Clouds are scudding across the sky, and a cold wind whistles across the playground. I have just come out of a meeting with the school. A place cannot be found for Joe in the juniors next year, and I have to look elsewhere. I’ve been given a pile of forms to fill in for specialist schools in the area – ‘special school’ – the very term makes me shudder, but I know they’re right. Joe is falling so far behind here, and the bullying has got worse. His peer group is picking up on his differences, and one or two of them are exploiting them. There are sly kicks in the playground, and whispers when he does something the other kids perceive as odd. The school is trying its best, but they can’t cope, and if I’m honest I don’t want Joe here any longer. But the thought of the battle ahead fills me with horror. The school that Claire has suggested for him is a long way away and hideously oversubscribed. What if he doesn’t get in there? What then?
‘You look like you’ve got the world on your shoulders.’ One of the mums I know, Miranda, has just come from her weekly volunteering session listening to the Year 2s read. We’re on reasonably friendly terms, and she’s been sympathetic about Joe’s problems, which is more than some of them have.
I tell her all about it, and to my horror I begin to cry, big racking sobbing tears. I am mortified; normally I am stronger than this, but today the battle feels too hard, and I am defeated.
‘What you need’, she says, linking arms, ‘is cheering up. How about we play hooky and try that new gastropub in town?’
As a rule I never socialize with the other mums during the daytime, since there always seems to be so much to do at home. However much I try to I never seem to get on top of the housework, and though Adam never says anything, I can sometimes feel a slight impatient, ‘What do you do all day?’ tone in his voice. He works so hard, and he always pulls his weight when he comes home, so I can’t blame him for not wanting to walk into chaos every day. I want him to come home to a comfortable tidy house, but somehow everything overwhelms me. I know I should go back and sort the washing out and clean the kitchen, which is a tip, but for once I think, what the hell. I’m touched by Miranda’s kindness, and it’s good to have someone to talk to.
Which is how we find ourselves at lunchtime squeezed in a corner with the other ladies who lunch at a trendy bar, where we order burger and chips at astronomical prices, and to my surprise Miranda orders a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I never drink during the day. It’s my cardinal rule. And recently I feel that I’ve been drinking more than I should in the evenings, so I’ve been trying to cut back.
‘You’re not having Coke,’ says Miranda firmly when I try and order one. ‘After the morning you’ve had you deserve something stronger.’
Instead of a glass of wine she changes her order to a bottle.
‘It’s a bit early,’ I protest.
‘First rule of motherhood,’ says Miranda with a wink, ‘it’s never too early.’
A bottle later, I’m feeling quite a lot better; the wine has certainly helped. I belatedly order some water, not wanting to be plastered at the school gate.
By the time we’ve had coffee and cake – at Miranda’s insistence, cake in her view is the very thing I need to cheer me up – I am feeling a little bit unsteady on my feet. I think I’ve covered it up until I trip over when we leave, and Miranda giggles at me. She doesn’t seem tipsy at all. I suspect I may have had more wine than she has. Oh well. This is a treat.
‘Goodness, look at the time,’ says Miranda, ‘I really have to go, chores to do before the school run.’
‘Me too,’ I say. I give her a big hug. ‘Thank so much, Miranda, I feel much better. You’re right, I should do this more often.’
When I get home, I look at the state of the house, and decide I’m taking the rest of the day off. I’ve played hooky already today – why not continue? I grab myself another glass of wine, and sit down to watch some mindless daytime TV. It’s cosy and warm in the house, and I feel sleepy, so I curl up on the sofa, and nod off.
Two hours later, I wake up to the key turning in the lock. It’s cold and dark, and I don’t feel warm and cosy any more. I have a blinding headache, and my throat feels dry as dust.
Adam is suddenly in the lounge, Joe at his side, looking confused. I sit bolt upright.
Shit. Joe. The school run.
I’ve slept through it.
‘Where were you?’ Adam says. ‘The school rang me, and you’ve not been answering your phone. I’ve been worried sick.’
Feelings of guilt and humiliation wash over me as I’m catapulted back into the present.
