Ghost Girl

by Thomson, Lesley

  ‘We’d better allow two and a half hours: she’ll want to chat on to you about her “murdered husband”.’

  ‘I’ll try to avoid it.’

  ‘Make allowances. Tea-tree and sympathy: that’s what you can offer!’ Stella sniffed at her pun.

  ‘You don’t make jokes. What’s happened? Is this the case you mentioned last night?’

  ‘Will you clean for my mother for two hours twice a week? If you go in the late afternoon it will give her time to make a mess and lose stuff for you to fail to find.’ She stuffed the flask back in the rucksack.

  ‘Yes of course.’ Jack looked at her. ‘And the case?’

  Stella reached into her rucksack and produced a blue plastic ring binder.

  ‘See what you make of that.’

  21

  Friday, 6 May 1966

  ‘Your brother’s crying. He wants you.’ A red-faced boy rushed up to Mary Thornton. She ignored him, her attention on a boy waiting by the wall. In the two playtimes that day, Mary had lobbied for children to meet her by the drinking fountain in the playground after school. She was methodical, her Brooke Bond cards – Trees of Britain – were arranged in ascending numeric order, bound by an elastic band. Even outside, they gave off a whiff of tea leaves. Mary had several swaps.

  Only Douglas Ford was here. A head shorter than Mary and painfully thin, the boy had knobbly knees and eyes that blinked when he spoke: easy pickings for teasing. He had forty-seven cards stuck crookedly on to the flimsy pages of his album.

  He wanted Mary’s Yew (Number 9) and Sycamore (Number 13). With these two swaps he would have forty-nine and only needed the Holm or Evergreen Oak (Number 43) to have the set of fifty. Mary had thirty-six. Douglas was offering her the Holly (leaf and berries), which she didn’t have, and the English Elm, which she did. Her dream of being the first in the class to fill her album was slipping away. She was holding him off, hoping for more comers.

  ‘He’s asking for you right now.’ The smaller boy ran on the spot.

  ‘Is this all you’ve got?’ Mary demanded, waving the album at Douglas.

  ‘Michael’s hurt,’ the boy persisted.

  ‘You could swap the Elm with someone else,’ Douglas replied helpfully. ‘Could I at least have the Yew in return for the Holly please? It’s a bit more rare.’ He twitched, his eyes shutting. His album was firmly in the new girl’s possession; one hand fluttered impotently towards it.

  ‘Michael wants you.’ The smaller boy tugged at Mary’s sleeve.

  ‘It’s rude to interrupt.’ She shook him off. The Holly would add to Mary’s collection, but would give Douglas Ford a terrible lead. The sun was hot on her bare shoulders. She eased the straps on her sundress.

  ‘Michael says to get your mum.’

  Mary came up with the perfect deal. ‘Meet me under the last railway arch in five minutes.’ She nodded to Douglas to confirm it was an order not a suggestion. She slipped the elastic band from her fingers on to her cards and dropped them into the ample pocket of her dress.

  Douglas’s eyes were screwed tight shut. ‘I’m to go home. Nan’ll kill me.’

  ‘Don’t answer back.’ Mary was Miss Crane. She drew herself up: ‘It’s either that or no Yew for you.’

  ‘You have to come now!’

  Mary looked down at the boy at her elbow. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’ She pulled her satchel strap over her head, arranging it across her chest. ‘Where is he?’

  She did not hurry. The boy rushed off around the corner to the Infants’ playground. Mary sauntered behind. The boy tore across the asphalt, dodging the last of the infants straggling out of the gates to waiting parents and stopped by wide shallow steps that led to a circle of grass which Mary had learnt was the called Sunken Garden. Becoming an instant signpost, the boy pointed at a forlorn figure in baggy shorts and scuffed Clarks sandals hunched in the centre, his bright red pullover pulled over his knees. Mary trotted down the steps and over the grass. Michael had one arm around his crooked knees. His other arm hung limp as if it did not belong to him. He watched his older sister impassively.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Fresh tears brimmed and the little boy dashed at them with a grubby palm.

  ‘I fell over.’

  ‘You tripped, you mean.’ She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘You look all right. Come on, it’s late.’

