Twenties Girl

I feel like I could write a whole book on human nature, and it would be called: People Are Really Unhelpful. First of all, they want to know how you got their name and phone number. Then, when you mention the word raffle, they want to know what they won and even call out to their husband, “Darren, we won that raffle!” When you hastily tell them, “You didn’t win anything,” the mood instantly turns suspicious.

Then, when you broach the subject of what they bought at the jumble sale, they get even more suspicious. They get convinced you’re trying to sell them something or steal their credit card details by telepathy. At the third number I tried, there was some guy in the background saying, “I’ve heard about this. They phone you up and keep you talking. It’s an Internet scam. Put the phone down, Tina.”

“How can it be an Internet scam?” I wanted to yell. “We’re not on the Internet!”

I’ve only had one woman so far who seemed keen to help: Eileen Roberts. And actually she was a total pain because she kept me on the line for ten minutes, telling me about everything she bought at the jumble sale and saying what a shame it was and had I thought of making a replacement necklace as there was a wonderful bead shop in Bromley?

Argh.

I rub my ear, which is glowing from being pressed against the phone, and count the scribbled-out names on my list. Twenty-three. Forty-four to go. This was a crap idea. I’m never going to find this stupid necklace. I stretch out my back, then fold the list up and put it in my bag. I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Maybe.

I head into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and am putting a lasagna in the oven when her voice says, “Did you find my necklace?” I start, crashing my forehead against the oven door, and look up. Sadie’s sitting on the sill of the open window.

“Give me some warning when you’re going to appear!” I exclaim. “And, anyway, where were you? Why did you suddenly abandon me?”

“That place is deathly.” She tosses her chin. “Full of old people. I had to get away.”

She’s speaking lightly, but I can tell she was freaked out by going back there. That must be why she disappeared for so long.

“You were old,” I remind her. “You were the oldest one there. Look, that’s you!” I reach in my jacket pocket and produce the picture of her, all wrinkled and white-haired. I see the briefest of flinches on Sadie’s face before she brushes a scornful glance across the image.

“That’s not me.”

“It is! A nurse at the home gave it to me, she said it was you on your hundred and fifth birthday! You should be proud! You got telegrams from the queen and everything-”

“I mean, it’s not me. I never felt like that. No one feels like that inside. This is how I felt.” She stretches out her arms. “Like this. A girl in my twenties. All my life. The outside is just… cladding.”

“Well, anyway, you could have warned me you were leaving. You left me all alone!”

“So did you get the necklace? Do you have it?” Sadie’s face lights up with hope, and I can’t help wincing.

“Sorry. They had a box of your stuff, but the dragonfly necklace wasn’t in there. Nobody knows where it’s gone. I’m really sorry, Sadie.”

I brace myself for the tantrum, the banshee screaming… but it doesn’t come. She just flickers slightly, as though someone turned the voltage down.

“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 cha

“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?”

“Du

“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 spa

“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.

“You choose what to remember,” I offer.

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes flash with some unfathomable emotion and she wheels away from my gaze. She comes to rest in front of the mantelpiece and peers at a photo of me. It’s a tourist gimmick from Madame Tussauds and shows me gri