by Lucy Banks
I knocked the side of the brougham. “I think I’ll stick to what I’m familiar with, thank you.”
Eleanor smoothly slipped her hand through my arm, leading me gently to the pavement. “Do you know,” she said to Arthur, who was trotting dutifully behind, “I’ve been trying to persuade him to take me on a pleasure cruise for months now. Yet he won’t. He says he’s worried about the water.”
“Ha, and you live by the Thames. What a thing!”
I coughed deliberately. “It’s not that I’m scared, I simply fail to see the advantage of sailing down a muddy old river, seeing all the sights that we’re familiar with already. That’s all.”
“I think it would be marvellously romantic,” Eleanor said, eyes sparkling. “Perhaps I can get you to change your mind one day, darling.”
I groaned.
Arthur winked. “If you don’t take her, I will. The poor lady deserves to experience at least one cruise along the Thames in her life.”
“If you say so.” I thought of the river, the thick, brown waters, the way they oozed and sucked at the muddy banks, and I shuddered. I’d never understood the fascination with the Thames. Although there were moments when gazing out at the waters calmed my senses, for the most part, I found it an unsightly behemoth, lazily slicing the city in two.
“Was that a yes, then?” Eleanor asked, squeezing my arm.
“Perhaps.” After all, I reasoned, as the doorman welcomed us into the inviting warmth of Fortnum and Mason, it was only a river cruise. And for my wife, I would have gladly done anything.
EIGHT
— 1940 —
IT IS THE end of the world; the ghost is certain of it.
For hours, the sky has been teeming with silver contraptions that he knows are called aeroplanes; wheeling and diving above the city, dropping their cargo on the docks below. The city had been filled with screaming, footsteps pounding this way and that along the streets, but even the shrill panic of people had not drowned out the constant, grinding whine of those aeroplanes above, nor the crash as their cargo, their bombs, had hit the ground.
An inferno, that is what London is now. The ghost wanders along the dockside, watching the firemen as they direct their jets of water at the solid walls of flame; already busy ripping warehouses to pieces, reducing elegant buildings to rubble. They are fighting a futile battle, but he respects them nonetheless; their grim determination to do something to counterbalance the hell that surrounds them.
The sirens shriek, a toneless wail that causes fresh groans and wailing from the people around him. “More bombs on the way,” one shouts, hurrying her smoke-shocked toddler down an alleyway. “There’s more of the bastards coming.”
The ghost understands that the country is at war, though the reason is a mystery to him. During his time with Helen, in her cosy terrace with her two children and elderly mother, he’s listened in on their conversations; their musings on a person called Hitler, his possession of Denmark, Poland, France. Who this Hitler is, he cannot imagine. How can one person conquer an entire continent? Such a thing should not have been possible. But then, this is a new era. Every era is new to him, though times keep getting stranger and stranger; and none yet as strange as this one.
He searches the streets, bewildered by the despair that surrounds him. For the living, still racing here and there in the streets, the sky is darkening, the sun beginning its slow retreat over the horizon. For the ghost, the blackness has already settled in far earlier; the dark waves of fear and hopelessness radiating from every person in this once great city. It is cloying, suffocating, almost unbearable.
My city, he thinks sadly. He knows he once lived in this area with his wife, and that their house is now nothing more than a mass of charred wood and broken stone. The bombs have robbed me of another piece of my past, he thinks bitterly, though suspects his own memory is already doing a good job of erasing his living days. Try as he might, he cannot recollect things as clearly as he once could. It is alarming, and he prays it will stop soon, or risk tugging him under an endless ocean of forgetfulness.
The whine in the distance grows louder; it is the aeroplanes, returning once more. The answering screaming comes soon after, the running feet, the panic. It whirls around him like a storm; buffeting him left and right. He wishes he could find Agnes, his Fortune Teller. But she’s been away a lot recently. He suspects it’s due to his habit of forgetting her name, though it only happens on occasion. And of course, she has a natural distaste of situations such as these. She loathes needless death, especially when caused by human cruelty.
