The street wasn’t far from the bus stop. It was a neighborhood of new houses made to look old, brick semi-detached cottages with mock Tudor details and the latest double-glazing. Many of the houses backed onto a nature reserve; not a single car was parked on the street; the walk to the front door was lined with perfectly manicured rose bushes in elegant shades of cream and yellow. Not her usual sort of client, but it took all kinds.
She had worn her suit and her hat and she felt prepared for anything; and then she was completely, utterly thrown when the door opened, because she recognized her client. Timothy Palmer was a staple of variety shows and comedy films, always playing a kind of prissy upper-class Englishman, shocked by today’s sex-crazed youth and their loud music. In his green cardigan and yellow button-down, framed by the rose bushes, he seemed to have stepped right out of a movie. For a moment she wondered if it was all a setup, perhaps a gag for television.
“Miss Anne Wood?” He shook her hand. “I’m Timothy Palmer. We spoke on the telephone.”
“Mr. Palmer,” she said. “I thought your voice sounded familiar. My mother is a great fan of yours.”
He blushed slightly; it made him seem a boy for a moment. “She’s too kind. Please come in. Thank you so much for coming.”
She was shown into a sitting room that was as tidy as its owner. Everything was in matching sets: the sofa and the two wing chairs, the sideboard and end tables and coffee table, the table lamps and floor lamp. All in solid wood with little ornament. Good value for money. She remembered her own mother browsing catalogues when things finally started getting better.
He showed her to the sofa and it was only as she sat down that she noticed the shadow in front of the sideboard, a greyish haze at odds with the sunny room. Like a human-sized smudge in the air. She could see through it, yet it had presence; she realized she had been expecting a second person in the room, so strong was its energy. As she studied it, the smudge flickered and shifted, almost as if it was angling its head to regard her in turn.
“My God,” Mr. Palmer said. “You can see him.”
Anne jumped. “See who?” she said, but there was an edge to her voice. Stupid, to be so obvious.
“Why, Harry, of course.” He sat down beside her on the sofa, his expression hopeful. “You do see him, don’t you?”
Give her a moment, Tim.
She jumped again, nearly squeaking in fright. As distinct as a person, clearly male, clearly a little amused; her arms broke out in gooseflesh. She had never dealt with anything so present before. “Mr. Palmer, I think there’s been a mistake,” she said, starting to rise. “I can’t help you.”
“Oh, please don’t go!” He caught at her arm impulsively. “Whatever you’re thinking, that’s not it, I promise you. Please don’t leave.”
Anne lowered her voice, trying not to look at the shadow. “Mr. Palmer, you don’t need a medium, you need a priest. I cannot—”
“But we don’t want an exorcism,” he interrupted, while at the same time the voice said we bloody well do not need a priest! There’s no telling what they’d do!
“I don’t want him to leave,” Mr. Palmer continued. “I brought him here in the first place. And I don’t need you to speak to him for me; I can hear him just fine, I can see him perfectly, just as he was. Only—we had an idea, and we wanted an, an expert opinion.” He took a breath, and a wan smile curled his lips. “You may not be aware of this, Miss Wood, but there are an astonishing number of charlatans in your profession.”
Anne stared at him, then looked pointedly at the hand still clutching her arm; with a murmured apology he let go. And then just sat there, looking at her with a kind of pained hope, like she was his last chance. Perhaps she was. Timothy Palmer and His Astonishing Ghost: she could see it on a marquee.
How about you two have a nice cup of tea. Just one cup, Miss Wood. What do you say?
Mr. Palmer’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s a splendid idea! What do you say, Miss Wood? Just one cup, I promise. I’ll explain about Harry, and then if you want to leave I’ll pay you for your time and we shall never speak of it again. What do you say?”
She looked from him to the shadow, and though it was nothing more than a slight darkening of the air, she could have sworn the damn thing was grinning at her. Her astonishment was giving way to curiosity—and what kind of professional would she be, to leave simply out of fear?
