by Lucy Banks
“Look, I’m going to be going back home anyway,” he said awkwardly. “So I’ll be out of your hair. You’re right, Serena, I’m not suitable for this sort of thing at all. I’m an academic, not a ghost-hunter. I tell you what, if you’ll just let me pick up my things from Pamela’s, I’ll then go to the train station, and you can all properly get on with your job.”
Serena grunted and stared out of the window, her expression unreadable.
“Oh, but we don’t want you to go!” Pamela wailed. “There’s still so much we haven’t talked about, like your lovely mother!”
“Not to mention your ability to see the spirit door,” Dr Ribero added. “You should not go yet. I ask you to reconsider, and I take back what I said about you being silly, okay?”
“Yeah mate,” Mike said. “You should stick around a little while longer. Don’t worry about making the odd mistake, we’ve all done it.”
“But to be honest, I’m not sure I ever said anything about working long term with you all anyway!” Kester said. “It just all sort of happened, really. I haven’t had a chance to think things through. Plus, I can’t just leave my house deserted. Who knows what would happen to it?”
“Look,” Serena piped up. “I didn’t mean to have a go at you. Though I still stand by what I said. It was a stupid thing to say, and you should think before you open your mouth.”
“Okay,” Kester acknowledged.
“But,” she continued, scrutinising the others, “why are you all so desperate for him to stay? It’s just because you think he can open the spirit door, isn’t it? That’s why you think he’s so special.”
“Hey, I never said I was special,” Kester protested.
“Isn’t it enough to have a really good extinguisher on the team?” Serena’s jaw tightened. “I mean, we manage alright, don’t we?”
“No-one’s saying you’re not a good extinguisher, love,” Pamela said, giving her a comforting squeeze.
“Well anyway, I’m going to be leaving, so you needn’t worry about me causing any more disturbances,” Kester said as firmly as possible.
“Tell you what,” Mike said, swinging the steering wheel to the right and veering up the pavement. “I’ve got to do the monthly spirit run tomorrow, why don’t I drop you in London? Then you can just get the train from there.”
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Kester said.
“Nah, no trouble at all, I’d like the company,” Mike said. “The tape deck’s knackered in this van, so I can’t even listen to music these days.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay another night,” Pamela offered, leaning over the seat and patting him affectionately on the shoulder. “It’s not a problem at all, the bed’s still made up and ready. I’ll tell Hemingway not to sleep in it tonight, I know you were a bit put off by him climbing in with you last night.”
“Okay, thank you,” Kester said, once again feeling rather swayed along by events.
“But you will come back down, won’t you?” Dr Ribero said, nibbling on his fingernail and looking at him anxiously. “After all, we have a lot to talk about, you and I.” He paused, before adding, “you are my son, after all.”
Kester said nothing. He couldn’t make the old man out. Why is he so keen to keep me here, when he never once came to visit me before? he wondered. Is it that he genuinely wants a relationship? Or is it just because he’s convinced I’ve got some special power, which he wants to make use of?
With that unsettling thought, he slumped into his seat and tried to forget about the day. It wasn’t so hard to do. He was blessed with a natural ability to put unpleasant things out of his mind.
However, forgetting about the Green Lady was going to be considerably trickier.
Chapter 8: Home Again
The drive up to London with Mike had been interesting, to put it mildly.
After a series of roars, rasps, and splutters, the van had eventually broken down entirely, leaving them stranded halfway round the M25. This wasn’t exactly how Kester had planned to spend his morning—perched on a grubby grass verge and watching cars hurtle by at breakneck speed. To make matters worse, they had five spirits bouncing around in water bottles in the back of the van who released the occasional moan or howl, just to keep them on their toes.
For two hours, they’d entertained themselves by playing “guess that song,” but it wasn’t a great way to pass the time, given that they liked completely different music. Even after the emergency recovery man had managed to get them going again, the van had continued to splutter and jackrabbit with alarming frequency, leaving Kester quite fearing for his life as they drove into London and along the manic city streets.
However, it had been fascinating to see the headquarters of the famous Infinite Enterprises. Kester could see why Dr Ribero was so jealous of the company. The building was a soaring behemoth of glass and iron, glinting like a futuristic fortress in the heart of London’s business district. It couldn’t have been more different to Ribero’s crumbling offices in Exeter if it had tried. It was a beacon of power, announcing its success in every sharp corner and polished window pane. Kester was suitably impressed. He was even more awed by the black-suited guards that opened the door round the back, taking Mike’s battered water bottles without so much as a greeting.
Walking away, Mike had proceeded to remind him, in no uncertain terms, of the number of times he’d been approached directly by the company, but how he’d chosen to remain loyal to Ribero instead. Looking back at the building, then surveying Mike’s scruffy shirt and jeans, Kester wasn’t quite convinced.
After hopping on the train from London Liverpool Street to Cambridge, Kester finally arrived at the suburban avenue he’d grown up in, and was soon back in his own safe, quiet little house. Although he’d only been away a few days, it felt like far longer, and his home already had a rather sad, unloved feel. Dust lined the dado rail, the fluff was gathering momentum on the Persian rugs, and the undisturbed scatter cushions suggested, most emphatically, that nobody had sat on them for a while.
