Collected Stories (22 page)

“Father says you don’t exist, but are only a time image of someone who lived here years and years ago. That’s nonsense. I could not fall in love with a shadow or dream about a patch of colored air.”

“Julia.” Mother was standing in the doorway and her voice held an angry, fearful tone. “Julia, come here at once.”

Reluctantly she rose and left Mr. Miss-One to his ghostly gardening, willing herself not to look back. Mother slapped her bare arm, a punishment that had been applied in childhood.

“I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you’re not to go near that—that thing. It’s not healthy. It ought to be exercised or something.”

“Exorcised,” Julia corrected.

“And don’t answer me back. I think sometimes, you’re a little mad. Go to your room and don’t come down until I say so.”

From her bedroom window, Julia watched Mr. Miss-One. He was pushing a ghostly lawnmower over the lawn, limping laboriously in its wake, seemingly oblivious that no grass leaped into the box, that the whirling blades made no sound.

“I expect he was killed in a war,” Julia thought as he disappeared behind a rhododendron bush. She waited for him to reappear but the garden remained empty, and when, presently, the setting sun sent long tree shadows across the grass, she knew, for the time being at least, the play was over.

“I thought we might run down to the coast today,” Father announced over the breakfast table.

“Good idea.” Mother nodded her agreement. “Julia, sit up, child, don’t slouch.”

“Listen to your mother,” Father advised. “Yes, a breath of sea air will do us all good. Brian will enjoy it, won’t you old fellow?”

“Yes.” Brian nodded vigorously. “Throw stones at seagulls.”

Both fond parents laughed softly and Mother admonished gently, “You mustn’t throw stones at dickybirds.”

“Why?”

“Because…” For once Mother seemed lost for an explanation and it was left to Father to express an opinion.

“Because it’s not nice.”

“We won’t go,” Julia thought. “We never go. Something will happen to stop us.”

But preparations went on after breakfast. Mother packed a hamper and Brian produced a colored bucket and wooden spade from the attic, while Julia was instructed to brighten up and look cheerful for a change.

“Maybe we will go this time,” she whispered, putting on her best summer dress with polkadots. “Perhaps nothing will happen to stop us.”

The feeling of optimism grew as the entire family walked around the house to the garage, Father carrying the hamper, Mother fanning herself with a silk handkerchief, and Brian kicking the loose gravel. Father opened the garage door, took one step forward, then stopped.

“Damnation hell,” he swore. “This really is too much.”

Mr. Miss-One was cleaning the car.

A bright yellow duster whisked over the dust that remained undisturbed. White liquid from a green tin was sprayed onto the hood but somehow never reached its surface. Mr. Miss-One rubbed the chromework vigorously, but there was no sign that his labor was to be rewarded. The dull bloom persisted, and at times he appeared to be polishing the empty space on either side of die hood, thereby suggesting to Julia’s watchful eye that another and much larger car was the object of his ministrations.

“What the hell do we do?” asked Father.

“Well,” Mother backed away. “I, for one, am staying at home. Nothing on earth will get me in that car. Heavens above, he might come with us.”

“We shouldn’t allow it to dominate our lives,” Father protested but without much conviction. “I mean to say, it’s only a damn time image. Doesn’t really exist, you know.”

“Thank you very much, but it’s got too much life for me.” Mother began to walk back toward the house. “Honestly, if you were any sort of man, you would get rid of it.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Father was almost running to keep up with her. “I can’t kick it; there’s nothing solid for me to get to grips with. I do think, my dear, you’re being a little unreasonable.”

Mother grunted, fanning herself vigorously, then she turned on Julia.

“It’s all your fault. You encourage it.”

“I...” Julia tried to defend herself, but a sense of guilt paralyzed her tongue.

“You ought to be ashamed.” Father glared, wiping his forehead with his top-pocket, never-to-be-used handkerchief. “You’ve no right to encourage it. Spoiling our day out, upsetting your mother, and depriving your little brother of good sea air.”

Mother flopped down into a deck chair, where she continued to wave her handkerchief back and forth.

“Yesterday evening I caught her at it. Talking to it, she was. Lying there on the grass, and talking to it. She’s mad. Heavens above knows who she takes after. Certainly my family were sane enough. I don’t know what’s to become of us.”

