Ava doesn’t understand the strange, hypnotic influence the music and the musician have over her but neither does she care to analyse it. She feels so brightly and suddenly alive, so sharp and so soft all at once, as if she’s being born and dying in the same breath, opening her arms to embrace everything in the world while letting it all go. Listening, Ava feels entirely serene, as if she has all she could possibly want and needs absolutely nothing more. She has all the joy her heart can hold, so it overflows to her feet and dampens her toes, so it floats in the air around her, returning to her with every breath.
Perhaps the best thing about the enchanting music is that Ava carries it with her throughout the day. The rich, deep, sweet notes echo until her fingertips buzz and her lips quiver with the resonance of all that vibrant beauty so that Ava has a sublime soundtrack to backlight her life. The main result of this is that Ava no longer carries her crossword clues tucked safely and snugly into the corners of her mind, she no longer retreats behind her eyes, ferreting away for answers to cryptic questions in the nooks and crannies of her encyclopaedic knowledge. Instead, she is borne through her days on an exalted river of sound.
Now Ava smiles at the students who take out textbooks for their essays and exams, she looks at her colleagues, nodding as they chat about their lives, listening to their complaints and concerns. And, although she doesn’t go so far as actually replying or responding in kind, Ava does feel a slight sense of connection with herself and the outside world beginning to ignite. And the idea of speaking with people, of allowing them to see who she is and how she feels, no longer feels quite so terrifying as it once did.
Of course, it’s not simply the music that pervades Ava, but also the musician. Thoughts of him bob up and down on the river of Mozart, Vivaldi and Beethoven. She wonders where he came from, what he does every day and whether or not he has love in his life. Does he have a woman he kisses every day? Does he make love as passionately as he plays? Would she faint dead away if he ever touched her? What if she simply held herself while he held his violin, his fingers vibrating over the strings, would it be enough to give her the greatest pleasure of her life? Ava blushes at these thoughts. She’s never had anything like them before. Nor such dreams.
The musician and his music visit Ava every night. And her visions of him are so vivid, the sensation of his touch so strong, the sound of his playing so sensational, the feeling of their emotions so overwhelming, that she wakes after every dream – heart hammering, skin wet with sweat, tears streaming – believing that he’s there in bed with her.
Ava is astonished at how he’s transformed her life, so suddenly, so completely. How can it be that, now, even her dreams are far more passionate and powerful than her days ever were before? How can it be that all her senses are heightened: sights brighter, sounds clearer, smells sharper, tastes richer, touches acuter? And, so it seems, she is feeling so many things for the very first time. She’ll be stacking bookshelves and, all of a sudden, realise that her cheeks are wet with tears. She’ll be checking out books and start grinning, for absolutely no reason at all but the sheer delight of sliding them across the counter. Occasionally she’ll get some odd looks but, mostly, Ava just receives smiles. And, usually, now, she’ll smile back.
For her part, Greer spends more time than she strictly should listening to the musician. She doesn’t think about him when he’s not playing – since she doesn’t seem to have any type of extraneous thoughts at all, nothing that doesn’t pertain to the present moment she’s actually in, rather like a baby – but every morning she finds herself materialising by the ancient apple tree and watching him until he disappears. And, each time, she’s mesmerised. Hours dissolve in several sweeps of the musician’s bow, but time also stops as he plays. So Greer feels as if death has enveloped her again and she’s suspended in infinity, only with every molecule of her spirit now resonating to the tune of his music.
When she’d suddenly found herself standing again at the bottom of her own garden, Greer had been more than a little surprised. One instant she’d been in – well, she couldn’t quite recall – and the next she’d been home again. How long had it been? Again, she can’t remember. How had she returned? She isn’t quite sure. Why has she come back? How does she feel about it all? Greer doesn’t really know. Or at least, if she does, she’s unwilling to admit it, even to herself.
When Greer listens to the musician she feels as if she should be able to float right up to his window and touch a transparent finger to his chest. She feels as if she should be able to fly, swooping above the apple tree, soaring over the flowers, diving with the swallows and alighting with the blackbirds next to their nests. She can hover a few inches into the air, after all; indeed, she can’t seem to touch the ground even if she tries, so why shouldn’t she be able to fly? And his music seizes her spirit and lifts it upward towards the sun, so it should only make sense if her transparent body followed suit. But then, admittedly, nothing much of being dead seems to make much sense at all.
Greer imagines that she must have come back for Edward: he is – or, rather, was – her husband who, by all accounts, has been willing her to return ever since she left. Though, despite what she said to reassure him, Greer doesn’t really understand why that would be now instead of any time before. And why does it feel that she was pulled from the other side by the power of the musician’s music? Perhaps it’s a combination of both? But, whatever it is, Greer only knows that she feels a sharp twist of guilt in her ribs every time she shimmers away from Edward’s side each morning to materialise again in the garden. She feels even guiltier when he asks where she’s been and she lies, saying she doesn’t know, claiming that every now and then she’ll disappear and reappear without remembering where she’s been or gone.
‘It must be part of the whole being dead thing,’ Greer will suggest with a casual shrug.
