on.”
Miriam ruffles the pom-pom on top of the dog’s head. Fancy having a pom-pom for a head, a pom-pom at the end of your tail and pom-poms around your ankles. Why doesn’t that make people sad?
She sets off again, walking through familiar streets and streets she has never been to before. She has nowhere to go and nowhere to be. This thought is a stone in her shoe, pushing into the soft flesh of her foot. She walks faster. The pain in her foot makes her feel alive and it makes her feel like crying, because surely feeling alive is about more than this?
There is a voice: “Spend some money. Buy something. Eat something.”
When she died, Frances Delaney left a lot of money to Miriam and no one knew where it came from. Miriam saw it as dirty money, loaded with germs, highly infectious. She bundled it into a savings account and has lived on it ever since. Now she opens her purse. It is full of notes and coins and she has no idea how to spend them. Then she has an idea. She could see a film. She hasn’t been to the cinema since 1987 ( Dirty Dancing ). Do people still eat popcorn or is that old hat? Imagine being given a tub of salty old hats. How much wouldthat cost? If hats were advertised as the latest and greatest snack, would people actually eat them?
STOP IT.
“Your thoughts don’t all have to end in hats, Miriam.”
The unbroken one is on form today. She leads Miriam through town to the cinema—a quaint affair with two screens, a small kiosk and old-fashioned decor. But eight pounds for a ticket? Goodness me. How long have I been gone? She looks at the poster on the door—they are showing a series of ghost films, one of which starts in twenty minutes. She would have preferred a dark comedy or a feature-length episode of The Bridge . She buys a ticket, wanders over to the kiosk, buys a tub of salted popcorn, a hot chocolate and some Rolos, then settles into a seat at the end of an aisle and waits. She is good at waiting. Waiting is her middle name (not literally).
Other people start to come in. Other people . They join her in the darkness. Together they watch adverts and trailers and Miriam can’t believe the noise of it all, coming from every direction. The screen widens—she hadn’t seen that coming—and now it’s time for the main event: The Awakening .
Miriam eats her popcorn and slides down low in her seat. She likes this film. It’s slightly creepy, but she likes it. The main character, Florence Cathcart, is a no-nonsense truth-teller. She is scientific, rational, methodical. Using a mesmerizing set of equipment, she exposes charlatans and fakes and proves that there is no such thing as a ghost. The dead are not with us. The deceased do not haunt us. In our living, breathing bodies we are alone. That idea is as sweet as the hot chocolate in Miriam’s mouth. She touches her face—her cheeks are hot. It is warm in here, she is watching a film by herself with other people, she is not at home and she is not outside.
Hold on a minute.
Miriam frowns at the screen, shocked by what is unfolding, shocked by the fact that no-nonsense Florence is afraid . She is running through hallways, peering through cracks, kneeling in front of a doll’s house. The doll inside the house is a mini Florence with Florence hair and Florence clothes. What happened to her logic, her steeliness, her belief in the power of the living?
She has seen a ghost, that’s what’s happened. A boy who looks like any other boy, but not everyone can see him. She can see him, because he’s her brother, Tom.
Miriam opens her Rolos and leans forward in her seat.
Tom was killed when he and Florence were children. He has missed her ever since and now he wants her back.
No!
Afterwards, Miriam stumbles out into the light. She is all churned up. The film has done it. Big fat churning machine. It’s the idea of someone watching, lingering in the afterlife, about to reappear. It’s the idea of a child, suspended in a life that is no
Miriam ruffles the pom-pom on top of the dog’s head. Fancy having a pom-pom for a head, a pom-pom at the end of your tail and pom-poms around your ankles. Why doesn’t that make people sad?
She sets off again, walking through familiar streets and streets she has never been to before. She has nowhere to go and nowhere to be. This thought is a stone in her shoe, pushing into the soft flesh of her foot. She walks faster. The pain in her foot makes her feel alive and it makes her feel like crying, because surely feeling alive is about more than this?
There is a voice: “Spend some money. Buy something. Eat something.”
When she died, Frances Delaney left a lot of money to Miriam and no one knew where it came from. Miriam saw it as dirty money, loaded with germs, highly infectious. She bundled it into a savings account and has lived on it ever since. Now she opens her purse. It is full of notes and coins and she has no idea how to spend them. Then she has an idea. She could see a film. She hasn’t been to the cinema since 1987 ( Dirty Dancing ). Do people still eat popcorn or is that old hat? Imagine being given a tub of salty old hats. How much wouldthat cost? If hats were advertised as the latest and greatest snack, would people actually eat them?
STOP IT.
“Your thoughts don’t all have to end in hats, Miriam.”
The unbroken one is on form today. She leads Miriam through town to the cinema—a quaint affair with two screens, a small kiosk and old-fashioned decor. But eight pounds for a ticket? Goodness me. How long have I been gone? She looks at the poster on the door—they are showing a series of ghost films, one of which starts in twenty minutes. She would have preferred a dark comedy or a feature-length episode of The Bridge . She buys a ticket, wanders over to the kiosk, buys a tub of salted popcorn, a hot chocolate and some Rolos, then settles into a seat at the end of an aisle and waits. She is good at waiting. Waiting is her middle name (not literally).
Other people start to come in. Other people . They join her in the darkness. Together they watch adverts and trailers and Miriam can’t believe the noise of it all, coming from every direction. The screen widens—she hadn’t seen that coming—and now it’s time for the main event: The Awakening .
Miriam eats her popcorn and slides down low in her seat. She likes this film. It’s slightly creepy, but she likes it. The main character, Florence Cathcart, is a no-nonsense truth-teller. She is scientific, rational, methodical. Using a mesmerizing set of equipment, she exposes charlatans and fakes and proves that there is no such thing as a ghost. The dead are not with us. The deceased do not haunt us. In our living, breathing bodies we are alone. That idea is as sweet as the hot chocolate in Miriam’s mouth. She touches her face—her cheeks are hot. It is warm in here, she is watching a film by herself with other people, she is not at home and she is not outside.
Hold on a minute.
Miriam frowns at the screen, shocked by what is unfolding, shocked by the fact that no-nonsense Florence is afraid . She is running through hallways, peering through cracks, kneeling in front of a doll’s house. The doll inside the house is a mini Florence with Florence hair and Florence clothes. What happened to her logic, her steeliness, her belief in the power of the living?
She has seen a ghost, that’s what’s happened. A boy who looks like any other boy, but not everyone can see him. She can see him, because he’s her brother, Tom.
Miriam opens her Rolos and leans forward in her seat.
Tom was killed when he and Florence were children. He has missed her ever since and now he wants her back.
No!
Afterwards, Miriam stumbles out into the light. She is all churned up. The film has done it. Big fat churning machine. It’s the idea of someone watching, lingering in the afterlife, about to reappear. It’s the idea of a child, suspended in a life that is no
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