by Paula Hayes
Then Grandad came back with two pairs of enormous bloomers with ‘Lucy Griffin’ written on them in HUGE LETTERS in black permanent marker. But by then Nimmy had gone to sleep, and so GG tucked them into her drawer and we left. Normally when we leave she asks GG to please take her with him. She always, always asks to go home. Even if she does not remember Grandad, she seems to remember she is not at her own home. So poor GG always has to think of some nice white lie, like the plumber is coming in the morning and there will be a frightful mess or it is raining too hard to wheel you home — wouldn’t want your lovely hair set to frizz etc etc. So it is good she was asleep. GG gave her a kiss and said, ‘A good evening to you, Miss Lucy,’ and then I started to cry because he always says that and I was touched and saddened and happy all at once. And GG understands.
After tea, Grandad and I started a new holiday book. This holiday book is called Playing Beatie Bow and Grandad had chosen it. It was a very good choice and it showed he can see I am growing up. It also reminded me that he is not boring but really a kindred spirit because the book is a bit magical as well. So we took turns to read it out loud and then we went to bed.
When I could hear GG snoring from his room off the front door entrance, I got up and brought the chocolate tin into my bedroom. Then I felt uneasy so I put it under my bed, and then I felt scared so I put it back in the Rosy Room. As I turned to flick off the light switch, I noticed that the big mirror under a sheet seemed to vibrate. Sometimes this happens because the house does need restumping and when the buses go past things do shake. This is what I told myself all the way back to my room, it’s just a bus … just a bus … or a truck or a bus but probably a truck. But right now it’s three-thirty in the morning, I am still awake with the light on and reading The Philosopher’s Stone again for a bit of light comfort reading. Harry has just met Ron and Hermione. Jealous.
Four
GG has gone to play bridge at his bridge club. Bridge is a tedious card game. Grown-ups can be dull beyond words. But I suppose it is good for him to mix with people his own age like I am supposed to. There is an incredibly rude and smelly old lady he calls Ms HB who lives down the street, and sometimes she knocks on the door and wants to walk with GG to bridge. When this happens he puts his finger on his lips and looks at me with big eyebrows. Then we have to bend down so we are under the front room window and she can’t see us. I think he is a bit scared of Ms HB.
The Bridge Hall is four streets away so Grandad said I could stay here and watch ABC3 for a bit of company. So I said that would be great and turned on the telly and laughed my head off at Scotty Tweedie. He is ADORABLE … according to Fern, not me! I do not like the prank part. I think a lot of them are mean.
When I heard the front gate latch click, I turned off the telly and went to the Rosy Room. I had to calm myself because I am prone to get into a highly suggestible state. I am not sure what this means but I heard Dad telling Mum this, and also that I am ‘very sensitive’ and ‘can get carried away’ and yet again a suggestion I should play netball or something vomitous like that. Just because they can’t read and listen in at the same time does not mean I can’t. It is not a gift. It is a skill I have to practise.
I decided I would set up my laptop to record my investigative findings and then I would replay and freeze-frame it to unearth stuff that I missed in real time. Dad and Linden are always shouting at the TV for a replay and then they slow the footage right down and argue about where an almond-shaped ball is and where it should be. Even though they are shouting, they seem to be very happy at the same time. Bizarre!
I fetched the key, which is a heavy old vintage key, and when I looked at my hand it had orange rust on it. YUK! I tried to open the door but I didn’t have enough hands so I had to put the laptop on the ground. At first I couldn’t get the key to move the lock but I jiggled it a little and it opened with a creak. The Rosy Room was very dark. The curtains were heavy and dusty. The room felt different without GG around in the house. So I opened the curtains up to give me a bit of light and courage.
