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

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without priorpermission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whicheveris the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educationalpurposes provided that the educational inst itution (or body that administers it) hasgiven a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Austra lia) under the Act.

    Allen & Unwin

    83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065

    Austral iaPhone: (61 2) 8425 0100Email: [email protected]

    Web: www.allenandunwin.com

    Cataloguing-in-Publication details are availablefrom the National Library of Australia

    www.trove.nla.gov.au

    ISBN 978 1 74331 826 3

    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

    Internal design by Squirt CreativeSet in 12/16 pt Galliard by Bookhouse, SydneyPrinted and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

    The paper in this book is FSCcertified.FSCpromotes environmentally responsible,

    socially beneficial and economically viable

    management of the worlds forests.C009448

    mailto:[email protected]://www.allenandunwin.com/http://www.trove.nla.gov.au/http://www.trove.nla.gov.au/http://www.allenandunwin.com/mailto:[email protected]
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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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    ~ 3 ~

    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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    ~ 4 ~

    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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    ~ 5 ~

    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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    ~ 6 ~

    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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    ~ 7 ~

    CHRISTINE PAICE

    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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    ~ 8 ~

    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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    ~ 9 ~

    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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    ~ 11 ~

    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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    ~ 12 ~

    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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    ~ 13 ~

    CHRISTINE PAICE

    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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    ~ 14 ~

    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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    ~ 15 ~

    CHRISTINE PAICE

    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.