Ghosts

by Tess McLennan

  The bar where the gig was being held was aptly named Yarn & Wool, a hipster heaven. Bearded men and dirty looking women sipped alcoholic drinks out of large glass jars, talking in discriminating tones about bands I actually quite liked, and where their free trade coffee had come from that morning. That was the thing about hipsters – they acted all conscientious, when most likely, the scrappy plaid clothing they were all wearing was stitched in a third world Chinese warehouse, where the worker made less than a dollar per day. If there was anything I hated more in the world, it was the hypocrisy of the hipster.

  But I quickly put my misgivings about the venue aside, and looked around the crowd to see if I knew anybody. Henry and Aggie were nowhere in sight. I sidled up to the bar, and bought myself a cocktail, asking for a glass, and receiving a jar. It was all I could do not to throw the peanuts sitting on the counter into the bartender’s beard.

  I turned around to see Henry and Aggie making their way onto the stage at the back of the bar. Henry with his guitar, hair slicked back, motorcycle jacket on, giving him that film star look that Clem and I both liked. Aggie in her usual classy get up – this time, a black skirt, a long sleeve blouse printed with cherries, and a red beret. I imagined her gallivanting around Paris in that red beret, and all other mischief she might have gotten into wearing it, but would never tell me about.

  They took their place on the stools, and Aggie pulled the microphone from the stand.

  “Hello,” she said to the audience, smiling around the room. “Thank you all for comin’ out tonight.”

  A few people clapped and cheered in response to Aggie’s greeting.

  “I thought we could start the set tonight with a cover that Henry and I have been working on together for about a week – it’s a song very close to my heart. It’s for all those ladies who have ever had their heart broken. For those of you who have ever felt lost. And ladies, if his new girl is posting on Facebook about her lasagne, he’ll quickly realise what a fool he has been, and that he never deserved you in the first place.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Anyway, this is Brandi Carlile’s Cannonball. Please enjoy.”

  I sipped my cocktail, noticing a man leaning against the wall near the door of the bar close to where I was standing. He looked as though he didn’t want to be seen, hence placing himself close to the nearest exit. His arms were folded tightly, his eyes fixed firmly on Aggie, lifeless expression on his face. In my mind, I imagined him as one of her scorned lovers. I couldn’t place him, until I noticed the tattoo on his bicep, that cleverly inked guitar. It was the same guy who Aggie had been arguing with outside Martha’s Diner a few days ago.

  As she began to sing, the whole bar fell silent, captivated at the sound of her voice. Aggie’s vocals were dark and earthy, with substance and power. It was like the smell of woodfire, or the ground after it had just rained. And blended with Henry’s harmonies and guitar picking, their performance ached of raw heartbreak and emotion.

  I was born when I met you

  Now I’m dying to forget you

  That is what I know

  Though I dreamed I would fall

  Like a wounded cannonball

  Sinking down, with my heart in tow

  I felt my phone buzz in my bag, breaking my transfixion with the singing. Thinking it was Clem, I pulled it out.

  “Leave,” it said. Number unknown.

  I spun around and looked to see if anybody else was looking at their phone in the bar. All eyes were firmly fixed on the stage.

  Bright lights like white lightening

  Who shot me down

  Who cut me down

  I’m frozen in my bed till the day comes around

  How I’m lost, how I’m found

  “Yes you,” it buzzed again.

  I held the phone in my hand, mouth hanging open in disbelief. To anyone else, I must have been a comical sight. My heart began to race.

  Someone told me a lie

  Someone looked me in the eye

  And said time will ease your pain

  One more message appeared on my phone. A picture. Clem was in her room in the flat, sitting on her bed, staring at the mirror.

  The tattooed man at the back of the bar exited quickly through the doors as the audience began to applaud. Aggie and Henry beamed as the crowd cheered for them.

  I couldn’t recall how I got home, whether I ran or drove, or took the bus. The whole journey was a complete blur. Images began spinning in front of my eyes, time warped and suddenly, I found myself at the front door of our flat.

  “What’s wrong?” Clem gasped, almost falling off the couch, startled by my abrupt entrance. “Immie?”

  I moved my mouth, trying to speak.

  “What?” Clem rushed over to me, grabbing my shoulders.

  “Are all the windows locked?”

  Clem looked at me like I’d gone insane. “Yes, of course they are!” She then asked me again what was the matter.

  I got out my phone to show her the texts, hands trembling. I opened up the messages app, scrolling furiously. Up and down, up and down.

  “What is it Immie? Clem cried again.

  I looked up at her, my mouth hanging open. The messages were gone. Vanished from sight.

  The following week was nothing but an anxious ride. Every time my phone vibrated, I felt a familiar pang of dread in my stomach, and then the immense relief when a familiar number showed up on the screen. Every rustle in the garden, every creak of the floorboards made me jump out of my skin. I couldn’t even prove that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. I couldn’t call the police. I couldn’t do anything. I was completely powerless, and my anxiety eventually began to manifest in my behaviour. Each night, I checked every nook and cranny of the house for intruders, every cupboard, every corner. I checked time and time again that the windows were shut tight. Nobody was getting in, or out, without me seeing. I hated to think what we would do if there was a fire and we had to flee, for all the deadlocks I’d installed on the front door. The bad dreams continued every night, sometimes featuring Marella, sometimes Jim, sometimes strangers. Always menacing, not a kind eye in sight. Clem only looked on helplessly, unsure what to do with me.

