Eleven New Ghost Stories (19 page)

He was only about three or four
when we moved. Those were the happiest times of my life. After the
difficult first few years of looking after him and struggling with
money and work, everything was finally coming together. We were
stable, we could afford things – the house, the car – Benjamin
didn’t need quite as much looking after. Things were so much
easier.

You see, I’d been determined to
keep up with my work after I gave birth. I wanted to do it, but
also because we thought we’d struggle without the money. It was
hard to work while Benjamin was little. But then Peter started to
become more known, and his income helped to keep us afloat.

But then he recorded that album.
It did so well. It changed his life; it changed all our lives.
Suddenly we weren’t always living on the bread line. We could
afford to enjoy life more. We could afford to go away. We could
afford a mortgage.

Everything was so perfect, for a
time. Benjamin had been such a handful growing up; he was always so
hyperactive – he got that from Peter; he could never stay still
either. It had been such a struggle getting it all balanced before.
When Peter had his breakthrough it was when we were getting
Benjamin ready to start school. We moved closer to the school we
wanted for him, we could afford the fees and I could spend more
time working. But more than that, I went back to painting; painting
just for me. Just enjoying painting without any deadlines or
clients or commissions. We all had our space, things were just…
right.

Peter’s career was going so well
that anything seemed possible. We had holidays in the south of
France, Italy, and Florida for Disney World for Ben. But success
meant more work. Peter became very much in demand. Which was good,
for a while…

The hours were long. You know
what artists can be like; musicians even worse. Drunks,
crack-addicts, hooligans, even schizophrenics. He was selective at
first, but sometimes he was pressured into working with people he
didn’t want to. It’s the freelancer’s curse: no matter how hard you
work, you’re always terrified it could dry up at any time.

The late nights and hours were
only half the problem. A lot of these kid bands they liked to
imitate; they liked to ‘pay tribute’ to those who came before. Or
copy, if you like. So they wanted to record abroad, at the Berlin
studios were Bowie and Eno did Low, at Sun Studios where Elvis,
Dylan Cash and Carl Perkins played. And he wanted to go too; why
wouldn’t he want to work at some of the most iconic studios in the
world? Never mind us…

I kept getting stuck alone doing
all the work myself. He’d come to me and say “Come on, it’s where
Bowie did Heroes.” So I’d have to go along with it and pretend it
was ok for him to leave me alone with Benjamin. He’d be gone for
months, maybe coming home a couple of times if he could squeeze it
in. Of course, I could afford to get some help for Benjamin, but I
didn’t want to do that. I felt ashamed to hire a nanny; stupid,
really, but I did.

Our parents lived too far away.
His mother, Ellen, was very good and would come down from time to
time, but my parents were old and my father needed lots of looking
after.

And I started to resent his
success. I admit that; his career had gone stratospheric and mine
hadn’t. I didn’t care about the design work; I did ok with that,
had some good clients. But it was my art I loved and I could never
get any interest in my work. In some ways it was better when I
wasn’t doing it. When I didn’t have time, I didn’t have time. When
I had some time, but not enough time, that’s when I became
frustrated. It’s like I could never focus, never give it the time I
needed. There was always something else to do; it’s no small job
looking after a house and looking after a child at the same time.
Not that Benjamin was really much trouble; that was the strange
thing, he got to a certain age and he was suddenly no trouble at
all.

My God, I was so selfish.
Sometimes I’d lash out, get angry and lash out. Poor Benjamin; it
wasn’t his fault, he was just a child. But it wasn’t just that;
even though we’d been in Letchworth for a few years I had no
friends there, nowhere to go. We had friends in London, but it’s
not just a short commute. There was hardly enough time for me to go
during the day and be back to get Benjamin from school and then of
course I had to look after him on weekends too. I felt so isolated.
Sometimes friends visited, but not often, they had lives of their
own. And I never made a fuss, I felt embarrassed to really tell
them how I felt.

