The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  I pulled at his coat, tugged at his arm.

  ‘Rebecca! I am standing right here. There is no need to use that language.’ He shone his torch around the church, the vestry door, the headstones, the graves. ‘There’s nothing here. Just us.’ He was talking calmly to me in his reassuring singsong voice. ‘There really is nothing to worry about because that cacophony, Rebecca, sounds to me like a screech owl.

  Appalling noise, like someone is killing a cat, but they are very beautiful birds.’ He flashed the torch high into the trees.

  ‘Dad, I think I would know if I saw an owl. It wasn’t an owl.’

  ‘You’d be lucky to see them, Rebecca, unless they’re nesting inside the church. They’re so well camouflaged. Come on. The countryside is full of surprises but, believe me, there are no ghosts or beasties here.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  He shone his torch one more time around the churchyard.

  His beard bristled in the night. ‘“I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord.”’ My father put his arm round me. ‘Isaiah forty-five, verse three. Remember that. There is nothing to be frightened of. Come on. Keep an eye out, we might see a shooting star.’

  Crisps on My Fingers

  Lights voices flames and cigarettes. The doors of the pub opened and the cold night tumbled away. Maybe all the drinkers in the pub saw strange things in Brightley?

  ‘There she is,’ exclaimed Dad, walking into the public bar, me following. Maggie had a knight in her left hand, and was twirling it above the chessboard. Her cheeks were pink and she looked very snug in the corner next to the fire. Her opponent had his back to us.

  ‘VICAH! Nice to see you again. What’s your poison?’ Brian Armitage was behind the bar with another set of pink cheeks and a blue bow tie. Sleeves rolled up.

  Amanda bustled through the public bar and sat on a stool next to me. ‘Evening, Rebecca. Nippy outside, isn’t it? Orange juice? You look like you need a whisky. Brian! Brian! Give us an OJ, please, and a packet of plain crisps. Shame that Maggie’s leaving so soon but she’ll always have work here if she wants it. We could do with someone at weekends for weddings and such like—have a think about it, if you’re not too busy with other things.’

  Who was she and what did she want from me?

  I was thinking about the screech of an owl, a cold white hand on mine. I blurted out the words at the top of my head. ‘Does Brightley have any ghosts, Amanda?’ She stood up quickly as if thirty seconds on a stool was far too long to sit.

  ‘Oh, goodness, well the pub’s not haunted if that’s what you’re worried about, but I’m not the right person to ask. I’ve never seen any ghosts. Ask Flora Shillingham, she knows all the stories about Brightley. There she is, in the corner by the fire with her pint of stout. Drinks it by the bucketful, she does.’

  Amanda zoomed around to the other side of the bar to fetch another bag of crisps. She collected empty glasses, stacked up the clean ones, and called out rude things to customers, as she winked and chatted her way around the pub. The pub was full of warm real bodies nodding various greetings to my father. He stood in front of the blazing fire, warming the backs of his legs through his corduroy trousers. Any closer and you’ll set fire to yourself, Father.

  I waved to Flora, who was still in her jacket, sipping from a pint glass. She waved back and I squeezed in next to Maggie at the chess table. Something soft was at my feet, and on further inspection I found a large silvery brown dog curled up under the table. He could taste the salt from the crisps I’d just eaten and wouldn’t stop licking my fingers. I stroked his big beautiful head. If I had a dog like this I wouldn’t be scared of the dark now, would I?

  ‘Jojo,’ said Maggie. ‘His name is Jojo.’ My sister looked very beautiful with her red cheeks and dark hair. I had never felt happier to see her working out her next move. She now held a small wooden bishop in her hands. ‘Watch and learn, Abes,’ she said as she put it on the board. ‘Checkmate,’ she said triumphantly.

  The man she was playing with sat back in his chair and clapped his large hands together. ‘Clever girl.’

  ‘Alex March,’ said Maggie, ‘Meet my father Robert Budde, and my sister Rebecca.’

