“It’s weird,” said Mary.
“What’s weird, Mary?” her mother asked, gently.
“You look older than her,” said Mary.
Scarlett looked at Tansey.
“That is weird,” she agreed.
“I can’t help that,” said Tansey. “I was only a young woman when I died.”
“But it was years ago.”
“I don’t think that matters,” said Tansey.
“You don’t, like, know for certain?”
“Ah, sure,” said Tansey. “Who knows anything for certain?”
“It just doesn’t seem fair,” said Scarlett. “You’re sixty years older than me, but you look gorgeous.”
“I’ll be honest with you, girl,” said Tansey. “Give me the wrinkles and the sore teeth any day. I loved my life when I lost it.”
“I wasn’t being serious,” said Scarlett.
“I know that,” said Tansey. “But I was.”
She smiled—Mary thought she did.
“As serious as death,” said Tansey. “Just so you know.”
Mary had gone from terrified to sad, without really noticing.
“You said I was your grandmother,” Tansey said to Scarlett. “But, you know, I’m not. The blessed flu took hold of me just when I was only starting to be a mother.”
“The blessed flu,” said Mary. “You sound like a grandmother.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say,” said Tansey.
She said nothing for a while. Then she looked at Scarlett.
“Your mother was only a little thing when I died,” she said.
She turned to Mary. “Even younger than you.”
“I know,” said Mary. “Much younger.”
“And I always wondered,” said Tansey, “while I still had my health, what it would be like to watch my daughter grow and become a mother.”
She smiled again.
“D’you know what?” she said. “You’re the ringer for your granny.”
“How can I be?” said Mary. “I’m only twelve.”
“Your granny was a girl too once,” said Tansey.
“I’m cold,” said Mary.
“Ah, now,” said Tansey. “You sound like her too.”
“Okay,” said Mary. “But listen. This has to stop.”
“What has to stop?”
“This you’re-like-your-granny stuff,” said Mary. “You’re like your granny, you sound like your granddad, your cat barks like your granny’s dog.”
“Mary!”
“You’re cheeky like her too,” said Tansey. “But fair enough. No young one wants to be told she looks like an old one.”
“That’s not it,” said Mary. “This is stupid. I’m cold. I’m going in.”
“Mary!”
“I’m not being cheeky,” Mary told Scarlett. “I’m not. It is stupid. You look like your granny and I look like mine. So what, like? Your granny is a ghost and mine is dying. And that’s the only thing that isn’t stupid.”
Scarlett spoke quietly. The branches above grabbed at her words.
“What do you mean, Mary?”
Mary pointed at Tansey. “Why is she here? Why is she here now?”
She turned to Tansey. “What do you want?”
“I want to speak to Emer,” Tansey said. “I need to speak to her.”
“Why now?” said Mary.
She didn’t know why she was talking like this. It was as if she was listening to someone else—the woman she was going to be in the future.
It annoyed her, and impressed and frightened her—and reassured her. Because she knew she was right. Her world was suddenly full of the dead and the dying, people she loved and people she was supposed to love—and people she didn’t know, even if they did look like the people she knew she loved. She needed to know. There was a dead woman two steps away from her, shimmering at the edge of Mary’s life. She was the mother of her granny—she was supposed to be.
Tansey hadn’t answered.
“Why now?” Mary asked again. “Have you spoken to her before, since you died?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Tansey. “I let her be.”
“So, why now?” said Mary.
“She needs me now,” said Tansey.
he lay on the bed. Her eyes were closed. She was asleep.
But she wasn’t.
She was afraid to sleep. She wasn’t sure what sleep was anymore. The luxury and the need were gone out of it, and the warm, reassuring fact that she’d wake up when it was over.
There’d been times when she was asleep, lots of times, since she was a girl, when she’d wake suddenly, her head would jump on the pillow, because she’d fallen in her dream—out of her dream—off a cliff, off a roof—a sudden fall, and horrible. But she’d wake, and stay awake for a while, and it would be grand. She’d know where she was. The wall was where it should be, and the window. And, later, her husband, Gerry, would be lying on his side of the bed, even—it seemed—years after he died. She’d feel him there, and the terror would disperse before she had time to think of it.
The terror now was that she’d fall but wouldn’t wake. She’d keep falling, and the fall would never stop.
She wasn’t tired. She couldn’t really remember what tiredness felt like, or the glory of a good ol’ stretch and yawn. There’s enough of you to stretch, God knows. She wasn’t sure why she was so afraid. She liked her life, even without Gerry—once his absence became bearable and the memories could be sweet. But she knew, she’d always known, there’d be an end. She’d seen her mother die. She’d been sitting on her lap when that started, when death pounced and took her.
Up the stairs.
A few days later, they brought Emer up, to say goodbye. Where’s Mammy going? She didn’t hear the answers. Why is she going? They brought her up the stairs. She remembered holding her grandmother’s big rough hand. She remembered her father was around, talking to men outside. She remembered James the Baby crying, and more people in the kitchen than usual. Women. Millions of them. She didn’t know any of them until they bent down to her. Her auntie Ellen, her aunt Maud. And women she saw on Sundays only, outside the church. Other women she’d never seen before. They made tea. They made sandwiches. She heard more women whispering, praying, somewhere else. And men too, smoking, talking quietly, drinking bottles of porter and little glasses of whiskey, going outside into the cold, coming back in, chatting softly about the greyhounds and their farms.
