the mourners who had attended the funeral had been invited back to the house, the lounge had been full to overflowing and some of the guests had spilled into the kitchen. I’d kept my eyes on Primrose through the lounge doorway for most of the time as she sat on her granddad’s lap in an armchair; her face wan, cheeks grubby from wiped tears. I noticed that my mother had not returned from the crematorium, obviously having cadged a lift from someone or, more likely, had herself dropped off at the first tube station or taxi rank along the route. Andrea had been a tower of strength, going from group to group, making sure everyone had something to eat—tiny sandwiches and vol-au-vents—and enough to drink—sherry or hard liquor, as well as tea and soft stuff. Occasionally, I would see Oliver squeeze her arm for support and I mentally thanked him for being there for her. Our argument seemed so pointless now, so unimportant, and I deeply regretted our parting on such a sour note.
I noticed Andrea now having a quiet word with Primrose, then taking her hand to lead her from the room. Pushing myself against the wall (nearly through it, actually—I still hadn’t fully mastered my new-found capabilities) so that they could pass by without touching me, I saw their faint auras close up, and they were dull, greyish in tone, no vibrancy to them. I hadn’t known that misery could be so palpable. As soon as they were past, I followed them up to Prim’s cheerful little bedroom, with its old Shrek and Little Mermaid posters on the walls, bookcase full of brightly coloured jacket spines, dolls—lots of dolls—arranged in civilized repose on top of a pine cabinet, yellow wallpaper with tiny blue flowers matched with blue-and-yellow curtains. Usually it raised my spirits just to walk in there—not even the small Ventolin inhaler on the bedside cabinet would spoil my mood—but this day was not a normal day. Tears flowed again as soon as Prim lay on the narrow bed and Andrea murmured soothing words as she pulled off our daughter’s shoes.
“Why did Daddy have to die, Mummy?” Prim asked in a small, plaintive voice.
I could go on and tell you all that Andrea said in reply and more questions asked by Primrose, but I’m not going to. Enough to say they were in this vein: Why did God take away the second-most important person in the world to her? Why is God so cruel? Is Daddy happy where he is now, and if he is, why? Doesn’t he miss us? Will he come and get us soon? It’s not just heartbreaking to relate, it’s soul-wrecking too. And pertinent, you might think. Because there are no good answers to any of those questions, and there’s nothing that can remove or even alleviate the pain that those left behind have to endure. I began to get very angry. Not only did I have no satisfactory answers to those questions—and I’d always believed you found out the truth of things once you left this mortal coil—but I could not have reassured Prim even if I did. I was, myself, completely in the dark as to my state, my future and my purpose. Oh yes, my purpose. I did believe there was a reason for my condition—everything had a reason, a meaning, call it what you like—but I had no idea what mine was. So, as I say, I began to get angry.
I paced the room, raving to myself, while Andrea tenderly stroked our daughter’s forehead. She found Prim’s favourite comfort teddy, Snowy, and tucked it into her arms. My raging came to a temporary halt as I embraced both Andrea and Primrose in my own arms, frustrated that I could not hug them tight, squeeze them so hard that they would have lost breath. I don’t think I’d ever loved them both as much as I did at that moment. Nevertheless, their mood sank into me and now I had never known such despair.
Finally, Andrea gave Primrose one last hug and kiss, then left her lying on the bed, Snowy (what else would the aged teddy be called? Greyie?) hugged close to her chest, her eyes closed as if ready for sleep. But where was her comfort rag, her “Bit of Blank”? She would need it when she woke or stirred, but as hard as I searched the bedroom with my eyes, I could not find the short length of pink silk anywhere. I remembered she’d had it with her in the chapel and realized it must still be in the pocket of her coat hanging in the cloakroom downstairs. I called out to Andrea, who was tip-toeing towards the door, but of course, she didn’t hear me. I couldn’t fetch it myself and I groaned in frustration, called to Andrea again to no avail. Never had I felt so useless, so inadequate.