  Alex March was as tall as my father. ‘Welcome to Brightley,’ he said and pumped my father’s hand up and down. ‘Rebeccah, lovely to meet you.’ He said my name in that posh stuffed-up way. He shook my hand and stared at me with his brown eyes. I was trying to pull my hand away from his and he was attempting to separate my arm from my body. That’s enough handshaking. What’s wrong with him?

  ‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ I said, unsure whether or not that was true. I took a sip of whisky from my father’s glass.

  ‘Totally illegal,’ said Alex March. ‘Having a sister as beautiful and clever as that.’

  But Maggie didn’t hear him. She was making a fuss of Jojo and showing Dad her clever chess moves. Flora joined me in the corner, the level of her dark brown drink descending.

  ‘Stout—good for the blood,’ she said. She raised her glass. ‘Try some if you like, dear.’

  Heat from the fire was burning one side of my face. Her drink looked like liquid tar with bubbles in it. ‘Thank you but no. It’s all yours.’

  I half expected to see Algernon at a table, raising a glass to his lips. One of the locals, mad but harmless, occasionally breaks into the vicarage. But of course he wasn’t there. He was busy with a dark-haired girl whose hair had a life of its own.

  ‘Fancy another?’ Alex March left his fireside seat and went to the bar to order another round of drinks. He had wavy dark brown hair and he kept running his hands through it while he waited. He lit a cigarette, and stood at the bar looking as if he owned the world. Perhaps he did. He was a tall solid man, broad shoulders, expensive coat, at least forty. Maybe he was married to the dog. Jojo was licking Maggie’s face and she was kissing him and I could see my father was slightly repulsed by his daughter’s close proximity to an animal’s mouth.

  ‘Artist,’ said Amanda. ‘Lives in the manor house.’ She nodded to indicate the direction. ‘He’s pretty good, you know, quite well known.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ said Flora, winking at me.

  Dad let me have another sip of his whisky, which slid down to my feet and bounced back up again to my face. I managed to get a few more pats and strokes with Jojo while Alex March, still leaning against the bar, pulled Maggie into his arms and gave her a smacker on the lips. I wondered what Dad would make of that.

  Flora raised her eyebrows. ‘Got to watch that one, dear,’ she said. ‘Artists. Always like to use their hands.’

  There was so much noise and chatter in the bar, but I tried again.

  ‘Flora, are there ghosts in Brightley?’

  She took a sip from her vile-looking drink. ‘Loads, dear. Brightley is one of the main points in the entire universe for ghosts.’

  Amanda swooped past and nudged me. ‘That’s her second pint.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Flora.

  Alex March now stood quietly at the bar smoking and staring at me. Jojo nuzzled his head into my hands again. I gave him one last stroke. Dad collected his eldest daughter with a sweep of his arm. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  On the way home Maggie said, ‘Alex is going to invite us all to his Christmas party.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘He’s a really nice man, Rebecca.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Dad.

  ‘He’s friendly,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Appears that way,’ said Dad.

  ‘His dog’s nice,’ I said.

  I slept deeply that night. Smell of stout, stomach of whisky, dog-tired bones, brain full of ghosts, but nothing on earth was going to wake me.

  MIDNIGHT, CHURCHYARD, BRIGHTLEY

  I find my sister with my bony hands—

  I have you!

  Oh! You!
she cries,

  Her falling hair

  Her scowling face.

  I hold her close and whisper Miss Budde is mine.

  She turns away.

  She grows stronger in the darkness.

  Mine, I say, mine.

  My voice echoes through fox and yew

  Through oaks and earth.

  My words burst forth like stars

  Unfettered now by night

  And she is mine for all the years

  And she is mine.

  My thoughts flow forth like undammed water.

  Back we go over the graves.

  They will not keep us now.

  Goodbye, Maggie

  I wandered into Maggie’s room, fascinated by the sight of my sister up and about before eleven o’clock in the morning.

  ‘It’s nearly lunchtime and you’re not ready yet.’

  ‘Well don’t just stand there—help me pack.’

  ‘Do you believe that places have spirits?’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘Churchyards and places—and anyway, why aren’t you ready?’

