Ghosting (2 page)

After six months of insisting Pete stay at the YMCA on the weekends he visited, her parents finally allowed him to sleep in the spare room; and as soon as her father’s snoring began rattling the darkness he‘d sneak across the landing and into her bed, and her heart would not be still. While she cherished the feel of his body against hers, fear kept her from doing any more than kissing. She knew good girls waited, propriety hindering desire.

The summer before she’d met Pete, she had gone camping one Saturday night on Saddleworth Moors with a boy called Ian. Told her parents she was staying at Ruth’s. And that night, as they’d lain kissing in the dark, he had placed her hand on his erection and said, ‘Look what you do to me.’

Removing it from his pyjamas, she had touched its soft, firm texture, the give and slide of the foreskin. Its
difference from her own body was both startling and compelling. In the dark her sense of touch became acute, and when she tried to picture it there came unbidden the memory of her naked father. That Sunday morning when she’d run into her parents’ room to tell them the dog had been sick on the kitchen floor, forgetting momentarily that she was forbidden from entering. At the time – she was no more than six – she had had no idea what they were doing, only the immediate terror of an apparent violence: her mother crying out and him on top of her, grunting and sweating. She stood there speechless a while before her mother spotted her. ‘Get out, Grace!’ she’d said, pulling a sheet over herself. ‘Frank, get her out!’ And so he climbed off and strode towards her and she bolted downstairs, the slam of their bedroom door ringing in her ears and the tears running down her face, and the shock of what she’d seen between his legs indelible. But thinking of her father naked while touching Ian had only served to kill her arousal. She’d pushed the vision out of her mind. When he’d guided her hand into action she’d felt uneasy, and ashamed. Yet also powerful as never before. And when he came it was like a secret, or a lesson: the sticky mystery of men.

AMONGST THE
cabbages, amongst the cauliflowers, these voices of the dead invade her thoughts, chirruping like birds on the branches of her memory. She finds herself holding up a fistful of wormdark earth and smelling it,
inhaling its mulchy odour, locked to the spot. She throws it away in quick disgust and stands up; pulls off her gloves and grabs her bag.

She heads to Parliament Hill to watch the city melt into a pool at her feet. The endless sky up here always makes her feel small enough for nothing to matter. Nobody knows what she lacks. Thoughts lift from their slumber on the bed of her mind. A laughing crocodile of blue-uniformed schoolgirls swallows her up, oblivious to the grief swelling inside her: enough to fill the whole world. The heath grass sparkles. She closes her eyes and faces the sun, watching the light dance through her eyelids in movements of yellow and red. She can feel the wind rush through her as if she isn’t there.

Making her way back to the boat, she concentrates on the things she can see around her: here, a blue-framed window; here, three boys kicking a ball; there, pieces of dismantled furniture – a desk? – leaning against a wall, and there, taped to it, a sheet of white paper, three words scratched in blue ink:
Please take me.
By these means she stops herself from dropping into the pit that has appeared inside her head. And, to top it all, she saw one solitary, sorrowful magpie as she was leaving the allotment, and though not normally superstitious she keeps her eyes peeled for another all the way home, but in vain.

Gordon is up on deck, cleaning the windows, when she arrives back. She says a quick hello and goes inside to lie on the bed. She can hear his irritating whistle. It isn’t even a full whistle, which might not be that bad;
it’s more, she thinks, a kind of half-whistle; this little piping sound like the kettle’s hiss before its full-throated warble. She places a pillow over her head.
They say that if you think you’re going mad you can’t really be going mad, don’t they? Whereas the mad have no idea they’re mad – that’s what makes them mad.
She, at least, has some idea that there is madness in these thoughts. She knows this is different from before – from the other great unravelling which led to that chattering ward full of damaged women. Now, each moment is lucid and present. She feels shaken, awoken, alert to these fragments of her past pressing into her, or out of her, like some kind of reckoning.

She imagines saying to Gordon, ‘I’ve just seen your nemesis,’ and bursts out laughing. But laughing to herself, with her head under a pillow, only makes her feel madder than ever.
Maybe I should just let myself get locked away. Best place for me right now. Away from the world for a while. Lock me up, and throw away the bloody key.
Her thoughts stagger like drunkards between an uncertain present and a past she doesn’t want to revisit.

