“But I’m on the case,” I add. “I’m calling everyone who came to the jumble sale, in case they bought it. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon. It’s been quite hard work, actually,” I add. “Quite exhausting.”
I’m expecting some gratitude from Sadie at this point. Some nice little speech about how brilliant I am and how appreciative she is of all my effort. But she sighs impatiently and wanders off, through the wall.
“You’re welcome,” I mouth after her.
I head into the sitting room and am flicking through the TV channels when she appears again. She seems to have cheered up immensely.
“You live with some very peculiar people! There’s a man upstairs lying on a machine, grunting.”
“What?” I stare at her. “Sadie, you can’t spy on my neighbors!”
“What does ‘shake your booty’ mean?” she says, ignoring me. “The girl on the wireless was singing it. It sounds like nonsense.”
“It means… dance. Let it all out.”
“But why your booty?” She still looks puzzled. “Does it mean wave your shoe?”
“Of course not! Your booty is your…” I get up and pat my bum. “You dance like this.” I do a few “street” dance moves, then look up to see Sadie in fits of giggles.
“You look as though you’ve got convulsions! That’s not dancing!”
“It’s modern dancing.” I glare at her and sit down. I’m a bit sensitive about my dancing, as it happens. I take a gulp of wine and look critically at her. She’s peering at the TV now, watching EastEnders with wide eyes.
“What’s this?”
“EastEnders . It’s a TV show.”
“Why are they all so angry with one another?”
“Dunno. They always are.” I take another gulp of wine. I can’t believe I’m explaining EastEnders and “shake your booty” to my dead great-aunt. Surely we should be talking about something more meaningful?
“Look, Sadie… what are you?” I say on impulse, zapping the TV off.
“What do you mean, what am I?” She sounds affronted. “I’m a girl. Just like you.”
“A dead girl,” I point out. “So, not exactly like me.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” she says frostily.
I watch as she arranges herself on the edge of the sofa, obviously trying to look natural despite having zero gravity.
“Do you have any special superhero powers?” I try another tack. “Can you make fire? Or stretch yourself really thin?”
“No.” She seems offended. “Anyway, I am thin.”
“Do you have an enemy to vanquish? Like Buffy?”
“Who’s Buffy?”
“The Vampire Slayer,” I explain. “She’s on TV; she fights demons and vampires-”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she cuts me off tartly. “Vampires don’t exist.”
“Well, nor do ghosts!” I retort. “And it’s not ridiculous! Don’t you know anything? Most ghosts come back to fight the dark forces of evil or lead people to the light or something. They do something positive . Not just sit around watching TV.”
Sadie shrugs, as though to say, “What do I care?”
I sip my wine, thinking hard. She’s obviously not here to save the world from dark forces. Maybe she’s going to shed light on mankind’s plight or the meaning of life or something like that. Maybe I’m supposed to learn from her.
“So, you lived through the whole twentieth century,” I venture. “That’s pretty amazing. What was… er… Winston Churchill like? Or JFK! Do you think he really was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald?”
Sadie stares at me as though I’m a moron. “How would I know?”
“Because!” I say defensively. “Because you’re from history! What was it like living through World War Two?” To my surprise, Sadie looks quite blank.
“Don’t you remember it?” I say incredulously.
“Of course I remember it.” She regains her composure. “It was cold and dreary and one’s friends got killed, and I’d rather not think about it.”
She speaks crisply-but that little hesitation has pricked my curiosity.
“Do you remember your whole life?” I ask cautiously.
She must have memories spanning more than a hundred years. How on earth can she keep hold of them all?
“It seems like… a dream,” murmurs Sadie, almost to herself. “Some parts are hazy.” She’s twirling her skirt around one finger, her expression distant. “I remember everything I need to remember,” she says at last.