We started to row a lot, me and
Peter. We would have slanging matches over the phone. And I got so
stupid, started to get paranoid about the people he was hanging
around with. I didn’t really think he’d have an affair or start
taking stuff. I was just jealous and afraid that he was leaving me
behind.

It all came to a head after he’d
been in Jamaica with a band for months. I don’t even remember who
they were, their success was so short-lived. But at that time they
were such a big deal. But they were always fighting and falling
out. He wanted to can it, but the record label put so much pressure
on him to bring them back something. He managed in the end – I
don’t think it ever got released.

When he got back he was barely
through the door before we started to fight. Things had started to
change. While he was away things weren’t as they used to be.

Benjamin had gotten into a fight
at school. His school was so damn liberal; kids get in fights all
the time but they wanted to make a big deal about it. I had to talk
to the headmistress. They wanted to talk to both of us. When only I
turned up, well, they made such a big deal about that. Benjamin was
too introverted; he didn’t mix with the other boys, just played by
himself. I got angry with them, told them there was nothing wrong
at home. But there was something wrong, even if I couldn’t explain
it.

I couldn’t even get Ben to talk
about the fight; he said the boys had said bad things, but that’s
all he’d say. I couldn’t make the connection; my Benjamin, quiet,
introverted – that wasn’t the boy I’d raised. That wasn’t who he
was.

But he wasn’t the handful he
used to be. He
was
quiet; he did play by himself and didn’t
make a fuss. I had the goodest, best behaved boy in the world – he
was no trouble at all any more. Sure, he did normal things like
sulk if I made him eat things he didn’t like, or if we were in a
shop he’d ask for toys or sweets or something and throw a tantrum
if he didn’t get what he wanted. But at home, when we were alone,
he was quiet as a mouse. I’d be in the living room, painting all
day, and I’d forget he was there. I’d just paint for hours and he’d
be… somewhere. It sounds terrible; I hate to say it, but he just
didn’t seem to want me or need me.

He wasn’t noisy, he wasn’t loud,
he never broke anything. It never occurred to me how strange that
was. And then that became a problem – I got stressed because my son
was too well behaved. It sounds crazy but I started to feel so
distant from him.

We had a showdown, me and Peter;
what was more important, his family or his career? He got so angry,
as angry as I’d ever seen him. I made him feel guilty and he hated
me for it, lashed out. He didn’t understand that I was… I was
falling apart. This wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted us to be
together, as a family. That’s what it was all for, that’s what we’d
got married for.

The money wasn’t that important.
He kept telling me he was doing it for us. But he was doing it for
him, for his ego. He liked the limelight, I know he did. He was
getting the jet-setting lifestyle he’d always wanted and we were
holding him back!

I couldn’t make him see how much
it was affecting me. He thought it was all rubbish this stuff about
Benjamin. He was so damn arrogant; nothing could be wrong with his
son – that stung his pride and he was furious. He knew I was
jealous, but he didn’t know I was holding something back…

I couldn’t tell him just how
much him being away was really starting to affect me. It was more
than just the stress of him not being around, it was something
else. I had started… I was beginning to think that something was
watching me in the house. That something was following me.

It sounded crazy, and I thought
it was. Once I started to notice how quiet it was, how quiet
Benjamin was, it started to upset me. I couldn’t stand the quiet; I
used to put the radio or the television on in any room, just to
drown out the silence.

I’d have to work hard to bring
Ben out of his own little world, tell him we were going to the park
or that we should play a game. Sure, he’d get excited then, start
getting involved, but as soon as we stopped, soon as we got home or
I’d get distracted from the game, he was gone again. He’d draw,
he’d read, play with his building blocks or more often than not
just silently wander off.

Sometimes I’d ask him, I’d say
“What you thinking about sweetie?” – but he wouldn’t answer, he’d
just smile enigmatically, or just say “Nothing”. Sometimes I felt
like getting so angry, but I couldn’t, not when he looked at me so
sweetly.

