A figure came slowly along the corridor. He walked with a stick, had a grotty bandage over one eye, and wore torn, filthy, old clothes. “’Ow do, Doc,” he said.
“Hello Jeremy,” greeted the doctor.
“What you be doing ’ere?”
“Where am I supposed to go?” He frowned, still looking in the mirror.
“Bain’t no point peering in the looking glass, Doc, cos thee won’t see thyself.”
“I am aware of that; I am thinking.”
Jeremy hobbled round and sat on one of the waiting-area chairs. He winced as his ulcerated leg twinged.
“Be no use to be thinking. Things are what they are, Doc.”
“Perhaps not, Jeremy…” The doctor walked round and sat in the chair next to the beggar. He noticed a fly circling; surely it couldn’t sense the spiritual putrefaction? “What if I were to tell you I know a woman who can see us… and hear us… clearly. I think she is the answer.”
The old beggar took a battered metal flask from under his rags “T’would be false ’ope, doc…” He took a swig of whatever contents the flask held, winced, then put the cap back on. “People do see shadows sometimes, but they don’t see us. Not for real.”
“But she does.” Dr Maxwell turned to him. “This young woman sees us, like we see each other, and hears us. My God, if this is salvation, I shall be the first in line.”
“Don’t you be liking it ’ere, Doc? There is probably worse places thee could go. Maybe the ‘other place’ ain’t so good as some believe. I bide my time ’ere; at least it’s what I know.”
“How long have you been waiting, Jeremy?”
“I don’t rightly know, but I did die just after the concubine was crowned.”
“Who? What concubine? Don’t speak in riddles, man.”
“Anne Boleyn, sir, I died two days after she be crowned. I do know that much.”
Dr Maxwell thought hard. “1533?”
“Mayhap…”
“My God, that’s nearly 500 years.”
“Been long time, sir; this I know.”
“So, you more than anyone should want to find the answer.”
Clearly tired of the conversation, Jeremy rose. He took his stick, and he put his full weight onto it. “No, Doc, you want the answer. Like I said, there’s worse places than ’ere we can find ourselves in. I don’t mind tarrying ’ere forever.” With that, he hobbled off.
Dr Maxwell stared at the door. Automatic revolving doors; what was that about? What was wrong with a normal door that opened and shut? Newfangled ideas. He was going to find Rachel, as he needed to speak to her, but, God help him, he was not going to go through any revolving door to find her.
Chapter 7
Rachel stood, watching the school entrance from across the street. She was glad the headmaster had asked her to come in during lesson time, as the school would be quiet. No children or teachers would be rushing around, asking how she was. Although it was kind, she didn’t want to talk about it, she just needed to put it all behind her and concentrate on getting back to work.
As she walked into the reception area, she noticed that the plant she always watered had wilted. No one else had bothered to water it. She took some water from the machine and poured it on the dry earth.
“You don’t need to be worrying about that,” said the receptionist, walking to greet her.
But Rachel was worried about the plant. She had spent years watering it, and she had only been away a relatively short amount of time, yet already it appeared to have been abandoned as no longer useful.
“Mr Andrews will be ready soon. Why don’t you take a seat?” The receptionist gestured to one of the reception seats.
It seemed so odd returning to this school, where she had worked for over ten years, as just a visitor – an outsider – and being asked to sit and wait for entry, rather than just using her staff badge to swipe her way in. Mr Andrews had said she must not use her staff badge whilst off, but that she should come in via the reception and wait. It all seemed so formal. What was she, some kind of threat?
The old walls, which had seen children come and go since the mid-1800s, must have witnessed some drama. Rachel always likened a large school to a village; things were always happening and lives unfolding. People had affairs here or met their partners here, and two people had even died here in her time. One, a teacher, had a heart attack, and the caretaker had been found dead in his room. Arguments and fallings-out happened, as did gossip and even physical fights. Yes, everything happened in a school. She liked it there…
“Rachel, it’s good to see you; harrumph.” Mr Andrews appeared at her side. “Come with me… How are you?”
She had rehearsed the answer a million times. “I am fine, honestly. I’m just anxious to get things back to normal, really.”
They left reception and soon arrived in his office. It was a muddled space, with an old, wooden desk, covered in files and papers; metal filing cabinets with plastic binders piled on top; various calendars pinned to the wall, some two years old; and a poster of the planets.
“Please do sit.” He gestured to an old, wooden chair facing his seat.
Rachel sat, as Mr Andrews manoeuvred his bulk around the desk and plonked himself down heavily in his large leather chair, which had a bottom-shaped recess on the seat, probably from years of his ample posterior being placed upon it. Her eye was drawn to a drinks coaster on his desk, adorned with a picture of the Fonz from Happy Days. It was complemented with the slogan, ’Sit on it’. She had no idea what that meant.
Rachel started to feel the anxiety rise again. She had been in this office many times before, for meetings, and the mood had always been light, even jovial, though usually only until Mr Andrews had entered and installed his bulk onto the chair. But, now, the mood was different. Even the air in the room felt thicker, as if someone had infused some choking chemical into it; she was finding it hard to breathe.