  ‘It hurts.’ Michael cradled his right arm in his left hand. ‘I can’t write.’

  ‘You can’t write anyway and you don’t need to now because it’s home-time.’ Mary grabbed her brother’s right wrist.

  He blanched when she swung his hand up then down and let it go. Silent tears flowed in earnest and he sniffed miserably while Mary peered at the dimpled arm. The skin, brown from the sun and dusted with dirt, was otherwise unmarked.

  ‘Don’t fuss.’ She tossed back her hair, her voice low like Miss Crane’s. ‘There’s no blood. Don’t be a baby. Go on home, I’ll be along.’

  ‘What? Why? Where are you going?’ Astonished at the new arrangement, Michael stopped crying. ‘You’re to get our tea.’ He had learnt to rely on the newly established routine of his sister looking after him after school, however prone to sharp jabs and illogical tellings-off it was.

  ‘You can get your own.’ Mary was brisk. The idea that she did not have to look after her little brother every day was gaining momentum. ‘You’re seven now.’

  ‘You’ve got the key to the house.’

  She hesitated. If she gave Michael the key he might lock her out or lose it and then she would be in trouble. It was better that he wait on the front step for her.

  She hauled him to his feet by his good arm and squeezing his hand led him out of the gate nearest to the Sunken Garden. This exit was by the sweet shop.

  Mary spent the last of the change from last week’s lunch money on a half-pound bag of Fruit Salad chews. This was more chews then either of them had ever seen. She resisted taking some for herself. Miss Crane did not eat sweets. Michael was not grateful and, irritated, Mary summarily stuffed the bag into his satchel.

  By Ravenscourt Park station, Michael slowed to watch a newspaper vendor fix the latest headlines into a display case. The man smacked smooth the paper and snapped it behind the grille.

  Moors Murderers Get Life.

  Michael was behind with his reading as well as his writing, but he did recognize the ‘M’s in the headline as being from his and Mary’s names. About to point this out, he was engulfed by a wave of nausea when his arm swung out. He concentrated on not being sick and stumbled along beside Mary.

  Mary stopped by the park and bashed at her brother’s blazer, brushing it down. ‘When you get to the house, sit outside and have some sweets. Not too many, save your appetite. I won’t be long,’ she added more kindly and, sorting his collar, combed back his hair with her fingers.

  She hurried into the park. On the other side of the viaduct tiny patches of sunlight penetrating the foliage looked like gold leaves scattered on the path. From the tennis courts came the pock-pock of rackets hitting balls; from somewhere else came girls’ laughter. Mary saw no one but knew they were laughing at her.

  At a break in the bushes she glimpsed the sandpit and paddling pool and faltered. She should have made Michael play there. She continued, reassuring herself that she would not get into trouble with her parents, for she had the perfect plan. Nothing could go wrong.

  The arch with the slide was dark and silent: no children. The slide gleamed, tempting her inside, but she did not give in.

  Under the next arch was the roundabout where she had seen Clifford Hunt smoking. A little girl was perched on it, going slowly round and round. Mary thought she was alone but then saw a lady, who kept still until the girl got near when she gave the roundabout a push. The girl saw Mary and twisted to keep looking at her until she was facing the other way. Before the lady saw her, Mary hurried on.

  She hesitated by the next arch in case Douglas had got her instructions wron
g and was here. Metal railings stood in front of the opening through which she counted lawn mowers, trimmers, rollers and tins of white paint, which she guessed was for the lines on the tennis court and football pitch. There were ladders at the back and a barrow for collecting leaves. Douglas was not there. The last arch was screened with sheets of corrugated iron but, as she expected, the door was open a tiny bit and she crept inside.

  The walls were streaked with bird slime and snakes of moss where rainwater had got in. At Mary’s feet lay fir cones and leaves. Sweet wrappers betrayed that other children came here. She smelled exhaust fumes and dog’s mess and wrinkled her nose. She was alone.

  Douglas Ford had disobeyed her. She charged towards the door and collided with something warm. She heard a gasp and reeled back.

  Douglas cowered by the opening, his bag across his shoulder. Goose pimples on his legs disgusted Mary. She tugged at the hem of her dress, trying to conceal her own fear. He had been hiding in the bushes to scare her. It had worked.