One time, do you know what he
said? I asked him why he was so quiet, and he said: “Silence is
golden.” I should’ve known then that something was wrong, really
wrong, but I just couldn’t bring myself to face it. I mean, what
kind of five-year-old says that?

I became obsessive about noise;
there had to be sound everywhere. But I couldn’t fill the void;
God, it was only a three bedroom terraced house, it wasn’t huge,
but it started somehow to feel cavernous, huge, empty, vast. And in
that atmosphere, in those moments of silence, that’s when I started
to get the sensation I was being watched.

It could happen at any time,
usually when I went out into the hall or onto the landing. I’d just
be moving from one room to another, going from the kitchen to the
living room, or up the stairs, and I’d get this feeling someone was
watching me. I’d just get this sensation I wasn’t alone. This, I
don’t know, shiver – this feeling. I’d turn, and I’d see nothing.
And whenever I got this feeling, I felt cold. Dead cold, I’d get
shivers all over my body.

I thought at first it must be
Benjamin, playing a game with me. But he was never nearby, when it
happened. He would always be outside, upstairs or in a different
part of the house.

I couldn’t admit it at the time,
to Peter, or myself – I wouldn’t even think about it between
incidents – but deep down I couldn’t ignore that something was
wrong in that house. I couldn’t put it into words, into ways he
could understand. I thought he was so sensitive and open when we
first met; what an idiot I was. What an idiot he was! He was
oblivious right up until it was too late!

All the hysteria would come out
during our arguments. He underestimated just how fragile I was
becoming. I made him swear, made him promise that the travel, the
long periods away, they had to stop. I just wasn’t going to accept
no for an answer. He had to stay around London and stay with us. I
tried to convince him that we were better off together, as a
family, stronger together. He agreed, but he wasn’t completely on
board; I could tell, I knew it. But I got his word and that was
enough for now.

Things were more… normal, for a
while. We got back to playing happy families. We were fine for
money, we spent plenty of time together, family days out and the
like.

Of course his resentment would
bubble up from time to time. I was prepared to slap him if he ever
said he felt ‘cooped up’. This is what he wanted too – it wasn’t
just me! He asked me to marry him, start a family. Usually he’d
bite his tongue and slip away for a sulk. I gritted my teeth and
didn’t rise to it, but things eventually got back to normal.

Benjamin was more his old self
for a while. More lively, more in the world with the rest of us. He
just seemed to connect better with his father, I don’t know why or
how. I wasn’t any different with him, any less affectionate, any
less warm, or fun to be around. Maybe he just didn’t like me as
much. I mean, I did everything I could with him. Everything. We got
along fine; but he was never as affectionate with me. I don’t know
what I did wrong, because I was a good mother to him. I gave him
everything I could.

He used to garden with me, that
was the one thing we used to do together where I could see that he
was having as much fun with me as he was with his father. Before we
used to pay for this man to come over and do it. But I decided I
was going to do it, because by that point I’d basically given up on
my art, there was nothing, just a blockage. I’d lost my touch, if
I’d ever had it. Couldn’t get inspired, couldn’t make anything I
started come to life, so I just quit.

He seemed to like gardening and
being outside. I think it was the digging and making a mess that
appealed to him. Although he liked to see things grow; know that
he’d planted something and then see it grow.

He got obsessed with making
compost. We bought this compost bin for the outside and he was
obsessed with trying to find things to put in. He’d leave some of
his food and say he was doing it so we could use it to make
compost. An excuse not to eat his vegetables.

Those were probably the last
good times we spent together…

Things got so back to normal
that when something strange happened, I didn’t really notice. A
clue to all that had gone on before came up, and I didn’t even
realise it. I didn’t realise its meaning till much later, when it
was too late.

This one time, during that happy
time, I was putting clothes away and I heard him talking. His
bedroom was next to ours and with him being usually so quiet, I
went straight over to him to see what was going on.