Edward shakes his head. He feels it now. He feels everything he felt before. It’s all come rushing back, surging through his body: love, adoration, desire, longing, tumbling over each other in a gluttonous flood of emotions. ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ he says, ‘please, don’t worry. It wasn’t … It was a bit like getting an electric shock, that’s all.’
Greer looks stricken. ‘Oh dear, how awful.’
‘No, no, just a tiny one,’ Edward reassures her. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all. Now I know, it’s okay. We can try again. Next time it’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
Greer nods. ‘As long as I didn’t hurt you.’
‘You didn’t, I promise, you didn’t.’
Greer sighs, tension leaving her body in little sparks.
Next time. The words hang in the air between them. When? From his chair, Edward gazes up at his wife. She gives him a small, reassuring smile, then glances out of the window and into the garden.
‘What’s going on, Dad? You’re being weird.’
Edward frowns. ‘I am not “being weird”, I’m being perfectly normal.’
‘You are not.’
Edward sighs and looks down at his plate. He’s meant to be creating an atmosphere of relaxed calm and then, when the mood is right, he’s meant to introduce – carefully and gently – the subject of Tilly’s deceased stepmother and her strange but welcome return to this earth. Unfortunately, actually doing this is as awkward and difficult as it sounds. Finally, after procrastinating by poking his fork into a slice of pizza for a few minutes, Edward decides, since he’s clearly failing so spectacularly at the delicate approach, to plunge in head first.
‘Till?’
‘Yeah?’ Tilly picks the fresh basil off her pizza.
‘What would you say if I told you, if I told you …?’
‘What?’ She says, still not looking up.
‘That your—that Greer has, um, well … come back as a ghost.’
Tilly looks up. ‘I’d say that you should probably see a therapist or stay off the drugs – like you’re always telling me to.’
Edward glances around the room. ‘Greer! It’s time, I’ve told her!’
Tilly looks at her father as if he’s just declared a lifelong desire to dress up as a drag queen and take to the stage.
And then Greer materialises in the kitchen, a few feet from Tilly.
Tilly screams, then plants her hands over her mouth, then lets them drop to her lap. ‘What the fuck?!’
‘Tilly!’ Edward and Greer exclaim in unison. They both stare at Tilly, who just stares at Greer.
‘Although,’ Edward admits into the ensuing silence, ‘if ever there was a time for swearing, I suppose now would be very much it.’
Tilly says nothing. So they both continue to watch her, waiting.
Tilly just stares at Greer, incredulous.
Greer and Edward stare at Tilly, nervous.
‘Till, are you … okay?’ Edward ventures.
And then Tilly bursts into tears. Sobbing, she reaches out to Greer.
‘Mum … Mummy,’ she gasps. ‘You’ve come back.’
And then Edward feels his heart shatter. He’d forgotten that his daughter had called Greer that in the last few months before she died. And the sorrow and joy in Tilly’s voice is almost more than he can bear. He wants to take them both in his arms and hold them so tight that no more misery can ever touch these two women he loves more than life itself. In that moment Edward vows that, no matter what, he will move heaven and earth to be certain that Greer never leaves them again.
Chapter Eight
There is a reason that Ava doesn’t socialise. As there should be, since – on the surface – she’s the sort of person most people find easy to approach and engage in conversational chit-chat. Except that Ava isn’t very good at chit-chat. It’s not that she’s particularly philosophical, ardently political or uninterested in casual topics. It’s simply that she can see the saddest events in people’s lives – those that have been and those that are to come – and, quite apart from the pain this causes her, she also sometimes finds herself blurting out decidedly unwanted and unasked-for information.
Unsurprisingly, most people don’t want to know the exact date and circumstances of their deaths, they certainly don’t want to know about any horrific events that might be looming on the horizon and they usually don’t want to discuss the most painful events of their pasts, things they’ve tried hard to bury and forget. As a child, Ava was fairly quick to learn this, though not before she gave the class bullies sufficient ammunition to make her school years quite unbearable.
