The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  ‘Everything is darkness. You do not know your own body.

  ‘You cannot see your own body. Sleep. Sleep. Still Nothing wakes you.

  ‘Then, if you are lucky, sound returns.

  ‘From deepest night the voice is calling.’

  He sighed a massive great sigh.

  ‘Wow, Algie. That’s amazing.’

  He was out to sea somewhere, staring—not at me. He let me place my arm around his shoulder. His head dropped, his hands reached for mine. ‘I do not know how long I have here but you must know I am here for living. For living, Rebecca Budde. You must let me do that.’

  ‘Algie, I will, I will. Of course, Algie, I will let you.’ I did not know then what I was saying.

  I hopped back into bed, put my jumper back on; the room was freezing. He knelt by the side of the bed, his eyes still bright. ‘Now you listen to this.’ He opened the notebook and read in the soft low voice I recognised.

  ‘Evil dusk as I did leave

  The comfort of my other’s soul

  And as I wept I knew not when

  The silence fled to beauty told.’

  ‘Algie, that is so lovely,’ I said. ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘Bad things can be beautiful,’ he said.

  December and Donkeys

  Daytime entertained itself with a brief morning yawn and a stretch and then it was time for bed again. It felt like midnight when it was only half past four in the afternoon. Bad things can be beautiful. Bad things looked like bad things to me. Emily and I walked out of the house, straight down the path through the woods. She stopped every once in a while, took off her gloves, picked up a stone she fancied from the path.

  ‘When I get married I want sleeves on my dress like Princess Anne.’

  ‘What if you don’t get married?’

  So long as she didn’t throw the stone at me we’d be all right.

  Someone was home in the house opposite ours. The chimney was smoking and the ancient smell of wood smoke filled the air.

  ‘Let’s go and say hello.’ Emily steered me towards the house.

  ‘No, Emily. I really do not want to say hello.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’ll say hi, I really like David Cassidy and I love the sleeves and the veil and I love Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips and I want to marry a soldier and they’ll say yes so do we and they’ll say oh please do come in and you’ll say yes, let’s and I don’t want to go in, do I? I want to walk. That’s why I’m out here walking. I don’t want to spend time with people I don’t know and I won’t like.’

  ‘How do you know you won’t like them?’

  ‘Because you don’t like them and they have a silly name, that’s why, now let’s walk.’

  ‘All right.’

  We walked into the deep woods, past the oaks and the thin saplings struggling for light, past the badger’s set, where the soft thud of our footsteps could barely be heard. I liked being with Emily, her long legs and lack of worries. She skipped and sang and prodded me with sticks. The Little Hartley road cut across the top end of the village. There were a few houses dotted along it with sweeping views of green rolling hills, cows in the fields, and the railway line from Hartley to London at the bottom of the Hartley valley.

  We walked quickly with snot running out of our noses. That’s why the English wore gloves in winter: we had to wipe the snot on something. Halfway along the track there was a five-bar gate and a lengthy path leading to what looked like a field.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  Emily followed. ‘How do we know where we’re going?’ she said.

  ‘Just walk. It’s easy.’

  The further down the track we walked the larger the horizon grew behind us. The gate at the bottom of the slope led to another field, another field among many. We looked back and at the angle where we stood, all you could see were brown ploughed furrows stretching up to heaven.

  The light was fading already and we could see shapes moving in the gloom.

  ‘Over there, Rebecca, look—it’s a donkey!’

  ‘It’s a cow.’

  ‘No—there’s another one. Look, Rebecca, look!’ Emily was all excited and jumping around. ‘Maybe it’s the one Mary rode to Bethlehem.’

  ‘A two-thousand-year-old donkey? I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s a pony.’

  ‘No it’s not, look at its ears.’ Emily pushed her hair out of her face, but it sprang back, like heather on a common.

  ‘You’ve got hair like a donkey.’

  ‘I haven’t got donkey hair, they’ve got donkey hair—I haven’t,’ she gasped.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, and I knew she would. The gravitas in my voice was what she needed. ‘In a few years’ time, scientists will have invented a way to make you look like a human being. They will be able to redesign your DNA.’

