We were asked to choose one from a number of paintings and write about it. I chose a Lowry painting: Ancoats Hospital Outpatient’s Hall

“Next!”

The elderly couple rose from the long bench where they’d sat patiently waiting their turn. The figure in the white coat looked frustrated and overworked as he ushered them into the office, brusquely motioning to them to take a seat. It was a very busy time for this department – amateur hour, he called it privately, and the previous interviewee had gotten on his last nerve. He was so ready for his shift to end.

“Right – names?”

“Frances and Oliver Wadsworth,” the old woman replied.

“How long have you been dead?”

“27 years for me.” She reached over and took her husband’s hand. “Oliver’s only been dead a few months. He’s not used to things yet.” She smiled at her husband and squeezed his hand.

The man behind the desk’s face softened fleetingly, and then grew stern again.

“I’m sure you realise that this is our busiest time of year. Sometimes I think that everyone who’s ever died tries to get a pass to go back for Halloween. We have to be very strict these days. It seems everyone in the world has a camera and it would never do to have a photograph of a visitation get on the Internet.” The couple looked at him blankly. “The Internet,” he explained, “is a pretend place where people go to talk to strangers so they can avoid talking to people they actually know. I don’t understand it either.”
“Anyway,” the man continued, “because of the huge demand at this time of year we have to be very careful and delve a little deeper into your reasons for going back. And don’t try to lie. We can tell that sort of thing here, and it doesn’t look good on your record. Or mine, if I let you through. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who try the old ‘a loved one is passing and I’d like to be there to welcome them’ line. Silly sods don’t realise that when it’s time for something like that, we find you. The real story ends up being that they want to go back and frighten an old enemy, or a golfing buddy, or the best friend who passed their trifle recipe off as their own after they died. The Afterlife,” the man stated clearly, “is full of assholes.”

“Not so different from life, then,” said Oliver, who then looked surprised, as if he hadn’t intended to speak.

The man behind the desk laughed.

Frances kissed Oliver on the cheek and looked at the man with a broad grin. “Oliver’s first words on this side,” she explained.

“I am honoured to have been here to hear them. In all my years here, it’s the first time I’ve been present for someone’s first words.”

The man moved to the door of the office, turned the sign in the window to CLOSED, and pulled down the shade.

“Hang protocol – let’s just have a nice visit. Now, tell me your story. Why do you want to go back now?”

Frances said simply, “Our granddaughter can’t sleep.”

The man was not expecting that answer. “Go on.”

Frances continued, “My littlest granddaughter is four and a half years old. She is frightened of Halloween and she is up all night with nightmares.”

The man nodded. “And how can you help?”

“She used to sleep very badly as a baby. My poor daughter was so exhausted. So – I started to go back at night. I’d sit in the room with the baby and sing to her when she started crying. She always slept much better when I was there. I stopped going back when she started sleeping better on her own.”

“And you think you can help now? Won’t you scare her? What if she doesn’t remember you?”

“My daughter talked about us a lot. Ariana, that’s our granddaughter, has told mer mother ‘I miss Nana Fran’, even though I died many years before she was born. I think I can help.”

**************

In the small kitchen filled with the remains of the Halloween candy she’d given out the night before, the woman poured the water into the coffeemaker and pressed the magic button that would make the all important ‘first cup of the day’. Maybe things were getting better, she thought. She’d been expecting a night filled with screams and night terrors. Her young daughter hated Halloween and never managed to sleep the night through.

But last night was different. She’d checked on Ariana several times – but she was always peacefully asleep with a smile on her face – her hand stretched out as if holding someone’s hand.

Thank god!

When she couldn’t sleep as a child, her mother had always sung to her – but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the song.

She heard the clatter of little footsteps which meant her Ariana was awake.

“Good morning, pet! How would you like cinnamon toast for breakfast?”

“Yes, please!” The woman set about making her daughter’s breakfast. She listened as her daughter hummed under her breath.

“What are you singing?” she asked.

“The lambyivy song.”

“How does that go?”

“Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy…”

The woman stared at the child. That was the song she’d been trying to remember. Her mother’s song.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Nana Fran sang it to me.”

“When?”

“Last night. Whenever I got scared, she’d hold my hand and sing to me until I wasn’t scared any more.” The little girl sighed. “She sang a LOT. Then she kissed me and I waked up and it was today. Oh! I almost forgot!”

Ariana took her mother’s hands and tugged until her mother’s face was level with her own. The woman’s eyes filled with tears as Ariana solemnly placed her tiny hands on either side of her mother’s face. She kissed one temple, then the other, and then placed a kiss in the centre of her mother’s forehead. Exactly as her own mother had done every night of her childhood, and sometimes after.

“Nana Fran told me to do that.”

The woman hugged her daughter tightly and then watched as she happily sat munching her cinnamon toast.

“Thank you, Mom.”