«Vic, Vic wake up, will you? Look at himstill sleeping! Victor, get up or youll sleep through your whole bloody life!»
Adelaide Markham stood over him, arms crossed. Victor groaned into his pillow.
«Adelaide, for Gods sake, let a man sleep.»
«Sleep? Youll sleep when youre dead. Up you get!»
«Or maybe Ill sleep when I *am* dead,» he muttered, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes as he shuffled to the mirror.
«Well?» she snapped.
«Not even harnessed and youre already nagging. Go on, wash up, shave, make yourself presentable. Theres time yet.»
«What time, Adelaide?»
«*Some* time.»
Victor dragged himself to the bathroom, grumbling under his breath. One wrong word and shed lob a slipper at his head. Bloody womaneven in death, she was still running his life.
«Vic,» she called, settling cross-legged on his bed like some meditating spectre, «did I ever tell you I can hear thoughts? No? Well, now you know. Off you popwash, brush, and *shave*. You look like a tramp.»
Arguing was pointless. Adelaide wasnt just his ex-mother-in-law. She was a ghost.
Not a hallucination. Not some drunken delusion. Just there. One day, two weeks after her funeral, shed appeared in his flat like an unwelcome draught.
«I *hear* you, you know,» she said, gliding closer. «Nearly always. How my Lydia ever put up with you, Ill never know. Youre a dinosaur, Victor. A proper relic.»
He waved her off and shut the bathroom door.
Lydia had left him a year ago. Kids grown, lives moved on. Shed called him a tyrant, said he stifled her, packed a suitcase, and slammed the door. When he rang her, shed spat words like «*misogynist*» and «*Neanderthal*» before hanging up.
As if *he* could stop building houses. That was his job, for pitys sake. But noLydia had swallowed every word from those life-coach charlatans. Decided their marriage was oppression. Never mind that her roast dinners were divine
Victor nearly choked on his own spit as an idea struck. Razor halfway down his cheek, he bolted into the hall.
«Adelaide! Adelaide!»
«What now?»
«Teach me to make your beef stew. Please.»
She scoffed. «As if Id hand over my secret recipe!»
«What, youll cook for *devils* down there?»
«Ugh, youre vile.»
«Lydias stew is better than yours anyway.»
Adelaides ghostly form flickered. «*I* taught her!»
«So?» Victor went back to shaving, door wide open. Propriety be damnedit was Saturday, and he was up at seven thanks to her.
«So? *So?!*» She wobbled, then thumped onto a chair. Early days, shed somersaulted like a circus act; now she could grip things. Like slippers. «*I* trained Lydia, you dolt!»
«Pupil surpassed the master, then.»
«*What?* Tell me, geniuswhat meat does she use?»
«Lamb.»
«Idiot! Its *beef*.»
«Oh, and I suppose its not *this* pot, but *that* one?»
«Obviously *that*!»
By midday, Victor had scribbled every step in a notepad. Clean-shaven, he sat at the kitchen table, spooning up the richest, most glorious stew hed ever tasted.
«Christ, Mum youre a genius.»
«What?»
«This stew. Lydias doesnt come close.»
Adelaides form wavered. «You *rotter*.»
«Youre crying? Ghosts can cry?»
«Dunno,» she sniffed. «But *you*, Vic, are a right bastard.»
«*What* did I do now?»
«Calling me *Mum* like that. Now Im *weeping*.»
She vanished into the wardrobe, wails muffled by coats. Victor tidied up.
«Not like that*that* cloth, Victor! Lord above»
***
Lydia hadnt slept. Dreams of her motheryoung, radiantreaching for her. She tried to call her life coach, Alistair Wonderly, but his line just rang.
Until a gruff, hungover voice snarled, «Who the *hell* calls at seven on a Saturday?»
She hung up. That wasnt Alistair. That was a monster.
Something tugged her toward Victors flat. She didnt know why.
***
Victor and Adelaide were mid-chess when the door opened.
«Lost his marbles,» Lydia thought, watching her ex-laugh with *no one*.
«Lydia! Your move, Mumaha! Check!»
The chess pieces *moved themselves*.
«You look well,» Victor said. «Mum says youve lost weight. Hungry? Ive got stew.»
«Vic are you *okay*?»
«Why wouldnt I be? Mums teaching me her roast next.»
«*What* mum? Shesshes *gone*, Vic.»
«Been living with me a year.»
Lydias throat tightened. The *smell* from the potexactly like her mothers.
«You made this?»
«Mums recipe. Stop crying, AdelaideLydia, ask her something only you two would know.»
«Vic, this is»
«Just *ask*.»
«Mum, what secret did I tell you in Year Four?»
«That you fancied*what*? You fancied me *then*?»
Lydias legs gave out. Question after question, each answered perfectly.
«It *cant* be. Vic is she *here*?»
Victor nodded. «A ghost. Show yourself, Adelaide.»
For a flicker, Lydia saw her. Then again.
«Shes fading,» Victor whispered. «She just wanted you happy. *Us* happy. Adelaide? *Adelaide!*»
***
Victor woke with a gasp. Lydia jerked upright beside him.
«Lydia?»
«Victor? How did I? Wait. Was that?»
«A dream,» he whispered.
«You dreamed Mum was a ghost? And Id left you for some life-coach?»
«Lydia!»
A fist hammered the door.
«Honestly! Lazing about like teenagers! Lydia, less of this life-coach nonsenseI had the *oddest* dream, haunting this idiot for a year. Up! Were going to the cottage. Work the daft ideas out of you.»
She jabbed a finger at Victor. «*You*learn my stew. Just in case.»
***
«Vic in thirty years, whyd you never call me *Mum* before?»
«Dunno,» he said softly. «*Mum*. «Feels right now,» he added, stirring the stew. «Like it was always meant to be.»
Lydia smiled through sudden tears, reaching for his hand. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but the kitchen was warm, and for the first time in years, so were they.