“We could move,” Father suggested.

“And to where?” Mother sat up and put away her handkerchief. “Who would buy a house with a ghost—an active ghost? And where would we get another house that’s so secluded and off the beaten track? You know I must have solitude, peace, and quiet.”

“Perhaps it will go away,” Father said after a short silence. “They do, you know. The atmosphere sort of dispels after a bit.”

“Not while that girl encourages it,” Mother stated. “Not while she moons around it, like a lovesick puppy.”

“Keep away from it,” warned Father.

Brian punched her thigh with his small fist.

“Keep away from it.”

Days passed without an appearance from Mr. Miss-One. Julia wondered if her Mother’s anger had built a wall through which he could not pass, and mourned for him, as though for a loved friend who had recently died. Sometimes, when she escaped from the vigilance of her parents, she went looking for him; roamed the garden, or suddenly opened a door, hoping to see him leaning against the mantelpiece, or lounging in a chair. But he had become a shadow that flees before sunlight. Even Father commented on his nonappearance.

“Six days now, and we haven’t seen hair or hide of it. What did I tell you? The atmosphere dispelled.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Mother snapped. “Atmosphere indeed. Lack of encouragement, more likely. I’ve been keeping an eye on someone I could touch with a very small stick.”

Three pairs of eyes were turned in Julia’s direction and she blushed. Brian kicked her ankle under the table.

“Keep away from it.”

“I am of the opinion,” Mother went on, “that he must have been a bad character. I mean to say, respectable people don’t go haunting places after they’re dead. They go to wherever they’re supposed to go, and don’t keep traipsing about, making a nuisance of themselves. He probably murdered someone and can’t rest.”

“No.”

All of Julia’s reticence, her lifelong submission to her parents’ opinions, disappeared in a flood of righteous anger. A part of her looked on and listened with profound astonishment to the torrent of words that poured out of her mouth.

“He was not bad. I know it. He was sad, and that’s why he walks... I know... I know... Perhaps once he was happy here, or maybe it is sadness that chains him to this house, but he’s not evil... he’s not... You’re bad, small, stupid... and you’ve driven him away... I’ll never forgive you... ever...”

Mother was so shocked that for a while she was incapable of speech. Father stared at the rebel with dilated eyes. Finally Mother’s tongue resumed its natural function.

“I always said the girl was mad, and at last I have proof. I feel quite faint. Heavens, did you see her eyes? Really, Henry, are you just going to sit there while she insults us? Do something.”

“What? Yes.” Father rose as though he were about to deliver a speech.

“That’s no way to talk to your parents, particularly your mother...”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mother pointed with dramatic emphasis toward the door. “Get out... go on... go to your room, and I don’t care if I never see your face again.”

But the earthquake was still erupting, and Julia shouted back, her brain a red cavern of pain.

“I hate you... hate... hate...”

Mother screamed and fell back in her chair, while Father so far forgot himself as to stamp his foot.

“How dare you speak to your mother like that? Go to your room.”

Remorse flooded her being and she craved forgiveness like a soul in torment.

“I didn’t mean it. Please...”

But Father had eyes and ears only for Mother, who was gasping and writhing in a most alarming fashion. Brian watched the ingrate with joyous excitement.

Julia ran to her room. She flung herself face down on the bed and sobbed soundlessly, her slender shoulders shaking, her long fingers clutching the bedclothes. Presently the storm abated and she became still. Her eyes opened and her sixth sense sent out invisible fingers. All at once—she knew.

She sat up and spun around. Mr. Miss-One was standing in the recess by the side of the fireplace. As usual he was busy, but it took some minutes for her to understand what he was doing. A hand drill! He appeared to be making holes in the wall, although of course the pink-flower-patterned wallpaper remained unmarked. Julia got up and walked cautiously toward him, joy blended with curiosity. He slipped little cylinders of fiber into the wall then drove screws into the invisible holes. Light illuminated the darkness of Julia’s ignorance.

“He’s fitting a bookshelf. How sweet.”

