Ghost Girl

by Thomson, Lesley

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I…’ Jack’s father had hated excuses. He measured out the powder into a bowl, trickled in water from a pint bottle and stirred until the mixture was a thick malleable consistency. He cut squares of gauze with a scalpel, soaked them in the plaster and then laid them out on an artist’s palette. Holding the palette and a flat-bladed knife he worked his way along the stuffy crawl space to emerge in the middle of the Thames.

  ‘Did you mention I was here the other night? To your daughter?’ He regretted the question instantly. The old man would not have mentioned him, he trusted Jack. His question fractured that trust.

  The man was mumbling something.

  ‘Pardon?’ Jack leaned out over Hammersmith Flyover.

  ‘She’s not my daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s not my business.’ Jack’s hands trembled as he draped the plastered gauze over the wire frame he had exposed on his last visit, careful not to drop any on to the rails. He did not apply too much or the roof would sag and lower the height of the tunnel. Practised at constructing tunnels, Jack knew how to spread the load and keep the height for the rolling stock.

  The old man behaved as if he had not heard Jack speak.

  Preoccupied with his mistake, for the second time Jack did not hear his Host return until she opened the door to the flat.

  She paused at the second flight to get her breath; once upon a time she had run up and down these stairs, carrying bags, trays of hot drinks, laundered blankets. She sniffed the air; there was an infinitesimal change. She put down her bag and padded along the corridor to the first dormitory.

  Everything was as she had left it. Or was it? Colin’s bed was made, yet she didn’t recall smoothing the blanket and he wouldn’t have made it himself. Before term started she would collect up the glasses and give them a wash. Jimmy had dropped his book on the floor – he was a one for reading after lights out; she bustled over. She had to guess his place from the way the book fell open. No bookmark, silly boy.

  How often she had stood in the doorway listening to the boys’ breathing, ready to catch the culprit who had been up to mischief and was feigning sleep. She had always hated the holidays when beds were empty.

  She heard his voice as soon as she entered the flat, conspiratorial and secretive. It twisted her stomach. She went to the kitchen and decided to find a tasty snack for him. He’d like that.

  He was flicking at a rooftop with her pastry brush. She stumbled in and leant on the Chiswick boundary. He eyed her over his glasses. He didn’t like being disturbed at work, but he was always at work, she had no choice.

  A District line train left Hammersmith station and rattled along the viaduct down to Barons Court where it stopped to let passengers alight and get on board. She watched it disappear into the tunnel. The plaster was a brilliant white; he had repaired it. Perhaps he would let her paint it.

  26

  Thursday, 26 April 2012

  Stella had not read David Barlow’s directions. She had forgotten all about the date. She found the folded note in her anorak when, having done all she could do at Terry’s, apart from eat the shepherd’s pie, she was looking for her van keys. Even allowing for her watch’s extra minutes, she was due at the pub in ten minutes. The sloping capitals were like Jack’s handwriting. She should have stuck to her initial instinct and refused the invitation. Except her initial instinct had been to agree. She read the directions and caught her breath. The Ram, by the Bell Steps leading to the River Thames, had been Terry’s local. Maybe a drink was just what she needed.

  Outside the subway tunnel Stella checked her appearance in the distorted reflection of the convex safety mirror. She fluffed up her hair. The style was meant to be messy, but not this messy; it kept falling over her eyes. She would have to do.

  On time, she pushed open the door of the nineteenth-century pub on the corner of Hammersmith Terrace and Black Lion Lane as Terry must so often have done. She wondered briefly if he had ever spoken to David Barlow.

  Stella saw him at once because he was in the seat near the fireplace. She had chosen that seat the only time she been here before; and, it being out of the way, she had been heading for it again now. That night she had been avoiding a man whom she had dumped. This memory made Stella feel bad.

  ‘What do you fancy drinking?’ He was by her side.

  ‘Let me,’ she countered.

  He shook his head, so she gave in and requested a ginger beer.

  When David Barlow returned, he sat opposite her and they clinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers!’ They said it together and laughed. Stella relaxed.

