The Life And Soul

A ghost story for Christmas.

I didn’t make it to the first of Adam Rhodes’ Christmas parties at his flat on Charles Street, but when I got back to London I was as surprised as anyone to find people in our circle speaking of it as the event of the season. Really? Adam’s party? Were we talking about the same person?

I loved Adam dearly – still do – but everyone knew him as a chap who didn’t socialise in groups larger than three, and even then you couldn’t shake the suspicion he’d rather be getting stuck into an archive of 18th-century newspapers, seeking the earliest recorded coinage of some word like ‘virtuoso’. My cousin Tara was quite offended when she heard Adam’s family had given him their Charles Street flat to live in: the place was so well-located and perfect for entertaining, and Tara said it was wasted on a fellow like him and he may as well live out in Blackheath for all the interest he took in the life of the city.

But sure enough, he’d thrown a party three days before Christmas and scared up a decent crowd for it, and they all testified it was a splendid bash. Someone had telephoned Claridge’s, where some of the usual lot were out for cocktails, and told them it was worth dropping by, and this infusion of fresh blood meant the soiree had gone on well past midnight – an hour I’d never known Adam to keep before.

It became an annual event, quite anticipated within our circle. Unfortunately it kept clashing with my going to stay with Mother in Rome, as she wouldn’t countenance the notion of coming home for Christmas but would get terribly maudlin if she didn’t see any of us, and something always prevented my siblings from going so it would fall to me. But at Christmas ’56 I finally managed to convince Lydia it was her turn, and if it wasn’t hers it certainly wasn’t mine, and stayed put in London. Hence, I managed to make it to one of Adam’s parties – the fourth he’d held, though they already felt like quite a social fixture.

Sure enough, it was the liveliest shindig I’d been to in years, full of the cheer of the season. The flat was beautifully decked out, the wine flowed and was excellent, and there was none of the awkwardness I’d have expected from one of Adam’s parties. Instead it had that wonderfully giddy atmosphere that can prove so elusive at these events.

I saw little of Adam during the evening – he seemed to be constantly moving from one group of people to another – but I stayed to the end, which was a little after three, and once we were the last two people in the flat we sat with whiskies by the fire, which was going out. I wanted to catch up with my old friend, whom I’d not seen since the spring, but he seemed so exhausted he could barely speak.

‘Marvellous party,’ I told him.

He had one hand resting over his eyes, and he mumbled something that might have been agreement or thanks.

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘I don’t think one ever does really enjoy one’s own parties.’

Having never actually thrown a party myself – I fancy I’m rather better at going to them than organising them – I had no opinion to offer. ‘Nice to see so many of the old gang. All your Christmas socialising done in one night.’

He muttered again and shifted position in his chair.

I must admit I had another motive for wanting to speak to him, and as he wasn’t driving the conversation in any particular direction, I decided to raise it before he passed out. ‘One person I didn’t know, who I spoke to at some length actually – I was wondering who she was. Dark hair, cut short…’ I indicated with my hand the shape of her hair, which made a sort of open-ended square around her face. A rather old-fashioned style, but it suited her. ‘Dark eyes, very dark. Long slender legs –’

Adam had taken his hand from his eyes and was now looking at me quite intently. ‘Wearing a black and silver dress.’ A statement, not a question.

‘That’s the girl. Well. I say girl, I think she might have been thirty, or older perhaps.’

Adam smiled weakly. ‘Yes, perhaps. Where did you speak to her?’

‘Just there, over by the window. Who is she?’

‘I don’t know. No-one ever remembers her name. Tell me – do you have much of a memory for faces?’

‘Pretty decent.’

‘You just told me the colour of her eyes and the style of her hair, but if you try to recall her face in your mind’s eye, can you?’

To my surprise I found I couldn’t. I could just see her eyes and hair hanging there, like an unfinished sketch.

‘But you liked her,’ said Adam.

‘Very much,’ I said. ‘I… wanted to know how I might see her again.’

‘Everyone feels like that when they meet her. She’s why I have these parties, you know. She becomes restless and troublesome when it’s quiet. Makes noises in the night and such. We came to an agreement, I’d throw a party and she’d… well, rest.’ He sighed deeply. ‘They are good parties. She makes them good. I wonder who else saw her tonight… Anyway if you want to see her again, you’ll have to come next year.’

He was tired and really rather drunk, and I decided he was just rambling, or maybe having a joke with me that wasn’t coming across well. Maybe he just didn’t want to tell me who she was. Well, if he wanted to be obtuse about it then fine. I stood and told him I ought to make my way home.

‘Please come next year,’ he said. ‘If she spoke to you for a long time then she likes you, and if she likes you she’ll expect to see you again.’

I shrugged. ‘Next year depends on whether I visit Mother.’

At this Adam looked alarmed. ‘Don’t make other plans. She’ll disrupt them. She can –’ And from there he became quite incoherent, and the only thing I could do to calm him down was to assure him I’d come to next year’s bash regardless. He grasped my wrist as I turned to leave and told me to repeat what I’d said loudly and clearly. I looked him in the eye and declared I would certainly attend again next year, come what may.

‘Good.’ He released my wrist and relaxed a little. But he seemed barely any happier.

‘Are you all right, Adam?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘I just wanted to make sure she heard you.’