The Ghost of Him

If I had had a choice in the matter, I would never have fallen in love with a dead man. The truth is, I did not seek it, nor did I simply see an opportunity and knowingly dive right in. I was fourteen years old and before I could really decipher what love was, he had already flung it over me, like a huge net, which he has proceeded to tug me around in at his feet every day since for the last sixteen years. When I told a friend of mine of the tears shed over this unhappy get glorious, hopeless yet inspiring love affair, and all the things he’d said to me, and all the things he’d done, she said “Tell him to go away.” I told her I would rather cry like a baby every night and be in a permanent state of depression over him, now buried in a cemetery thousands of miles from me, rather than him stopping coming to see me.

I suppose it all sounds very strange. It is very strange. I have always known that. I have always known that most people, when they see his picture, do not break down and cry, or turn away when they see his old house because I don’t want them to stare at the hot salty tears that roll delicately down till I taste them on my lips; nor when they sleep do they hear the things he comes and tells me, or the things he does to me. And I can’t tell them, because they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they did, I cannot bring myself to share such intimate things. I don’t think he wants me to tell of it in any case. So I don’t.

I suppose I could really be sectioned if one were to look deep enough into it. Maybe I have gotten so used to him and the situation I find myself in with him now that I no longer realise how peculiar it is. Luckily I have managed to disguise crying in public over him by pretending it’s from laughter, or if outdoors, a sharp breeze; and even more luckily, it’s often in a dark enough room in the evening whereby no-one would be able to tell anyway. But there has been the odd occasion where not hell or high water could stop the tears; and I cannot explain myself when asked, and so I wonder if I will ever really be ble to be in the same room as someone who by chance mentions his name for fear of furrowed eyebrows that turn my eyes startled and afraid,with my hands to my lips to hide their downturning and trembling, and again those waters that come with the sound of his name. And I do not cry easily. I am made of harder stuff. But not when it comes to him.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that I miss him. I miss him every single day; and today is one of those days when the sun is beating down, and for some reason when the sun is so hot on a day like this, I miss him even more. Something, lost somewhere long ago in the mists of time, comes alive again in the sunshine, and I feel him with me, like smelling a familiar smell, or feeling that someone is following you, though you know you are alone.

But there is no solution, no cure, no remedy. The ghost of him walks; and so it will be, for I’d rather have that little echo of him than nothing left at all.

Part I: Of Burgh Island, Singapore Slings and dancing till midnight

The rain was so heavy and cumbersome that it slapped down on the windscreen like flat open palms. The wipers couldn't keep up; other cars weren't visible, nor were hedges, or road signs. So our journey down to Burgh Island hadn't been the sun-kist voyage I had first imagined, which explained my 'arrival' attire of dainty white summer gloves, a huge wide-brimmed black straw hat, silk sleeved thin woollen top, and cream three quarter-length trousers. "We'll have to carry the trunk across the beach to the island", grimaced the man in the trilby hat next to me, which elicited a small squeal from me as I down-turned my lips and narrowed my eyes at the attire-ruining weather outside of the car. When one goes to somewhere like Burgh Island, one cannot turn up looking anything but as immaculate as the perfect, smooth white lines of Art Deco that it itself portrays, and so the thought of being beaten black and blue by the unforgiving weather scuppered my dreams of arriving looking like I had stepped right out of an Agatha Christie novel.


Down windy little lanes we turned; through puddles that would come to one's waist should one have tried to walk through them; and through quaint little seaside hamlets that consisted of just a shop, an old fashioned garage, and a handful of white houses, we drove until we came across the golf club where we had been instructed to call the hotel from. Mobile 'phones at Burgh Island receive almost no reception, thank goodness, and so it was back to using the british telephone box to my delight. My own experience of mobile 'phones is that they invade those quiet moments that I in particular treasure; what I call as 'not being in'. Where once upon a time if our landline was called and there was no answer, the caller would assume that you were out, away from home, or not in a position to answer the 'phone whether that be in the shower, the bath, eating or cooking dinner, out in the garden, or generally indisposed of, and would perhaps try you again later or, if they were sensible enough, would have previously have arranged a time to talk. Which is how I like it. I prefer an old-fashioned, pre-arranged time to talk. It means that I can dedicate my time to the caller, having ensured that there will be no interruption, or loss of signal, and most importantly on a landline no 'hot-head' which is something I detest mobile 'phones for all the more - and it also means that a conversation I am having with someone else also isn't rudely interrupted by another person 'butting in'.

I don't want a call halfway through dinner, or in the middle of a conversation with my husband about how the day has been when he has stepped in from work; but should I dare not answer my mobile 'phone when it rings, I am left angry messages by frustrated callers who demand to know why I haven't picked up. In their opinion, mobile 'phones should be stuck to our ears and answered automatically no matter what, no matter where you are or who you are with. Technology has made us all, in this modern day, people who expect you to drop everything to take their call, urgent or not. Well, in my opinion, the situation has not changed from yesteryear where sometimes it is simply not convenient to talk whether I am standing at the Grand Canyon and happen have my mobile phone in my pocket or whether I am at the local supermarket. If I don't deem it convenient, I will not answer. And for this reason, I have nearly thrown my mobile away as an act of protest to having my peace disturbed every five minutes.

But I digress.

On receiving our call, the receptionist at Burgh Island informed us of the code we would need for the electric gate when we approached the car park, and told us she would have someone come over in the landrover to pick us up. I sighed; relieved at the revived prospect of me arriving less drenched, and more like the art deco glamour I had envisaged. We subsequently arrived at the gates of a prestige looking block of apartments, where we entered the code to allow us to enter, and parked where the reserved signs were for the hotel.

My old steam ship trunk was loaded into the back of the land rover with the question that would be asked another three times during our stay - "Is that all you've got?" - my response being yes, and how these steam ship tunks could easily fit a small child, so naturally would take sufficient items of belongings for one night.

The driver made polite and entertaining conversation; at least the other couple in the car conversed with him. I managed little words here and there - quite unlike me - but truth be told I was all agog with excitement almost to the point of feeling quite ill, so, lips pursed, eyes wide, I hmm-ed and laughed in appropriate places during the conversation.

The gates greeted us like a wide, white smile; teeth all bared in a broad welcome that made me realise right away I wouldn't ever want to leave. If I had thought so before coming here, it was permanently confirmed by the art deco gates swinging open, and there Burgh Island sat ahead of us, a white, gleaming pearl set against the still grey, steely sky.

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