The Spirit Child
I know every word of those stories, repeated often and accompanied by indulgent smiles. They are part of my DNA, those tales of my wild imagination and precocious language skills. Something whimsical to entertain others and embarrass me.
‘Can’t we call her Mary?’ my Mum would theatrically plead, during the retelling.
Me, being me, or rather my Mum being me, suitably wilful and defiant – another essential element of the story, I might add – would mimic slamming an extra plate on the table. ‘NO, she’s called Yawna.’
I imagine my face, cast as I am as the family prodigy. It is scrunched and determined.
Each time the story is retold, the imprint strengthens - that in my four-year-old world, Yawna is my friend, not Mum’s, and she does what I want her to do. We play in the garden, she helps me with my jigsaw puzzles and joins in with the doll’s tea parties. Yawna is perfect and we are inseparable. I’m not entirely sure when she left me, or me her, and how I felt about that, but we moved to a new house when I was five, so that was the most likely moment. Whatever the reason, I think my parents were glad when my imaginary friend departed our lives. Yawna was a nuisance with a peculiar name but, more pointedly, she made my parents uncomfortable, or guilty perhaps, that their only child needed to conjure such a companion.
I hadn’t thought of Yawna in years. New family sagas replaced the old and she was rarely spoken of until a chance opportunity sent me back to my old neighbourhood. Memories, true or imparted – and which of us really knows the difference? - collided with the reality of a street much changed over twenty years. Walking slowly along Beech Grove Avenue, the vistas jagged at my recollections. Mum’s rose bushes had gone. In fact, there were no gardens at the front of any of the properties, only paved off-street parking areas. Leadlight windows had been replaced by plain double glazing. A mix of cared-for and less than pristine homes lined the street, each pair architectural twins. But hadn’t the houses been bigger? More substantial? A trick of time, no doubt, and my little girl stature.
One thing I was sure of, the single-story extension to the side of our old house had not been there when I was a child. I walked alongside, into Almond Way, and peeped over the side fence. Would there be lawn and a swing? Mum’s salvia and alyssum plants in a neat alternate pattern? Surely no-one had told me little details like that?
A blur of golden threads exploded in front of me. ‘Cut them!’ she said.
‘Excuse me, Yawna. I decide what to do. Besides, what would your Mummy say?’ I retorted.
‘Don’t care. I hate them. Cut them off.’
I screwed up my eyes in concentration. As much as I tried, there was no more. A neural spark, impossible to authenticate. Maybe the adventures I’d had with Yawna involved more than just setting an extra place at the table.
‘You look lost, love. Can I help you?’
I gasped and turned to face a stranger, stammering ‘Oh, no, thank you. Just visiting old haunts.’
‘Goodness. Are you Miriam’s girl?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. But, I’m sorry …’
‘Ethel Parker. Opposite you. Sixty-one.’
‘Yes, of course. You used to give me peppermint humbugs, didn’t you?’
She smiled and nodded. ‘What happened to all them curls, then?’
‘Hair straightener,’ I chuckled. ‘Always hated them.’ I blinked. That flash of yellow again.
‘I was just about to put the kettle on. D’you fancy a cuppa?’
I checked my watch. Yes, why not? I thanked her as we turned and walked across the road. And with an unfamiliar cup and saucer balanced on my knee and a plate of Bourbon biscuits on the arm of the chair, I returned to my current preoccupation.
‘Funny, isn’t it? About the past and memories? When you came over, I was thinking about my imaginary friend. Which is crazy when she wasn’t even real. I called her Yawna, would you believe? Mum was always wanting to change it.’
The woman frowned. ‘Only child, weren’t you? Probably needed someone to play with.’
‘Suppose so. The trouble is, I don’t know what I really remember and what I’ve been told. But, today, I thought I caught a glimpse of her. It was quite exciting really. Feeling like the memory was coming from my own mind and not through my parents. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? Being pleased about a figment of my own imagination!’
‘What were you doing?’
‘She was begging me to cut off her plaits. Long, golden things they were. I suppose she was voicing my hatred for my own curls. Shirley Temple, they used to call me. Goodness are you OK?’
Ethel’s face had drained of colour. Her cup trembled on its saucer. ‘God save us, but a little girl died in your house. Four years old. Called Mary.’
Cold tentacles spread across my back. My scalp tingled as if ice crystals were forming in my hair. She didn’t have to go on. Somehow I knew the real story of Mary before she even started.
‘Nineteen forty-four, or thereabouts. Terrible it was. As if the war weren’t bad enough, the poor kiddie was gassed to death. Bomb landed in the next street and their pilot light got blown out. Margaret and Jim were OK ‘cos they had a window open but Mary’s was shut tight.’
I closed my eyes. Yawn. Gasping for breath as she fell into eternal sleep. I felt light headed.
She raised damp eyes to meet mine. ‘Pretty thing, she was. Blue eyes and the longest, blond plaits you’ve ever seen.’
Then a change. Fear? Accusation? Steely eyes bored into mine. ‘Until someone cut them off, that is. Wouldn’t tell her Mum who did it, neither.’