The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  According to my father, everyone was to blame: the Egyptians, the Israelis, the Syrians and the Americans. Nixon looked like a thug, said Dad, and Kissinger was too busy getting out of Vietnam and what a disaster that was. The Tory government were doing their best in a difficult situation, as far as my father was concerned. It was typical, he said, absolutely typical, that the Budde family had oil-fired central heating when there was a world shortage of oil.

  We did not yet know how regular and tedious the power cuts would become. Those who dwelt in Un-Bright places had to have a plentiful supply of candles. In the coming months my father blamed the trade unions and Nixon and Kissinger for everything, despite the fact that Edward Heath was still prime minister of the United Kingdom in October 1973. My mother disliked Heath.

  ‘Puffed up like a turkey. What does he know about the price of a pint of milk or a loaf of bread? I bet he doesn’t buy his own groceries and I hate the way he speaks, it really puts me off.’

  ‘Puts you off what?’

  ‘The whole lot of them.’

  ‘Queenie has the right idea,’ said Dad at breakfast. ‘Getting as far from here as she can.’ He was looking at the front page of his favourite newspaper, the Daily Conservative, his bastion of Tory ideology, as he called it. Sydney Opera House Opened by the Queen.

  We all stared in wonder at this building unlike any we had ever seen. British cathedrals were famous for intricate stone spires and grotesque stone gargoyles and ancient echoing naves worn thin with the feet of worshippers and visitors over the tiles. Our cathedrals were tethered deep into the earth. They stood solid on patches of sacred ground, lit up inside by stained-glass windows full of saints and tall creamy altar candles.

  The Sydney Opera House, this amazing new bright building, was built on a corner of Sydney Harbour and from the photo it looked like it was growing up from the sea. My parents loved it.

  ‘It’s strikingly beautiful,’ Mum said. ‘What a vision, to have that in your head.’

  ‘Wowser! How did they build that?’ asked Emily.

  ‘With a great deal of difficulty I should think,’ said Dad.

  ‘They held a competition,’ said Mum. ‘The architect is Jørn Utzon. He’s Danish.’

  ‘A Great Dane, clearly.’ My father thought his joke was funny but no one else did.

  The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted the Australian sunshine. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said, eager to speak to anyone just for the novelty of it. I raced into the study.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ah, hi. Hi.’

  Silence of at least five seconds.

  ‘Hey, sorry I wasn’t there. When you called.’ My heart was leaping around as I spoke.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Your brother’s nice. Anyway I should have rung.’ And so should you.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve been busy, you know—studying and all that.’

  All that? I pictured him standing by the front door, winding the telephone cord around his fingers.

  ‘Thought I’d come and see you up there.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Great. Good idea.’

  ‘What’s the station? Hartley? How long does it take to get there?’

  ‘I’ll come to Bowater.’ I don’t really know why I said that—overexcitement, getting away from Brightley, impulse, anything for Dave.

  ‘No, I’ll come up.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, really. I’ll meet you in Bowater. It doesn’t take too long.’

  ‘You sure? I really think it’s my turn to come to you.’

  ‘No! It’s fine. Absolutely. I like coming back.’ My stomach was crying out for cream buns, my head whirling.

  In the other room, my parents were still talking about Australia.

  ‘Now that is somewhere I should like to go and visit one day.’

  ‘Full of flies,’ said my father, never having been near Australia in his life. ‘Poisonous spiders and scorpions.’ He had read extensively about the dangers of Australia in his book of The World’s Most Dangerous Creatures. They were all in Australia and my father could confidently recognise them while sitting at his kitchen table in Brightley. ‘And hot, most of the time; terrible searing heat. Couldn’t stand that heat day in, day out.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s an awful lot of ocean over there,’ said Mum, determined to stay positive. ‘It’s an island.’

  ‘Biggest in the world, I think. That right, Rebecca? And an awful lot of sharks in those seas. And snakes, too,’ said my father, in case any of us were in danger of deluding ourselves that we would be safe on the land.

  ‘How would I know anything about Australia, Dad?’

