A Sight for Sore Eyes

A Sight for Sore Eyes

After she finished work, Elspeth went down to the cemetery on Woodthorpe Road so she could see the ghost.

She didn't always see it. Most times she would just feel it as she was walking down the street, her head slung low, her handbag clutched under one arm. Something like ice would touch the back of her neck and she would stop and turn around, and see only a flicker of movement on the edge of sight as she squinted in concentration. At times she would catch a glimpse of it, for a few seconds: a still face hovering by a group of schoolchildren, the side of a suede coat seen across the road, unruffled by the wind.

Lately she had been seeing it more often. She supposed it was just to be expected. Elspeth didn't know anything about ghosts, but this one always appeared at that time of the year. So far, it hadn't visited her at home, which made her wonder if it could come in there. It was an old house that had been carved up into tiny flats after the war, and hers was just under the roof, so some of the walls sloped inwards and she had to mind her head. At night the house would moan and sigh and she would often get up and see if the ghost was there, but it always turned out to be the floorboards or the pipes. Perhaps the ghost came in when she was asleep.

Elspeth had never seen the ghost in the bakery. She hoped it would never come there, as she might forget herself and stare at it in front of Nikki or Shai, and they would be sure to tell Mrs Braddock; people weren't supposed to stare at things that weren't there. If it ever came, she would have to remind herself to pretend she wasn't seeing it, the same way she always remembered to start each shift by scrubbing her hands clean and carefully inspecting them for any little cuts or specks of dirt, then doing it all again one more time. Mr Minkin, who had been the supervisor before Mrs Braddock, used to tell her there was no need to repeat the whole thing, but she had kept on doing it anyway. Her mother had always said that cleanliness was next to godliness, and she suspected one of the reasons she had married John was because he felt the same. Just to be safe, she made sure she kept her eyes on the dough as much as possible. She had worked at the bakery ever since John had gone, and the thought of having to leave it turned her mouth sour, as though she'd just bitten into a slice of lemon. This way she wouldn't have to see the ghost even if it did show up.

Once her shift was over, she made her way towards Brandwood Road. The cemetery would close in an hour's time, but her solid, square body was surprisingly fast and she knew she would make it on time. Walking along Pershore Road, she peered out of the corner of her eyes, her fingers digging into her purse. Once or twice she thought she could see its hair, a flash of its hands, but it always turned out to be just another person, the September sun caught in a passing windscreen.

On her way, she stopped at a florist's. She stood by the shop window for a moment, pretending to look at the bouquets and vases on display while she decided whether to go in or not. The things on the window looked far too odd, lone flowers on endless stems wrapped in glittery fabric, but a woman stepping out of the shop with chrysanthemums in her hand ended her hesitation. If they sold chrysanthemums they would also have things like roses and lilies. Lilies would be best, she supposed. She went in and bought a dozen, counting out the money as the girl behind the counter cut stems and wrapping paper. Once she had the flowers, she held them close to her chest all the way to the cemetery gates.

The grave was watched by an angel. That had always been how Elspeth remembered its location amidst the labyrinth of paths. The little headstone stood right by a stone angel with its face on its hands. The statue was worn by age, and in a certain light it seemed as though it had been eaten away by its own tears. The mausoleum underneath it was also stained with years, so that only a few words were still fully readable: 'laid' and 'beloved' and 'sleep'.

In the angel's shadow, the letters on the headstone we rendered invisible. Elspeth leaned down, cleared away a few dead leaves and laid down the lilies. She couldn't see the ghost; she couldn't see anyone at all. A breeze stirred the cypress branches, ruffled the grass. She could still smell the lilies on her cardigan. A little of their wetness had seeped in through the wool.

The ghost appeared a few moments after she had straightened up again. She wasn't afraid. This was how it was supposed to go, after all: she would put the flowers on the grave, and it would be satisfied for a while. It walked out from under a tree, its eyes fixed on her. It looked very ordinary, just like a person who'd stepped in from the street, but then again she supposed that was to be expected. It was wearing a long overcoat, buttoned all the way up, and its black hair was just the same shade as hers had been before it had begun to turn grey. The shape and colour of its eyes was the same as John's.

It stepped closer and closer to her, its gaze still on Elspeth's face. She remained still. It had never been this close to her before, and she had never seen it so clearly. She had also, she realised, never seen it in these clothes. Could ghosts change their clothes after they died? Obviously, they could. They grew older, too; it was much older than eleven, and she could see the start of wrinkles flanking its mouth.

'Mother,' it said, startling Elspeth, but only for a moment. Its voice was a little hoarse, like that of someone who'd just shaken off a cold. 'You mustn't worry. It's fine where I am. Dad is fine too.'

Elspeth felt something prickle her eyes. Inches away from her, the ghost squinted in the sun. Before it could do anything, Elspeth reached out with one hand and grabbed its wrist. Underneath her fingers, its flesh was warm and solid.

'Millie?' she gasped. Something stirred in her memory. Just before Millie was gone, there had been--a message--a letter--

The ghost's eyes widened. Its other hand reached into a pocket, whipped out a stick.

'Obliviate!'

***

Finis