Storm

by Nicola Skinner

  And why – seeing as I was in the mood for asking myself difficult questions – why was he helping the other man drill a sign on to our front door?

  The sign which said:

  And why did they both look so very pleased with themselves?

  A FEW DAYS after this board went up, the first of many visitors started to arrive at my house. And when I say visitors, I mean total strangers who were uninvited. So, not visitors at all, really. More like unwelcome invaders. Like those bad cannibal ladybirds no one likes, or earwigs.

  Anyway, they were there, they had keys to our house, they let themselves in whenever they wanted, and it didn’t matter what I called them because none of them could hear me.

  They wore purple T-shirts that said Historic Homes: Cleaning Crew. They drank a lot of tea. They ate a lot of weird-looking greyish biscuits. They listened to a lot of pop songs, none of which I knew.

  Anyway, at first, what they mostly did was clean.

  There was an epic amount of scrubbing. When you let the housework slide for a century it makes quite a lot of mess, it turns out. But we’ll skip over the finer details as you’ve probably got better things to do than read about eighteen months of house-cleaning. I’ll spare you that. I might be dead, but I’m not a monster!

  For a time, I kept half an eye on the front door. For Mum and Dad and Birdie. In case. ‘You didn’t think we’d just leave you behind, did you?’ they’d say.

  But once six months had passed, and still no sign – that was when I knew.

  Dad could be pretty slapdash with time management, but even he would have managed to get back up the hill within that time without getting distracted. It was time to face facts. If they hadn’t come back in one hundred and two years plus six months, then they were never coming back.

  After the Cleaning Crew did their thing, they sent in the Restoration and Rebuild Gang.

  That’s when I would have given anything to go back to the cleaning phase. Because when you’re dead and a bunch of people you don’t know rebuild your house, it’s confusing and sad. You never know where to go. There aren’t any spaces to call your own. There’s always someone, somewhere, talking about joists.

  Sometimes I’d be able to hang out in my bedroom all by myself, but there were months when that too was full of builders and restorers, and my only option was to hide myself away in dank, uncomfortable places. Even that came with considerable risk. I got stuck inside the airing cupboard for a month. It was like a nightmarish version of hide-and-seek.

  For ages, I racked my brain to understand why they were doing it at all. Why clean and rebuild a cottage that wasn’t theirs? Why not concentrate on their own homes? How could it possibly benefit them? The answer I came up with eventually was pure kindness. That was who they were. The ones who do noble things because of the richness within their hearts. When they weren’t doing up dead people’s houses, they were probably rescuing kittens.

  And do you want to know something crazy? They did everything in the dark. They installed these special shutters behind the curtains to keep out all but the weakest light, and they worked in the gloom, like bats. Perhaps that was just how they did things.

  Or maybe the past needs to be dimly lit to be seen at all.

  The worst bit about the Great Clean-up was when they threw things away. They did try to restore as much as they could, I’ll give them that. But a lot of our stuff was beyond saving.

  Duvet covers, the rug I’d got for my bedroom, my favourite stripy blanket, most of our books and all of Birdie’s teddies went. Mum and Dad’s clothes that hadn’t been put away. Even the homemade Christmas decorations, abandoned on the tree for a century, were shoved unceremoniously into bags and thrown out of the door. The tree, now nothing more than a bald twig the height of an ice-cream stick, also ended up in the skip.

  Once or twice I tried to stop them. I’d stand in the doorway, try to block their way, hold my hands out and beg to be allowed to keep them. I’d even make a grab for the bags myself.

  But – at best – my fingers would slide off them. At worst, whoever was trying to get past me would walk straight through me, and I’d stand there and shudder for a while, trying to get the taste of them out of my mouth. In the end I just waved them on.

  My only consolation during these bleak moments was that it wouldn’t last for ever. One day they would all leave, and my home would be mine again, and in the peace and quiet I could finally work out what I was for. Why I was still around, and what I needed to do so I could be reunited with Mum and Dad and Birdie.

