Laying the Ghosts

by Catherine Thornton

  “That isn’t so.”

  “Well, it hardly matters,” her voice was suddenly weary.

  Seeing her defeated look he softened his voice just a little.

  “The best thing you can do, Emma, is to concentrate on your exams.”

  Her anger was rekindled. “Mr Dowding, you know nothing! Just...keep your advice.” She left him abruptly. Ten minutes later she walked out of the school and Alex, standing by the window in the staffroom, saw her go.

  Alex had been acutely aware of Emma’s absence from school most of the last week. She did not return that Tuesday and he could not see her in Assembly the following morning. He was annoyed with her for this gesture. He knew that her continued absence would not go unmarked for long. This fear was quickly confirmed. Her form teacher, Mr Hawkes, approached him after Assembly had finished.

  “Did Emma Tomlinson turn up for her lesson with you yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she seem alright?”

  “I didn’t notice. Why?”

  “Well, she hasn’t been in school for the best part of a week. She came in last Wednesday but didn’t turn up for her lessons. When I asked her yesterday if she had been ill she was very evasive; almost rude, in fact. And even then she didn’t go to any of her lessons. Apart from yours, it seems.”

  “Oh.”

  “I had a word with Mrs Jones. She said you were worried about Emma. Did you have a chat with her?”

  “No.”

  “So you have no idea why she hasn’t been attending school?

  “None.”

  “Oh well, I’d better ring her at home. We can’t let this go on. I’d better find out if she really has been ill.”

  “Blast the girl!” thought Alex. “She’s only going to cause trouble.”

  It was only by chance that he caught sight of her at the end of lunchtime, walking up the front path to the school. He felt suddenly uneasy. Geoff Hawkes joined him at the window.

  “Is that Emma? Funny girl. She wouldn’t speak to me when I phoned. She said she’d rather come in and see the headmistress. I wonder what’s going on.”

  Alex wondered what was going on too, but he kept his thought to himself. Nonetheless he was completely unable to keep his mind on his work. As soon as he had dispensed with his final lesson he headed towards Jean Jones’ office. He couldn’t rest until he knew what Emma had been saying. He cursed her anew as he knocked at the door.

  “Come in.” Jean Jones was alone. “Oh, Alex.”

  “Has Emma Tomlinson been to see you?”

  “Yes.” The headmistress leant back in her chair, her face expressing deep concern. “I just wish she had come to see me before.”

  “Oh?”

  “Did you know that her mother was ill?”

  “No!” He was genuinely taken aback.

  “Well, it seems that she is quite seriously ill. Emma says that it is doubtful that she will live much beyond Christmas. She said that she wanted to take time off to be with her mother. In the circumstances...well, I don’t believe that she would get much work done even if she did come in. Anyway, she had made up her mind to stay at home. She’s quite a stubborn young lady. I only wish that there was something we could do to help. Apparently Emma lives alone with her mother and she doesn’t seem to have any close relations who are likely to offer any support.”

  Alex was silent.

  “She’s a strange girl. So determined and self-sufficient in some ways. But I get the impression that her mother is the whole world to her. Frankly I wonder how she’ll cope. We’ll have to keep in close touch.”

  “Has she gone home?”

  “Yes. I think she went to have a word with Geoff first. He can arrange for some work to be sent to her so that she can keep up as much as possible.”

  “Thankyou for telling me.” And with that Alex left the office so hurriedly that the headmistress looked after him in some surprise.

  Alex Dowding drove an old Bristol that he had rebuilt with his son’s help nearly ten years before. It was one of the few times when the two had spent a significant amount of time together. Emma had often seen it and thought it quite ugly, so when it drew up a little way ahead of her as she walked home there was no question about who was in it. The window opened and Mr Dowding leant out.

  “Emma!”

  She walked up to the car and looked at him inquiringly.

  “Would you get in for a minute?”

  There were other girls from the school walking past.

  “That’s rather bold of you.”

  “Just get in, Emma.” He opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger seat. He drove then to the quiet lane where he lived, but parked before he reached his house. When the engine stopped there was a sudden silence. Alex spoke first.

  “Emma, I’m more sorry that I can say about your mother. I only wish you had told me what was wrong in the first place. Things might have been different if I had known.” He looked straight ahead of him at the leafless trees along the lane. “I wish I could have helped.”

  “You can. All I really wanted was your support.”

  “No, Emma, if things had been different. But now you are better off without me.”

  “And without my mother?” Her voice was hard.

  “That is very different.”

  “It’s not at all different. You are the two people I love. What’s left after you’ve both gone?” For the first time she allowed tears to spring to her eyes. Alex tightened his grip on the steering wheel and looked away from her. He did not want to know if she cried. As it was the tears remained unshed but bright in her eyes.

