Emma lay awake for a while feeling dry-mouthed, heavy-headed and miserable. If she hadn’t craved for a drink of water she wouldn’t have bothered to get out of bed when she did. As it was, she went only as far as the bathroom where she filled the tooth mug and took a long draught of cold water before refilling the mug and taking it back to her room, It was just past eight but there was no sound from her mother and Emma saw no reason for waking her. Since there was no school to worry about any more, she returned to her bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin.
Emma realised that a lot of impetus would go out of her life now that her absence from school would break all links with Alex Dowding. Any further encounter seemed improbable. He would certainly avoid them. Nonetheless, she persisted in her belief that love could only engender love, although the prospect of complete isolation from Alex made her almost lose heart. Her feelings had not been at all changed by his apparent emotional frigidity. She had always suspected that he would be a peculiarly difficult man to relate to, but she could not accept that he was wholly inhuman. In any case, she had not been drawn to him in the first place because she considered him to be particularly likeable, but because she had always looked up to him and respected him. Now she felt entirely committed and the idea of separation was devastating.
After laying there musing for a while, Emma allowed herself to drift back into a light, disturbed sleep in which she could sense the presence of both her mother and Alex but was unable to quite realise them. As she grew increasingly anxious and confused she was confronted by Jean Jones, the headmistress, who said that she had been sent to inform Emma that she would not be allowed to see either of them again. Emma became angry. She could not understand why the headmistress should be able to stop them from coming to her. And then a horrifying thought occurred to her. Jean Jones was Death! No sooner had this awesome thought struck her than Death became a vivid omnipresence and Emma felt sick with fear as she realised that it was coming for her this time. She too must be absorbed into the oblivion that was Death. And then, just as a sense of panic began to take over, she was woken with a start and sat up in bed, her body wet with perspiration and the sinking, sickening feeling in her stomach increasing. She remained still for a moment, hoping the nausea would pass, but instead it reached a pitch and she dashed to the bathroom. Once she had been sick Emma could be rational again and death became just another word and the vague, incomprehensible expectation it had become in recent months.
When Emma entered her mother’s room with two cups of tea and a plate of toast on a tray just after nine, she found her mother already propped up in bed.
“That’s nice, Emma,” she commented. “Could you get me some fresh water as well?” She indicated the glass which stood on her bedside table along with some bottles of tablets. Emma fetched the water and then sat down on the edge of her mother’s bed.
“Was it something you ate?” inquired her mother.
“Something I drank, I’m afraid.”
“Were you out last night then?”
“No. I was in with a bottle of port. I bought it specially. I gave Mrs Mitchell something to think about anyway!”
Her mother sighed. “Well, it won’t do you any harm just this once, but don’t make a habit of it.”
“The way I feel this morning I doubt if I’ll ever want to touch drink again.”
“I can recall your father saying exactly the same thing on numerous occasions.”
“I didn’t think he was a drinker.”
“Oh, only socially.” Grace Tomlinson shifted the pillows behind her back. “At parties. That’s when he was in his element of course. He loved to be the centre of attention.” She sighed again. “And he was very entertaining. Good at all the trivial things in life, that sums up Peter: good at telling jokes, good at saying the right thing, even good at cards and tennis. And, of course, good at chatting up women. Ironically that’s what stopped him getting on in his job. He was clever, but he had flirtations. Not affairs, flirtations. He loved attention. I suppose it was partly my fault. I stopped being impressed with him so he turned elsewhere for admiration. And there was nothing very special about Angela except for the fact that she genuinely adored Peter.” Grace had been speaking in a vague, distracted manner, but now she turned and addressed her daughter directly. “The funny thing is that I adored him too, despite everything. And then, after he had gone, well there was you to look after. Things haven’t been too bad. I’d have liked to see my first grandchild. But, well, it’ll happen just the same without me.” She reached out and took her daughter’s hand. “You will try and be sensible won’t you?”
When Paul called on the following Saturday morning Emma was genuinely pleased to see him. She needed a distraction.
“These are lovely!” she exclaimed when she opened the front door to find him standing there with a large bouquet of flowers.
“Not for you, I’m afraid. For your mother. Gary told me she was ill.”
Emma laughed. “What a shame. I’ve never been given flowers by a man. Still, I’m sure my mother will be delighted with them. Do you want to come in for a minute?”
