The Hungry Ghosts

My voice might be weaker but still it cries, ‘I am not ready yet. Not yet.’

Then one day the children come. Among them is Alice.

Ingrid—2003 (#ulink_39bcfdae-470a-5df9-b2b0-70747823fb13)

The one person you can reliably guarantee will be missing from a funeral is the deceased. Then why, at the funeral of Ralph Safford, did I have the distinct impression that two people were missing? I suppose that my charge, Lucy Holiday, the deceased’s sister, was largely responsible. I had been employed as a carer for Lucy for several years now. Childless, widowed, in her eightieth year and in fragile health, Lucy defied expectations, clinging tenaciously onto life. On the day of her brother’s funeral, Lucy, with her wisp of wild, white hair, and bright, periwinkle-blue eyes, was enjoying a rare moment of lucidity. She sat in her wheelchair alongside the pew-end, humming tunelessly to all the hymns, her eyes darting around the congregation, and alighting first on one face then another.

At length, she gestured for me to lean closer, and closer still, then whispered in my ear in her scratchy-record voice, ‘Ingrid, where is Alice?’

To which I naturally replied, ‘Who is Alice?’

She fidgeted with the fabric of her black polyester dress, and rubbed her matchstick legs before answering, and so long was she that I couldn’t help wondering if I’d lost her again.‘Alice is my niece,’ she said at last, on a rising note of triumph.

‘The daughter of your brother Ralph?’ I sought confirmation.

Lucy nodded her affirmation. I was puzzled. As far as I knew, Ralph Safford only had three children. I had met the family a few times since they settled in England four years ago. I recalled the first occasion being held at the Saffords’ home, Orchard House, at a party to celebrate their return from abroad. Besides this, Lucy had spoken of them, if not often, certainly enough for me to be well acquainted with their names. Jillian was the eldest, and Nicola the middle child, while Harry was the baby of the family. But of this ‘Alice’, up to now I had heard nothing. With Lucy’s customary fits and starts, I had also gleaned a little of the deceased’s life, certainly enough to whet my appetite for more. Here, it seemed, was no ordinary man. Apparently Lucy’s brother and his family had lived overseas, in the then British Crown Colony of Hong Kong, where he had been employed by the government. ‘A high-ranking official,’ Lucy had confided to me with a knowing wink, on more than one occasion, often adding enigmatically, ‘In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.’ Quite what this meant I did not know. However, it only seemed to enhance the impression that Lucy’s brother had been out of the ordinary. Apparently too, the Saffords lived at one of the most enviable addresses at the summit of Victoria Peak. This, Lucy had explained, was the highest mountain on the island, and was known locally simply as ‘The Peak’. I had also discovered that Ralph and his wife Myrtle only returned to England a year or so after Hong Kong was handed back to China in 1997, though it seemed the children departed some time earlier. But of Alice, until today, there had been no mention. I was intrigued. However, the middle of a funeral service was neither the time nor the place to probe family history, unearthing who knew what skeletons. So when Lucy asked me yet again where Alice was, I did my best to bring the matter to a close for the present.

‘I expect she’s up at the front with Myrtle, your sister-in-law,’ I whispered. Then, without thinking, I added, ‘All three children are sitting alongside their mother.’ But to my relief Lucy gave another nod, and seemed satisfied.

The priest was offering up prayers now, and a bald patch on the crown of his head loomed somewhat indecently into sight. I could not help noticing that it was a surprising shade of mustard yellow, and gleamed dully with beads of perspiration.

I straightened up, and tried to concentrate on the proceedings once more.Though this was easier said than done, I thought, as the vicar’s nasal voice see-sawed on monotonously. But again Lucy beckoned me down to her, frantically flapping her crêpe-paper hand, freckled with age-spots, and roped with prominent, deep-blue veins.

‘Four,’ she said, and for a moment I was nonplussed.

‘Four?’ I repeated at a loss.

This time Lucy raised her cracked voice to its very limit. ‘Four,’ she huffed.And then,when I still looked blank,‘Four children.Ralph had four children.’ This last, she said so loudly that several heads turned to glare in our direction.

