in tears.
‘What on earth happened?’ Mum asked as we both rushed to the front door.
Dad had Ella over his left shoulder and, from the way he was out of breath and sweating, he must have carried her some way. His right arm was straining against the pull of Sam on his lead, barking as usual.
Mum took her granddaughter and lifted her into a hug. She may have been much shorter and thinner than Dad – Little and Large, I often called them – but she’d always been strong and fit. She had apparently been a smoker once, like him, but not for as long as I could remember. She was the healthy one: a pocket dynamo who enjoyed exercise and watched what she ate. Their relationship was definitely a case of opposites attract.
‘There, there. Come to Nana. What’s wrong, darling? What’s the matter?’
‘She had a bit of a fright, Ann. That’s all. She’ll be fine in a few minutes.’
‘What do you mean she had a fright, Tom? Tell me what happened, for goodness’ sake.’
‘It’s no big deal. We had a nice walk for the most part. We went down by the old railway line so Sam could have a run off his lead. Then we walked back along the main road. Unfortunately, we witnessed a bit of a prang. One car caught the side of another as it was pulling out from a parking space. No one was hurt, but it was all rather noisy and, well, it clearly reminded Ella of—’
‘Yes, yes. I’m not stupid, thank you. What were you thinking, taking her along the main road? Come on, Ella. Let’s go and have a nice sit-down in the lounge. Grandad will get you a drink. Would you like some juice?’
Ella nodded through her tears.
‘Did you hear that, Grandad? And can you please put Sam in the back garden. I don’t know why he’s barking so much. He’s been like this ever since we brought him here.’
‘That’ll be my fault,’ I said as I watched Mum try to comfort Ella. ‘It’s all my fault. Please don’t cry, Ella. It’s okay. Daddy’s here.’ But she couldn’t hear me; I was still hidden from her. I wanted so badly to take her into my arms and wipe away her tears. This was torture. It was breaking my heart. I determined that when she was next on her own, I would do my utmost to try to get through to her.
My opportunity didn’t come until she was in bed that night. After she’d had a bath and a book, Mum tucked her in and gave her a kiss goodnight.
‘Do you feel like you want to talk about anything before you go to sleep?’ Mum asked.
‘No. I’m okay.’
‘Well, any time you want to talk – especially about your daddy – I’m right here for you. Grandad is too. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodnight, my love. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’
Ella shook her head, a sad look on her face. That was what I always used to say to her at bedtime. I guess I learned it from hearing it myself as a boy.
As Mum got up to leave, Ella jerked upright. ‘Is my nightlight on, Nana?’
‘Yes, dear. We put it on together before I read you a story. You’ll see it when I turn the main light off.’
‘And the landing light? You won’t switch it off, will you? Daddy always lets me have it on. I don’t like the dark.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll leave it on for you.’
‘All night?’
‘All night.’
Once Mum was downstairs, I knelt at the side of the bed. ‘Ella?’ I whispered into her ear. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Daddy. I’m still here. I promised I’d never leave you and I haven’t. Can’t you sense me at all?’
Nothing. No sign that she had any clue I was there. Her saucer-like eyes, the same beautiful pale green as her mother’s, were wide open but staring blankly at the ceiling. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I stood up and started pacing around the room. What could I do to get through to her? If the dog could sense me, surely there was a chance that Ella could too, no matter what Lizzie had told me. What about all the claims of ghost sightings over the years? There had to be something in it. And didn’t they say that children were more open to that kind of thing than adults?
Ironically, before I died I’d been a complete non-believer when it came to the supernatural. As a journalist, I’d built a wall of scepticism around myself that only hard facts could penetrate. I remembered laughing with colleagues about people who’d phoned in with stories of hauntings, dubbing them ‘crackpots’. Now here I was with a whole different perspective.
Other than the little I’d gleaned from Lizzie, my only knowledge of what it meant to be a ghost – sorry, a spirit – was based on fiction. But what I was experiencing, which I’d only started to analyse once the initial shock of being dead had eased, wasn’t anything like the books I’d read or films I’d seen. Try as I might, I still wasn’t able to do a Patrick Swayze and pass through solid objects. I could walk about and sit or lie down, but that was pretty much it. Taking care not to get trapped behind closed doors had already become second nature. My sense of touch had vanished. I was as numb as if I’d been anaesthetized. It was like I had no mass and was enveloped in a thick bubble that kept me apart from the world around me. And yet, conversely, when I wasn’t trying to interact with that world, I still felt as real and solid as I had before my death.
Then there was the whole thing about not being able to touch people. I’d tried it several times now; on each occasion I’d been repelled with the same violent force, which didn’t hurt me but knocked me for six and always went completely unnoticed by the person involved. Smell and taste had abandoned me too, along with the need or desire for food or drink. My sight and hearing were all I had left. And yet that hadn’t been the case when I’d met Lizzie. I could definitely recall feeling her tap me on the shoulder and that cool handshake of hers in contrast to the sunny weather. What does that matter? I thought. She’s not here any more. I sent her away.
So how could I break through to my daughter? I couldn’t get the lights to flicker; I couldn’t move inanimate objects or make my presence known at all. ‘Come on, Ella,’ I said. ‘Give me something. Give me some sign that you can sense me. You must be able to. I’m right here, darling.’
Without warning, she got out of bed, forcing me to dive out of her way. She knelt where I’d been a moment earlier. I wondered what she was doing until she started talking in a quiet voice. ‘God? Are you there? My name’s Ella. The vicar at school says we can talk to you like this if we’re sad. Is my daddy with you? Nana says he is. She says he’s in Heaven. I really miss him, you see. I was thinking that maybe you could let him come back soon. He said he’d get me an ice cream. Nana and Grandad are looking after me, but I’d still really like him to come home. I hate feeling sad all the time. Amen.’
Her words were like a needle pushing through my soul. They spurred me on to talk to her some more, desperate for that breakthrough I craved, but whatever I said and however I said it, it made no difference. She still couldn’t hear me. All the same, I stayed at her bedside and whispered tales of gruffaloes, captured princesses, a dancing dog, and a cat called Mog: stories committed to memory after countless nights of reading them to her. I carried on long after she fell asleep, hoping beyond hope that some part of her might hear me and feel comforted.