  They were a stone’s throw from the playground and close to the high street, yet Mary Thornton had come to believe that they were far away from anyone. For a moment she understood she had set in train a misdemeanour more serious than running away. If she shouted, no one would hear.

  ‘I don’t have other swaps, only the Holly. I told you.’ Douglas took out his album of cards and held it against his chest like a shield. Mary knew he wanted to make her jealous so she would give in.

  ‘You can see under my dress.’ She was businesslike.

  Douglas blinked.

  ‘Did we wash our ears this morning, Douglas Ford?’ A pitch-perfect Miss Crane.

  ‘See what?’ Fixed on Trees of Britain, Douglas Ford was slow to comprehend.

  ‘My knickers.’

  ‘Oh.’ He clicked the heels of his brown lace-up shoes together as if brought to attention.

  An animal or a bird scrabbled in the foliage outside the arch.

  ‘I’ve seen girl’s knickers before.’ Douglas was equivocal.

  ‘Not all of it, you haven’t.’

  Douglas gripped the booklet and backed into the corrugated iron with a clang. Both children froze at the noise.

  ‘And touch? With fingers?’ He pursed his lips as if the words had escaped unbidden.

  ‘No.’

  Neither child moved.

  ‘All right, but be quick.’ Mary was her mother allowing ten more minutes before bedtime.

  Douglas hesitated.

  ‘Give me the cards first, stupid.’

  ‘I don’t have any to swap. Only the Holly,’ he whispered. He was translucent pale in the dim light.

  ‘You have the Common Lime with leaf and seeds, the Rowan, the Crab Apple, the London Plane, the Hawthorn without leaf and seeds, the—’

  ‘They’re stuck in. There’s only my Holly for your Yew.’ Teetering on the verge of the unknown, the boy stuck to the facts of life with which he was at home.

  ‘Then you shan’t see a thing.’ Mary folded her arms. ‘This is very disappointing, Douglas Ford, but I will draw a line under the incident.’

  A twig snapped.

  ‘How many?’ Douglas spoke thickly, sensing a possible compromise.

  ‘You give me all the cards I haven’t got, that’s fourteen including the Holly (leaf and berries).’ Mary knew her collection off by heart.

  Overhead a helicopter clattered. The ground trembled; the sound beat around the brick after the machine had passed overhead.

  ‘All right,’ Douglas breathed into the quiet.

  Mary was a forbidding supervisor, while one by one Douglas tore each card from the page. Page after page. He made a hole in the paper when he ripped out the Hawthorn, and he stopped and looked pleadingly at Mary. She was steadfast. On he went with the painstaking task. On the back of each card, framed in blue, was the number in the series with a paragraph about the tree. Mary was saddened to see words blotted where Douglas had spotted glue; she preferred her cards to be clean.

  It was the happiest feeling in the world when she lifted a new card out from among dry tea leaves in the packet and saw she did not already possess it. Recently she had not had this feeling. She had it now.

  A rapid sum told Mary Thornton that she would have forty-nine cards and that even with her Yew and Sycamore, Douglas Ford would be nowhere near. It never occurred to Mary to take possession of the boy’s book intact and swap it for her own. Perhaps that would have exposed the stark reality of her arrangement.

  She retrieved her swaps from her dress pocket and slipping off the elastic band, slotted the new cards into the pile in number order. She stowed the fat bundle in her satchel. The entire procedure had taken no time at all so she would be home before her mum and dad. It had worked in two ways: she had not had to look after Michael and she had got more cards without needing a packet of tea and or having to find swaps.

  It did not occur to Mary that Douglas Ford would not start a fight or tell anyone if she did not keep her part of their bargain. She had got what she had come for and could go. Perhaps her pragmatism did include a personal code of right and wrong.

  She moved into the shadows of the far wall and whipped up her dress. Dull light illuminated her sturdy body and showed off her bright white knickers dotted with minute pink roses. Douglas gaped. With one hand, Mary caught at the elastic in her knickers and tugged them downwards. She shimmied them to her knees.

