Chapter Thirty-Nine
The bell above the shop door gave its usual soft chime as Augustine pushed it open, everything as she had left it the day before.
It shouldn’t feel like this, Augustine thought, hanging up her coat and putting down her bag. Nothing should feel this . . . this normal.
She’d left Theo right there. Left him behind while she went to uncover the truth.
He’d said he would wait for her. She half-hoped he hadn’t.
Augustine swallowed, her fingers curling slightly at her sides.
She didn’t move. Didn’t step forward or reach for the door.
Because opening it and seeing him again now felt like crossing a line she wouldn’t be able to step back over. A line that led to the truth.
A line that led to goodbye.
“Theo?” she called out, but there was no reply. Before Augustine could feel either panic, sadness or relief however, a familiar voice called out to her.
“Well. It took you long enough.”
Augustine startled, turning sharply.
Mrs Clayton stood near the counter, one hand curled around her ever-present pearl embossed handbag, her expression equal parts unimpressed and vindicated. Her gaze flicked pointedly towards the now revealed door to upstairs, before going back to Augustine.
Her expression instantly softened on seeing Augustine’s all too evident misery. “I was beginning to think you’d never catch up,” she said gently.
Augustine felt a small dart of betrayal. “You knew.”
Mrs Clayton didn’t flinch. “Yes,” she said simply. “I knew. I knew about everything.”
Augustine looked away, her gaze drifting back towards the door to upstairs, like it might offer something steadier to focus on. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mrs Clayton sighed. “Because you told me not to.”
Augustine swallowed. “I asked you to lie to me?”
“No,” Mrs Clayton corrected gently. “You asked me to keep the truth from you. That’s not quite the same thing.
” Her thumb worried absently at the smooth surface of one of her pearls.
“You came in here one morning. It was early. So early.” Her gaze lifted to Augustine’s face.
“You were crying so hard I thought someone had died.”
Augustine’s stomach twisted. “I suppose, in a way, it would have felt that way.”
“You stood right where you are now,” Mrs Clayton went on, nodding towards the worn patch of floor by the counter. “Could barely get your words out. You kept repeating his name, regardless of how it seemed to hurt you to say it.” A small pause. “Theo.”
Augustine felt a dart of pain.
“You told me what the two of you were going to do,” she continued.
“Said it like you’d already decided. I told you not to,” she added, more sharply.
“Told you to go home, to sleep on it. Work it through like normal people do.” She sniffed.
“Have a row. Throw a plate, if you must. That’s what kitchens are for.
That’s what I did with my Dennis. But you wouldn’t hear it,” Mrs Clayton went on. “You were set.”
“You should have told me the truth.”
“No. A promise is a promise. Besides, you didn’t need to me to tell you. You figured it all out on your own.” Mrs Clayton gave a pleased, almost proud smile. “He’s a nice young man, your Theo. Reminds me of my Dennis sometimes.”
“You met Theo?”
“No. Just saw him about the shop once or twice. He loves you so much. That much was always obvious.”
Augustine couldn’t help it. Tears built in her eyes and she pressed her lips together hard. She nodded, looking at the floor.
“I love him, too.”
“I know. Does he know?” Mrs Clayton asked.
“That I love him?”
“No.” Mrs Clayton laughed. “Anyone who spends ten seconds with you can see that. I meant about the spell?”
“He knows there was a spell. He doesn’t know we wanted it,” Augustine replied, walking towards her till and falling onto the stool next to Mrs Clayton. “Did I tell you why we had to do it?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs Clayton confirmed. “Something about witch hunters and the safety of your family? Of course, that wasn’t why you did it, was it? Still, you were—”
“I’m sorry.” Augustine sat straighter. “What do you mean, it wasn’t why we did it. Of course it was.”
“No.” Mrs Clayton sounded firm. “It was the reason for the spell, but it wasn’t why you did the spell.”
Augustine waited for her to go on.
“I’ve been coming here to chat with you for three years now, Augustine,” Mrs Clayton said. “And do you know what I’ve noticed? You don’t like to let go.”
“I—” Augustine‘s voice caught slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t like to let go.” Mrs Clayton said again.
“I mean, look at those two younger sisters of yours. You fret over them. Maddy comes in here with a sniffle and you think she’s about to die.
You lose sleep over Clem and send her malaria tablets and water purifying tablets whenever you can.
And then your older sister. You read every one of her papers and watch her online lectures and when she went to Singapore for that conference you tracked her flight for a full fourteen hours. ”
“They’re my sisters,” Augustine replied, indignant. “I have to take care of them.”
“They’re grown women,” Mrs Clayton returned instantly.
“So, no, you don’t. But you can’t quite let go of them, can you?
That was how it was with Theo. Most people, when they lose someone, cry and grieve and listen to sad music.
Not you. You knew you’d never be able to let him go, so you chose to forget him completely.
You didn’t erase him because you stopped loving him.
You erased him because you knew you never could. ”
Augustine sat back, stunned.
“Holding on to people is a beautiful instinct, dear. But it’s no way to live. It’s no way to love.” Mrs Clayton paused. “Although I’m one to lecture about not letting go. Sitting here still waiting for my Dennis after thirty years.”
Augustine frowned. “Thirty years of what?”
“Oh.” Mrs Clayton blinked. “Of death, dear. I died in the fire here, didn’t I?”
Augustine blinked. Once, and then once again. “I’m sorry. You what?”
Mrs Clayton looked back at her, perfectly composed again, seemingly unaware she had just said something utterly impossible.
“The fire,” she repeated mildly. “I died in it. Stock room of the café. Faulty wiring. Went up in minutes. I was closing up that day. Got caught in the fumes from the vinyl tiles. It happened before I even knew what it was.” A small, practical shrug. “Just one of those things.”
Augustine stared at her, her mind trying desperately to make sense of what Mrs C just said. It failed miserably. “You . . .” she started again, her voice thinner now. “You . . . died?”
“Yes.”
Another beat. Augustine’s gaze flicked instinctively and wildly around the shop. The shelves. The counter. The floor beneath Mrs Clayton’s feet. Everything was exactly as it had always been, although everything was suddenly and completely and utterly wrong.
“You’re—” Augustine swallowed. “You’re a—”
Mrs Clayton raised an eyebrow. “Ghost?” she supplied. “I suppose I am. Didn’t you know?”
Augustine shook her head. She was stunned. Genuinely and wordlessly stunned.
“Well,” Mrs Clayton went on, smoothing her skirt as if this were the least remarkable thing in the world, “I wouldn’t go advertising it. Bad for business. But yes, dear.” She gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “I’m a ghost. I’ve haunted this place since the day I died.”
Augustine let out a slow, unsteady breath, her mind still struggling to catch up with the conversation. “A ghost,” she repeated faintly.
Mrs Clayton inclined her head, as if confirming something entirely ordinary, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, hesitantly, Augustine found her voice again.
“Why . . . haven’t you moved on?” she asked gently.
Mrs Clayton’s fingers stilled on her pearls. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I have to wait, don’t I?”
Augustine frowned slightly. “Wait?”
“For my Dennis,” she said simply. “For Mr Clayton. It can’t be long now,” she added, almost to herself. “Not with his health being what it is.”
Augustine felt something twist in her chest, but Mrs Clayton looked back at her, her expression calm and collected.
“I’m like you. I can’t quite let go. But I’m dead.
I’m not wasting my life. You are.” Mrs Clayton sighed.
“Why are you like this, dear? That was the part I could never figure out. Where you learned to feel like you had to carry everything.”
Augustine’s throat tightened. “It’s because of what happened to my mother,” she whispered. “And the fact that it was all my fault.”