  She hit me with a twig.

  ‘Emily Anne Budde, you’re going to have hair that will be the envy of everyone. You’re going to be tall and beautiful and men will sob when you walk by, sob at their own unworthiness to inhabit the same planet as you.’

  I thought of Dave and hoped he was sobbing into his soup at the thought of me, but I knew he wasn’t.

  ‘Will they?’ she sniffed.

  ‘Yes, your hair now is slightly fuzzy, but once it grows you will never want to cut it because it will be one of the wonders of this world. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I said it.’

  ‘You said it because you’re cross with Dave. I told you he was stupid.’

  ‘And you were right weren’t you?’

  ‘Anyway, it’s better to have hair like a donkey than a face like one.’ She pointed at the nearest donkey. ‘Come on, Rebecca.’

  Emily climbed over the gate and patted the donkey’s neck. They looked very docile standing there, their wide flanks heaving in the cold air. I knew what she was going to do. She grabbed the donkey’s mane and jumped and yelped, hurled one leg over the wide grey back and the rest of her followed. She was astride her first donkey. There was nothing my little sister couldn’t do. She waved to me.

  ‘Hold on, Emily, I’m coming.’

  The donkey set off at a slow walk across the field with Emily laughing her head off and urging her slow beast forward.

  ‘GO ON!’ she yelled.

  The other donkey seemed just as docile. ‘There, donkey, there.’ I patted its neck and a big twitch shivered through its flanks. I didn’t know how to climb on a donkey, never having done so before except at the seaside when I was ten and then some kind person who we were paying to be kind and smiley probably picked me up and put me on the beast. I wasn’t as small or springy as Emily Budde. I heard her in the distance. ‘Yee-haw. Yippee yi yay.’

  I wasn’t getting on a donkey. ‘Emily, where are you?’

  A burst of laughter. ‘I’m over here.’

  I could vaguely see her heading towards the far end of the field. There were some other shapes there. Cows, perhaps? There was a light in the corner of the field, but I couldn’t see anything clearly. I ran after Emily. ‘Emily wait for me!’ I yelled.

  A figure was striding across the top of the field, waving. I knew who that was.

  ‘Woo hoo! Hello, dears!’ Flora Shillingham was getting closer and closer, speaking before I was properly within earshot. ‘Whatever are you girls doing with my donkeys?’

  ‘Flora!’

  ‘Hello, dear. Now let’s get that sister of yours.’

  I’d never seen anyone move as fast as Flora. Usual coat, boots and scarf, I couldn’t keep up with her. In less than five minutes Flora returned with one donkey and my sister.

  ‘I couldn’t get it to stop. Miss Shillingham rescued me.’

  Emily was pink-cheeked and in love with all beasts.

  ‘Call me Flora, dear. Everyone does.’

  ‘All right. Thank you, Flora.’

  ‘Were those people or cows down there?’ I asked Flora.

  ‘Oh, you get all
sorts through here. Some of them looking for badgers, but they’re further down. They don’t like being discovered. They can be dangerous if they’re disturbed.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a badger,’ said Emily, sliding from the donkey into Flora’s small capable hands.

  ‘Ask me next time,’ said Flora. ‘I’ve got a saddle you can use. I keep it in there.’ She nodded towards an old barn standing by itself on one side of the field.

  ‘Oh, can we have a look in there?’

  ‘No, Emily,’ I said, ‘it’s nearly dark, time to go home. Come on.’ I nudged her.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Flora. ‘See it another day. It’s just an old barn.’

  ‘Where did you get your donkeys from, Flora?’ Emily asked. ‘They’re lovely. I wish we had donkeys.’

  ‘Well you can make friends with mine, can’t you? Friend of my brother from the war, Australian, called them Sheila and Bruce but they’re both girls, jennies, that’s what you call female donkeys. He thought that was funny. Had them down by the sea. Up and down the beach every day, miles and miles of sand, hundreds of children every day in the saddles and when he was too old he asked me if I’d take them. Plenty of grass up here, he said. Said he knew someone who could throw in a couple of llamas as well, but really, dear, I said the donkeys would do. I’m no good with wool, you see. Never had the patience for knitting.’