ON HER SEVENTEENTH
birthday, just over a year after Blackpool, during a walk in Wythenshawe Park, Pete had said, ‘I hope one day we’ll get married, Grace.’ And she had smiled and said yes, she hoped so too. And of course she was over the moon for she loved the bones
of him, hardly able to believe her luck. She was lost to a romance that seemed real enough, and the future appeared filled with such sun-drenched certainty that she had no reason to believe she would be anything but happy. No reason at all.

The following weekend he drove her to Portsmouth to meet his parents, and, as they pulled up outside that big white house with its long gravel drive and immaculate front lawn, it struck Grace that his parents would think he was marrying down.

It was a bit like meeting royalty, or movie stars. From what he’d told her about his father, Edward, she had expected a more ill-tempered man, but she found herself quite charmed by this older version of Pete: same height and build, same big green eyes; same sense of humour. He cracked a joke about expecting her to be wearing a shawl and clogs like something from Lowry. Yet despite their similarity (or perhaps because of it) she sensed a tension between the two men. They behaved like boxers sizing one another up before the first punch was thrown. She noticed how Edward put Pete down all the time, and as the weekend progressed she liked her future father-in-law less and less.

His mother, Iris, was just as he’d described: immaculately dressed and groomed, with a warm but not fully sincere way about her. When she complimented Grace on the dress she was wearing, she marvelled to hear that she’d made it herself, going to such enthusiastic lengths with her praise that Grace felt embarrassed.

She couldn’t imagine getting close to either of them, which, as things turned out, proved to be the case. After Pete’s death she would take the children to see them once a year (always without Gordon, the very idea of whom they couldn’t entertain). But they remained strangers, and after Hannah’s funeral she never saw them again, and hadn’t even gone to their funerals.

They’d been engaged for just three weeks when Pete received a two-year posting to Aden. They had wanted to marry straight away so she could go with him, but her father had said they were too young and insisted they wait. If they still felt the same way about each other in two years then they could marry. She was furious with the decision, pleading with her mother to talk him round. They were, after all, the same age her parents had been. It wasn’t fair.

It felt like some kind of endurance test, those two years apart. Never before had she experienced such lovesick absence of another: this pining, this ache. Bursting into tears whenever ‘Only the Lonely’ came on the radio. Their only contact was letters. He would write often – sometimes three letters a day – and she reread them as if they were texts requiring close study, trying to get near to him through his handwritten words on paper. He wrote long, detailed accounts of his days, and sent photographs she cherished.

And she would reply to each letter, eking out the slim co-ordinates of her own routines: the typing job, the boredom of home life… always ending with a
declaration of love and a reiteration of how much she missed him.

One thing she left out of the letters was the affair she nearly had with a married man, about a year into their separation. His name was Denis Middleton, and he was one of the senior clerks at Refuge Assurance on Oxford Street. He was thirty-six, with black hair smudged white at the temples. He would single her out to do all his typing, sometimes asking her to stay late to finish an urgent letter, and pretty soon small gifts – a pair of stockings, or a lipstick – started to appear in her desk drawer. One night he asked if she’d like to go with him to see a film, and she said yes, she would. Rang her parents to say she was meeting Ruth after work. It felt illicit and she didn’t exactly dislike it. After the film, they went for a drink, and he told her about his wife being involved in a car accident and left paralysed. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m an adulterer, I have Margaret’s full consent,’ he said.

She told him about Pete, showed him the engagement ring. ‘I’m not exactly in a position to judge, now, am I?’ she said.

He never once tried to kiss her, but after a couple of months of regular trips to the cinema or a restaurant he had asked if she would like to go away with him for a weekend to Harrogate. She wasn’t entirely shocked, and was more than a little flattered, but, feeling out of her depth, she’d said no. After that, he didn’t ask her out again; some other girl started doing his typing and the gifts stopped.

Thinking of it now, she feels a wave of regret, wishing she’d been more adventurous, trying to imagine a different outcome. Knowing it’s futile. It doesn’t matter; none of it matters now.

