The Girl I Left Behind Me: a ghost story by Muriel Spark

Related: Muriel Spark

IT WAS JUST GONE quarter past six when I left the office.

“Teedle-um-tum-tum”—there was the tune again, going round my head. Mr. Letter had been whistling it all throughout the day between his noisy telephone calls and his dreamy sessions. Sometimes he whistled “Softly, Softly, Turn the Key,” but usually it was “The Girl I Left Behind Me” rendered at a brisk hornpipe tempo.

I stood in the bus line, tired out, and wondering how long I would endure Mark Letter (Screws & Nails) Ltd. Of course, after my long illness, it was experience. But Mr. Letter and his tune, and his sudden moods of bounce, and his sudden lapses into lassitude, his sandy hair and little bad teeth, roused my resentment, especially when his tune barrelled round my head long after I had left the office; it was like taking Mr. Letter home.

No one at the bus stop took any notice of me. Well, of course, why should they? I was not acquainted with anyone there, but that evening I felt particularly anonymous among the homegoers. Everyone looked right through me and even, it seemed, walked through me. Late autumn always sets my​ ​fancy​ ​toward​ ​​sad​ ​ideas. The​ ​starlings​ ​were​ ​crowding in to roost on all the high cornices of the​ ​great office buildings. And I located, among the​ ​misty​ ​unease​ ​of​ ​my feelings,​ ​a​ ​very​ ​strong​ conviction that I had left some​t​hing important behind me​ ​or some job incompleted at the office. Perhaps I​ ​had left the safe unlocked, or perhaps it​ ​was something quite trivial which nagged at me. I had half a​ ​mind to turn back, tired as I​ ​was, and reassure myself.​ ​But​ ​my bus​ ​came​ ​along​ ​and​ ​I​ ​piled​ ​in​ ​with​ ​the rest.

As usual, I did not get a seat. I clung to the handrail and allowed myself to be lurched back and forth against the other passengers. I stood on a man’s foot, and said, “Oh, sorry.” But he looked away without response, which depressed me. And more and more, I felt that I had left something of tremendous import at the office. “Teedle-um-tum tum”—the tune was a background to my worry all the​ ​way​ ​home.​ ​I​ ​went​ ​over​ ​in​ ​my​ ​mind​ ​the​ ​day’s business, for I thought, now, perhaps it ​wa​s a​ ​letter​ ​which​ ​I​ ​should​ ​have​ ​written​ ​and​ ​posted​ ​on​ ​my way home.

That morning I had arrived at the office to find Mark Le​t​ter vigorously at work. By fits, he would occasionally turn up at eight in the morning, tear at the post and, by the time I arrived, he would have despatched perhaps half a dozen needless telegrams; and before I could get my coat off, would deliver a whole day’s instructions to me, rapidly fluttering his freckled hands in time with his chattering mouth. This habit used to jar me, and​ ​I​ ​found​ ​only​ ​one​ ​thing​ ​amusing​ ​about​ ​it;​ ​that was when he would say, as he gave instructions for dealing with each item, “Mark letter urgent.” I thought that rather funny coming from Mark Letter,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​often​ ​thought​ ​of​ ​him,​ ​a​s​ ​he​ ​was​ ​in​ ​those moods, as Mark Letter Urgent.

As I​ ​swayed in​ ​the​ ​bus​ ​I​ ​recalled​ ​that​ ​morning’s​ ​access of energy on the part of Mark Letter Urgent.​ ​He​ ​had​ ​been​ ​more​ ​urgent​ ​than​ ​usual,​ ​so​ ​that​ ​I still felt put out by the urgency. I felt terribly old​ ​for my twenty-two years as I raked round my mind for some clue as to what I had left unfinished. Something had been left amiss; the further the bus carried me from the office, the more certain​ ​I​ ​became​ ​of​ ​it.​ ​Not​ ​that​ ​I​ ​took​ ​my​ ​job​ ​to​ ​heart very greatly, but Mr. Letter’s moods of bustle were infectious, and when they occurred I felt fussy for the rest of the day; and although I consoled myself that I would feel better when I got home, the worry would not leave me.

By noon, Mr. Letter had calmed down a little, and for an hour before I went to lunch he strode round the office with his hands in his pockets, whistling between his seedy brown teeth that sailors’ song “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” I lurched with the bus as it chugged out the rhythm, “Teedle-um-tum-tum. Teedle-um . . .” Returning from lunch I had found silence, and wondered if Mr. Letter was out, until I heard suddenly, from his tiny private office, his tune again, a low swift hum, trailing out toward the end. Then I knew that he had fallen into one of his afternoon daydreams.

