When alive, Ottie didn’t believe in an afterlife, so it came to her as a complete surprise to find herself in Heaven welcomed by Sylvia, her closest friend. It was as though there had never been that ten year break, and they chatted long and amicably.  As both were philosophy graduates, they discussed Hell, Sylvia uncertain whether it existed, but saying that a famous explorer claimed to have gone there and to have seen a Daesh suicide bomber, eager for his 70 virgins, materialize in a retirement home for elderly nuns. “If true, it suggests Nemesis has a sense of humour” finished Sylvia. “Or she’s signed the Human Rights Convention” laughed Ottie.

Soon, missing her library and her cigarettes, Ottie decided to visit the living, specifically her daughter, where she would find both.

At first she was discrete, but this changed when she caught Anna selling some of her books.  “How could she do that to me? Never in my wildest dreams did I think she would betray me like this. She knows how I hate lending books, never mind selling them. And she’s given up smoking.”   But no-one offered any sympathy, least of all Sylvia.

In desperation, Ottie haunted Anna. Whenever she listed or was about to list one of her books on the internet, Ottie would take it and hide it. This wasn’t hard given the quantity of books, some piled on the floor, some stacked on tables and others shelved in double rows.

In the beginning Anna would joke about the disappearing books:  “I can just see her, fag in hand, an angry ghost hovering over her books.  I’m waiting for the earth to open up and swallow me”  

“If only” muttered Ottie.

Then things began to go sour. As more and more books vanished, as bigger and bigger gaps appeared on the shelves, Anna became convinced that she was on the edge of senility, that she had forgotten where she had put them or even worse, that she had made the titles up. As her stress increased, Anna began slinging abuse at Ottie, blaming her mother for the lost books. This upset Anna even further as she knew that ghosts didn’t exist.

It was Sylvia who finally intervened.   “Stop being so stupid. We’re dead and our books are now somebody else’s. For an old book to help shape a new library is the ultimate reincarnation and you of all people should know that. Show me where they are, and we’ll pile them under the spare bed. Poor Anna will spend a lifetime wondering who put them there, but so be it.”  Ottie did as she was told.

Tormenting Anna, Ottie called it teasing, had become as much part of the game as reclaiming her books. It was her other life. She would continue, but much more surreptitiously, not as often and not as maliciously.  And as she really did love her daughter, she might sometimes even put books her way and who knows, maybe even a packet of cigarettes.

A true story

Sheila arrived within days of Wendy succumbing to cancer. The news of a vacancy had spread quickly. This was the 60s, a terrace house in North Carlton where my mother had an open door policy towards the homeless. They were always fed and provided there was room, allowed to stay. There were three rules – an initial health check, and a strict ban on sex and babies. Otherwise it was a life of trust, regular feeds, a warm bed and unconditional love.

Sheila was not affectionate. Right from the beginning, she ignored us, as well as Peter and Mary, the other two residents, and kept mostly to herself. Until Paul came.

There was none of the initial uncertainty with Paul, none of the hanging round the house accepting the odd feed, moving away quickly and then returning, before eventually overcoming that ingrained shyness to move in permanently. Paul simply made his way through the open door and demanded food. He was old, tough and derelict, but above all, a survivor. Sheila, despite the huge age difference, was instantly smitten.  And age wasn’t the only difference. Sheila was beautiful, with thick black hair, her movements elegant and sinuous.  Paul was stocky, nondescript and old, but with a tough guy masculinity about him.

She followed him everywhere, snuggled up to him when he slept, which was long and often; shared her food with him and protected him from Peter’s bullying. And whenever Paul decided to walk around the neighbourhood, Sheila accompanied him, convinced that he would either be run over, kidnapped or lost.

Paul was neither flattered nor irritated by this attention. He’d had a hard life, and had finally achieved his dream, which included safety from the authorities, always on the lookout for vagrants.  Love was an optional extra, ours and hers.

One day I came home to be greeted at the gate by an hysterical Sheila.  She rushed up to me, bumped against my legs and ran under the house, to then come running back out again. In and out, in and out, all the time howling. There was a sense of urgency about her and it was clear she wanted my help.  I changed and followed her under the house.

Paul was dead.  He’d found a safe place to die. We’d  had him for six years. Sheila was inconsolable.  For four days she kept vigil where Paul had died, refusing all food or any attempt to coax her out.  Frequently there were gut wrenching cries. When she finally emerged it was to attack Peter, as though he were responsible for Paul’s death.
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From North Carlton, to Brunswick, to Shepparton, to Caniambo and finally to St. James, Sheila moved with me.  I was 14 when she was dumped in our back yard as a kitten,  36 when she died. Over the 22 years we shared our life, my heart was frequently broken, but never with the intensity and despair  that Sheila felt when Paul died.