ALTHOUGH PETE’S
parents had wanted them to marry in their church and make it a grand affair, offering to help out with the expense, they opted for a small one in her local church, St Martin’s in Wythenshawe. On his side there had only been his parents and a couple of his uniformed friends, including Mike, who was best man, and who was still courting Ruth, the maid of honour. In addition to Grace’s parents were their siblings, her father’s brother and his wife, and her mother’s six sisters with their husbands and children. The seven sisters gathered like a flock of strange birds, clucking over childhood grievances every time they got together. For bridesmaids she had three cousins, with whom she still keeps in touch, albeit intermittently.

The day comes back in all its blue August sunshine: the white of the roses in her bouquet; the lucky black cat mascot Ruth had given her; the horseshoe-shaped confetti in Pete’s hair. His laughter chimes in her head like bells, the lightness of the day returning to lift her mood with its recollections of a joy long gone sour. Back then, for one glorious fraction of time, she had had no reason to be anything but happy. She’d found a man as charming as a prince and could finally leave home.
She’d come to hate living with her parents. It felt like a prolonged childhood, a place she’d outgrown. And she wanted sex. She wanted, desperately, to let her body grow; was curious and hungry to learn. Adulthood so far had been nothing but impatience and restraint. And the wedding night had been a revelation. She hadn’t anticipated how much pleasure her body was capable of. For her, it made their love all the more complete. The proximity, the intimacy, the realm of the senses.

Yet, as she began the task of living with Pete, even though it was three years since they’d met, it soon became apparent she didn’t really know him at all. Being away from him had made her long for him and love him all the more – but it had also kept his faults well hidden.

SHE IS ON A PLANE
, surrounded by babies, all screaming their throats raw as the plane lurches and dips. She tries to calm them, to quieten them, but each time the plane jolts their screams become louder, more piercingly desperate – unbearable. No other adults are on board, no cabin crew: only dozens of crying babies, strapped into the seats, with their red screwed-up faces and loud open mouths.

All except one.

The baby in her lap is soundless as a doll. Sleeping. Or dead. And when she looks down she sees it’s Hannah. Her Hannah.

The plane drops again and this time it doesn’t recover – no hand of God to break its fall – only a rapid, furious descent. Just as it’s about to hit the ground Grace wakes up, tense and disorientated, drenched in sweat, clutching the mattress. She stares at the ceiling, breathless and dogged by sadness. She looks over at Gordon. He is snoring, dead to the world. The clock reads 6.15. She lets out a long, slow sigh, which turns into a cough bad enough to make her sit up. Pulling on her dressing
gown, she creeps out of the room, and daylight bleaches the shadows as her vision wakes. Making her creaky way to the sink, she fills the kettle, and pretty soon she’s sitting up on deck warming her hands on a cup of tea. The marina is quiet at this hour, no one else around; only the muted sounds of the waking city reach her. She lights the first cigarette of the day and watches a family of ducks glide by.

They say if you hit the ground you die, with dreams like that. Falling dreams.

Has anyone ever hit the ground and lived to tell the tale?
she wonders. Stupid thoughts like that, before-breakfast thoughts.

In the cool morning air, she distracts herself by writing a list of all the groceries she’d failed to get yesterday on account of Pete’s ghost appearing. The sound of Gordon rising breaks her thoughts and she goes inside to make another cup of tea.

‘Good morning, love!’ he says, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘Sleep well?’

She watches him slot two slices of bread into the toaster. Gordon is a morning person, chirpy and bright. She has vampire blood in her veins.

‘I didn’t, no,’ she says. She recounts the dream, and he gives her a quick squeeze before taking the margarine from the fridge. When Hannah first died Gordon used to dream about her all the time. Every morning, over breakfast, he would sit and recount vivid dreams in which he spoke to her, and in which she always
appeared happy and healthy. Grace looks at him, at his round red face and sandy moustache, his quick dark eyes, and wonders what would happen if she told him; if she shared with him what was going on in her mind. And if she did – if she could make those sentences take shape inside her throat, find words another person might understand – how would he respond?

He switches on the radio, saying, ‘Cheer up, Grace!’ and sits down to slurp and chomp his way through his tea and toast. She leaves him to it and goes for a shower, wondering when, if ever, thinking of the loss will stop tearing her apart.

THEY BEGAN MARRIED
life in Thetford, where Pete had been posted, driving down on the evening of their wedding day, after a brief reception, and spending their wedding night there before setting off on honeymoon – a week on the Isle of Wight. A sudden, clearblue snapshot of their first home. The memory of pegging out their bedsheets for the first time and feeling as if she was pitching a flag on the summit of her happiness; declaring her joy to the world.

