The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  ‘Augusta? Where are you?’ Where was she? Did it matter? She was here now, in the house of her beloved George, even though he was a bastard. Maybe she knew he was here somewhere, just like she was. She still went back to him. She’d stop bothering me now. I could go home and be a normal person with Algie, him and me against the world, and I’d never ever think about Alex March again.

  The front door slammed shut.

  Oh diddly fuck. Augusta? Where the hell are you?

  Voices in the hallway.

  ‘Alex? You here?’ Lucy Bloody Rutherford-Fuchs was in the house with another voice, a male voice, behind her.

  My heart leapt out from my dreaming body and shot me halfway across the room. Quick, you idiot, you big blundering idiot—hide!

  Footsteps coming up the stairs, footsteps and voices, behind the door, no, no, no, they’ll see me, under the bed, under the bloody bed, oh you mighty, mighty fool.

  I crawled under Alex March’s bed, my heart thumping like a drum in a marching band, boom boom boom and glory, glory hallelujah, perhaps I would die like this. Death from embarrassment while Lucy Rutherford screwed her boyfriend—not Dave, please don’t let it be Dave, she chucked him, didn’t she?—on the bouncing laughing bed.

  I lay under the bed with a mouthful of dust from the wooden floorboards. I was going to have to come out and surprise them. But it didn’t sound like Dave. Sounded more like Alex March, a little bit posh, a little bit London, not a Wye on Thames voice.

  ‘You sure about this, Luce?’

  ‘’Course. Alex says I can use the place whenever I want to. He knows what Sebastian is like.’

  Why, Lucy darling, Alex says the same to me, use the place whenever, Rebeccah, stay under the bed for as long as you want to.

  ‘He’s okay. Is to me, anyway.’

  ‘Yes of course he is to you. He likes you. He thinks you’re a good influence on me. Oh God, if only he knew.’

  There was a terrible, terrible silence, and I could hear all sorts of terrible, terrible sounds I’d have given anything in my life not to hear. Augusta, get me out here, please.

  The door opened and from where I lay I could see her black little shoes swing into the room. She stood at the door watching Lucy in her twentieth-century act of passion with whoever was meant to be a good influence on her.

  As Augusta stood there a huge swirl of dust went up my nose and I desperately tried to stop the sneeze, but I couldn’t. I knew it was coming. Oh shit shit shit. I practically shoved my whole arm into my mouth. I would have shoved my whole body into my mouth if it had stopped the sneeze, but no, it was coming, it was coming, any second now . . .

  It nearly blew my head off. And one sneeze was never enough.

  ‘Oh my God, did you hear that?’ Lucy shot up off the bed. I could see Augusta’s feet dance over to the windows where she flapped the curtains, opened the window, slammed the bedroom door shut then opened it again and turned the bedroom light on and off, on and off. She was magnificent.

  They both scrambled up from the bed, almost screaming with fright. ‘What the hell’s going on? Oh my God, what the hell is this?’

  I prayed that Lucy wouldn’t look under the bed for the source of the sneeze, but at that moment Jojo raced in. God bless you, Jojo, and God bless you, Augusta (was that a funny thing to say to a ghost?). He barked his head off at Augusta and Lucy and the boy, and Lucy was saying, ‘Oh my God, we’re not staying here, wait till I tell Alex he’s got poltergeists in his bloody house. Come on, Nick, let’s get out of here.’

  Augusta slammed the bedroom door shut behind them and I heard Lucy scream halfway down the stairs. Augusta really seemed to be enjoying herself.

  I could hear Jojo outside scrabbling over the driveway behind Lucy and Nick, whoever he was. I slid out from under the bed. Car doors slammed, an engine started, then revved away. Shaky legs, beating heart, covered in dust.

  ‘Augusta! You marvellous thing. Thank you.’

  She inclined her head to me.

  ‘Is all that hard to do?’

  Easy.

  ‘Do you feel good now?’

