christine paice - the word ghost (extract)
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CHRISTINE PAICE
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First published in 2014
Copyright Christ ine Paice 2014
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Bible quotes are reproduced from The Holy Bible, New International Version , NIV Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Excerpt from East Coker from FOUR QUARTETS by T.S. Eliot. Copyright 1940 by T.S. Eliot.Copyright renewed 1968 by Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Miff linHarcourt Publishing Company, all rights reserved, and Faber and Faber Ltd, UK
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For Dad, Ali, Angie and Mary Paiceand Paul and Dorothy Whitcombe
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicatedOf dead and living . . .
T.S. Eliot, from East Coker, Four Quartets
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PART ONE
He lives, he wakestis Death is dead, not he . . .
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonas
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~ 2 ~
THE WORD GHOST
MIDDLE ROOM, BRIGHTLEY VICARAGE,24 JULY 1827
Let me see him, Mama, let me see him.Let me see him.
Please. Please. Mama? Papa? Papa?Augusta, allow the doctor to do his work.
Step away from the bed, Augusta.She did not step back.
That was the last I felt.The weight of her body.
Begging me to live.
Look, Mama, look! He is calm. He is still.
The voice of my sister, every word I could still hear.But I could not move.Algernon? Algernon?
My soul flew from the place where they had laid me.
For years my soul and I watchedPatterns of leaves falling
Shadows of nightBlue grey dawns.
Then a voice. Through the void.How long has it been, my dear one?
She was counting.One hundred and forty-six years precisely.
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CHRISTINE PAICE
Then another voice. Through the darkness.Take me with you.
Do not. Leave me here.I shook my head.
She was a scream in the night.A jump in the dark.
A wild fling of her arms.
She was vigorous. Vigorous.
Do not leave me here, she said.Still, I could not leave her.
I took her hand.Together we left the darkness.
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Girl on a Bicycle
You never do know whats coming your way in the daysbefore it comes. It was April 1973, England. I was nearlysixteen years old. My trousers were flared. I rejected politics,biscuits and bombs. I accepted Walnut Whips, David Bowie,
Deep Purple and Dave. It was spring and these were the days
of Dave. All my cells were bursting under my skin and I knew
I was alive because I was in love with Dave. I believed that
Dave was coming my way because I really, really loved him
and he was alive and well and sitting at the bus stop at the
top of my road.My grandmothers ghost watched over us in Wye. Ghost,
spirit, call it what you like, the part of her that stayed alive
in us. She was the only dead person I knew then. She had
been dead for five long years and her ashes were buried in
the churchyard opposite our house. Dark red roses grew from
them and climbed the church walls in summer. Everyone else
in Wye was still living. Especially Dave. Dave Dave Dave DaveDave. I hadnt met him yet, but I considered that a minor
detail. I knew I loved him and I carried that certainty with
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CHRISTINE PAICE
me to school every day, along with my geography atlas and
tennis racquet.
I liked to call myself Abraham, but I believed I lived in a
modern and forward way. Old Testament Abraham lived for
a long time, and I wondered whether the name Abraham
might give me the virtues of a long life and a son called Isaac.
I could become the founder of my own great nation but I was
not overly concerned with how I was going to do this in the
spring of 1973. Not when I could see Dave every day waitingfor the bus, big flop of ginger hair down to his shoulders,
long legs halfway across the pavement, as if he didnt have a
care in the world.
Each morning he watched me cycle past the bus stop on
my way to school, his head to one side, hands in his pockets.
He looked as if there might be something he wanted to say,
but was considering his words carefully before he spoke.
I was always heading out of Wye. He was always going in
the opposite direction.
All right then. My wholename was RebeccaAbraham Budde.
My eldest sister, Maggie, called me Abes, but to everyone
else I was Rebecca, middle daughter of the Reverend Robert
John Budde and his wife, my mother, Mrs Ruth Budde. I hadtwo sisters, one older, one younger, no parrots, dogs or cats
and one old car, the redoubtable Hillman Minx, column
gears, bench seats, grey and white in colour and nothing else
remarkable about it except a tank-like solidity and its age.
The Hillman Minx was made in the same year as me, and
like our car, I considered myself young but had yet to prove
I was redoubtable.Maggie, my older sister, was named after the Queens sister,
Princess Margaret, but she hated being called Margaret.
