“Oi, Vic, Vic…wake up, mate! Youll sleep your whole life away if you carry on like this. Bloody hell, look at himsnoring like a log. Victor, get up, or youll miss your chance at happiness!”
“Adelaide Margaret, give us a break, will you? Its my day off.”
“Day off? Pfft. Youll have plenty of time to nap when youre retired.”
“Yeah, or when Im six feet under.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it. Up you getnow!”
Victor groaned, dragging himself to the mirror. Red-eyed, stubble-covered, and thoroughly dishevelled.
“Go on, wash up, shave, make yourself presentable. Youve got time.”
“What time? Its barely light out!”
“Enough cheek, young man.”
Victor shuffled to the bathroom, muttering under his breath. One wrong word, and hed get a slipper to the back of the head. Shed been nagging him since well, since before shed even died.
“Victor, did I ever tell you I can read minds? No? Well, now you know,” Adelaide said smugly, floating cross-legged beside his bed. “Perk of being a ghost, I suppose. Now go scrub those teeth and shaveyou look like a caveman.”
Arguing was pointless. Even alive, shed never lost a debate.
Victors ex-wife, Lydia, had left him a year agokids grown, life moved on. Called him a “patriarchal relic,” packed her bags, and slammed the door. Hed called her, baffled, only to be met with words like “misogynist” and “oppressor.” As if building houses made him some sort of tyrant.
The worst part? She made the best roast dinner. Bloody hell, those Yorkshire puddings
Halfway through shaving, Victor bolted into the hall.
“Adelaide Margaretteach me how to make your roast beef. Properly. Please.”
“What, so you can feed the devil himself down there?”
“Suit yourself. Lydias was always better anyway.”
“Rubbish! I taught her everything she knows!”
“Funny, cause her gravys smoother.”
“Because she uses beef drippings, you numpty! Not that cheap oil you keep buying!”
After much bickering, Victor scribbled notes as they cooked. By lunch, he sat clean-shaven, devouring the best roast of his life.
“Blimey, Mum youre a genius.”
“Excuse me?”
“This roastperfection.”
“And Lydias?”
“Doesnt hold a candle. Wait are you crying? Can ghosts cry?”
“Dunno,” Adelaide sniffed. “Youre a right git, you know that?”
“Me? Whatd I do now?”
“Nothing just called me Mum for the first time in thirty years, thats all.”
“Oh. Well you are, arent you?”
“Piss off,” she wailed, vanishing into the wardrobe, sobs echoing.
Victor grinned and tidied up.
*
Lydia barely slept. Dreams of her mumyoung, radiantleft her restless. She tried calling her life coach, “Ezekiel Marvels,” but got a hungover bloke snarling, “Who the hell calls at seven on a Sunday?!”
Shaken, she drove to Victors.
There he was, laughing, playing chess alone.
“Victor, who?”
“Your move, Mum! Checkmate!”
Lydia swore the pieces moved themselves.
“You look peaky, love,” Victor said. “Hungry? Mums roasts still warm.”
“Victor what mum?”
“Yours. Shes been haunting me. Fancy a bite?”
Lydia nearly fainted at the first forkfulsame herbs, same richness.
“Ask her something only you two would know,” Victor urged.
“Mum what secret did I tell you when I was eight?”
“That you fancied the butchers boy,” Adelaides voice teased.
Lydia paled. One by one, she fired questionseach answered perfectly.
“Victor shes really here?”
“Aye. But fading. Mumshow yourself!”
A flicker. A glimpse. Thengone.
Victor bolted upright, drenched in sweat. Lydia gasped beside him.
“You dreamt it too?”
“The ghost? The coach? You leaving?”
“Victor!”
“Lydia!”
A fist hammered the door.
“Wakey-wakey, lazybones! Were going to the cottagegot to sweat the nonsense out of you two!”
Adelaide Margaret stood there, alive, scowling.
“Mum?!”
“None of your cheek. Now, Lydia, no more daft podcasts. And Victoryoure learning to roast beef properly. Just in case.”
As they left, Victor hesitated.
“Adelaide whyd I never call you Mum before?”
She winked. “Dunno, son. But better late than never.”