  I was thinking of . . . She paused, gathering his name from some undisclosed sadness. Then she said it. George.

  A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. I had never seen Augusta smile before. I couldn’t feel her sadness; it sat like a stone in front of me, I could only see it from the outside. I had no idea what she had felt or what her life had been. I only knew mine. I had to get out of there. I was going home to Algernon. Algie, I am coming.

  Where are you?

  ‘Miss Budde, I am sitting in the wardrobe.’

  ‘What’s up, Algie?’

  ‘I would like some more of your company, Miss Budde.’

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Yes indeed, here is your corporeal presence.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He looked tired and crumpled but still he smiled at me with his beautiful kind face. Algernon. Oh with what fondness do I regard you?

  ‘Shall I tell you about this afternoon?’

  ‘I told you not to let her in.’

  ‘I didn’t, she was there already. But it’s all right, Algie, nothing bad happened.’

  ‘Misbehaving most likely,’ he said.

  ‘Having fun,’ I said. I was thinking of the huge pile of fluff under Alex March’s bed. I wondered what would have happened if Lucy had looked under the bed. I thought Algernon would be pleased that his sister was busy being somewhere instead of being nowhere.

  The Great Romantic Fool

  It was now June. Last term of college before the long summer break. My book, The Great Romantics, was massively overdue. I had renewed it twice under special provisions from the library for those who stubbornly keep and will not relinquish their books. I was going to have to beg Mrs Johnson’s forgiveness, but first I was going to have to find her. I was going to get a fine. Never mind, I loved that book, couldn’t find it in the shops, and was reluctant to part with it.

  ‘Books, books, books,’ said Mrs Johnson, walking towards me with a brisk eagerness I recognised from her sister Amanda.

  ‘Where would we be without them? Rebecca Budde, just the person I wanted to see.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘Hello, indeed. You owe me a large amount of money, young lady. Let me see now.’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘No doubt you are. Well now, I’ve been having a think about this and here’s what I suggest, seeing as you’ve also failed to return A Short History of Brightley.’

  ‘That’s only a pamphlet.’

  ‘Still counts as a book. Well, Rebecca. Either you can pay me a large amount of money, or you could do some work here in the library for me after class.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘At least, ooh, let me see, about five pounds. And that’s subsidised by the college.’

  ‘Five pounds?’

  ‘Roughly speaking.’

  Five pounds?! Dad would kill me. He could half fill the oil tank with that. (He couldn’t really.)

  ‘How many hours would I have to work?’

  ‘Let’s say one hour twice a week, and you can start next term. How does that sound?’

  That was an afternoon spent washing dishes at the pub.

  ‘Okay then. Can I keep The Great Romantics until the end of term?’

  ‘So long as you hand it back then, all right?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘It certainly has its teeth into you that book! What would we do without them? Marvellous inventions, finite and infinite at the same time. The story just goes on in your head. I can honestly say, Rebecca, that there is nothing in this world I love more than a good book. Apart from Mr Johnson and I’m not sure about him sometimes. I am joking of course.’

  Mr Treadwell had the faint beginnings of a moustache.

  ‘Don Juan, First Canto, the verse that is marked on the page, please. This is our essay topic and this essay w
ill count towards your final results for the year. Any questions?’

  There was a collective groan from the class.

  ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,

  ’Tis woman’s whole existence.’

  I stared out the window at the traffic slowly climbing the hill.

  ‘These lines are spoken by a female character in the poem, Donna Julia. Wife and lover, Byron speaks through the female perspective.’

  I have met her. I know her. Her name is Augusta.

  ‘Excellent, thank you, Rebecca.’

  Did I say that out loud?

  ‘Why are you such a lively class, I wonder?’

  ‘Sarcasm’s the lowest form of wit, Mr Treadwell.’

  ‘A low form of wit is better than no wit at all, wouldn’t you say? So before I send you out into the wilds of England for summer, I want you to know your subject thoroughly inside and out. Relationships, concepts, context and language.

