Her parents weren’t concerned about the imaginary friend. They’d determined that imaginary friends are a perfectly normal process of growing up; and apart from anything else, the little one-act theatrical performances were amusing to watch. They were more concerned, though not unduly so, when the imaginary friend took to appearing in her bedroom at around the time Jeremy and Sophie were in the habit of going to bed. I say ‘appeared’, but this is, I have to admit, a somewhat speculative choice of verb at this stage of the narrative because Jeremy and Sophie saw nothing untoward when they looked in on her one night. They did so because they’d decided – having given the matter of Marcie’s nocturnal conversations careful consideration – that it was not a good thing for a little girl to be awake when she should have been deep in arms of Morpheus and dreaming of whatever healthy little girls are supposed to dream of.
‘Hello Princess,’ said Jeremy with an eager smile as he edged his face around the door. Sophie edged her slightly smaller face, replete with the kind of motherly smile which fathers generally find impossible to emulate, around the side of Jeremy’s shoulder. Marcie turned her head to look at them and frowned.
‘Who where you talking to, babe?’ asked Sophie. Marcie continued to frown and remained silent. Jeremy came straight to the point.
‘Have you been talking to a friend in here?’
Marcie remained apparently unmoved and certainly unmoving, apart from her eyes – severely narrowed, it might be noted, in consequence of having been interrupted – which she shifted from one parent to the other and back again. And then she clutched Mr Woollyhead – her favourite stuffed toy – closer to her chest for several seconds while the grown ups waited for an answer. It came suddenly as Marcie offered two brief nods of her head.
Jeremy was the first to respond: ‘Oh, right. That’s nice.’ He was holding fast to his eager expression, having decided that, since he knew little more about child psychology than he did about the molecular density of Saturn’s rings, all he could do was rely on his fallible intuition and play it by ear. One thing he did know, however, was that children are there to be patronised. ‘Is he still here?’ he continued. Marcie’s frown deepened slightly and her mouth developed a hint of a pout. She shook her head slowly. ‘Oh dear. That’s a shame. Where is he?’
‘He’s gone,’ said Marcie, clearly displeased.
‘That was quick,’ replied her mother, anxious to reassure the little girl that nocturnal visitors are a perfectly normal part of life. ‘We heard you talking to him only a moment ago. Where’s he gone?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Did he climb out the window?’ The answer came with another brief shake of the head. ‘Did he scamper under the bed?’ Another shake. ‘I know: he hid in the wardrobe when we came in.’ Marcie’s eyes rolled disdainfully. Even at four years old, children are quite capable of recognising the sickly scent of the disingenuous when they smell it. ‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘So where did he go?’ her mother continued. Marcie shrugged and looked to Mr Woollyhead for guidance, and then she offered: ‘He went pouf.’
‘Pouf? You mean he disappeared?’ Another nod.
‘Oh right; that was clever. Does your friend have a name?’
The question seemed to awaken in Marcie the sense that maybe the interrogation was now turning into something more akin to a conversation, and her frown relaxed a little. Her nod even carried a hint of cautious enthusiasm.
‘What is it?’ asked her mother.
‘Mr Jonathon.’
Sophie felt a small sting of alarm when she heard the name, but allowed it to pass as being nothing more than an odd coincidence. Nevertheless, she wanted to know more.
‘What sort of games do you play when you’re with Mr Jonathon?’
Marcie’s frown returned, edged this time with more than a hint of the dismissive. ‘We don’t play games,’ she said.
‘So what do you do?’ Marcie thought for a moment.
‘Mr Jonathon tells me stories about when he was a little boy, and how he used to like fishing with a net on a pole, and how his favourite book was about Rupert Bear, and sometimes he asks questions about you.’
‘About me?’
‘You and daddy.’
‘What sort of questions?’
Marcie rolled her eyes again and released a huff of frustration. This was turning into an interrogation again. Being a normal four-year-old, she made no effort to hide her impatience.
‘You know: what does mummy like for breakfast, and do mummy and daddy ever argue, and does mummy or daddy drive the car when they go out?’
‘I see,’ said Sophie knowingly. This was turning into an object lesson into how children’s minds work, and what sort of things they observe when you’re not looking. ‘And how old is Mr Jonathon?’ she continued cheerily. Marcie shrugged. ‘Is he as old as daddy and me?’ A further shrug. And then the little girl, finding another burst of eagerness to talk about her friend, offered a further piece of information.
‘He brings his dog with him.’
‘A dog? Oh, that is nice. Is it a big dog or a little dog?’
‘She’s fairly little. She isn’t as big as Rusty.’
Rusty was a Fox Terrier and lived next door.
‘What colour is she?’
‘Black and, erm, grey. And she’s got long, floppy ears and wags her tail a lot. She’s ever so nice.’
‘Does she have a name?’