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THE WORD GHOST
Mum, I will never ever answer you if you call me that.
Call me Suzanne. Why cant I be Suzanne?
Because, Maggie, I am not a fan of Leonard Cohen and
never will be. The man sounds morbidly depressed. Your
father and I like your names and will be using them when
we address you.
Mum, Leonard Cohen is a genius and I love the name
Suzanne.
He hadnt written the song when you were born.I will not answer to Margaret.
I think we understand that now youve told us for the
fiftieth time.
So Emily and I called her Maggie, as she was taller and
stronger than us. Maggie was five foot eleven inches, tall
and thin like my father, with a shock of brown wavy hair
and bright blue eyes. Aloof and independent, she reminded
me of a Siamese cat. Striking to look at but liable to walk
away while you were calling her in and saying come on puss
come on lovely come and have your tea. Mum said she thought
Maggie would do very well if she had her own Mediterranean
principality to rule over.
Maggie had no objections to calling me Abes.She likes the name, it suits her, whats wrong with it?
No matter what we all liked to be called, the truth was
my sisters and I called each other all kinds of names all the
timeidiot, fat bum, big nosedepending on our moods and
current irritations with each other. Emily, at eleven years of
age, was the youngest person I knew. She called me Rebecca
when she was happy and when she was unhappy she didntcall me anything at all. It was an arrangement that worked
well for us both.
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My father sometimes called me Abraham. He had to be
in the right type of mood for that. Life had to have a certain
good-humoured swing to it for him to be able to stride round
the house asking my mother, Where is Abraham? Middle
daughter, possibly fruitful, but not yet keeper of any covenant
with anyone, let alone God.
Emily Anne Budde was my youngest sister. Middle name
chosen in honour of the Queens daughter, first name chosen
on pure whimsy. My mother said she simply liked the name and
there was nothing wrong with that. My mother was an avid
reader and spent a long time in eighteenth-century England,
a place I was unfamiliar with.
I preferred the modern up-to-the-minute nineteenth
century and the company of Jane Eyre in the gloomy rooms
of Thornfield Hall, which we were studying at school. Come
on, Jane, lets see what Rochesters up to.And I drag old Janewith me over the wild springing heather, being careful not to
touch that awful old shawl she insists on wrapping round her
shoulders. No wonder you havent got any friends, Jane. Its the
shawl. No one likes the shawl.
Tall springy athletic Susan Greengage was my best friend
at school. She was a mop of blonde tightly curled hair on top
of a pair of long legs. She always carried a tennis racquet ora ball and was in the same class as me. Good old Sue was
very bright indeed, but she hated English literature and only
looked as if she was breathing when we went outside for sport.
Rebecca? Rebecca?
What?
Catch this.
No.Sue sat down on the netball courts with me at break time.
Why doesnt Jane Eyre ride places?
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THE WORD GHOST
Mr Rochester has the horse.
No, I meant why doesnt Jane Eyre ride a bicycle?
You tell me.
I dunno.
Jane Eyre doesnt ride a bicycle because they werent
invented then, were they?
Sue bounced the ball nearer and nearer and nearer my
face. The bell rang and in we trooped for another bout of
education with our teachers large bosoms and rippling upperarms gleaming with muscle. Our physical education teacher
was very tall, walked like a man and had very short hair. Sue
loved her, but then Sue could run like an antelope down the
wing and keep control of the ball, unlike me.
Budde, youre in goal today, not wing defence, youre useless
on the wing, useless. Budde, are you wearing the correct sports
uniform? Im cracking down this term on correct uniform.
Come on,Budde, stop dawdling.
My Latin teacher, we called him Claudius, taught us to
understand where words came from. Roots of verbs and nouns
tumbled through my head. I thrived in my Latin class, and
drooled over Herr Schmidt, our German language teacher.
He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and everyone in the fifthform wanted to study German. It was 1973, for Gods sake,
none of us girls cared about the war. Wed won it, hadnt we?
My mother wanted to entice me into another family full
of girls.
Why dont you at least try Pride and Prejudice, Rebecca?
Im sure youll like it. Poor Mrs Bennet, I feel sorry for her
with five daughters.Mum, one Jane at a time. Jane Eyre needsme. She has
no friends.
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CHRISTINE PAICE
Oh well, youll read it when youre ready, I suppose. You
could try Dickens if you get tired of unrequited love.