  ‘Because I’m not like you and there’s plenty of time.’

  ‘You’re leaving in half an hour.’

  ‘Here, fold this. Why are you asking about spirits?’

  ‘There are weird things in the church.’

  ‘Apart from Dad you mean?’

  ‘Yes, apart from Dad. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Abes, don’t you listen to anything I say? Mum knows, ask Mum.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  She sighed. ‘I’ve got a room in a house in Russell Square owned by the college.’

  ‘Are you really going?’

  ‘Yes I’m really leaving all you nutters. You should be excited for me.’

  I stared through the double glazing. Did ghosts melt in the rain? Did they even get wet? Maybe I’d ask him. I hadn’t seen him for two days and even then I hardly saw him. Hands full, he said. With what? Another ghost?

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Should I take this red shirt or the black one? Or both?’

  ‘Take both. Maggie?’

  ‘I never wear the red one. I won’t take the red one.’

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they don’t exist, do they?’

  ‘What if they did?’

  ‘They don’t. I’ll take both shirts. Might as well.’

  Emily joined me at the window, pressing her nose against the pane. Everything I put into Maggie’s suitcase she took out again so I gave up helping and breathed over the window, fogging it up.

  Emily rubbed the glass with her sleeve. ‘See that house?’

  ‘It’s the only house you can see from here.’

  ‘That’s where the Rutherfords live,’ she said. ‘But only at weekends.’

  ‘The Rutherfords?’ asked Maggie, stuffing another pair of socks into her case and zipping it up. ‘Why do I need to know about the Rutherfords? Come on now, you two. Out of my room.’ She picked up her case and clumped down the stairs.

  ‘Rutherford Station,’ Emily said, getting all excited and jigging about next to me. ‘It’s where the Famous Five go for their holidays. The train stops at Rutherford Station and the Famous Five and Timmy race down the platform for another adventure.’

  ‘No they don’t,’ I said. Of course I knew all about the Famous Five. ‘It wasn’t Rutherford Station.’

  ‘I know that, Rebecca, I just made it up. They came on Monday. When you went to Wye to see your stupid boyfriend.’

  ‘Dave’s not stupid.’

  ‘Yes he is. You worried Mum half to death. That’s what she said. He’s a bit weird.’

  ‘Dave’s not weird.’

  ‘Mr Rutherford. He came round to shake hands with the vicar. He’s not as tall as Dad, and he combs his hair over to one side.’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘I didn’t like them.’

  ‘I’ve never met them and I don’t like them either.’

  ‘Girls, come down and say goodbye to Maggie.’ Down we went.

  Over by the gate I saw him. Algernon Keats. My heart leapt a little with a small amount of joy because that was all I had when I was saying goodbye to Maggie. He was scuffing up the gravel with the tips of his boots. I wanted to say, Mother do you see the ghost over there? Flesh and bones the same as us—and yet he’s not, is he, Rebecca?

  I wandered towards him, trying to make it look as if I was inspecting the tops of the thistles. They were brown and heading to the ground but their spiky stalks still pricked your fingers. Mum didn’t see Algernon’s slender boot among the stones. Now he was leaning on the gate, now he was scuffing up the stones . . . could they not see him, could they not hear him?

  ‘Rebecca, don’t do that. You know how it annoys your father.’

  ‘Yes, Abes, don’t do whatever it is you’re doing,’ said Maggie, giving me a hug. Then Mum was hugging Maggie and Emily was hugging Maggie for as long as Maggie would let her, which wasn’t long. I was trying not to cry. Emily was hugging herself. Mum was trying not to cry. Maggie was her eldest girl, the first one in her arms. Her daughter, for goodness sake. She was only going one and a half hours up the road but she was leaving us and she’d never left before. It was the actual act of saying goodbye that floated through the Brightley air and dug its way into the gravel. I could feel the sadness seeping into me.

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you all? I’ll be back for Christmas. You can come with me, Abes. But not today obviously. Give me a couple of weeks to find my feet. They’re big enough. That was a joke, Abes.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny.’

