Hilary Mantel - Giving up the Ghost - A memoir

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Fourth Estate in 2005

Copyright © Hilary Mantel 2005

Hilary Mantel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007142729

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 9780007354894

Version 2016-02-02

For my family

Small holes, secret graves, children scattered around the iron fence. Not even a scratched stone.

The wind rises, clouds cover the moon, a dog’s bark and those owls, Alone and no end.

My children who won’t hear. The night full of cries they will never make.

‘Sharecropper’s Grave’

Judy Jordan

Cover

Title Page Giving Up the Ghost A Memoir Hilary Mantel

Copyright Copyright Copyright Dedication Epigraph Part One: A Second Home Part Two: Now Geoffrey Don’t Torment Her Part Three: The Secret Garden Part Four: Smile Part Five: Show Your Workings Afterlife Keep Reading About the Author Excerpt from Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel Praise By the Same Author About the Publisher Fourth Estate An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published by Fourth Estate in 2005 Copyright © Hilary Mantel 2005 Hilary Mantel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780007142729 Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 9780007354894 Version 2016-02-02

Dedication For my family

Epigraph Small holes, secret graves, children scattered around the iron fence. Not even a scratched stone. The wind rises, clouds cover the moon, a dog’s bark and those owls, Alone and no end. My children who won’t hear. The night full of cries they will never make. ‘Sharecropper’s Grave’ Judy Jordan

Part One: A Second Home

Part Two: Now Geoffrey Don’t Torment Her

Part Three: The Secret Garden

Part Four: Smile

Part Five: Show Your Workings

Afterlife

Keep Reading

About the Author

Excerpt from Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Praise

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

It is a Saturday, late July, 2000; we are in Reepham, Norfolk, at Owl Cottage. There’s something we have to do today, but we are trying to postpone it. We need to go across the road to see Mr Ewing; we need to ask for a valuation, and see what they think of our chances of selling. Ewing’s are the local firm, and it was they who sold us the house, seven years ago. As the morning wears on we move around each other silently, avoiding conversation. The decision’s made. There’s no more to discuss.

About eleven o’clock, I see a flickering on the staircase. The air is still; then it moves. I raise my head. The air is still again. I know it is my stepfather’s ghost coming down. Or, to put it in a way acceptable to most people, I ‘know’ it is my stepfather’s ghost.

I am not perturbed. I am used to ‘seeing’ things that aren’t there. Or—to put it in a way more acceptable to me—I am used to seeing things that ‘aren’t there’. It was in this house that I last saw my stepfather Jack, in the early months of 1995: alive, in his garments of human flesh. Many times since then I have acknowledged him on the stairs.

It may be, of course, that the flicker against the banister was nothing more than the warning of a migraine attack. It’s at the left-hand side of my body that visions manifest; it’s my left-eye that is peeled.I don’t know whether, at such vulnerable times, I see more than is there; or if things are there, that normally I don’t see.

Over the years the premonitionary symptoms of migraine headaches have become more than the dangerous puzzle that they were earlier in my life, and more than a warning to take the drugs that might ward off a full-blown attack. They have become a psychic adornment or flourish, an art form, a secret talent I have never managed to make money from. Sometimes they take the form of the visual disturbances that are common to many sufferers. Small objects will vanish from my field of vision, and there will be floating lacunae in the world, each shaped rather like a doughnut with a dazzle of light where the hole should be. Sometimes there are flashes of gold against the wall: darting chevrons, like the wings of small quick angels. Scant sleep and lack of food increase the chances of these sightings; starving saints in Lent, hypoglycemic and jittery, saw visions to meet their expectations.

Sometimes the aura takes more trying forms. I will go deaf. The words I try to write end up as other words. I will suffer strange dreams, from which I wake with hallucinations of taste. Once, thirty years ago, I dreamt that I was eating bees, and ever since I have lived with their milk-chocolate sweetness and their texture, which is like lightly cooked calves’ liver. It may be that a tune will lodge in my head like a tic and bring the words tripping in with it, so I am forced to live my life by its accompaniment. It’s a familiar complaint, to have a tune you can’t get out of your head. But for most people the tunes aren’t the prelude to a day of hearty vomiting. Besides, people say they pick them up from the radio, but mine are songs people don’t really sing these days: Bill Bailey, won’t you please come home? Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules. My aged father did me deny, And the name he gave me was the croppy boy.