  January 1788. Byron was but a baby at his wet nurse’s breast.’

  Snigger from the back of the class at the word breast.

  ‘Yes, you all knew that date, didn’t you? The British government was shipping boatloads of convicts off to the other side of the world. In January 1788 the First Fleet sailed into Sydney Harbour, only it wasn’t called Sydney then, was it? Some of your ancestors, maybe, sailing to oblivion for nicking a loaf of bread.’

  ‘What does this have to do with Byron, Mr Treadwell?’

  ‘We don’t live in a vacuum, do we? Although some of you probably do. We are shaped by the times we are born into.

  George the Third was on the throne, mad old George, but none of you have probably ever heard of him.’

  My stomach rumbled. I was starving.

  ‘They have a lovely opera house.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Sydney, Australia.’

  ‘Great, thank you for that insight, Rebecca. One day I hope to visit it, but for now could we get back to the essay question?’

  ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,

  ’Tis woman’s whole existence.

  ‘So women had nothing else in their lives except love but men could do other things.’

  ‘Excellent, James, thank you . . .’

  James Wright grinned at me. If he thought I was impressed by that he was mistaken.

  ‘So now we know about the women in Byron’s life. Don’t we? His half-sister, Augusta Leigh. His lovers, one of whom was Lady Caroline Lamb, we have talked about this. His wife, Anne Isabella Milbanke, and his daughter from that marriage, Augusta Ada. Augusta was a popular name in the nineteenth century. You should all know this and I expect to see it in your work when I read your essays. Answers focused on the quote, please.’

  Augusta. That name spoken so casually in the classroom hissed in my brain. I stared at my legs under the table. I felt like the unstable king, George the Third. I was in a period of madness and recovery seemed far away. What would Mother do with George the Third? Come on, George, sit yourself down and get some of this in you. At the very least she would have cooked stuffed cabbage for him and one of her moist crumbling apple strudels. Would my mother still love me if she knew about my madness? My ghosts? When was lunch? I really was very hungry indeed. Something weird was happening to me.

  I couldn’t wait for class to finish so I could go home.

  ‘How different is life today? If Byron was alive in 1974, what would he think?’

  ‘He’d think David Bowie was God.’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  Silence. Fidget, cough. Could I bring Algernon to college?

  How about Augusta? Let her explain the past.

  ‘Mr Treadwell?’

  ‘Ah, someone else speaks. How interesting this might turn out to be.’

  ‘Can’t we just do “So, We’ll Go No More a Roving”?

  I understand that one.’

  ‘Thank you, James, but no. Off you go, essay outlines back before the end of term, please.’

  Two lines would do me nicely. Two short lines, Byron, can you hear me?

  I read and reread those two lines on the bus home until I felt sick from the constant movement.

  Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart. ’Tis woman’s whole existence. My head banged against the bus window and maybe that knocked some sense into me. Half a mile to Brightley and I was like Helen Keller in that film Mum loved—Helen Keller drawing water from the well. Helen Keller knew. What did she know, Budde? Think it through, think, Budde, think. She understood the meaning of words she could not hear. The cold wet liquid rushing through her hands was water. How did she know that? The word became the water. She felt the meaning of the word through her hands. When she touched the water she could feel it because the water was the word. She could drink it, bathe in it, it was hot, it was cold, it was wet. It kept her alive.

  Going home to Brightley on the four fifteen bus, I thought I understood what Byron was saying in those two lines. I could hear the voice of the poet reaching down for me. I knew who was prancing around in the dark thinking she had found him. Oh Mr Treadwell, I am never going to be able to write this stuff in an essay.

  The driver let me off at the corner as usual. A huge crow flew past. Brown eyes swivelling like secret worlds. Augusta, My whole existence. Taken up with love. I was The Great Romantic. Consumed with finding love. Cream buns and cake had permanent residence in my brain. Wasn’t love the most important thing in the world? Augusta was like me. Or was I like her? The crow landed on the gate and watched me, never once taking its eye from me, head cocked to one side, staring from its stark black feathers.

