Oswin's Project

by Fiona Law

  Griswold blinked, glanced around then, staring upwards, declared, “I never touched him!” But Beryl’s face had gone from the window. She was thundering down the stairs.

  Ronnie, sensing his attacker’s distraction, gathered what strength he could muster and zigzagged out of the front garden, down the street to the bus stop, praying every stumbling step of the way that a bus would be there.

  Griswold let him go and rounded on his eldest daughter as she charged out of the front door, one arm outstretched and the other clutched at her breast. She would have followed Ronnie, but Griswold jumped in front of her, barring her way.

  “I want to know what’s been going on here!” he snarled. “I come home a little early and I find everyone drunk as lords and some Casanova leaping from the windows. It’s a wonder you’ve all got your clothes on!”

  “Father!”

  Griswold looked about. Net curtains were twitching all down the street. “Get into the house!”

  “No!” roared Beryl with melodramatic gusto. “I want the world to know, it’s not true…”

  Griswold bundled her clumsily through the door. It was a difficult task, and took a good few moments of embarrassing struggle, because apart from Beryl’s large size, she kept trying to wedge her arms and legs in the doorway to prevent him from pushing her through. Oswin was called down to help pry her limbs off the door frame, one at a time, and shove them to her side. It was a bit like trying to pin down a flailing octopus. Eventually, she succumbed, and popped through the doorway like a fleshy cork, with Griswold falling indoors after her.

  He slammed the door shut and leaned on it, panting, unaware that Oswin was tapping timidly from outside, asking to be let in. Beryl collapsed on her hands and knees, wailing and shaking her head despairingly.

  Griswold goggled at her. “What has gotten into you?”

  “I…I…love him!” Sobbing miserably, she sat up on her haunches. “But he doesn’t know. He only came here to help me study. Then he suddenly wanted to go…” She paused to wail pitifully for a moment. “But the door wouldn’t open. He thought it was locked and…he thought I had locked him in. But I didn’t, Father, I didn’t!”

  “You lured a man into your room under false pretences of studying so that you could lock him in and have your way with him?” Griswold spluttered.

  “No! Father, how could you? Look at me!” She did look a sight, with red eyes, smudged mascara and dishevelled hair. “Look at me! Would I ever do such a terrible thing?”

  Now that the question was put to him, Griswold had to admit. No. That was too farfetched to be true.

  “I think he’d been drinking before he arrived,” covered Beryl, quickly regaining some of her posture and even finding the strength to stand up—unsteadily of course. “Yes, that’s it! I think he’d had a few, which is shocking really when he’s been invited to a study session, to have been consuming alcohol. But nevertheless, he had been drinking, which is why he overreacted when the door wouldn’t open. Yes, that’s it! He thought he was locked in and panicked. Oh, and he broke the curtain rail jumping out.”

  “Why didn’t you study in the dining room?” asked Griswold, after a moment’s digestion.

  “I…er…It’s a bit cold in that room, actually. Besides, I’m so used to studying in my room…”

  “Well, next time, hold your study parties in the dining room!”

  Having found a point where he could draw the matter to an official close and recuperate in peace, Griswold started forward to go to the front room and pour himself a large whisky.

  Beryl pushed passed Gemma, who was sitting on the bottom of the stairs, and ran up to her room. Like Oswin, Gemma had gone unnoticed throughout this interview. She was scribbling something in her ghost diary.

  “Time: 5:03 p.m. Date: 10th October. Incident: Beryl’s bedroom door locked/jammed. She did not lock it. I was not leaning on it. The door mysteriously unlocked/jammed moments later, when she opened it. She did not pause to unlock it and had no trouble in opening it.

  Explanation: It may have been jammed but there has never been trouble like that with her door before. She would have made a fuss if she had a sticky door.”

  Having finished her logging, Gemma got up and opened the front door to let in Oswin—who had given up knocking and was standing patiently on the doorstep with his arms folded.

  “What a bleeding pantomime!” he growled and stomped past her up to his room.