I was totally drawn to the mirror that was under a dusty sheet and wondered what secrets could lie beneath. The sheet was no longer white — it was a powdery grey and had enormous spider webs dangling off it in every direction. I couldn’t see any spiders and I examined the webs for ages to be sure. There were dancing dust motes catching the light leading to the mirror. It was totally screaming dark and mysterious at me. I was excited but frightened which is an extremely awesome feeling, so I grabbed the sheet and pulled it off like I was a crazy bullfighter swirling a red cape, but I started to cough and my nose is still dripping. Annoying MUCH? The base and frame are made of really cool timber and the mirror is old with black bits where the special mirror paint has worn off. It is a very nice piece of furniture … if you like the haunted Gothic vibe. But it is not a portal to the stylish royal vampire boarding school I thought it might be. This is a shame and a relief. I have to say I am secretly pleased, as the closer to the dark and mysterious the more scared I feel. This is very tiring.
So emboldened (fab new word), I ripped the sheets off all the furniture to reveal two old wingback chairs and a footstool. There was also a sewing machine that sits in its own desk! There were piles of boxes and cake tins and chocolate tins everywhere. I remembered I had left my laptop on the floor outside but instead of fetching it, I worked out where it should sit for a fabulous panoramic view of all the retro treasures. I felt sad that it is highly plausible Nimmy was/is a crazy hoarder lady and there is enough stuff in here for a whole television show.
Then I had an idea. If there is a finger in one tin, there might be a toe or a nose in the others. There could be a whole person in this room cut into little tiny pieces and stored in these tins. I felt compelled to open up a shoebox but all I found were postcards dated long ago.
Dearest Beryl,
3/6/1942
One has not lived until one sees ‘the changing of the guard’ at Buckingham Palace.
And so on and so forth.
And so my investigation will look at these primary resources first. I feel there could be some revealing background information.
Ten minutes later …
So this is beyond weird and all my life’s reading and preparation did not prepare me very well because when it happened I screamed my lungs out and had to run into the kitchen where I still am. It was not very Hermione of me but then she is actually in a magical castle and she knows she is in a magical castle whereas I’m at Grandad’s who thinks figs are magic. And I am spewing because I bolted out of the room and accidentally stomped on my laptop. It still works but I have cracked the screen and Dad is going to be furious and will say stuff like, ‘Stop daydreaming, Lily, and be more observant of your surroundings.’ Thank goodness he is out of the country. I have NO footage to play or replay or freeze and I need it because I want to know if I am in one of my states or in the middle of a supernatural encounter. YIKES!
So this is what happened … I was reading another letter to Beryl, regarding her ‘exquisite petunia border garden’, when I HEARD A VOICE.
It was a girl’s voice. She did not sound very nice. She said, ‘Who are you, Chinese child? Do you speak English?’ which, in my opinion, is very rude and bordering on being racist. I could not see anyone and I presume she is a ghost. A rude ghost who will not even show herself. So I’ve been thinking about this and I have decided to go back and confront her. I would like to shout, ‘Show yourself, you plausibly Caucasian child.’ But I know I won’t. I have calmed down now and I only have a half an hour before Grandad comes home.
And now I have to do my deep breathing and ‘think about things rationally’. Am I in one of my highly suggestible states in which my brain is making up stuff? Like the dancing Bratz doll performance of 2011 where I could have sworn Cloe strutted her stuff across my bedroom floorboards. Maybe the voice is a bird twittering in the background, perhaps even a well-trained parrot.
This thought has calmed me down,
except now I am thinking about talking parrots that spy on people. A vivid imagination can be a terrible burden.
It is not my imagination … I have heard the rattling again and I KNOW the number 44 bus is not due for twenty minutes. And I heard the VOICE AGAIN and it said, ‘Well? Who are you?’ The voice was quite demanding and bossy. But then it got softer and nicer, ‘Has the house been sold? Do you know where Lucy is? It’s been simply ages since I last saw her and she was wearing a tea cosy instead of her hat. ’Twas odd even for Lucy. Is Lucy … Is Lucy dead?’
I knew the answer to this one and I couldn’t help but shout back, ‘NO!’
My helping instinct kicked in, like ka-chow!
‘I saw her yesterday but she is —’ I stopped because I didn’t know what to say. ‘Gone’ was hanging around in my brain but I pushed it away.
‘What is wrong with her?’ the voice screeched. How rude!
Then I had an inspiration. ‘She is not herself,’ I replied, which ticked all the boxes nicely.