“All right,” she said finally. “One cup of tea.”
INTERVIEWER: So why did you step away these past few years? You were in the middle of an enviable career: sold-out shows, regular film work.
PALMER: Well, any career has demands, John, sometimes exhausting ones. And I’m an Englishman. I wanted some time to work on my roses. I grew prizewinning melons. [laughter] [to the audience] Behave, you lot. I haven’t yet told you about the courgettes. [laughter]
INTERVIEWER: But now you’ve returned, and better than ever they say.
PALMER: I don’t know about better. But a little different certainly. Everything changes a man, John. Life changes a man. Melons can really change a man. [laughter] If we didn’t have change, beautiful, even terrible change, we’d have nothing to laugh about.
Anne prided herself on her professionalism. On rare occasions, however, she was faced with situations that went beyond her experience … such as Mr. Palmer moving one of the wing chairs close before heading to the kitchen, and the shadow sitting in it so distinctly she could make out a shape like two legs crossed. As if the ghost was as much her client as the man. Astonishing experiences, she decided, justified unprofessional behavior: she took off her cloche, drew a cigarette from her purse and lit it, and took a long, soothing drag.
Oh God, you’re torturing me!
She jumped yet again, nearly dropping the cigarette; the shadow distinctly raised a hand. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Only I haven’t had a cigarette in twenty-five years. It looks absolutely delightful and I am completely jealous, that’s all.
“Oh,” she said, for something to say. “I can put it out if you prefer.”
Goodness, no. It’s marvelous to watch. You’re marvelous. None of the others saw me at all, and the few that heard me ran screaming. If anyone can do this, you can.
“Don’t pressure her!” Mr. Palmer appeared with the tea tray. He set it on the coffee table and placed an ashtray beside it. “We agreed that we would in no way pressure anyone.”
Of course not! Do forgive me, Miss Wood.
Anne decided to ignore that. “Mr. Palmer,” she said, “what exactly do you want me to do?”
He opened one of the sideboard doors and drew forth a stack of neatly folded clothes, a worn teddy bear, and some letters bound with ribbons. “These are Harry’s things,” he explained. “We were never sure how this all worked, so we thought to keep everything together in a safe place. My housekeeper knows not to touch them.” He added a framed photograph from the mantelpiece and placed the armful of items beside her, then sat at the far end of the sofa and began pouring out the tea. “That’s Harry and I, just before he enlisted.”
Anne took another drag, then examined the items one by one. The clothes and the teddy bear smelled of recent washing, but she felt nothing from them; the letters tingled faintly beneath her fingertips. The photograph, however, felt warm, almost electric, as if it were silently buzzing. It showed a seaside boardwalk at dusk, nearly empty, which was perhaps why the two men—though barely such, she guessed late teens for both—had twined so close. Mr. Palmer was visibly blushing; the taller, impossibly handsome young man embracing him was laughing outright. They both seemed absurdly happy.
As she held the photograph, the shadow became more distinct: lips curving out of the darkened air, a hint of a sweater and slacks. That same young face.
“Milk or sugar?” Mr. Palmer asked.
“Both,” she said, still studying the ghost. Even a hint of stubble; she had never seen anything like it. She really had to come
up with a better word than astonishing. “One sugar, please.”
He placed her teacup before her and smoothly moved the ashtray beneath her cigarette, catching the ash that was just about to fall. Everything just so: the placement of the tea tray; the perfect line of frames atop the mantelpiece, now with a gap like a missing tooth; the drapes with their soft cottage rose print. I brought him here. That is, he had brought the photograph here. The several items together might lend strength, but Anne knew the shadow was mostly, if not entirely, bound to this one picture.
