The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) by Marie O'regan

Author:Marie O'regan [O'regan f.c]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: antique

Another One in from the Cold

Marion Arnott

For one moment, for one awful moment, she thought Gavin was going to say, in that clipped and brooking no argument way he had, “We’re not putting up with any of this nonsense.” But of course he was talking to BBC Scotland, not to her; and the busy BBC man was more than his equal in not brooking argument. Their time slot, he said firmly, would be on 11 November, sandwiched between the dipping of the flags, and the Last Post. Gavin smiled as if satisfied, but grumbled all the way across the glossy polished paving which ran the length of the Cloth Hall.

“They really don’t have much idea, do they, Kate? Patrick’s story should be a feature on its own, not just a mention in the Armistice Day slot. We’ve come all the way to Ieper for his burial. We should read parts of his letters – letters from ninety years ago. Ninety! It’s so short-sighted to keep the ceremony so . . .” he flapped a hand “. . . general and unspecific when they could make it more personal and . . .” flap, flap “. . . specific.”

“The ceremony is supposed to represent everyone,” she said mildly, “and we’re laying a wreath, Gavin. They’re going to film that. And they’ll be at the funeral next day.”

“Yes, but . . .” He broke off. “Well, you have been rather underwhelmed by the whole thing from the start. Surprising considering he was your relative.”

His breath in the cold air formed little puffs of cloud, like smoke signals. I-AM-REPROACHING-YOU, the signals read. She responded with a white puff of her own, sighing out I-DON T-CARE on a long breath, but derived no satisfaction from it since he didn’t notice. His arm swung up, pointing. “Look! This is where Patrick stood. You remember the photo – Patrick and the mule, halfway between the buttresses? Of course the water jets weren’t there then. Go and stand in front of them. I’ll take your picture.”

She did not want to stand where Patrick had; it did not matter that she would stand before a rebuilt magnificence of creamy stone and fluttering pennants; in her mind’s eye she saw smashed ruins and hillocks of broken stone, sullen grey fading to colourlessness, and Patrick grinning and holding a mule by a rope. The Famous Kicker! he had written in flowing copperplate on the back of the photo postcard.

This mule today kicked a Private, then a Corporal, then a Sergeant, then a Second Lieutenant. I always stand well to the front!

Cheer-ho!

Patrick

March, 1917

She blinked away the image and stood half-paralysed by the same creeping unease which had squirmed inside her since their arrival in Ieper. It was like nausea, only warmer. She had felt it on the Ramparts, at the Flanders Museum, and now at the Cloth Hall, and it made her want to run away, to run and run and run. She had told Gavin about the squirmy feeling but

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