10: Madder Rose, new-age private eye

Unsightly women with unorthodox ideas have had a tough time over the years. Four centuries ago, across the border in rural Lancashire, a coven of eccentric crones was rounded up on suspicion of using witchcraft. All because they frightened their more foolish neighbours, told tall stories, and, OK, maybe turned one or two of them into toads, who knows?

Once the whispering campaign had begun, it soon developed an unstoppable momentum. In the face of mounting hysteria, Demdike, Chattox and Alice Nutter (crazy names, crazy gals...) were on a hiding to nothing. There was no way to prove that they weren’t witches. With genuine evidence being scant, the warts were the clincher. It was an open and shut case, in 1612, for the judge at Lancaster Assizes. The trial was brief, the outcome a formality; the Pendle witches - warts and all - were summarily hanged. Justice was not only done, but seen to be done; by all accounts, a large and appreciative crowd had enjoyed a splendid day out.

But that stain on the judicial system occurred long ago, when simple people were more easily taken in by superstitious guff. It’s different now of course. Thanks to the sophisticated legal system we have today, such blatant miscarriages of justice are blessedly rare. And as for women being judged solely on their appearance... well, what a preposterous idea...

Milltown is a safe haven for mild eccentricity, where women with paranormal powers can live their lives without a backing track of mocking laughter. It’s a good thing we are so broad-minded. Otherwise we’d be erecting a gibbet - and anticipating a sell-out, all-ticket crowd - for the execution of Madder Rose, Milltown’s premier seer and sage. From being just another woman with dishevelled hair, an overactive imagination and too much time on her hands, Madder Rose has worked her way up through the psychic ranks - all the way from quaintly exotic to completely bonkers.

Having served a long apprenticeship at the psychic coal-face, Madder Rose is at the height of her powers. She’s the doyen of clairvoyants, here in Milltown: the fortune tellers’ fortune teller. For a town with no shortage of people who claim special gifts, that’s quite an accolade. Madder Rose sees things that no-one else can see: a remarkable talent. She sees things that aren't there at all: even more remarkable, if you think about it.

Her reputation was consolidated as one of the so-called Wise Women of Milltown. A colourful coterie, in every sense, the unholy trinity of Madder Rose, Carmine Lake & Scarlet Blush helped to put Milltown on the map as a centre of the unexplained. There are certainly a few things that need explaining. Why, for example, would a wise man from the Cheyenne tribe, who died, brutally, at the hands of white settlers in 1862, have subsequently decided to channel his ideas, energies and clairvoyant abilities through a middle-aged woman living in a small South Pennine town? When people claim to have lived in a previous life - as the Wise Women of Milltown did on a regular basis - why were they always pharaohs and princesses, instead of the self-obsessed dullards that we see today? And why is anyone tempted to treat new-age nonsense with any degree of respect, instead of the open derision most of it deserves?

As to the extent of Madder Rose’s powers, it depends on who you ask. Rumour has it that she cast a spell on her ex-husband that rendered him impotent. But the source of this rumour was the man himself: not the most reliable of witnesses. She is said to have fellated every single member of the Milltown Brass Band behind the bandstand in the park. But the finger of suspicion should have been pointed instead at generous Mrs McGee next door. Even the fact that Madder Rose has a black cat, and still uses a broom to sweep her yard, has caused tongues to wag. Yes, this is what happens when we open the Pandora’s box of irrationality, and surrender to primitive fears and fancies.

Perhaps she only has herself to blame. For years she gave tarot card readings to credulous Milltown folk. She compiled astrological charts and consulted the I Ching; she cast runes, read palms and dangled crystals. She read tea-leaves. She read tea-bags, a budget option that’s now largely discredited. She foretold the future by scrutinising animal entrails (for vegetarian clients she’d just rummage through a bran-tub).

To avoid upsetting her clients, Madder Rose always tried to find something upbeat in even the gloomiest prognosis. Sometimes it meant dealing from the bottom of the tarot deck, or replacing the Death card with Mr Bun the Baker. She kept astrological predictions as vague as possible; “one size fits all”, as she used to say. Anything that didn’t fit the original thesis could, in hindsight, be ignored. And if it was only gullible people who were taken in by such anodyne hokum, that still gave a charlatan like Madder Rose a gratifyingly large customer base. Her clients were happy, and she was making pin-money: a good result all round.

Problems only started when she started to believe the hokum herself. A palm-reading went awry when she failed to locate a client’s life-line. She traumatised him by predicting an early death, even though he’d just been reading an inky newspaper. When word of this and other misdemeanours came to the notice of the psychics’ governing body (the Union of Charlatans, Shysters, Mountebanks, Quacks, Hucksters, Snake-oil Peddlars and Affiliated Workers in the Advertising and Public Relations Trades) Madder Rose was immediately struck off. She ought to have seen it coming, but she didn’t.

She’d spent so many years at the sharp end of the fortune-telling business - lighting candles, mumbling mantras, generally trying to make narcissism respectable - that more mundane matters had been overlooked. When household bills began to pile up, her response was to put them in a drawer: out of sight, out of mind. But as the bills changed colour, and their tone became more strident, she could foresee one thing with clarity: if she didn’t pay the gas and electric bills, pronto, she’d get cut off.

Madder Rose realised, with mounting horror, that what she needed was a proper job. Since so many people settle in Milltown specifically to escape from nine-to-five drudgery, work is a rather nebulous concept. Just another abstract noun, like 'transubstatiation'. The CV was a problem. In none of her previous incarnations had she picked any qualifications more relevant than a GCSE in synchronicity. And what is the best way to account for all those missing years - spent living in a teepee on the Dingle peninsular, or searching for enlightenment with those amazing people in that Ashram near Poona?

The solution has come, not surprisingly, in a dream. She found it one morning when she went to clean out her dream-catcher: a handy gadget that catches pleasant dreams, but lets nightmares and dolphins pass straight through. Yes, Madder Rose has found a new calling: she wants to use her psychic abilities to help the police fight crime. She’s had smart new business cards printed: ‘Madder Rose, new-age private eye... Unsubstantiated hunches, your place or mine’.

She’s tackling her first case right now. It’s what you might call a typical Milltown crime: a soul goes missing and then a ransom note turns up at the Milltown Times, demanding money with menaces. The police haven't got a clue. Since all the letters have been snipped from headlines in the Guardian, the blackmailer could be just about anyone in town. Madder Rose has her suspicions: "Look, I just feel these things, OK?", she suggests, crossly, to anyone who questions her methods. From past experience, the baseless ramblings of a deluded fantasist might have been enough for the West Midlands Police Force to gain a speedy conviction. But this is Milltown and we’d prefer to have some solid evidence before we make our accusations.

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