by Ruth Hogan
‘And what about you?’
‘Well, apart from dissecting my food with geometric precision, a phobia of boiled eggs, growing windmills in the back garden and believing that God sent sinners to Bermondsey, I was completely normal.’
We both laughed and I thought how right Queenie had been about Daniel. She was the best mother I had ever known, despite being a man with no children of her own.
‘And what about seeing ghosts? Is that normal?’
Bang. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, out of the blue. No one was laughing now. This was my big moment. The one where others have cut and run. Or I have. Daniel had thrown me a hand grenade and my answer would be the pin: out or in?
‘It is for me.’
I watched his face and waited. There was no shock or horror. He looked like he was trying to decide what to choose from a menu.
‘Have you seen Queenie since she died?’
‘All the time. She promised me years ago that she would never go away, and she never has.’
Daniel gripped his chair in mock fear.
‘Is she here now?’
I’m weak with relief. ‘So you don’t think I’m mad?’
His whole face broke into a smile. ‘Of course I do. It’s part of your endless charm. To be honest with you, I find the cutting up the food thing much more annoying than the dead people. God, it takes you a whole day to eat a slice of toast. Longer if it has beans on it. A man could starve to death while you’re still on your starter. But that’s okay because we have that in hand now, don’t we?’
There was a slight pause before a wicked grin broke across his face.
‘I have to ask. Queenie – she’s not around when we . . . you know?’ He winked at me and I thumped his arm, laughing.
‘Of course not!’
‘So . . . when did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday, at The Paradise Hotel, she was in the guests’ old sitting room.’
‘What was she doing?’
I smiled at the thought.
‘Checking for dust.’
‘Did you tell Austin and whatshisname?’
‘Aubrey. No.’
‘Why not?’
I don’t know why. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to know that she still pops in. In fact they’d probably be chasing her round the house with a Ouija board.
‘Maybe because I’m so used to hiding it. It’s normal for me to see what I see, but it’s also normal for me to pretend that I don’t. It scares people.’
‘Jesus, Tilda, you must have been hanging around with a right bunch of wimps until now.’
I didn’t tell him that, until now, I haven’t really hung around with anyone unless they’re dead.
‘What about your mother? Have you seen her?’
I laughed out loud.
‘Now there’s one thing that’s never going to happen. It’s more likely that Jesus wants Saddam Hussein for a sunbeam.’
Daniel raised his eyebrows theatrically.
‘Because . . .?’
‘Because she was the one who told me it was wrong; the work of the devil. She said that it was a one-way ticket to Bedlam and basket-weaving for basket cases. And if you’re really lucky, they’ll plug you in and light you up like a Christmas tree.’
‘Perhaps not, then. What about your dad, have you seen him?’
He took it all very well. It was almost as though we were talking about a hobby I have, like the piano. Could I play ‘Chopsticks’ or ‘Für Elise’?
‘Daniel, I’m not like he was, I never learned how to control it. I can’t pick and choose. I’m not a medium and I don’t know how it works; I can only see them if they want me to. I can’t make them come, and I can’t make them go away. I just have to live with them.’
Daniel was quiet for a moment, but he still wanted to know.
‘Yes, but have you seen him?’
‘No. Not once.’
‘Then that must mean he’s still alive. If he was dead, he surely would have found a way.’
I denied it.
‘It’s not that simple, Daniel. I told you. I’ve no idea how it all works.’
But I have to admit, the same thought had crossed my mind.
Now, Queenie’s watch tells me that it is already seven o’clock and I’m running late. After lighting a single match and taking a quick shower I get ready and call for Penelope. The cab is already on its way. The unseasonably miserable woman who took my call warned that ‘We don’t take no drunks, stags, hens or dogs’. I tell Eli, but when the cab arrives he gets in anyway. By the time we arrive the party is rocking and rolling, and the café is almost full. Eli seeks refuge behind the counter. I introduce Penelope to Austin and Aubrey and leave them to bond over champagne cocktails and sausages on sticks. Daniel is busy serving drinks and as he blows me a kiss I can tell by the twinkle in his eye and the tilt of his smile that he has already served a fair few to himself. Joseph Geronimo is at the jukebox with Queenie. I join them and, kissing him on the cheek, steal Joseph Geronimo’s choice.
‘I love this song. Dad used to sing it to me.’
He looks up and grins.
‘I haven’t been able to stomach it for years. I used to drink in a pub where the landlord played it over and over. It drove me crazy. But it’s been a while. I think I can take it now. Just for you.’
For me, it’s like an old friend.
Her eyes they shone like the diamonds,
You’d think she was queen of the land,
And her hair hung over her shoulders
Tied up with a black velvet band.
40
Tilda
January brings a welcome ‘new broom’ freshness; a bucket of clean water to wash away the dust and dregs of the weary old year. My head feels clear and my heart strong as I start, once again, with the diaries. I settle down in a chair by the French windows with a mug of steaming tea and allow myself a few idle moments of gazing out at the glittering, marbled sea before beginning to read.
