Half Life (4 page)

“
No.  I don
’
t want to offend you but you
’
re not very scary.  Apart from the footsteps on the stairs thing, that was creepy but once I knew it was you I wasn
’
t afraid anymore.
”

I
’
m rendered speechless.  She releases my arm and I
’
m disappointed.  It had been nice to feel living warmth again.

“
We need to discuss our living situation,
”
she says. 
“
It can
’
t go on like this.  Why are you being so mean to me?
”

Her forthrightness makes me ashamed of my behaviour, which suddenly seems petty and childish.

“
Sorry about that but you have to understand, I created this house and it
’
s so hard seeing strangers march in here and take it over.  At first I didn
’
t mind you too much, then I saw that sculpture.
”

“
I can understand that,
”
she says kindly. 
“
But I really love this house, I
’
m happy here and after the year I
’
ve had you can
’
t know how much that means to me.  Do you think you could learn to tolerate my presence?
”

She asks so sweetly and it
’
s so pleasant having someone to talk to that I acquiesce at once.

“
I suppose I could.  It will take some getting used to though.  I
’
ve been alone for so long.
”

“
Why are you still here?
”
she asks gently but probingly, the journalist in her coming to the fore. 
“
You do know what year it is, don
’
t you?
”

“
Yes, twenty twelve and I don
’
t know,
”
I say, looking at the floor.

Kate sees I
’
m uncomfortable so she moves swiftly on. 
“
So, we
’
re going to try and live with each other?
”

“
Why not.  Let
’
s give it a go.
”

She smiles and nods.  I wait for her to finish making a cup of tea before following her back into the sitting room.

“
So,
”
she begins, taking a seat on the couch,
“
if we
’
re to live together I need to know a little about you.  I
’
m not the type of woman to shack up with strange men.
”

“
What
’
s to know?
”
I sigh. 
“
I
’
m here all the time.  Alone.  End of story.
”

“
You can
’
t leave this house?
”

“
I can go out into the garden but no further than that.  It takes a tremendous amount of energy.
”

“
That
’
s awful but I meant tell me about your life.  What was it like here in the late eighteen hundreds?
”

Eagerly I launch into a description of my time, which has remained very vivid in my mind.  She seems genuinely interested and questions me relentlessly.  I talk for so long that I feel quite drained by the time I
’
ve finished.

“
I love history,
”
she enthuses,
“
and the Victorian era is particularly fascinating.
”

I can see in her eyes that she
’
s itching to ask me about my death and the afterlife but sensing now is not the time she
’
s attempting to contain herself.  I
’
m glad because I
’
m so tired and have no wish to discuss it.  With a sigh I sink back into the sofa and I see her eyes widen.

“
What
’
s wrong?
”
I say.

“
You
’
re fading.  I can practically see through you.  And when you sat on the couch it sank down beneath you.  Now the cushion is plumped up as though there
’
s no weight on it.
”

“
Not to worry,
”
I murmur. 
“
I
’
m just a little tired.  After a rest I
’
ll be right as rain.
”

“
Oh good.  Well if you don
’
t mind, while you rest I
’
ll watch some television.  My favourite programme
’
s about to start.
”

“
By all means.
”

Normally I despise the talking box but I
’
m so exhausted I
’
m left with little choice but to watch and find myself drawn into a rather compelling story.  It
’
s what people today call a
‘
soap opera
’
and this one revolves around the residents of a particular street in an English town.  I remain riveted all the way through it and by the end I
’
m thoroughly restored.

“
I knew that man with the moustache was the father of that blond girl
’
s baby,
”
I say.

“
I didn
’
t.  I thought it was the man with the black hair,
”
she smiles.

I beam back at my companion.  That
’
s a nice word for her.  Not trespasser but companion.  Suddenly my half life isn
’
t so bleak.

“
I don
’
t watch much television,
”
she says. 
“
Mainly the news and documentaries.  I prefer to read.
”

“
Who
’
s your favourite author?
”

“
I like the classics.  Henry James, Dumas, the Brontes, Poe, Oscar Wilde, Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
”

“
Me too,
”
I smile. 
“
Although I
’
m not familiar with the last two.
”

We discuss literature at length, after which it
’
s late and we
’
re both tired.