  About a week after the text messages in the bar, I was sitting at home after a long day of work. It was my birthday, and Clem had urged me to do something nice for myself. She always believed birthdays were special, no matter what your age. Johnny’s had organised a cake. I wasn’t sure whether to call Henry to see if he wanted to hang out. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night I ran out of the bar in the middle of their set. I was feeling restless, bored and anxious. I turned on the television, flicking through the channels. Late afternoon game shows, Antiques Roadshow, another news story on Emma Thomas… the case had clearly begun to go cold, and the news stations had begun to report on it less and less. I turned the television off and slumped back on the couch.

  Clem had promised to take me out that night, but hadn’t returned home yet. I turned on a movie, but drifted away as usual, thinking about Clem, and Marella. Sometimes I tried to remember what her voice sounded like, but I couldn’t. I then got to thinking about what Aggie had said the week before. That people always left something behind of themselves, whether they be a relative that passed away, or an ex boyfriend. Nothing that once existed could ever truly disappear. Maybe all these years I was looking for that shoe on the side of the road, or the torn clothing, the blood stained carpet, or the burnt out car. Maybe I should have been focussing on the way Marella lived, rather than trying to figure out how she may have died.

  I pulled a stool over the small cupboard in our kitchen, and climbing upon it, pulled a box down from the top shelf, with the word ‘Marella’ scratched in a marker pen.

  I never looked through the box, I never felt the need. But I always knew the box was there, I’d never forgotten. Everytime I opened up the cupboard to get out a broom or the vacuum, I saw the corners of cardboard poking out the door, like outstre
tched limbs inviting me in.

  I started to wonder whether Marella lived her life like Henry and Aggie. Like she knew any day could be her last. She never wanted for anything. She took things in her stride. Whatever she wanted, she went after, no matter who or what got in her way. Marella wanted to believe in God, and she went to Church. Marella wanted to be a psychic, so she became one. Perhaps all these years dismissing her as a crazy fool, I should have been trying to live more like her. Liberated from expectations, liberated and free from absolutely everything.

  Inside the box were photo albums, filled with images of Clem and I from when we were born, me with rolls of fat all over my arms and legs, Clem skinny and red like a baby rabbit. There were letters in the box written by hand from Jim to Marella, which I didn’t read. Jim could never have been one of those romantic letter-writing men, and it was never worth my time idolizing the romance of my parents, or whatever it was, romance or not. I pulled another photo album out of the box, and a tattered envelope slipped out of the back and onto the floor. Inside was a pile of photographs, stuffed so hastily into the pocket that the sides of the envelope had begun to tear. On the front was scrawled ‘J.N Townsend’… the modelling company Marella used to be a part of.

  I spread the photographs out onto the floor, marvelling at the detail within each of them. I recognised Marella, her classic ‘70s flared jeans and ‘80s perm. She looked like an entirely different person to the one I knew. In the other photographs, I recognised my grandmother, Noreen. She was also a model, and her pictures resounded with the 1950s glamorous housewife look, but also with the 1950s socialite. Gorgeous furs, veils and rockabilly skirts, eyebrows thick and lips painted bright red. In some of them she was laughing, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other… In others, she stared straight at the camera, the striking beauty of her face something to be marvelled at.

  There was a knock at the door, and I kicked the box back into the cupboard. I looked through the eyehole cautiously, relieved to see Henry standing there with a box in his hands, smaller than the one I had just been searching through. Click, click, click went the deadlocks.

  I opened the door. “I’m so sorry.” I would have thrown myself into his arms, if it weren’t for the box he was holding.

  On the box was a shiny picture of a Nikon D7200. A beautiful piece of technology.

  “Happy birthday,” Henry grinned, handing the box to me. “Time to get back in the game.”

  10

  You are cordially invited to the opening of

  Imogene Fuller’s Photography Exhibit

  ‘Modern Vintage: An Ode to an Era’

  Saturday 12th April 2014

  Townhouse Gallery, 8 pm

  “You can stop staring at it now.”

  I looked over at Henry, still reeling from the invitation in my hand. An invitation to my own gallery opening. I pushed away the feeling that it would evaporate as soon as I took my eyes off it.

  “It’s tonight. I can’t believe it.”

  “I can… you’ve been looking at that invite all day. An invite you made for that matter – why do you even have an invite to your own show?” Henry asked, sliding down on the couch beside me.

  “I just wanted to make sure it was real.”

  “Can’t you just enjoy your success for a second without questioning it?”

  He began to read the artist’s statement, printed on the back of the invite.

  In the ‘70s and ‘80s, my mother modelled for a clothing company named J.N Townsend. In the ‘40s and ‘50s, my grandmother did the same. I recently came across a shoebox containing photographs from these eras, and was struck by the remarkable garments, jewellery, hairstyles and surroundings they contained. How things have changed in 60 years. It is in their memory that I recreate these photographs.