  And if anyone’s thinking how lovely that sounds – a spot of soul-searching, and wondering about existence, and our place in it, before we finally pass on through to the great death gateway in the sky – then why not come and have a go yourself, then tell me how lovely it is, all right?

  ONE MORNING, THEY all seemed even more excited than usual. And not in that weird way that sometimes went on, when they found crusty old possessions of ours and went into inexplicable raptures that veered on the embarrassing.

  This glee was more understandable. The whole house was full of happiness, like the night before Christmas. And while before they’d looked very much like they were in the middle of doing, now their faces shone with the satisfaction of having done. Instead of bringing out their tools, they were putting them away. Everything they did had an air of finality about it, a sense of a job being wound up.

  Perhaps they were …

  … leaving?

  The joy hit me all at once. I wandered around the cottage to check. Yes, they were very definitely packing up.

  Happiness seeped into me, the kind you get when those boring relatives you think will never leave say, over breakfast, ‘Better get back and water the hydrangeas, I suppose.’

  My bliss intensified when I realised just how nice they’d made the place. The cottage felt more watertight and cleaner than it had ever been during my lifetime. There was even a brand-new welcome mat on the front step. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, staying here by myself, for a while.

  Why, the restoration crew had even cleaned up that photograph of us, the one of us on the hay bales at the wedding. But there was something not quite right about it. It was in the wrong spot.

  Instead of being in its usual place on the mantelpiece, also known as where it belongs, it was now hanging up in the hallway. And underneath it was a sign.

  THE RIPLEY FAMILY, 2019.

  Hmmmm.

  I went around again, my good mood deflating. Things were a little off. The whole place had that skew-whiff feeling like when someone tidies up your bedroom without your permission and puts everything back wrong.

  Mum’s study had been stripped of all its paperwork. Her desk was still there, and so was a laptop, but it wasn’t her laptop – this one was black and didn’t have stickers on it – plus the tower of coffee mugs had disappeared and so had all her potted plants on the windowsill. Instead there was a row of cactuses, and they were okay, but they weren’t right.

  In the sitting room, where there had once hung a lovely seascape by Dad, with greys and pinks of an early-morning sunrise, was now …

  … a framed print of one of Dad’s pet portraits. It was a pug dog, with a laminated sign underneath:

  PERCY THE PUG BY DOUGLAS RIPLEY.

  But Dad never hung his pet pictures up inside our house. He did his pet portraits for money and sent them away. At home, we’d had his seascapes. Did we look like a family that liked having pictures of other people’s pugs over our head while we watched telly?

  The list of Things Not Right About Our House got longer. The walls had been painted the Wrong Colours. There were Strange Things wherever I looked. In my bedroom, next to a photo of me, someone had framed my school uniform and hung it on the wall. My bed was on the wrong side of the room – and it wasn’t even my bed.

  Downstairs in the hallway in the spot where we’d always kept an old crate for our flip-flops was a round table instead. Why was that there? And what
was that red hardback book on top of the table? That was new too.

  I went to take a look.

  On the front of the book were these words, embossed in gold:

  VISITORS’ COMMENTS.

  Underneath that was the most mystifying sentence of all:

  Please rate your experience of Sea View today, so we can make your next visit here even better!

  I stared at that for a while, but for all the sense it made, it might as well have been written in hieroglyphics.

  My eyes kept going back to the same five words.

  Visitors? Your experience? Next visit?

  THE SOUND OF violins snapped me out of my reverie.

  Someone had left the front door open. I stared at it, the mysterious book temporarily forgotten. Tinkly laughter floated through the air. There was rapid chatter.

  ‘You mumble so proud of what’s been mumble,’ somebody said.

  There were people outside. And for the first time in ages, they weren’t using chainsaws, hammers or drills. They were clinking glasses. I could feel the air of celebration even from the hallway. The last time I’d been in the garden, it had been an almost impenetrable mass of brambles. Now there was bright green lawn, glowing in the sunshine.

