Laying the Ghosts

by Catherine Thornton

“No, not really.”

  “That’s alright.”

  Quite suddenly Emma burst into tears. Her mother came slowly over to her and gave her a hug.

  “You love him a lot then?” she asked kindly.

  Emma wiped her face and looked at her mother with a bemused expression.

  “Do I? It’s so hard to tell. If I do, it certainly isn’t a justifiable, straight-forward type of love like I feel for you.”

  Grace smoothed Emma’s hair which had become ruffled and looked thoughtfully at the tear stained face of her daughter. Eventually she said,

  “I know you can’t learn from my mistakes, but I would like to give you one bit of advice. Forget what you feel about him and concentrate on what he feels about you.” After a few minutes she continued, “When you start thinking seriously about getting married, look round for some amiable, easy-going young man whose company you quite enjoy and who you wouldn’t find it wholly unpleasant to share a bed with for forty years. Avoid anything akin to passion. It is an unhealthy, destructive emotion.”

  “On that basis I should marry Paul.”

  “You could do a lot worse. Anyway, I’ve given you some maternal advice and you can ignore it at your leisure.”

  Emma, who was watching her mother’s expression, noticed that as this smile was relaxed, her face seemed to wither and she could see new lines and shadows around her mother’s eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. Once the familiar smile had faded she suddenly looked like an old woman, a stranger that her daughter barely recognised. Emma felt a wave of fear wash over her just as it had done on the morning of her hangover. It was as if she could see Death closing in on her mother.

  “It can’t be long now,” said Grace, as if reading Emma’s mind. “Perhaps I should be more frightened than I am. I do have moments of fear, you know. I try to imagine what it will be like to die, what it will be like to be dead. And I wonder if the idea of some kind of afterlife is not a more worrying prospect than complete oblivion. But then I can’t be bothered to either think or be frightened and the idea of oblivion seems rather inviting.” Grace was slumped wearily back in her chair as she spoke. “Funnily enough, religion seems less important now than ever before. I’ve spent so much time worrying about doing the right thing, about being patient and forgiving, and now that it comes to it I simply assume that God will look after me whether I deserve it or not. If it turns out that he doesn’t exist, well, you’ll just have to look after yourself and there will be no need to worry about me.”

  Once Christmas was over Grace Tomlinson’s health seemed to decline more swiftly and she became listless and withdrawn for much of the time. To Emma it seemed as if they were simply passively and helplessly waiting for the inevitable termination of her illness. Perhaps it would have been better in a larger family where life had to go on in a relatively normal manner for the sake of the majority. As it was, Emma came to feel that there was nothing else to life but the anticipation of death. In many ways she had already lost her mother. Instead of being the beloved companion Emma had always known, she became a fretful, disillusioned invalid and Emma herself became totally absorbed in the duties of nursing and caring for her.

  It was on the first Tuesday of the New Year that Alex telephoned her. Emma had been washing up a few pieces of crockery and was just about to make her way upstairs to see if her mother needed anything. In the last week she had not spared a thought for anything that did not relate to her mother and her illness. Thus, when she picked up the phone and found herself speaking to Alex Dowding, she was momentarily confused. It was like being contacted by someone from a previous and barely remembered existence. Initially she was too numb to express either surprise or pleasure. It was only when she realised that he was about to ring off that something inside her stirred. In the same instant she saw how futile it was to let her feeling resurge. She even ignored the twinge of resentment and self-pity she felt as she replaced the receiver. It was only when Emma was in bed that night, staring sleeplessly at the walls of her room, that it occurred to her that of all the things that Alex Dowding had done, this was the most uncharacteristic.

  Grace Tomlinson died the following morning. Emma contacted her doctor and also Jane Mitchell. Emma felt strangely detached from the sudden bustle that occurred and at the first opportunity she left the house, grateful for the coldness of the winter air that greeted her, despite the fact that she was coatless. She walked almost instinctively to Alex Dowding’s house. Had she thought about it, she would have known that he could not be there, yet she still felt aggrieved when she found the place empty apart from one cat watching her serenely from the window. Emma scribbled a note and returned slowly home.

  Alex awoke to find that everything had frozen overnight. The milk on the doorstep had risen up on a stalk, lifting the cap off the bottle. Even the condensation on the inside of the windows had turned to ice. The world was swathed in a thick layer of snow and the air was still full of swirling white flakes. Moving briskly in the chill of the unheated house he washed and dressed, fed the cats who assaulted him, mewling, as he descended the stairs and then made himself some coffee. He knew that there was no point in phoning Jean Jones until after half past nine, so he set about wiling away his time by sorting through the papers that littered his desk. When he did eventually pick up the receiver and dial the headmistress’s number there was no answer. He trudged around the house impatiently for another five minutes, wiping the pools of water of the window sills where ice had not formed. The second time he phoned there was still no reply and at his third attempt Alex decided to ring the school secretary instead. This time the phone was answered almost immediately.