“Harry and I have known each other since we were little boys,” he began, taking up his teacup and stirring it. “He is—he was—a year older than me. And he did what so many other foolish, headstrong boys did back then, and he lied about his age and enlisted, before they brought in conscription. He was killed in his first month at the front.” He took a sip, frowned, then added a minute amount of sugar. “It always seemed remarkably cruel that he died so young. There was so much he wanted to do, more than I ever wanted. And after a time, I started thinking—that is, we started considering …”
He looked at the shadow then, and Anne saw the ghostly features nod at Mr. Palmer, a clear sense of sympathy in the half-visible face. Best just to say it. There was a tenderness in the voice that hadn’t been there before.
Mr. Palmer took a breath. “I don’t love the world the way Harry did, Miss Wood. Oh, I’ve enjoyed some of my career, but more often than not it’s just a job. I like this house well enough, my roses and my little routines, but that’s not life, not the way Harry would have lived it. And then it struck me: what if we could switch places?”
Anne had laid the photo in her lap and reached for her teacup; she nearly dropped it. “Pardon?” she squeaked.
“What if I could be the ghost, and he could have my body?” Mr. Palmer asked earnestly. “I’ve had a good run, over four decades now. Half a life. And there’s no one who needs me anymore; both my parents have passed, I have no siblings. So why not let Harry have the other half? He could be me and I could stay here, in the house. He’d get a second chance.”
For the record, the shadow said, I was vehemently opposed to this idea at first, and I’m still not completely on board as it were.
“But it makes perfect sense,” Mr. Palmer pressed. “I’ve watched you when the travel shows are on. You would be right there if you could, sailing the Nile or climbing Kilimanjaro.”
Not without you.
The three words were stated with astonishing force for a disembodied voice; Mr. Palmer blushed to his roots. Slowly Anne took a sip of tea, then reached for her cigarette only to find it had burned down. A beautiful, terrible understanding was forming in her mind. Oh, favors always came with caveats, didn’t they?
“Mr. Palmer,” she said carefully, “you do realize you’re asking me to murder you.”
“What? Oh my goodness, no. No, that’s not it at all.” Now he was blushing and upset; she could see his eyes starting to well. “I mean, Harry is right here, alive in his own way. I thought at first I was going mad, but so many others have seen him and heard him. Even the postman asked me about the young man in the window one day.” He put the teacup down, then picked up a napkin, then put it down again. “We’re just changing places. It’s like, like loaning someone a car. You’d do it without a second thought, wouldn’t you? If you had nowhere to be, if you didn’t mind being home for a while? I don’t mind being home, Miss Wood, and Harry could have a second chance.”
Bloody hell, Tim. The shadow’s voice was thick with emotion. It’s a little more than loaning a car.
“I know that,” Mr. Palmer said wretchedly. “Only I don’t know how to make her see it as we do.”
Anne took another sip of her cooling tea. It was dangerous, stupid, preposterous, possibly even deadly … but not impossible. Whether or not it was right, however, was another matter entirely.
“Tell me,” she said, putting the teacup and saucer aside. “How long were you lovers for?”
“Oh!” Mr. Palmer gasped, while the shadow—while Harry—replied calmly, I left for the front soon after our three-year anniversary. But as Tim said, we’ve known each other nearly all our lives.
“And it’s just been the two of you?” She couldn’t quite believe it—that would mean years, decades, without any kind of physical affection. Though even as she asked, she was remembering the articles about Timothy Palmer: plenty of rumors about secret trysts and on-set romances, but never any proof. He had brought his mother to award shows and premieres until she passed.
Mr. Palmer was blushing furiously now, but his gaze was steady as he said “there was never anyone else, not for me,” and at the same time Harry said it was one and done, Miss Wood, and it was then that Anne realized she would like a second cup of tea.
INTERVIEWER: There is a lot more about the war in your current material. Why is that?
PALMER: I’m just worried that we’re forgetting about it. It wasn’t that long ago, was it? And I’m not trying to tell young people they’re wrong for not dwelling on it. It’s not ‘I went to school uphill both ways.’ I just don’t want to see it forgotten. We lost so many good people. We changed as a nation. We should know this, we should teach our children this.