‘I’ll find out where she is later,’ I hissed, enunciating each word as clearly as I could, without causing further disturbance. Luckily at that moment the organ struck up, and though I could see Lucy was speaking again, her words were drowned out by a thunderous rendition of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

And to be honest as the service went on, and, it seemed, Lucy quietened down, I let her supposed concerns slip to the back of my mind. Naturally, with a job like mine, funerals have a way of cropping up regularly. But for the most part these occasions have the sting taken out of them. The death of an elderly person who has lived their life to the full is both inevitable and, in a way, a cause for gratitude.They have managed to reach the end of the game despite the many hazards life would have thrown in their path. Bearing this in mind, my primary concern as a carer for those of advanced years is that my patients make a good end. And yet…and yet, the more times I witness death, no matter how peaceful it is, the less comfortable I am with it.These days, I can’t help wondering if behind that pallid face, those fluttering breaths, that seemingly limp body, a tussle with death is playing out, fuelled by regrets, opportunities missed, words left unspoken, and last but not least, the indignity of it all.

But for now I abandoned this unsettling train of thought, and cast my eyes around the beautiful old Sussex church. I took in the small sober congregation, clad in their suitably melancholy outfits. These faces were, I noted, no different from the many others I had seen at past services, obviously more unsettled by this grim reminder of their own mortality than distraught with grief at the passing of another. The prickle on the back of the neck, the leaden sensation in the stomach, the feet squirming in their shoes, the longing to be outside filling your lungs with fresh air, the sudden shadow subduing the chirpiest of characters, these were not signs of sorrow, oh no, but of their own disquiet. Nor could I claim that I was exempt from such reflections. Sooner or later, the service, you knew, would be yours. And at sixty-two the ‘sooner’ undoubtedly applied to me.

Despite this, I let my eyes linger on Ralph Safford’s coffin, set to one side of the altar.There was no denying it made a fine spectacle, fashioned in a rosy mahogany, or at least the veneer of it, with flowers draped luxuriously over the lid. I picked out some of my favourites—fragrant lilies, golden roses with tight corollas of whorled petals, fluffy cream carnations, lacy lilac delphiniums, and strident white and yellow gerberas, all arranged in glorious sprays.The soft colours were echoed in the arrangements that were decked throughout the church. The magnificent stained-glass windows drew me too, weathered by time and changing seasons. The summer light, as it poured through them, was transmuted into magical colours, iridescent beams moving over the patina of old wood, transforming the wan faces of the mourners into something unearthly. For a while I became wholly absorbed in a particularly lovely pair of arched windows, depicting two cloaked women in lucent blues and purples and silvery greys.

Then my attention was drawn back to the service again. Nicola Safford was addressing the congregation, delivering a eulogy to her father. Impeccably dressed, she had shown no sign whatever of nerves, or indeed heartache, as she strode confidently up to the lectern.Then, like a consummate actress, she had paused, her eyes sweeping over the pews to ensure she had the full attention of her audience. Now, unsurprisingly, her delivery was flawless—word-perfect, in fact one might almost have said a little too well rehearsed. She spoke of the years of sublime happiness the family spent together in Hong Kong, of her father’s absolute devotion to his wife and his children, and of the invaluable contribution he had made on the island.

‘He was at the helm in good times and bad, serving his Queen and country without flinching. He faced the challenges of keeping the colony on an even keel throughout the period of unrest that culminated in the riots of 1967. With immense bravery he stood proud, in the front line. He defended the citizens of Hong Kong from the bloodthirsty insurgents who threatened the stability of the island. Under my father’s auspices order was restored. And for his exceptional contribution to his monarch,Queen Elizabeth the Second, and to the British government of the time, he was awarded the OBE, and made an Officer of the British Empire.’

I listened, rapt, as Nicola Safford’s clear, well-modulated voice, echoed off the stone walls of the thirteenth-century church, revealing yet more admirable facets to her father’s character. Finally softening her tone, lowering her gaze, and blinking back tears that very nearly convinced me, she spoke of the love she had for her father.