  ‘I know. Come here then. Yeah, I love you too.’

  Dad shut the car door firmly.

  ‘Abes.’ She wound the window down. ‘Abes, if you borrow my records make sure you put them back in the right sleeve. I’ll know if you’ve scratched them.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And go to the pub and get a job. They need someone. Mum, make her go.’

  ‘Ready?’ said Dad. He reversed the lumbering great Hillman out of the driveway and tooted. We stood there waving until they were gone.

  Mum shivered. ‘Gone chilly all of a sudden. Time to light the fire.’ She rubbed her arms, gazing at the cypress tree. The branches dipped a little towards her. ‘I’m starting to understand Anna Karenina now,’ she said. ‘It’s unbearable saying goodbye to your children.’

  Emily and Mum went inside. There he stood. Between the thistles and the gate and, behind him, a pale face covered in dark hair. She stepped forward, and Algernon did too.

  ‘Algernon, who is that?’

  ‘Well, Miss Budde, she is my sister.’

  ‘Your sister?’ Mine had just driven away. ‘She’s nothing like you!’ A girl last seen in a dark church. The ends of her hair curled and snaked across the gate. They were reaching out for me but it was daylight. Algernon was there. I knew who she was but she couldn’t reach me now.

  DRIVEWAY, BRIGHTLEY VICARAGE

  Handle thistles with great care.

  My misbehaving girl

  Curling round my fingers.

  Your words will fall like stones.

  Algernon, she says, like stones.

  My misbehaving girl.

  Marmalade and Dust

  Rain lashed down. I stood staring uneasily out of the window of our red formica kitchen, eating a piece of toast spread with my mother’s homemade three-fruit marmalade. My mouth was dry. I could smell dust, taste old things mixed in with the marmalade.

  ‘Dad, do you believe in ghosts?’ I asked my father.

  He swallowed a mouthful of cereal before answering. ‘Probably, yes, although I suspect not in the way that you imagine them.’

  ‘All white and floaty?’

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ he said.

  ‘Who imagines what?’ asked Mum.
She was getting ready for work. My mother was happier now she was working a couple of days a week at the outpatients department at Hartley Hospital. She loved it. It was bigger than the cottage hospital at Wye where she had worked since Emily was five.

  ‘Half the village is always in outpatients, I must say.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them all?’

  ‘That’s between them and the doctor. You ready? Emily? Emily!’

  Emily yelled back from somewhere in the house, ‘Yeeesss, I’m coming.’

  My father glanced at his watch. I knew where I’d inherited my punctuality from. ‘We’ll talk about ghosts later.’

  ‘Ghosts?’ asked Emily, dropping her school bag onto the kitchen floor. ‘Woooooooohhh.’ She pranced around in front of me.

  ‘Come on, let’s go, Emily. I don’t want to be late,’ said Mum. Double punctuality genes at work in the kitchen.

  ‘There’s a terrible ghost,’ said my father, pointing at Emily. ‘Bloodthirsty and deranged.’

  Mum kissed him. ‘Bye, darling.’

  ‘Enjoy your day. See you at six.’

  ‘Oh, get in the car, Rebecca. You’re not waiting for a bus in this weather. I don’t know why you don’t give Sue a call. Invite her up for the weekend. Be nice for you.’

  ‘All right. I’ll think about it.’ It’s hard to have a friend over when there’s a ghost in your bedroom. I swallowed my last mouthful of toast. Dust and bones and marmalade. I was ready for the day.

  Not the Kind of Man to Meet Your Mother

  I stared at the raindrops racing down the college window panes. The room was stuffy and I needed a drink. I imagined Sue sitting beside me, bouncing a ball.

  Mr Treadwell looked around the faces of his class. ‘So. Our chosen poet for the term is Lord George Gordon Byron, Charlie to his friends.’

  General titter from the class.

  ‘He was not really called Charlie. I just said that to see if you were awake, and it appears some of you are. Byron. Overnight sensation with his first major poem. Anyone care to tell me what that was?’

  ‘“Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”. I awoke and found myself famous. That’s what he said.’