2 January
We have to run away. Tilly has let the cat out of the bag to Wendy. It was only ever going to be a matter of time but Wendy has forced my hand and so we must leave as soon as we can. She went mad. Said that what I’d done was the wickedest thing she’d ever heard and that she would find Stevie and tell him or report me to social services. It breaks my heart to lose Wendy. She’s been such a good friend and it’s hard to know that she thinks badly of me, especially when she’s always taken my side. But she doesn’t understand. If I lost Tilly it would destroy me. Stevie’s still in Ireland, or so he says, but according to his last letter he’ll be back in a couple of weeks. If we don’t leave now it will be too late. It kills me what I’m doing to Stevie. But I’d rather do this than have him find out that I killed him. So, I’m going to Queenie’s. I haven’t seen her since we were both in that God-forsaken hospital. Without Queenie I wouldn’t have got through it. We wove footstools, laughed, cried and even danced together, in that stark, echoing gymnasium with tinny music blaring from an ancient gramophone. The weekly Patient Socialisation Dance, it was called, but we called it The Psychos’ Shuffle. Of course, he was Evelyn then, but desperate to be Queenie, which is why he ended up there in the first place. But he was strong enough to stop pretending and be the person he really was. When he left he made a new life as Queenie. When I left I just made my old life worse, and I still have no idea who I really am. We stayed in touch; just a few cards and letters, but Queenie always said that if I ever needed a friend I only had to ask. Well, now I’ve asked, she said ‘yes’ and we’re going. Tilly thinks that we’re just going to the seaside for a holiday. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
The winter wind is howling outside, whipping the waves into froth and foam and sweeping stinging swirls of sand along the beach. But I remember that day the sun was bright, the frost sparkled on the lawn and the sky was a faraway, perfect blue. I remember the angry shouting and the tipping, squeezing fear I felt when I heard it
, and Auntie Wendy’s face as she stormed out of the back door. I thought she was going to say something to me, but in the end she left without a word. I never saw her again. Two days later we turned up on Queenie’s doorstep. Queenie, who used to be Evelyn.
10 January
Queenie is a blessing and a miracle. She welcomed us with open arms and has offered me a job that comes with accommodation, here in the hotel. Tilly loves The Paradise and Brighton, and she loves Queenie. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble persuading her to stay. I think we have found the perfect hiding place.
20 January
For the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel mad. I feel like I’ve stopped holding my breath and listening for the bogeyman to knock on the door. Maybe this is what it feels like to be happy. It’s been so long, I can’t remember. Or maybe I’ve just stopped being alone. Nobody here thinks we’re strange and nobody asks any awkward questions or whispers behind our backs. Instead of standing out like we normally do, tagged and tainted by our differences, here we blend in. Here, at Queenie’s, with one abracadabra, we can disappear and be free.
I wonder what she told Queenie about Stevie, or if she told her anything at all? Queenie was never one to pry. She was a good listener and loved a good gossip, and she was happy to give advice when asked. But she would never force a confidence and she’s never mentioned anything about it to me since. The diary entries for February and March are less frequent. My mother was probably too busy helping Queenie to write much. But maybe she didn’t need to. She had real people to talk to now, who were a kind of family. Perhaps they were enough. She did mention that she never sent the postcards I wrote to Auntie Wendy or Mrs O’Flaherty.
I can’t risk Wendy finding out where we are but I am sorry about Mrs O’Flaherty. She will worry about Tilly and wonder what’s happened. She was very good to her, without making me feel like a bad mother. Maybe one day we’ll be able to see her again and thank her.
She describes how Queenie arranged for Reg to take her in a van to pick up all our things from our old house.
I was terrified one of the neighbours would see us and tell Wendy, and sure enough, she turned up soon after we got there. But Reg told me to stay in the house and keep out of sight while he dealt with her. He told her what I had asked him to. It was the first thing that came into my head; a distraction to make her look in the wrong direction, if only for a little while. When she turned awkward he sent her away with a flea in her ear. Queenie wouldn’t even let me pay for the van, but at least Reg let me buy him a drink.
She talks about Lil, Cecily, Queenie’s mother and Reg, describing their antics and eccentricities with surprising tolerance and obvious affection. But it is clear from her diary that Queenie was the star.
Queenie has saved me again – from myself and the private hell I was hiding in. She has given me back a life worth living and provided me and Tilly with a happy home and a new family. But that doesn’t mean I will ever stop loving Stevie; I can’t forget him and what I’ve done. And if I could find a way of giving Tilly her daddy back, I would. But how can I do that now?
But maybe now she has. At least her diaries have given me the chance to look for him.
And so to me. What does her diary say about me? Outside, the wind has dropped, and a pale silver spectre of the winter sun backlights the sombre clouds. She says that I am better than I was. Much better. Happy. Very happy. I have made new friends. Everyone at Queenie’s loves me, and I love all of them. I’m doing well at school. I’m having dance lessons.
But.
Tilly will always have our bad blood in her; an unstable mother and an ungodly father. She still sees ghosts. I wish I could make it stop.