  ‘Didn’t you study it in geography? Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Dave. Sends his love.’ What was I talking about? He didn’t send his love to anyone. Least of all me.

  ‘Be nice to see him again. He should come up here for a visit.’

  ‘Maybe he will.’ The rain was turning to sleet as we spoke. The sleet was being helped along by an unpleasant wind that gusted in from Siberia, declared it liked it here and would probably stay for several years, if no one objected, which we all did.

  ‘Wonder how Maggie’s getting on,’ said Mum. ‘We’ll go and see her soon.’

  My mother wanted more sunshine in her life.

  The November Rescue Plan

  Royal Wedding: 14 November 1973.

  Possible elopement: David Fletcher and Rebecca Budde, Anytime.

  ‘You will watch the wedding with us, won’t you, Rebecca?’

  ‘I won’t be here,’ I said. ‘I have a life to live, remember?’ Oh yeah, and what a life it was going to be. Dave had called me. ‘I refuse to have anything to do with Princess Anne until she changes her hairstyle.’

  ‘Remember next Wednesday is a public holiday. The trains will be full, it’ll take you ages.’

  ‘Mum, I’m going to Bowater to see Dave whether you want me to or not.’

  ‘Mum and me are going to have a lovely time here, aren’t we, Mum?’ Emily danced around in the kitchen. Small things made her happy. I was excited too, but not about Princess Anne’s wedding dress.

  ‘You are not allowed in my room. You are not allowed to take anything from my wardrobe, Emily Budde. Do you understand?’

  ‘I don’t want to go in your smelly room, Rebecca. And you’re not reading Jackie.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t care.’

  I could hardly remember what he looked like, but oh, the longing in my soul. He was going to hold me in his arms forever. Forever? What do you think of that Algernon?

  BRIGHTLEY VICARAGE

  From experience

  Forever is a very long time.

  The name Dave

  Only has one syllable.

  Nutrition: One apple. Hunk of cheese. One slightly squashed Walnut Whip hidden behind a packet of tea in the pantry.

  Transport: Bus. Train. Legs. Heart.

  Drink: From the David Fletcher Pool of Love.

  Jane, Jane, come, my dear one, come, we are going to our beloved on a train. What the hell was I doing here? I said to myself, back in Bowater in cold, toe-numbing November. Walk don’t skip. These were the facts I considered to stop myself getting too excited, but everyone was excited that day:

  1. Bowater Castle was built by the Normans shortly after their unwelcome arrival in Britain. Sort of roughly 1067. Or 1068. These were the invaders every Englishman and woman dreaded. Hence frosted glass by the front door. Invaders wore boots made from skin with other people’s blood holding the stitching together.

  2. Dave. Bowater Castle sat in the middle of the town. When it was first built the castle would have been the town. When the Queen and Dave and the Royal Family stayed there, the Queen’s flag flew to show she was in residence.

  3. Dave Dave Dave.

  4. Japanese and German tourists filled the streets of Bowater.

  5. The Queen’s guards were the Coldstream Guards and very smart they were too in their splendid uniforms of bearskin hats,
red jackets and black trousers with a stripe down one side.

  6. Dave. There was no other fact but Dave.

  Over the grey cobbled stones surrounding Bowater Castle I walked lightly lightly lightly. Not a village pond in sight, but the sound of hammering stone, the edge of a royal cloak, the sigh of a horse ridden a mile too far. And there it was. My heart leapt when I saw the huge grey castle, battlements rising in the sky. Union Jacks flying everywhere to celebrate the marriage of the Queen’s daughter. Sentries in the sentry boxes. Guns over shoulders. The uneven surface of the cobblestones under my feet as I ran. Mum was right about the trains, slow and full, and I was a bit late, shit.

  Butterflies and moths swarmed inside me. I was seventeen next year. Old enough for an engagement ring. I would be back in Brightley by this afternoon, my whole life changed. I could sit by the fire with Mum and Emily and bask in the glow of love radiating from the newlyweds.