  “Pauline? It’s Alex Dowding here...Fine, thankyou...I’m trying to get hold of Jean ...Isn’t she? I don’t suppose you could tell me where she is...It’s this morning is it...do you know the name of the church?...St John’s...The time of the service...Never mind...No, that’s fine...Yes...Yes...Goodbye then.”

  Once Alex knew that the funeral was that morning he was filled with a sense of urgency. It was already after ten. He was bound to be late, perhaps even miss it altogether. He completely forgot about the fact that he had not actually decided to go to the service as he picked up his heavy overcoat and went to try and get his car going. As luck would have it, the engine proved difficult to start and he was held up by the slow moving traffic on the slippery roads. It took him twice as long as it should have done for him to reach the church.

  Once he had eventually arrived, Alex parked his car and turned to look across the bleak expanse of the graveyard. His eyes were immediately drawn to a small huddle of figures and, with difficulty, he was able to distinguish Emma standing a little apart from the rest. The snow had thinned but the wind was biting, so Alex paused to pull on his coat after he got out of his car. All the while he watched the figures. It seemed to him that proceedings had drawn to a close. He saw the clergyman walk up to Emma and then a figure he took to be Jean. The pall bearers were already hurrying back towards him and gradually the group straggled after them. First came two women with a tall man and then the headmistress and the clergyman. Emma paused briefly by the graveside and then Alex saw that she too was walking slowly back to where he stood. He took a few steps away from his car and watched her progress. Jean Jones had seen him now and he nodded an acknowledgement but made no move to go and speak to her. Before she had the chance to come over to him, the tall man introduced himself to her and shook her hand whilst the two women spoke briefly with the clergyman who then hurried back to the warm sanctuary of the church.

  Alex turned back towards Emma who was drawing close to him. Her eyes were cast down and she had evidently not seen him. She walked purposefully around the other mourners although they all looked at her expectantly as she did so. Perhaps one of them would have called her back had she not at that moment caught sight of Alex and stopped suddenly. The two stared at each other. They were no more than six feet apart. Emma’s face was devoid of all colour and her eyes w
ide and bewildered. She wore only a light coat and he thought how cold she must be. He covered the few paces between them and took her right hand, which was limp and icy, and held it in both his own. She simply stared at him.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” he said gently. He was conscious of the fact that she was shaking with cold. “You must be freezing.” Her eyes seemed to be almost unfocused and her face without expression. “Emma?” He wished she would make some sort of response. Anything. But she just stood there, her lifeless hand in his.

  Just then the tall man walked up to Emma and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

  “We’ll see you back at the house. Margaret is getting cold.”

  Emma’s silence seemed to be acknowledgement enough for him and he hurried over to a large silver car by which one of the women was already standing, stamping her feet and shaking her hands in an attempt to generate some warmth. Jean Jones and the other lady now joined them. The headmistress introduced her companion as Jane Mitchell, Emma’s neighbour. Alex had already released his grip of Emma, so he was able to shake her by the hand.

  “Alex taught Emma English,” the headmistress explained.

  “Well, I’ve asked the others back to my house for some coffee. I think we all need a hot drink. You are welcome to come too,” Jane Mitchell said to Alex.

  “Thankyou.”

  “We’ll see you there. You can follow us.”

  They started to walk back over to the car in which the three of them had come. Emma herself made no move to follow.

  “”Are you coming, Emma?”

  Emma said nothing, so Alex replied.

  “She can come with me.” He got into the Bristol and leant over to open the passenger door for Emma. She slid into the seat without comment. Alex waited until the other car had reversed out and then followed. After a few moments Emma spoke.

  “That was my Uncle George and his wife. They came up yesterday.”

  Alex glanced at her profile. She was still shivering but there was a tinge of pink in her cheeks.

  “You mentioned them to me once,” he commented.

  “Yes, I did. He hasn’t been to see us for years. It seems a bit silly for him to come only now that she’s dead. You turn right here.” Alex had lost sight of the headmistress’s car at the traffic lights. “It was Mrs Mitchell who contacted him. I told her not to bother. She said that he was her brother and must come. A woman of very fixed ideas she is. She must have made me a hundred cups of coffee over the last week, you know. It’s her panacea. Only the inimitable Mrs Mitchell could have made my uncle come. I bet she bullied him into it. She can move mountains if she puts her mind to it.” After a moment Emma added absently, “No mountain is immovable given enough cups of coffee,” and lapsed into silence. When she spoke again it was to say, “You should have turned left back there.”

  Alex slowed down, reversed up an empty drive and then turned back down the road.

  “This turning?”

  “Yes.”

  He recognised Jean Jones’ car and pulled up behind it.

  “I don’t believe I can face any more coffee.”