But, once the ring was on her finger, Pete changed. Like black to white.

He started to criticise things she did and said, raising his voice and calling her stupid. The first time he actually struck her she’d been out to a dance with her friend Carol. Grace loved the socialising that came with
Forces life, and every Friday since they’d arrived they’d gone dancing with friends at a ball in the Officers’ Mess Hall. Pete made friends easily, and pretty soon she knew everybody. But a couple of months into the marriage he changed, getting drunk whenever they went out and picking fights with men he accused her of looking at, moody when they were alone. Then he stopped going, staying at home and drinking. Seeing no reason not to, she still went out. She loved to dance.

That evening she let an American airman walk her home. Pete slammed the door on her startled escort before slamming his fist into her face. He smelt of whisky and she could taste blood. He turned away and started pacing the room.

‘Why did you make me do that?’ he said.

‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘You’re not going there again. Ever. Understand?’

‘I’ll do what I bloody well like,’ she said, feeling tears prickle but refusing to let them fall.

‘No, you fucking won’t or you’ll get another of those.’ He cuffed her across the side of her head.

‘You’re not me dad.’

‘No. I’m your husband. And I won’t stand for other men walking you home, do you hear me? How the bloody hell do you think it makes me look?’

‘Well,
you
never take me out.’

He held up his hand to strike again. Then he paused. ‘Cunt,’ he spat, lowering his arm. As he left, the slam of the front door made her jump and burst into tears.
Thinking maybe he was going after the American, she ran to the window. Pete was pacing up and down, smoking a cigarette in quick furious drags, staring at the pavement as if searching for something. She dropped the curtain and walked over to the mirror above the fireplace to survey the damage. The lip was split, blood all down the chin. Her jaw ached.
Well, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?
she thought. She knew all about his father’s treatment of his mother; how as a boy he’d slept with a knife beneath his pillow, scared of his father’s rage. She had listened to those stories and felt nothing but sympathy for that terrified little boy. Now all she felt was impossible anger. And the fear that he might do it again.

Her whole body tensed as he re-entered the house, but when she turned to face him he was sobbing like a child. He walked over and held her, begging forgiveness, promising never to strike her again. He said, ‘I love you’ over and over, trembling in her arms. She held him as if he would break. Numbly she received his kisses, which grew more and more passionate, till they were fucking right there on the floor. Nothing more was said of the bruise on her face; or the crack that had appeared in her heart.

And she never went dancing again.

AFTER HER SHOWER
, she washes the breakfast crockery. Gordon has gone out somewhere; she doesn’t know where. She goes into the bedroom to make the bed, but
instead she lies down and pulls the duvet over her, to voyage in the dark.

IT WAS THREE MONTHS
before he hit her again. Valentine’s Day 1962, their first as husband and wife. She’d only found out a couple of days before that she was expecting, and had decided to wait to tell him. She’d wanted to fall pregnant for so long that it was hard to keep it a secret. But she did. She had shaved her pubic hair into the shape of a heart. Still in love with him, despite everything. Scared of him, a little, sometimes, but still in love. Still in thrall to those moments of tenderness and passion when their bodies locked in a single mission.

When he arrived home empty-handed, saying he’d forgotten what day it was, she pretended it didn’t matter and gave him her card. Inside it, after her name, she had written +1, and as he opened it she watched his face, waiting for the smile that never came. Instead he went to the front door, opened it, and came back with a dozen red roses and a card.

‘You could look more pleased about it,’ she said, and went to serve the dinner, which they ate in silence until he said,

‘I am pleased. Of course I’m pleased. I’m just worried how we’ll afford it.’

‘I’ll get a job.’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t want you working.’

‘Well, I’ll take in sewing, then. We’ll manage.’