And so, when it came to choosing a profession, Ava picked librarian, since it was a job that seemed to require, nay demand, silence and so it was perfect. Her first thought, aged sixteen, was clairvoyant or fortune-teller, since she clearly had the credentials, but she quickly reconsidered, on the basis that her clients would probably want to hear mostly positive prophecies about their futures, or at least a balance of good and bad, not unremittingly depressing divinations that would make them want to give up on life right there and then.
However, in choosing her profession, Ava hadn’t counted on the possibility that staff and students might try to converse with her. And, as she soon discovered, her fellow colleagues seemed to want to talk, connect, share and gossip at any available opportunity. Indeed, though Ava couldn’t understand why, many of them preferred it to shelving books or doing data entry. Although, perhaps if you’re not cursed with a serious conversational tic then having a friendly natter over the water cooler – or, in the case of the Cambridgeshire Central Library, a cup of weak tea in the tiny grotty kitchen next to the loo – is a rather more appealing prospect.
Of course, as is so often the case in magic and in life, Ava’s particular powers of perception only seem to work on other people and not on herself which, in this case, is a great relief rather than a frustration. So she’s never been able to see her own terrible events in advance, she hasn’t had an inkling, not even a moment before. She wishes she hadn’t been able to see the terrible events of those she’s loved most in the world but, sadly, she hadn’t been able not to. She’d seen her sister’s death, from leukaemia, aged twelve. Fortunately, Ava’s life following that devastating incident has been quite uneventful. Which is exactly the way she intends to keep it.
Ava recalls then the woman in the letter writing shop, the owner of the quaint and mysterious place she’d somehow stumbled into, the place she’d written that letter to Helen, the particulars of which she couldn’t recall even a moment after writing it. She’d liked that woman, had wanted to befriend her, but had thought she’d better not as it would no doubt only end in tears. Now Ava tells herself that her specific affliction is the reason that she can’t go and introduce herself to the musician next door. And it is one reason, but not the main one. The main reason would be her overwhelming fear of being rejected, dismissed, spurned, rebuffed, disdained, scorned, refused. Not that she was thinking of declaring her undying love and affection. She simply wants to tell him just how much his music means, how it has lit up her life, how it has changed the way she feels about everything. Though, naturally, Ava is a little worried that some avowals of adoration might slip out, unbidden, while she’s gushing about Mozart and Vivaldi. And so, to preserve the dignity and composure of all concerned, Ava is staying put.
Finn has made a decision. He’s going to approach the ghost at the end of his garden. This is absolute madness, he knows, since it’ll shatter the electrifying illusions he’s been basking in for the past few weeks. But he just can’t stand it any longer. He has to know if she’s real. Of course she won’t be, she’ll vanish the moment he sets foot on the grass, or she’ll evaporate at his touch, or she’ll disappear as soon as he stops playing, never to return again. He shouldn’t upset the status quo, Finn knows this. He shouldn’t be greedy by wanting more than he already has – it’ll only lead to misery, disappointment and dejection. And yet his curiosity and desire has fina
lly become too overwhelming to contain. The ghost has become a particularly beautiful and enchanting version of Pandora’s Box and Bluebeard’s Cupboard. Finn has to know. Even if it’ll ruin everything, he simply has to know.
And so, the next morning, instead of standing at his window Finn dresses early and takes his violin down to the garden. It’s pre-dawn and chilly and the ghost is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she knew he was coming so hasn’t appeared. Finn feels his heart contract, his stomach drop, his skin prick with sweat, all the colour drain from his face. It was a mistake. A dreadful, totally misjudged mistake. He wants to take it back. He wants to turn and run into the house and up to his bedroom window again.
He’ll choose to be content with just seeing her every morning, with watching her, playing to her and having her listen to him. Finn holds his violin to his hollow chest and glances back at the house, about to turn on his heel, when Greer appears.
