The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  For the first time Augusta looked quite small, standing there alone. Waiting for Flora to tap her watch and say, Come on, there’s others waiting. They all have things to say and do with those who listen. Time for a good lie-down, my girl. But where would she lie? She hummed deep and low. Maybe she’d be all right here now. I walked from room to room. I thought of my other self, a hundred years ago, about to sneeze under the bed.

  It is different now.

  ‘It certainly is.’

  Someone was entering the house, voices carried up the stairs. Time to leave. My heart thumped. Maybe it was him, come back for something he’d forgotten? I raced back down the stairs, jumping down the last stair straight into Sophie Rutherford and the shadow behind her, Lucy.

  ‘Oh! Hello, Rebecca. Goodness, whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see the place. Dad told me what happened.’

  ‘Well it’s a terrible mess. The police haven’t even found a fingerprint. Not a single one. I’m going to redo the place. Alex trusts me, he knows I’ll do a good job. Lucy’s going to help me. I hate seeing it like this.’

  ‘I’m really sorry this happened.’

  ‘Me too. This house belongs to us both, really. Not that he ever admits that.’ Sophie’s blonde hair wasn’t swinging in quite the same way.

  Lucy stood there, an odd expression on her face. ‘Why would Al want to stay here when Francesca has a sixteenth-century villa in Tuscany? It’s so romantic.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ I said. I had no trouble picturing both of them in their summer of togetherness, arms entwined, with wine and roses, and all the time laughing, laughing and painting and drawing, and him telling her if she could just move her face a little more to the left. I felt a little better knowing that Augusta was here minding the place.

  Lucy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into my face. ‘The thing I hate the most is that they’ve taken the painting of my ancestor.’

  I waved the smoke away.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t smoke those horrible things,’ said Sophie.

  ‘They’ve stolen George Percival March. Alex looks so like him. It’s my favourite painting.’ She looked at Sophie.

  ‘Yes, the painting is quite unique, we’ll probably never get it back, but the thieves won’t be able to sell it, it’s too well known. There’s an old grave at the bottom of the garden, we used to play around it when we were small. That’s George down there, we think. That’s we were told, anyway. There’s no marker on it. It’s a terrible shame about the painting.’

  I felt a streak of madness bursting through me. An old grave. Is that yours, Augusta? Yours or his? It doesn’t matter now, does it?

  Sophie moved down the hallway, leaving me and Lucy alone.

  I stared at Lucy’s pretty face, her neat turned-up nose, her expensive hair, her blue shining eyes.

  She leaned forward so she was half an inch from my face. ‘Alex screws anything that moves, didn’t you know that?’

  There was a rustle of black wings behind me.

  ‘I know you did this, Rebecca. I know you trashed the place. I expect you enjoyed doing it. I should tell the police. What do you think? The least you could do now is help clear up.’

  Challenge her to a duel.

  Fight her with a sword.

  ‘Shh! It’s okay. I’ll sort this out.’

  ‘You’re damn right you will sort this out, Rebecca Budde,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Lucy?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For once in your life why don’t you just shut the fuck up?’ I slapped her once, hard across the face, and pushed past her, heart pounding, no tears. I was way beyond tears.

  ‘Enjoy the fete,’ I said, and walked out into the bright blue day.

  Arrivals

  Half past five in the morning. The room’s chilly, but no one’s warming their bones. It’s nearly the end of summer, the radiators are always cold in summer. I yawn, stretch, open my wardrobe door and pull out a green jacket. I clear my throat. Pick up a pen, my journal that’s been lying around, pages smudged, lines crossed out; I can hardly make sense of anything written there. My hands feel warm. The rituals of the day are starting, my parents making cups of tea downstairs in the kitchen.

  Maggie said she would be here by eight o’clock. Just over two hours to go. I chew the end of my pen and stare out the window. A few cars trundle along the road, cows are eating in the fields, lifting their great bovine heads from time to time. What do cows think about?

