The Unexpected Friend

Plush was the word Susan would have used about her new chair. New old chair. It was probably mid nineteenth century and covered in a slightly worn maroon brocade.

“I don’t know why you want rubbish like that cluttering up the place,” her mother said.

“It’s got a lovely feel to it. Just right to sit and read in before I go to bed.”

Her mother sniffed,

“Your father would go mad if I plonked a tatty old thing like that in the corner of our bedroom.”

Maria had refused to go to the antiques fair with Susan because she said all the dust would irritate her sinuses and she didn’t want to keep Susan’s father awake all night with her sneezing.

Susan had spotted the chair almost at once, nestling under a pile of Welsh blankets and a rubber ring next to a mirrored screen. The woman selling it had been most accommodating.

“It’s time I got rid,” she said, “It’s more bother than it’s worth.”

They quickly agreed a sum and she moved the debris so Susan could haul it back to her car.

“I should warn you it’s idiosyncratic,” she called to Susan’s retreating back.

“I know. That’s why I like it.”

It fitted into the bedroom perfectly, the colour matching her décor better than she expected. It made the new room look lived in, she thought. She looked forward with anticipation to settling down there later that night in her fluffy dressing gown with a Victorian novel.

It had been a long day as, after she’d stowed the chair, she’d found an art deco clock and a Victorian urn that had taken a lot of haggling over and even more moving.

“Kept In The Dark” by Anthony Trollope lay open on her knee and a cocoa gently steaming by her side as she dozed in her new old chair around nine o’clock.

“A lady should always sit up straight and never loll!”

Susan jumped wide awake with the thumping heart that came with such dreams.

“Don’t let me disturb you.”

There in front of her was a lady in grey. Actually, The Lady In Grey. A ghost, if ever there was one: crinoline, fan and elaborate hair.

“And don’t start saying it must be a dream because that just annoys me.”

“You are a ghost then,” muttered Susan.

“A free gift with your chair. And you’re not going mad, either. Just accept that I’m here and we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

The lady shook out the folds of her dress, which looked like satin though it made no rustle when it moved.

“I’m Camilla, how d’ye do?”

“Um, how do you do?”

“Very well, thank you, considering.”

“Shouldn’t you be on the other side, or something?” asked Susan, taking a decided swig of her cocoa and wishing she’d put brandy in it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Camilla, “I said that the day I died, and I’m going to stick to it!”

“Oh, right.”

“Well, I’ll be off now I’ve introduced myself. Be seeing you.”

And she was gone; she didn’t disappear exactly, she just wasn’t there any more, not a bit like in the films.

When she woke up in the morning, Susan was surprised she’d had such a good night’s sleep. Her encounter of yesterday evening preoccupied her a little as she brushed out her hair, but she determined not to worry about it. Up went her hair and she started her day.

She busied herself cleaning the urn and using it as part of a new display in her shop window along with some ivy, draped fabric and jet jewellery. Looking at it, she decided it was too funereal – must be her brush with the departed!

A quarter of an hour later and it looked much brighter with the deco clock and plenty of pearls, a diamante clip and a collection of chiffon scarves.

Only a couple of browsers popped in during the morning. The afternoon brought some stragglers from a day trip to see the farmers’ market who went away happy with a Beswick cat and a chamber pot.

Susan took a while preparing her warm drink that night then made her way cautiously up the stairs.

“It’s no good hanging about, I’m still here.”

Camilla was sitting in the chair tonight, its brocade looking pale pink through her transparent greyness.

“I thought I’d have a sit down as you weren’t.”

“Are you going to be here every night?” demanded Susan crossly.

“I did die in this chair, you know. I have my rights.”

“I’m sure you do, but it isn’t that convenient. Isn’t there anywhere else you can haunt?”

“One or two places, but there’s no one to talk to. You seem to have your head screwed on, not like most of the others. They either can’t see me or run off screaming for an exorcist.”

“You’ve not actually been exorcised, though?”

“Well, they’ve tried, but I didn’t really take to it. Nice shop you’ve got. I know a lot about antiques.”

Susan boggled to think she’d been observed at work from the great beyond.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said Camilla, “Sit and chat to me now and again, and I’ll haunt elsewhere the rest of the time.”

Irrational as the back of her mind told her it was, Susan decided to agree,

“How do Tuesdays and Fridays suit you?”

And so it went, just like a friend popping in for a chat which Susan decided was the best way to treat it.

Three weeks later Maria dropped into the shop unannounced to see if she had anything for the WI Bring and Buy.

“Any old thing will do,” she said, “but make it something nice.”

“There you go, mum, pewter candle holder and snuffer.”

Maria sniffed,

“How’s that tatty old chair?”

“There’s more to it than you think.”

Her mother looked levelly at her,

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, “I did. Just sell the chair if you get fed up of her.”

© Martin J Saxton 2009