INTERVIEWER: Even though you don’t have any children of your own?
PALMER: [to the audience] I think of all of you as my children! [laughter and applause] Now keep calm, carry on, and put on clean knickers before you leave the house. [laughter]
After she had left Mr. Palmer’s Anne had started for home, then changed her mind and went to Gloria’s instead. She wanted to see just how possible it was; perhaps the risk would be too great, perhaps the decision would be made for her. Perhaps, at least, she could put into words exactly what it was she was afraid of. Though she knew Mr. Palmer’s situation was nothing like that last hellish séance, she could not stop thinking about that trapped, abused spirit. That perhaps what was impossible wasn’t the swap itself, but that two people would give up both physical pleasure and spiritual ascension to spend a lifetime simply conversing.
When Anne had arrived at Gloria’s tiny row house, the front door was, unsurprisingly, already open. Gloria was a palmist by trade, but she was also a good prognosticator, and she ran a lucrative side business casting spells for politicians. The one visible investment of her substantial income was her library, which was one of the best in the country. It filled the back room of her house floor to ceiling, was off-limits to anyone but chosen fellow practitioners, and was the only room she dusted regularly.
Now, watching Anne peruse one of the books, she opened a window and lit a cigarette. Gloria was a portly, middle-aged woman, an enthusiast of floral turbans and what she called woo-woo; she claimed it made the punters pay more.
“I don’t trust him,” she said, blowing smoke as if to punctuate her words.
“Which one?” Anne asked, not looking up. She took the pad and pencil that had been waiting for her—not just a good prognosticator, an excellent one—and made a notation.
“The ghost, of course. All ghosts are selfish. They’ve already dodged moving on, then they spend all their time trying to connive their way back among us.”
Anne looked at her. It was her own fears, though from a different angle: she was certain of Mr. Palmer’s intentions, but not Harry’s. She didn’t even know his last name.
“My client trusts him,” she said carefully. “He doesn’t want to live in this world anymore, and he wants to give his body to his childhood friend who died too young. It makes more sense than just wasting a body with some good years left.”
“Suicide is a sin,” Gloria pointed out.
“I’m not sure this would be categorized as suicide,” Anne said, looking back down at her book.
“Is he…” Gloria trailed off; when Anne looked up again she had bent her wrist at an affected angle. “You know.”
“Gloria! What does that have to do with anything?
”
“Besides being a crime?” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Those sort are prone to hysterics. It makes them more vulnerable.”
“More vulnerable to what?” Anne asked despite herself.
“To the ghost,” Gloria said, clearly exasperated now. Ash fell on the table and she brushed it to the ground impatiently. “It’s clear as day! This spirit wants in, and it’s spun your client a pretty tale. I’m your long-lost chum, I died before my time, woe is me. It’s driven him to this, I guarantee it. No healthy man in his right mind wants to top himself.”
“Clearly we haven’t been talking to the same spirits,” Anne said.
Gloria pursed her lips at this, but her gaze remained fixed on Anne, and inwardly Anne sighed. Worse than her mother sometimes. Still, she had three pages of notes now: it was definitely possible, though not easy. The circle would have to be stronger than she’d created in some time, and then it could take hours to meticulously guide Mr. Palmer out and Harry in, all while keeping the body alive and both spirits bounded. But it wasn’t beyond her—though, really, that had never been in doubt, had it? That damn advertisement had told her as much.
What happened after, when Harry was back in the world and Mr. Palmer was just a shadow in his neat sitting room—that was far less certain. She had a sudden, distinct vision of young Harry throwing the photograph onto a fire while Mr. Palmer’s shadow screamed, and her stomach clenched.
“We’ll see,” she finally said to Gloria’s smoke-ringed stare. “I’ll ask him again, away from the house, where he can’t be influenced.” She hesitated; how to get Gloria to drop it? “The money is really good, though…”
G is for Ghosts Page 18