I don’t look at Malachi, I am too ashamed to face his gaze, but I say reluctantly, ‘OK, I’ll listen.’
Chapter Ten
Christmas1 Present
Eight Days till Christmas
Livvy
Because I am unsettled and miserable after what Malachi has shown me I leave him at the theatre and go for a moody ramble down to the river. I feel better down here. We used to love the river, Adam and I. It was one of the reasons we moved to the area. As I mooch about gazing at the fast-flowing water where freezing-looking ducks bob about unhappily on the surface, I try to remember happier times. We did have some happy times, I know we did. But they’re buried in a welter of the misery and discord that characterized the last few years of my life.
Then I think, so, I forgot to pick Joe up from school. So what? It was one time. I was there for him every other day. And from the force of the memory I can see now I must have been badly depressed. I felt responsible for getting things right for Joe, and it was hard. Though Adam tried to help, I mostly felt on my own. I don’t think he ever quite understood how exhausting the toll of fighting Joe’s corner was though he always came with me to meetings with the endless streams of teachers, ed psychs, doctors and social workers. He had work to take his mind off it; I had nothing, and I found it exhausting. No wonder I had the occasional drink, who wouldn’t have? And there was no harm done. I fell asleep on the sofa, and forgot the school run, but Adam was there to pick Joe up. What was the big deal? Malachi’s making far too much of it.
I nearly decide I’m not going to bother with Underworld, or go to the show. This whole communing-with-the-dead thing is probably not going to work anyway. Psychic Zandra sounds like a total fraud, the sort of person I’d have ridiculed when I was alive. But I’m fed up of being alone with no one to talk to apart from a nagging cat. If there are ghosts out there, I’d love to meet them. I can’t believe I couldn’t have met them before now. What’s Malachi’s game anyway? I’d love to know if anyone is having as many problems being dead as I do.
In the end, I find myself drifting into the theatre at about 7 p.m. At first I can’t work out where Underworld is. The bar in the foyer looks the same as all these places do; it doesn’t look as if it is peopled by spirits. This is just a normal theatre where normal people go. I used to take Joe here to the pantomime when he was little. There’s no underground bar. This is ridiculous.
‘Psst!’ A voice comes from behind me.
‘Sorry?’ I turn to see a strange little egg-headed man with round-lens glasses, peering at me. He’s wearing tartan pyjamas, a scruffy brown dressing gown, tattered slippers and is smoking a pipe.
‘Don’t judge me,’ he says, clearly seeing my surprise. ‘This is what I was wearing when I died.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I lie. I’m intrigued. He’s the first ghost I’ve met since I’ve been dead. ‘Do you mind my asking how you died?’
‘Had a heart attack on my front doorstep, collecting the milk,’ he says, ‘and you?’
‘Hit by a car.’ Is this the form when you meet other ghosts? Discussing how you died? I suppose it’s a common point of contact.
‘Your first time?’ he says. ‘It takes a while to work it out, but the entrance to Underworld is here.’
He vanishes through a door, which I thought led into an ordinary cupboard. I follow him feeling like I’m going into Narnia. There’s a slight glow on the back wall against which mops and
buckets are stacked. I go towards it and realize that the wall isn’t solid, but a shimmering moving mass. I tentatively put my hand through the wall, and then withdraw it, marvelling. This is so cool. Boldly, I follow the man through it. At first it feels like walking through water, and then I’m catapulted down some stairs into a noisy lively bar. This is most definitely not Narnia. There are literally hundreds of people here. Bass music is pumping really loudly, and purple lights flash on and off. A wag has decorated it with pictures of skeletons and floating spirits.
WELCOME TO UNDERWORLD WHERE THE DEAD PARTY LIKE THERE’S NO TOMORROW
Someone clearly has a sick sense of humour.
‘What do you think?’ my friend in the dressing gown asks.
I’m staggered. I had no idea this was here, and wish I’d known earlier. Why didn’t Malachi tell me? Hidden among these heaving crowds, there might be another ghost I can befriend.