Someone shouts beside him, a man with more whiskers than visible skin. “Look lively, they’re coming!”
More screams. The ghost looks up, squinting through the hot smoke, the swirling darkness.
It seems there are more aeroplanes than there were before; a perfect formation of shining silver killers, tearing towards them. It reminds him of a swarm of bees, and he thinks, I kept bees once, or my mother did. I’m sure of it. He remembers their dull drone, not dissimilar to the high-pitched whine of the aeroplanes overhead.
Then the bombs fall, drop after drop after drop; a relentless spew of metal, shrieking through the air before exploding on the ground. The surrounding buildings light up like lightning, turning the roads to a series of crazed flashes and erupting fires.
Perhaps this is Hell, the ghost thinks. A bomb detonates only a foot or so away, but has no effect on him. He remembers a vicar, many years ago, preaching of the Devil, of a place where sinners burn for eternity. Surely that vision of Hell must have been like this; heat, confusion, pain, hopelessness?
On the ruined pavement, a woman weeps, a guttural, animal sob that clangs discordantly against the hoarse shouting and screaming. In her arms, she cradles a child; a girl, her head bleeding freely. The ghost can sense already that the child won’t make it, he can feel her vital energy draining from her, as swiftly as water from a breaking dam.
Should I wait for her ghost to appear? he wonders. Would it give her comfort, to know that she wasn’t the only one here?
There isn’t much point. Most ghosts only linger for a moment or two, dazed, wide-eyed, then they disappear into nothing. He doesn’t know why this happens. A few remain for longer. Perhaps some wander around for years, as he has done. But he remembers enough to know that he is the anomaly, he and his Fortune Teller. Agnes, he reminds himself firmly. Do not forget her name.
As he wanders through the streets, he sees death on every side. An elderly couple, crushed beneath a pile of bricks. One man, or what he thinks was once a man, blown in two, his blackened midriff still smoking. And children, several children. Two boys lying on the road, fingers still entwined. They’d been running away, he can tell; he still senses flight upon them, even after death. The weight of it is as strong as a blow to the stomach. Such a waste, he thinks, to lose their life before it had even begun.
He wonders if he’d once lost a child, in the past. Details escape him now, his memory dims a little more with every passing day. No, he tells himself, flinching as the building beside him explodes into flame. I would remember if I had been a father. I’m certain of it.
Helen’s house is further along the riverbank, close to where his own house had once stood. It’s a modest, workingman’s home, with a broken back window and missing tiles under the doorstep, but nonetheless, he hopes it is still standing. Despite Helen’s loneliness, despite her aching sadness in her husband’s absence, the house is a happy one. He can’t stand the thought that it might have been detonated to the ground.
Why am I with Helen? he wonders. But then, he’s never sure why he remains with anyone these days. It has something to do with the area she lives in, he knows that. He remembers an elderly face, a frail, vein-lined hand; then hastily pushes the memory away. Focus on Helen, and no one else, he tells himself firmly, and focuses his efforts on reaching her street as swiftly as possible. It is unwise to think of that other person, he is
certain. It will only bring pain, and plenty of it. Best to forget, he reminds himself.
Thankfully, Helen’s house remains stoically in place, though the skyline surrounding it is unnaturally altered. Aside from a haze of smoke staining her window panes, it looks almost uncannily untouched; a haven of safety in a wilderness of terror.
He drifts in. The sound of the sirens, the explosions, the whine of the aeroplanes; all become muted the moment he enters the narrow, meagre warmth of the living room.
Helen is on the settee, her son on one side, her daughter the other. The ghost has difficulty remembering their names or their ages. They seem young enough to still need their mother, though old enough to bear themselves with defiance. Good for them, he thinks, approvingly. They won’t take this assault lying down. That’s courage for you.
Helen’s mother is out in the kitchen. He can hear her clattering in the cutlery drawer, and the soft pad of her slippers against the linoleum floor.
