Greer had been pregnant once in her life, as a teenager. At first she’d been scared and had hoped that ignoring the situation might make it go away. But the first time she’d felt her baby move she’d started wanting it to stay. As the months passed, Greer’s attachment had grown and when she at last went into labour her excitement – before the searing pain kicked in – fizzed over into bubbles of joy that burst open in the hospital corridors, making the nurses giggle.
But, thirteen and a half hours later, when her baby finally slid into the world, the sterile room wasn’t pierced with infant cries. And Greer had been too stunned by pain to do anything but wait while medical staff darted about. She didn’t know to be worried. She’d never experienced birth before, so she didn’t know what normal procedure was. And so, when they finally placed her daughter, wrapped in a thin pink cotton blanket, in her arms and started to explain, Greer wasn’t listening. She was staring at her baby girl, so achingly small, so heart-contractingly beautiful: big fluttering green eyes that didn’t focus, bump of a nose, tiny bow mouth, dusting of dark red hair and minute fingers that wrapped themselves tightly around hers and held on as long as they could.
Now Greer reaches for Tilly across the sofa. But, of course, her transparent fingers slip right through her stepdaughter’s solid hand and Greer sighs. Or she would have, if she had the breath to do so. Instead the strain of a sigh rises up and shakes through her spirit. The inability to touch is difficult. It’s funny, really, what the living take for granted – their five senses – while Greer is left with only three. She can’t taste, since she doesn’t eat, and she can’t touch. Naturally, she couldn’t miss this while dead but now that she’s back in a world dominated by senses she misses them both enormously. Touch, most of all, but taste too. Greer was always an eater. She adored food and had looked forward to the moments when it would punctuate her day. Now she watches listlessly while Tilly and Edward eat dinner (decidedly sub-par compared to the meals she’d always cooked, though she’s tactful enough not to comment on this) wishing she could have a bite of buttered toast or baked potato. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Edward’s culinary skills are pretty basic then, since his offerings don’t infuse Greer with the depth of longing more splendid fare might.
‘Hey, girls,’ Edward says, poking his head around the living-room door. ‘What are you up to?’
Greer looks up but Tilly doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.
‘Haven’t you seen this a thousand times?’ he asks, without waiting for an answer.
Greer nods, smiling apologetically. In the past she would have made a joke about the infinite allure of Pitt, but now guilt – exacerbated by the fact that she actually is lusting after another man – silences her.
‘Brad Pitt is totally gorgeous, Dad,’ Tilly says. ‘You just don’t get it.’
Amused, Edward catches Greer’s eyes and rolls his own.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he says, ‘to help me navigate the turbulent waters of the teenage years.’ He steps across the room to the sofa and bends down to kiss the air above her head. ‘And, of course, because I missed you like hell.’
Greer looks up at him, smiling again, more lovingly this time.
‘Me too,’ she says, because it’s true. She just wishes it was the whole truth.
Clara stands on tiptoes, looking out of the little attic window at the rain. It’s pouring down in thick sheets, promising to soak to the bone anyone who dares to venture outside. Clara finds this oddly comforting: not only does the weather remind her of home but it’s a little like an invisibility cloak. People don’t stop and chat in the rain, they barely even look at each other, hurrying face-to-the-ground to their destinations. It’s in sunshine that you have to meet people’s eyes and return their smiles and slow down to appreciate your surroundings. Clara isn’t such a fan of summers – though, fortunately, in England it rains for most of the summer months too.
Clara glances back at the bed where the thick folder of letters sits atop the patchwork quilt. The room is very small, with just enough space for a single bed, a tiny table and chair, but Clara takes comfort in its smallness – snug and close like a hug. Today she has an appointment at The Amsterdam Archive of Paperphilia, one of the curators having promised to take a look at her letters, and she doesn’t want to be late. Fortunately, she’s brought a raincoat and umbrella and an oversize oilcloth handbag in which to house her letters. So she slips her city map into the bag, along with her purse, room key and, finally, very carefully, reverently, the folder of letters.
