The Flavour of Ghosts

Why is it that ghosts choose to visit some houses more often than others?

The Flavour of Ghosts

Have you ever stopped to wonder why ghosts choose to inhabit some houses rather than others? They don’t just live in old Victorian mansions where an unfortunate has died and left a hint of themselves behind, do they? Sometimes they move in with you or me and the house takes on a flavour, a dash of blackcurrant in the soda or a drizzle of lime in the lemonade. If the curtains shiver when there is no wind, then there could be a catch of rum in the coke, something intangible to darken the taste buds, a slight bitterness to the pumpkin pie.

Some ghosts are sweet and sugary, like the one that pushes my door open when I’m talking on Skype. Looking at my computer screen I can see the office room behind me. The room used to belong to my son. His enamel name plaque still hangs on the door and proclaims ‘Edward’s room.’ I never had the heart to take it down, even when he moved to France to start a new life.

The room is cosy and warm. Its radiator gives off a generous heat as I sit chatting with my friend through the internet. Why then did the picture suddenly freeze, leaving her with her arms in the air, caught in mid exclamation with a look of alarm on her face? A message comes up: ‘your internet connection is slow. This might affect the picture quality.’ Not everything on the screen is static though. As I watch, fascinated, I see my door slowly opening to its full extent. Dare I turn round? What would I see if I did? nothing, probably. It is always nothing and yet… the door is open. There is no wind; no cat comes in, no child with bad dreams has stirred the household. I am all alone. I can taste salad leaves and smell basil. This ghost has a taste of the summer yet it is late October. The door doesn’t move, it stays still, open, inviting me to get up and walk through. Should I go, leave my friend with her arms in the air? Did she see? The internet clicks back. My friend is talking. I relax. The moment passes. Later I must walk through that door, onto the landing, into the bathroom, remove my clothes, stand naked in vulnerability and wash. For the moment, I remain in my seat, as frozen as my friend was, but for a different reason.

Yesterday, another visit. I rose early while it was still dark. I descended the staircase into the kitchen, switched on the electric kettle, already filled the night before. Pulling my dressing gown around me against the chill of the morning, I passed into the lounge room and stooped down to light the fire glow. A warm red from the fire filled the space around me, such a friendly, welcoming sight on a cold morning. As I stood up, I noticed that something was missing from the mantelshelf. A china money box with the Queen’s head on it had stood there proudly for years, collecting money for a local charity. Now it was gone, vanished and I could taste chocolate, sweet and bitter, both flavours opposing on my tongue. I walked over to the doorway to see if the porch door was locked as it should be. It wasn’t. It was closed, but not locked. I made tea and carried up two steaming mugs full. I asked my partner:

“Did you move the money box yesterday, the one on the mantelshelf?”

“Yes, I put it in the sideboard, ready for when I started decorating. Don’t want it broken, do we!” he replied.

“You didn’t tell me?”

“No, was it necessary?”

“Well, I thought we’d been burgled, like we were before when my mobile phone was taken, remember?”

He asked me, “I locked the door last night when I came in, didn’t I?”

“No, I found it unlocked this morning, just now when I went down to make the tea.”

“Odd, I thought I’d locked it.”

We drank our tea, he in his room and me in mine. It tasted chocolatey. Such a strange flavour, reminiscent of afternoons that are cold, but craving warmth and comfort: tucked around legs, hot water bottles in the small of my back, my mother’s voice in the kitchen humming along to the radio and the smell of washing drying on the frame around the fire. There was always stew in a pot on the stove to welcome my dad when he came home from work, tired and hungry, cold from the ride on his bicycle in the freezing wind.

Later when we went downstairs, washed and dressed, he said to me, “I thought you said I forgot to lock the porch door? It’s locked now. You must have been mistaken.”

“No,” said I, “it was definitely not locked.”

“Well it is now. You must have locked it this morning, absent mindedly.”

“No, I didn’t!” I was indignant. “The door was unlocked. I left it as it was. No point in locking it in the morning was there.”

He regarded me doubtfully. “I found this in front of it.” He held up a chocolate bar wrapper.

You see, in the end, you doubt yourself. You just don’t know. The wine becomes sour, coffee burns your tongue. Doors open and close; you watch and accept. Keys disappear and reappear somewhere else. You swear you put them here, but now they are there. Where have they been in the meantime? In some fifth dimension perhaps or just temporarily invisible? I never did find the keys I lost as a child. Coming home from school one day when I was about eleven years old, I let myself in with the house-key I was entrusted with, greeted the dog who jumped up to lick me and caused me to drop the key and then found that it was gone, forever as it turned out! That ghosted flavour tasted of sour cherries!

The cat stares at something on the stairs like she’s watching the invisible man. You smile at her. She knows. Sometimes her tail bushes up and she runs.

It’s amazing how good this stew tastes today. The flavour is outstanding!

The End