G is for Ghosts

by Rhonda Parrish

  “Ah, right.” She scratched the back of her head.

  “Is that where you go?” I asked.

  “Me? No, I don’t go to school. My mum thinks it’s not good for me to mix with the local girls, they’re all tarts. Well, so she says. And we can’t afford for me to go to a private school, like Oliver does. He’s just home for the Summer.”

  “He gets to go and you don’t? Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Yes, but he is older.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and besides, I was tired from our journey. I picked up the key. She got the message.

  “Well then, I’ll leave you to it. Come down if there’s anything you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  She left. I went over to Mother, kissing the top of her head.

  “You just rest now, Mother. Take your time. You don’t have to make a decision yet.”

  I went to the kitchen to look for tea.

  It always takes a while deciding whether a new place will be a suitable home, and I believe it’s not something that can be forced or rushed. I was quite happy to spend the days getting familiar with our flat and the gardens. Mrs. Pott and her children somehow managed to inhabit the entire ground and first floors. I wasn’t sure how the three of them did it. Did they actually use all of those rooms? I was very curious to see the rest of the house, but was in no rush. And the main thing was for Mother to feel that this was an appropriate home, and that, I knew, would take a bit of time.

  I spent a good deal of those first few days in the back garden. It was a magical, overgrown place. Fairy tale tangled with brambles and untamed shrubs. Bees hovered, lazy and hedonistic, weighted down by pollen breeches. Time moved differently in the garden. An hour could stretch, spun sugar like, to last days. It was delightful.

  Most of the time Mrs. Pott was occupied with chores in the kitchen, or with driving into town to help with the various committees and clubs she was ever-busy with. Finding that Mother and I were without a car, she insisted on picking up groceries and toiletries for us. She never seemed to stop. Vivacious is the word that comes to mind when I think of her. Yes, vivacious.

  I started to spend time with Mara while Mother was resting, which she needed to do more and more. At first, Mara would come and sit on the back terrace overlooking the tangled garden while I lay on the grass. But slowly, like a feral cat, she would come closer and want to talk.

  “How long has your family lived in this house?” I asked one afternoon as we sat together on the long grass. It was the sort of majestic home that could have been in a family for generations.

  “My parents bought it just before Oliver was born. So, a while.”

  “How did your father die?” I asked, emboldened by a feeling of intimacy which was, perhaps, fuelled by the lovely weather and the droning of the sun-warmed bees. Mara brought her knees up under her chin, held them in place with knitted fingers. For the first time, I could see the young child in her. The vulnerability.

  “Car accident.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was with his mistress from town. She had her hand down his trousers. He drove into a tree. They both died instantly.”

  Perhaps that explained the heaviness hanging over the siblings, and the non-stop action of the mother as well as her refusal to let Mara associate with the girls from town.

  “What about your father?” she asked, as I should have guessed she would.

  “I…I never knew him.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “Your mother doesn’t seem like that type of woman.”

  I shrugged. There was really nothing more I could add.

  Mother and I sat in the kitchen. Four carved, oak chairs surrounded a cheap formica dining table; metal legs that were cool even on the hottest days. I drank my tea and watched Mother. Her head listed and I could see she was sleeping. That was good. I closed the gap between us by reaching my hand out and covering hers with it.

  “Take your time, Mother. There’s still no rush.” Though seeing her now, I wasn’t so sure.

  One morning, Oliver stopped me on the stairs. I was on my way down and he was on his way up. Although he was thin there seemed to be more of him than there actually was. Perhaps it was the fug of sullenness and smugness and unwashed clothes.

  “Aren’t you afraid, up there in the attic? Especially at night,” he began.

  “Not particularly. Should I be?”

  “You would be if you knew it was haunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  “There was a servant girl who lived up there, long time ago.”

  I was intrigued. A house like this must have its ghost stories.

  “She got pregnant by the son of the master of the house. This was back in the days when the master and any sons of his had a right to the favours of any pretty girl they employed.”

  He took a step toward me.

  “It was their right, since they were giving the girl a home and decent work.”

  “What happened to her?” I wanted to bypass these bits of the story.

  “When she started to show,” he gestured to my belly, “she had no choice but to take her life.”

  “Where?”

  “In your sitting room. Over the years, people have heard her up there, and from time to time, her glowing form has been seen through the window by townspeople as the pass the house on a dark night.”

  Clearly, he was trying to scare me.

  “Well, I feel sorry for the poor girl. Being abused by a beast like that.”

  He gave me an oily smile.

  “You don’t like the old customs?”

  He was now on the step directly above mine, his breath hot on my forehead.

  “No. And don’t forget, I’m a paying tenant, not a paid servant. Not that it should make a difference.”

  “No, it doesn’t make a difference. No difference at all.”

  He moved aside to let me pass.

  It was a strange house, oppressive. But I slowly became convinced that was due to the inhabitants. A house can’t help but reflect the moods of the people living in it. Mother was looking weaker by the day, spending most of her time sitting on our sofa in a kind of stupor. The air was fusty and too warm, but I believed that was best for her so I kept the window shut.

