Ella the Friendly Ghost

Her name was Ella Deadman and she was the funniest girl I’d ever met. Using an expletive to describe her comicality is, of course, subjective. What I mean is that our sense of humour was perfectly aligned. I’d never met anyone who made me feel so funny. She was generous with her laughter, sharing it freely, and had a deep, contagious, cackle.

She was named after Ella Fitzgerald. Her vivacity was not unlike the celebrated jazz singer. Had a smile so wide it practically covered her face. Quick-witted. She could’ve been a line in a movie. She was stylish. Loud. Cool.

She smelt like cocoa butter, straightened hair and weed. We would see each other day in, day out. Tight like elastic. We had these voices we would speak to each other in, the tone of which landed somewhere between hillbilly and old jazz musician. Used to call me her lil’ lady.

Everyday spent giggling through classes. Inseparable, bar the days, sometimes weeks, she would skip school and disappear. Phone shut down. Probably off with boys. Bunking off in estates round South London. She did what she wanted. And sometimes that would collide with peoples feelings. But she always came back. Broad smile and an embrace, warm like summer nights.

When we were 16 we caught a bus all the way to a festival in Serbia - a 48-hour trip one-way - just because she was scared of flying. Sure, we made light of it, and by then end of the journey the aisle was filled with singing Serbian passing round home-made booze, but it’s hard to say how many other people I’d make that journey for.

At 17 we worked weekends together in Portobello. Hanging outside the shop, befriending local rastamen and shopkeepers. Mouthing the lyrics to Etta James’ ‘I Just Want To Make Love To You’ every time a cute boy passed.

At 18 we moved into our first flat together. The sheer excitement. So much enthusiasm we looked the other way from the piercing lime green hallway, damp-ridden bathroom and rattling windows. It was ours though. And it felt like a palace.

Lying in my room we would trace the shadows on the walls with our fingers. Watching them as they crept in the night, dancing across the ceiling. We slept in the same bed when we felt lonely.

She let me glue her weave in one night. She dyed my hair for me for the first, and last, time. We planned to move to Florida when we were older. Move to a retirement community and grow old together.

At 19 she met me outside the abortion clinic with extra large panty liners, a twix bar and face full of understanding. So many formative years spent together.

And then one day she stopped coming home. I guessed she was with a boy. Months passed and there were bills to pay. Phone calls were a road to nowhere. Her answering habits, far from considerate. I tracked her down at work, eventually. A new job she’d only been at for a month. She talked. I cried. A sea of emotion boiled down to a few words.

‘It’s just not working out. I couldn’t afford it anymore. I was afraid to tell you.’

‘But you can’t just run away.’

The next time I saw her she came to box up her stuff and move out. Although I know she tried to do most of this whilst I wasn’t there. Pain was thick in the air and it made the whole flat feel stuffy.

‘I guess I thought we would be friends forever.’

‘Stop being silly. Of course we will. I just won’t see you every day.’

There hadn’t been an argument. No cruel words. No rage-filled riots. Still, to this day, I wonder why she left. I worried I would never find someone to laugh like that with.

And that was the last time I saw her. For years after I would just try to ring her phone number, out of the blue, in case she would pick it up. I thought about getting older, and hiring a private detective to track her down.

If I think about it too much I spiral. Dizzying myself with innumerable questions I will never have the answers to. But it brings a smile to my face to think of her living life. I wonder if she is still painting? I hope she is. I hope she feels loved and appreciated. I hope her mother is healthy.

I hope she thinks of me, sometimes, when she watches the shadows dance on her bedroom walls at night, and I hope she smiles, like I do.