The voice seemed to understand this as she asked, ‘Has she taken to her bed again?’ I wanted to answer NO but then remembered that Nimmy did spend a lot of time in an easy chair with her head slumped and her mouth open. Was this the same thing?
So I just said, ‘She is in a Home.’
And then the voice got very small and a bit scared and it said, ‘I don’t understand, this is her home … our home. Please, please come and sit with me.’
The girl sounded lonely. I know lonely, it is my specialty subject.
I have decided I will go back into the Rosy Room but I have to push away the thought that she might be an evil sorceress who wants my pinkie finger for a powerful antisocial spell. I am trying to visualise Nimmy’s hands and I can count ten fingers and a wedding band and an enormous emerald ring in the shape of a sunflower. It swivels like crazy now. Her hands are as gnarled as the non-magical rosebushes. The random finger is still in the tin. I hope this girl has not come to reclaim it. SCARY! I have had another thought; she could be invisible and watching me right now. NOWHERE IS SAFE! FREAK OUT! I must go in and ‘face my fears’ just like Dad is always saying. He also says I should have a backup plan/strategy. If there truly is an evil entity, my plan is to run screaming along the four streets to the bridge club. Be back soon. I hope!
SO MUCH TO TELL …
So I proceeded with caution and terror into the Rosy Room and I saw NOTHING! I looked up at the rose cornices and for a second I thought it was a trick after all, involving a diabolical invisibility cloak. I was about to run from the room when the voice shouted (rude!) at me.
‘I’M IN THE MIRROR, YOU SILLY GIRL.’
And there she was! The girl was taller than me but not much. She had curly golden hair and extremely pretty blue eyes. She was wearing what GG would refer to as a ‘cotton frock’.
So, no heavy black eye makeup and black supernatural shimmery lace gown.
She looked older than me — like thirteen or something like that.
The first thing I said was, ‘Are you a ghost?’
And she laughed as she replied, ‘I wish!’ This struck me as weird. Her face got all thoughtful and she said, ‘I’m not sure what I am anymore.’
Very weird.
I said, ‘My dad says there are no such things as ghosts.’
Of course I totally believe in ghosts but listening to my dad’s boring voice inside of my head made me feel braver.
‘There is so! One used to live in this very room and we frightened him away.’ The girl shook her clenched fist fiercely, ‘We don’t put up with any tommyrot round here.’
Perhaps I should have started with, ‘My name is Lily,’ but I am not good at this sort of stuff. People stuff. So I tried again and said, ‘My name is Lily.’
And the girl looked at me and squealed back, ‘My name is Lily too and I remember you.’
FREAKED OUT! … OFFICIALLY!
Then I heard the key in the front door lock and GG was saying, ‘Lily Pilly, absolutely cracking game today! Ms HB was ill. Let me freshen up and we will head off to visit Nimmy.’
Then my unidentical, very surprising doppelganger whispered, ‘Is that Colin?’
Colin, who in the world is Colin? Then I remembered GG’s name is Colin and so I whispered back, ‘Yes!’
‘Lucy always left me when Colin came home, apparently he is a dreamboat and a real charmer. You’d better go … Colin is not in on it. Put the dust cover back on and when you can talk again, take it off — that was Lucy’s secret signal for me.’
Then the Other Lily stepped back and I couldn’t see her anymore until she jumped forward and whisper-shouted, ‘DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, TOUCH THE GLASS!’ So I carefully tossed the sheet over the mirror, which was difficult because I am short and even though I ‘need to be logical’ more often and can be ‘overly emotional’, I am not so illogical that I want to be stuck in a mirror!
Just then GG (aka dreamboat Colin!!) popped his head in and said, ‘Gracious, you are not in here? Come on, out you come. It’s freezing and I need help with my cake.’ This is Grandad code for ‘stop being weird’. I looked at his long bony nose full of nasal hair and I studied the way he still styles his hair in a part on the side, like there is still enough hair to part. He is quite charming. He never says ‘stop daydreaming’ or ‘don’t be silly, Lily’. Instead, he says something like, ‘let’s go for a little walk around the tulips’, which means let’s talk of something else for a while.
So I came out of the room.