‘Come on, let’s get you a drink,’ says my friend, who introduces himself as Robert.
‘What, we can drink here?’ I am confused. I can’t do normal things like eat and drink. How does that work?
‘This is a spirits pub,’ says Robert. He digs me in the ribs. ‘Geddit?’
I’m beginning to find Robert just a teensy bit irritating, but I let that pass.
‘We can all drink in here,’ says Robert. ‘We’re the same in this room. It’s a kind of halfway house to where we go next.’ He looks a little wistful. ‘If we ever get there.’
I’m intrigued despite myself.
‘Why, how long have you been here?’
‘Too long,’ says Robert mournfully. ‘My problem is I fell out very badly with my son. I was always going to make it up to him, but then I died. I’ve tried haunting him, but he’s horribly resistant.’
Great. Now I feel guilty about having mean thoughts about him.
‘Doesn’t your spirit guide have any advice for you?’
‘Um, we sort of fell out too,’ says Robert, adjusting the glasses on the end of his nose awkwardly.
‘Is there nothing else you can do?’ I say. ‘I’m having a few problems passing over myself.’ This sounds terrible. If Adam continues resisting me, will this be my fate?
Robert looks shifty all of a sudden.
‘I did try something else,’ he says, ‘but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘Which was?’ but he’s clammed up. He takes me to the bar and disappears, muttering something about having to go and see Letitia, whoever she is.
Although Robert isn’t ideal company, I feel lonely as I approach the bar, but the barman, a gorgeous tall black guy, welcomes me with a big grin, and says, ‘Your first time?’
I nod, feeling ever so slightly surreal. I’m in a bar, with other people. It seems so very normal except that apparently we are all dead.
‘I’m Lenny,’ says the barman, pouring me a drink. Hell, how am I supposed to pay for that? I don’t have any money. Seeing my discomfort, Lenny winks. ‘It’s on the house,’ he says, giving a huge belly laugh. ‘After all you’re not going anywhere.’
I take a sip. I can drink it. I can actually drink it. And it tastes like vodka. I get that same burning rush I used to love, and a heady feeling as I have alcohol for the first time in a year.
‘You need to meet Psychic Steve,’ says Lenny, though I haven’t asked a question.
‘I do?’ I say.
‘You’ve got that first-timer what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here? look on your face. I’m guessing you’re here to try and connect with someone?’
‘I am.’
‘Then Psychic Steve can help,’ says Lenny.
‘Psychic Steve?’ This is the name of Malachi’s spirit guide. Oh dear God, the afterlife clearly has con artists too.
‘Don’t look like that,’ says Lenny. ‘He helps a lot of people talk to their loved ones. He’s very popular. There’s a queue, so you’ll have to take your turn.’
I turn to see a tall rangy man, with long ratty dreadlocks, wearing a T-shirt saying Proud to be Dead and skinny black jeans, surrounded by people of all ages, sizes and nationalities, all clamouring for his attention. He clearly thrives on it. Feeling absurdly nervous, I go and join them.
Emily
The Christmas lights in the high street were twinkling brightly as Emily and Adam approached the theatre. Normally Emily loved the lights and the warm fuzzy feeling as Christmas approached, but this year, with all the mayhem in her life, they failed to work their magic. The restaurants and pubs were thronging with cheerful people putting aside their woes as they geared up for the festive season. Emily longed to be like them, longed to have nothing to worry about apart from entertaining on Christmas Day, and wished she was going anywhere but to see Psychic Zandra.
‘I’m not sure we should be doing this after all,’ she said as they approached the theatre.
‘Now she tells me!’ Adam was exasperated. ‘Come on, Emily, it was your idea.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Emily. ‘But there has to be an explanation for what happened. Maybe we’re just suffering from some form of mass hysteria.’
Emily had gone over and over the events of the other night in her mind, trying to make sense of it but still drawing a blank.
‘Do you really think that?’ said Adam.
‘No,’ admitted Emily. ‘It’s just … I’m scared, Adam. What if Livvy is haunting us? What then?’