Stepping onto the slick paving stones of the street, Clara walks slowly, umbrella in one hand, map in the other, bag slung tightly across her chest. She plans on walking all the way, not trusting her abilities to navigate public transport without ending up somewhere else entirely. She’s worked out that it’ll probably take about an hour to reach her destination, taking into account the careful stepping necessitated by the heavy rain.
In fact, it takes Clara nearly two hours to find the Archive, having taken several wrong turns and wandered down a few too many streets more than once before realising what she’s done. Unfortunately, the street names – Helmersstraat, Herengracht, Honthorststraat, Hobbemastraat – don’t make navigation the simplest of tasks, especially with the downpour of rain. And, by the time she finally reaches the steps of the Archive, Clara is nearly weeping with relief. Fortunately, she’s not late, having planned on arriving an hour before she needed to, so she’s now exactly on time. And absolutely soaking wet.
Hurrying up the stone steps as safely as she can without slipping, Clara shakes off her sodden umbrella and wraps it up, still dripping, and tucks it under her left arm. Then she shakes herself, like a dog who’s just clambered out of a river, sending raindrops scattering. Finally, as dry as she can possibly make herself in a minute, without the aid of any towels, Clara pushes through the thick glass doors and into the dark foyer.
After announcing herself at the check-in desk (trying to ignore the slightly scathing look of the receptionist, clearly unhappy at the puddles collecting under Clara’s feet) she sits on a wooden bench a few feet away. Just as soon as she’s sat, Clara stands as a gentleman, probably in his early fifties, wearing a corduroy suit and gold eyeglasses balanced atop his long nose, strides towards her, arm outstretched and smiling.
‘Ms Cohen, what a pleasure.’ His voice is soft and low and warm. ‘I’m Mr Akkersijk, and don’t worry, I don’t expect you to attempt pronunciation.’
Clara swallows a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘I’m sure I would butcher it dreadfully. But it’s a pleasure to meet you, anyway. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he says. ‘Anything of an epistolary nature fascinates me, especially that which is historical. Please, follow me.’
Mr Akkersijk turns and his long, thin legs take him quickly through a door and down a corridor. Clara hurries after him. When they reach his office he gestures for her to sit in the only other chair apart from his, then slides behind his desk.
‘So, Ms Cohen, what do you have for me?’
He sits forward, his voice keen as a schoolboy’s and Clara sees that he wasn’t exaggerating his passion for letters. She opens her bag slowly, partly to prolong her enjoyment of his endearing eagerness and partly to postpone the possible disappointment if her letters don’t meet his expectations.
Carefully, she slides the folder across his desk as Mr Akkersijk leans forward to claim it. She watches Mr Akkersijk as he reads the first, then the second letter. She’s strangely charmed by him, by his total absorption, how he mouths the words as his eyes follow the sentences, the way his fingers twitch, as if unable to contain his energy, his excitement.
As he continues to read, turning the pages precisely and delicately, not once looking up, Clara is surprised to find herself begin to feel something else – charm and interest are slowly threading together to form a tentative, incomplete attraction. Clara frowns. M
r Akkersijk is possibly a decade older than she and not exactly handsome. And yet … He has a quality about him she’s never seen before. It’s so unusual, in fact, that it takes her a little while to make sense of it, a way of being usually only seen in young children and canines: an unreserved delight for life.
Finally, Mr Akkersijk looks up.
Quickly, Clara flicks her glance from his face to the letters.
‘Well, Ms Cohen,’ he says, his voice now quite giddy with glee. ‘I do believe you have some very special letters here.’
Chapter Ten
Ava holds a plate of blueberry scones out in front of her. Though she’s still ever-so-slightly terrified of rejection, and rather scared of blurting out the saddest events of his life, she’s been unable to resist meeting her new neighbour any longer. And, to soften the potential blow, Ava’s decided to hide behind baked goods.
