by Lucy Banks
He wants to weep, had he tears to weep with. I believed she felt my presence, he thinks, staring bitterly at the curtained window. But it was only wishful thinking on her part, and mine. He travels down the stairs, just as Arthur pulls open the door.
“After you, my dear,” he says gallantly, letting Eleanor pass out into the windy day.
She smiles at him, a watery, distracted gesture, then looks away.
For the next hour, the ghost feels strangely removed from proceedings; from the muted journey to the church, to the service itself. He is unsure where to place himself, momentarily concerned with the propriety of even being present at his own funeral, and eventually settles for the pew behind Eleanor, so he can rest the phantom of his hand upon her shoulder and imagine that she feels it.
The service is short and stilted. The vicar is a relatively young man, the replacement for Mr Giles, who’d held the position for many years before. He has no connection to the ghost, nor the ghost to him; and the lack of familiarity shows. Mother wails openly, and Martha squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for it all to end. Even Fred weeps for a minute or two, wiping the tears hastily with his sleeve.
Only Eleanor sits motionless, face unreadable, jaw clenched. The ghost notices that Arthur’s eyes seldom leave her face, scrutinising her as a scientist might observe an intriguing experiment. The ghost supposes he should be grateful for his younger brother’s concern for his widow’s welfare, but there is something in Arthur’s expression that unsettles him, something too avid, almost hungry.
He cannot tell what his brother is thinking, and it worries him.
Afterwards, the custom is to attend the burial, but without a corpse to bury, the family take a turn around the graveyard instead, gazing at the headstones without really seeing them. The ghost follows behind, a silent shadow, observing each minute movement they make; the slump of Mother’s shoulders, the tension in Fred’s cheeks as he takes too much interest in one grave inscription or another. And Arthur’s hand, resting just once on the small of Eleanor’s back. It is a supportive gesture, he supposes, a physical demonstration of his continued regard as her brother-in-law. But it disturbs him, perhaps more than it should do. It expresses intimacy, but also the sense of something restrained, an emotion rendered invisible by the misery of the day.
Eleanor pauses by a particular gravestone; a weeping cherub baby, sagging wings at his back. She clutches her stomach reflectively, no doubt sickened by the course of the day. Indeed, her face appears pinched and wan, and he wonders if she is unwell, whether she needs to return to the solitude of the cottage, to gather her thoughts.
Arthur hangs back, remaining with her while the others walk on into the windswept distance.
“How are you?” he asks in a low voice.
How do you think she is? the ghost thinks irritably, though he knows his brother only means well by it.
“Alone.” She hangs her head, refuses to meet his eye. “Frightened. Much as you might expect.”
Arthur nods curtly. The wind whips ceaselessly at them both, sending her curls flying free of her bonnet. It is cold, the ghost can tell by the tightness of their posture, the way Arthur continually pulls his jacket across his chest. He wishes he could feel it too.
“You know that I am here to help you,” he mutters quietly, looking over his shoulder. “I meant what I said the other day, you know.”
And what was that? The ghost was not privy to this conversation. It must have taken place when Arthur had last been round at the house, but when had he and Eleanor been alone? It made no sense to him.
Eleanor shakes her head. A fat tear squeezes from her eye; the first she has cried all day. “I cannot think of that now,” she says. “It is too soon.”
“I understand.” He nods down at her stomach, for reasons the ghost cannot discern. “But for propriety’s sake, it might be better sooner, rather than later.”
“Arthur, please, not now!” With a muted sob, she starts to walk after the others, a blind, scurrying gait, like a beggar trailing hopelessly towards the promise of food.
“Wait, Eleanor, do not take it like that. When we talked about it the other day, you—”
“—I am aware of that, but not now! Not here, of all places. Can’t you see how inappropriate it is, Arthur?”
He nods, removing his hat and worrying the brim with his fingers. “Of course you’re right. My poor brother, what would he—”
“—Your poor brother is lying at the bottom of the Thames, while we have this conversation. And I have to live with the guilt of that, Arthur? Don’t you see?”
But I’m not in the Thames, the ghost yearns to protest. I’m right here with you, if only you’d notice me. But just what is this conversation about, exactly? He can only presume that Arthur has made some promise to protect Eleanor financially, and that she is reluctant to consider it. Yes, that makes sense, he tells himself, studying them both, looking for signs to confirm his guess.
Arthur flinches from her, as suddenly as if she’d struck him in the face. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs, biting his lip. “You don’t know how it tortures me, to think of him like that.”
She softens, draws out a handkerchief, and dabs her eyes. “I know,” she says eventually. “It is unbearable, especially as it was I who persuaded him to get on that wretched boat in the first place. If I must be sentenced to bear that burden for the rest of my life, then you must learn to bear yours.” She reaches across and squeezes his hand, briefly. “We will talk more of this at a later date. But for now, let me grieve for what I’ve lost, please.”
“I will join you in the grieving,” Arthur replies solemnly, and replaces his hat. Together, they stroll along to the others. The ghost remains, staring after them both, and wonders why he feels tighter somehow, constricted painfully by the conversation he has just witnessed.
