Gypsy Rose - a dark summer tale

October 20th, 2007 · No Comments

Ghosts screeched and a luminous skeleton rattled before me as we crashed through the doors into dazzling sunlight. Nervous laughter replaced the howls and screams. I’ve always loved ghost train rides and the one on Berston pier had been my favourite for almost thirty years. My cheeks ached from the grin glued to my face as I climbed off the rickety carriage, breathing great lungfuls of fresh sea air and feeling glad to be alive.

The thought stopped me cold. For the last three months I’d been living with the prospect of death and it seemed premature to be celebrating the joys of life. Oh well, I came to enjoy the sun and sea and that’s just what I was doing.

I tried to recapture my joie de vivre as I watched the sea twinkling turquoise under a brilliant blue sky. People splashed around in the shallows and the children’s laughter tinkled as they built crumbling castles in the sand. In a place like this, surrounded by so much happiness, it’s difficult not to feel good. But the fear of death can be like a massive weight, pressing down on your entire being, crushing your very soul. I so desperately wanted to shake myself out of depression.

A boy with a mountain of sugar candy bumped into me and squinted up in the glare of the sun, smiling hesitantly, no doubt wondering why I looked so miserable on such a wonderful day. I forced a smile back as he apologised and suddenly my mind was full of memories of family outings so long ago. My mother buying me a great pink bale of sugar candy - so big it dwarfed me. Her laughter as she wildly navigated the dodgem car, crashing into everyone with delightful glee. The penny arcades and the colourful spinning wheels that could bring cascades of coppers tumbling forth. The helter-skelter, twisting and turning so fast you felt you would be catapulted into the sea. And, of course, my favourite, the ghost train with its improbable manifestations of death that seemed so real to me then, so alien, so thrilling. So terrifying. A lifetime away.

Again thoughts of death interrupted my reverie, with my mother’s own painful parting twenty-three years before squeezing away any possibility of fun for me. I turned to tramp back to my bed and breakfast, resigned to black thoughts and fear, when I noticed a partly obscured doorway between the ghost train and the dodgems. Strolling over, I wondered why I hadn’t seen it before. Admittedly the faded paintwork and mystic symbols of Gypsy Rose were tucked away, but I had assumed the fortune-teller’s stall had long since gone.

My mother had loved what she’d laughingly called ’superstitious twaddle’ and often dragged me in to hear the old woman’s words. My mood swung as I relived the happiness my mother had felt, and without thinking wandered in.

It was like going back in time. Gypsy Rose sat hunched over a crystal ball, wearing the same scarlet outfit and looking just as she had all those years before. My spine tingled as I sat myself opposite, drawn to her presence. She peered over the smooth crystal, light glittering in her eyes.

“You have something to ask me.” It was a statement, not a question, and she sounded confident she had the answer.

My mouth was dry yet my palms slick with sweat, despite the cold of the room. I tried to force air to my lungs as my heart cantered and my head felt light. Perhaps I’m hyperventilating I thought, but why? Surely there’s nothing here that can harm me.

I croaked a hesitant response, “Yes… I need to know how my operation will go. On Monday.”

“You have cancer.” Another flat statement of fact.

“Yes. They plan to remove a tumour and tell me whether it’s spread.” The words, normally so difficult to say just tumbled out. I hung my head. Miserable. Ashamed. Afraid.

“You carry death on your shoulders like a black cloud. Why are you so full of fear?”

I could not answer. Am I just a coward? Terrified of the unknown? A weak and feeble atheist, with no spiritual anchor or beliefs to cling to?

“You know the answer - just search your heart.”

I looked into her face and she seemed to transform before me. It was my mother’s eyes, her lovely face and serene smile glowing before me. She spoke in a voice more soothing than I ever remember. “Joe, you need not be afraid. Be strong and you’ll live a long and happy life. Your fear comes from my death, not your own. I did not want to leave you, but my time was gone. You must live to enjoy your life, my love. Put aside your fear.”

Gypsy Rose stood and in a swirl of red lace was gone.

