Girl in the Window. Penny Joelson

her shadowy shape a mirror-image of mine, though her hair was light, her face pale. Is she a ghost, just as I am? Is the whole street perhaps full of ghosts like me, and we know nothing of each other’s plight, or why we can neither live nor our souls rest in peace?

6

      I look out of the window as often as I can that evening and the next day, but she doesn’t reappear. Then, in the evening, I see the woman coming out of the house. She’s on her mobile. She walks up past the bus stop towards the shops, barely glancing left or right as she crosses the road.

      She’s deep in conversation with someone and I can’t help wondering what they’re talking about. Perhaps she’s telling a friend how the house gives her the creeps – especially that small front bedroom. She gets a chill every time she’s in there and it makes her shudder. She wants to move.

      I know this is just my imagination running riot but as I watch, the woman turns and walks back to the house, still speaking in an animated way into the phone. She isn’t going anywhere – she just came out to talk privately. Maybe she was nervous of speaking about the weird atmosphere in that room. She can’t tell her husband. He’d think she was crazy. And she can’t explain it but she feels as if she’s being watched.

      She looks like she’s shouting into the phone now. She’s so loud I can hear a bit of it but I can’t make out the words and anyway, I don’t think it’s English.

      The woman is back at her front door now. She glances up in my direction as she takes a key from her pocket, and she sees me. I pull back from the window, embarrassed, partly about being seen amd partly because of the story I’ve been making up. I wait a minute and then look out cautiously again. She must have gone inside.

      The ghost theory keeps going round and round in my head even though I try to ignore it. I don’t think I believe in ghosts but right now I can’t think of another reason why I keep seeing a girl that nobody else sees – not even the people who live there.

      When I feel up to it, I ask Mum to bring me my tablet so I can do some research. I can’t spend too long on it or I get headaches.

      I start by looking up the address, forty-eight New Weald Road. Maybe I can find out who lives there, or even if anyone has ever died there. I don’t expect to find anything, but at least I’m doing something.

      The first Google entries are property pages, house prices and homes for rent and for sale. Then there are the shops, the hairdressers. There’s a report on a burglary at number 249. A bus route being diverted. I keep scrolling through pages. It’s very boring and my head soon starts to hurt, so I stop.

      I lie down and decide to try meditating, which a doctor said might help me. Mum wasn’t impressed with the suggestion, but I found I quite like it. I have an app on my phone and it is definitely relaxing and something I can do without effort. Mum is baking downstairs. The smell wafts up and I start by visualising a piece of cake in my mind, focusing on that and nothing else.

      Thoughts keep drifting back, though, even as I try to let them go. Maybe I need to think of another way to research, like asking someone who knows the area. I wonder if Mrs Gayatri could help – she’s lived here a long time.

      ‘I was thinking I might go next door and visit Mrs Gayatri,’ I tell Mum next time I’m well enough to be downstairs.

      Mum glances up doubtfully. ‘Are you up to it? And I’m not sure you should go bothering her. I think she prefers her own company.’

      ‘Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have any other option,’ I suggest. ‘Anyway, she invited me – when I took that parcel round. She sounded like she really wanted me to come.’

      ‘OK, if you want to.’ Mum smiles. ‘Don’t stay too long, though – you don’t want to tire her, or yourself either. Here – I’ll give you some apple cake to take with you.’

      Like last time, Mrs Gayatri takes ages to come to the door.

      ‘Another parcel?’ she asks, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t remember ordering anything.’

      ‘No, this is some of Mum’s apple cake,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve come to visit, if that’s OK? But say if you don’t feel like company. I won’t mind.’

      ‘How lovely!’ Mrs G smiles, her wrinkles briefly ironed out with pleasure. ‘Come on in, dear. Do you mind taking your shoes off ?’

      Even though we’ve lived next door to Mrs Gayatri for ten years, I’ve never once stepped inside this house and it feels weird following Mrs G into the hallway. I take my shoes off and put them on the mat.

      ‘I don’t get many visitors,’ she says, sighing as she leads me into a rather dark living room. She points to the red velvet armchair. ‘Sit yourself down. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Will you help me eat this cake?’

      While she makes the tea, I sit looking around the room. There’s a slight smell of incense and a small statue in the corner that is part elephant, part man. There are photos – some very old sepia ones of people that look like they were taken in India. There’s one black-and-white wedding photo and I wonder if it’s Mrs Gayatri’s own wedding picture. I go closer to look.

      Mrs G comes back in with flowery teacups and saucers on a tray. She sets it down on a small, dark, wooden table and then goes back for the cake slices on two matching china plates.

      ‘I was just looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind,’ I say.

      ‘That was my wedding – so, so many years ago.’ She smiles. ‘My darling husband Vijay. He died ten years ago and I still miss him so much. These are my parents – they of course died many, many years ago – and my five big brothers too.’

      ‘Do you have no other family – no children of your own?’ I ask.

      Mrs G’s mouth turns down, her eyes look suddenly glassy and I wish I hadn’t asked.

      ‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I say.

      ‘It’s fine,’ she assures me. ‘Just hard when everyone I love has gone.’ She sighs again. ‘Life must be hard for you too, being stuck at home so much.’

      ‘At least I have my mum,’ I say. ‘She’s had to give up her job to look after me, though. And Dad’s working harder than ever.’

      ‘Are you not going to school at all?’

      ‘Not since last June,’ I explain. ‘I have a tutor who comes once a week. I have constant pain in my arms and legs and I just get so tired when I do anything. It’s really frustrating. But I think I am improving now.’

      ‘What is the cause?’ she asks. ‘Do they know why it started?’

      I shake my head. ‘I had tonsillitis and I just didn’t get better. No one knows why it happens.’

      ‘And is there treatment for it?’

      ‘There’s a bit of research going on, but they know so little about it, there isn’t much on offer. I’m on a waiting list to see a consultant. The doctor just told me to try to pace myself.’

      ‘But you will recover?’

      ‘I hope so.’

      There’s silence for a moment. I don’t want to think about my illness – about the possibility that I’ll be like this forever. I change the subject.

      ‘Mrs Gayatri, I wanted to ask you something,’ I say now. ‘I’m interested in the history of our street and I know you’ve lived here a long time. I wondered if you have any memories to share of anything that has happened here?’

      ‘What kind of thing?’ she asks.

      ‘Any memorable events, things that shocked you, tragedies?’

      ‘That’s a strange question!’ Mrs