  “Do you have any family apart from your mother?”

  She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes in a quick, impatient gesture. “No. Well, not really. My mother has a brother who is several years older than her. They were never particularly close. Too much of an age difference,” she added with a glimmer of a smile. “He had two sons, but when he got divorced they stayed with his wife, so I never got to know them. He remarried recently but we didn’t go to the wedding. Then there was my father. Heaven knows where he is. He had a sister. That about sums it up. As a family we are a bit thin on the ground. Not that I ever minded much.”

  “Close friends?”

  “There’s Mrs Mitchell our next door neighbour. My mother had more friends when she was still at work. Well, acquaintances, if you know what I mean.” She glanced at his profile. There were deep lines around his eyes and she could see the grey in his hair. He looked like a stranger.

  “You and your mother are close then?” He still didn’t turn to look at her. His hands were now palm down on his legs, but she could see the tension in them.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Tell me more about her.”

  “About her illness?”

  “No. About her.”

  Emma relaxed into the big leather seat and looked away from Alex and into the distance. “My mother? Well, she is clever and kind and patient. She never complains, she is very understanding and, best of all, she’s very good company.” She looked at Alex again. “You see she hardly ever talks about herself. At least, not in the way other people do. That’s why I always preferred to spend my time with her rather than the girls at school. Don’t you find that everybody wants to talk about themselves? Even Claire does. She just does it more entertainingly than most.” Emma fell silent but after a few moments she added. “Of course I’m biased. I don’t believe my mother has any faults. Except that she is dying, of course. I would never have been able to come to terms with that fact if it had not been for her attitude. She seems almost happy to die. It is as if she is ready for it. Tired and ready for sleep. Do you know,” Emma again looked at the unresponsive profile. “I never kept a secret from my mother until I met you. I suppose I feel that I have a new loyalty now. I think you were afraid that I would shame you by telling everybody what happened between us.” She saw the sinews in his hands tighten again. She laughed. “Si
lly man. Why couldn’t you just love me. It would have been so simple.”

  “Emma, there is nothing simple about it at all. You are a bright girl in some ways, but so naive in others.”

  When Emma replied she raised her voice slightly. “You call me naive! Well, maybe I am; but at least I know what I want. You do one thing, say another and, for all I know, think something completely different. The only thing you actually seem to respond to is lust! I pity your wife; I bet she was lonely!” The accusations had been made at random but his expression showed that one or two had struck home. Emma, having given vent to her feeling, and sensing that she had gone a bit too far, apologised.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s alright.”

  Emma expected him to start the car and move off but instead, after a few moment thought he said,

  “Poor Alice. I suppose I never did take much notice of her. Do you know, I can barely remember her now even if I try. Dear, quiet, obliging Alice. Always there when I wanted her but never demanding anything. I suppose she was lonely.”

  Emma was too surprised at this confession to comment. She was also afraid that if she spoke he would retract and become his normal detached self. As it was, he broke the spell. When he spoke again it was in his more usual, brisk, dismissive manner.

  “Anyway, Emma, you shouldn’t talk of love. Love is something that comes after years of friendship. What you felt for me was nothing more than a schoolgirl crush.”

  Emma automatically thought back to what her mother had said about love and admitted,

  “Well, perhaps I don’t know you well enough to say that I love you. But I am in love with you.” The distinction was clear to her.

  Alex turned on the engine and put the car into gear.

  “That’s enough nonsense. I’d better take you home.”

  As it was, he drove back to the place where he had picked her up. “I’ll drop you off here. You have my sympathy, Emma. There’s nothing more I can offer. Not in the circumstances. I’m very sorry.”

  “Goodbye, Alex.” Emma used his name for the first time. She had learnt it from Heather months ago. It was a deliberate move on her part and she watched his face to see the effect of the word before she turned and walked away.

  Emma would not have dared to let Alex Dowding see her cry, but once he had gone she allowed the tears she had been holding back to flow down her cheeks unchecked. After giving one or two audible sobs, she made an effort to control herself. She glanced around self-consciously. There was no one to observe her but there soon would be. She wiped her face against her sleeve and sniffed loudly. Then, pushing her hair behind her ears, she started to walk towards the town with a determined expression on her face.

  Jane Mitchell was a middle aged lady with a kind heart, good sense, but not very quick wits. She had done more than anyone to help Emma and her mother over the last month or so. When Emma returned from her trip to town, she found the house seemingly deserted and a note from Mrs Mitchell on the kitchen table. The note explained that the doctor had visited and that her mother, drowsy with the effects of the drugs she had taken, had retired to bed. She promised to drop round later to see if all was well. Emma put the note in the bin with a sigh. She had often considered Mrs Mitchell to be a bit of a busybody. Funny that she should be the only one who offered support when it was really needed.