Andrea paused at the door and, one hand on the handle, looked back at Primrose. Our daughter was already asleep, exhausted by the trauma of the past few days. Andrea left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
I sat on the floor by the bed, pretending to stroke Prim’s hair and her back, almost believing I could feel her as I whispered words of comfort, hoping that somehow my words—or at least the sentiment behind them—would get through. Pretty soon, she was giving out tiny snores, but I stayed with her, continuing to whisper, telling her over and over again how much I loved her and that she shouldn’t be afraid, Daddy was okay and he was with her even though she could not see him. At one stage, her eyelids flickered and she murmured “Daddy”, but she was quickly away again, fast asleep, slowly and unknowingly coming to terms with my death. One day at a time, I told her. It will eventually become all right. You’ll always miss me, I hope, but the hurt will lessen and eventually fade. Never completely, but enough for you to carry on with your own life without this debilitating heartache. God, I loved her so much, and the thought of what I was losing almost tore me apart.
Although I wasn’t tired myself, I closed my eyes, content just to be with her for a while. Eventually, her chest rose and sank rhythmically and her grasp on Snowy loosened as she fell into a deeper sleep. I opened my eyes and looked out the window: it was getting dark outside.
Rising from the bedside and giving Prim one last simulated kiss, I went to the door and passed through it. There was that fleeting and odd moment of seeping through thin air and atoms (did I actually pass through the air between the atoms? I briefly wondered, remembering that nothing in this world of ours—of yours—is truly solid. Maybe that’s the secret of insubstantial ghosts walking through apparently substantial walls or doors), the sensation of being part of the door itself, then I was on the landing outside my daughter’s bedroom. I could hear the low tones of voices below, the sound indicating that most of the guests had left. Silence followed, then voices again. One was Andrea’s. I walked along the landing and turned the bend leading to the stairs. Rather than glide, I took the stairs one at a time, as if my life was normal and I had just finished reading Prim a bedtime story, ready for a vodka tonic, or perhaps a brandy, before dinner. That would have been nice. That would have been so nice. But that wasn’t the reality. No, surprise, shock, dismay and misery were the reality. My past life had not quite done with me.
They were kissing. Andrea and Oliver were in each other’s arms and they were kissing.
I froze there and gaped.
It wasn’t a kiss of condolence. It wasn’t a platonic kiss between old friends. It was a ravenous, lustful kind of kiss. The tongue-swallowing kind. The kind Andrea and I hadn’t shared for the last three or four years.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stared through the open door into the lounge and my knees almost gave way. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. My wife and my best friend. With me hardly dead five minutes. Was I crazy? Had my loss of body at last driven me crazy? It couldn’t be true.
They broke apart and it was only small consolation that Andrea was doing the pushing.
“No, we can’t,” she said breathlessly. “It isn’t right. Not so soon.”
Isn’t right? Not so soon? What the hell was she saying? It was… it was obscene!
“I’m sorry, Andrea.” He wouldn’t release his grip on her though. “I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s been such a rough few days.”
“How the bloody hell do you think it’s been for me?” she shouted back. “I never… I never wanted anything like this.”
His voice was anxious, but relatively calm compared to Andrea’s. Still he did not let her go.
She put her hands against his chest. “I loved him, Oliver. You must understand that. I still loved him.” There was a slight catch in her throat.
“Yes, I know.” He was looking intensely into her eyes. “But it wasn’t the same. It was never the way it is with us. Even when you first went to Jim, you still loved me.”
He tried to pull her close again, but Andrea resisted. I wished she’d resisted a few minutes ago.
“Primrose might come down,” she told him, her efforts to break away feeble.
“She’s dead to the world. Sorry, shouldn’t have put it that way. But the poor little mite is exhausted. She’ll sleep through the night if you’ll let her.”
Finally, Andrea did manage to free herself. Oliver attempted to grab her back.
“No!” This time her objection was fierce and Oliver took a pace backwards.
“All right, Andrea.” He kept his voice low, as if he might really wake Primrose. “It’s just been difficult keeping away from you when you’re going through so much.”
“How ironic is that?” She spat out the words contemptuously, but I knew they were directed at herself as much as my so-called friend. “What we’re doing is disgusting.”
Well, I went along with her there.
“You don’t mean it, Andrea. Just because he died in such a terrible way doesn’t mean what we have isn’t
