I GO HOME IN THE GROWING MORNING LIGHT AND I wonder about going home to Edinburgh. Mum said that there would always be space for me if I needed it. But Stanley might still need me, too. I should be where I can be found.
Aberlady will be waking up and if I am not quick on my feet, Miss Baxter will be meeting me at the door. I could tell her that ghosts kidnapped me. Or scared me off? I should never have mentioned ghosts.
My mother believes in ghosts. More or less. She believes that the self continues after death, not in some vague paradise far removed, but here among us.
‘If they choose. Some must choose other places. Hilltops, woodlands. Or far out to sea. Places where you cannot live with a body, but without perhaps you might.’
She told me this at night when I was small. I’d woken afraid, the new cot in the corner casting strange shadows on the wall and the baby fretting. Mum came through to settle us both, and all I could say was ghosties. ‘Nothing to be afraid of, pet. They’re just real, like you. Only they’ve finished with their bodies. Must be grand, don’t you think? I wonder where we might go. Up on a mountain? I’d like to be up in the air like that. Near the eagles. I’ve never seen an eagle. I think I’d like to.’
‘But what about heaven? Mummy?’
‘Oh, it comes later, doesn’t it? On the Last Day. That’s when the graves will break open and the Judgement comes. Heaven will start after that. Isn’t that what the minister says? I’ll let him worry about the details. It’s the bit that comes first I’ll look forward to. Give this old body a rest and turn away for a while.’
She told me she’d seen a ghost once, not long after she was married. She meant to soothe me, I’m sure. She said she had been thirsty and my father sleeping soundly, so she left the lamp unlit and stepped carefully through to the kitchen where she found a woman standing by the window. It was a thin white woman standing so still with her open hand pressed flat against the glass, leaving no trace. My mother startled and stepped back, the floorboard sounding behind her as she found her balance. She thought she must have mistaken her own reflection. Just a trick of the light against the glass. She smiled at her folly and waved but the image remained fixed. Then she understood. ‘Quietly, you know. Like she was something I already knew but just realized or remembered. Nothing to be frightened by. Not really.’
My mother left the kitchen without turning away, then went back down the hall and climbed into bed again, still thirsty.
Night after night, the thin woman came back. My mother lay in bed, listening to her sighs. Later, she was braver and would go and sit with her for a lonely hour in the night. ‘Not reaching out or saying anything, you understand. Just sitting in the moonlight together. I always thought she looked as if she were gazing out to sea. Not that you could see it through that window. There are trees and flats and half of Marchmont in the way, and then the castle and the rest of the city, but beyond that, the sea. I knew it was there and I felt she did, too. Who knows what the dead can see. And I did wonder if she might prefer to be out there, really. Out by the sea with the white waves and the wind.’
Remembering it now, this story feels different. As a child, I was fascinated by the ghost’s hand on the window, the thought of watching together in the moonlight. Now, I think of my mother climbing back into bed where it would be warm, where her husband was heavy, his breath steady and maybe he turned in his sleep or perhaps he woke, drawing her cold body close, the sheets warm and safe.
My parents moved from that flat two years later in the summer my sister was born. My mother made a point of leaving a gift for the ghost on the window sill. A small pebble, sea-smooth and grey. Just in case.
Back inside the rented house, I kick off my shoes, shrug off my coat, lie down and sleep without deciding, without dreams.
There are birds arguing with the sun before I open my eyes. They must be over the road in the kirkyard’s yew trees. I roll over and the pillow is cold, the room too sudden. I wonder how long I’ve slept and then I wonder about Stanley, and then about the soldier who took the case. What an idiot I was. What would he do to help? Probably pilfer the socks and the jar of jam. Leave the case sprung open in the dunes. Stanley might even find it out there and figure out my idiocy. Not even worth coming home to. But that was it, wasn’t it? He hadn’t come home to me. He’d just come home. Frightened and running, back to the place he knew. Pulled to the old landscape and the stones. Like gravity.
Next door, a window crashes open and the birds take flight with loud, abrasive cries. I push back the blanket and step into the day, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. In the kitchen, I drink a glass of water. There are mouse droppings on the floor and Stanley’s chair is pushed in slant against the table. I wish he’d left me that mussel shell he told me about. The one the rook brought him. I’d carry it about in my pocket all day, hidden and blue like a bruise.
Towards the end of the month, Muriel comes round again. I hear her whistle outside, then her syncopated knock on the door.
‘You okay, hinny?’ she calls. ‘Yoo-hoo!’
‘I’m coming. Hold your horses.’
She stands on the doorstep, hands in pockets, not quite smiling. ‘I was right. You do look bleak. Mum says to give you space, but there’s space and then there’s neglect. And I had the feeling something was wrong. Are you poorly?’