“If you’re sure I won’t be disturbing you.”
“Of course not. My mother is reading. If you go into the lounge I’ll take those through to her.”
Emma returned after a moment or two and smiled at him. Paul was still standing but he had picked up a book that Emma had left open on a chair and was flicking through the pages with interest.
“My mother thinks that they are lovely. She says that you must be a very nice young man. I won’t introduce you. She’s not feeling at her best. Don’t take it personally.”
“Of course not. I quite understand.”
Emma sat down and indicated that he should do the same. There was a brief and awkward silence and then Emma said brightly,
“I got drunk for the first time the other day.”
“Oh?”
“Haven’t you ever been drunk?”
“Once. I didn’t like it. You can’t think straight when you are drunk.”
“That is precisely why I went to the trouble of getting drunk.”
There was another silence and Emma desperately searched her mind for something to say. In the end she abandoned the attempt and apologised.”
“I’m sorry if I’m a bit odd at the moment. It’s a funny time.”
“I understand. I’ll go if you like.”
“No. I’m glad you are here.”
Paul looked immediately pleased and said, “I was beginning to think that you didn’t like me.”
“Of course I like you.” Emma blushed at her own words. “As I said, it’s a funny time.”
In the end they found common ground by talking about the book that Paul had found. They soon discovered that they had both enjoyed many of the same books and quite soon all traces of awkwardness disappeared. In the end Paul glanced at his watch and said,
“I really ought to go you know. I was supposed to meet Gary at the Queen’s Head for lunch and I’m already late.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
“That’s alright. I wanted to stay.” Paul rose unwillingly and followed Emma to the front door. Just before he left he turned back to her.
“Can I call again?”
“Of course.” Emma gently closed the front door.
Paul called again on the following Wednesday, bringing with him another bunch of flowers. This time they were for Emma. The two soon discovered that they shared not only an interest in literature but other interests and attitudes and even a similar sense of humour. After that, Paul’s visits became more frequent and Emma found herself looking forward to them. Indeed, apart from her mother and Mrs Mitchell, Emma saw very little of anyone except Paul in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Claire did make the effort to call at Emma’s house briefly, on the last day of term, to bring Emma some cards. Mrs Jones visited her on the Thursday before Christmas. The two spent a few minutes swapping platitudes. Apa
rt from that, Emma’s time was devoted entirely to her mother. However, on Christmas Eve, Mr and Mrs Mitchell spent the evening with Grace whilst Emma went to Paul’s house for sherry and mince pies.
Paul introduced her to his parents who then faded tactfully into the background, leaving them with the log fire and a bottle of sherry. Emma, who had not had a drink since the occasion with the port, found that her spirits were soon raised and her eyes soon shining. They talked a bit about the reading Paul had to do over the holiday and about whether or not there were any films worth watching over the next few days. Paul refilled Emma’s glass for the fourth time. Then, looking down at her loose hair draped on the shoulders of her blue dress and her bright, happy eyes, he said,
“You know you look lovely by fire light.”
Emma giggled in response. “What a daft thing to say!”
“I mean it. You do.”
“Well, thankyou, then.”
“There was a pause and then Paul said, “Do you want your Christmas present now?”
“Christmas present?”
“From me.”
“Goodness.” Emma put her glass down on the hearth. “I really didn’t expect a present.”
Paul went over to the Christmas tree and took a small present, which was wrapped in red paper and tied with a silver bow, from amongst the braches. He handed it to Emma who stood up to receive it.
“Oh, Paul, that is nice of you.” She smiled at him warmly. “Can I open it?”
“Of course.”
Emma slid off the bow and unwrapped it. She found herself holding an anthology of poetry.
“I’ve put little ticks in the index by the ones I like so that you can read them too.”
“That’s lovely. Thankyou, Paul. Thankyou.” Emma was deeply touched by the gesture and wanted to convey to Paul just how grateful she was. He was standing very close beside her, watching her face, and for a moment she thought of kissing him. She was already more than a little tipsy and it seemed to be an appropriate moment for a kiss. But before Emma had time to make up her mind what to do, Paul moved towards her and put his hands on her shoulders. No sooner had his lips touched hers than Emma flinched instinctively away from him. Instantly she regretted the move. There would have been no harm in giving him a single kiss. In fact she had thought that she wanted to. As it was, Paul flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said stiffly.