Dickens can wait. Were doing Great Expectationsnext year.
Perhaps theyre the best expectations to have.
Mum, Im staying at Thornfield Hall. She gets him in
the end.
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~ 10 ~
Larger in My Mind
The minor detail of never having met Dave was growinglarger in my mind. I loved Dave and accepted Dave, butwould he love me? I wasnt sure. I knew nothing about him andonly a few things about myself. I knew I hated mustard and ham.
I rejected Lucifer and apartheid. Although I rejected politics
in general, and didnt know much about South Africa, I knew
apartheid was wrong. I rejected Rod Stewart, Leonard Cohen
and chocolate. Maggie loved all three. I rejected Mr Rochester
for humiliating Jane. I rejected acne and rain.
Unlike Emily, my younger sister, I accepted baked beanson toast, fish fingers and return bus fares. I accepted anything
written by the Bront sisters apart from Annes poems that
we read in class, and which seemed sad and full of God and
flowers and death but no men.
I accepted the Thames, narrow paths along the banks,
boats, swans and Wye on Thames, the small town by the
river. We had been in Wye for ten years and we accepted Wyeand Wye accepted us. We lived in the first house you came
to down the main road from the rest of England, and it was
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CHRISTINE PAICE
the largest house in the village. Four bedrooms, two toilets
and a massive great garden that stretched at least twenty yards
to the fence of our nearest neighbour. It didnt matter how
many times you told them, we dontownthe house, it belongs
to the Church of England,we just live in it, mostWyovians
believed we had millions of pounds stuffed in our socks and
coat pockets.
From our front gate you could see the grey majestic
outline of Bowater Castle, about three miles down the road.
Leave Bowater Station on the ten oclock train and youd be
arriving at Paddington Station thirty minutes later, after a
quick change at Hampden Village on to the main London
line. Golden fields of wheat and grass grew out the front of
our house in the summer and turned to brown fields of mud
in autumn and winter. Poplar trees lined the roads in and out
of town. If you walked out through our front gate, crossed themain road to Bowater and walked for twenty minutes along
the hard brown path winding in front of you, youd reach the
River Thames flowing, mostly sluggishly, along.
Every weekday morning at ten past eight I cycled past Dave
with my school uniform on and my satchel fastened to the
metal tray at the back of my bike with two octopus grips that
I obsessively checked and rechecked before I left the garageat 8.05 am. I was precise with my timing. Every day I turned
right at the top of my road towards Hampden High, my
school, and there was Dave, heading left to Bowater High,
watching me and my thin legs pedalling along. I wasnt sure
if the expression on his face meant he was smiling at me or
not so I didnt smile. I just checked that he was there. . .yep,
there he was.I turned away, instantly fascinated by the wheat fields
which I saw every day of my life. On a bike, its hard to f ind
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THE WORD GHOST
somewhere else to look. I stuck one hand in my blazer pocket,
one hand holding the handlebars and my eyes fixed on the
yellow wheat stalks blowing in the spring breeze. I believed
I looked as if I didnt have a care in the world. I certainly
wasnt thinking about the tall ginger-haired boy waiting for
his bus.
I also believed, deep in my heart, that if Dave had been
given a choice, he would have flung the anorak that he always
wore on his bedroom floor and sat, sartorially elegant, at the
bus stop in his school shirt, shivering slightly in the balmy
English spring. Hed been made to wear it, Poor Lamb, school
uniforms made fools of us all. In the spring of 73 there seemed
to be a renaissance of the much-maligned shimmery shiny
all-weather jacket. Like bulbs clumped around the bottoms of
trees, there were anoraks popping up at every corner.
Come, sweet Jane, honest truthful Jane, take this shiny jacketand give me your shawl. St John will never want to marry you
if he sees you in this . . . Come, Jane, come, dont run from
me . . . youll slip and fall . . .
My mother loved outer garments and welcomed them, all
colours, all sizes, all shapes, into her life. Anything that kept
the weather from the skin was accepted. My father preferred
the classic beige down-to-the-mid-calf mackintosh. My motheralso accepted fresh fruit, homegrown lettuces and tomatoes,
Jesus Christ and Marks and Spencers cotton underwear. My
father accepted raspberry canes, long leaf Darjeeling tea, pork
sausages from Harrods and the Church of England. The
Church of England accepted my father. That was why we
lived in the largest house in the village, it went with the job.