The brief absence made him realise how he’d neglected his home. Admittedly, he wasn’t used to cleaning. When mother had been ill, Kester had given it his best shot, but after she had died, he simply hadn’t bothered. The accumulation of dirt hadn’t been so obvious then, but now it stood out, loud and offensive as a football hooligan, defying him to ignore it.
With an unexpected burst of energy, he threw on his mother’s apron and seized the feather duster. After about twenty minutes of desperate cleaning, the saggy sofa by the window proved too tempting to resist. Kester collapsed, surveying the room. It didn’t look at all different. Why do people bother cleaning anyway? he wondered cynically, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It really is an awful waste of time.
He sighed. The house felt somehow wrong, the weight of his mother’s absence still hanging in the air. The grandfather clock plodded morosely in the corner like a death march. A fly buzzed against the window pane. But other than that, there was unnerving silence. He didn’t remember it being like this. Was it because he’d become accustomed to the incessant chatter of Ribero and his crew over the last few days?
A rather unpleasant thought struck him. I wonder if my mother’s ghost is in here somewhere? He glanced around the room, wondering if unseen eyes were watching him, right at this moment. He quickly stopped picking his nose. She’d be really cross if she saw me doing that. Prior to visiting Exeter, believing that his mother was a ghost would never have even occurred to him. But now, he found himself wondering whether it might be possible.
“Hello Mother?” he called out, feeling rather foolish. “Are you still here?”
He waited, cocking his head up to the ceiling, half expecting to see his mother’s ghost bobbing around by the marbled ceiling light. To his disappointment and relief, the only respo
nse was the continued tick of the clock. The late afternoon sun blazed through the windows, the strong glow reassuring him that there was nothing supernatural in his vicinity.
Just because you happen to have seen a couple of ghosts in the last few days, doesn’t necessarily mean there are spirits around every corner, he reminded himself, getting up to make some dinner. It was late, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything since Liverpool Street station, which seemed a very long time ago. Plus, it had only been a dried up Cornish pasty, so it really didn’t count as proper food. And of course, neither did the salt and vinegar crisps or the bar of Dairy Milk.
Kester sloped out to the kitchen and put some water on to boil. The cheery sound of the kettle whistling on the hob raised his spirits. The sight of pasta, bubbling and bouncing in the saucepan, cheered him further. By the time he had sat down at the little Formica table to eat, he was positively happy. Happy to be home. Happy to have some food. Happy to have some time to think properly at last. It had been a mad few days, and he desperately needed time to review the situation and think about how to proceed.
However, by the end of the meal, he was none the wiser. A part of him wanted to stay at home, to hide away and ignore the rest of the world. The other half of him remained too curious to want to leave things as they were. There were so many unanswered questions lingering in Exeter, so many matters that felt unfinished. Not to mention the fact that he’d lost one parent, only to promptly inherit another. Despite spending some time with Dr Ribero, he still felt no closer to understanding the man, or his relationship with his mother.
Kester stumbled upstairs as the sun set, exhaustion finally getting the better of him. The last few days had been long, not mention bizarre. The house still felt strangely unfamiliar to him, as though it had been changed in a hundred imperceptible ways during his absence. The door at the top of the stairs looked vaguely menacing, hulking over him as he ascended. The cracked paint on the bannisters disturbed him in a way it never had done before. Even the sight of his own single bed, pushed against the wall of his tiny bedroom, seemed horribly empty. The sheets were too tightly tucked, and the quilt too faded and too ancient.
I think my mind’s starting to run away with me, he thought, with a mixture of alarm and awe. He’d never been blessed with much of an imagination. He wasn’t sure he liked it much.
His mother’s bedroom door stood in front of him, implacable and strangely unforgiving. Kester could almost imagine being a child again—tapping on the door in the middle of the night, terrified from yet another bad dream. I wonder, if I tap now, will anyone answer? He shivered and pushed open the door.
There was her bed, just as he had left it—pink duvet tugged up to the pillows, like an old maid protecting her modesty. Her fitted wardrobes, with creamy, shiny paintwork. The little sink in the dresser. It was all the same, and yet it had changed. Or rather, he had changed, and now he was seeing it all with different eyes.
He moved to the wardrobe, pulling the doors open. The musty-sweet smell of his mother’s clothes flew out, reminding him of her. What am I doing? he asked himself, bewildered by his own actions. Kester crouched and pulled a box from underneath her collection of plastic-wrapped coats.
“I wonder,” he muttered, lifting the box up to the bed. He’d been deliberately avoiding sorting through her belongings. It had felt horribly invasive, rummaging through her things, even though she was no longer around to complain. They had always had an unwritten code of respect between them, acknowledging the other’s right to privacy, and the fact that one of them was now dead did not make it feel any more appropriate.
Of all the things that he felt wrong about snooping through, this box was the worst. It was only a simple black cardboard box, a little worn at the edges. But he knew it was where she stored her private letters, bills, and diaries. He had never once wondered what was in there. Until a few moments ago, that was.