  ‘The grave looks good with the headstone. Tidying took me a while, but done and dusted now.’

  Stella could not think what to say. Jackie had offered to take her to Mortlake Crematorium on the anniversary of Terry’s death to see the Memorial book open on the page with her message. ‘To Dad, love Stella.’ Stella had been on a twelve-hour shift and besides, she said, the crematorium had a website, she could see it online anytime.

  ‘Do you miss your father?’ He was looking searchingly at her.

  ‘Yes.’ Stella gulped her drink and the bubbles made her cough. She hadn’t properly considered this before. She was suffused with heat although the fire was not lit and, unlike the previous time she was here when it had been snowing, the door was propped open, letting in a cool evening breeze.

  ‘You were close. That’s nice. When I was a boy me and my dad were like that.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘But we grew apart. Jennifer wanted me to make something of myself. My dad didn’t fit her bill. He was a mechanic – he could have built a car from scratch – but Jennifer didn’t have time for cars that needed mending. I miss him for the wrong reason. Too many regrets. The newspaper article said your dad was proud of your success.’

  ‘Don’t know how they knew that.’ Stella gripped her glass. ‘Amazing you kept the newspaper.’ While pleased at the PR success, Jackie had thought this peculiar.

  ‘To be honest, the newspaper was lining the bottom of the wardrobe. I found it when I was disposing of Jennifer’s shoes and what not.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeves, smoothing the material at each fold. He ran a hand over his arm, up and down. Stella found herself picturing doing the same. His skin would be smooth, yet muscular. ‘I thought that if you could give your dad that send-off you’d be principled. Our parents launch us into the world; we owe it to them to see them out. I reckoned Clean Slate would be like you.’ He took a draught of his beer.

  Jackie had predicted that readers of the article would think that. When Stella had been horrified that Terry’s funeral had made the front page, she had said it was great publicity. Her comment had surprised Stella since Jackie discouraged her from always taking a business perspective. ‘Sometimes it’s good to think with the heart,’ Jackie said.

  Stella tried to think with the heart. ‘You must miss your wife.’

  ‘Would it shock you to say I miss my dad more?’

  Stella had cleaned for too many households to be easily shocked, but shook her head, deciding it unwise to voice this. Clean as if you can’t be seen. What you see, never say, she had penned for the Clean Slate staff manual. Thinking of this reassured her.

  ‘Jennifer and I weren’t right for each other. We met too young. Since we didn’t have children, these days we might have gone our separate ways. But I hold store by loyalty and she was not a woman to give up.’

  ‘Like school friends who remember the person you want to forget you were.’ Stella was not in touch with anyone from school and supposed this was why.

  ‘That’s exactly right!’ He drained his pint glass and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Why do we go to school reunions? Jennifer’s death is hard because, if I’m honest, it’s a relief.’

  Stella thought of her manual: Listen and nod; keep cleaning. The client is not interested in you, only that you agree. Suzie talked about Terry as if they had stayed together for th
e last forty years. ‘If you had divorced it might not have helped,’ she pondered.

  ‘I’ll never know.’ He got up. ‘Another?’

  Stella’s eye caught the blackboard chalked with the evening’s menu and remembered the shepherd’s pie. She had planned to return to Terry’s after the drink to eat it, but she was hungry now.

  ‘Do you have time to eat? I thought perhaps…’ She hated eating with other people. ‘Although if you’ve eaten…’

  ‘Great! We’ll keep off death, is that a deal?’ He beamed, his blue eye bright. ‘What’ll we have?’ He turned to the board. Stella went for the ham and eggs; it was what she had eaten the previous time here. She was vaguely gratified when David chose the same.

  While he ordered, Stella cast about for conversation topics. Men had limits on hearing about new cleaning methods however technical she could be.

  The pub was busier than it had been on the snowy night last year. While he queued, David was chatting with three young men perched on stools, coordinated in light suits, brown hair cut short and gelled back. They laughed uproariously at something he had said. Stella recognized them from last time and this made her wonder again if Terry too might have chatted with David while waiting at the bar. Her phone was ringing.