She hadn’t seen her mammy since the stairs.
She’d heard a cough.
She’d heard feet, rushing.
She’d heard silence. Absolute silence.
Her grandmother held her hand. The bedroom door was open, at the top of the stairs. The curtains were closed. There were women in there, kneeling at the bed, praying, whispering to themselves. Emer could see their rosary beads. She saw one line of beads move as fingers finished with one bead and moved on to the next one.
The women heard her grandmother’s weight on the floorboards, and they stood up. One of them smiled at Emer. Emer knew her, and she’d see her many times later on, when she went to school and sat beside the woman’s daughter, Noreen Cash, and Noreen became Emer’s best friend, until the whole family of Cashes, every one of them, went to America, when Emer and Noreen were ten.
The women stood back.
And Emer saw her mammy.
“Why are there pennies on her eyes?”
“To help her on her way.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Up to heaven, that’s where she’s going.”
“Am I going as well?”
“No, girl. Not yet.”
She watched, for her mammy to move. To take the pennies off her eyes.
“I want to go to heaven.”
“Oh, you will. Don’t worry. We’re all on our way.”
“I want to go now. With Mammy.”
Her mammy’s face was lovely there, except for the pennies. Her hair was combed and shin
ing, even in the dark. Her hands were together, on top of the quilt. Her rings were perfect and polished.
“I’m cold,” said Emer.
“It’s cold, right enough,” said her grandmother. “Say goodbye to your mammy.”
Emer looked at her mother.
“She’s not asleep.”
“She’s not.”
Her grandmother picked her up. She held Emer over the bed, as if she was going to drop her onto her mammy and her mammy would wake and laugh and catch her.
“Kiss her goodbye and we’ll go on down to the fire.”
“No!”
She remembered that No! She could still hear it, more than eighty years later. It had followed her everywhere, all her life.
“No!”
She remembered—years later, it was—and she stood beside Gerry at the altar. When Father O’Casey said, “Do you, Emer Mary Stafford, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” she’d said, “Yes!” like that, and she’d started laughing. And everyone in the church joined in, happy to see Emer so happy.
That was what she’d done, all her life. She’d tried to even the score, by saying yes so often that the no would fade to nothing. But it never had. And after a while, she was glad it hadn’t. It was only a word and it was a line right back to her mother.
“No!”
Her mother wouldn’t have minded. She’d have understood. The little girl was terrified, and why wouldn’t she have been? Brown pennies over her mammy’s eyes, and a perishing cold that seemed to come off her mammy in the middle of the bed.
Still.
She wished she could have gone back. She’d have let herself be lowered right down to her mammy’s face and lips. She’d have kissed her.
Emer lay there now. She could hear the hospital business, the usual stuff—nurses’ shoes squeaking, gurney wheels squeaking. Everything squeaked in a hospital.
Her daughter had kissed her. Her granddaughter had kissed her. Ah, now, I know that kiss. She’d been kissed by people who loved her. But still. She’d been kissed and that was lovely, but she didn’t want to go. She’d always loved breathing, especially on the cold days, grabbing the air, letting it go, being able to see it. She couldn’t breathe deep anymore, and she hadn’t run for the bus in more than thirty years. Although—she remembered—she’d caught that bus. And even the aches and pains that had joined her as she got older—she’d liked them. They were reminders—the back, the knee, the achy wrists—they were even friends: Feel that now, Emer. You’re alive.
Emer lay there.
I’m alive.
I’m lanky Emer.
I’m long, tall Emer.
I’m a few inches shorter, but I’m alive.
“I’m alive.”
hey sat in the kitchen.
“Do ghosts drink tea?”
“They don’t,” said Tansey. “But this ghost would love to see a cup of tea in front of her. It’d be lovely.”
Mary watched as Tansey looked up at the light. There was no shade over the bulb. Scarlett had taken it down once, to wash it, and it had never gone back up. It was on top of the fridge, with a lot of other stuff that was waiting to be put somewhere else. Tansey was staring straight up at the bulb, but she didn’t squint.
“That electric light is fierce,” she said. “We didn’t have it in my day.”
“They didn’t have it when I was a girl either,” said Scarlett.
“Did they not have the electric in Dublin?” said Tansey. “I thought they had all that kind of thing.”
“No,” said Scarlett. “I meant, on the farm.”
“Oh,” said Tansey. “It’s powerful stuff, but still and all, it might be a good idea to turn it off. It’s hard for me to stay looking solid under that bright light. I’d say it must be shining right through me.”
It was—or it seemed to be. It wasn’t frightening anymore, but Tansey definitely looked less alive in the house than she had outside. Her dress, under the light, looked like it had been washed far too many times. Tansey looked like a film of herself, projected onto a screen in a room that wasn’t dark enough; the sound was fine, but the picture was cloudy and annoying.