She taps on the door and waits. After a full minute, realising she hadn’t knocked loudly enough, Ava does so again. Three minutes after that, she knocks again. The door opens immediately. He looks dazed and confused.
‘Oh.’ Finn pauses. ‘Hello.’
Ava’s grip on the plate tightens. She can see he was hoping it’d be someone else. She wants to turn and scamper back to her own doorstep. But that would be rude and, more importantly, embarrassing. So, given that she might be living next door to him for a while (she’s certainly planning on staying put for the rest of her life) it’s important to maintain a modicum of cool.
‘Hi, um …’ Ava thrusts the plate forward. ‘I brought you these.’
Her neighbour looks at the plate, perplexed, as if trying to fathom what the small lumps of baked dough might be.
‘They’re scones,’ Ava explains.
‘Ah.’
‘You don’t like them? That’s okay.’ She withdraws the plate, pulling it back to her chest. ‘I just, I just wanted to welcome …’
As she trails off, Finn looks suddenly mortified.
‘Oh, God.’ He runs his long, thin fingers through his hair. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being completely—I thought … I just … Never mind …’ He steps aside. ‘Please, come in.’
Ava considers making an excuse, saying she has an appointment, somewhere else to be, a vital and important place. She shouldn’t risk the high probability of making a total fool of herself, of saying something extremely unorthodox, of exposing herself as not entirely normal and thus alienating her beautiful neighbour for ever. But of course, no matter the risk, Ava can’t resist stepping forward and into Finn’s house.
She follows him along the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen. His home is narrow and dark, just like hers. But, while every inch of Ava’s home is crowded with books (she could open her own large-sized library) her neighbour’s is almost entirely empty. Perhaps it’s just because he’s only recently moved in, although Ava’s surreptitious glances don’t glean any piles of boxes or swathes of bubble wrap, nothing that promises any amount of hidden belongings.
Finn hovers next to the kettle, drawing his finger delicately up and down the wooden kitchen counter. Ava watches, hiding her gaze behind her plate of blueberry scones, feeling a fluttering in her chest as she starts to imagine his fingers opening the buttons on her crisp white shirt, gently slipping the cotton over her shoulder blades, and … Ava lets out a little gasp and Finn glances up.
‘What?’
Quickly, she shakes her head. ‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘Okay. Well, um, would you like a cup of tea?’
Even as he asks Ava senses that he doesn’t really want to. He’d rather be somewhere else, doing something else. She should say ‘no’. She should just excuse herself and leave.
Ava nods. ‘Yes, please. That’d be lovely.’
‘All right.’ Finn nods. He opens the cupboard above his head. It’s empty – except for a small box of tea bags. ‘Is Earl Grey okay? It’s all I’ve got.’
‘Perfect,’ Ava says.
As Finn boils the kettle and roots around for cups, Ava wracks her befuddled brain for some new words, preferably ones that might dazzle and intrigue him. But what can she possibly say to someone who plays the most exquisite music she’s ever heard? Does he even talk about normal things, or is it that he only cares about lofty concepts, philosophical and esoteric ideas – thoughts that soar above everyday chatter, in the same way his music does, beyond the trees and far, far out of her reach?
She could talk about books, or cryptic crosswords. She still has a few clues knocking about in a mind otherwise overflowing with sonatas, concertos, symphonies and canons. Hey, Finn, how about: A mad girl’s composition (8)? A rider is all for a recess (5)? Turned on the epidural! (4-6)? Oh, you think I’m a little strange? You’ve changed your mind about the tea, after all? You think I should leave your house, right now, sharpish. Okay.