  There was the sound of laughter. Something was very definitely Happening Outside. But what?

  Only one way to find out.

  I walked through the porch and stepped outside the front door.

  The air felt quite lovely on my corpse. I squinted in the light. For a few moments, all I could see were dazzling diamonds of bright whiteness. And then my vision adjusted.

  The old cherry tree near where we used to park our van was in blossom. It must be spring, I thought dazedly, as three waiters in red jackets walked past me, carrying trays of crystal glasses. Spring is still a thing.

  I followed the waiters to the back garden, to the source of the noise.

  It was a party.

  Someone had strung up bunting and brightly coloured lanterns. People I vaguely recognised as the restoration crew were there. They’d all got dressed up for the occasion, although their clothes were odd: silky dressing gowns, long nighties. It was as if they were all off to a grown-up sleepover. One or two had eye masks perched on the top of their head like sunglasses, and here and there jewelled slippers in bright colours shone like slices of tropical fruit.

  Still, at least they looked smart.

  I looked down at myself, horribly aware of my rotting Christmas jumper and bruised body. For once I was grateful for my invisibility.

  All the bramble had been hacked away, revealing the sea again. I gave it my best dirty look. Then my attention was caught by something. In the spot where Dad’s painting shed used to be was now a one-storey building. But it looked nothing like his shed. It didn’t slope dangerously like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, for one thing, and it wasn’t made of old planks. This was a proper modern building, with right angles and windows and a sign:

  DOUG’S STUDIO CAFÉ: WHERE EVERY MEAL IS A MASTERPIECE!

  Over the ‘é’ in ‘café’ someone had painted a teeny-tiny paintbrush, as if that made up for anything, as if that made up for pulling down his shed.

  As well as the café, there were patio tables and shrubs and deckchairs, and manicured flower beds so tidy they looked fake.

  In the oak tree was a brand-new tree house. That made me feel wistful. Building a tree house for Birdie and me had been fairly near the top of Dad’s Things I’ll Do One Day list. And now it was too late.

  An hour or so later, when the sun had risen higher in the sky and several bottles of that golden bubbly liquid had been drunk, a slender woman in red pyjamas, hair glinting in the light like silver thread, strode through the crowd. People clapped as she moved past. She gazed out with a proud smile. On her lapel was a badge:

  When the applause died down, she began to speak.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been eleven-udder to care for this historically significant family home.’

  There was another smattering of applause. I felt an odd mixture of pride and confusion. Thanks for restoring it. And tidying up. That was very kind. But don’t any of you have homes to go to?

  ‘Yet I’m not going to lie,’ she said. ‘There have been challenges. We went over budget, blah blah blahbiddy blah … but we got there, in the end. And here is the result: a living slice of the early twenty-first century, ping fleck solid, authentic, completely non-virtual, off-screen. Sea View brings us right up close to family life from another time.’

  Somebody said, ‘Bravo.’

  Everyone clapped. This lot loved to clap.

  ‘And now there’s only one thing left to do,’ said the woman called Olivine. ‘Follow me!’

  The crowd surged forward, wound itself around the cottage, and ended up in front of the front door. That was when I saw the red ribbon which had been tied around its middle. Like the house was a present.

  ‘I am thrilled to declare Sea View Cottage officially open,’ said the silver-haired woman, cutting the ribbon with a pair of oversized golden scissors, and everyone clapped yet again, because they were obviously quite easily pleased.

  I did not like those words. Especially ‘officially’ and ‘open’.

  This was what the last year and a half had been all about. Why they’d painstakingly restored our home. They’d never had any intention of leaving. They’d claimed ownership of it the day they walked in.

  ‘Now if you’ll all come inside, I’d like to introduce you to some very special people,’ Olivine said.

  And everybody walked in through what used to be my front door.