“Anyone walking in on us,” said Tansey, “might get a bit of a fright. And we wouldn’t want that.”
“Yes, we would,” said Mary. “But okay.”
She turned off the light. “There.”
“Thank you.”
Mary sat again, and looked across at Tansey.
Tansey couldn’t drink tea, and she couldn’t taste or smell. But she could see and she could tell when lights were too bright, although the brightness itself didn’t seem to bother her. Mary didn’t think Tansey could feel rain, or the cold. But she was cold. Mary could feel it coming from her. It was as if the cold was pulling at Tansey, breaking her up, trying to take her away from them, back somewhere. But that was weird too— weirder—because she looked quite relaxed.
Scarlett stood beside the kettle, waiting for it to start humming, so she’d have something to do, put the tea bags into cups, put the sugar onto the table—anything. The strangeness was catching up on her. She’d have started to shake if she’d let herself. There was a ghost in the kitchen, and she was supposed to behave as if it were normal. She knew, although she wasn’t sure how, that something important was going to happen, something to do with her mother.
They heard a thump from upstairs, something or someone falling.
“The boys,” Scarlett explained. “My sons.”
“Making the racket that only boys can make,” said Tansey.
“That’s right,” said Scarlett, and she smiled.
“Will I get to meet them?” Tansey asked.
“I think so,” said Scarlett.
She nodded at the fridge.
“That’s what will get them to come down,” she said.
“What’s that when it’s at home?” said Tansey.
“It’s a fridge, like,” said Mary, and she laughed—it was so silly.
“Like a meat safe,” said Scarlett. “Refrigerator’s the full word.”
“Keeps everything fresh,” said Mary.
“Is there room in there for me?” said Tansey.
They laughed before they thought too much about it.
“Nearly ready here,” said Scarlett.
Tansey looked at Mary’s big eyes looking back at her. She could tell: Mary wanted to ask her a question.
“Ask away,” said Tansey. “Ask away.”
“Well,” said Mary. “Like. Why are there ghosts?”
“Do you mean,” said Tansey, “why do I exist?”
“Yeah,” said Mary.
“That sounds a bit rude, Mary,” said Scarlett.
“It’s fine,” said Tansey. “It’s not even a bit rude.”
“Oh, good!” said Scarlett. “Because I wanted to ask it as well!”
“Well,” said Tansey. “Here goes. Mind you, before I start—”
“Yes?”
“I can only speak for myself,” said Tansey.
“That’s better than nothing,” said Mary.
“It is,” Tansey agreed. “It is. So. Well. People die. But sometimes—quite often—they aren’t ready to leave. There are things they’d be worried about.”
“Like their children?” said Mary.
“With me,” said Tansey, “it was certainly the children. And probably with most other ghosts. They don’t go away, after the funeral. They linger. To make sure that everything is grand and the people they love are getting on with their lives. They hang around.”
“For how long?” asked Mary.
“That depends,” said Tansey. “But that’s what happened to me. I was disturbed when the last breath came. There was no peace in it. I was too worried—not just sad—about Emer and little James.”
“James the Baby,” said Mary.
Tansey smiled.
“That was what we called him,” she said. “Where did you hear that, tell me?”
“Gra
nny told me,” said Mary.
“Of course she did,” said Tansey.
“So,” said Mary. “Did you not really die?”
“Oh, I died all right,” said Tansey. “Oh, God, I did. But—”
They heard a rumbling noise from above that came quickly nearer, and the boys charged into the kitchen, in a race to the fridge that Killer was winning.
They stopped when they saw Tansey.
“We’re talking about death, boys!” said Scarlett.
“Cool,” said Dommo.
“These are the famous boys, are they?” said Tansey.
“That’s right!” said Scarlett. “Dominic and Kevin! Boys, this is Tansey, your—well—neighbor!”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
They were gone, back out, before they’d even made it to the fridge. Mary listened to the noise going up the stairs.
“Too many women in the room,” said Tansey. “They couldn’t cope.”
“You’re probably right!”
“Oh, I am,” said Tansey. “I didn’t even have to be a ghost. Was my James like those two lads?”
“My mother says he was a scamp!” said Scarlett.
“Oh, good,” said Tansey.
“But were you not watching?” Mary asked. “Like now?”
“I’ll get to that,” said Tansey. “But I have to get there first.”
She sat up, as if remembering she had a story to tell.
The kettle had boiled and turned itself off, and Scarlett poured the water into the cups. Tansey watched. Mary could tell: Tansey wanted to ask questions about the electric kettle, the tea bags, the things she hadn’t known when she was alive. Mary wondered again: what had Tansey been doing all the years since she’d died?
It was if Tansey heard Mary’s thoughts.
“I was never too worried about James the Baby,” she said. “He was only a baby, still new. It was sad, all right, but he’d be grand. He wouldn’t miss me, just maybe the idea of me. He’d see a mammy in a book and he’d wonder about that. It would break your heart thinking about it, but I don’t think heartbreak is strong enough to make a ghost out of you. Because it’s your own heartbreak and it can die with the rest of you. So, it wasn’t James the Baby that held me back. I knew he’d have Jim and Jim’s mother.”