“Why don’t you like the greyhounds?” Scarlett asked.
“Oh, God,” said her mammy. “Sure, I never did like them. I never did. They were too big.”
“But so are you,” said Scarlett.
Her mammy stopped, and laughed.
“True for you, girl,” she said.
Scarlett watched her mammy put her hand over her eyes, like the peak of a cap, so she didn’t have to squint. She was looking at the greyhounds behind the fence.
“So,” she said. “You want to know why I don’t like the greyhounds, even though I’m a bit of a greyhound myself. Is that it?”
She barked, and Scarlett laughed.
“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Why? You’re bigger than them.”
“Well,” said her mammy. “This might sound mad. And a little bit sad.”
She bent down, so her face was right in front of Scarlett’s.
“I blamed the greyhounds for killing my mother.”
Scarlett wanted to run.
“Did they—?”
“No, no, they didn’t,” said her mammy. “It was the flu. It’s grand. I know that. But you see, I always thought if my mother had come into the house with me she’d have been fine. But she didn’t. She went and fed the hounds. And I always thought the hounds gave her the flu.”
She smiled.
“Mad,” she said. “But I couldn’t help it. I had to blame something and I’d never liked them anyway. Let’s get you fed and washed.”
“Just fed.”
“All right,” said her mammy. “You’ve caught me at a soft moment.”
She bent down again to Scarlett. “I love being with you,” she said.
“I know,” said Scarlett.
“I was younger than you when my mother died.”
“I know.”
“It’s always sad.”
“I know.”
“I decided to blame the hounds,” said her mammy. “Because everyone kept telling me not to blame myself. You see, I’d had the flu as well.”
“Everybody gets the flu,” said Scarlett.
“That’s very true,” said her mammy. “You’re a wise one. But back then it was more serious. People died. My mother died.”
“She didn’t die,” said Scarlett. “She just went away.”
“God,” said her mammy. “Where did you hear that?”
“Nowhere,” said Scarlett. “It was just in my head.”
Her mammy bent down and kissed the top of Scarlett’s head.
“There.”
They went into the kitchen.
id you live in the pig shed after you died?” Scarlett asked Tansey.
“I did not, faith,” said Tansey. “Sure, why would I want to live in the pig shed? Even if I am dead and I can’t smell anything.”
They were still in the kitchen.
“I just always thought it was spooky,” said Scarlett.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mammy,” said Mary.
“What?!”
“You said Tansey was spooky,” said Mary. “She’s, like, your granny, after all.”
“I said the pig shed was spooky!”
“Because Tansey was in it.”
“But she wasn’t!” said Scarlett. “She just said so!”
“But you thought—”
“Ah, now stop that, girls,” said Tansey. “You’d wake the dead. And I’m the proof of that.”
“Sorry.”
“So, look,” said Tansey. “It was bad enough dying—it wasn’t nice at all, I’ll tell you that for nothing. But leaving Emer alone like that—well, I couldn’t do it. My husband—”
She looked at Scarlett.
“Your granddad,” she said, “was a lovely man and he did his best. And he did it very well. As reliable as the rain. He was a daddy and a mammy to Emer. And there was his mother as well and she was grand. But, still, I couldn’t go. I had to stay. Until she became a mammy herself. And even then I couldn’t let go. I was always worried she’d—”
“Tansey?” said Mary.
“Yes, dear?” said Tansey.
“Granny’s in hospital.”
“I know she is,” said Tansey. “And that’s why I’m here.”
She sighed. “I’ve been lingering,” she said. “That word again. She was so little, you see—I couldn’t leave her. I was just so anxious. I still am.”
Then Scarlett spoke.
“We’re going to see my mother—Emer—now,” she said. “Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” said Tansey. “I’d like that.”
She sat up.
“But I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?” Mary asked.
“Well,” said Tansey. “Look at me. I’m a ghost.”
“So?”
“The last thing a hospital needs is a ghost wandering around,” said Tansey. “All the heart attacks—can you imagine? Believe me, dear. Sick people don’t want to see ghosts.”
“But the hospital’s, like, horrible already,” said Mary. “No one would notice you. I mean, like—I don’t mean you’re horrible. You’re not. But most of the people in there look like they’ve been seeing ghosts all their lives. Some of them are ghosts. Do ghosts smoke?”
“No,” said Tansey. “Unfortunately.”
“Why would you want to smoke?” Mary asked.
“I wouldn’t,” said Tansey. “But I’d love to be able to cough properly. A good ol’ cough now. That’d be grand. I’d love my lungs back.”
She smiled.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “Smoking’s a filthy habit. It’s not good for a dead person to be around with the living too much. You’re making me jealous. With your lungs.”
She said it in a way that made Mary and Scarlett laugh.
“I’d love to see Emer,” said Tansey. “She’s frightened, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Scarlett.
“I can help, you see,” said Tansey. “I can—well—I can be her mother.”
She smiled. “Then I can go.”
“Go where?” Mary asked.