‘No. Yes. Not right, anyway.’ I step back and let her in; her heavy shoes weigh down the carpet as she walks through to the kitchen. ‘You hungry?’
‘That’s not the point. Mum says to bring you round for tea, if that’s what you fancy, but I wondered if the films might be a better solution. Get you out of a funk, perhaps?’
‘I don’t have money for the films.’
‘Me neither. But Mum slipped me a little for the cause and I’m sure we can find someone to smile at for a couple of choc ices.’
‘Getting a bit chilly for that now.’
‘Smiling or choc ices? It’s never too chilly in Haddington. We’ll be fine.’
It would take too much energy to say no to Muriel, so I let her sweep me up and bustle me off. I’m slow to gather a cardigan, slow to finger the buttons through the right holes, not wanting to shake. Muriel takes a scarf from the dressing table and ties it over my hair, gently tucking in the stray ends. I try not to notice or I might just cry, but she’s all businesslike and jolly and makes sure I have the house key in my pocket so I can come home again.
Outside, there are two bicycles propped against the wall. Hers is a rusty old man’s bike her father cobbled together from bits. She’s borrowed Connie’s bike for me so I’ll ride in comfort, all good leather handles and a wide basket buckled on the front.
Out past the dog-leg in the high street, we set our backs to the sea and cycle inland past the fields and down the long road Stanley walked to get home in the dark. Muriel keeps the pace up, throwing the odd glance over her shoulder to encourage me along the way and chattering about the films.
‘There’s no point holding out for hope and high drama, I’m afraid. Mostly Laurel and Hardy these days to keep the spirits up.’
‘Well, here’s another nice kettle of fish you’ve pickled me in.’
‘You didn’t strike me as a fan.’
‘I pick up things,’ I say. ‘I’m curious.’
‘I always like the bit when Laurel makes his fist into a pipe and lights it with his thumb. A bit of good magic, don’t you think? We could all use a little of that.’
After that we cycle in silence, the cold air catching my breath and my eyes beginning to run. Ah well, let them. The sun is bright in the fields and it’s a brisk wind, but I’ve a clean handkerchief to tidy with at the end of the road.
Coming onto the high street in Haddington, Muriel swings a leg over her bicycle frame to balance a moment on the pedal before she steps down onto the road. I brake and hop down, too, jolted and out of breath.
‘You can’t let me forget about brambles,’ she said. ‘Mum’s been dropping heavy hints about some likely bushes down by the river. I must remember to go and take a look for her. And I’m to tell you that Rosie’s due for slaughter next week so there’ll be sausages for you, if you like.’
She props her bike against the stone wall by the church and rakes her fingers through her hair. ‘Anyone you know?’
She’s caught me scanning the street. Maybe I’m looking for Stanley. Maybe I’m just looking. There’s such a number of people walking up and down and it feels like ages since I’ve been in a proper crowd. ‘Not a soul. You?’
‘We’ll have better luck by the picture house, I should think. There’s always someone there to chat with.’
* * *
The picture house isn’t plush like the one in Morningside. No stained-glass peacock or Art Deco tower here. Inside, there are dozens of soldiers in the seats, mostly uniformed but you’d know anyway because anyone from a farm would be outside on a day like today. The weather is turning, but it hasn’t turned yet. Some of the soldiers have girls with them, East Lothian sophisticates, but mostly it’s just men. There are children, too, and five years ago, they would be clutching paper bags of sweeties, their mouths sugar-crammed and sticky, but not now. A few have carrot candy, instead, and they suck on it for a turn, then pass it down the line, all through the newsreel. Aeroplanes over London and footage of the streets. Churchill’s Few are praised and he’s playing Prince Hal for all he’s worth these days, but it seems to work. The soldiers clap and cheer, and the air feels thick with courage and the floor under my shoes is sticky. I can’t stop thinking about Stanley, that look in his eyes and then what he said about hosing out the plane. They don’t show that on the newsreels, do they? I’m on my feet before I know it, pushing past Muriel and out to the door, but I make it, just make it out to the street before I’m sick over the railing. The laughter of children, then the street is quiet, but I’m shaking and the tears come, too. I’m glad Muriel had fixed my hair, that it is out of the way, that I didn’t have any damned mascara to wear. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and try to stop shaking. There’s a hand on my back now, which must be Muriel, but when my breath returns and I can open my eyes, I see that it isn’t. It’s that blond soldier and he’s passing me a handkerchief.
‘Thank you.’ I straighten and turn away from the railing, holding the folded cloth in my hands. ‘I—’
‘Yes,’ he interrupts, then smiles. ‘You are welcome. It is for your eyes. The handkerchief.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ I dab them with the cool cloth, and Muriel is through the door now, her voice loud and warm. ‘Goodness, Jane, that was dramatic. Must have been all the sun and cycling that did it. A first-class case of the collywobbles. How are you doing, duck?’
