She shook her head. ‘No, actually, no, I didn’t. I didn’t really like to travel. Who needs travel when you have a mystery novel, eh? Now listen, Old Bean. Here, more than anywhere, it is important that you do not speak to your younger self. You said it was on your honeymoon that you saw yourself. As you know, just because nothing happened the last time doesn’t mean that couldn’t be changed. And if your past changes, there will be no afterlife, no ghost of you, no eternity. Do not dilly-dally when you hear the whistle. Do you understand?’
I do not understand, no, he nearly said.All I understand is that I want the living versions of me and Maggie to be happy.
But Wilbur looked at Agnes and wondered if he even needed to give an answer.
Eventually, he decided that silence was better than telling a lie.
Hotel Proserpina
The Midnight Train had arrived beside the Grand Canal in Venice.
The Ghost looked around him.
He saw gondolas on the water, and tourists and pigeons on the ground.
A water taxi was heading to shore.
Behind him he saw a ramshackle terracotta-fronted hotel. Above the door was a hand-painted, elegantly lettered navy and white sign:Hotel Proserpina.
So here he was.
Friday 9 August 1974.
He looked back at the canal. Of course, the couple in the back of the water taxi were himself and Maggie. It was the day he had been most truly himself, which was why he looked exactly like he did as a ghost. And even his first ever experience of air travel hadn’t dented his smile. His expression was one of wild wonder and curiosity. And it was no surprise.
Maggie had an expression of wonder too as she stepped out of the water taxi, the heavy Pentax camera hanging around her neck.
For both of them, this was the furthest away from home they’d ever been. Wilbur had never even been to London. Arriving in Venice was like arriving on another planet.
‘Oh, bloody hell, it’s amazing,’ said Maggie.
Wilbur agreed. ‘It looks better than in the brochure.’
And the Ghost followed them as they walked under the chandeliers of the Proserpina’s narrow lobby, passing old paintings and bookcases and marvelling at a vase bursting full of white roses.
Maggie gave Wilbur a look. The look saidI like this place.
Oh, thought the Ghost, studying himself as he squeezed Maggie’s hand. A thought that was as close to a sigh as a thought can be.I miss you, Maggie.
Seeing them, the receptionist rushed out from behind her desk with an eager smile.
‘Benvenuti! Ciao! Hello! Is it Mr and Mrs Budd?’
Mr and Mrs Budd.
‘It is,’ said Maggie. ‘Since last Saturday!’
‘Ahh. Congratulations! I am Gabriella. Pleased to meet you. And this is your first time in Venice?’
‘Yes, it is,’ they said in unison.
‘My first time anywhere,’ added the Ghost.
Gabriella smiled. ‘Have you got things you want to do? Doge’s Palace? St Mark’s? A gondola? Art?’
‘Oh, all of that,’ Wilbur said. ‘Maggie – my wife – has made an itinerary.’
Gabriella was admiring the camera. Maggie explained it was a wedding present from her dad.