Finn’s breath catches in his throat. He stands still, unable to step forward. Greer doesn’t move either. They stand a few metres apart. They watch each other. Very slowly, Finn exhales. He’s scared that if he disturbs the air even a fraction, she’ll dissolve into unsettled molecules. Now that he’s closer to her, Finn can see just how beautiful and absolutely transparent she is. He could reach his hand right through her. But he longs to touch her long red curls, to gaze into her big green eyes, to press his cheek against her lips, to entwine their fingers together.
From his very limited knowledge of fashion and style, it seems to Finn that the ghost has come from the 1950s. She’s voluptuous, beautifully fleshy and rounded in all the places Finn would particularly love to squeeze. And she’s wearing a tight moss-green silk shirt that reflects her eyes and a long light-blue skirt that puffs out to settle just below her knees. Her feet are bare.
Suddenly, the ghost is standing just a few feet in front of him. Finn freezes.
‘Hello,’ she says.
It feels like an eternity before he finds his voice. ‘Hello.’
‘I’m Greer.’
Silence.
‘Finn.’
‘I love to hear you play.’
‘Thank you. I … I love playing for you.’
She smiles, eyes lighting up, the lines in her face deepening. She must be in her mid to late forties, Finn guesses. Or, at least, she was.
‘I wasn’t certain if you were playing to me or not,’ Greer says. ‘I hoped you were, but I wasn’t certain.’
Finn nods. ‘You listen so … deeply, so completely. I’ve never …’ he smiles. ‘Not even my mother listened to me like that.’
‘Oh?’ Greer asks. ‘How can you be so sure?’
For a moment, Finn recalls the intensity of Greer’s listening, almost as if she were touching him, the heat of her fingers on his bare skin, until she was unwrapping him and holding his beating heart in her hands.
‘Because I feel it.’
‘Oh, okay.’
Slowly, she floats towards him, only stopping when they are nearly nose to nose. Finn exhales in rapid, stifled puffs. Greer doesn’t breathe at all. Instead, she closes her eyes.
She knows she shouldn’t be doing this. Just last night she kissed her husband, sort of, as much as she was able, anyway. Her husband. She hasn’t forgotten him; she still loves him. But she wants Finn. She can’t help it, she can’t control it, she can’t stop it. Greer has never felt such desperate, deep longing in all her life – or death. With Edward love was easy, safe and sweet. She stepped into their life together as one might step into a warm bubble bath, sinking into the water with a glass of wine and a great book. Their days together were lovely, playful and kind. The sex was delightful too, though it didn’t keep them up at night, even in the beginning. They didn’t find themselves overcome with lust, sparks firing off their fingertips at the smallest touch, they didn’t lose themselves in infinite, eternal kisses. And this, Greer is quite certain, is how it would be with Finn. Although, of course, how will she ever know? And perhaps that is simply it. Perhaps she only craves Finn so much because she can never truly have him. Isn’t it ever thus?
Greer opens her eyes, chastising herself. She’s clearly come back to earth in order to be a wife and a mother once more. She’s not here to indulge in fantasies, she’s not here to experiment and explore, she’s not here for personal gratification but to continue the life she’d left so abruptly before.
Finn is gazing at Greer with great longing. Greer bites her lip. She really should nip this in the bud. She should return to her husband’s house. She should soothe her spirit by watching Edward and Tilly sleep. Greer takes a step back, quite intending to do everything she’d just planned. But instead she seems to fold her legs under her skirt then float down to the grass.
‘Play for me,’ she says, her voice a betrayal, her heart snatching control from her mind. ‘Please.’
Without saying anything, Finn nods. He brings his violin up to his chin and rests his thin, delicate fingers on the strings. He takes his bow and begins to play. As the notes seep slowly into the air, Finn closes his eyes. As the music gradually fills the space between them, Greer watches Finn’s face soften and sink into the sounds, she watches his fingers shift and dart, she watches his body absorb every note and sway, ever so gently, in time to the music. And she longs not only to hold, to touch, to consume the musician, but also to step inside him so that she is the one creating the music, so that she too can feel the way he is feeling now.
