alone any more.
I’m sorry, she says to the man beside her whose name she’s already starting to forget. You can’t come any further. But thank you.
As he walks away, confused, she pulls her shawl over her head, around her neck; a smile already building somewhere in her chest.
The ghosts walk beside her, their steps turning to skips and bounds as their casual greetings become a flurry of words and questions and playful amusement.
By the time she reaches home, there are five of them; by the time she has paid the sitter and made her way upstairs to François’s room, there are eleven. Henri from the 1750s is here, the sisters in lace dresses, and Great-Great-Grandma Bélanger with her wet hair in curlers. Behind them all a soldier boy shimmers out of view, and the laughter, the relief is bubbling inside her because they are here, and she is surrounded by family.
François is woken up by voices and at first he is afraid. He sits up in bed, listens hard and hears his mama – he thinks it is his mama – but she sounds different, and she’s not making any sense.
You daft old man, she’s saying. You think you can be funny now, do you?
And then she’s laughing, and François is opening his bedroom door quietly so he can see who’s there, see who it is that’s making his mama sound so young and happy.
As he tiptoes to the banister he sees her, but he rubs his eyes, doesn’t understand, because she is talking and laughing with no one at all.
Granny, she calls, arms wide.
François looks for his grand-mère but she’s not here, and if she were then his mama would be talking in a different kind of voice, he’s sure of that.
We’ll watch it tonight, she is saying, quieter now, as if she’s remembered he’s sleeping upstairs and is trying not to disturb him. And I’ll always be here, I’ll stay in this house, I’ll listen to your stories – but please leave François alone.
He sits on the top stair, hidden behind the banister, and shuffles down, a step at a time.
I don’t want her scaring him, his mama says, and perhaps for the first time François does feel really scared, with the kind of worry that sits in your stomach and makes your throat go dry.
He pushes the door to the kitchen open and stands there in his pyjamas, looking at his mother, his toy tiger trailing from one hand.
Mama?
She smiles, a big open smile that looks like it shouldn’t be hiding anything.
Do you want to go on an adventure? she says.
He stays by the door, unsure at first, not understanding, but his mama’s eyes focus on him now and she kneels down beside him and says, let’s go on a midnight adventure, just you and me.
OK, he says, his smile widening.
They open the cupboard, search inside for François’s red tent, the one he got for his ninth birthday. It’s more of a tepee really, light wooden poles holding up a triangle of red fabric with a door flap at the front that zips down; a red sleeping bag to match.
They make up flasks of coffee and hot lemon cordial – François’s favourite. Bring the home-made pain au raisin left over from the shop (François was hoping there’d be some left for him) and a selection of fruit, clementines and pears.
François carries his rucksack on his back with supplies while Severine carries the tent and binoculars. He thinks perhaps this is going to be a good adventure after all. His mama was just being silly before.
Severine turns to check that her granny is still there, and she is; she is following them, she is smiling.
The night is clear, spring-fresh, clouds floating past the moon and carried on the wind. Even though it’s a public garden, the gate’snow locked – but it’s not high. François wants to go first. He wants to be an explorer, like his mama said he would be when he was younger. He climbs easily, jumps down the other side.
Hurry up, Mama!
Severine gathers her dress up and ties the hem round her waist so it won’t catch, climbs over and then they run through
I’m sorry, she says to the man beside her whose name she’s already starting to forget. You can’t come any further. But thank you.
As he walks away, confused, she pulls her shawl over her head, around her neck; a smile already building somewhere in her chest.
The ghosts walk beside her, their steps turning to skips and bounds as their casual greetings become a flurry of words and questions and playful amusement.
By the time she reaches home, there are five of them; by the time she has paid the sitter and made her way upstairs to François’s room, there are eleven. Henri from the 1750s is here, the sisters in lace dresses, and Great-Great-Grandma Bélanger with her wet hair in curlers. Behind them all a soldier boy shimmers out of view, and the laughter, the relief is bubbling inside her because they are here, and she is surrounded by family.
François is woken up by voices and at first he is afraid. He sits up in bed, listens hard and hears his mama – he thinks it is his mama – but she sounds different, and she’s not making any sense.
You daft old man, she’s saying. You think you can be funny now, do you?
And then she’s laughing, and François is opening his bedroom door quietly so he can see who’s there, see who it is that’s making his mama sound so young and happy.
As he tiptoes to the banister he sees her, but he rubs his eyes, doesn’t understand, because she is talking and laughing with no one at all.
Granny, she calls, arms wide.
François looks for his grand-mère but she’s not here, and if she were then his mama would be talking in a different kind of voice, he’s sure of that.
We’ll watch it tonight, she is saying, quieter now, as if she’s remembered he’s sleeping upstairs and is trying not to disturb him. And I’ll always be here, I’ll stay in this house, I’ll listen to your stories – but please leave François alone.
He sits on the top stair, hidden behind the banister, and shuffles down, a step at a time.
I don’t want her scaring him, his mama says, and perhaps for the first time François does feel really scared, with the kind of worry that sits in your stomach and makes your throat go dry.
He pushes the door to the kitchen open and stands there in his pyjamas, looking at his mother, his toy tiger trailing from one hand.
Mama?
She smiles, a big open smile that looks like it shouldn’t be hiding anything.
Do you want to go on an adventure? she says.
He stays by the door, unsure at first, not understanding, but his mama’s eyes focus on him now and she kneels down beside him and says, let’s go on a midnight adventure, just you and me.
OK, he says, his smile widening.
They open the cupboard, search inside for François’s red tent, the one he got for his ninth birthday. It’s more of a tepee really, light wooden poles holding up a triangle of red fabric with a door flap at the front that zips down; a red sleeping bag to match.
They make up flasks of coffee and hot lemon cordial – François’s favourite. Bring the home-made pain au raisin left over from the shop (François was hoping there’d be some left for him) and a selection of fruit, clementines and pears.
François carries his rucksack on his back with supplies while Severine carries the tent and binoculars. He thinks perhaps this is going to be a good adventure after all. His mama was just being silly before.
Severine turns to check that her granny is still there, and she is; she is following them, she is smiling.
The night is clear, spring-fresh, clouds floating past the moon and carried on the wind. Even though it’s a public garden, the gate’snow locked – but it’s not high. François wants to go first. He wants to be an explorer, like his mama said he would be when he was younger. He climbs easily, jumps down the other side.
Hurry up, Mama!
Severine gathers her dress up and ties the hem round her waist so it won’t catch, climbs over and then they run through
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