Marcie nodded but said nothing, demonstrating once again that children take questions literally and answer in like manner, a fact that many young parents are often guilty of overlooking. Sophie waited for a few pregnant seconds, and then asked ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Mr Jonathon says her name is Indie and she used to live here.’
Sophie heard the alarm bell ring again, only louder this time. She and Jeremy looked at one another, and now it was their turn to frown. Jeremy’s voice was quieter, and more hesitant than eager, as he asked the next question: ‘Used to live here?’ Marcie nodded again, seeming quite unconcerned as she turned to smile at Mr Woollyhead and hug him more firmly. ‘Before she had to go,’ she continued. ‘Then she went and found Mr Jonathon. She’s his dog now.’
The two parents were silent for a while, apparently feeling at a loss to know how to proceed. Jeremy was the first to regain his equilibrium and ask Marcie a final question:
‘Are you sure Mr Jonathan has gone now?’ Marcie nodded. ‘Good; then I think it’s about time you were asleep, little lady. Snuggle down, say night-night to Mr Woollyhead, and we’ll see you in the morning.’ A relieved Marcie did as she was asked and the two parents left, closing the door quietly behind them.
They were clearly not ready to go to sleep yet – or do whatever else young parents are in the habit of doing prior to the nocturnal repose – because they both sat on the same side of the double bed and looked thoughtfully in the general direction of the opposite wall. Sophie’s eyes showed a mixture of questioning and alarm; Jeremy’s sat either side of a puzzled frown, but otherwise looked relatively unconcerned.
‘I’m scared,’ said Sophie, ‘aren’t you?’
‘Not scared, no,’ offered Jeremy. He turned to his wife with an air of contrived sagacity and continued: ‘Intrigued.’
Sophie looked back scornfully. ‘Intrigued?’ she said. ‘So you think this might all be coincidence? Bloody big coincidence. Let’s run over it, shall we? The name of the old guy I used to talk to in the lane, from long before I met you, was Jonathon. He died about a year ago. At the time I knew him I had a black and grey Cocker Spaniel – with long floppy ears – called Indie. Indie isn’t a very common name, is it? How many dogs have you known called Indie? She became our dog when we got married, and she died shortly before Marcie was born. I’ve never talked to her about Indie. She just never cropped up, so how could Marcie know what colour she was?
‘She must have seen a picture of her in your photo album.’
‘OK, but what about the name? Is she psychic? Did she guess it?’
‘Perhaps it’s written next to the photo.’
‘Jeremy, she can’t read yet for heaven’s sake.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘The thing is, Jonathon was very fond of Indie, and Indie liked him. Maybe they got together in the afterlife or something. How should I know? And what about Rupert Bear? Have you ever mentioned Rupert Bear to Marcie?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Me neither, but I remember Jonathon once telling me that his favourite Christmas present as a kid was his Rupert Bear annual. Is that all just coincidence?’
‘Must be,’ said Jeremy defensively. ‘What else can it be?’
‘Jeremy, don’t you get it? We’ve got a ghost! There’s a ghost in my freggin house and I don’t like it.’
Being a considerate sort of man, Jeremy was anxious not to evoke the suspicion that he was failing to give his wife’s evident concerns the respect they undoubtedly deserved. Accordingly, he allowed the space of a few seconds and then offered – rather weakly it has to be said – ‘But I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Well you’d better start believing in them,’ replied Sophie, ‘because we’ve obviously got one. I’ll tell you something, shall I? Jonathon was always a bit obsessed with the subject of death. He used to make jokes about haunting the lane outside my house singing some silly song or other. I told him once that it freaked me out. “Please don’t haunt me,” I said. He promised not to, but now he is. It’s obvious he is. I’m scared and I’m angry and I want him out of my house.’
Jeremy decided to change tack and proceed, for the time being at least, on the basis that Sophie’s concerns were credible. His reply seemed entirely logical and certain to make Sophie feel better.
‘But he isn’t haunting you. He’s haunting Marcie, and she doesn’t seem to mind a bit.’ It didn’t work.
‘But he’s still in my freggin house, Jeremy. And besides, what’s next? Fridge magnets being moved around to spell words? Chairs being piled on tables overnight? The bedroom turning ice cold even though it’s summer? And suppose he comes into the bedroom and starts pulling the sheets back and things?’
‘And then there’s the black slime running down the stairs,’ replied her husband, desperate to hide the smirk that was already squeezing the corner of his mouth. ‘Blood coming out of the taps. Skulls floating in the bath tub.’
‘Jeremy, shut up! Just shut up! It isn’t funny; it’s scaring the hell out of me. Can’t you see that, you stupid man?’ And then she stuffed the lower joint of her forefinger into her mouth to stifle the rising urge to wail when she heard a faint noise and saw the handle of the bedroom door begin to drop. Marcie walked in and demanded to know why she was shouting at daddy.