  I can hear my mother saying, ‘It’s going to be hot today,’ and my father replying, ‘Not too hot, we hope, don’t want anyone fainting with excitement.’

  ‘No, not today of all days,’ and my mother laughs at the idea of that happening in Brightley.

  There’s Sophie Rutherford, walking down the dusty path nice and early, and who is that small figure scuffling alongside her, a donkey’s lead in one hand, nothing in the other? Flora Shillingham without her basket. Flora doesn’t even like the Rutherfords but the day isn’t about who you like or don’t like. It’s bigger than that.

  And here comes Lucy, with a tall fair-haired boy, obviously up and about far too early. Scruffy hair, hands in pockets, no one here’s going to miss out on the royal couple. Lucy is leading the second donkey with the fancy saddle. Puffs of dust rise from the donkey’s hooves as they walk down the path.

  I’m thinking of Algernon, sifting the small stones around with my fingers. I like the feel of them, the weight of them through my fingers. I was going to chuck them out but decided to keep them. Why not? I’ll find a corner for them on the driveway, Algie’s corner. That’ll be the place. I run my hands through them. They always feel warm. I try to write out his poem, see if I can remember it, see what comes to me in the calm of morning. I start a clean page in my journal.

  FOR YOU

  Your best things are still living

  They are the promise I will keep

  Not lost behind horizons

  Or swirling in the deep

  From a blood red dying sunset

  They are the words I try to speak.

  Algie? Algie, what do you think? Does it sound right? Talk to me, Algie. Silence was such a reminder of him. Somewhere in the distance I could hear a name being called, the sound of a familiar voice. Emily was yelling something, but she’d been yelling things for days, she was so excited. I put on jeans and a t-shirt and my jacket. I couldn’t think of anything more to write. I just sat there watching the day unfold. A voice in my head said, Words sometimes have a long journey from thought to paper.

  Algie?

  No one is there.

  Footsteps race up the stairs. ‘Where is she then?’ And Maggie, my glorious shining sister, bursts in through the door.

  ‘There you are. Come on, Abes.’ Maggie waltzes around my room, picking up things and poking them. ‘So, tidy Abes, what’s come over you? Give us a hug then. Abes, what are you wearing? Where did you get this?’ She strokes my arm.

  ‘It’s my new jacket.’

  ‘Where from? An op shop? What’s with the collar? The colour suits you. Come down and have breakfast. There’s a surprise for you. Clever old Emily! Who’d have thought it? Can you believe who’s coming today?’

  ‘The King and Queen of the Entire Universe. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  ‘Don’t be long, Abes, or I’ll have to come back and get you.’

  I put my pen and journal back on the desk. He’s not here and never will be again. The air closes round me. I feel something, something trying to get through, but then, nothing. Just air. A room. A jacket. Okay, Maggie, you win. Here I come. Why did I feel I was floating away? I’m not floating away, am I? There’s someone at the door saying my name.

  ‘Abes, come and see who’s here!’

  Maggie has a surprise for me. Half of me wants to turn and run somewhere, anywhere. Hide under the bed, never come out.

  Now there’s a ginger-haired man coming towards me. He looks as if he kno
ws me. But do I know him? Oh yes. Simon. I remember him now.

  He pecks me on the cheek. ‘When I last saw this one she was hiding under a hedge!’

  My family are so noisy. Rebecca! Abes! Abes! Come here, you daft thing. Maggie tugs and pulls at me. Emily’s dancing around the house like a lunatic, singing and evading all attempts at capture.

  ‘Guess who’s come to see you? Come and say hello.’

  No more guessing, please.

  ‘Dave’s here. Dave has come to see you.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ I can hear my voice saying the right words, but nothing’s really making sense. I would like to walk out of the house and keep walking. Maybe someone in a car will offer me a lift somewhere. But it won’t be anyone I know.

  ‘Come and say hello to Dave. He’s come up with Simon for a day in the country.’