It was of no importance, he tells himself, trailing after them. Put it from your mind. It did not mean anything at all.
TWENTY-SIX
— 2017 —
“I REMEMBER THAT.” The ghost looks at the Fortune Teller, at Agnes, and nods.
The pain returns, as sharp as he recollects. This is why I forgot in the first place, he thinks, as they pace slowly through the streets of Whitechapel. Because the agony of the memories was overwhelming. I deliberately forced them from my mind, until I realised that I’d pushed them so far away, I couldn’t retrieve them.
The street lamps cast a stronger light over the pavement than they used to do. He knows the word for it, electricity, that strange force that powers everything in the modern world. The old oil lamps were preferable, he believes; softer, less showy. But then, what does it matter to them? The light causes their eyes no discomfort, nor do the surrounding shadows pose any threat. It may as well be just the two of them, secure in their own bubble.
“I am only telling you what you told me, all those years ago,” Agnes reminds him. “These are your memories, not mine.”
Already, the image of that windy day, the bleak grey clouds above the gravestones, is fading. He can still grasp elements though; his Mother’s shoulders shaking during the eulogy, the high, white walls of the church, the subtle press of Arthur’s hand on Eleanor’s back.
“And they married, didn’t they.” He declares it as a statement of fact, not a question; because he already knows the answer. The crushing sensation in his chest is evidence enough. The echo of his body is better at remembering the past than his mind.
“Eleanor and Arthur were wed, yes.”
“And they had a child? I cannot remember his name, but I know he is important.”
Agnes winces. “He is important because he was your son. Georgie was yours. You remember, we were with him regularly? We stayed with him when he was a teacher, at the school just down the road.”
The ghost strains to recall it. Her words create pictures; a lazy young man taking a nap at the back of the classroom, with a female teacher sighing at him in
frustration. That teacher, we lived with her for a while, he believes, but cannot remember her name, only her face; kindly, energetic and passionate.
Though he cannot grasp these memories fully, the sensation of being able to see into his past is a relief. It reassures him that he is less lost than he thought.
“What happened to the child?” he asks.
Agnes nods solemnly. “I will tell you. We were with him for some time; when he shared rooms with Archibald, his lover. It was a heartbreaking end, but Georgie had already given up on life by then.”
My son, the ghost thinks, remembering two images, side by side. One, a baby, gurgling happily in a cot, tugging at his toes and staring at the ghost with bright, inquisitive eyes. The other, a middle-aged man, bloated with alcohol and rich food, glassy-eyed in bed, while his lover sobbed over him. His heart condition, the ghost remembers, and casts his eyes to the street, overcome with sadness. Georgie had a bad heart. My poor, poor son.
“What of Eleanor?” he asks quietly. “What became of her?”
“You told me that you left her and Arthur, after learning that Georgie was yours.” Agnes reaches for his hand again, eyes alight with compassion. She understands how hard this is for him, but also how necessary, like stitching a wound to allow it to heal. “I don’t believe you could tolerate the sight of Arthur raising him as his own.”
I think I returned from time to time, though, he muses, recollecting disconnected images of his family growing older without him. I am sure of it, though the details escape me. “Was Eleanor happy?” he presses, aware that his voice is cracking. “Did Arthur give her a happy life?”
“He gave her everything he could. But you told me that she often whispered out loud to you, when she believed she was on her own. She wasn’t aware you could hear, of course, but I don’t think she ever stopped loving you.”
That is true, he realises. How painful her life must have been. Throughout, he’d always considered his own devastation, his misery at being removed from life. He’d taken little time to consider how hard it must have been to continue, day after day, with the press of grief upon her. She had to continue, for Georgie’s sake, he realises. And she and Arthur were good friends. I suppose, despite everything, it was for the best.
The memories rise within him, sharp and bittersweet, only to fade almost immediately. But he cherishes them, nonetheless; the brief period that they flit through him, like leaves in the breeze.
“And when did she die?” he asks eventually, knowing that he must.
The street seems more silent than before. Time pauses, leaving them in stasis. He fears Agnes’s answer, dreads and resists it with every part of his being, but knows she must tell him. For too long, he’s purposefully driven it from his mind, until now, he has hardly any memories left.
Agnes composes herself. “I was there at the time,” he says quietly. “So this part, I can tell you more fully. She was old, very old.”
An image enters his mind; a thin, frail hand, blue with veins, resting on a pale pink bedspread. Her hand, he realises, and closes his eyes. Yes, it was hers.
“She outlived both of her husbands,” Agnes continues, her voice as hushed and delicate as the tide. “And her son. The poor woman, to have lived through so much. She’d moved to a little terraced house in Fish Street Hill. Most of Arthur’s money had run out by then.”
“And I was there, with her, when she died?” Again, he already knows the answer, but needs to say the words aloud, to hear them hang on the air.
Agnes nods. “You were. I waited outside the room, out of respect. It was a peaceful night, just a few hours before sunrise. The war had only finished a few months earlier, the street was still a state, many of the houses just piles of rubble. But Eleanor lived quietly through it all, staying mostly in her bed.