‘And what if she’s not?’ Adam hugged her. ‘This is probably going to turn out to be a waste of time, anyway, but now we’re here we may as well give it a whirl.’
‘There will probably be three old ladies and a dog there,’ Emily said.
‘I wouldn’t be sure of that,’ said Adam. He stopped and whistled as they approached the theatre. The queue was spilling out on to the street.
‘Christ, there are a lot of poor saps out there.’
‘And we’re two of them,’ said Emily. ‘Still, nothing ventured and all that.’
As they entered the foyer they were immediately accosted by Zandra’s sidekicks who made them fill out a questionnaire about their loved ones.
‘Don’t give anything away,’ hissed Adam. ‘This is how these charlatans work.’
The questions seemed quite straightforward: details about your background and family life, who you wanted to talk to from the Other Side, but Emily tried very hard not to reveal anything they could use. When it came to the question about who she wanted to talk to, she suddenly realized, that if there was an afterlife, the only person she really wanted to choose was her mum. Not wanting to give Zandra more ammunition than she had to, however, she wrote down Livvy’s name instead.
Once the forms were filled in they were ushered into the bar and given a complimentary glass of mediocre wine. The bar was full of people of all types and ages chatting about seeing Great-Aunt Jessie or Grandad again; one lady insisting very loudly her late husband had selfishly not told her where his share certificates were.
‘I can’t move on,’ she was saying to her friend. ‘Not till I know what the old bugger’s done with them. So typical of him to have left me potless.’
She was very well dressed, and dripping in jewellery. The conversation swiftly moved on to shopping at Liberty’s.
‘She doesn’t look potless to me,’ Emily whispered to Adam.
Adam grinned, but whispered back, ‘Be careful. I bet they’ve got spies everywhere. Don’t say anything revealing at all.’
‘I think that’s a bit paranoid,’ Emily laughed, but did as Adam asked, keeping the conversation light, telling him all about her day mining the IT coalfield instead.
After ten minutes a gong sounded and a disembodied voice called, ‘All ticket holders are now kindly invited to take their seats and meet Zandra, who hopes to connect as many of you as possible with your loved ones.’
Emily and Adam followed the crowd through to the theatre and took their seats. The lights dimmed, and the overture from Phantom of the Opera started to play – ‘Jeez how corny,’ mut
tered Adam. People started clapping and cheering as the tension began to build.
‘God, what on earth have we come to?’ Emily grimaced at Adam. ‘It’s like some kind of nutty religious rally.’
But, judging by the rapturous applause, they were the only ones to think so. The lights dimmed and a solemn silence came over the crowd, and then as if by magic Zandra was there. Where on earth had she come from? One minute there was no one and then to a standing ovation she was suddenly on stage. There must have been some kind of clever stage business going on.
‘Wonder how they did that?’ Emily whispered, but Adam shushed her.
A silence fell once more as Zandra stood quietly waiting, and a sudden prickle of unease went up Emily’s spine. They were trying to reach Adam’s dead wife? Perhaps they should have left well alone.
And then Zandra began to speak.
Adam
I blink as Psychic Zandra appears on stage. She looks nothing like her photograph. A mousy little woman, with bouffant brown hair, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. She’s dressed in a tight shiny pink suit and plastic pink heels. She speaks in a Southern American accent which sounds made up to me.
‘How y’all doing?’ she cries, and the audience treat her to another round of applause. I get the feeling Emily and I are the only people here not acting as if she’s some kind of visionary saint.
‘Any first timers here?’
Emily and I look at each other. If we’re really serious about getting through to Livvy, we’re going to have to own up. Slowly we raise our hands, and I am at least relieved to see that half the audience are in the same boat. No reason for her to pick on us then.
Zandra runs through a few tips about what to expect from the show, and of course comes out with the greatest get-out clause ever – her spirit guide, inevitably a Native American called Flying Spirit, can’t always communicate with the dead so the messages don’t always come through. Apparently his filter is off sometimes.
Make a Christmas Wish Page 12