I stumbled out into the light, wondering whether I had finally flipped. The drug therapy and months of needles and investigations had surely taken their toll. I found myself in my room, sobbing for the mother I had lost when I was twelve. I relived her agonising descent into morphine fuelled nightmares as the cancer had eaten her alive. I shuddered and curled up on the bed, trying to force the images out of my mind. Be strong, she had said. So easy to say, yet so hard to do.

I awoke on Sunday to blue skies and seagulls screeching. I felt elated for no apparent reason and even managed a large English breakfast, then walked for miles, further than I had in months, breathing the healthy salt air, convincing myself that life could go on. My strange experience of the previous day was in my consciousness, but I did not dwell on it: it felt like a rock or a foundation had been laid, and needed no analysis. Death no longer pressed down on my shoulders. I was ready and determined to fight hard tomorrow. The black cloud had passed.

Two months went by and I was on the mend. The operation had been a total success and I’d been building my strength back up. Life was looking good and I decided to visit Berston again for a late summer break.

Mrs Troat, the owner of the bed and breakfast, seemed genuinely pleased to see me again and fed me heartily once more. As I ate breakfast I asked her about business and the effects of overseas package tours on the traditional seaside holiday. “There’s always the weather of course, but we do OK. We have our magnificent pier, although youngsters seem more interested in computer games in the arcades these days than old style entertainment.” She looked wistfully out at the rain-swept pier. “It’s such a shame, we may lose the ghost train next season - kids these days are looking for something much more sophisticated.”

Sadly I had to agree and nodded as I said, “I was surprised that Gypsy Rose still trades - I thought she’d long since gone. She certainly gave me something to think about when I was feeling sorry for myself back in June!”

Mrs Troat didn’t seem to hear me as she gathered the plates and disappeared into the kitchen without another word. I didn’t think anything of this - we often had sporadic bursts of conversation over breakfast while she served her other guests.

I stood and decided to visit the pier - one last ride on the ghost train perhaps.

The resort had glittered brightly and looked so clean and shiny in the June sun - I could have believed the place would go on forever. But as I wandered along the pier, huddled against the rain, I started to notice the flaking paintwork and ramshackle stalls. Seedy looking vendors squawked harshly as piped music from the dodgems clashed with that from the waltzer. Everything looks so dull on a grey English day, and I could almost feel the decay around me. Mrs Troat was right; times were changing. Despite this, nothing would allow my spirits to dampen. I was happy, just to be alive.

I rode the ghost train, laughing aloud at the pathetic images. I thought how I had faced death for real and chuckled to myself as I dismounted. Even the prospect of this being my last time on the old ride couldn’t ruin my mood.

I strolled on and decided to visit Gypsy Rose, to thank her for her insights into my illness. It’s funny how little I had thought about my strange experience since, and even at this point didn’t fully consider what had happened that day. I only knew that the shadow of death had left me and things had looked up ever since.

I paused at where I thought the entrance was, but there was nothing other than a faded empty cubicle with no signs to suggest anyone had ever been there. So, I thought, yet another slice of the traditional British seaside holiday bites the dust. Harsh economics at work in Berston. I sadly wondered what Gypsy Rose would be doing now - what else could she do? Maybe Mrs Troat would know.

The following morning I sat down to breakfast in preparation for my trip home, mulling over how things in life change, when Mrs Troat brought me a heaped plateful of food. As I tucked in I asked her, “What’s happened to Gypsy Rose? I saw her in June and now she’s gone. It’s as if she never existed.”

“I think you must be mistaken, Joe. Gypsy Rose died almost ten years ago.” Mrs Troat grabbed a plate and dashed into the kitchen.

I sat shocked. Images churned in my mind. My mother had seemed so real and her words had meant so much. Subconsciously, I’d rationalised the experience. My illness had weakened me. Stress and drugs, fear of death and lack of sleep had all conspired to bring about my ‘vision’ of mother. All along I’d known it was just a trick of my fevered mind.