‘I was so grateful…grateful for the opportunity to demonstrate the veneration in which I held my father, grateful to be close to such a fine man, doing what little I could to ease his passage through those final years.’Her last words,delivered at a slower pace,the volume swelling, the pitch deeper, resonated like the closing chord of a great symphony. Nor do I think I imagined the slightly awkward moment that followed, in which the impulse to applaud had to be quelled by the mourners.

Nicola Safford’s address had certainly pushed Lucy’s perturbation to the back of my mind. But if I thought I had heard the end of Alice, I was mistaken. In fact it was just the beginning. Later, when the service had finished, and my charge and I joined the little queue, to pay our condolences to Myrtle Safford and the children, Lucy took up the same refrain. Where, she wanted to know, was Alice? She could see Harry, Jillian and Nicola, but surely Alice should be with them. It would have mattered to Ralph that his youngest daughter was here. Alice would have wanted to attend too. Even, more ominously, what had they done with her? There was no doubt about it, I had a Miss Marple kind of curiosity awakening inside me.

I soothed Lucy as best I could, easing her forwards in her chair and plumping up the cushions behind her, checking that she was comfortable. Then, as we neared Harry Safford, I promised her that I would make inquiries about Alice. I shook her nephew’s clammy hand, reminded him of my name, told him how sorry I was for his loss, how beautiful the flowers were, and how moved I had been by the service. This over, I had the distinct impression that Harry had already dismissed me from his mind. But once set in motion I am like an ocean liner: it takes considerable effort to stop me. I leaned in towards Harry, resolved not to move on until I had questioned him on behalf of my charge. I took a deep breath. Suddenly I felt nervous. How ridiculous, I told myself, as I sent out the first scout in search of Alice.

‘Your Aunt Lucy is feeling a bit anxious,’ I told him, pushing my rimless spectacles more firmly up my nose with a fingertip.‘She wants to know where your sister Alice is?’ Did I imagine it or was there a flicker of something in his cold, bluish-grey eyes. Recognition? Anger? Or perhaps even fear?

‘Alice?’ he queried with a dry little laugh.‘Really? Who is Alice?’ He placed crossed hands over his rotund belly, almost defensively.

‘Forgive me. I thought that Alice might be your sister,’ I explained. ‘Your Aunt Lucy seems convinced you have another sister. Alice?’

‘Well, my aunt is mistaken,’ Harry said curtly, looking at my charge with undisguised displeasure. He bent over the fragile form of Lucy and bellowed, ‘What rubbish are you talking now, Aunty, getting Ingrid all upset? Ralph would be ashamed of you making up such silly things.’ I detected, though subtle, a slightly lazy ‘r’ in his speech.

‘I’m not upset,’ I assured Harry Safford. ‘It’s just that your aunt seems so certain. She keeps saying that Alice should be here. She seems concerned that something may have happened to her.’ Harry arranged his features in an expression of extreme bafflement. But I was not to be so easily thwarted. I pointed my next words.‘To Alice I mean. That something may have prevented Alice from coming.’

‘What is all this nonsense, Aunt Lucy?’ Harry blustered, his face reddening, more with annoyance, I guessed, than embarrassment.

‘Why is Harry shouting at me?’ Lucy wanted to know, hunching further down in her chair. ‘I’m not deaf. But then he always was a bully.’

Now it was my turn to colour. The old, like the very young, do not screen their words, parcelling them up and sending them out in acceptable packages for this world to receive, as most of us do.

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised on behalf of Lucy. ‘She’s a bit tired, and probably a touch overwrought with the emotion of the day.’

‘It’s quite understandable,’ Harry said shortly, eyes unblinking, giving me a perfunctory smile. He turned away from us then towards his mother and sisters, ruffling back his short ash-grey hair in an impatient gesture.

‘It’s just that Lucy appears to be quite fractious about…well…about Alice you see,’ I persisted.

Reluctantly Harry turned back. But this time he recruited his sisters to add weight to his own voice.

‘Aunt Lucy has been bothering Ingrid with foolish stories about someone called Alice,’ he said, with the air of a parent whose tolerance is being pushed to its absolute limits. Again, I thought I saw a furtive glance pass between Nicola and Jillian.

