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WILL SHE NEVER SET HIM FREE?

That day I set out on my bike for a week of cycling around the Borders I did not believe in ghosts. Maybe if I am being honest, I did not even believe in people anymore. For six days I charged headlong into relationships, friendships, and trouble. It was not just what was in front of me that made the journey so memorable. No matter who I met or where I ended up, she was always following in my shadow. At the time I had no idea who she was or what I had done to deserve the Porcelain lady hunting me down. I know now of course, but it is too late to save me. Guilt or reality? As the week went on, I lost the ability to know the difference. The one thing I always understood from the start was that the journey had to end with just the two of us confronting each other at long last.

No matter which road he took, she was always waiting for him. The porcelain lady would have her revenge.

Lady in Waiting

Can I ask you to walk with me as the late evening sun dips behind the neat little suburban houses of Newton Mearns? There is still enough light, for now, to make us feel safe. I realise that dusk is creeping down on the earth but if we hurry then I can explain everything to you. I need to go back just this one last time. I can’t do it alone; I will admit I am afraid. Please, just this one time, please I beg you, come with me.

The homes on Carrington Drive were mostly built in the early seventies. Many of them have been extended, some no longer even have that characteristic box shape that I remember when I was a child. The one thing that sticks out more than anything else are the trees and hedges. Over the years they have grown out of all proportion. Now many of the houses are drowning in a sea of untamed greenery.

I apologise if I have given you the impression that Carrington Drive is different from any other middle-class estate on the edge of Glasgow. It’s not, the homes are no doubt occupied by couples with young children, or maybe older folks waiting for the time to come when they will have to downsize. That is the thing about houses, they are really just conveyor belts. The young move in, they have a family, the children leave, and then they too are replaced by the next generation. As we make our way along Carrington Drive you can see the toys discarded on the lawn, bikes laying at an odd angle against the wall, and of course the obligatory child’s trampoline covered in green mould. A Christmas present for the kids that was quickly forgotten about and left to ruin the lawn hidden beneath it. Yes, yes, everything looks normal as we pass along, well until we reach number 36.

It stands at the very centre of the bend in the road, the one that swings around and takes you back to where you started. When you think about it, this house could even be considered to be in the most desirable position in the street. It sits at the very top of our walk. It should be proud and dominant as it eyes its friends curving around towards it from either side. But that is the problem. Instead of being the King of Carrington, it hides behind two massive overgrown fir trees. Almost as though the building is ashamed to show itself to the rest of the houses.

Number 36 looks tired and worn. Not quite derelict but it certainly has an air of neglect. The whitewash on the pebble-dashed walls has a green haze creeping over it. The windows have not been cleaned for a few years. You can tell that the garden was once loved but now the overgrown rose bushes are matched in size and abundance by the weeds that sprout over every inch of space they can find. The large grey and green bins have toppled over and even though the brown one still stands; it is full of evil-smelling dirty rainwater.

Now, I know you are wondering why this particular house ended up so lonely and lost? The answer of course lies inside. I still have the key to the front door. Shall we go in and I will explain what happened? Maybe it is best that we hurry. I don’t particularly want to still be around here once the sun finally dips below the horizon. The two large trees at the front tend to stand sentinel over number 36 these days. It is as if they want to bury the reason the house no longer wishes to be seen. The thing is it was her who planted them. All those years ago. The two tiny little plants have now grown into giants. Like me, they can’t forget her. How could anyone?

The key turns in the lock and the handle moves down under pressure but the door does not budge. The changing temperature and constant Scottish rain have warped the frame. Can you help me push? There, it finally squeals open. We are in the kitchen already. These houses were built long before open planning and home design became fashionable. Strangely the back door goes out into the road while the posher front door with the hall faces onto a path. The seventies were strange times, you just need to watch the DJs on Top of the Pops to know that.

Inside it smells musty and damp. There is something almost human about a building. It is as though they need people, or they curl up and die. Even if the family living in the house do no maintenance, for some reason it still remains healthy but untidy. But, once empty, the most loved home that has been well looked after will quickly disintegrate. Once the beating heart has walked out and locked the door for the last time all that remains is silence and ruin. Number 36 has only been unoccupied for two years and yet it feels like ten. We are walking through the kitchen now and into the living room. The furniture stands untouched. The walls and fireplace still have our pictures, her pictures hanging from them. The curtains are drawn, and the electricity has been shut off making it difficult to see the detail. I don’t want to look. The memory hurts far too much.

Follow me out into the hall at the foot of the stairs. A pile of unopened letters and junk mail lies on the floor under the letterbox. Final demands, bills not paid, and endless pamphlets asking you to waste your money. The door has been boarded up just above the handle. Someone must have had to gain access without a key. I know you can feel my reluctance now. I don’t want to climb the stairs to the upper level. It is getting darker, maybe we should leave? But we both know I have no choice. We have to go on. We have to find our bedroom, her bedroom. The one she hardly moved out of in the last few years. So much pain, so much hurt. I am at the foot of the stairs looking up. It seems so dark up there. I can feel her now, we are getting closer.

The top of the landing splits into four doors, all are closed. One is the bathroom, the other three lead into bedrooms. Two of these were only ever used for visitors. We never had children. Eve desperately wanted them, but despite our efforts, it never happened. Sometimes when I think back, I feel that was when her problem first started. It was soon after we were told that she would never conceive that the porcelain lady first appeared. From then on, she would come into our life with increasing regularity. The more Eve faded then the more I would catch glimpses of the ghost. She was subtle at first but then became bolder. I loved Eve, or at least what she had been. My God, I hated the Porcelain lady. I always will.

So, this is it. We have only one room left to go into. The bedroom where we once laughed, loved, cried, and held each other close. I can sense her presence. The walls may be damp and peeling but they still hold the smell and the touch of Eve. I can see her shadow floating around me. Long dark curls cascading over her face, the smooth white skin shimmering in the gloom. If only we could leave now and let me finish our exploration with a few grasped happy memories. I don’t want to open this last door. I know what awaits. It was always that way during the last few years.

The room is almost dark. I spent so many years here living and caring that I can make out every shape from memory alone. The large mirror will be covered in dust, the dressing table will still have her things packed into each of the tiny drawers. It is the outline of the bed that I am staring at. I should be remembering the times when we were younger, the times when we had passion and we were in love. I can’t though. All I see is Eve lying there waiting for me to move her, feed her, live her life for her. I try desperately not to look at the chair beside the bed. Not the one I would sit on and hold Eve’s hand, the other one on the opposite side. Finally, I accept my fate. The way I always did. My eyes move towards the chair, praying, hoping that she has left. Of course, she is there. Why would she leave? The ghost has finally won. The day Eve departed the Porcelain lady moved in and never left. She is sitting on the chair. I know she is facing me. The shape of her eyes, her nose, and her mouth are in the exact places they should be on her face. But there are no holes. She cannot speak, she cannot hear, she cannot smell. The figure is moving now. It is starting to rise from the chair. Two years it waited for me to return. Will I never be free of her memory?

‘I love you, Eve, I miss you so much.’