  IT WAS A tight squeeze. The strangers crammed themselves into the porch and hallway. As they grew silent, I heard something just out of earshot, something that pulled at my heart before I’d even registered what it was.

  Then I heard it again, properly this time, and a grin began to tug my mouth upwards. It felt as if my skin might crack from the novelty of it. Because I’d heard someone whistling a tune: a made-up, dreamy melody that only … It sounded like …

  ‘Birdie?’ I gasped.

  ‘Frankie?’ said Birdie.

  She was upstairs. I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

  I pushed through the crowd, retching repeatedly and not even caring – none of that mattered now – and I raced up the staircase. I’d just reached the middle step when—

  ‘Mum? Dad?’

  They were there. All three of them. Standing at the top of the stairs, beaming down at me. They’d come back. They’d come back for me.

  ‘You’re here,’ I sobbed, leaping up the final steps.

  I reached for Birdie and pulled her in for a hug, yearning for that sweet warm feel of her and …

  … I felt nothing.

  I opened my eyes.

  My arms had wrapped themselves around me, not Birdie.

  I looked at my sister anxiously. She must have stepped away. And now she was acting as if I didn’t even exist. Oh, I got it. She was sulking.

  ‘Birdie?’ I said. ‘Birdie, I’m sorry—’

  I tried for another hug, but my arms went straight through her.

  Bewildered, I looked at my parents, who, like Birdie, were also staring straight ahead.

  ‘Please – please forgive me,’ I begged. ‘I’ve missed you so much—’

  Birdie giggled again, but now it was clear she was giggling at the crowd. And they were lapping it up, staring at her with delight like they’d seen a baby lamb in a party dress.

  Downstairs, Olivine cleared her throat, and began to speak. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, meet Bridget Ripley.’

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ said Birdie in a curiously artificial voice.

  She sounded weird, as if someone had—

  ‘Welcome to our home.’

  … Stapled her words together.

  I turned perplexed eyes to Mum and Dad. They too were looking at the assorted crowd, smiling and nodding. But we were dead, weren’t we? So why … why
was all this smiling going on? Could the crowd see them, somehow, and not me?

  ‘Please, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on!’

  Dad, acting as if I hadn’t spoken, not even blinking in my direction, merely grinned at Mum and then looked at Birdie. ‘Where’s Frankie?’

  Dad’s words also had that weird staccato rhythm, as if the words were being punched out by a machine.

  ‘Has anyone seen her? Frances Frida Ripley?’

  I stared at him. ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I’m literally right in front of you?

  Then I heard the most baffling thing of all.

  My voice. My actual voice. But someone else was using it.

  ‘Just coming.’

  The person coming out of my bedroom wore my denim cut-offs, my favourite T-shirt and my friendship bracelet that Ivy had made me.

  And this impostor walked up to Mum and Dad, put her arm around both of them, grinned at Birdie, and then faced the crowd as well, smiling.

  ‘And here’s the entire family. Everyone, meet Rachel, Douglas, Frances and Bridget Ripley,’ said Olivine. ‘Our new holograms.’

  And everybody clapped again. Of course.

  The replica Ripleys walked down the stairs, smiling beatifically at the crowd below.

  As they wandered around the hallway, saying ‘hello’ in a friendly, blank way, like well-trained pop stars on a meet-and-greet, Olivine explained.

  ‘Thanks to our digital archive restorers, we were able to download the Ripley family home videos from their computers, mobiles and tablets. And we’ve copied and cloned their voices with the help of found footage. So this twenty-first-century family can welcome twenty-second-century guests to their home.’

  But basically, what she might as well have said was:

  ‘WELCOME TO HELL.’

  I stared in numb horror as our holograms roamed the crowd.

  ‘They’ll change clothes depending on the season, play games with the kids and interact with the adults. They can give painting classes, play hide-and-seek, demonstrate how they used the house and answer almost any question posed to them about their life here.’