When youre nearly sixteen the world is a weird enoughplace, but there are some things you know with great certainty,
no questions needed, no inner doubt. When I saw Dave,
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something happened to the pit of my stomach, a kind of
lurch that ended up as an ache in my arms and a desire to
run naked down the street screaming and eating cream buns
at the same time. Doubt was for everyone else.
My parents loved the Queen of England but their love for
the Queen was not quite the same as my love for Dave. Their
love for the Queen was restrained and gracious, forever locked
away in some restrained and gracious space. They had to wait
another four whole years before they could celebrate the SilverJubilee with the Queen of England. Four more years before
the flags and street parties and my parents, like good English
folk, knew they had to wait quietly. They were married in
1953, the year of the Queens coronation, and they had been
with her in spirit ever since.
My mother said, A steady pair of hands on the throne.
I didnt care about any of that. I cared about Dave. I knew
he was called Dave because Maggie told me when I asked her.
Whos that?
Thats Dave. He lives down the road. His brothers in
the army.
Which road?
Milton Close, two streets over from us. I met him theother night.
You met Dave?
No, I did not meet Dave, I met his brother Simon. I actu-
ally left the house and went out and met Simon, Daves brother.
And he told me about Dave.
Really? Like what?
I know he hates soccer. I know he plays the guitar andthinks hes better than he actually is. Oh yeah, I know hes
got a girlfriend and shes really, really nice.
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THE WORD GHOST
A girlfriend? Is she from school? Whats her name? Has
he really got a girlfriend?
Maggie pushed my hair out of my face. He hasnt really
got a girlfriend, Abes, I only said that to wind you up.
Get off me. I hate you.
Invite him over. Simon said Dave checks his watch by you
every morning. Call him.
And say what?
Ask him for help with your maths. Abes, you need help
with your maths. Go on. I bet hell do it.
You dont know that.
I know more than you do.
Maggie always knew more than I did. She was just about to
turn eighteen, and in the eyes of the law she would legally be
an adult, a person whose vote counted. She could do anything
she wanted to do whenever she wanted to do it. This was herpermanent refrain. I can do what I want to.
A small side street led down one side of our house away
from the Bowater road and that was where I left the house
on my bike each morning. If I turned left I would soon find
myself in Milton Close and my stomach churned at the very
thought of seeing Daves house. Out through the large green
wooden gates, turn right, right again at the top and therewas the road to school. My fathers church was opposite our
house, two hundred yards along the main Bowater road.
The graveyard surrounding the church looked like a bright
happy place to me then. I didnt know any other graveyards. It
was full of fresh f lowers on tended graves, and in spring and
summer my grandmothers deep red roses bloomed, climbing
up the church wall getting closer to God. Two tall fir treesstood either side of the church gates and one of them was
mine. After an hour on a hard pew singing hymns and listening
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to the wisdom of my father, I was desperate to reach for that
first spiky branch. The rough bark hurt my hands and I had
to grab and swing at the same time in order to pull myself
up on the branch.
I slowly inched up the tree pressing my back against the
trunk and holding the branches above my head until I felt safe
to move again. No one could get me now, not that anyone
was trying. I was at least fifteen feet off the ground by my
reckoning, and that was about my limit. Any higher and
I felt weird in the head. I was part of the tree now, high in
its beautiful green branches, invisible to the world.
I watched the parishioners traipsing slowly from the church,
chatting to my father in his billowing white robes at the church
door. From my great height I could also pelt Emily with small
turquoise stones I filched from the tops of the graves. I was
sure the buried ones wouldnt mind. They were dead, after all.Ouch! That hurts. I know youre up there, Rebecca. Im
telling Mum. MUM!
Mum sighed and wagged a finger at me, a small gesture
which contained words I knew all too well. Stop that. Set a
good example for your sister.Whatever will people think of us?
After church, Mum set off back to the house to cook the
Sunday roast or do any number of the household chores thatour large cold house demanded and which held our family
together. I knew, without knowing how I knew, that Sunday
afternoon was the time my mother missed our grandmother
most of all. After lunch, when all the dishes had been washed
and put away, we would find her in the sitting room in one
of our threadbare chairs, reading her favourite author, turning
the pages of another world.