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 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?”