‘I suppose,’ Edward will say. ‘Still, it’s strange.’
‘But it’s all a bit strange. This,’ Greer will say. ‘Don’t you think?’
And Edward will admit that it is. And then Greer will change the subject.
Chapter Seven
It’s the middle of the afternoon, more than three hours before closing time, but Clara can’t wait that long before she takes a walk. She’s been pacing up and down the shop for the past hour, willing a customer to come in and distract her from herself but, at the same time, not really wanting to see anyone.
At three o’clock – with the shop still empty – Clara realises that she just wants an excuse to leave early. And, since she’s her own boss, she takes it. Slipping a little sign into the window apologising for the early closure (not that it’ll disappoint too many people, clearly) Clara hurries through the crowded streets of the town centre until she reaches the bridge by Magdalene College and begins walking along the river. Twenty minutes later, having passed through parks and by trees and spotted a fair number of ducks, Clara realises she’s standing outside his house. She peers, a little guiltily, into his front room. It’s empty. Clara sighs. Where is he? Where is his daughter? What are they doing? It’s the middle of the afternoon, she realises, so he’s probably doing whatever it is he does for a living and she’s probably at school. Most people aren’t able to leave their place of employment on a whim. She considers waiting a while in case one of them appears at some point as, indeed, they must. But this feels too close to stalking and, since she’s always been a bit sensitive on this subject, Clara decides to hurry along.
Half an hour later, wandering along a row of houses on the waterfront, she spies an old man, staring sorrowfully at his kitchen wall. He will be the next rightful recipient of a letter, someone who deserves a little love and inspiration simply because he does, and not because Clara has developed a slight obsession with him and his family.
Clara looks in at the old man a while longer, absorbing him into her subconscious, so that she can better write the letter. Though, in truth, she has no idea if this is a necessary part of the process
or, indeed, how the process works at all – does she simply identify the recipients and after that she’s nothing but a vessel? – but, nevertheless, Clara goes through these motions every time anyway, just in case.
She doesn’t stay too long at the old man’s window (staring at so much palpable sadness does wear on her heart a little) but doesn’t return to the shop. Instead, she ambles back in that general direction, through the parks, along the river, contemplating the old man, the man whose name she doesn’t know, his daughter, and herself and her life. She has led such a small life, such a safe life because that’s how she’s always preferred it. She’s never wanted to travel, to explore exotic places, to meet mysterious people, to eat unknown foods. She’s always been perfectly satisfied with her internal journeys and the people who’ve come to her. And yet … Very occasionally, on days like these, Clara wonders just how much of her life is a product of genuine passion, or fear.
An hour later, when she’s back at the shop, sitting at the writing desk, Clara has managed to push these thoughts from her mind and focus instead on the recipient of her letter. When she puts pen to paper it is him she’s thinking of. Which is why it’s rather strange that – for the very first time ever – after writing a letter, Clara picks it up and reads it. What’s even more strange is that she finds it’s not addressed to the old man but to her.
Clara reads the letter over and over again. She still can’t quite believe it’s actually intended for her. But it clearly is. Even though her name isn’t on it, the letter can’t be meant for anyone else.
Monday 15th May ’17
It’s time for you to take a trip. It’s time for you to be bold. It’s time for you to step outside those four little walls and stride into your life. It’s time for you to stop just taking care of everyone else and start taking care of yourself. And, when you return, your life will be so different, so gloriously delicious and delightful, you won’t recognise it at all.
But first you need to experience what it’s like to not know what’s going to happen next. You need to learn to feel safe while having adventures, to feel secure living fully in each moment without being at all sure what the future will bring. You need to fall in love, head-over-toes. You need to lose love and know that that’s okay too, that you will always be okay, no matter what.
Shut the shop. Run out into the world with open arms and let it knock you around a bit. Let it lift you up to its highest heights, let it drag you through the dirt, let it shake you up. Lose your balance, so you can find it. Step off the edge, jump off the cliff, throw yourself into the winds. Do the things that scare you most of all. Discover that nothing matters, not even death, for only then will you begin to truly live.
Clara knows it’s meant for her because every time she reads it she cries. For the next few days she reads it before she goes to bed every night, when she wakes in the morning, and several times in between. It’s not long before Clara has memorised every word, but she still reads the inky letters because seeing them flowing across the page reminds her that she’s not making it all up, she’s being told to do something and, eventually, she’s going to have to act.
Deep down, or not so deep down, really, Clara knows what she needs to do. It’s obvious. If she’s being told to take a trip then it must be to Amsterdam. Where else? Well, she could go somewhere properly faraway and exotic, like Hong Kong or New Zealand, but those places don’t hold any special significance for her. For which, quite frankly, Clara is rather grateful. She hates flying. Or, since she’s never actually done it, she hates the idea of flying. A heavy metal tube hurtling through the sky? No, thank you. But Amsterdam is, by all accounts, beautiful and quiet and, happily, close to Cambridge. She can catch a train to London, then get the Eurostar and arrive at her destination a few hours later, unscathed.
