Читать книгу Time to Say Goodbye - S.D. Robertson - Страница 7

Mum and Dad decided to stay at our house for the night, to keep things as normal as possible for Ella. They took the poky third bedroom, which was only slightly bigger than the double bed it contained. I’d have rather they used my room, but they felt it wasn’t appropriate – and it wasn’t like they could hear my protests.

I was finding it increasingly frustrating that no one could hear or see anything I said or did. The only external confirmation of my existence came in the form of my parents’ dog, Sam, who’d arrived with Dad. A usually placid King Charles spaniel, he barked incessantly and ran around in circles whenever we were in the same room. It excited me at first, as I wondered whether I might be able to use him to make contact with my family. But it soon became clear that there was little chance of any Lassie-type behaviour. He wasn’t the brightest of pets. Plus he’d never liked me much when I was alive and apparently death hadn’t changed that. Trying to talk to him only served to increase the volume of his barking, so I soon abandoned that possibility.

There was another moment of excitement when, to my surprise, I realized I could see my reflection in the mirror. My mother was brushing her teeth in the bathroom. I must have passed mirrors before that, but this was the first time it had registered.

‘Hey,’ I shouted, jumping up and down; waving like a lunatic. ‘Look, Mum. Here I am.’

But she couldn’t see my reflection any more than she could hear what I was saying.

I waited for Dad to follow her and tried again. I stood beside him as he too brushed his teeth and washed his face. There I was, clear as day, right next to him, asking him to look at me. But apparently I was the only one who could see it.

At least I looked to be in one piece. I was relieved not to see any sign of the injuries I’d suffered in the crash.

‘None of this feels real,’ Mum said to Dad after the two of them got into bed. ‘I keep thinking – hoping – I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a bad dream.’

Dad took her hand and let out a sigh.

‘I just feel numb,’ she continued. ‘After the initial shock of it all – after telling Ella what happened – it’s like … I don’t know. As if it’s happening to someone else. Not me. Why aren’t I crying now? I feel I’m not reacting as I should be.’

‘There is no right way to react,’ Dad replied. ‘Parents aren’t meant to outlive their children.’

‘But how do you feel, Tom?’

He sighed again. ‘I’m putting one foot in front of the other. We have to be strong for Ella.’

I couldn’t listen to any more of their conversation. It felt too much like eavesdropping, so I walked to Ella’s room instead. Sitting down on the floor next to her bed, I was consumed by a rush of fears and anxieties.

How on earth would this fragile little girl manage without me? Would I ever get through to her and, if not, how could I survive here alone?

Oh my God, I’m dead, I thought, the terrible truth starting to sink in. I’m actually dead. My life’s over. I’ll never hug Ella again. I’ll never wash her hair, brush her teeth or read her a story again. All those little things I used to take for granted. Gone. Forever.

Then I thought back to the accident. Why the hell did I go out on my bike in the first place?

Ella coughed in her sleep. I looked over at her flushed face and her blond curls, matted and unruly across the pillow, and it was enough to jolt me out of my spiral of self-pity. ‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She’s the only thing that matters now.’

I hadn’t got a clue whether or not ghosts – or spirits, as Lizzie put it – were able to sleep. I didn’t feel particularly tired. But I lay down on the floor next to the bed and tried to clear my mind, if only to be able to do my best to get through to Ella in the morning. It took a while, but eventually I drifted off.

I woke up the next morning alone in Ella’s bedroom. Apparently she’d already got up. To my dismay, I noticed the door was shut. My experience so far as a spirit had been that I couldn’t interact with anything around me. This meant I was trapped. However, I remembered a scene in the film Ghost in which Patrick Swayze’s character had to learn to pass through a closed door. It was a flimsy information source, but what else did I have to go on?

I walked up to it, held my hands out in front of me and tried to push them into the wood. Nothing. I didn’t get thrown backwards as I had after touching Ella or the paramedics. I just couldn’t move past it. Next I tried to turn the handle, although that was no use either. My hand stopped upon reaching it, but I couldn’t feel or exert any pressure on it.