“Miss Holloway… er… Rachel… we were very distressed when we found out what had happened to you, and on school premises during lesson time. It must have been a horrible experience.”
“It was, but, to be honest, I am feeling much better now… It was just one of those things.”
“Nonetheless, I would be failing in my duty if I were just to let this pass and put your health at risk by asking you to come back too soon. For this reason, I am going to ask you to remain away from school for the next three months, to see how your recovery goes.”
Three months? What the hell? she thought. “Thank you, Mr Andrews, but I don’t need three months. I am getting myself back on my feet, I have my medication, and the best thing I can do now is to keep myself busy.”
“I have to think of the children.”
“The children… What do you mean?”
“They cannot have a teacher who isn’t able to… who isn’t quite up to the high standards we expect at the school. You have been very unwell, Rachel, and it is going to take a while for your full faculties to return, if indeed they ever do. We cannot have a teacher who is dependent on strong medication to get through the day; that doesn’t set the best example to our young people. No, we need to get you rested and well, and we will go from there…”
He stood up, signalling the end of the conversation, and started to leave the room. She also stood up and followed him silently out into reception. He was babbling away, saying something about keeping in touch and occupational health, but she wasn’t listening.
As they neared the reception kiosk, a young man came into view, and she could hear his voice drifting over, he was clearly agitated. “So Mr Andrews doesn’t want to give a statement. Well, that’s fine; we are going to print in half an hour, so I will put it down as ‘no comment’.”
Behind him stood an elderly lady, in a long, brown coat, furry hat and gloves; she looked sadly and silently at him.
> The receptionist stared hopefully as Mr Andrews came into view with Rachel behind him.
“Mr Andrews, good…” The receptionist projected her voice out of the gap under the Perspex screen. “This is Luke Fairfax from the Burwood Echo; the reporter, remember?”
The reporter Mr Andrews had been trying to avoid all day. “Yes… harrumph… yes… How may I help you?”
“I am his grandmother,” said the elderly lady, for no particular reason.
“The allegations made by one of your parents, Mohammed Siddique, do you refute them? That his son was hit in class by one of your members of staff?” enquired Luke.
“He was not hit,” blustered Mr Andrews. “He was restrained.”
“He is a fiery, young man,” continued the elderly lady. “He’s just like his father, my son.”
Rachel smiled at her, and then looked towards Mr Andrews, who had grown a bright shade of red.
“Talk to our press office, at the council; I have nothing to say,” Mr Andrews continued. He then turned around and stalked off, leaving Rachel standing there.
“His father was an editor,” the old lady went on. “He wants to be one too.”
“That’s good,” said Rachel.
“Pardon?” Luke looked up, flustered.
“Oh… your grandmother… just said about you wanting to be an editor; that’s good. I would hate to work in the media.” She went to walk away.
“My… my what? Who?” He looked at her.
“Your grandmother; she said you wanted to be an editor like your father.” She smiled at him then sat down, suddenly feeling very tired.
Luke came and sat beside her. “I am sorry; what are you talking about?”
“He can’t see me, silly,” said the lady. “You can; he can’t.”
“Why can’t he?” replied Rachel.
“What?” asked Luke.
“You can see us… They can’t…” She gestured to her grandson.
The words of the doctor came back. Rachel turned to Luke. “Your grandmother is dead?”
“Yes… a while back.” He started to look fearful. “Did you know her?” He started to fumble in his rucksack. “Of course, you must have done; you said something about my father… the editor.”
“Yes, I knew her…” Rachel looked at the grandmother, who was smiling broadly. “Blue eyes, greyish hair, always in a bun, and what was it with that brown hat with the red pin?” She fixed her eyes on the red pin secured firmly to the old lady’s hat; the pin caught the light as she spoke.
“The pin… Oh yes.” He took a pen out of his bag. “My grandfather bought it in Italy for her. I didn’t like it; I thought it looked like an insect casing. My, you did know her well.”
Rachel immediately felt very unwell. She did not know Luke or his grandmother, but she had to test what she thought she was seeing: a dead woman, a ghost, standing before her, large as life. Just as the doctor had said. Was she mad? But she wasn’t hallucinating; this man had just confirmed that this was his grandmother.
“I wouldn’t tell too many people you can see us, my dear,” the grandmother suggested hurriedly. “They will think you are a lunatic.” She smiled again.
A lunatic. Rachel was starting to realise something radical had happened to her brain when she had suffered that haemorrhage. But going mad? No, she didn’t think that was what had happened at all.
“I need to go,” she stated, then stood up. Her head started swimming.
“Don’t go,” said Luke, “It’s nice to hear someone who knew my grandmother.” He removed a mobile phone from his bag. “Tell you what, are you free later?”
“I think I may never work again,” she declared unexpectedly. “This means I’ll probably have a lot of free time now, so, yes, I suppose I am.”
His grandmother had wandered over to a children’s display of posters and was examining them intently.