  ‘I like knitting; Mum’s showing me how to knit a scarf,’ said Emily.

  The donkeys snorted. Breath hung like fog in front of our faces. There was a light at the far end of the field, I could see it now, but Flora was ushering us home back along the path.

  ‘You can ride them, dears, but not if the weather’s bad.’

  ‘How can you tell which one is which?’

  ‘Sheila has a longer mane and black ears. Bruce is, well, a little more masculine. Arthur always wanted to visit the sea.’

  ‘Who’s Arthur?’ asked Emily.

  ‘My brother,’ said Flora. ‘My older brother.’

  Poor Flora. She didn’t have much luck with men.

  ‘He was four years older than me, dear, born in 1913 in the cottage where I live now.’

  That seemed like an unfathomably long time ago.

  ‘We lost him in the war. You never really get over that. It’s a blow but you just have to get on with things.’ She was deep in her thoughts for a while as we trudged along.

  ‘I’m going to knit scarfs for the donkeys,’ said Emily.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll like that, dear, but they’ll probably end up eating them.’

  We were back where we started. That always happened when walking with Flora Shillingham. You never quite knew where you were and then suddenly everything was familiar again. We had walked back in a large circle from the Little Hartley road and were now back where we had started opposite the vicarage driveway. There was the house over the road from us, chimney puffing away.

  ‘That used to be the March family house, but the Rutherfords have it now,’ Flora said. ‘Weekenders. They don’t really count.’

  There was a flash little sports car parked in our driveway. Emily ran across the road, she couldn’t wait to get home to tell Mum about the donkeys.

  ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘London, dear, that’s where everyone’s from. Apart from you, of course, and me.’

  ‘Whose is that?’ I nodded at the sports car.

  ‘That?’ She snorted. ‘Alex March. Quite why he needs a car like that round here is beyond me. Everything all right with you, dear? Settling in?’ She peered at me. It was like being interrogated by a fox.

  ‘Flora, you know I asked you about ghosts the other day? There are ghosts, aren’t there, proper ghosts, in Brightley?’

  ‘I should think there are, dear, but most people don’t see them. They’ve made up their minds already.’

  ‘How do you know what they want?’

  ‘Well, if you see them, you can ask them. They’re just like us, really, aren’t they?’

  ‘Only there’s a slight difference, isn’t there?’

  ‘Slight,’ said Flora, her nose twitching and sniffing the air. The car in our driveway reversed out and the headlights swung around in our direction.

  The driver stopped and wound down his window. ‘Rebeccah! Nice to see you!’ said Alex in his posh deep voice. ‘Flora.’

  He gave her the country salute, hand to the forehead, and drove away.

  ‘Be careful, won’t you, dear?’ was all Flora said as the car sped off down the road.

  ‘Nice car. Don’t you worry about me, Flora,’ I said.

  The Invitation

  Emily was already stuffing her face in the kitchen. ‘Well you just missed Mr Alex March with invitations galore.’

  I sat at the kitchen table buttering toast and fiddling with the shell from the boiled eggs we were having for tea. Mrs Budde was standing at the kitchen sink, staring at the fine layer of frost covering the back garden.

  ‘It’s our first formal invitation in Brightley,’ said Mum.

  She carried on staring out the window. ‘He seems nice enough,’ she said. ‘Everyone who lives here has vast amounts of money.’ She sighed, pink rubber gloves dripping foam from the washing-up into the sink.

  ‘Decent handshake though,’ said Dad.

  ‘He nearly took my arm off when I met him at the pub,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Rebecca, you do exaggerate. The March family is quite established around here. Alex is an artist—portraits mostly, I think.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll paint me because I’m so beautiful and he won’t paint you because you’re so ugly,’ said Emily, looking at me.

  I ignored her.

  ‘I don’t want to go, anyway,’ said Emily. ‘I’m not interested in Christmas parties unless David Cassidy is going to be there.’