By the end of the meal he’d slipped into a sullen, spiky silence, which, when she prodded it, flared up till he was pushing her against the wall and knocking his fist against her skull. Half an hour later, after his tears and apologies, they were sweeping the plates off the table in their haste to couple. And that became the pattern. A beating, then his remorse, followed by her forgiveness. Followed by sex. Over the next four years they became trapped in this crazy, predictable cycle. And if she’d thought starting a family would calm Pete down she was sorely mistaken; if anything, it made things worse. A year after Hannah came Paul, and she doted on them, giving them all the love she had to give. Whenever she asked Pete to help with the children he’d say, ‘You wanted them; you take care of them. I work to keep them clothed and fed,’ before storming out. He found reasons to stay away from home, coming in drunk and arguing, waking up the children, flying into violent rages that left her bruised inside and out. Her life took on a shape she could barely recognise. Treading on eggshells and dodging bullets.

She thought of leaving him many times, usually after a fight, full of rage and frustration and aching from his punches. But she had nowhere to go, and no money, nor any way of getting any, and no one to turn to. She would fall asleep resolving to leave in the morning, but when she woke up she’d always changed her mind. By then she was no longer angry; he would’ve apologised, saying she’d made him do it but begging for
forgiveness, telling her how much he needed and loved her, promising to change. And she would forgive him, time and time again.

Yet with each blow her love for him diminished. She would say she loved him but she felt it less and less.

By the time she fell pregnant with Jason, they were living in Mid Glamorgan, and the violence had become more frequent, and Grace more adept at hiding the bruises. When she told him about the baby he insisted she get rid of it, but she wouldn’t.

Four months into the pregnancy, Pete received a posting to Malaysia and suggested she stay behind until the child was born. It would be easier, he said. She moved back in with her parents in Manchester and the night before he left, in the heat of another row, he pushed her downstairs. Two broken ribs and a fractured left wrist… but at least she didn’t lose the baby. She told her parents and the doctor she had fallen.

Fallen for the wrong man.

To be free of that, for a while at least, seemed like bliss. She was grateful for the respite from Pete’s violence. His absence brought a calm to her life she cherished. Yet at the same time the countdown had begun – the countdown to that day when she would have to join him on the other side of the world, in a strange place where she knew no one but him. So, while she had loved being pregnant with Hannah and Paul, she hated being pregnant with Jason; each day he grew inside her brought her nearer to Pete.

The one time she tried telling her mother about the violence, her response was, ‘There are things that go on between a husband and wife that are nobody else’s business. Sometimes marriage is hard.’

THE SOUND OF
the television announces Gordon’s arrival, its volume loud enough to shatter her reverie. She pulls the duvet from her face and slowly hauls herself to the sore, cramped daylight at the other end of the boat, still caught in the cobwebs of another realm.

‘How was the allotment?’ Gordon says.

‘I didn’t go; went back to bed.’

She checks the clock on the wall. 12.36. The passage of time it marks means nothing to her. The outside world keeps track in a way the inner world refuses to. She feels jetlagged from navigating these two time zones.

‘Are you ill?’ he says.

‘I just didn’t feel too brilliant. I’m a bit better now.’

‘I was hoping you’d have brought some veg back.’

After lunch, he leaves again and Grace goes into the bedroom and opens the wardrobe, taking out a cardboard box with the words ‘Hannah’s Things’ written on the side. Most of Hannah’s belongings went to charity shops: the records and the books that meant nothing to Grace; all of the clothes and shoes. But a few, carefully chosen items went into the box. Her Hannah shrine. An archive unopened all this time. Over a quarter of a century.

Grace carries the box from the bedroom and sits in front of the dead eye of the television screen. She removes the diaries, which date from 1976 to 1978, covering the ages of thirteen and a half to sixteen, and the later journal, that were among Hannah’s things when she died. Looking at them now, Grace conjures the stories they contain, which escape into the room like smoke to form the shape of a girl who tells as best she
can the sum of her time here. Even the diaries themselves seem to map the trajectory of Hannah’s descent, the first two covered in pink and blue floral patterns, each with a small gold lock and little matching boxes; the third grey; the journal a black, unlined exercise book, the entries random but nearly always dated.

She pictures the blonde beauty of Hannah aged eleven or twelve, and then the vision of her just before she left home for good, her hair dyed bright red and her face ghostly white, black eyes and purple lips, clothed head to toe in black. By that time, all Grace had wanted was for Hannah to like her again, enough to want to spend some time with her, to say ‘I love you, Mum,’ as she had when she was a child. Knowing that was never going to happen cut deep, with a finality that still wounds.