What was it with dead people wearing coats, even when it is warm? Did they die in their coats? Or maybe being dead makes you cold? Rachel mused on what an odd prospect that was.
Chapter 8
The day had been booked months ago; she didn’t really want to go, but decided that unless she was going to refund the two £30.00 tickets for her and Sally, she had better show up. It was originally Sally’s idea to visit the old medieval castle, perched high on a hill, as part of some history project they were arranging for the children. Was this a pointless trip now? Rachel wasn’t sure. At least it got her out of the flat she shared with John, who was becoming ever more distant.
The days of not having to go to work had started off fine, but they had started to merge one into another. Time no longer mattered; she looked at the clock less, but her mind began worrying about the future more. The school said that she would be on full pay for three months, but then she would be ‘reviewed’, whatever that meant. They didn’t say she would be invited to come back to work or even to come back in to talk to Mr Andrews; no, it was to be ‘reviewed’. Rachel had no family, and no one but herself to rely on; if she lost this job, who on earth would employ her with that kind of medical history?
Her mind began to race again as she walked up the path to the building. Pierrepoint Castle, it was called, and it sat atop a large hill, dark and grey-framed by the sky.
What if I lose my job and never work again?
What if I become homeless?
Where will I go—
“I wonder if they will have a loo outside?” Sally broke into Rachel’s train of thought, “I need to go.”
“I don’t know.” Rachel wasn’t thinking.
“Are you sure you are up to this?”
“Yes, quite sure,” she lied, “I needed to get out.”
Talking about nothing in particular, they walked slowly up the path till they got to the outer courtyard; Sally rushed away, no doubt searching for a toilet, and Rachel was left outside. She looked at her reflection in a glass doorway; she thought she had aged. Rachel was slightly built, pale, with brown, shoulder-length hair, which she believed made her look like most other women. John once said to her that she had nothing that made her stand out from the crowd. Well, she didn’t – hadn’t – until now.
It couldn’t be right. She cast her mind back to seeing the grandmother of the reporter and that doctor. They couldn’t be dead; it was stupid. When you died, that was it – end game, finished. This idea that you floated about as a spirit, moaning to everyone and complaining about being dead, was the most ridiculous idea she had ever heard. She would have to find a doctor next time she went to the hospital and confess to seeing things again, so she could be done with it. Maybe there was some kind of pill she could take to stop it…
She jolted back to the present time.
An open, and very ancient, wooden door to the left bore the sign ‘Ticket holders this way’. When Sally rejoined her, the pair walked in to sample Pierrepoint Castle’s delights.
The castle itself was impressive. Huge in size and, from the looks of it, altered through the centuries by various owners. Standing with a group of visitors in the main foyer area – blown by a draught from the open doorway – Rachel stared at a dumpy, stern-looking, bespectacled woman, clutching a batch of papers, who was clearly one of the guides.
“The castle began with its roots in the 11th century, and it has seen many attacks and adaptations through the years,” the woman explained. She had a dreary, monotone voice that reverberated off the stone walls around them.
“I wonder if she’s available for children’s parties,” Sally murmured to Rachel with a giggle.
The woman continued, “Owned by Sir Robert Earlsham, but lost during the battle of Bolsmoor in 1237, when Sir Robert died while fighting, it was then passed to his brother, Sir Phillip, who built a larger estate. It is believed that Sir Robert was killed by a rival lord, the Duke of Sudbury, who…”
Rachel wandered off. Another tour guide was talking about the Victorian small boys’ room, which didn’t sound very interesting; she could see Sally had been tempted away from the dumpy tour guide and into the gift area already. She told Sally she needed to go outside for some fresh air. Her head was playing up again; she had that now sadly familiar sensation that the psychiatrist told her was called ‘depersonalisation’, which meant she felt like her mind was in a different body, as if she had taken some hallucinogenic drug. Rachel hated that feeling, and she wondered if something else was wrong in her brain, perhaps another bleed they hadn’t found.
Walking outside, she made a conscious effort to breathe slowly, to try to force herself back to reality. As she carried out her breathing exercise, she glanced back at the impressive building. It was huge, imposing and surrounded by several little outbuildings, with a café situated to the side. It appeared to shimmer slightly; once, twice, then it was like someone had placed a lens in front of her eyes. It reminded her of being at the opticians, and being asked to read the letter chart, while various lenses were placed in the uncomfortable trial frame that always pinched her nose. Her view changed. The surroundings of the castle and the outbuildings began to blur; the main castle seemed clear, but a little smaller and missing some windows. She rubbed her eyes. She didn’t have a migraine again; was this an odd aura? Oh, please God don’t let me pass out, she pleaded.
She closed her eyes tight, then looked up. The shimmer had gone, thank goodness. She turned and saw some people gathering by the side of the castle. It looked like men and horses, dressed in historical garb. It was obviously some kind of re-enactment getting ready for visitors. She walked towards them, interested in what was about to take place and whether you had to buy a ticket for it. She thought she had better get Sally, who would be angry if she missed this.
Seeing Things Page 4