  Gemma hovered at the bottom of the stairs. The fancy dress party was only four weeks away and she still hadn’t had an official yes from Griswold. She had been planning to ask him afresh if she could go. This was not a good time but her impatience kept her in the hall. She found herself practising her latest dance routine, in little understated steps, counting with her breathing. “One…two…three…four….up…two…over…d-r-a-g…two…”

  Someone brushed passed her. Absorbed in her routine, she glanced over her shoulder as she continued. Nothing. A rush of gooseflesh sent her skin crawling, as she knew instantly, certainly, that the ghost had rushed passed her. The contact, the rustle had been real. She knew, by the direction of the movement, the culprit had gone to the front room. As she looked up she should have seen whoever it was turning into the front room. But there was no one. Nothing. Just cold, icy stillness.

  With a stifled cry, Gemma bounded up the stairs. Oswin was putting the final touches to the Ghost-O-Meter when she plunged into his room, her heart still thudding wildly.

  “Oswin, I’ve just felt it. The ghost. On the stairs!”

  He looked up from his work, screwdriver in hand, “Darn!” he breathed. He looked at the Ghost-O-Meter and back at her, shrugged apologetically, “Sorry Gem! It’s not screwed together yet. Record the sighting in the book and mark it as unread,” he said, driving little screws into their holes. “I’ll measure the area as soon as I get this done. Shouldn’t lose too much time. Was it the housewife as usual?”

  “I don’t know. I felt it go passed but didn’t see anything,” said Gemma,

  “Ah!” Oswin paused to look up again. “A kinesthetic encounter.”

  “I know what I felt. I’d just had Beryl and then you brush past me, and then this third…I was even thinking, funny how things happen in threes, and I looked up to see who it was. But there was no one.”

  “I believe you,” said Oswin enthusiastically. “It even makes the haunting idea more plausible. The sort of encounter you’ve just experienced is the more common sort. Most people feel and hear things, rather than see them.”

  Gemma blinked. “Oh, right,” she mumbled and opened her ghost diary.

  Chapter Nine

  Beryl went into a deep and official fit of depression over Ronnie. She stayed shut up in her room, which was the nice part of her mourning. Then, after three days, when no one but Gemma came in—and that was only to give her meals on a tray—she ventured out. She sniffed and wiped her eyes in front of everyone. Griswold had prepared a shabby lunch for the family and they picked at it in silence. Silence apart, that is, from Beryl’s occasional sniff followed by watery sighs.

  At last Griswold groaned and rolled his eyes. “Aw, you’re not still crying over that boy, are you?”

  “Yes I am, not that you care!” Beryl said, welling up again. She dropped her fork with a clatter and pushed a paper napkin to her face.

  “You’ll get over him in time. It’s no use chasing a bloke down, Beryl,” advised Griswold, patting her uncomfortably on her shoulder. “They don’t like it. It scares them half to death. You set your heart on someone who likes you, pet, and you’ll get a better response.”

  Beryl gave an indignant chirp and glared at him over the serviette. “Ha! I did not chase him down. Never!” She sobbed enthusiastically, drenching the napkin. “Don’t you understand? I’ve given my heart to him. That’s it! There’s never going to
be another man in my life…”

  Oswin and Gemma caught each other’s eye. That was a mistake. Trying to quell their laughter they grinned, red faced, into their plates. One or two snorts erupted into the tense atmosphere and, luckily, went unchallenged.

  “It’s only been a couple of days,” said Griswold.

  “It’s been three days, and two hours and six minutes,” wailed Beryl. “You wouldn’t notice if I’d died!”

  “Now don’t talk like that, Beryl, not in front of the little ones! Besides, of course I’d notice. I need you back to your old self. No one can cook as well as you. The dinners have been dismal since you…”

  “You need me but you don’t care!” said Beryl, her eyes blazing, “or you wouldn’t have sent him away.”

  Griswold abandoned his meal, throwing his knife and fork down. “I didn’t send him away! He ran away. From you, no doubt.”

  Beryl gave a short cry of horror and clutched at her bosom, glaring at Griswold, her jaw dropped open in a gesture of shock.

  “Why else did he jump out of the window?” he said.