  For distraction, I went in search of Mara. She was in her room, and she’d told me to come down and knock on her door any time. Day or night. I knocked. She unlocked the door to let me in.

  “Do you always keep it locked?” I was surprised.

  “I don’t want him coming in.”

  I knew who she meant, given that Oliver was the only male in the house and that I could tell she was also uncomfortable when he was around.

  She belly-flopped onto her bed. I sat on the chair, my stocking feet gripping the edge of the bed. It was a nice room. Brass four-poster bed, wicker chair, old sea-chest for her bedclothes, and a miss-matched pair of dressers for her clothing. No school evidently meant no homework desk.

  The windows were wide open, letting in a pleasant breeze and the sounds and smells of the falling night.

  “If Oliver invites you to his room, don’t go.”

  “No worries there,” I assured her.

  She nodded. But I caught something else, possibly jealousy behind her look.

  “He told me there’s a ghost in our sitting room.”

  “She’s not the only ghost in the house.”

  “No?”

  “There’s one in the cellar too. Do you want to know where?”

  I did.

  “Come.” She rolled and lifted herself from the bed, dug in her sea-chest for a torch. She led me downstairs, flicked on the ceiling light.

  The cellar began with a room kitted out with a pair of eviscerated armchairs, a coffee table, and empty, listing bookcases. Stacks of moving-boxes almost touched the low ceiling. Over the years, mold had wormed up their cardboard sides and the ro
om smelled strongly of spores and damp. Like a forgotten dishcloth.

  “This way.”

  She led me from this room into a dark passageway. Doors led off on either side, most closed.

  “No electricity. We’ll need this from here on.” She clicked her torch to life and we went deeper into the belly of the house.

  “When we first moved in,” she said, “My mum tried to come down here, but couldn’t. Said she sensed something terrible.” Mara looked behind her to make certain I was following. “Do you sense it?”

  I considered for a moment.

  “No, I don’t,” I answered honestly.

  “Well, you’ve got better nerves than some. And my mum can be a bit hysterical.”

  The air in the passageway was getting damper. An earthy, rooty smell rose up from the packed dirt floor, its coolness making the bones of my feet ache. Phosphorescent mold glowed from where the walls met the floor, dim will-o’-the-wisps. The sound of our voices and footsteps was muted, as though the air had thickened.

  “There.”

  Mara stopped.

  “What is it?” I couldn’t see it well enough, but it looked as though we’d come to a low door. She shone the light directly on a small hole in the door, barred by three iron rods.

  “Look inside.”

  She handed me the torch. I aimed through the hole. It was a tiny room, a cell really, barely large enough for an adult to kneel in.

  “This,” she continued, “this is where, years and years and years ago, one of the old masters of the house would incarcerate anyone who dared to defy him. It is said that at least seven men perished in this very room. See the dark spot on the floor?”

  I moved the torch light and nodded.

  “They say that that is where the last one of them died. Rats ate his body.”

  “Horrible. Let’s go back up,” I said and moved away from the door.

  “Fine.” She took the torch. There was a smug turn to the corners of her mouth. “I think you’ll agree that my ghosts are much more terrifying than Oliver’s.”

  Mother had made her decision. I was relieved. She was exhausted, winding down like a grandfather clock with only a few swings left. She had been strong for so long. And now I’d found a final home which she felt was just right, as I’d suspected, but it hadn’t been my decision to make. I put a rug over her knees to keep her warm. Kissed her forehead.

  I was surprised by a knock at the door. It was Oliver, bringing the groceries his mother had brought from town.

  “I’ll just put them in your kitchen.”

  “It’s alright, I can take them,” but he pushed past me with the bags. Fine. He looked at Mother, rolling his eyes.

  “You’re coddling her, you know,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “She needs some exercise, it can’t be good for her sitting up here all the time.”

  That was rich considering the source.

  “And wearing those sunglasses when it’s dark as a tomb up here. It’ll make her go ga-ga. If she isn’t already,” he added the last bit under his breath.

  In the kitchen, he hoisted the bags onto the table.

  “There. I’ll let you put them away. Don’t want to mess up your cupboards.” He smiled, then took a step toward me.

  “Wouldn’t you like to find out what I have down my trousers?” he whispered.

  Like father, like son. I walked from the kitchen. He followed.

  “Thank you for the groceries. You can leave now.”

  That just made him smile more.

  “The good thing about your mother being a bat-shit-crazy cripple, is that she can’t do a thing to stop me doing what I want. And I am the master of the house, remember.”

  He went over to the aubergine door and shut it, turned the key and tossed it into a corner. As he came toward me, I stepped to the other side of the coffee table.

  “I’ve seen how you look at me as we pass on the stairs,” he said.

  He made an awkward grab for my arm, but I managed to twist away. He stumbled, palms landing on the table. He was about to right himself, but found that he was face to face with Mother. His grin widened.

  “You want to see what your daughter and I are about to get up to?” He reached out for her sunglasses. I almost stopped him. Almost.