Chapter Nine
Clara stands on the platform at St Pancras. She clutches her heavy cloth bag so tightly her knuckles are white and her fingernails dig into her skin. It’s the first time she’s left England and she’s going to a country where she knows no one and doesn’t even speak the language. She’s booked a B&B and has a map and phrase book. But, having already tried to practise, Clara quickly discovered that Dutch was rather tricky. It didn’t flow off the tongue like French or Italian, it stuck in the throat. Every sentence seemed to employ vast amounts of guttural consonants that twisted and tangled in Clara’s voice box leaving her speechless.
Someone next to Clara coughs. She glances across her shoulder to catch an older man looking at her.
‘Excuse me, but are you quite all right? You seem a bit …’
‘Terrified,’ Clara supplies. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a bit.’
‘You’ve never been to Europe before?’
Clara shakes her head.
The older man – short and stout with a cloud of white hair, a reassuringly ancient face that speaks of wisdom and experience – smiles. ‘Isn’t the mind a funny thing? Some people cherish the known and are terrified of the unknown while others are quite the opposite way, scared of routine and craving what’s new and untested.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Clara says. ‘Though I don’t really have much knowledge of anyone else’s mind other than my own.’
‘Wait till you’re my age,’ the old man offers, as the train doors slide open and passengers begin filing on, ‘then you’ll know so much you’ll keep forgetting it all.’
Clara gives a little snort of laughter. ‘I doubt that.’
Joining the lines of people boarding the train, Clara hesitates at the step, then takes a quick, deep breath and walks through the doors.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says, following her on. ‘It seems to me you’re widening your world already.’
Clara nods, glancing around for her seat – she’s memorised the number, 56D, and has hopefully alighted on the correct carriage – and dearly hoping that the old man will be seated close by. Unfortunately, among the bustle of people and bags, she loses sight of him and finds her seat next to a suited businessman with his bespectacled face buried in the Financial Times. Clara sighs softly. Usually she’d relish not having to converse but, in her nervous state, she’d rather welcome the distraction. As a chatty travelling companion he doesn’t look promising.
Sure enough, he doesn’t say a word during the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Brussels
. But, at the station, when Clara undergoes a minor nervous breakdown while trying to find the correct platform to transfer trains, he proves to be kind and helpful. Clara thanks him profusely and surprises them both by squeezing the businessman’s hand then dashing off towards the train bound for Amsterdam.
‘I’m so glad you’re back, Mum.’
Greer looks at Tilly and smiles. ‘Me too, dearest, me too.’
They’re sitting on the sofa (Tilly sitting, Greer hovering just above it) not really watching Thelma and Louise. They’ve seen the film nearly a hundred times and know virtually every line but still never tire of it – especially not of Brad Pitt. When Greer was very sick, in the final stages, Tilly would sit by her bed for endless hours while they watched (Greer drifting in and out of consciousness) their favourite films.
Often, in the last few weeks of her life, Greer would pretend to sleep but slowly turn her head towards Tilly, open one eye and gaze at her. She no longer had the energy to be furious at the fact that Tilly was being robbed of two mothers in one short lifetime; instead it just made her melancholy, the pain spilling out in tears that fell down her nose and soaked the pillow, before she tumbled back into true sleep again.
Now Greer again glances surreptitiously at Tilly, emotions once more threatening to overwhelm her, not sadness this time but joy. How could she have forgotten all of this life, all of this love? Death is a strange thing. The absence, the detachment, the serene emptiness of it. And she’s still finding settling back into the world, where everything seems dictated by desire, to be a rather difficult experience. It’s not helped, of course, that now her deepest desire seems to be for the musician.
When she was alive, Greer was overwhelmingly attached to Tilly. She’d put her to bed every night. She’d never missed a single night, not once. And every night, after she’d tucked Tilly in, after she’d switched on the bedside lamp, after she’d turned off the light, after she’d said ‘goodnight’ half a dozen times, Greer would whisper thanks to the woman who’d died, leaving a mother-shaped space for someone to step into and be charged with taking care of her daughter. Every night Greer thanked her stars that she was that woman.
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