I would sometimes come upon him in his little box of an office when these trances afflicted him. I would find him sitting in his swivel chair behind his desk. Usually he had taken off his coat and slung it across the back of his chair. His right elbow would be propped on the desk, supporting his chin, while from his left hand would dangle his tie. He would gaze at this tie; it was his main object of contemplation. That afternoon I had found him tie-gazing when I went into his room for some papers. He was gazing at it with parted lips so that I could see his small, separated discolored teeth, no larger than a child’s first teeth. Through them he whistled his tune. Yesterday, it had been “Softly, Softly, Turn the Key,” but today it was the other.

I got off the bus at my usual stop, with my fare still in my hand. I almost threw the coins away, absentmindedly thinking they were the ticket, and when I noticed them I thought how nearly no one at all I was, since even the conductor had, in his rush, passed me by.

Mark Letter had remained in his dream for​ ​two​ ​and​ ​a​ ​half​ ​hours.​ ​What​ ​was​ ​it​ ​I​ ​ha​​d​ ​left​ ​unfinished?​ ​I​ ​could​ ​n​ot​ ​for​ ​the​ ​life​ ​of​ ​me recall​ ​what​ ​he had said when at last he emerged from his office​ ​box.​ ​Perhaps​ ​it​ ​was​ ​then​ ​I​ ​had​ ​made​ ​tea.​ ​Mr.Letter always liked a cup when he was neither in his​ ​frenzy nor in his abstraction, but ordinary and​ ​talkative. He would speak of his hobby, fretwork.​ ​I do not think Mr. Letter had any home life. At​ ​forty-six he was still unmarried, living alone in a​ ​house​ ​at Roehampton.​ ​As​ ​I​ ​walked​ ​up​ ​the​ ​lane​ ​to​ ​my​ ​lodgings​ ​I​ ​recollected​ ​that​ ​Mr.​ ​Letter​ ​had​ ​c​​​​ome​ ​in for his tea with his tie still dangling from his​ ​hand, his throat white under the open-neck shirt, and his “Teedle-um-tum-tum” in his teeth.

At last I was home and my Yale in the lock. Softly, I said to myself, softly turn the key, and thank God I’m home. My landlady passed through the hall from kitchen to dining-room with a salt and pepper cruet in her crinkly hands. She had some new lodgers. “My guests,” she always called them. The new guests took precedence over the old with my landlady. I felt desolate. I simply could not climb the stairs to my room to wash, and then descend to take brown soup with the new guests while my landlady fussed over them, ignoring me. I sat for a moment in the chair in the hall to collect my strength. A year’s illness drains one, however young. Suddenly the repulsion of the brown soup and the anxiety about the office made me decide. I would not go upstairs to my room. I must return to the office to see what it was that I had overlooked.

“Teedle-um-tum-tum”—I told myself that I was giving way to neurosis. Many times I had laughed at my sister who, after she had gone to bed at night, would send her husband downstairs to make sure all the gas taps were turned off, all the doors locked, back and front. Very well, I was as silly as my sister, but I understood her obsession, and simply opened the door and slipped out of the house, tired as I was, making my weary way back to the bus stop, back to the office.

“Why should I do this for Mark Letter?” I demanded of myself. But really, I was not returning for his sake, it was for my own. I was doing this to get rid of the feeling of incompletion, and that song in my brain swimming round like a damned goldfish.

I wondered, as the bus took me back along the familiar route, what I would say if Mark Letter should still beat the office. He often worked late, or at least, stayed there late, doing I don’t know what, for his screw and nail business did not call for long hours. It seemed to me he had an affection for those dingy premises. I was rather apprehensive lest I should find Mr. Letter at the office, standing, just as I had last seen him, swinging his tie in his hand, beside my desk. I resolved that if I should find him there, I should say straight out that I had left something behind me.

A clock struck quarter past seven as I got off the bus. I realized that again I had not paid my fare. I looked at the money in my hand for a stupid second. Then I felt reckless. “Teedle-um-tum tum”—I caught myself humming the tune as I walked quickly up the sad side street to our office. My heart knocked at my throat, for I was eager. Softly, softly, I said to myself as I turned the key of the outside door. Quickly, quickly, I ran up the stairs. Only outside the office door I halted, and while I found its key on my bunch it occurred to me how strangely my sister would think I was behaving.

I opened the door and my sadness left me at once. With a great joy I recognized what it was I had left behind me, my body lying strangled on the floor. I ran toward my body and embraced it like a lover.