  The glasses dropped to the floor. There was one second of palpable silence before Oliver let out a garbled scream. He scrambled back, away from Mother and toward the door. The door which he had locked.

  Mother’s eyes were clear glass baubles swirling with wisps of grey smoke, dancing ghosts, otter-slick; and about to be released. My mouth swelled into a grin, as it did every time I witnessed the beauty of this.

  “Oh, Oliver,” I said, “that was not very clever of you.”

  One wouldn’t think that it was actually possible to die of fright, but the sight of dozens and dozens of freed ghosts swimming toward him from a pair of dissolving eyeballs, was indeed enough to kill Oliver. Which was fine. It saved me having to do it.

  Obviously Mother wasn’t really my mother, but is a handy deceit. A mother and daughter. People never suspect anything amiss. And Mother wasn’t the first Mother. Or the last. There have been others, many others. Before them, I’d tried different types of vessels: clay, metal, glass, but I soon realised that a vessel of flesh and bone works best. Ghosts seem most content to travel this way, in the familiarity of a warm body.

  It’s a delicate thing, re-homing ghosts. Not just anywhere will do. And more often than not, the place where the newly-minted ghost died is the last place they wish to stay. Witness the maid from the attic and the poor victims in the cellar. Not a trace of them in the house, in spite of what Oliver and Mara told me.

  Mother and the ghosts she carried are very content to stay here, to make this place their home. That made me endlessly happy.

  I had no regrets about Oliver. As for Mara, well, I felt a bit badly for her. But sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, and she died without pain or distress. And honestly, I don’t think either of them was up to the challenge of living in the house, especially without their mother, while sharing it with ghosts. Real ghosts.

  Mrs. Potts, or rather, Mother and I walked from the house. She was a perfect new vessel, full of energy and life. Vivacious. Two smoky wisps already swam about in those marvellous, glass-like eyes of hers, hidden now behind sunglasses. I took a final look back at the house at the edge of town. I could just make out dark wisps twisting and eddying on the other side of the windows. They were enjoying their freedom and their new-found home. I waved, not knowing whether or not my old Mother’s ghost was at one of the windows. I like to think that she was.

  N is for Neighbours

  L.S. Johnson

  INTERVIEWER: My guest tonight is comedian Timothy Palmer, who recently returned to the stage for a nationwide tour. Please welcome Timothy Palmer. [applause]

  PALMER: Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s great to be here, John.

  INTERVIEWER: Before we get started, I must tell you that we polled tonight’s audience before you arrived. Over the years you’ve done some remarkable cameos in films and television, and we asked the audience what was the line they most wanted to hear you say. The winning line was from ‘The Ladies of St. Agnes.’ [laughter and applause]

  PALMER: My God, I’m funny and I haven’t even said anything. [laughter] It’s every comedian’s dream. [starts to stand up] Well, I’m off, you can put my fee in the mail. [laughter]

  INTERVIEWER: [hands PALMER slip of paper] This is the line in question. [to audience] Ladies and gentlemen. Timothy Palmer, from his memorable cameo in ‘The Ladies of St. Agnes.’

  PALMER: [looks directly at camera] They never taught us this in Sunday school! [laughter and applause]

  The advertisement had read:

  WANTED

  Medium for private séance. Familiarity with occult history and practice required. Serious inquiries only. />
  Anne hadn’t needed the job; she certainly hadn’t wanted the job. Private séances usually started creepy and ended worse. There were plenty of small circles a person could join, that would come to your house if necessary. Private was the last resort for those who were too emotional or demanding, or it was a lure put out by men with very particular fetishes. The last time Anne had done a private séance she had been trapped for hours in a stuffy, pitch-dark living room while the client verbally abused his dead wife. Anne had desperately wanted to sever the link, but she had been terrified the man would turn his rage on her. When she had finally been released she felt physically and emotionally beaten. It had taken her weeks to recover.

  Yet the advertisement would not let her be. When she knocked the newspaper off the table it fell open to that page; when she went to run her errands the grocer was reading that selfsame page, the butcher wrapped her Sunday meat in the page, and she found herself staring at the ad as she ate a cone of chips for lunch. When she finally boarded the bus for home and found a newspaper in her favorite upper-level seat, neatly folded to show the exact quadrant with the ad in it, she threw up her hands and admitted defeat.

  The man’s voice on the phone was pleasant at least, and oddly familiar; the address he gave was a posh neighborhood, the kind of neighborhood that would probably call the police if a woman screamed, if for no other reason than to restore its tranquility. And the fee he suggested was more than generous, so perhaps for once the spirits were doing Anne a favor. That favors usually came with caveats she didn’t let herself dwell on.

  The advertisement may have chosen her; still Anne prepared for the worst. She wore her best wool suit and her red felt cloche subtly embroidered with symbols of protection, which she believed made her look professional with just a touch of the bohemian. Others wore turbans and muumuus and silver-painted amulets, selling theatrics first and foremost. She had found the money better, if more intermittent, by presenting herself as a kind of spiritual consultant. Certainly it reduced the groping, and if all else failed she had brass knuckles in her purse that she had bought after that last, disastrous séance.