  “Seems pretty real to me.”

  The exhibit had been months in the making. Clem had been at WAAPA for a little over two months, and I finally took up Dante’s offer to do an exhibit for his gallery. He gave me a little money for the project, but it was a mostly self-funded venture. Henry found a couple of friends to pose as models for free, but the hair, makeup and clothing became costly. Henry suggested I model myself, but I trusted nobody else to operate the precious camera. But however much I had to pay, how much time I had to spend scouring for the outfits to match them to the vintage photographs, I couldn’t beat the feeling of being reinvigorated again. I was no longer just a deli clerk – I was a photographer, I was somebody else. Something else. Now I sat nervously in my living room, just hours before the opening. I worked all day at Johnny’s, which failed to take my mind off the night ahead. It was the usual artist’s doubt – what if nobody turns up? What if they hate it? What if, what if, what if. I sent out invites to most of the people I knew – including some of Dante’s people, who were more like acquaintances. They weren’t the type to have friends. I even invited Clem, even though I knew she wouldn’t be able to make it. I knew she’d love receiving the invite anyway. “Take pictures of your picture show for me!” she joked.

  “I have something else for you.” Henry reached into his backpack. “Well two things…” He handed me an envelope. I tore it open, to find a keycard, and a piece of paper with what appeared to be a handwritten poem.

  “Are you taking me to a hotel tonight?” I asked, trying not to sound too turned on by the prospect of loud sex in a private room.

  “Yes, I am.” He whispered a few dirty things in my ear, before kissing me on the cheek. “I have to go. See you tonight. Read the poem.”

  He rushed out the door, and I looked down at the paper in my hand, unfolding it carefully.

  Sometimes I get inspired and I just write and write and write. This is how I feel when I watch you work. You remind me of my favourite city in the world – Amsterdam.

  Amsterdam is a city with a personality. She’s more like a person, than a city. As I sit here with my coffee, glancing out at the street, vaguely aware of my hat dripping on the table from the rain, I realise this city, this person, understands me. The buildings stand tall, but modestly. They may be alike in appearance, but within they hold so much more, so many possibilities.

  There is a wild side to her, if you look in the right places. But there is also a grounded, intelligent side, full of memories, stories and history. At first glance, she might be plain, but if you explore, she will open up avenues unexplored, thoughts never discovered and opinions never shared. Amsterdam carries herself with pride and grace, knowing full well that true beauty lies within. And she follows this ideal in her pursuit of knowledge.

  Amsterdam is brave and daring, but laidback and full of energy and light. She does her own thing, never falling in the shadow of those who think they know better. Her open-mindedness is often unappreciated by those around her. She knows ignorance is common, and that of the common mind. But Amsterdam is neither common, nor ignorant. She should give herself the credit she deserves for this. And when she is older, she’ll be thankful she never changed her mind on anything.

  I clutched the poem to my chest, and sighed deeply. It was a beautiful piece of writing, something you pulled out when you were ninety years old and reminisced over, like a wartime love letter or a soldier’s photograph. Meanwhile, I tried to push away the familiar feeling of dread seeping into my body, that ominous if it’s too good to be true mindset.

  I borrowed one of Aggie’s dresses for the night, another number inspired by the 1960s…a mint green lace tea dress, with a sweetheart neckline. That afternoon, Aggie was supposed to come over and help me with my hair and makeup. She never showed, and I began to worry. I called her mobile, and she answered quickly, and in rather hushed tones, said she was sorry, she was busy, and she’d see me later. Click, dial tone.

  After wrangling a decent hairstyle on my own, I finally made it to the gallery. The night was a beautiful mix of artists, hippies, good wine and good food.

  Dante entered, followed by a myriad of loyal followers. He kissed me on both cheeks
, called me darling, and remarked at the work I’d done, and how he’d always believed in me… Dante was sometimes too much of a cliché to handle, the kisses on the cheek, the entourage… It was like something out of a bad sitcom.

  Henry appeared and asked me how I felt about his poem, but I didn’t have a chance to answer before I was whisked away by one of Dante’s people.

  Someone handed me a glass of champagne, people formed a line to comment on the photographs. People asked me about my techniques, my lighting, my equipment... and all the while, I relished the attention, and the satisfaction. I was somebody people wanted to talk to about photography. I was in the know. It felt good to be somebody – even for a night. It was something I’d waited for, for such a long time, it almost felt surreal. I wished I could put the night in a bottle and save it for a rainy day. In the whirlwind of activity, I looked at my watch and realised it was almost midnight, and the party was still thriving.

  I excused myself from a group of fellow photographers to grab another glass of champagne. I turned towards the main entrance doors, only to see Aggie, standing there like a startled ghost.

  “Aggie! I thought you weren’t coming!” I hugged her, standing on my toes to get around her large belly. I’d been having such a good time, I’d forgotten that she bailed on me that afternoon. She looked tired and withdrawn. Not like her usual made up and perfected self, but rather a hollow shell.