She never did. And now, at last, I realise that I am glad. Eli is staring out of the front window into the street. I join him just in time to see Penelope being dropped outside by her niece. She sees me and waves. She is looking tired, and the walk to the front door seems long and laborious. She told me yesterday that she thinks her candle may be burning down. I told her not to talk rubbish, but I think she may be right. I make a mental note to go down in a little while and make her a cup of tea. And I make another one to start my search for Stevie before his candle burns out altogether.
41
Tilda
The sun is hot on my face and Eli is sleeping at my feet. I close my eyes and breathe in the warm, sweet scent. I love the smell of lilac. It is a beautiful spring day and I am wearing the new dress that Daniel bought me. It has been four months since I started looking for Stevie but he is still lost. It seems that he has disappeared as successfully as we did all those years ago, and all the wizardry of new technology has yet to pull this particular rabbit out of the hat where he is hidden. There have been false hopes and false alarms and many trails that have just grown cold. I tried finding Auntie Wendy and found her obituary instead. She died ten years ago of a heart attack, just a year after Uncle Bill, and Karen emigrated to Australia soon afterwards with her husband and two little boys. Her brother, Kevin, still lives a few streets away from Wendy’s old house, and he told me what he could. He remembers only bits and pieces: the day Reg collected the things from our old house; Wendy’s fury at whatever it was that Reg had told her; Stevie sitting at their kitchen table on the day he came home looking for us with his head in his hands, sobbing. It meant precious little to Kevin at the time, but now, to me, every scrap of information is precious. The O’Flahertys had grown up and moved away, Teresa taking her mother to live with her after Mr O’Flaherty gently died whilst happy and drunk in the pub one afternoon. She comes back every now and then to visit old friends and Kevin promised to give her my number and ask her to call me when he saw her next. I didn’t hold my breath. ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Daniel had said. And he was right. Yesterday I went to see Mrs O’Flaherty.
Mrs O’Flaherty had her own bedroom, sitting room and bathroom in an annex to Teresa’s smart new four-bedroom, mock-Tudor detached. At nearly ninety she was a physical miniature of the woman I remembered, but her warmth and spirit were undiminished.
‘May God in heaven preserve us! It’s Miss Tilly,’ she cried, as I stood hesitating in the doorway. ‘She’s come back home to Blighty!’
She patted the seat of the chair facing her, and as I sat down, she took both my hands in hers.
‘Let me look at you.’ She examined my face with her watery eyes. Once they had been the colour of a summer sky, but now they resembled the winter sea.
‘You look well, Miss Tilly. And happy. There must be a man.’ She raised her eyebrows and smiled. But Mrs O’Flaherty knew I wasn’t here to talk about now. I was more interested in then. But first, I had to ask, ‘What do you mean, “back home to Blighty”?’
‘From Van Diemen’s Land?’ She chuckled at my uncomprehending ‘shipping forecast’ face. ‘Like the song?’
She sang her explanation in a cracked but still tuneful voice:
‘Far away from my friends and companions,
Betrayed by the black velvet band.’
The song meant so much to me, but I had no idea what Mrs O’Flaherty meant by singing it to me now. She saw the confusion in my face and started again at the beginning. She hadn’t known at the time what my mother had done, but she had suspected that something wasn’t quite right.
‘I thought at the time they had simply parted. It must have been hard. Your mother loved you both but it didn’t seem to bring her any joy. You could see the hurt in her eyes. And as for your daddy, I’m sure he loved Gracie and he worshipped you, but he was a handful sometimes – like another child for your mother to mind. And he certainly had an eye for the ladies, but I don’t think he ever strayed. I didn’t know what to make of it. Then when he lost his job there were rumours of course; that he’d gone back to Ireland; that he was working in a pub and giving readings; even that he’d got another woman. And there were cruel things said about your mother by ignorant people with small lives who knew no better. But that’s all they were: rumo
urs, tittle-tattle and nasty gossip.’
‘But he didn’t lose his job, he was sacked, wasn’t he?’ I remember the entry in my mother’s diary and the furious rows just before he went away.
‘Apparently so. He was supposed to have got into a fight with one of the other men. He accused Stevie of being a fraud and taking advantage of grieving folks with his readings. Punches were thrown and the other fella came off worse. But that’s only what I heard. It was so long ago, and I don’t expect we’ll ever know the truth now. I’m not sure it even matters any more.’
It does to me.
After we disappeared, Wendy told Mrs O’Flaherty about my mother’s first lie, which I knew about, and a second about emigrating, which I didn’t.
‘Wendy was so angry with her, but I felt sad for all of you. Your mother was a broken woman, looking for something to fix her, but she’d a good heart. She tried so hard on that birthday of yours. I remember she looked like a ghost but she was the one who was haunted.
‘And then you put the tin lid on it by setting the shed on fire.’
She shook her head and chuckled softly to herself, but even after all these years I can still taste the tears and the smoke.
High up in one of the lilac trees a blackbird is singing and, despite the constant hum of traffic, I can just hear the sound of the waves. This place is a little heaven of fresh green, foaming mauve, sunshine and birdsong. I sit with Eli and wait. I have no idea what we are waiting for but I have a feeling that something or someone is coming.