“
I
’
ll think I
’
ll go to bed,
”
she says, rising and stretching. 
“
You seem too good to be true Thomas Galbraith.  Are you real or am I losing my mind?
”

“
I
’
m as real as a ghost can be and please, call me Tom.
”

“
I will.  Goodnight Tom.
”

“
Goodnight Kate.
”

Surprisingly enough we quickly settle into a comfortable routine.  I even learn how to make her a cup of her adored tea after observing her for a few days.  My first attempt was a disaster.  As tea leaves were used in my day I put dried herbs in the mug instead and Kate gagged when she took a sip.  Once she
’
d stopped laughing she showed me where she keeps those funny little bags, which admittedly are much more convenient.

We chat while she has breakfast then I wait in the house until she returns home.  Kate
’
s given me permission to look through her books and it
’
s nice having something to occupy my mind.  Then she returns and we talk about our day, hers being much more interesting than mine.  She
’
s writing freelance for a major magazine, which she
’
s enjoying because it
’
s not as highly pressured as her old job and she has much more freedom.  Sometimes her work means she has to spend the odd night away from home and I confess I miss her terribly.  Without her the house is cold and silent, how it was before she came.  I also find that when she
’
s not here I
’
m not as substantial, less able to have any effect on the physical world.  This has never happened before and I worry what would happen to me should she decide to leave.  After knowing friendship again the thought of being alone again is daunting.

Once Kate
’
s eaten her evening meal we settle down in front of the television to watch our favourite show, which I
’
m quite addicted to.  I know the name of every character in it now and their history.  Then she turns the television off and we talk or read in companionable silence until she retires to bed. 

Sometimes the garish Sally will burst in, often accompanied by her husband Simon, disrupting our harmony and I stay out of the way.  Kate has requested I don
’
t frighten her friend again and I respect her wish but Sally still looks about herself nervously whenever she
’
s here, jumping at imagined noises  The next morning our cosy little routine is repeated and I admit I enjoy it.  Kate
’
s mother Georgia is a frequent visitor too, her father having died when she was a teenager.  I don
’
t mind her so much.  She has the same quiet dignity about her that Kate has so when she visits I simply leave them alone to talk.  Often I go upstairs to gaze out at the sea, which is clearly visible from the back of the house.  This view is why I chose to build this house here and when I was alive I would go down to the beach there almost every day to sit quietly and think.  It just breaks my heart that I can now only look upon it from a window.

“
I
’
m taking a walk down to the beach,
”
Kate says one Sunday morning. 
“
Want to come?
”

“
I can
’
t.  I don
’
t have the energy to go so far.  It was one of my favourite places too,
”
I end sadly.

“
Could you take some energy from me?
”

I
’
m amazed by her generosity. 
“
That is very good of you but it would make you very tired.
”

“
As long as you leave me enough to get back to the house I don
’
t mind.  I
’
ve nothing planned for today anyway.
”

“
Are you certain?
”

“
Absolutely.  Come on.
”

We walk out into the garden and the heavenly sound of the sea drifts towards us.  As we approach the boundary marking the edge of the garden I feel myself weaken.  Looking down at my hands I
’
m almost transparent.

“
Here,
”
she says, taking my hand and instantly I feel stronger. 

We leave the garden and reach the steps leading down to the beach and I stare at the sea below, so excited I feel like a boy again.  The gentle break of the waves on the shore is music to my ears.

“
I never thought I
’
d come here again,
”
I say, awestruck.

“
Yes, it is very beautiful,
”
she replies quietly.

We descend the steps, lay out the picnic blanket on the sand and sit beside one another.  We
’
re still holding hands; I daren
’
t let go even for a moment for fear of what will happen and not all the excitement I
’
m feeling is due to the close proximity of the water.

“
Thank you Kate.  You can
’
t know what this means to me.
”

“
You
’
re welcome,
”
she smiles.