We were with another family at the time; Helen, her mother, and her two children, do you remember? On the occasions that you did remember who Eleanor was, you couldn’t stand to see her like that; so ancient and vulnerable. So, we kept our distance, for the most part.”
Helen. Yes, the ghost vaguely remembers her; a strong-jawed, resilient woman. She’d collapsed after the death of her husband, he remembers that. A soldier, he tells himself. That’s how it happened.
“All the neighbours called Eleanor by her nickname, Ellie,” Agnes continues softly. “That helped you to forget who they were talking about, I think.”
“Did Eleanor…” He pauses, unsure of the right words to say.
“Go on.”
“Did she say anything, after she died?” Did she see me? he adds silently, desperate to hear the answer. He must know if Eleanor knew he was there, after all that time. But he cannot bear the possibility of the answer being no.
The glow from the streetlight shines through Agnes like the sun through glass. She nods, finally. “Eleanor saw you,” she concludes. “You told me that she smiled, after she passed away.”
“As though she remembered me, and was surprised to see me there,” he finishes for her, because he remembers the moment himself now. How his Eleanor, so small and shrunken in her bed, had breathed her last breath, then stilled, and how her ghost had risen almost immediately; ready to venture into the life beyond.
He remembers how she’d changed, how the echoes of her had formed into her younger self; straight-backed, curly-haired, plump-cheeked. How she’d paused, studying her departed body with interest, then turned, sensing him.
And their eyes had met.
She sees me, he’d realised, unable to move or even speak. Finally, she knows I am here.
Then with a smile, a simple upturn of the lips, she had vanished. She had passed on, and left him behind.
The ghost had wept back then, and he weeps again now; for the final loss of his wife, for the years wasted, trying to find her. I had her once, he realises, feeling the core of himself crack and break, like a weary wall against a powerful tide. But time went on, and she no longer needed me. That is the way it had to be.
Agnes says nothing, only blends herself with him, their shimmering forms merging under the dark night sky. It is her way of holding him, reassuring him with every part of her presence, such that it is. He presses back into her, and weeps for everything he has lost.
So, that is how it happened, the ghost thinks finally. The memory is already fuzzing at the edges, retreating like a dying storm. I know it. I understand now. “What is left for us now?” he whispers, taking a step back, drinking in the sight of Agnes, the only constant through years of confusion and change.
“There’s your family,” she replies, with the hint of a smile. “Zoe is your great-great-great grand-niece. We used to stay with her, before she left London and left us behind.”
“Zoe?” He remembers the photo on Bo’s screen, the pretty young woman, displaying her flat stomach. So that is why we remained with Bo, he realises. Because he was the link to my family.
“Yes,” Agnes continues. “We also stayed with her grandmother, Bernadette. Do you remember her flat, with the candles and all the music? And her horrible partner, Frank? The one that used to beat her?”
He strains to retrieve the memory, then shakes his head. There have been too many people over the years, person after person that they’ve attached themselves to, and it is impossible to differentiate between them.
“Whenever your family have been here in London, we’ve stayed as close to them as possible,” Agnes says gently. She gestures down the street, back towards their home, or at least, the bleak dwelling they call home at the moment.
Back to Bo and his sad love letters, the ghost thinks, then wonders what the letters said, as the details have already vanished from his mind.
He nods, and they walk, keeping perfect pace with one another. The first weak grey of the forthcoming morning illuminates the tops of the surrounding buildings, then the road below. It has been a long night, the ghost thinks, and reaches over to touch Agnes’s face. Although he fe
els no skin, he detects something there; a cold movement in the air where her cheek would have been, had she been alive. The gesture makes him warmer, for some reason. At least I can feel something, and so can she, he realises.
The crowds start to build around them; the usual Londoners, readying themselves for the day ahead; some jogging along pavements, others in suits, trotting rapidly to the underground train station. The ghost and Agnes continue as before; slowly, thoughtfully.
“Do you remember what I told you tonight?” she asks, as they arrive at the door to Bo’s dingy flat. “Or has it faded already?”
The ghost ponders. He recalls elements of their conversation, but more important, he knows that he has resolved something within himself. I remembered Eleanor, he realises, knowing this to be significant. And I must continue to do so. I cannot allow myself to fade to nothing.
“I believe I recollect parts of it,” he says.
Agnes beams. “That is good.”
“Good enough for now,” he adds, unwilling to admit that already the emotions are retreating, as inexorably as the tide from the shore. Soon, they will have gone altogether, and he will be as he was before. I have become a leaking vessel, he realises. And no matter what memories flood in, they only seep out again, soon after.
Agnes presses into him, tender, serious, and steadfast as she always is; a rock in the midst of this muddled, turbulent ocean. “Do not be afraid of the future,” she whispers, voice soft as a night breeze. “I will continue to give you your memories back. Every night, we will walk, and every night, I will tell you what you want to know.”
He studies her carefully. “But why would you offer? After all, this is of no benefit to you.”
She smiles. The sun hits the street beneath them, making the surrounding walls glow with ember-like ferocity.
“You know why,” she says simply.
I do, he thinks. Without saying anything, he reaches for her, and holds her as best as he can, knowing that if he must be cast adrift, she will anchor him to safety.