“Do you think they’ll stop soon?” the boy asks. His shorts are badly darned at the knee.
Helen shakes her head and pulls him closer. “No. I think they’re going to keep this up all night. Don’t worry, though. We’ll think of something.”
They stare at the small, tiled fireplace; so simplistic and humble compared to the fireplaces he remembers from his living days. A small clock ticks on the bookshelf. They don’t know what to do, the ghost realises, suddenly worried for them. So they choose to wait here instead, for now.
Another bomb detonates from somewhere behind the house, perhaps in the neighbouring street. The children don’t even flinch. They have become used to this appalling onslaught, even after only a few hours. Like their mother, they are resilient.
Finally, Helen’s mother appears, clutching the door frame with twisted fingers, cup of tea in the other hand. The ghost smiles. In spite of everything, in spite of Death itself raining down upon the city, the woman still has the good sense to brew herself a drink. Her calmness in the face of adversity astounds him.
“I still think we should pop along to Ivy’s,” she suggests, “see if there’s room in her shelter for us.”
Helen’s face takes on a pinched, pained expression. “I’m not asking her, she’ll only say no.”
“Not to the kids, she won’t. Nobody would turn away a child.”
“Unless there’s no more room in there. The shelter’s not exactly the Ritz, is it?”
The ghost thinks he remembers Ivy; a buxom, wide-faced woman who lives close by, with hair scraped into an unforgiving bun. If it’s who he’s thinking of, she hadn’t seemed like the sort of woman to welcome anyone into any shelter of hers, no matter how desperate the situation.
Helen’s mother teeters to the settee and places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Helen, dear, we need to do something. We can’t stay here, everyone else has gone to find safety, this is—”
“I know, I know!” Her eyes wander to the mantelpiece, to the photograph in the centre. It’s grainy but truthful; a narrow-shouldered man, decked in uniform, jaw set tight for the camera. Helen’s husband, he reminds himself. Not a handsome man, but a likeable, open-faced man nonetheless. He can see why she loves him.
“What about Monument Station?” Helen’s mother continues, undeterred. “Getting underground’s what we need to do, love.”
“But if we go out in the streets now, we—”
“—no excuses. We need to do something, we can’t just wait for…”
She falters as her daughter starts to cry. Someone shouts in the street outside, accompanied by racing, unseen feet, which clatter and fade into the distance.
Helen’s mother sips her tea, but the ghost can sense her growing panic, hidden like a child under a blanket. “I think we need to take the risk,” she continues gently. “It’s only a quick walk, and it’s better than waiting here like sitting ducks. We’ll need to check up on poor old Ellie though, sitting in her bed, there’s no chance she’ll be able to get out to safety, not in her condition, poor old girl. As if she hasn’t lived through enough.”
The ghost flinches. They’ve mentioned their old neighbour Ellie before, and it bothers him on some level, though he doesn’t know why. He puts it out of his mind and turns back to the living.
Helen shakes her head, already standing. “Mother, I can’t worry about Ellie. We’ve got enough on our plate.”
“Well, then. Let’s get moving, shall we? We’d best get on our way quickly.”
She is right, of course. There’s growing threat in the air, the sensation of danger edging closer and closer, like a prowling lion. The ghost has witnessed the bombs and their indiscriminate destruction. It could just as well be this house as any other, and they would do well to get to safety.
Helen inhales deeply, defeated. “Let’s gather some things, then,” she says, then without waiting for a reply, slopes off towards the stairs.
The ghost knows why she’s reluctant to leave. It is because this is their house, hers and her husband’s, bought and paid for, and fought hard to keep. That bed upstairs, it’s the same one in which her two children were born, and where they were conceived. Every room in this house, small though it is, leaks out the joy and contentment of their marriage, and Helen cannot let it go. She’s already had to let him go, after all, and she hasn’t heard word of him for weeks.