  There are millions of Daves in the world. There’s a David in the Bible, a king. He was meant to be wise. Why is Dave here? I don’t want to see him now. That’s all finished, over and done.

  Emily’s dancing around me. Why is my mother looking at me like that?

  ‘It’s time, it’s nearly time!’ Emily is practically screaming at everyone. ‘They said they’d be here at nine o’clock. Come on, come on, we can’t be late for our own fete!’

  ‘Emily, calm down. You’re hysterical. No, Rebecca, don’t go back upstairs and get changed. That jacket looks nice on you. Where did you find it? Have you already told me? I don’t remember. Very nice colour. The collar’s a bit odd, but we can fix that. Come on. Come on, everyone.’

  I walk out the back door and down the driveway. Dave is standing there. I know that face. It is very strange to see such a familiar face again. He looks odd standing there on our gravel driveway by the cypress tree.

  I hold out my hand for him to shake as I can’t think what else to do, or how to greet him.

  ‘Welcome to Brightley,’ I say.

  ‘It was Maggie’s idea. She said we both had to come.’

  My father wanders over and shakes Simon’s hand and Dave’s hand and for some reason this seems to go on for a long time. My father puts his arm around me protectively.

  ‘Well, it’s an exciting day for everyone, Rebecca Abraham Budde. Minor or major prophet today?’

  ‘Major, I think.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ he says.

  Mum’s smiling. ‘It’s nice to see him again, isn’t it?’

  The same face, ginger hair, shorter than I remember. Something inside me stirs, like a huge wave breaking over my head. A breeze kicks up and I pull my jacket firmly around me.

  My mother says, ‘We’re going now, we don’t want to miss anything. Bob? Bob! Do you have the camera? You’ve checked the film?’

  My father holds up the big brown camera hanging on his shoulder. ‘All here and ready. Time to go.’

  No one moves. Everyone still stands on the driveway.

  ‘It’s not quite what I was expecting,’ Dave says, looking around. ‘Quiet, isn’t it?’

  ‘You have no idea,’ I say.

  ‘Moving out now, please.’ My father is first out of the gate, followed by pairs of feet crunching over the gravel, faces eager to greet a Princess of the Realm and her husband. My mother was right, the air is chilly, the collar is odd, but the jacket fits me perfectly and its one of those things I know I’m going to have for a long time.

  Maggie grabs my arm and walks with me. Dave and Simon are joking around behind us but we don’t wait for them. The whole Budde family is walking together under the oaks.

  ‘It’s so nice to be home again, Abes—look at her,’ says Maggie, and we all watch Emily skipping and leaping and dancing with each step. We walk past the churchyard. No one is tending the graves. We are nearly there now, nearly at the village green. The marquee flutters into sight. No one is running through the trees. There are no black boots beside me. I take a couple of big deep breaths of Brightley air. There is nowhere else I want to be. The place is mine.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many thankyous to be said, so thank you Catherine Milne, for seeing something a long time ago in those early drafts and encouraging me with sage advice. Thank you William Verity, friend and fellow traveller, for reading a very early draft and telling me there was a small glimmer of hope on page twelve. Huge thank you Ruth Quinn, dear friend and wise counsellor, you have been with me all the way on this journey with your warmth and insight, reading and listening and making me scones and tea. Thank you to the lovely Pippa Masson and Grace Heifetz, from Curtis Brown, Australia. You have been fabulous all the way through and I am very grateful to have you in my corner. Thank you to Jane Palfreyman from Allen & Unwin for your wisdom and insight and belief in this book. Thank you Ann Lennox for all your help and advice. To my tall beautiful children, Isaac, Freya and Bede, thank you for the noise, the biscuits, the arguments and the silliness. Thank you for helping me with some of those lines, you know the ones. Thank you to all my friends and family for encouraging me to finish this book before the next millennium. Thank you to Bill, my dearly dearly beloved. You have lived with ghosts and poets for so long, and you have supported me with every word of this book. I couldn’t have done this without you.