“Well,” said Tansey. “Where I should have been these years.”
“Oh. Yeah,” said Mary.
“‘Oh. Yeah’ is right, girl,” said Tansey.
She smiled again.
“You can’t cry,” said Mary.
“No.”
“But you can smile. How come?”
Tansey laughed.
“I’m not being cheeky,” Mary told her mother. “Just in case you think I am.”
“I don’t!”
“I don’t know the answer to that one,” said Tansey. “I never thought of it till now. I can laugh as well. Although it’s years since I did.”
“Did you laugh in the milking parlor once?” asked Scarlett.
“Oh, I laughed in that parlor a lot more than once,” said Tansey. “Many’s the time I laughed in the milking parlor.”
“After you died,” said Scarlett. “Long after. When I was a little girl.”
“No.”
“My mother thought she heard someone else laughing one day, besides us.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“It might have been you.”
“It might.”
She sighed. “I died young, but I’ve an old one’s memory. I recall some things precisely, and other important things are gone. I might have played hurling for Wexford, for all I know.”
“You didn’t.”
“I’m not surprised. Your granddad did.”
“I know.”
Tansey looked at Mary.
“I’d love to talk to Emer,” she said. “I want to tell her there’s nothing to worry about. Dying’s not so bad. Especially when you’re old. And she’s had a great life, after all. Lovely daughter, and grandchildren.”
Scarlett was crying now.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Tansey.
“No,” said Scarlett. ??
?It’s fine. She always spoke about you when I was growing up. Even though she couldn’t remember much. I think it would be great if you met her. Although, it’s all a bit strange.”
“Yep,” said Mary. “It’s definitely weird. I’m not being cheeky.”
“Just because you say you’re not being cheeky doesn’t mean you aren’t,” said Scarlett.
“But I’m not,” said Mary. “It is weird. It’s so weird. How many other ghosts do you, like, know?”
Scarlett shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Now I’m scared,” said Mary.
“Only one,” said Tansey. “You know only the one, and that’s me.”
“Why can you not come into the hospital?”
“I’m not good under the lightbulbs, you see,” said Tansey. “You saw that yourself. I fade. It wouldn’t be fair. Sure, people in hospitals are frightened enough already without ghosts marching up the corridors. But there’s one thing—”
“What?”
“If the ghost holds a child’s hand—”
She looked at Mary.
“I’m not a child,” said Mary.
“Yes, you are!” said her mother.
“I’m not,” said Mary. “You said so.”
“When?!”
“Yesterday,” said Mary. “When I said I didn’t want to clean my room. You said I had to because, and I quote, You’re not a little girl anymore.”
“That’s right!” said Scarlett. “You’re not a little girl! But you are a child!”
“Why am I?” said Mary. “Because you say so?”
“Yes!”
“Ahem.”
It was Tansey. “Now, ladies,” she said. “Ghosts don’t usually have to imitate a cough, to get attention.”
“I’m not a child,” Mary whispered.
“Yes, you are!” her mother whispered back.
“Not!”
“Ah, stop that, the pair of you,” said Tansey. “And listen to me now.”
“Sorry.”
“If the ghost holds the hand of a child,” said Tansey, “as they walk into a building—”
“Like a hospital.”
“Exactly,” said Tansey. “The ghost becomes more solid. But only if she’s holding the hand of a child.”
“How does it work?” asked Mary.
“I don’t know,” said Tansey.
“Did you ever try it?”
“No.”
“How did you find out about it, then?”
“I just seem to know,” said Tansey.
“And you’re sure it’ll work?”
“I’m not, no.”
“I’m not convinced,” said Mary. “It sounds a bit, like, superstitious.”
“I’m a ghost,” said Tansey. “And I’m probably, like, a bit of a superstition. But I’m here, all the same.”
“Okay.”
“Will we try it, so?”
“Okay.”
Scarlett shouted at the kitchen ceiling.
“Boys?!”
They heard a noise from upstairs.
“I think one of them said ‘What,’” said Mary.
“We’re going back to the hospital!” shouted Scarlett. “Your dad will be home soon!”
They heard another noise.
“I think one of them said ‘Okay,’” said Mary.
he didn’t want to sleep.
“I’m alive.”
Her eyes would close. She couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t keep her eyes open.
I’m alive.
t was after eight o’clock, and dark. Mary and Tansey sat in the back of the car, outside the house and under one of the trees.
“Don’t forget your seat belt,” said Mary.
“What’s a seat belt?” Tansey asked.
Mary showed her the belt, and how to put it on.
“Now,” Tansey asked, “does a ghost really need a seat belt?”
But she clicked the belt buckle into place. Mary watched, half expecting the belt to go right through Tansey’s body. But it didn’t. It went across her chest and lap.
“You’re kind of solid already,” she said.
“I am,” said Tansey. “That’ll be all the spuds I ate when I was a young one. But, d’you know what?” she said, as Scarlett started the car—and the light inside the car went off. “I’ve never been in a car before.”
“No way,” said Mary.
