Chapter 62
Confetti
He got out to watch himself in a rare moment of relaxation in the bookshop.
Flicking through a guidebook to Venice at the back of his shop, thinking about their honeymoon, just as Charlie walked in holding a copy of the Bookseller magazine.
Inside, the Ghost remembered, next to a big piece on the author Graham Greene, was a small interview with himself that he had done over the telephone.
The article had reported that Bagdale’s had quadrupled its sales within a year, thanks to Wilbur.
A few key decisions – such as letting people sit on chairs to read, stocking new and radical books, paying staff more and offering commission, as well as Maggie’s aesthetic overhaul – had worked wonders.
Charlie slapped the magazine down excitedly on the desk.
‘Look, Wilbur!’ he beamed. ‘You’re famous! You’re the Ziggy Stardust of books!’
The Ghost looked at Charlie. Still with his long hair, but now a short-sleeved shirt and tie too. He realised how lucky he had been. To have a friend like him. So genuinely happy to see his success.
And the train pulled up, right there into the back office, before the Ghost had time to linger on his response.
‘That was one of the quickest stops so far,’ Agnes told him. ‘Faster than a scalded cat. But not as quick as the next one.’
‘Is this how it’s going to be from now on?’
‘Oh no. Not always. It’s just, well, the Midnight Train lingers for as long as it needs to, and sometimes happiness has the least to teach us …’
And so the train shunted to a stop at possibly its happiest location. A street full of stone-built semi-detached houses outside the small chapel of St Timothy’s Church on the outskirts of the city.
He was there only for a minute or so – not much longer than if he was watching it through the window. But out in the air, it felt more real. Maybe that’s why the stop was made. For him to actually feel the reality of a moment he had only seen as a photograph for so long.
He saw himself and Maggie walking out of the church into the blazing August sunshine. All the guests were lined on the grass beside the thin path. The confetti was thrown enthusiastically, especially by Charlie and Claudette.
‘The happy couple!’ beamed Claudette.
‘To the Budds!’ shouted Charlie, quite tipsy already in preparation for his best-man speech at the Queen’s Head later.
Then Claudette added, with a Shakespearean flourish: ‘The Darling Budds of August!’
Maggie laughed, slightly self-conscious but eyes shining as she caught sight of her dad, Alfred, clapping with pride.
And Wilbur smiled out at the guests as the wedding photographer – Jim, the landlord at the Queen’s Head who had decorated the pub with his own pictures – crouched to get a better angle.
‘Oh what a day,’ sighed the Ghost, smiling and lost in the memory, as Maggie turned to throw the bouquet behind her for Doreen to catch.
‘By ’eck, I bloomin’ got it. Now I just need to bump into Paul Newman!’
More laughter. Except in Doreen’s eyes.
The Ghost caught sight of his mother. She was looking on with a smile. He hadn’t spoken to her much that day, he remembered, not wanting her to say the wrong thing as she often did. But looking on now, it seemed unlikely she would have.
‘Oh, Mam. I’m sorry. I should have tried harder …’
And he winced as he heard the rhythmic chugging behind him.
‘No,’ he said, as it stopped right there on the church grass. ‘No, Agnes, this is too early. Can I just stay?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The next stop is your honeymoon.’
And so he returned to the train and caught quick flashes of the rest of the day.
Charlie getting stoned in the Queen’s Head toilets to calm himself down after his speech …
Doreen hugging Maggie and crying on her shoulder …
Claudette and Charlie dancing energetically to some unheard and long-forgotten song at the wedding disco …
His mother talking to Alfred as she cut into a quiche …
The problem was this:
Everything that was once so slow in life, was now so fast. But while the time had shortened, the power of it all had strengthened in potency. So, if living normal life was like sipping water, experiencing it flashing by out of a train window was more like downing whisky after whisky.
He was drunk and battered from the blur.
‘I wish it would slow down,’ mumbled the Ghost as Agnes reappeared beside him. ‘The good parts always go so fast … And then we’re going to get into the other parts.’
‘It’s not about good or bad, Old Bean. You know this as well as you know your fingers. It’s about what your memory tells you is representative, so at the end you get to say So that was who I was. That’s what you linger on. That’s where the stations are. Together they map who you are.’
And then, of course, he saw himself at the airport, wearing the same clothes as the Ghost. The same sandals, flared jeans, short-sleeved shirt.
The scruffy hair and large sideburns too.
Wilbur was looking up at a departure board, waiting to know when the flight to Venice was boarding.
Maggie, beside him, was dressed in her orange jumpsuit and looked happy and keen and full of life. They were holding hands.
And then the train began, finally, to slow down.
There was nothing to see outside the window.
‘Venice,’ Agnes muttered to herself. ‘The human city, as Patricia Highsmith said in The Talented Mr Ripley. No cars, you see. “The streets were like veins … and the people were the blood, circulating everywhere.”’
‘Did you ever go to Venice?’ the Ghost asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, actually, no, I didn’t.
I didn’t really like to travel. Who needs travel when you have a mystery novel, eh?
Now listen, Old Bean. Here, more than anywhere, it is important that you do not speak to your younger self.
You said it was on your honeymoon that you saw yourself.
As you know, just because nothing happened the last time doesn’t mean that couldn’t be changed.
And if your past changes, there will be no afterlife, no ghost of you, no eternity.
Do not dilly-dally when you hear the whistle. Do you understand?’
I do not understand, no, he nearly said. All I understand is that I want the living versions of me and Maggie to be happy.
But Wilbur looked at Agnes and wondered if he even needed to give an answer.
Eventually, he decided that silence was better than telling a lie.