The over-inflated balloon of tension collapsed almost to nothing as Marcie climbed onto the bed. Much love and reassurance was bestowed upon her by both parents until she consented to be taken back to her room and go to sleep.
‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Jeremy when they were alone again. ‘If it continues we’ll have to think of some way to deal with it. God knows how, but we probably won’t have to. I expect it’ll go away eventually. Let’s get some sleep.’
Sophie didn’t sleep well that night. In fact, she hardly slept at all. Every time she dozed she woke up again wracked with tension, straining to listen for Marcie’s little voice chattering to an invisible stranger, anticipating some inexplicable noise, watching the door handle to ensure it was remaining as still as it ought to remain, desperately hoping that the air wouldn’t turn ice cold even though it was summer…
And then she woke up to see the sun unexpectedly high and shining through the east-facing bedroom window. The other half of the bed was empty and she could hear vague noises coming from downstairs. The clock on the bedside table declared the time to be 8.05 and she knew that Jeremy would be about to go to work. She threw on a dressing gown and went downstairs to find her husband rinsing his tea mug, while Marcie was engrossed in force-feeding sugar puffs to a reluctant Mr Woollyhead.
‘I was just about to come and wake you,’ he said. ‘You were dead to the world when I got up earlier. What are you planning to do today?’
‘Dunno,’ said Sophie, stifling a yawn. ‘I think we’ll go over to my mother’s house and spend the day with her. I don’t much fancy being alone in here at the moment.’
‘You won’t be alone. Marcie will be with you.’
‘Yeah, right. And who else?’
‘You’re still convinced we’ve got a lodger, then?’ Sophie declined to answer. ‘I can’t take all that stuff last night very seriously in the cold light of day. Still, if you’re happier being out of the house, so be it. I’m off to work.’
Sophie felt edgy as soon as he’d gone, and a little chill gripped her when Marcie said ‘I don’t want to go to granny’s. I want to stay here and play with Indie in the garden.’
‘But you like going to granny’s, don’t you?’ said her mother, diligently attempting to appear as normal as a mother is supposed to appear. Marcie nodded.
‘Can Indie and Mr Jonathon come too?’ she pleaded.
‘No, they can’t. It wouldn’t be polite to granny to take strangers into her house. You can play with Indie and Mr Jonathon another day.’ The words which followed (being: Oh, God, did I just say that?) were muttered in an undertone too quiet for Marcie to catch. And then she called her mother to let her know they were coming.
‘You look a little under the weather,’ said granny when they arrived. ‘Are you ailing for something?’
‘No. I had a bad night, that’s all.’
‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
Sophie was a world champion at hiding her inner feelings, even from her mother, and had no difficulty replying: ‘Nope. Everything’s fine.’
‘Good. I’ll make the coffee then. I’ve been waiting until you got here.’
Sophie sat at the refectory table and engaged her mother in idle chatter until the coffee was made and they had a mug each. Marcie took her glass of orange juice to the kitchen window which gave a view to the sunlit lawn and paddock behind the house. The two women’s conversation about nothing in particular was suddenly interrupted by a squeal of delight. They turned to see Marcie waving frantically at something outside the window, before rushing out of the door and into the garden.
Granny rose and went over to the window. Sophie followed her reluctantly, her stomach turning mercilessly and her head feeling as though it was full of cotton wool impregnated with rusty razor blades. They stood side by side and watched Marcie talk excitedly to thin air, and then run around with her arms held out as though chasing a playful prey.
‘What on earth is she doing?’ asked granny.
‘She has an imaginary friend,’ murmured Sophie.
‘Oh I see. Nothing to worry about. I had one when I was a little girl. So did you.’
Sophie felt confused and said nothing. She wanted to tell her mother that Mr Jonathon was not an imaginary friend at all, but the ghost of someone she used to talk to in the lane, someone her mother had also known, someone who had been very fond of Indie and had now taken a proprietorial interest in the much-lamented canine. But she knew that her mother was a strong, pragmatic woman who would only pour gentle scorn on such an absurd notion and try to talk her daughter out of it. She also knew that the notion was not absurd; she felt it strongly, and she trusted her feelings. She continued to watch as Marcie giggled and frolicked and ran across the gravel drive in pursuit of something invisible. Tension rose to bursting point and her mind screamed a silent imprecation:
‘Jonathon, go away, please. You said you wouldn’t haunt me, so don’t. I’m scared to hell. Is that what you want? Is it? Please leave me alone, and leave Marcie alone, because I swear I’ll have a freggin breakdown if you don’t.’
She saw Marcie stop, turn around and walk back a few paces. She saw her lift her arms into the air and then drop them to her side again. She saw her lift her hand and wave to something invisible. She saw her burst into tears and walk disconsolately back to the house.
