Chapter 65
The Summit of Life
The Ghost listened as they talked about bellinis.
They debated visiting Harry’s Bar at some point during their stay, the place where the cocktails had been invented.
‘I don’t know if I’d be smart enough,’ Wilbur said, looking down at his sandals and flares.
‘Maybe we should try something a little more gritty,’ she said.
‘I don’t know if Venice does gritty. This whole place is a bellini. One big fizzing peach.’
‘It’s like that book you gave me by the Italian.’
‘Invisible Cities?’
Maggie nodded.
Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino had been translated into English that year. It was proving a tough sell to customers on the basis that it had no story, and hardly any characters, or almost anything else a person might reasonably expect from a novel. But it was one of Wilbur’s favourite books.
‘Yeah,’ said Maggie. ‘When I read it I thought, if he is writing about Venice, why not write about Venice? Why write all these different imaginings of Venice? But that is what it’s like, isn’t it? It’s like a hundred dreams in one.’
Wilbur looked at her.
His eyes were full of pure, undistracted love.
The Ghost knew that this was it, the summit of life’s mountain. The very happiest he ever felt. Just walking along beside a canal, glancing at the woman he adored.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
Wilbur’s smile seemed to take that in, and appreciate it, as if it had a taste he wanted to savour.
‘My mam had always wanted to go to Venice with my dad,’ Maggie said, after another moment. ‘Ever since she saw that film with Katharine Hepburn in it. She never went abroad. She never got further than Blackpool in her whole life.’
‘Well, next year we’ll have to come back and bring your dad. We’ve got money now.’
‘Not much. After the wedding.’
‘Well, we’ll have some more by then.’
‘He’s not such a romantic type. But maybe, actually, yes. He would like that. Maybe.’
‘Never going to happen!’ said the Ghost, unheard, behind them. ‘You think you will, but you won’t. Because – what is it they say? – life gets in the way.’
Wilbur stopped Maggie for a kiss as they were about to go up the steps of the Rialto Bridge.
‘We could move here.’ Then, a few minutes later, as they passed a bookstall on the bridge, ‘I could sell the shop.’
He was joking. Still, the Ghost could see there was a degree of spontaneity in him back then. Excitement and hope and a desire to turn their love into an adventure. Back then he was open to everything. Back then – even after the grief he went through – he was still wanting to feel. To a degree.
Their wedding and honeymoon had obviously come at an interesting point in his life.
Yes, he had been working hard. He had thrown himself into every business opportunity.
Chatting to every customer and sales rep like they were the most important person in the world.
Placing the week’s new books out on the shelves himself before the shop opened.
Stocking the books his customers didn’t know they wanted yet but were always satisfied to read.
It was a determination that had led him to be where he was: in charge of a booming Bagdale’s Bookshop.
And one day it would be turned into a successful chain of bookshops under the name Budd Books.
But that was the future, just one of many.
Nothing back then was written in stone. Yes, sure, he had an appointment with the Yorkshire Bank on his return.
And, yes, within that appointment an offer would be finalised by the manager, a damp pork pie of a man called Geoffrey Baxter.
The loan to set up a second shop would be his if he wanted.
Wilbur was now in two minds, and he liked it that way. The sense of open possibility. And right now, with enough wine and Venice inside him to feel quite bohemian, he felt the pull of a more adventurous life.
‘What would we do?’
‘You could be an artist … or do art tours.’
‘And you could set up a little bookstall like that one back there on the bridge …’
The Ghost leaned in close to Wilbur and whispered in his ear: ‘You need to keep hold of this.’
This whisper seemed to cause Wilbur to brush his ear.
‘You all right, love?’ asked Maggie.
‘Oh, aye. Just a mosquito or something.’
The Ghost kept talking as they walked. Ignoring every warning Agnes had given him.
‘You need to keep hold of this feeling, Wilbur. Can you hear me? Because soon after you get home, it’s all going to go to shit.
Because you’ll be scared again. Of scarcity, even though you already own a successful business.
Of your nightmares starting again. You will become scared of loving Maggie with your whole heart.
But you need to. Because she is the best thing that will ever happen to you … ’
The Ghost was walking ahead of them now. He stopped outside a little shop on the bridge that was selling glass sculptures.
He knew this was the spot. He knew this was where he’d been seen. Or, rather, where he had seen himself.
The Ghost stayed there watching Wilbur. Not saying anything. Just watching.
And, of course, it happened.
Wilbur saw his ghost, wearing the exact same clothes he was wearing, with the same hair and sideburns. The Ghost smiled at him and waved. And Wilbur stared back, in shock.
It was then the Ghost heard the familiar whistle and chug of the Midnight Train. He turned and saw it pulling in, waiting for him on the other side of the bridge, beside the Grand Canal.
Agnes leaned out of the front cab, her face concerned. ‘Come on, Old Bean. No time to dilly-dally.’
But the Ghost just stood there and realised something. He wasn’t going to do as Agnes said. He wasn’t going to get back on that train. In fact, he had something approaching a plan.