  ‘Please could I speak to Stella?’

  ‘Obviously you are. Hello, Jack.’

  ‘I called your home and got no answer. Aren’t we meant to be meeting?’

  Another appointment that Stella had completely forgotten.

  Jack didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll meet you at Terry’s in half an hour.’ Stella hadn’t told Jack that she spent every evening at her dad’s because he would ask why and she didn’t know. Or worse he would know and tell her.

  ‘I’m at Terry’s now. I can see your van.’

  ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Go on, guess!’ Jack sounded cheery.

  ‘I can’t.’ David was shaking hands with one of the men at the bar.

  ‘I know the name of the street!’

  ‘What street?’ David was making his way towards her, holding the drinks carefully to avoid spilling them. Her evening had slipped away.

  ‘Marquis Way.’ Jack seemed astonished that she could ask.

  Jack often continued conversations broken off days before and expected her to keep up, but this time Stella had started the conversation. Ever since her visit to the library she had been impatient to tell Jack about identifying Britton Drive, but after she had sorted Terry’s house and remembered her drink with David, she had forgotten. ‘Yes. So have…’ she tailed off. Jackie would advise she didn’t trump others’ success with her own. David was handing a glass of ginger beer to her. She took it and mouthed a thank you.

  ‘I had a hunch about Marquis Way, I’m sure it’s near the front of the file. Like I said, I’ve walked there.’

  ‘That’s great.’ Stella spoke in a monotone. David tilted his glass against hers in a silent toast. Their fingers brushed. She pressed the phone to her ear to cut out the background chatter.

  ‘Where are you? Sounds like a pub. It’s past eight. I need to get to… I need an early night.’ Jack’s voice was jerky; he was walking, his breath across the microphone was like the roar of the wind. With sudden clarity Stella knew that she couldn’t tell him about David. There was nothing to tell.

  ‘Where are we going?’ She reached around the back of the chair for her anorak trying to think of an explanation for David.

  ‘Marquis Way, of course!’

  27

  Saturday, 18 June 1966

  She urged the bike forward and went faster until the bushes and leaves were a whizz of green and brown. She stood up on the pedals and, her feet working furiously, she leant into the bend.

  Michael and her dad were timing her from the other end of the park, but she didn’t need the stopwatch to know she would break the land speed record.

  There was a dreadful grinding and the bike shook. Even though she pedalled harder she did not go any faster. She pressed on the other pedal and the scraping got worse. The bike tipped and Mary somersaulted on to the path. Hot pain rushed up her leg and she knew that, like the man in the Bluebird, she was going to die.

  A whirring as if she was winding down. She opened her eyes. A pedal was spinning; it slowed and stopped. Silence. Above Mary was a blue sky with no clouds.

  She sat up and stretched out her leg. Beads of blood dotted it like the dash of a red crayon. She twisted around. Michael and Daddy had gone.

  Mary got out of bed and in her nightdress pattered across the matting and squeezed through the door, keeping quiet as a mouse. Michael’s bedroom door was shut. If he came out she would send him back to bed. She scurried along the landing and down the first three stairs from where she could see the hall.

  Her dad had on the black suit he’d worn for Michael’s funeral. He was combing his hair at the mirror; it was shiny and Mary imagined stroking it. He lifted up his briefcase and gave her mum a quick kiss. Mary hadn’t seen her because she kept still, just as she did when Mary kissed her. Daddy opened the front door and went out.

  Her mum stayed where she was. Mary knew she was not waiting for her dad to come back, but for Michael. She waited in the hall a lot now and only moved when Mary’s dad returned from his insurance visits – since Michael had died he even went out on Saturdays. Mary had tried to get her upstairs once and her mum had looked at her as if she were a ghost.

  Mary wouldn’t try now. She ran back up the stairs. Outside Michael’s bedroom she listened. She couldn’t hear him. She glared at the door, doing the magic spell that worked with corn flakes in the kitchen, but instead of wishing herself back in their old house, Mary wished that her brother were fast asleep in his bed.