  Augusta? You still want love. Same as me. That’s why you’re here.

  Dreaming and Writing

  Flora was sitting at our kitchen table having a cup of tea with my mother when I walked in. Her basket wasn’t yet unloaded, full of eggs and spring greens. I had to get upstairs with my book, my book, my book. No time now to speak to Flora. Guess what, Ma? I’ve run up a massive five pound library fine. Don’t tell Father.

  ‘Hello, Flora.’

  ‘All right, dear? I’ve brought your mother some greens.’

  That’s exciting.

  ‘We’ll have them for tea,’ says my mother.

  ‘Great. I love greens. Whole point of my existence.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘George the Third and convicts.’

  ‘George the Third?’ said Flora, who seemed to know a lot about madness. ‘A bit up and down he was, something in his blood. Didn’t drink enough burdock tea, I expect. Goodness, you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t stop now, I have to write an essay outline.’

  ‘No time for anything these days, young people.’

  Our kitchen table was now covered in greens and goodness from Flora’s garden. Mum looked twitchy, she wanted to get outside and talk to her beloved cypress tree and do some gardening, not sit there talking to Flora. Sorry Ma, can’t help you now, vegetables and kings don’t matter. Up the stairs I went. Book in my hot little hand. Augusta stood on the balcony. Maybe Flora had known and was going to try to swat her with her basket.

  Let me in, little Buddey girl.

  Her long hair curled around and around like a coiled beast. I held the book up so she could see it through the window. Byron pressed against the glass. Look, here he is, this is him.

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Augusta, look, this is Lord George Gordon Byron. He does look a bit like Wild George March but it’s not him.’

  She spun around. The window rattled and my book went flying into a dark corner.

  ‘You think Alex March is George March, but he’s not. He’s a twentieth-century man. He’s a painter, an artist.’

  I do not care what he is. Her voice grew deeper and deeper until I could hardly hear her. She was thunder on the edge of the sky.

  ‘Algie? Now would be a good time to come out.’

  He opened the ward
robe door, and stood in front of the window.

  He folded his arms and stared at his sister. I had to say something, I had to try to make things better.

  ‘Augusta, you’re one hundred and fifty years too late. John Keats is dead. Byron’s dead. Wild George March is dead. And so are you. Can’t you sort this stuff out between you? Algie?’

  The temperature dropped rapidly in the room. It was warmer outside than in. There was a blue afternoon sky out there. I’d had enough of the cold room. Algernon said nothing.

  ‘Come on Algie, let her in. No? All right then. I am opening the window. Algernon, I am opening my bedroom window.’

  ‘This is your choice then, Miss Budde. You have chosen.’

  ‘Oh come on, Algie, lighten up. She’s coming in.’

  Fingers around the catch, I turned it slowly, and shoved the window up hard. The damp earth entered my room along with sweeter smells, grass and jasmine, dusty paths and lengthening days. In she came, swirling and splendid, black hair curling. There he stood, green and shining, their eyes firmly fixed on each other, then on me.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘It does not matter now,’ said Algie. ‘Where she is.’

  ‘What is it with you two?’

  ‘What do you think we do in time and space?’ asked Algie. ‘Do you think we sit there having a good time? In the cold unimaginable dark? When someone dreams it brings what’s left of us alive.’

  I had never seen Algernon like this before. Cold and bothered. Do you not yet know? Her hair curled wildly around in my room.

  Steady now, girl, don’t want to make a complete mess of things in here now, do we?

  ‘Wild George March?’ I said.

  I gave him everything. To him it was nothing. Nothing. And afterwards I could not speak. I prowled the corners of my heart. To understand the blackness in my soul.

  ‘Augusta, it’s over now, can’t you just go somewhere and be happy?’