“You just took me by surprise,” said Emma in a quiet voice.”
“I thought we had got to know each other well.”
“We have,” Emma assured him. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to kiss me then. You took me by surprise.” Emma knew that to make amends she should now take the initiative and kiss him. But she just could not do it. Paul seemed to sense this and said glumly,
“I really thought you liked me.”
“Oh, but I do!” cried Emma in consternation. “I really do, it’s just that...” she stopped abruptly.
“There’s someone else isn’t there?”
Emma nodded miserably.
“Is it Gary?”
“Gary?” Emma was astonished.
“Claire thought that you might like Gary.”
“I do. But not in that way. Good Heavens! I thought she knew me better than that.”
“Who is it then?”
Emma sighed. “No one you know. No one at all really. I mean, I’ll never see him again, so it doesn’t really matter that much anyway.”
There was silence between them.
“Why did you lead me on then?” said Paul at last.
“I didn’t lead you on!” exclaimed Emma indignantly. “I thought we were friends. I simply enjoyed your company. I wasn’t trying to mislead you. You must know that.”
Paul sighed and turned back to face her. He had been staring into the fire as she spoke. Emma thought how boyish his flushed face looked. At the same time she noticed the set of his mouth. When he spoke there was a quiet determination in his voice.
“You must be aware of how I feel about you, Emma. There is no point in me pretending otherwise. I’ve become more than a little fond of you. I also believe that you could be equally fond of me if only you would let yourself. I don’t know how long it will take you to get over this other person, but you know that I’ll wait.”
Emma looked at the resolute and earnest expression of the tall, fair haired young man and was filled with a sense of regret that she had nothing to offer in return for his apparent devotion. She shook her head and said,
“I’m so sorry, Paul, but I feel that I’m already committed to someone else. Whatever happens, I can’t honestly say if or when my feelings will change.”
“Are you likely to see this person again?”
“No.”
“You can’t keep faith with a ghost.”
Emma flushed. “I’ve seen it done before.”
“Well, what’s the point when I’m offering you something real and immediate? You need to be loved. You know you do.”
He moved towards her and took her by the shoulders again, but as Emma looked up at him the only emotion that stirred within her was pity. She shrugged him off, tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Paul. I’m truly sorry,” was all she said.
The two stood apart and for a while neither spoke. In the end it was Paul’s mother who, coming in to see if they wanted some mince pies, broke the silence. They both followed her into the kitchen and contrived to say as little as possible to each other and Emma found that she was relieved to be able to take advantage of the sanctuary offered by the bright, noisy kitchen. At the end of the evening Paul’s father drove Emma home. Paul came along too and when they reached Emma’s house he got out to see her to the door. As she turned the key in the lock Paul held out his hand for her to shake.
“Friends?”
“Friends.” She took his hand and they smiled at each other in relief. But as Emma closed the door behind her she knew that there was no real future for their friendship.
Christmas Day was a dreary day for Emma. Perhaps it seemed dreary because her own mood was measured against the assumption that everyone else was happy and jolly. She had intended to make an effort for her mother’s sake, but somehow her heart just wasn’t in it and hollow cheer turned out to be more depressing than overt melancholy, so in the end she gave up. Matters were not helped by their joint decision to leave the small turkey they had bought in the freezer and to settle for opening a tin of ham for lunch. Emma was an indifferent cook and her mother had not had much of an appetite in the preceding days, so there seemed no point in bothering to cook a large, traditional meal. However, by the time they had finished their ham sandwiches Emma had found that tears of self-pity were starting to well up in her eyes.
“You’re fed up, aren’t you dear?” observed her mother as Emma brought in the Yule log and coffee. Emma nodded her head.
“You’ve been so good so far.”
“It’s not that,” Emma sniffed. “Oh, it’s everything!”
“Are you sure that it’s not something or even someone in particular?”
Emma allowed herself a little smile at her mother’s astuteness.
“Yes.”
“But it isn’t Paul?”
“No.”
“Is he married?”
“No. Of course not!”
“I’m glad about that. I knew there must be something wrong or you would have told me about him.”
“Do you want me to tell you about him now?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
Laying the Ghosts Page 8