She nodded but her eyes looked through him. His ghost felt regret. ‘Tactless, Wilbur,’ he said. ‘Look at her. She’s hurt.’
Of course, the Wilbur there couldn’t hear anything. He just said: ‘I thought you’d be happy for me too. I told you I wanted to go to Oxford the first time I met you.’
‘But I’m not going to see my little Wilbur.’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘What, so I say bye in September and hello at Christmas?’
The Ghost watched his young self as it dawned on him that there was more than one interpretation of his news. ‘Well, no. I will try and get back before. And you could come to Oxford. It’s not too far on the train.’
‘Don’t think I’d fit in with the posh brigade.’
‘You’re posher than me!’
‘I’m not posh in the slightest. I’m a Sheffield lass.’
‘Your dad is rolling in it.’
‘Nowhe is. Now that everyone in the north suddenly wants a carpet. But it wasn’t always like that. And I’m not posh. I’m proper Sheffield. And so is my dad. I don’t think I’d ever leave.’
‘You make it sound like a betrayal.’
‘Well, no. Do what you want. It’s your life.’
‘Look, can we just try and enjoy a movie?’
And as it turned out: no, they couldn’t.
The Palace
They had now reached the Palace Cinema. The focal point of their date.
It looked as grand as the Ghost remembered it as a child. Maybe more so.
A solid-looking building with ornate features. A white-glazed facade decorated with columns and fanlight windows and arches, and doors within them.
As a boy, it had seemed to him like something straight from heaven, so perfect and palatial and bright. The Ghost remembered a visit to seeAn American in Pariswhen he was about seven years old. His mam rarely did much with them, but she always scraped enough together to take her sons to the pictures. He thought of her quietly singing along to ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise’, a tear rolling down her face.
He looked up above the arches, and saw two banners.
One was advertisingThe Great Escapeand the other was forThe Birds. He had read the story, ‘The Birds’, during a break at the bookshop. It was by one of his favourite writers, Daphne du Maurier, and he was leaning towards it, but he wondered if it would be too unsettling for Alice, who was clearly troubled by pigeons and, possibly, birds in general.The Great Escapehad been out for a few months now, but had been a massive hit and would play for many weeks more.
‘What do you want to see?’ asked Alice, with a tone to her voice Wilbur wasn’t used to.
‘I’m easy either way.’
‘You choose.’
‘The Great Escapeis meant to be good,’ Wilbur said, eyebrows raised.
‘The Great Escapeis your sort of film, I imagine.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know what I mean by that.’
‘You think I want to escape Sheffield?’