This fantasy scenario wraps itself so firmly around Ava that she actually pushes her chair away from the table, and is about to stand, before realising that the conversation only took place in her head. She looks up to see Finn still staring at the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
Ava wonders what type of books she could discuss. Novels or non-fiction? What might Finn be more interested in? Since he has no clues in his house – at least from what she can see so far – it’s a little hard to tell. She could pick something learned, something deep and clever, something to prove her worthiness as a life partner. Shakespeare? Too cliché. Woolf or Eliot? Too feminine. Turgenev or Dostoyevsky? Too risky. Ava chews on her lip, considering her options. Slowly, she scrolls the bibliography in her brain, letting each author and title roll past until she settles then discards, settles then discards …
Perhaps she should just ask him who his favourite authors are. It’d be a lot simpler. But less like kismet. Ava opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Perhaps she should talk about music instead? About Mozart, Mahler and Monteverdi, Beethoven, Bach and Brahms, Schubert, Stravinsky and Strauss, Purcell, Puccini and Pergolesi, Rachmaninoff, Ravel and Rossini. Surely Finn would love that. It’d be fabulous. A perfect plan. Except for the small fact that Ava knows nothing about any of these musicians other than their names, dates of birth and major compositions. Six years ago she read the blurb of a dense book entitled The 100 Greatest Classical Composers and, being blessed with a photographic memory, Ava can now recall every name on the list. It’s a shame she didn’t read the actual book.
Finn slides a cup of tea onto the table. Ava looks up.
‘Milk?’ he asks.
She shakes her head. Now she needs non-milk-related words. Great, perceptive, witty, profound, dazzling words. But what can she possibly offer him in verbal brilliance that could match the glory of his music?
Finn sits at the table and takes a sip of tea. Then he lets out one long, deep sigh.
‘I think I’m in love with a ghost,’ he says.
Next door Greer, standing in the kitchen and instructing Edward on the correct way to prepare chicken, stops. She feels a shift in the air, though she can’t say exactly what it is or what it means. She glances over at Edward to see if he feels it too, but he’s staring intently at the lump of raw meat on the chopping board in front of him, poking it suspiciously with a knife, as if it might suddenly sprout feathered wings and fly away.
‘Why don’t I buy a hot one from the supermarket?’
Greer smiles, still wondering at the warm breeze that just brushed against her cheek and shivered through her whole body.
‘Now, what would be the fun in that?’
‘Fun?’ Edward looks up at her, stricken. ‘This is supposed to be fun?’
Greer shrugs apologetically. ‘If I could do it, I would. Sadly …’ She flaps her transparent hands in front of him. ‘And, at this rate, our daughter’s going to end up malnourished and the size of a stick.’
Edward sighs. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘It’s hopeless.’
Greer is surprised to realise that the absence of the brief, warm breeze has left her feeling c
old. She hadn’t noticed this before – her ability to feel physical sensation – when did it develop? Why? Greer feels a sudden flash of hope. Does this mean something? Is it possible that she’s slowly becoming a flesh-and-blood woman again? The very idea seems ludicrous. How would that work? And why on earth would she, of all the people who’ve ever died, be given the gift of life again? It makes absolutely no sense at all. And yet, now that the hope has risen up – unbidden – she cannot quash it down again.
Now Ava is truly speechless. Conflicting emotions explode like fireworks and ricochet through her body. Shock. Sorrow. Disappointment. Devastation. Curiosity. That he’s already in love with someone else shouldn’t, of course, be a surprise. She’d have been surprised, in fact, if he wasn’t. Though she’d hoped somehow, she’d hoped – is hope a frightful thing sometimes? Does it turn disappointment into devastation? – that perhaps he might be free. But here it is. Declared. Unable to undo, to unsay, to let the words curl up once more and return to his mouth.
‘A ghost?’ Ava says at last, when the storm of devastation has finally settled enough so the light of curiosity can peek through. ‘You’re in—you … with a ghost?’
Now that she looks at him, Ava sees Finn’s face is marked with his own sorrow and shock. He nods.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that – I don’t even know … You probably think I’m absolutely mad now, don’t you? Well, of course – what sort of man blurts out confessions of devotion for the deceased,’ he blathers on, seemingly unable to stop. ‘But, don’t worry, I’m not talking about a corpse. I’m not a necro—whatever those people are called who have sex with dead bodies. Oh dear, now you probably think that’s exactly what … You think you’re living next door to a total lunatic.’
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 7