  “It would be impolite if you didn’t go in.”

  “I suppose so.” Emma stepped wearily out of the car and Alex followed her into the house.

  “Alex.” Jean Jones beckoned him over to her and then said in a quiet voice, “I was surprised to see you. How does Emma seem?”

  “A little bit strained.”

  “That’s only to be expected I suppose. But she is very vulnerable at the moment. Treat her carefully.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She seems to be fond of you. She asked after you a couple of times. Anyway, perhaps you could use your influence to encourage her to return to school as soon as possible. I think that would be the best thing for her.” She had a quick look at her watch. “I’d better think about getting back myself. I’ll just have a quick cup of coffee.” Mrs Mitchell had just arrived with a tray. Jean Jones helped herself to a cup and thanked her. Alex also took one with a nod of thanks. After he had taken a couple of sips he went over to where Emma was now standing on her own having finished speaking to her uncle.

  “Not having anything to drink?”

  Emma shook her head.

  “What are you planning to do, Emma?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Do? I’d quite like to go to the pub. I seem to have been living on coffee and cornflakes. I’d love something hot. Something like chicken and mushroom pie.”

  Mrs Mitchell. Who was close enough to be able to overhear what was being said, addressed Alex.

  “If you can get her to eat a proper meal you’ll be doing well. I’ve tried to persuade her to come here for dinner in the evening, but she always claims that she isn’t hungry.”

  “You’ve been lovely!” Emma bent down to give the surprised woman a kiss on the cheek. Mrs Mitchell turned pink with pleasure and Emma with self-consciousness.

  “Did you want some coffee?”

  Emma smiled but declined and Mrs Mitchell took the tray over to the uncle and his wife.

  “Are you serious about wanting to go to the pub?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s surely not that extraordinary a thing to want to do.”

  “What about your uncle?”

  “He can look after himself. There is no point in me spending any time with him. Just now he asked if I wanted him to stay down for a few days, but I told him that there was no need. Anyway, he has a job to get back to. He hasn’t retired yet.”

  “Emma,” this time Jean Jones came over and interrupted them, “I must get back to the school now. Unless you’d like me to stay any longer?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. Thankyou very much for coming.”

  “You must let me know when you’ll be back at school. I really think you ought to make it as soon as possible,”

  “Yes.” Emma lowered her eyes and her cheeks gained a little extra pink.

  “You can call me if you want a chat.”

  “Thankyou.”

  “Well, goodbye Alex.” She gave him a searching look but his expression betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking.

  “Goodbye Jean.”

  After that Emma’s uncle and his wife took their leave and then Emma helped Jane Mitchell to wash and dry the cups and saucers whilst Alex stood about in the lounge feeling uncomfortable. He was relieved when Emma emerged from the kitchen and asked him where the nearest nice pub was. If Mrs Mitchell was at all surprised by the two of them going to the pub she went to the trouble of concealing the fact. Alex thanked her for the coffee and then he and Emma went out into the snow.

  Emma put her knife and fork to one side of her empty plate and sighed with satisfaction. She was seated on a chair close to the log fire which dominated the small country pub. It had been difficult to reach the pub along the snowy lanes, but Alex particularly liked the place. They had been silent during their journey and since then their conversation had been confined to Emma’s words of praise for the pub and her comments on the contents of the menu.

  “Now I’m ready for that drink you offered me!” she said brightly. “May I try your beer?” Alex pushed his glass towards her and Emma sampled it cautiously. She wrinkled her nose in response to the bitter taste. “I think I’ll stick to port.”

  “At lunchtime?”

  “It’ll warm me up. I’ll only have a small glass.”

  Alex went to the bar and returned with a glass of port. Emma received it with a smile and, having drunk a little, sat back in her chair contented. Alex watched her but said nothing.

  “Do you think I’m callous?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m happy. It probably isn’t customary to be happy when you’ve just been to a funeral.”

  Alex still made no comment. Emma frowned and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  “The last month or so have been so desolate. I don’t suppose you can imagine what it was like.” She lifted h
er glass and watched the light from the fire shine through the ruby liquid as she spoke. “The whole time we were looking forward, just looking forward to the moment when my mother would die. I don’t mean looking forward to in the sense of wanting it to happen. I mean that it was there like a brick wall and it was impossible to see beyond it. It threw its shadow over our whole lives. I just can’t feel sad anymore.” She studied his face for signs of understanding. “All the sorrow has drained out of me. Perhaps it would have been different if her death had happened suddenly. All the grieving would have come afterwards. But I lived with the idea for so long that it felt as if I was dying by inches along with her. First you left and then there was nothing except that terrible anticipation. And the future was blank. This morning I felt as if I was dead. My limbs moved but I felt numb. And then I saw you.” Emma put the glass to her lips and this time she nearly drained it with one gulp.