  Dave and I were meeting in one of Bowater’s famous teashops, a small turn-of-the-century teahouse with a sloping roof and very small doorway. It was nestled among the other small turn-of-the-century houses lining the cobbled Victorian laneways opposite the entrance to the castle.

  He’d chosen this place because he wanted it to be special. He wanted it to be an occasion and it was an occasion because I could see him, standing by the teashop sign. The best-looking boy in Bowater, long legs, blue jeans, windcheater and t-shirt, although perhaps it would turn out to be quite a warm day, quite a warm little day, I mused to myself as I hopped, skipped (wasn’t meant to be skipping) and jumped over the cobblestones. A little bit of lateness didn’t matter, not today, surely? Would our children have red hair? Would they have freckles on their lovely little faces?

  I waved to him and he raised a hand to me. I didn’t dare allow myself to dwell on what a restrained wave it was. But as soon as I reached him I could sense something, the tug of energy pulling away from me, although he didn’t say anything.

  And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Journey all right, with all this madness?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  He looked at me, as that was a word I never normally used in association with British Rail trains.

  He kissed me on the end of my nose. I started to relax. Maybe he’d had an argument with his mum. Maybe he’d told her he was meeting me. Any minute now I’d see a floral blouse pressing against the teashop window.

  The waitress came over and stood at the table, pen in hand, notebook at the ready, slight smile on her face, black skirt, flat shoes.

  ‘Didn’t she look lovely? So did he. So handsome in that uniform. You ready to order then?’

  I was too excited to eat a thing.

  ‘Scones and tea for two, please,’ Dave said.

  This was the man I had chosen. An easy orderer. I instantly accepted scones, Bowater Castle, and not watching the royal wedding on the tele. Look, Mama, the coach brought me here and my prince was waiting.

  ‘Hello, Budde. It’s been a while. So how have you been in the new place? What d’you get up to?’

  His pale eyelashes framed his blue eyes. I studied his long guitar-playing fingers. I hadn’t forgotten the softness of his hands. He was going to ask me to marry him. I knew it.

  ‘Not much. College mostly, and trees.’ A weirdo in my bedroom. I’d save that for later.

  The waitress brought the scones with a bowl full of jam and a bowl full of cream and Dave tucked in and I poured the tea. The teapot was a sulky little stainless-steel teapot with a lid that didn’t fully close. Tea dribbled on the tablecloth as I poured.

  Dave wolfed his way through half a scone, put a fresh load of jam and cream on the other half and offered it to me. ‘Eat up.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m having another one.’

  He ate his scone and I ate mine. We each slurped a bit of tea and both of us sat there, fidgeting. This was probably the hardest thing he would ever have to say in his life. But I definitely could not say it for him. That would be like asking myself to marry me. After a while he stopped eating and wiped his mouth with the serviette and all food in the world ceased to matter. I smiled at him.

  ‘Rebecca, the reason I phoned, well, why I wanted to see you . . .’

  I would make it easy for him. I leaned forward. The tea in my cup was a dark brown colour, my parents would have been appalled at the blatant strength of it. I touched his hand resting on the table. He squeezed my fingers.

  ‘Well, this is all a bit, well, I don’t know how to say this.’

  ‘Say what?’

  He sighed and then I knew. His freckles turned away from me and stared out of the tearoom window.

  ‘I’m seeing someone else.’

  I picked up the knife all smeared with jam and cream and ran my finger down it before sticking it in my mouth. I wasn’t thinking. My stomach curled up into a tiny ball. I wanted to stab him in the neck but instead I placed the knife carefully back on the table.

  ‘She came to our school with her debating team.’

  ‘Debating team? Talked you into it, did she?’

  I sat there repeating things like a person teetering on the edge of madness. I heard words but the gap between what I was expecting to come out of his mouth and what I actually heard was so large I was falling straight into it.

  ‘I met her—look, none of that matters. I really like you but, you know, you’re living up there and I’m here and . . .’

  I sat there glaring at what was left of the cream.

  ‘It just happened. She goes to Holy Trinity in London.’

  ‘Holy Trinity? It’s full of snobs.’

