The Ghost in the Tartan Chair
By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)
In the corner is a tartan chair;
beneath the tick-tock of the grandfather clock,
opposite the window that looks to the grey day out there,
beyond -
out to October and the chilly pond
in the common land
where I displeased the ducks,
not having bread to hand -
and at right angles to the wall
where the gilt-edged mirror hangs…
The tick-tock is loud as loneliness in the still room
and I perch on the edge of the antique sofa,
not quite making-myself-at-home as I was told to be,
knowing that she’ll come back any minute now
with tea
- and fresh-baked biscuits
and bustling a smile in front of her
in case it escapes
through the cracks when her back is turned
and the sadness returns…
In she comes -
making her way like a miner’s canary,
tea on a tray,
singing out pleasantries to prove she’s ok -
And sits
- when the tea is poured and we have biscuits -
her back to the window,
opposite the tartan chair...
She sees me glance to where,
beside the empty seat,
the cat is sat,
purring and washing and sometimes rubbing
‘round feet that aren’t there.
“That’s my Harry’s chair,” she says,
“His favourite. He never leaves it.”
And she smiles over the top of her china-cupped tea,
returning one that only she can see.