were taken by our hosts into the living room, where there was a large table, big enough to seat the twelve people present. I was told to sit on a stool at the other end of the room. I knew I couldn’t move a muscle, as the slightest creak might earn me a beating later. It was perishing at my end of the room, and my dress wasn’t at all warm, being made of sober blue cotton with a frill around the bottom and having a high-necked white bodice. All very demure and proper. Just the ticket for the daughter of a minister.
    By now the group were all seated at the table, my father at the head, and Freda the dutiful at his right hand. The session began with my father’s introduction, delivered in the rich tones he saved for these occasions. He could have been a bishop.
    ‘We are gathered here this evening …’ he intoned, and the faces of his little flock were instantly glued to his. Let the show begin.
    After my Dad’s address, the group recited the seven principles of Spiritualism. ‘The fatherhood of God; the brotherhood of man; communion of spirits and the ministry of angels; the continuous existence of the human soul; personal responsibility; compensation and retribution hereafter for all good and evil deeds done on earth; eternal progress open to every soul.’ They had the fingers of both hands linked in a special grip, not in the way you’d usually pray.
    After the recitation of the seven principles came Freda’s opening prayer. While she spoke, my father slowly began to change as the spirit entered his body. As he pretended to go into a trance, he squashed himself down in his chair and started snorting through his nose. His hands were on his thighs, palms up, eyes half closed. Then his head lolled backwards.
    ‘Good evening everyone, I’m Imaki. Thank you all for coming.’ I could sense a shiver of pleasure run through the circle of people as they heard the eskimo’s squeaky little voice. They were usually given Dr X, and I knew that Imaki was a rare treat for them. My dad must have judged that they were due for a change, or perhaps he thought that someone in the group that evening might give him a bigger donation than usual. The only time we ever got Chief Running Water was at the Rippons, a rich