She moved a little nearer so as to observe his actions with more clarity. His face was a study in concentration. The teeth were clenched, the muscles round the mouth taut, and once, when the screwdriver slipped, the lips parted as though mouthing a silent curse. She spoke her thoughts aloud, even as a penitent unburdens his soul to an invisible priest.

“Mother is right. I shouldn’t be thinking of you all the time. Look at you, fixing a shelf that probably moldered away years ago. If only I could talk to you, hear your voice, most of all, make you realize I exist.”

Mr. Miss-One lifted the Formica-covered shelf and fitted it into position. It immediately disappeared but he continued to work, seemingly content that all was well.

“You are more real to me than Mother or Father and I feel I ought to tell you all manner of things. But there’s no point when you ignore me. Is there no way I can reach you?”

Mr. Miss-One took up a hammer and began to tap the wall. Julia moved one step nearer. She could see a small cut on his chin.

“You cut yourself shaving. How long ago did that happen? Ten... twenty... thirty years ago? Oh, you must know I am here. Can’t you feel something? A coldness—an awareness? Surely there must be something; a certainty that you are not alone; the urge to look back over one shoulder... Look at me... look... turn your head... you must... must...”

The hammer struck Mr. Miss-One’s thumb and he swore.

“Blast!”

The solitary word exploded across the room and shattered the silence, making Julia shrink back. She retreated to the opposite wall, pressed her shoulders against its unrelenting surface and watched him. He dropped the hammer which fell to the floor with a resounding crash, sucked the afflicted thumb, then stared in Julia’s direction. For a period of five seconds, he was a statue; a frozen effigy of a man; then his mouth popped open, the hand dropped away and his eyes were blue mirrors reflecting astonishment—disbelief—fear.

“You can see me!” Julia’s joyous cry rang out, and she took two steps forward to find he had vanished. Man, hammer, plus the assortment of tools, disappeared and Julia was left banging her fist against the recess wall. Her voice rang out in a shriek of despair.

“Why... why... ?”

Mother, Father, even the carefully tutored Brian, treated her to the silence reserved for the outcast. Some speech was unavoidable, but this was delivered in ice-coated voices with impeccable politeness.

“Will you kindly pass the salt,” Mother requested on one occasion, “if it is not too much trouble.”

Father appeared to be applying the sanctions with some reluctance but he was forced to obey a higher authority.

“More tea... ?” His hand was on the teapot, then he remembered his ordained line of conduct and pushed it toward her. “Help yourself.”

Brian was more direct.

“I mustn’t talk to you.”

This isolationist treatment created comfort when it was designed to produce misery. She was no longer the target for admonishing barbs, corrective slaps, or stinging words. She could fidget, sulk, slouch, or spend hours in her room without a single rebuke, although on occasion Mother was clearly sorely provoked, and once or twice her silence policy almost collapsed.

Free from supervision she was able to continue her pursuit of Mr. Miss-One, but once again he seemed to have gone into hiding. The hum and roar of speeding cars drifted across the sleeping meadows. The roar of an overhead jet could be heard above the wind in the trees. Yet the living had no place in Julia’s heart, or for that matter, in any place in the house or garden.

Of late a dream had taken root in her imagination. Now it dominated her waking and sleeping life. The seed had first been sown when she saw Mr. Miss-One cleaning his car.

“Suppose,” whispered her imagination, “you were to get into the car and let Mr. Miss-One drive you out into the world. Let him rescue you, carry you off, and never—never come back.”

The voice of reason, a nasty, insinuating whisper, interrupted with, “But he is dead. A ghost.”

Reason was hoist by its own petard.

“If he is dead—if he is a ghost, then there is only one way in which I can join him.”

The twin daggers of shock and horror became blunt as the dream grew. It was the solution to all problems, the key to open the door to Mr. Miss-One. She began to consider ways and means.

Poison! She had no means of obtaining any. Cut her throat? Slash her wrists? She shied from such grim prospects like a horse from a snake. Rope—hanging? That would be easy and should not be too painful. There was a length of plastic clothesline in the garage and a convenient beam. If she jumped from the car roof, the leap would be completed in the space of a single heartbeat. It was all so very simple and Julia wondered why she had not thought of it before.