  ‘Lucy lives in London . . .’

  ‘Lucy? Oh, shut up! SHUT UP! I don’t want to know any more.’

  I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair, swiping a half-eaten scone and the silver glinting teapot with the sleeve of my coat as I went. I had jam and cream smeared halfway up my sleeve and the teapot lay on its side, lid gaping open, dribbling tea miserably all over the white linen. You’re an idiot, Budde, a big bloody idiot. Scones and jam and cream. I hated them.

  Dave followed me out. ‘Rebecca! Rebecca, wait—come back.’

  But I was out running over the cobblestones, tears choking me.

  ‘Kill him,’ I shouted to the sentries but no one heard what I said. Everyone was happy, waving flags and smiling with love. Nothing was making sense. Dave caught me and whirled me around. I was punching him, I didn’t care, punching and hitting him until my arms hurt and my head throbbed and I sobbed into the jacket of the boy who no longer loved me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Budde, it just happened. She was there and . . .’

  ‘And I wasn’t. Why didn’t you just tell me on the phone?’

  ‘I thought it would be nice to see you again. I did offer to come to you. I’m sorry. Let me walk you to the station.’

  The cobbles lay there flat and grey.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Budde, we can still be friends. I’ll walk you.’

  ‘NO.’ I started walking.

  He walked beside me.

  I stopped walking. ‘Go away.’

  But he didn’t move, so I pushed him.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I shouted, and ran down the hill past Bowater Castle, over the main road, past the flags and the faces and the meaningless shops and the meaningless people. Back to Brightley on a meaningless train, leaving a station that now meant nothing to me.

  A cold thin man sat on my bed that night. From the inside of his jacket he pulled out my notebook. From a jacket pocket he pulled out my pen. I watched him from the corner of my eye. It was two o’clock in the morning. He kept clicking the pen on and off.

  ‘Shh.’

  Sometimes small bursts of light shone round him unexpectedly, but not tonight. He scratched away for a few minutes, balancing the book on his knees. It was dark, I c
ouldn’t read it, didn’t want to read it. There were small damp patches on my pillow from my tears and snot. All I could think of was Dave.

  ‘Algie? Algie?’ Gulp, swallow, sob.

  ‘Now you shh,’ he said.

  ‘Algie?’ I whispered. ‘What’s it like being dead?’

  ‘I am writing something for you,’ he said. ‘Shh. Not now.’ He shivered.

  ‘Put my jumper on.’ There was my old blue jumper lying on the bed as always.

  He pulled it on awkwardly over the top of his jacket and looked even odder.

  ‘Tell me what it’s like.’

  He put my notebook and pen down on the bed.

  A few tears slid silently down my nose. ‘Dave’s found someone else. He doesn’t want me anymore.’

  He wiped them away with his long cold finger. ‘So I will cheer you up by talking about death?’

  I nodded and half laughed and half cried and sat up in bed with my damp pillow.

  He sighed and took a huge breath, the longest inhalation I had ever seen. He breathed out slowly, pulled my jumper back over his head. ‘The dead do not speak.’ But he was talking to the night and not to me. ‘We find people who can speak for us.’ He pulled back the curtains and raised his arms to the night. ‘Come,’ he said. His eyes were like small glowing lights embedded in his face. ‘Listen. I will never say these things again.’

  ‘I’m listening, Algie.’

  He spoke slowly, fiercely. His voice the only sound in the night.

  ‘You barely believe. What has happened.

  ‘Your great lack. Of existence.

  ‘You sleep. You Sleep and Nothing wakes you.

  ‘There are sounds. You hear things but you do not know what they are.

  ‘Sometimes you see the planets spin, but you cannot see your own hands.’

  He held his hands in front of him examining them as if it was a miracle he could see at all.

  ‘Sometimes you find earth growing through you. You become a tree. Or a bird.

  ‘Still you sleep. Still nothing wakes you.

  ‘If you are lucky, if you are loved, if you are lucky, you hear voices.

  ‘Voices call you.

  ‘There is a sound coming for you through the darkness.