He lifted the lid. What lay inside was every bit as unremarkable as anticipated. Various documents, letters from the bank, correspondence to other people who he had never heard of before. An A5 folder, complete with bills from the last few years, all meticulously filed away. However, as he rummaged further, spreading the papers on the bed, he at last found something that caught his interest.
“Bingo.” Kester pulled the yellowing bundle of letters on to his lap. The name at the bottom of the first letter confirmed his suspicions. Julio. These were letters from Dr Ribero. His heart began to pound. Again, he felt the pain of exclusion, of discovering that his mother had a whole life that she’d never told him about. The force of his father’s absence and his mother’s death walloped him in the stomach like a freight train. Am I really sure I want to read these? he wondered, stroking the pen marks on the page.
There were few letters, only a small handful in total. However, they might be enough to give him some more clues about the past. Kester prised away the ancient elastic band, which fell to pieces in his hand, and started to read.
My dear Gretchen,
You must come back. I know what I said, and I was wrong. I did not realise how wrong until now. What can I say to make it better? How can we make this situation work? I have no idea. But I do know I need to say sorry.
I did not mean to suggest that you get rid of our baby. I was desperate, you understand? The baby, it changes everything. You know that. But we can sort something out. We will manage. You need to come back. Our agency will fall apart without you. How else can we get rid of the spirits?
Do not think I care only about the business and nothing else. That is not true. I care about you also. And so does Jennifer. In spite of everything, she still loves you, as do I. It is me who has done the wrong thing here, not you. Do not run away.
Please, can we arrange a time to meet?
I await your reply,
Julio
Kester exhaled, blinking hard. This is a Dr Ribero I hadn’t expected, he thought. What did he do that was so wrong? And why did he want mother to get rid of her baby? He also wondered why the letter mentioned Miss Wellbeloved, albeit by her first name. Maybe it’s another Jennifer, he thought. But still, it seemed too much of a coincidence.
He picked up the next one, which was dated two weeks later.
My dear Gretchen,
Thank you for replying to me. I was so relieved to hear from you. It has been weighing on my conscience so much, and I am so glad that you are feeling well and that the pregnancy is progressing.
It seems so strange to think that it is already five months along and that you are showing. My baby. I did not ever think I would be a father. It is an odd feeling. I only wish it had been in different circumstances.
As to your request—oh Gretchen, you know that it is not possible. I have always been honest with you about my feelings for you. What happened between us—it was special, very special, and I treasure every moment I ever spent in your arms. Believe me when I say that, it is the truth.
But I cannot leave Jennifer. You know what her family has done for me. Gretchen, you know that they took me in when I arrived here, I cannot hurt their only daughter. It would be the worst insult. Plus, I love her too. I love her in a different way. With you, it is all fire, all life and soul. With Jennifer it is quieter, more peaceful. Calmer. Neither one is better, they are just different. I do not expect you to understand.
I do not know whether Jennifer and I will be married now. She is being so strong about it all, but she has doubts about the future. She is a remarkable woman. So are you. I know it sounds like a strange thing to say, but I feel blessed having you both in my life. I just wish I had handled it all better. I have been an idiot and I have hurt you both. I am sorry. I am lucky that you both don’t hate me.
We do need to talk. But I cannot meet you behind Jennifer’s back. We need to discuss your future. Where will you live? You cannot remain forever at your mother’s, I know how much she drives you mad. We n
eed also to discuss the baby. We need to talk very much, Gretchen. Please, call me.
Yours,
Julio
Kester placed the rest of the letters on the bed, shocked. Miss Wellbeloved and Dr Ribero? he thought with amazement. He couldn’t imagine the two of them together. Miss Wellbeloved was so austere, and Ribero so fiery and excitable. There was definitely a familiarity between them, but he’d presumed that was a result of working together for so long. Obviously there’s a whole lot more to it than I realised, he grimaced. The image of the pencil-thin woman and the doctor as lovers wasn’t especially pleasant. Mind you, he rationalised, it’s a lot better than imagining Ribero with my own mother.
“So, my mother was the ‘other woman’?” he mused aloud, leaning back on his elbows. It didn’t make sense. His mother had always been so morally upstanding! She’d always instilled in him a strong sense of right and wrong, from a very early age. How was it possible that she had been someone’s mistress?
Stroking the ageing letters thoughtfully under his thumb, he noticed there was one at the bottom that was a different colour than the rest. Removing it from the pile, he saw that it was a hastily written note, in his mother’s familiar handwriting. It was addressed to him.
My darling Kester,
I wonder how long it will take you to discover this? If you are reading it now, then I think that must mean I am no longer with you, otherwise you would not be looking through my things. I hope you are well, my dear boy, and that you are coping without me.
I have chosen to write this letter on the day they told me I have incurable cancer—so I know I do not have long to live. You were so brave when you heard the news, so stoic.
There is much I need to tell you, and even now, I cannot find the right words. I am writing this with the presumption that I will not have told you before my death—and I hope you can forgive me for my cowardice. I should have been more open with you.