‘Wobbled,’ I say. ‘Glad to have got outside in time.’
‘It’s so warm in there, isn’t it? And the smell of all those men. That can’t have helped. You look absolutely grey.’
‘I’ll be fine. Really. I just need some air. I’ll come right in a minute.’
The soldier cleared his throat. ‘Some water to drink, perhaps?’
Muriel turns to see him and then she grins. ‘Izaak! Always the ideal gentleman. Jane, you picked the best rescuer of them all. Izaak is a real brick. The brickiest.’ She puts an arm around me and gives me a squeeze.
‘I think she might need a cup of tea.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like that. And I think I should probably sit down.’
They walk me down to the Italian chippy and find me a seat. I pass Muriel my purse so that she can pay for tea for three. As she steps up to the counter, Izaak leans towards me across the table, his voice soft and subtle.
‘We will talk later,’ he says. ‘About Stanley. Trust me.’
‘Did you find him? Did you give him the suitcase?’
‘Later. Not now.’
My face warms and I hear Muriel laughing at the counter, the woman there saying something and laughter again, but when she comes back to the table, she hands me a cup and looks at me oddly and I only look at the tea. It is weak, naturally, but lovely to know that my ration at home isn’t reduced by this cup. I sip slowly, and when I look up, Izaak meets my eye, smiling. Then he smiles at Muriel.
‘I wondered if you two ladies might know each other.’
‘I hadn’t realized you had met,’ she says.
‘Yes. We were out walking near the shore. I had to turn her away.’
‘I was getting too close to the defence lines. Twice.’
‘The area was closed to civilians.’
‘But it is safe, isn’t it? The shore, I mean. I … I wouldn’t have been blown up.’
‘Perhaps not. But you might have spooked the boys in the pillboxes. They are doing their best to keep a good eye on the coast. Best to stay away. As I said before, people shouldn’t be out there, no matter how pleasant it seems.’
Muriel digs in her pockets for a pack of cigarettes. ‘Jane, you are perfectly peaky. You should have said something. If you had, I never would have dragged you out here.’
‘How are you feeling now?’ Izaak asks.
‘I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.’
Izaak excuses himself and steps outside, saying he’s sure he will see us both later. Muriel grabs a menu and looks it up and down, chattering on about the lovely grub they do here, and I drink my tea.
‘Look,’ she says, suddenly. ‘There’s a dance coming up. Do you want to go? I need someone to go with.’
‘Won’t Izaak be going?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Haven’t a clue. I wish you wouldn’t tease.’
‘I’m not. I … No, I don’t think I could. Not without Stanley.’
‘Oh, it’ll be fine, really. He’s sure to be off dancing, too. Everyone is these days. Really, it’s a matter of morale. Civic duty to keep cheerful, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m sure there will be masses of people. Air Force and Poles and everybody. Lots of farm workers, too. And land girls. I’ve got half a fancy to sign up for that game myself. Listen, if I do, you could take over my garden, couldn’t you? That would be just the ticket. Rosie’s time’s up, but there might be another pig and Mum could help you out. Then I could go, and I wouldn’t be leaving anyone in the lurch. And you’d have work. Cure the waiting blues in no time at all. That’s all it is, isn’t it? You missing him?’
‘How did we get from let’s-go-to-a-dance to look-after-my-pig-and-potatoes-won’t-you? Muriel, you could talk anyone into anything.’
‘Part of my charm. Anyway, the dance is Saturday night. You’ll be feeling better by then, I should think. We could get the bus up and walk home again together, no bother. Take your mind from your troubles. Dance for victory and all that.’
‘I can barely get my mind around my shoelaces.’
‘I’ll come round your house to help you. The dance won’t start until ten, but it should keep going until two at least, if it’s a good band. They even muster midnight sandwiches sometimes. The Polish families bring them along. Call them sausage, but it’s only spread and rabbit from the dunes. Tasty as anything, though, especially with all the dancing. How are you feeling now? Still peely-wally? I think the tea’s brought back your colour. You ready for a choc ice?’
‘Not on your nelly.’
I say I’ll take a bus home and Muriel says she’ll come too, but I remind her about the bicycles. I ask if she thinks Izaak might be able to ride Connie’s bike home for me? That will give them a long time together to smooth things through. Muriel grins and squeezes my arm.
‘Might be for the best, really,’ she says. ‘Wouldn’t want you to have a wobble on the way back and end up in a ditch somewhere.’
She leaves me at the bus stop and says she’ll come round to check on me in the morning. All the way back to Aberlady, I watch the ditches and the hedgerows and worry about Stanley’s suitcase.