  The gate in the barrier creaked and a face appeared. Mary yanked up her knickers. In one movement, she dragged her brother inside and backed him up against the wall. Michael’s scream was shrill, cutting the air. She clamped her hand over his mouth.

  Douglas crammed his depleted album, the denuded pages ripped and flimsy, into his bag. ‘That wasn’t enough time… could I have some cards back?’ He was tremulous.

  The ground vibrated with a rumble that grew louder and louder.

  ‘You were spying!’ Mary shook Michael. He was sheet-white, his arm limp, his body flopping with each jolt like a doll.

  Michael’s teeth chattered. ‘It hu-uh-urts.’

  ‘His arm looks funny.’ Douglas took a tentative step forward. ‘Actually, it might be broken,’ he ventured. ‘I broke my arm last year, a greenstick fracture.’

  Neither sibling appeared to hear. The vibration made the corrugated iron hum.

  Michael broke free of his sister and lurched towards the gate. He stopped and abruptly threw up; a torrent of multicoloured gloop smattered his sandals and spattered over the dusty ground.

  Mary stared at half a pound of hastily eaten Fruit Salad chews.

  The rattling bounced off the bricks like machine-gun fire. A Piccadilly line train hurtled over the tracks above the children. The noise was tremendous; it was not scheduled to stop at Ravenscourt Park station.

  Michael had gone.

  He would tell. Her mum would take his side. Mary snatched up her satchel and gave chase. Although her brother had a head start, she had longer legs and had not just been sick or hurt her arm. She knew which way he would go and that he would not have the gumption to hide. His red jumper gave him away. She slowed to a trot. She would catch him because he was running in that funny way of his that made it look as if he had a limp. He scampered across the ‘Do Not Walk on the Grass’ area and out of the tall gates on to King Street.

  There was no need for Mary Thornton to chase Michael; he was going to the house. But she was livid that he had not done as she had told him and could not let him get away with it. He was running faster than she expected. She caught at his pullover and the seam ripped. She let go.

  Michael gained the kerb and swerved out of her reach. He did not stop to look right, left and then right again but plunged out on to the road. A car was going too fast to stop.

  It was Mary’s lasting impression of her young brother that, when he flew up into the air like an angel, he looked at her with his bright blue eyes just as he did when he was waiting for her to decide what game they would play. Then his body th
umped on to the bonnet and rolled beneath big black wheels.

  Mary carried on down the street and into British Grove. She let herself into the house, scooped up the post from the hall mat and laid it on the table. This was Michael’s job. She smoothed the shock of green hair on her troll key ring and dropped the key safely back in her satchel.

  Alone in the house, the competent ten-year-old filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She lit the gas ring with the lighter which, as in the old house, was kept by the tea and coffee. She checked the tea caddy. Her mum would have to buy some more tea.

  She lifted down Michael’s plastic Mickey Mouse plate and a grown-up china one from the cupboard for herself. She laid his baby knife and fork each side of his plate, and proper cutlery for herself. She opened a tin of baked beans and spooned them into a pan, which she set on the hob on a high flame.

  Mary Thornton was counting out slices of Mother’s Pride bread – ‘two for Michael, two for me’ – when her mother opened the front door. She came into the kitchen and dropped her string shopping bag on the table.

  ‘Look at you, doing the tea! Since you’ve been such a good girl, see what surprise is in there.’ She handed her daughter an unopened packet of Brooke Bond Tea.

  Mary gave the beans a quick stir and then pulled up the flaps on the box. She used her fork and fished among the leaves until she caught a glimpse of white and blue. With nimble fingers she lifted the card out and held it up.

  Holm or Evergreen Oak (Number 43).

  She had the full set.

  Mrs Thornton had been home five and a half minutes when, for the second day since they had moved in, PC Terry Darnell knocked on the front door.

  22

  Wednesday, 25 April 2012

  The stench of stale tobacco smoke was mitigated by a wafting of lavender and a hint of bleach. When she entered her mother’s hallway that evening Stella was dazzled by light. A high-wattage bulb shone on to the newspaper towers. She moved crab-wise past them and outside the lounge heard a low rumbling tone and then a raucous laugh. She could not think when Suzie had last laughed. Slowly she opened the door.