  “And you still haven’t been up to my room to fix my curtain rail!” Beryl said, deftly shifting the focus of their argument. “What kind of a father would let her daughter get dressed with the whole street able to watch?” She nodded, with arched brows at Gemma and Oswin, trying to evoke their support.

  Griswold put his head in his hands, “Alright, alright!”

  “I’m not cooking another meal for you, until you’ve mended my curtain rail!” Beryl said.

  She threw her fork down and stomped up the stairs, banging her bedroom door and leaving the rest of the family sitting around the table in a silent, tense trio.

  Within minutes, Griswold scraped his chair back and trudged up the stairs to examine the broken rail. Beryl languished on her bed, watching him from beneath her puffy, half-mast eyes.

  “And while you’re at it,” she said, “the toilet’s blocked or something.”

  “Hmm…?” he replied absently, with his hands on his hips, staring at the fittings. “I’m going to have to go to Wicks to get a part.”

  “Can’t I have a whole new rail? That one makes me think of him every time I look at it. Oh! And it hurts so much, Father!” Beryl broke into fresh weeping.

  “Mm…” Griswold’s focus remained on the rail, until at last he managed to tear himself from the task at hand. “There, there, pet, don’t cry!” He came over and patted her shoulder. “I’ll have to get a whole new rail, I think.”

  With a tap on the door, Gemma popped her head into the room. “Ah, Dad, while you’ve got your tool box out, the toilet isn’t flushing properly—could you have a look at it?”

  “Alright, alright! Cor Blimey! You kids treat me like I’m a landlord the minute I have my tools out.” Griswold grumbled, crossing the landing to look at the toilet.

  “Oh, and Beryl,” Gemma said, “there’s a man on the phone for you. He says he’s…”

  Beryl sprang from the bed and pushing Gemma out of the way, sprinted onto the landing in a single motion, bounding down the stairs to the hall.

  “What the hell have you kids been up to!” barked Griswold, from the W.C. “Beryl, Gemma, Oswin, come here now!”

  “Who’s done this?” he demanded, as Gemma and Oswin stepped into view. He reached into the cistern and pulled out a pink, sodden mass.

  Gemma gasped. “That’s Beryl’s sweater! Her Coast sweater. She’s been looking for it for ages!”

  “Well, who the blazers put it here?”

  Gemma and Oswin shrugged blankly. They looked at each other in bemusement then back at Griswold, holding the pink, dribbling bundle.

  “Come on, who’s the prankster?” he asked again, focusing on Oswin.

  “It wasn’t us!”

  “Well, it didn’t crawl in here by itself.”

  “It was not us!” Oswin repeated, his steel eyes glinting behind his spectacles. Griswold surveyed him narrowly. Oswin held his ground.

  “Daddy, this is insane,” said Gemma. “None of us would do such a crazy thing.” Then her eyes lit up, “Ah! I know! Daddy, don’t you see? This is ghostly activity…”

  “Don’t be daft!” Griswold cut her off. “You’d better see to this!” He plonked the dripping sweater into her arms with a squelch, “Beryl’s going to be…”

  “Be what?” asked Beryl, having appeared on the landing. Then she gasped—long and loud and very meaningful. Like the hiss of an emptying balloon. Gemma cringed in the following lull.

  “My Coast sweater! Who’s done this? Who’s put my sweater down the loo? It’s cashmere!” Beryl shrieked. She boxed Oswin’s ears and caught Gemma a blow over her head too. “Which one of you imps have….”

  “Beryl no!” yelled Griswold. “You are not to hit kids nowadays! You’re not to touch them. It’s all reasoning and punishment, remember? Rewards and consequences! Spite is your only weapon!”

  Beryl took a deep, noisy, breath. “Right!” she snapped. “This is the work of one of you two.”

  “Actually, I think we have a polter…” began Oswin.

  “And you two can restore it to its former glory, or buy me another one! It cost me over fifty quid.” Beryl turned to Griswold. “Fair enough?”

  He nodded.

  “It wasn’t us!” Gemma protested, bobbing nervously.

  “I,” Beryl continued haughtily, “am going out. I am meeting Ronnie’s mate. We’re going to chat about the other day. I am going to clear my name. And perhaps find some comfort at last into the bargain. I insisted we meet in a public place for various reasons, safety being one of them, so don’t try to stop me! I can look after myself, thank you, Father. Get out of my way, you two, I’ve got to wash my hair before I go out.”