And so, at last, Clara goes to the library. Nearly three hours after she’s sat down at the infernal computer (having failed to find any available library assistants), Clara finally buys her train tickets to Amsterdam. It only takes her fifteen minutes of fumbling to purchase the damn things; the extra two hours and forty-five minutes are whittled away in worry and panic. When she stands again and stumbles out of the library, Clara is still so overwhelmed with nerves that – even though she passes by a lovely smiling librarian who’s softly humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – Clara forgets all about checking out any books. A fact that makes her feel rather guilty when she remembers. So, when she’s lying in bed that night, she divides her fretful thoughts between the terrifying subjects of European travel and the tragic decline of local libraries.
Edward’s feeling odd. He knows he should be absolutely over the moon, giddy with joy, drunk with delight that his wife’s come back at last – even if she is a ghost and he can’t touch her – but he’s not exactly. He’s happy, very happy indeed, to see her again. He’s happy to know she’s okay. He’s happy to be with her. But his happiness doesn’t seem to be coated with desire and craving. He doesn’t long to embrace her and kiss her and never let her go. Which is odd since, for years after she died he’d have traded a year of his life for just one more touch, one more kiss, one more glance …
Edward still loves her, certainly. He still loves her, deeply. He doesn’t want her to leave again. He wants her to stay for ever. He’s overjoyed to get his best friend back. But now, two weeks after the event, the shock of Greer’s return has softened and settled into something almost ordinary and expected, so Edward is no longer surprised to see her floating into rooms and hovering above floorboards and materialising beside him.
Despite their talks late into the night – about everything from Tilly, architecture and heaven to cold crumpets and Downton Abbey – he hasn’t been able to admit the true complex, conflicted nature of his feelings to Greer. He skirts around the subject but hasn’t yet found the courage to settle on it. Tonight they sit (rather he sits, she hovers) in the living room by the fireplace. Edward slowly sips a scotch, with ice.
‘You can’t remember anything?’ he asks, for perhaps the hundredth time since Greer arrived.
‘I told you I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’d tell you if I could.’
Edward raises an eyebrow. ‘Would you? Or is being dead like a secret society and you’re not allowed to reveal any of the particulars to the living? In which case, that’s exactly what you’d say, if I asked.’
Greer laughs. ‘Well then, I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me.’
As Edward looks at her he realises that he doesn’t, not entirely. He suspects that there is something she’s not telling him – whether it’s about heaven or another matter entirely.
They’ve been putting off telling Tilly. First of all, because they didn’t know how long Greer would stay. They reasoned that, if it was only a brief visit, it wasn’t worth upsetting Tilly and possibly scarring her for life, for a momentary reunion. The potential cons outweighed the pros. But now it seems that she might actually be here to stay, it feels wrong to keep the secret any longer.
‘How the hell are we going to do it, though?’ Edward says, for perhaps the hundredth time in twenty-four hours.
‘I have no idea,’ Greer replies, which has been her standard response – sometimes coupled with a sigh, sometimes not – every single time.
‘Well, we’ve got to think of something,’ he says again. ‘It’s got to be subtle, so she doesn’t “totally freak out” and not sleep through the night till she leaves home.’
‘Yes.’ Greer considers. ‘Or faint and hit her head on something nasty.’
Edward nods. He has missed this; he’s missed this so much. After his first wife, Tilly’s mother, died he found parenting pretty challenging but since Greer died he’s found it well-nigh impossible. Being a good father to a toddler was one thing – since it mainly involved potty training and learning all the words to every nursery rhyme ever written – but being a good father to a teenager is something else entirely.
Edward smiles at Greer. She’s glanced away and doe
sn’t see but as he soaks her in suddenly he wants to hug her, to hold her close. His heart aches to know that he can’t.
‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ he says softly. ‘I can’t tell you how much.’ When she doesn’t reply, Edward returns to the topic. ‘Why don’t we just tell her at dinner tonight?’ he suggests. ‘I’ll cook her favourite. We’ll keep it low-key and casual. I’ll just bring it up in the conversation and then you can come in. What do you think?’
Greer shrugs. ‘It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose.’ She smiles. ‘I can’t wait for her to see me. I wish I could …’
Edward sighs. ‘I wish I could hold you too.’
Greer floats over to her husband and hovers close to him. She lifts her hand close to his cheek and he closes his eyes. Her almost-touch is surprisingly warm and sends pricks of sensation along his skin. Edward’s heart begins to beat a little faster and he can feel the stirring of something he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He opens his eyes and looks up at her. Suddenly he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her so much he can feel his lips tingling as if he’d just eaten chillies. He wants it. All at once, he wants it more than anything in the world.
‘Are you still my wife?’ he asks softly.
Greer nods. ‘Yes, I suppose I must be.’ She should say something else. She should mention her feelings about the musician. She should be honest and open. But she can’t face the thought of breaking his heart all over again. First cancer, then an unfaithful heart. How much cruelty can one person be expected to bear? So instead she leans forward and places her lips against his.
Edward gasps, then quickly pulls away, touching his fingers to his lips.
‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry,’ Greer says. ‘Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean – I didn’t know what it’d be like, I just …’
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 5