Jillian, a large lady, whose considerable height was diminished by her width, gave a slight shiver before speaking. She tossed back her startling, shoulder-length red hair, greying at the roots. ‘Poor Aunt Lucy,’ she said at last. ‘She gets very muddled.’ She reached out a hand tentatively and touched her aunt’s bony shoulder. It was hard for me to read the expression in her flint-grey eyes, with her large, square-framed glasses reflecting back the bright sunshine at me. She did not, I observed, have her sister’s dress sense. The variation in shade, however slight, from the black tailored trousers, to the dark navy jacket, was disconcerting. Added to this, the jacket appeared rather snug and the trousers at least one size too large.

‘That’s right,’ Nicola chimed in, her tone liberally soaked in pity, ‘poor Aunt Lucy hardly knows what day it is, bless her.’ She shot me a swift appraising look, critically taking in my own cheap black suit, practical flat shoes, and hurried attempt to pin up my straight salt and pepper bob.

She was a little shorter than her sister, and slimmer in build. From a distance her outfit had looked smart, but close up it was stunning. The knee-length black dress with matching jacket, delicate gold flowers stitched into the fabric, had the unmistakable sheen of heavy silk.The outfit was finished off with inky stilettos, a designer’s golden tag glinting at their heel backs. Her hairstyle was eye-catching too. The overall shade was altogether more natural than her sister’s, a deep mocha-brown, aflame with red and gold highlights. It was cut into irregular bangs that suited the fine bone structure of her face. But bizarrely her hands, I noticed, were those of a nineteenth-century scullery maid, rubbed red and raw. Now she fixed me with her own inscrutable eyes, just the colour of the slab of liver I had purchased for Lucy from the butcher’s that week.

‘You really shouldn’t be concerning yourself with Aunt Lucy’s ramblings, Ingrid. Surely you’re experienced in caring for the elderly? You should know what to expect.’ And I could have sworn there was a warning edge to a voice that had an unsettling, forced brightness in it.

‘Of course,’ I said, understanding that the conversation had been brought to a close.

I pushed Lucy onwards, briefly shaking Myrtle Safford’s hand. The matriarch of this family was a tall woman with a proud but guarded face, gimlet eyes, glittering jewels, and outdated clothes which nevertheless screamed quality. However, I barely had time to express my sympathy, before her children whisked her away to speak to a less troublesome mourner. My thoughts in turmoil now, I steered my charge to a quiet spot in the churchyard, beneath the shade of an oak tree encircled with a wooden seat. I tucked a cheerful tartan rug I had brought with me about Lucy’s knees, and told her gently that she must be mistaken about Alice. Was she perhaps thinking of someone else, from her husband’s side of the family? Another niece or perhaps the child of a friend? When she said nothing, I crouched before her, my hands resting on the arms of her wheelchair, levelling my gaze with hers. For a moment her sharp blue eyes had a promising intensity about them. She opened her mouth and took a shaky but deliberate breath.

‘You see, Ingrid, Alice is…is…’

‘Is what?’ I urged her eagerly. But the elusive thought had wriggled away, and Lucy’s eyes suddenly shut tremulously. ‘You’re tired. I’ll take you home now,’ I told her, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice.

But just before I helped her into my car she grasped my bare arm. I had peeled off my jacket by then and was only wearing a short-sleeved cream blouse. Now Lucy’s fingers scrabbled against the flesh of my forearm, splayed and light as birds’ feet.

‘Where is Alice? Alice should have been here. Ralph would be most upset,Ingrid,you know,’she croaked. Shortly after this I bundled her into the car, and she immediately fell into a deep sleep, snoring lightly.

I was staying overnight with Lucy in her small terraced house in Hailsham. After her tea, cottage pie and raspberry jelly, I decided a warm bath might settle her for the night. I never quite got used to the shrivelled bodies I handled daily, with their spun-glass bones and their tracing paper flesh. As I sponged the curve of Lucy’s back, knotted and wrinkled as the bark of some ancient tree, my mind played over the events of the day. No matter which thread of thought I plucked at, they all seemed to lead back to Alice, as if by merely uttering her name Lucy had conjured up her ghost. Later, when my charge was tucked up in bed, just before I slipped out her false teeth, I tried once more.

‘Are you sure your brother Ralph had a fourth child, a child called Alice?’ I asked softly.