  Beryl shoved Gemma and Oswin aside so hard they bumped their heads on the wall, as she stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door with a furious bang!

  “You heard her,” said Griswold after a pause. “Get that sweater sorted. I’m going to Wicks.”

  “But it wasn’t us,” Gemma said, as Griswold hurried down the stairs.

  “Come on Gem,” Oswin said. “No one’s listening. And this is definitely one you can put in your ghost diary!”

  Chapter Ten

  Oswin and Gemma carried the sweater downstairs, squeezed it out and washed it with a detergent for delicates. Gemma felt compelled to look over her shoulder a couple of times, but apart from the feeling of being watched, she had to admit there was no ghostly interference.

  To dry the sweater after its ordeal they wrapped it in an old towel and trod on it. They took turns at this and had a little fun with it, jumping and pretending to do a Russian dance.

  Then Gemma got the softest hairbrush she could find and brushed the sweater gently until it had a fine hairy sheen all around it.

  “I’ll just run the new Ghost Meter over that sweater before you put it in the airing cupboard,” Oswin said. “You never know. By the way, there must be some other ghost. That old housewife you describe doesn’t seem the sort to throw delicates in the toilet cistern.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Gemma smiled, enjoying brushing the sweater. It was like having a pet. “Do you think it’s a poltergeist? They move stuff around, don’t they?”

  Oswin ran his fingers through his hair. “Dunno,” he replied and left to fetch the Ghost-O-Meter. He hoped not, actually. From what he’d read, many cases of poltergeist activity involved a young girl in the throws of puberty. The suppressed sort, quiet and obedient on the outside, burning with rage on the inside. From what he’d read, these girls seemed to be linked with the eerie activity. They were often seen as targets of the ghost then later, as such cases unfolded, they were accused of instigating all the thumps and bumps and flying articles. Could this be a similar case? Could Gemma
really turn out to be a fraud? Oswin hated the thought.

  “I think the old housewife spook would be well pleased with my efforts,” Gemma said proudly when he returned with the ghost-0-meter. She was laying the sweater flat in the airing cupboard.

  “Hey, I wonder if Beryl didn’t chuck her sweater in the cistern as a way of getting you to wash it for her.”

  Gemma laughed. “Don’t be daft! This sweater is precious to her. She always has it dry-cleaned.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Oswin sighed. “I guess I was just grasping at straws.”

  “I wonder where she is, though. She’s taking ages to ‘clear her name’ with what’s-his-name.”

  “That’s our Beryl,” Oswin said dryly. He ran the Ghost-O-Meter over the pink, fluffy mass. “Nope, the sweater’s clear. But it’s soaked in cold water for Heaven knows how long and then been washed.” He turned the meter over in his hand, fiddling with a couple of dials. It was a bigger, smarter version than the last.

  “It looks just like a gun,” remarked Gemma. “Like a toy space gun.”

  Oswin grinned. “Exactly! That’s what I used as a basic frame. Griswold and Beryl will never guess—they’ll think I’m playing when, in fact, I’m taking readings.” He stroked the Ghost-O-Meter’s long barrel. It had LEDs running along the side.

  “It’s very professional,” Gemma said, pirouetting neatly to punctuate the compliment. “It looks like a good quality toy.”

  Oswin smiled proudly. It was well worth the great chunk he had spent out of his money to buy the parts.

  “When it detects something, these will light up.”

  The phone rang, loud and shrill, cutting through their conversation. Gemma ran to pick it up. It was Griswold on the other end of the line, and he told her that he’d bumped into another of their cousins—a grown up, recently married nephew who’s company he rather enjoyed.

  “I’m a bit delayed,” he told Gemma. “I’ve met our Bruce down at Wicks, believe it or not, and I’ve gone back to their house to help with mending their bathroom taps. It seems Sally got her big toe caught in the cold tap, and they had to break it in order to free her,” he chuckled. “So, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Put Beryl on, I want to tell her Bruce invited us round for Sunday lunch.”