‘Why did you send Mr Jonathon away?’ spluttered the little girl, her distress complimenting the accusatory tone in her voice.
Sophie was shocked and said nothing for some time as an air of tension hung in the space between mother and child. Eventually, she lied.
‘I didn’t send him away, Marcie. I expect he was just busy and had other things to do.’
‘He wasn’t, he wasn’t. He said you sent him away because you were scared of him and he didn’t want to upset you. You’re horrible. I hate you.’
Granny nodded knowingly as you might imagine. It’s a feature in which they’re well practiced, since it vindicates their superior wisdom to themselves and ably demonstrates it to everybody else.
* * *
Marcie got over her loss quickly, as children do, and harmony was restored to the household and its company of happy souls. In fact, harmony was so completely restored that, a few months later, Sophie discovered that her second child was beginning its journey to augment their merry band sometime during the late spring of the following year. Meanwhile, Marcie had contrived to furnish herself with the company of a second imaginary friend, this time a girl of her own age who she chose to call Lucy. At no point did either of her parents query the choice of name.
The following May was as merry as the month of May is supposed to be. Indeed, the world was white with it, and all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. The sun shone drowsily from an azure sky, the sparsely scattered clouds did their very best to imitate the wholesome joy and eager anticipation engendered by newly-scooped ice cream, and the fresh green leaves whispered seductively in their juvenile softness. Sophie’s confinement and delivery matched the tone of the season, being calm and free of drama, and the only interruption to the routines of family life was the billeting of Marcie on granny while Jeremy was busy traipsing back and forth to the maternity ward. The interruption was mercifully brief, since Sophie was back in the fold bearing the new family member almost before you could say ‘imaginary friend.’
In the early afternoon of Sophie’s homecoming, granny brought Marcie back. They entered the house through the kitchen.
‘Has she been any trouble?’ asked Sophie.
‘Not a bit,’ replied granny. ‘It’s been lovely having her. But come on, where’s the new arrival?’
They were conducted into the living room where a carrycot sat neatly on the sofa. Granny and Marcie stood side by side looking into the plush little vessel containing the precious little arrival. Granny smiled and cooed, as grannies do, and fondly brushed the baby’s cheek with her forefinger.
‘He’s beautiful,’ said granny, demonstrating yet again that beauty is in the eye of the beholder even when the object they’re admiring actually resembles an advanced form of simian. ‘I assume he’s hale, hearty and fully equipped?’
‘Absolutely,’ replied her daughter. ‘Strong as an ox according to the nurse.’
‘Has he got a name yet?’
‘No; we haven’t agreed on one yet. Jeremy fancies William and I’m rooting for Harry. We both ruled out Archibald…’
Granny turned to Marcie and asked: ‘So what do you think of your little brother, Marcie? Do you like him?’
There was no reply. Marcie was staring at the new arrival through wide eyes. Sophie repeated the question, but there was still no reply for several long seconds. And then Marcie looked up into her mother’s face and said quietly: ‘Mummy, it’s Mr Jonathon.’
Was mummy taken aback by this oddest of claims? In short, yes. She was, you might remember, the only one who had given credence to the notion that Mr Jonathon had been a ghost. And although the memory of her fear had long been subdued by the passage of time and the expectation of a new family member, Marcie’s words caused more than a minor flutter to rise in her stomach. She handled it well.
‘Don’t be silly, Marcie,’ she said. ‘Mr Jonathon went away, didn’t he?’
‘But he’s back,’ replied Marcie with that brand of childhood innocence which is hard to refute. ‘Only he’s a baby now.’
Sophie turned her head to look at the baby and the baby looked steadfastly back.
‘Mother,’ said Sophie quietly, ‘he’s smiling at me. Babies aren’t supposed to smile until they’re several weeks old.’
‘Yes they are,’ said granny, whose erudition extended to the most unlikely of areas. ‘Their mouths react to something that’s going on with them. It’s not a conscious act; he’s probably broken wind or something. It’s known as a reflex smile.’
Sophie wanted so much to believe her, but the baby continued to smile and it didn’t look very reflexive to her.
‘Tea’s made,’ called Jeremy’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Shall I bring it through or do you want it in here?’
‘Let’s go and sit at the table,’ suggested granny. ‘Give the little nameless one some peace after all the attention he’s been getting lately.’
The two women went into the kitchen and sat at the table. Marcie stayed with the baby. And so the gaggle of grown ups engaged in much prattle about nothing of very much consequence while Marcie stayed very quiet in the living room. Sophie’s chair had its back to the living room door, and so she was unaware of her daughter’s close presence until she felt a tug on her sleeve. She turned to see the little girl’s eyes fixed on hers with quiet determination.
‘Mummy.’
‘Yes, Marcie.’
‘Mr Jonathon says we have to get a dog.’