I went back to trying to pass through the door. I imagined myself doing so, pushing through like it was made of liquid. I even tried running at it, shouting and screaming, hoping my anger might unlock some hidden ability. But nothing worked. I really was trapped until Ella came in to get a jumper from her wardrobe a short while later and I was able to exit the traditional way.

The death knock came just after lunch. I’d been expecting it. I’d been out on plenty of them myself early in my career; little had I imagined that a few years later I’d be the subject of one. Considering my family circumstances and the way in which I’d died, it was inevitable that a local newspaper reporter would call at the house soon.

‘Can you get that, Tom?’ Mum shouted from upstairs, where she was plaiting Ella’s hair.

‘Right,’ Dad shouted, stubbing out the cigarette he’d been smoking at the back door and trudging through the hall. He was a big man, although he was one of the lucky few who carried it well. Thanks partly to his strong jawline and broad shoulders, he’d managed to stay handsome in spite of the extra weight. He enjoyed his food and drink and rarely rushed anywhere; today he was even slower than usual. He opened the door to an attractive girl in her mid-twenties.

‘Hello there,’ she said, wearing her best sympathetic smile. ‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you. I’m Kate Andrews, from the Evening Journal. We heard about the horrific accident yesterday involving William Curtis. I just wondered if a family member was available for a quick chat. We’re very interested in running a tribute article.’

I smiled to myself. ‘Tribute’ was the term I used to use on death knocks. I’d always found it an effective way of getting the family onside.

Dad, whose years as a solicitor had fostered a distrust of the press that I’d never been able to shift, demanded proof of ID. After he’d given her pass the once-over, he left her on the doorstep while he went to confer with Mum.

‘Come on, old man,’ I said, the journalist in me realizing it would be hypocritical not to allow her an interview. ‘Give the girl a break.’

‘What do you think?’ he asked Mum. ‘I’m not convinced it’s a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Do you really want our private business splashed all over the news?’

‘I’m sure it’s what Will would have wanted. He was a journalist, after all. It’s only right there’s a tribute to him in the local paper.’

‘Really? And what if they get it all wrong?’

‘Surely that’s more likely if we don’t talk to them, isn’t it? There’ll be a story one way or another, Tom. They won’t just ignore it. Better we have some input.’

‘Well I’m not getting involved. You speak to her, if you must. But don’t let her put words into your mouth and steer clear of talking about the accident – particularly who might have been to blame. I’ll take Ella out for a walk. I don’t want her involved either.’

I decided to stay to hear the interview.

‘Thanks for agreeing to speak to me,’ Kate said, sipping on the cup of tea Mum had made for her before they sat down in the lounge. Mum was dressed casually, in a navy cardigan and jeans; I noticed she’d applied some lipstick and combed her short dark hair before coming downstairs. I could see she was trying her best to put a brave face on it.

‘That’s okay. It only seems right, what with Will being a journalist too.’

‘Really? I had no idea. Who did he work for?’

‘He used to be a staff reporter on The Times. He was based in London at that point but moved back up north about six years ago and went freelance. He still mainly writes – sorry, wrote – for The Times, but he also did work for other national papers and some magazines. I’m surprised you’ve not heard of him.’

Kate didn’t get another word in edgeways until she’d been subjected to a gushing, cringeworthy history of my entire career, from my days on a local weekly up to the present. She eventually got the chance to ask a question about my family life. I saw her eyes light up when Mum explained I’d been a single parent; that Ella’s mother was also dead.

‘Ah, now we’ve got your interest,’ I said, peering over her shoulder at her shorthand notes. ‘Yes, it’ll make a decent news story. Nothing like a good tragedy to shift a few papers. You never know, it might even make front page.’

‘How’s Ella dealing with it?’ Kate asked. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how she must be feeling.’

I was furious. ‘Don’t give me that fake sympathy shit!’ I shouted. ‘Leave her out of it. She’s just a little girl.’

Mum shuffled on the couch. ‘I, er, don’t really want to go into that.’

‘Of course,’ Kate replied. ‘I understand. What about you and your husband, then? It must have been such an awful shock.’

