Free Street Kid by Judy Westwater Page A

couple who lived in a large Victorian villa at the posh end of town. They were the most prized members of my dad’s circle, and he always made sure they were kept happy.
    Now it was time for Imaki’s message for the day. At this point, my father started talking in riddles and parables.
    ‘The end of the world is coming, my friends, and the sound will be like rain falling on a hot tin roof.’ I thought this sounded pretty ridiculous, particularly as it was delivered in Imaki’s high-pitched voice; but the assembled company wagged their heads and whispered, ‘Thank you, Imaki.’
    There was a pause, and everyone sat still, waiting. Then my father started speaking again.
    ‘I can see somebody … a man … an old man. He has a message for you.’ He was staring now at a plump womansitting opposite. ‘He had a problem, here.’ My father cupped his hands over his chest, a favourite ruse for it could mean heart, lungs, or quite a lot of other things.
    ‘That’s my dad, George,’ the woman said. ‘Died last year. It was his second heart attack.’
    ‘George has a message for you,’ my father said. ‘What’s that? What’s that?’ He cupped his hand to his ear, acting as if George wasn’t delivering it clearly enough. Then a pause. ‘You are going to move to a new place and that’s the right thing to do.’
    ‘Amazing. That’s right!’ the woman announced, eyes sparkling. ‘We’re thinking of moving house.’
    ‘I can see the sea, and smell salt in the air,’ said my father, elaborating on his theme. (He’d already heard that she was thinking of moving house to Southport.)
    ‘Oh, that’s right; we’re planning to retire to the seaside,’ she said, ‘I’m glad that George approves.’
    My father moved on from one person to the next, making sure that each had a little something to go home with: messages from aunties, grannies, sons lost in the war, dogs and cats. At times, he interrupted the proceedings with a little piece of extra theatre, allowing the nosy character of his Eskimo spirit guide full rein.
    ‘What have you got over there? What’s that? What’s behind there?’ His darting eyes looked around the room impishly. It occurred to me that if Imaki really was an all-knowing spirit, then he wouldn’t have to ask.
    Dad’s eyes were now fixed on the settee and he acted as if he could see something there. Then they moved to the dark-haired young woman I’d seen him talking to earlier.
    ‘I can see two little children. They’re playing behind the settee and keep peeping out.’
    At my father’s words the woman broke down. ‘My babies! My little ones!’ she whispered in a sob. ‘I lost them at five months.’
    ‘Well, they’ve come to tell you they’re happy now. They’re in Summerland,’ said my father. (Summerland was where children’s spirits went to when they died.) ‘They want you to know they’re safe and that their nurses are looking after them very well.’
    ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you! My babies …’ At this, the woman’s voice faded to nothing and she put her hand over her eyes for a few moments.
    I sat there on my stool, disgusted. I felt almost dirty listening to my dad, knowing what a con it all was.
    After the readings were finished, the group were handed tea in china cups and corned-beef sandwiches. There was a happy glow in the room, and the chatter was now very relaxed. Behind the kitchen door our host was quietly collecting envelopes of money from the guests; as my father and Freda said their goodbyes, the collection was pressed into Dad’s hand with a murmured, ‘For your sanctuary.’

Chapter Eight
    M y father didn’t allow me to make any friends in our neighbourhood, and I was desperately lonely. I’d spend hours whispering into my teddy bear’s ear, pretending she was my best friend. Dad didn’t want Mum knowing where we were and he’d had enough of people poking their nose in his business, so I was told to keep my trap shut at all times. He