Tansey was even clearer in the dark. Everything about her looked real and alive.
“It’s true,” she said. “There were very few cars back in my day. And they were all black.”
Scarlett turned onto the main road to the hospital. The rush hour was over and there was hardly any traffic.
“We’ll be there in no time!” said Scarlett.
“Whatever that means,” said Mary, quietly.
She watched Tansey looking out the car window, at the houses and rows of shops, at the other cars and streetlights.
“It’s better than walking,” said Tansey.
“That’s what I keep telling Mammy,” said Mary. “But she won’t listen to me.”
“Walking is great!” said Scarlett.
“It did me no good,” said Tansey, quietly to Mary.
She sat up straight. “I like this car business,” she said. “It’s like being at the films.”
They drove into the hospital car park. Scarlett found an empty space, and parked. She looked back over the car seat at Mary and Tansey.
“So!”
“We’re there, are we?” said Tansey.
“We are!”
“Grand.”
They got out of the car.
“So!” said Scarlett, again. She looked nervous.
Mary walked around to the other side of the car and took Tansey’s hand in hers.
“It’s cold,” she said. “I’m not being cheeky.”
“I know you’re not,” said Tansey.
Mary squeezed Tansey’s hand, a little bit. “But it’s nice,” she said.
“Oh, good.”
“And a bit weird.”
“You’re being cheeky now, are you?”
“Yes.”
“We’d better get a move on!” said Scarlett.
Visiting time was nearly over.
“Wait now,” said Tansey.
She let go of Mary’s hand and stood under one of the strip lights that lit the car park.
“Can you see me?”
“Hardly,” said Mary.
It was a bit horrible, because Tansey seemed to be disappearing, even breaking up. Mary ran to her and held her hand.
“Good girl yourself,” said Tansey. “Am I any clearer now?” she asked Scarlett.
“I think so!” said Scarlett. “But—I don’t know! Maybe I’m just being biased.”
“But can you see me?”
“Well, yes.”
“Will we chance it, so?” Tansey asked Mary.
“Cool,” said Mary. “But what’ll happen if it doesn’t work?”
“Oh, dozens of people will have heart attacks,” said Tansey. “But, sure, it’s a hospital, so they’ll be grand. I don’t like this car park place at all.”
The car park was an ugly, bare building, with no windows or color.
“How do we get out?” said Tansey.
“There’s a lift.”
“A what?”
The lift was broken, so they went down the stairs. Tansey stayed close to the wall, away from the lights. They met no one coming up as they went down to the exit, or on the footpath that led to the front of the hospital.
They stayed on the grass, away from the lamps that dropped big circles of light onto the path. It was busier here. A lot of people were leaving the hospital and coming toward them. There were groups of sad-looking people, different ages, families, after visiting people they loved and had had to leave inside. There were other people walking alone, their heads down, tired. No one paid much attention to this different family group, daughter, mother and
dead great-granny, as they went what seemed the wrong way at this time of night.
“So far, so good!”
But they were coming up to the main entrance. They’d have to step off the grass and walk under the fluorescent light, into the hospital foyer. It was so bright in there, it looked as if the windows had been painted in white gloss paint.
Tansey stopped.
“It’ll take more than a child’s hand to get me through all this brightness,” she said.
“I’m not a child,” said Mary.
“Right, so,” said Tansey. “Here goes.”
They held hands tight and walked off the grass, toward the people in dressing gowns and slippers who stood or sat in wheelchairs around the entrance, chatting and coughing, sighing and laughing. Tansey’s fingers got no warmer in Mary’s grip. But Mary stopped noticing, because all she could think of were the people at the entrance, and their faces. She didn’t look at Tansey—she was afraid to. It was really bright here, brighter than a normal day. It was a horrible, headachy light that seemed to burn the colors out of clothes and hair. Everything was gray. Mary began to think that Tansey would get past these people, because everyone looked so gray and ghostlike—when she heard the gasp.
There was a man with no legs, in a wheelchair, sitting away from the light. He was staring at something right beside Mary. His mouth was wide-open. His cigarette was clinging to his lip. He hadn’t lit it yet, and the flame from his lighter had started to singe his beard.
“A ghost.”
Mary didn’t hear him, but she knew that they were the words he’d just whispered.
This time she looked.
Tansey was shimmering. Mary could see right through her, even though she was holding Tansey’s hand and it still felt cold and solid. It might have felt cold and solid, but it almost wasn’t there. Tansey was disappearing. The man in the wheelchair hadn’t said anything else. But Mary felt Tansey’s fingers slip from hers.
Other men and women were looking now, staring at where Tansey had been standing. Their expressions were much more puzzled than frightened.
“Keep going!” said Scarlett.
“But—”
“Act normal, Mary!”
Act normal? Mary didn’t know what “normal” meant. She’d just been holding the hand of the ghost of a woman who’d died in 1928, who seemed to have evaporated just as Mary was getting to know her. She was being stared at by a man with no legs and a burning beard—and other people were staring at her too.