Calm down, I told myself, shocked by how easily I’d flown off the handle. It’s okay. Mum can deal with this. The girl’s doing her job, that’s all; I’d have asked exactly the same things.

‘Yes,’ Mum whispered. She took several deep breaths before adding: ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet. We’re both still in shock. No one expects to outlive their children. It’s like we’re on autopilot, holding things together for Ella.’

Once Kate had gleaned all the information she needed to write her story, she asked Mum if there was a picture of me she could borrow to run alongside it. Well, she actually asked for a photo of me with Ella, but Mum had the good sense to say no. She rooted around in her handbag and pulled out a small leather wallet containing snaps of her nearest and dearest. There was an old one of me that I’d never much liked. She stared at it for a moment and I feared she was about to start crying. But after fanning herself and taking some more gasps of air, she held her composure.

‘How about this? It’s not that recent, but it’s a nice picture of him. It shows off his lovely blue eyes.’

‘Yes, that’ll be ideal.’

‘He’d not changed much, apart from a few more grey hairs. They started to come in his twenties. Probably caused by stress. He was handsome, don’t you think?’

I cringed as Kate was forced to agree.

‘You will look after it, won’t you?’ Mum asked her. ‘It’s precious. I need it returned in one piece.’

‘Of course. I’ll drop it back in a couple of days, if that’s okay. Thanks ever so much for chatting to me. And sorry again for your loss. I hope everything goes all right with the funeral.’

‘Thanks, love. You will make it a nice piece, won’t you? The last thing we need is any more upset.’

Kate flashed that sympathetic smile of hers again. ‘Of course. The article will be in tomorrow’s paper. It should be on the website too.’

It was only a few minutes later that Mum and I heard Dad and Ella return from their walk. Ella was in tears.

‘What on earth happened?’ Mum asked as we both rushed to the front door.

Dad had Ella over his left shoulder and, from the way he was out of breath and sweating, he must have carried her some way. His right arm was straining against the pull of Sam on his lead, barking as usual.

Mum took her granddaughter and lifted her into a hug. She may have been much shorter and thinner than Dad – Little and Large, I often called them – but she’d always been strong and fit. She had apparently been a smoker once, like him, but not for as long as I could remember. She was the healthy one: a pocket dynamo who enjoyed exercise and watched what she ate. Their relationship was definitely a case of opposites attract.

‘There, there. Come to Nana. What’s wrong, darling? What’s the matter?’

‘She had a bit of a fright, Ann. That’s all. She’ll be fine in a few minutes.’

‘What do you mean she had a fright, Tom? Tell me what happened, for goodness’ sake.’

‘It’s no big deal. We had a nice walk for the most part. We went down by the old railway line so Sam could have a run off his lead. Then we walked back along the main road. Unfortunately, we witnessed a bit of a prang. One car caught the side of another as it was pulling out from a parking space. No one was hurt, but it was all rather noisy and, well, it clearly reminded Ella of—’

‘Yes, yes. I’m not stupid, thank you. What were you thinking, taking her along the main road? Come on, Ella. Let’s go and have a nice sit-down in the lounge. Grandad will get you a drink. Would you like some juice?’

Ella nodded through her tears.

‘Did you hear that, Grandad? And can you please put Sam in the back garden. I don’t know why he’s barking so much. He’s been like this ever since we brought him here.’

‘That’ll be my fault,’ I said as I watched Mum try to comfort Ella. ‘It’s all my fault. Please don’t cry, Ella. It’s okay. Daddy’s here.’ But she couldn’t hear me; I was still hidden from her. I wanted so badly to take her into my arms and wipe away her tears. This was torture. It was breaking my heart. I determined that when she was next on her own, I would do my utmost to try to get through to her.

My opportunity didn’t come until she was in bed that night. After she’d had a bath and a book, Mum tucked her in and gave her a kiss goodnight.

‘Do you feel like you want to talk about anything before you go to sleep?’ Mum asked.

‘No. I’m okay.’

‘Well, any time you want to talk – especially about your daddy – I’m right here for you. Grandad is too. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodnight, my love. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’

Ella shook her head, a sad look on her face. That was what I always used to say to her at bedtime. I guess I learned it from hearing it myself as a boy.