Five
When we saw Nimmy later that day, it was the first time I really thought she was ‘gone’. I do not like the feeling at all. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head was cocked to the side like she was listening to music but there wasn’t any music playing. I felt sad like never before. I was sad for Nimmy because she is not Lucy anymore, and I was sad for Other Lily and how all her secrets are wrapped up in this little wispy white-haired head, and how they will never be revealed to me. I tried very hard to ‘think of a positive’. At last, I thought perhaps it is a wonderful and magical place inside Nimmy’s head and it is much better in her brain than watching telly and looking at the other old farts. So I will rename ‘gone’ to ‘Nimmy Land’. When I daydream, Mum and Dad say, ‘Lily’s off in Lily Land again!’ I am very nice because I do not reply and I only think, Well it’s better than being stuck here in Pig Boy’s world.
As we were walking home, GG took my hand and said, ‘Maybe you could visit Isabella tomorrow when I visit Nimmy.’ Apparently she is a girl ‘round your age’ with allegedly ‘common interests’. She has just moved next door to GG. It’s not her fault that I do not want to meet her. But I do not.
I said, ‘No way, José.’
GG sighed and I thought he was going to say ‘it’s tulip walking time’ but he didn’t. He sighed again and said, ‘Okay, Lily Pilly dear.’
That night we read twenty-three pages of Playing Beatie Bow and then we went to bed. I had every intention of chatting with Other Lily but I was so tired from being freaked that I slept all night and woke up in the morning to the smell of figgy goodness (alleged goodness) wafting down the passage.
Grandad was sitting at the top of the table with his black-rimmed spectacles slipping down his nose as he read the paper. He looked up at me and I could tell he had something to tell me that I wouldn’t like one little bit. Sheepishly, he peered through his incredibly thick glasses. (Manuel has a sheepish grin … apparently!)
‘There seems to be a problem back at your house.’ And before he said anything more I knew that that problem was named Linden.
‘What has he done this time?’ I said and I got a vibe of what could be coming next. It was an utterly shocking vibe and, as it turned out, my vibe was shockingly correct.
Grandad started off carefully with, ‘As it so happens, Linden had a little gathering with some chums.’ (Read — evil cronies.)
‘And they ended up spray-painting the three white Turkish Angora ca
ts in Fern’s care with her red craft spray-paint. She left it on the kitchen sink so it would be handy for when she had time to finish off her new mural.’ (Well, it’s not that new, she started it six months ago after she broke up with her boyfriend Cody. Traumatic! It is called Love Is Only a Figment.)
Grandad continued, ‘Now she has three expensive cats that all look like they have been cleaved open with an axe. Apparently, Linden pleaded it was in the interest of animal welfare as now they cannot be made into hats.’ GG had his genuinely cross look on and I was glad. Everyone else thinks Linden is a prankster and that he is hilarious. He is NOT.
As if the cats were ever going to be made into hats. Ridiculous and completely erroneous! It has taken me a long time to be able to use erroneous in a sentence because it is a Linden-ism … a very mean Linden-ism. (In our family when someone says the same word a lot, my dad calls it their ‘ism’. This means it is one of their catchphrases. Poor Dad doesn’t realise he has the most ‘isms’ of all. He can be a bit repetitive in a nice but slightly boring logical way.)
When I was eight, Linden would say to me, ‘You are so erroneous!’ like I was clever and pretty. He would say, ‘Wow, that assignment on Adélie penguins was way erroneous, well done,’ and then he went as far as to say my birth was a most erroneous affair, like I was Aurora from Sleeping Beauty. This went on for weeks. I began to get suspicious about the word’s meaning and its nastiness was confirmed when I overheard Dad on the phone telling another guy his calculations were erroneous and they did not want any MISTAKES for the client. Then I looked up the meaning in the dictionary and felt sick.
So I dobbed on him to Mum and she was way … WAY angry. Angry big-time! Linden got grounded for a whole month and has hated my guts ever since because he missed a big party that gazillions of his friends were going to. I felt a bit bad because I didn’t really want him to miss the party — Linden out of the house is always the best kind of Linden. But he still hates me and perhaps this is why I am having such supernatural luck — because I have a real live enemy. He makes Draco Malfoy look like a doofus.