The ghost drifts after her, wishing he could settle her pounding heart, which seems to him as loud as a soldier’s drum. She pulls a suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and starts stuffing it with clothing, toothbrushes, a pair of ribbons for her daughter’s hair, though the ghost suspects they’ll be too preoccupied to worry too much about personal appearance. He’s always found it strange, how women are so concerned with such things, even in times of danger.
I may have said that to Eleanor, once or twice, he thinks, following Helen back downstairs. She worried about her appearance too, I remember that.
And then, in a rush of action, they depart. The door slams shut and silence settles over the rooms like dust. The house seems infinitely larger and lonelier without them in it.
The ghost resumes his position beside the mantelpiece. It occurs to him to follow them, to join them in the underground station, but he’s been in places like that before, he’s certain of it; and he hasn’t liked it. Even the thought bothers him; the stuffiness, the lack of fresh air. It’s too much like drowning, he decides, and roots himself more firmly into position. He will guard the house instead, though he knows he won’t be much use if a bomb hits it.
He waits. Waiting is something he has become good at over the years. Occasions often call for it, aimless days that feel filled with purposelessness, where he simply does not know where to place himself. He vaguely remembers being busy in life, always working, always rushing around. How did he become so still and so passive?
Outside, the sky turns black, yet the city is still lit by a myriad of fires, burning brightly through the night. The planes leave, until they’re nothing but a vague hum in the distance, before returning, bringing chaos back to an already brutalised landscape. The ghost wonders how much more they can take, the people out there, bravely trying to bring about some control. Their desperation seeps through the walls, the exhaustion building in every muscle of their straining bodies. Life does not prepare people for events such as these; yet it is in these moments that men and women can become something more, something astounding.
The ghost wonders if he ever achieved anything astounding when he was alive.
A subtle strike of a bell. The mantelpiece clock, it must be midnight.
It’s only then that he realises the Fortune Teller is beside him. Agnes.
She’s smiling crookedly, and he can see the outline of the teeth that were once there, gleaming in the darkness. “Why are you waiting here?” she asks, sidling closer. “Can’t you see there’s a war going on?”
The ghost chuckles. It is good to see her, despite everything. In tr
uth, he’d been starting to panic that she’d chosen to leave him for good, that she’d perhaps disappeared, like all the other ghosts seemed to do. Then I’d be entirely alone, he realises, and shudders at the thought. This existence is unsettling enough, without having to endure it on his own.
“I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” he mutters, at exactly the same moment a bomb explodes, somewhere in a neighbouring street.
“Helen and her family have gone, then?”
“To the underground station.”
She nods. “That’s a sensible idea. Why don’t you come out with me, down to the Docks? They’re unrecognisable, just a mass of rubble and fire.”
“I’ve been there already.” The destruction holds no fascination for him.
She looks at him shrewdly. “Perhaps we should see Ellie?”
The ghost doesn’t like the suggestion, nor the way that she emphasises the name, laden with a meaning that he’s obviously supposed to grasp. Refusing to rise to her bait, he shakes his head. “Why don’t we wander the other way instead?” he suggests. “Away from all the chaos?”
Agnes drifts closer, shimmering slightly before sharpening into focus. “It’s chaos everywhere. Those aeroplanes, they’ve been up and down the length of the Thames, dropping their bombs. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She waits. He doesn’t answer. Sometimes, he is like this. His thoughts start to fray and untangle, then quite suddenly, he forgets what has happened only a moment before. The worsening of his memory frightens him, makes him wonder if he is slowly losing himself in the passage of time. Surely not, he reasons to himself, quelling the nagging fear within him. It’s perhaps a temporary state of affairs. And there are many things I remember. Eleanor. Helping her dress in the mornings. My two brothers, though I can only recollect one name; Fred. The deep, throaty chuckle that my mother produced, whenever any of us made a joke. My sister, Martha, and how her face was always grubby. I know these things, so I can’t be losing my mind entirely. And that is a comfort.