  ‘David Cassidy? Hair like a girl. Sings like a girl.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I was beginning to admire Emily more and more. All her decision-making was based on one American singer in a band named after a television program. Until recently, mine was centred round one English boy in Wye and what was the point of that? What was the point of a Christmas party in Brightley? Lots of wine and mince pies and upper-class accents.

  My father held out a rectangular card for me to inspect. The invitation was on thick creamy paper and addressed to the Reverend and Mrs Robert Budde. I wasn’t sure that I liked that. ‘Why is Ma now devoid of a name?’ I asked. ‘She’s Ruth Budde.’

  ‘It’s just convention, Rebecca, nothing harmful is meant by it.’

  ‘Yes, but Dad, nothing harmful was meant by women not having the vote. It was something that just didn’t happen.’

  ‘Rebecca, if I don’t mind it then why should you?’ Mum asked. ‘It’s really such a minor detail.’

  ‘I rode on a donkey today, like Jesus,’ said Emily. ‘It was very bumpy.’

  ‘Yuck. Mum, how old is this yoghurt?’ I was licking my finger which was covered in strawberry yoghurt.

  ‘It’s fine, but have something else with it.’ Mum wiped her rubber gloves. I wasn’t interested in Alex March or his invitation. The only thing I was interested in was me and Dave. But that wasn’t going to happen. We were over, done, Dave and I were dead. Algernon Keats appeared to be both dead and alive so I decided to accept him into my life. Like my parents believed in God, I would believe in the existence of Algernon. I would believe in ghosts. They needed to be seen, that was why they were here. You barely believe what has happened. Your great lack of existence. I could not imagine what it was like for Algernon. I only knew what it was like for me. Maybe that was why he was here. I could see something glimmering in the distance but it was still 1973. Winter. I wore gloves and an old sheepskin hat that my father didn’t want any more. It curled up at the edges and barely covered my ears but I wore it anyway. My jeans were still flared. I accepted ghosts, invitations, donkeys and poems. I rejected Dave because Dave had rejected me. My coat reached down to the ground,
long, heavy, warm and grey and that was how I liked it.

  WINDOW, MIDDLE ROOM

  The world is waiting and our senses too

  In darkness flowing me to you.

  The water’s edge is smooth and fast,

  And in it all my words float past.

  Oh come, R. Budde, and do not linger

  For he will leave you in despair.

  My wretched frame awaits you here,

  Oh come, oh come, away from there.

  Warming Up

  Voices filled my ears. A long corridor led directly from the front door to the living room and the rest of the house. I was wearing my pirate shirt, last worn for dinner with Dave, but it was still a nice shirt, I couldn’t hold a grudge against a shirt. I’d borrowed, without asking, a pair of Maggie’s trousers, black, reasonably smart, not as flared as I liked, and pulled on my old scuffed boots. A polished table stood on dark elegant legs bearing a tray of freshly poured champagne.

  Paintings lined the corridor, their stories in gold frames, horses and dogs and people from the past dressed in their finery. People caught in a particular time with an expression they had held for the artist while they were painted. What did they think, I wondered, as they stood there in their finery? Did they wonder about the size of their nose, the play of their hair, or did they think they looked pretty good as they were?

  The manor house was the largest house I had ever set foot in. Oh, people of Wye, if you thought our house was huge then get a load of this one. I poked my head around corners; there was the kitchen. Oh, Mama, come and see the kitchen, black and white tiled floor, long wooden table, Aga oven on one side, sinks and bottles and glasses on the other, and no red formica in sight. Jane, is this where Mr Rochester makes Mrs Fairfax a sandwich on her one day off every thousand years? Jane? Jane? Byron? I know you can hear me, this is where you play your devilish games. You most certainly refill the glasses here.

  The ceilings in every room were high and ornate. Most of the walls in the rooms I stuck my head into were covered with paintings, gilt frames, more paintings. I wondered who had been so busy over the years. The wallpaper varied from room to room and so did the furniture. Warm well-dressed bodies were everywhere, but mainly in the living room, if you could dare to live in a room so large and lovely. Yes, Byron, I know you could. A massive fire roared in a gigantic fireplace at one end of the room. It was beautiful.