  28

  Thursday, 26 April 2012

  ‘Be Kind and Merciful to Our Animals.’ Balanced on the edge of the drinking trough on the ill-lit road, Jack was caught in the glare of the van’s headlights.

  Britton Drive was long and straight and desolate, its bleak aspect unmitigated by the tall sweet chestnut trees. The wind whipped their faces and pushed at budding leaves on the branches. Stella had told Jack about Britton Drive and since it was closer than Marquis Way, they had come here first. She had not told him about her abortive date with David Barlow. David had encouraged her to leave – for a member of staff in crisis – and invited her to go for a walk with him by the river the next evening and have a meal to make up for the one they had missed.

  ‘Not much here.’ Jack patted the trough. ‘According to your list, this is granite and was erected in 1935.’

  Putting David to the back of her mind, Stella fished out her torch from her anorak and focused it on the blue folder. She turned to the picture with the witness appeal notice. Jack leant forward.

  ‘Is that a tree behind the trough?’ He directed Stella’s gloved hand to light the lower part of the picture.

  ‘I think so.’ Stella looked up. Although she had left the headlights on and there was a solitary lamp-post some metres away, Britton Drive was dark and unsettling. A horrible place to die.

  Industrial units were set back from the road, many with broken windows or boarded up and smothered with jagged graffiti. Even when occupied the buildings must have been shoestring-shabby, their occupants one step ahead of the receivers. Stella knew the sort: fly-by-night outfits that paid only the bills that kept them trading. She read a nearby fascia that proclaimed in blistering letters: ‘Gray Shoes Fa ory Outle at Amaz g Pr ces.’ It gave her a dull sensation in her solar plexus. She had not experienced commercial failure, the trick was keeping overheads low. They would not move to a bigger office, they would stay put until the economy picked up.

  Jack lifted a Coke can out of the trough and stuffed it in his pocket.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ Stella was appalled.

  ‘I’ll put it in your recycl
ing bin. This isn’t a rubbish bin, it’s for horses.’

  ‘Don’t expect many horses pass this way.’ As she said this, Stella hoped she was right. The area had an air of despair, of hopes shattered and of life long gone. No place for a horse. She shivered. Or for them either.

  The warped ‘To Let’ sign on an imposing stone building with arched windows that had been an electricity substation suggested it had been available for a long time.

  ‘That’s in the photograph, behind the appeal sign,’ she pointed at a plastic salt bin near one of the trees. As she reached it she saw the indented logo: ‘Gina-Ware’. Since discovering the company was owned by the daughter of her late client Mrs Ramsay, Stella came upon their products everywhere. Jack would say it was a sign.

  Jack jabbed at the photo. ‘There’s a crack in the paving here. I missed that.’

  Stella had not noticed the meandering crack under the witness appeal board. If she had she would have dismissed it as insignificant.

  ‘This is a working crack,’ Jack announced.

  ‘Meaning?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Meaning it’s more than three millimetres, so is moving and is open to intrusion from water which freezes then expands, so widening the crack.’ On his knees Jack traced a finger along the crack. ‘A priority for street maintenance, but no doubt this has fallen off the council’s list. Who’s going to trip here?’

  ‘This is private land. Businesses have to pay.’ Stella looked around her at the abandoned buildings. ‘Or not. Let’s get on with it. This place is like a dead zone.’

  ‘It is a dead zone.’ Jack gave her a look. ‘See how the crack’s lengthened since Terry’s picture? We could have used it to guess the year if we didn’t already know.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘You think it caused Markham to crash?’

  Jack jumped up and ran to the middle of the road. ‘These appeal boards are placed to alert motorists coming either way. Where did it happen?’ He darted over to the salt bin and, holding the file out like an offering, he tightroped along the pavement, one foot in front of the other. Every so often he gave a hop, avoiding the breaks in the kerbstones. Stella had hoped Jack was improving.