“Wake up, Victor… Bloody hell, look at yousleeping the day away like a lazy sod. Up you get, or youll miss out on life entirely!”
Victor groaned, rubbing his eyes. “For heavens sake, Margaret, its Sunday. Let a man lie in.”
“Lie in? Youll have all eternity to lie in once youre six feet under. Now shift yourself!”
Grumbling, Victor dragged himself out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a man whod rather be anywhere else. His mother-in-law, Margaret, hovered behind him like a persistent storm cloud.
“Honestly, Victor, you look like something the cat dragged in. Wash up, shave, and for goodness sake, tidy yourself. Youre not some scruffy teenager anymore.”
“Since when do ghosts care about appearances?” he muttered under his breath.
“Oh, I heard that. Side effect of being deadI catch thoughts now and then. Off you pop, and dont forget the shave. Youre starting to resemble a hedge.”
Victor knew better than to argue. Arguing with Margaret had been pointless when she was alive; now, as a spectre haunting his flat, it was downright impossible.
Yes, his mother-in-law was a ghost.
No, he wasnt mad. No, he hadnt hit the bottle too hard. Shed just turned up one day, a month after the funeral, and made herself at home.
“I hear your thoughts, you know,” she said, drifting lazily through the wall. “Honestly, how my Emily put up with you for thirty years, Ill never know. Youre a proper relic, you are.”
Victor waved her off and splashed water on his face.
Emily had left him a year ago, fed up with what she called his “Victorian attitudes.” The kids were grown, and shed decided she needed to “find herself,” whatever that meant. Packed a suitcase, called him a “misogynistic tyrant”words hed never even heard beforeand stormed out.
Odd woman, Emily. Especially after shed started listening to some life coach bloke named Trevor Miracles or some such nonsense.
Victors stomach growled. Emilys cooking had been legendaryespecially her roast dinners.
Halfway through shaving, a thought struck him. He bolted into the hallway.
“Margaret! Margaret, loveteach me how to make your roast beef. Properly. The way Emily used to.”
She scoffed. “As if Id hand over my secret recipe to the likes of you!”
“Whats it matter? Youre dead! Whos going to eat it up there?”
“Cheeky beggar. Emilys was better, was it?”
“Course it was. She learned from the best, but she perfected it.”
Margarets ghostly form flickered indignantly. “Oh, listen to you! What cut of beef does she use, then?”
“Topside, obviously.”
“See? Wrong! Its rib-eye, you daft sod. And not in that tin pot you call a roasting panproper cast iron, like I showed her.”
An hour later, Victor was scribbling notes like a schoolboy, following Margarets instructions to the letter. The scent of roasting beef filled the flat.
He took a bite, eyes widening. “Margaret this is bloody brilliant.”
She sniffed. “Well, obviously.”
“Better than Emilys.”
“Dont push it.”
A strange wetness glimmered in her translucent eyes.
“Ghosts can cry?”
“How should I know?” she snapped. “You great lump, calling me love after all these years. Thirty years married to my Emily, and not once did you call me Mum. Now look what youve done.”
Victor grinned. “Suppose I just needed you haunting me to appreciate you properly.”
“Oh, sod off,” she wailed, vanishing into the cupboard, where muffled sobs echoed for a good ten minutes.
Later, as Victor scrubbed the kitchen, Margaret reappeared. “Not like that, you oaf! Use the blue cloth!”
***
Emily hadnt slept well. Dreams of her motheryoung, vibranthad left her unsettled. She tried calling her life coach, Trevor, but he answered with a voice like gravel.
“Who the devil rings at seven on a Sunday? Piss off!”
She slammed the laptop shut. That wasnt Trevor. That was someone else entirely.
For reasons she couldnt explain, she found herself driving to Victors flat.
When she arrived, she froze. Victor was at the table, laughing, moving chess piecesagainst no one.
“Christ, hes lost it,” she whispered.
“Emily! Just in timeyour mums about to checkmate me!”
Emilys blood ran cold as a pawn slid across the board on its own.
“You you look well,” she managed.
“Your mum says youve lost weight. Not eating? Fancy some roast? Her recipe.”
“Victor what mum?”
“The one whos been haunting me for a year.”
Emilys hands trembled. “Prove it. Ask her something only she and I would know.”
Victor relayed the question.
“What was my first word? What colour was my pram? Whos Auntie Mabel?”
Each answer hit like a hammer.
Then, for the briefest moment, Emily saw her. A flicker of recognition. A ghostly smile.
“Shes fading,” Victor said softly. “But she wanted you happy. Wanted us happy.”
Emilys vision blurred.
***
Victor woke with a gasp. Emily shot upright beside him.
“You too?” he whispered.
“The dream Mum the roast”
A fist pounded the door.
“Enough lazing about! Emily, stop filling your head with that life coach rubbish. Victor, get upyoure learning to cook properly. Weve work to do.”
Margaret stood there, alive and well, hands on hips.
“Just a dream?” Victor croaked.
“Course it was. Now move itwere going to the countryside. Fresh air, hard work, and no more nonsense.”
As they bundled into the car, Victor caught Margarets eye.
“By the way whyd you never call me Mum all those years?”
He grinned. “Dunno Mum.”
Margaret swatted him with a tea towel, but her eyes sparkled.
***
The lesson? Sometimes it takes losing somethingor someoneto realise what you had all along. And if youre lucky, you might just get a second chance to say the words you never did.