  Emma found the house oppressively silent and empty. Of all the changes that she would have to get used to it was this very sense of absence which she found it hardest to come to terms with. In the past she had always come home from school to find her mother already making tea and happy to take an interest in whatever she had to say. The routine had changed after her mother had stopped work. Emma often returned to find the neighbour talking with her mother. She knew how important it was for her mother to have company, but she resented the intrusion. Over the last week her mother had taken to resting in the afternoon and it seemed likely that these little rests were going to become more and more frequent until they took over altogether and she was left completely alone.

  Emma picked up the bottle she had bought and looked at it. She had never bought alcohol before. Even on the rare occasion when she and her mother went to the pub it was always her mother who bought the drinks. Grace Tomlinson did not drink much. They had wine at Christmas and there was a bottle of sherry somewhere in the house. So Emma felt enjoyably naughty when she picked up the bottle of port in the supermarket. For some reason she had expected someone to try and stop her buying it but the girl at the checkout hadn’t even looked at her face. Emma had chosen port because it was the drink Mr Dowding had given her. She wanted to drink it to the strains of Mozart’s Requiem and to encourage and indulge in her emotions in the hope of purging them. The problem was that she was afraid of waking her mother. In the end she carefully carried her record player downstairs and closed the door before putting music on. She then poured herself a glass of port.

  At about eight o clock, Jane Mitchell decided that she better pop round next door. She knocked gently on the door of the Tomlinson’s house. There was no light inside and nobody answered, but she thought it unlikely that Emma should be out. She knocked again a little louder and waited. After a considerable pause the door was opened.

  “Oh, hallo Emma. I just popped round to see if your mother was alright. Is she still asleep?”

  “Yes.” Emma stood in the darkened hall and Jane couldn’t see her.

  “So everything is fine?”

  “Not particularly.” Emma’s voice seemed to be a little unsteady and Jane thought she might have been crying.

  “Would you like me to come in for a while, dear?” she asked kindly.

  “Please join me!” replied Emma expansively, opening the door and walking back to the lounge. The room was in almost complete darkness. It was only the light from a street lamp shining through the window that allowed Jane Mitchell to see the bottle and glass. She reassessed her opinion of what ailed Emma.

  “You’ve been drinking!” she exclaimed.

  “I know. I have!” replied Emma triumphantly.

  “Good Heavens!” She looked at Emma more closely. Emma swayed slightly. “You’d better sit down.”

  Emma sat down on the settee with a thud. “D’you want a drink?”

  “I don’t think so, dear.” Mrs Mitchell picked up the bottle and was relieved to see that there was still a considerable amount of port left in it. Emma giggled.

  “I’m wonderful. I mean the port is wonderful.” She giggled again. “It’s better than sex,” she added in a conspiratorial voice.

  “Emma!” Mrs Mitchell was genuinely shocked. Emma was a nice girl.

  “My mother said that being drunk is like being in love,” Emma continued undeterred. “I thought I’d try it out. Frankly I think it’s nicer. Still,” she said after a moment’s thought, “It’s how you feel afterwards that’s important.” Mrs Mitchell didn’t reply so she went on. “You see, I wanted tea and toast. Not sex. A comfortable conversation. Some companionship. Not that it’s his fault. The poor man has probably got the two confused. Companionship and sex, that is,” Emma explained. “I should have suggested toast in the first place, but these things never work out quite how you expect them to. They get out of hand so easily.”

  “So it seems.” Mrs Mitchell wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear any more. As it was Emma sank into a morose silence. Eventually she said,

  “I think I feel rather sick.”

  “Well, just stay there.” Mrs Mitchell hurried to the kitchen. She could deal with this eventuality. She returned with a bucket which she offered to Emma. Emma looked at it with distaste.

  “Looking at that thing will make me sick.”

  “Well, you’ll probably feel better if it does.”

  Emma sat with her head over it and hiccupped a couple of times.

  “Perhaps you’d feel better off in bed,” suggested Mrs Mitchell after a while.

  Emma nodded.

  “Will you nee
d any help getting upstairs?”

  Emma shook her head and stood up, swayed a little, and then walked gingerly towards the door as if she was afraid that it might disappear if she did not approach it in the proper manner. Mrs Mitchell followed her up and watched her slump onto her bed.

  “I don’t think that we need to mention this to your mother.”

  Emma didn’t reply, so she closed the door gently. There was no sound from Grace’s room, so she crept downstairs and left the house. She took the precaution of taking the bottle of port with her.

  “Alex!” It’s wonderful to see you.” Mary Graham, a smart woman in her late fifties with piercing blue eyes but soft, pink cheeks, gave her brother a hug. “You’re a bit peaky though. A little bit of country cooking will soon put that right.” She patted his arm fondly.