As Mum got up to leave, Ella jerked upright. ‘Is my nightlight on, Nana?’

‘Yes, dear. We put it on together before I read you a story. You’ll see it when I turn the main light off.’

‘And the landing light? You won’t switch it off, will you? Daddy always lets me have it on. I don’t like the dark.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll leave it on for you.’

‘All night?’

‘All night.’

Once Mum was downstairs, I knelt at the side of the bed. ‘Ella?’ I whispered into her ear. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Daddy. I’m still here. I promised I’d never leave you and I haven’t. Can’t you sense me at all?’

Nothing. No sign that she had any clue I was there. Her saucer-like eyes, the same beautiful pale green as her mother’s, were wide open but staring blankly at the ceiling. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I stood up and started pacing around the room. What could I do to get through to her? If the dog could sense me, surely there was a chance that Ella could too, no matter what Lizzie had told me. What about all the claims of ghost sightings over the years? There had to be something in it. And didn’t they say that children were more open to that kind of thing than adults?

Ironically, before I died I’d been a complete non-believer when it came to the supernatural. As a journalist, I’d built a wall of scepticism around myself that only hard facts could penetrate. I remembered laughing with colleagues about people who’d phoned in with stories of hauntings, dubbing them ‘crackpots’. Now here I was with a whole different perspective.

Other than the little I’d gleaned from Lizzie, my only knowledge of what it meant to be a ghost – sorry, a spirit – was based on fiction. But what I was experiencing, which I’d only started to analyse once the initial shock of being dead had eased, wasn’t anything like the books I’d read or films I’d seen. Try as I might, I still wasn’t able to do a Patrick Swayze and pass through solid objects. I could walk about and sit or lie down, but that was pretty much it. Taking care not to get trapped behind closed doors had already become second nature. My sense of touch had vanished. I was as numb as if I’d been anaesthetized. It was like I had no mass and was enveloped in a thick bubble that kept me apart from the world around me. And yet, conversely, when I wasn’t trying to interact with that world, I still felt as real and solid as I had before my death.

Then there was the whole thing about not being able to touch people. I’d tried it several times now; on each occasion I’d been repelled with the same violent force, which didn’t hurt me but knocked me for six and always went completely unnoticed by the person involved. Smell and taste had abandoned me too, along with the need or desire for food or drink. My sight and hearing were all I had left. And yet that hadn’t been the case when I’d met Lizzie. I could definitely recall feeling her tap me on the shoulder and that cool handshake of hers in contrast to the sunny weather. What does that matter? I thought. She’s not here any more. I sent her away.

So how could I break through to my daughter? I couldn’t get the lights to flicker; I couldn’t move inanimate objects or make my presence known at all. ‘Come on, Ella,’ I said. ‘Give me something. Give me some sign that you can sense me. You must be able to. I’m right here, darling.’

Without warning, she got out of bed, forcing me to dive out of her way. She knelt where I’d been a moment earlier. I wondered what she was doing until she started talking in a quiet voice. ‘God? Are you there? My name’s Ella. The vicar at school says we can talk to you like this if we’re sad. Is my daddy with you? Nana says he is. She says he’s in Heaven. I really miss him, you see. I was thinking that maybe you could let him come back soon. He said he’d get me an ice cream. Nana and Grandad are looking after me, but I’d still really like him to come home. I hate feeling sad all the time. Amen.’

Her words were like a needle pushing through my soul. They spurred me on to talk to her some more, desperate for that breakthrough I craved, but whatever I said and however I said it, it made no difference. She still couldn’t hear me. All the same, I stayed at her bedside and whispered tales of gruffaloes, captured princesses, a dancing dog, and a cat called Mog: stories committed to memory after countless nights of reading them to her. I carried on long after she fell asleep, hoping beyond hope that some part of her might hear me and feel comforted.

‘Goodnight, my beautiful girl,’ I said eventually, my repertoire complete. I leaned over the bed, where she lay in a deep sleep, and blew a kiss goodnight as close as I dared to the soft skin of her forehead.

‘Night night, Daddy,’ she muttered.