Oswin's Project

by Fiona Law

  Griswold seemed so happy and relaxed that Gemma deduced he’d had a couple of Guinness’ with Bruce.

  “Beryl’s not back yet,” she replied.

  “Not?”

  “No. I suppose she’ll be back any minute. I’ll pass your message on to her.”

  Gemma relayed the conversation to Oswin in his room as he jotted concluding notes on his handheld gadget down. She did a double pirouette when, glancing over his shoulder, she saw that he referred to the gizmo officially as a Ghost-O-Meter. As she was following her victory gesture through with a series of hand movements, she heard something on the landing—floor boards creaking.

  “Ah! That must be Beryl now,” she said and went to give her Griswold’s message.

  Oswin followed her out, running downstairs to take a general, neutral reading of the house with his new Ghost-O-Meter. He started in the front room and worked his way efficiently through to the back and the landing.

  Gemma met him at the bottom of the stairs. “Beryl isn’t in her room after all, nor in the bathroom or the loo. Is she down here?”

  Oswin shook his head.

  “I must have imagined hearing her.”

  “Or it was the pipes, or something,” Oswin said absently, his eyes on the meter readings. “Yeah, get the book and enter that all readings were normal at this time. We’ll begin our watch again,” he continued as they started up the stairs. “The meter’s working fine.”

  He pointed the Ghost-O-Meter at the landing, as though shooting aimlessly. The sound display, adapted from the original toy gun’s effects, puttered weakly and the lights along the side flashed briefly. There was a slight pause.

  “Hang on, what’s this?” he breathed. “The readings are higher here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Oswin immediately took the Ghost-O-Meter up to his room and examined it carefully. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I suppose, before giving this new Ghost-O-Meter up as a flop, we should take readings on the landing at ten-minute intervals for an hour or so. That’ll show if it’s working or not.”

  And six readings later, when Gemma showed him the recordings, their efforts were rewarded.

  “They’re coming down steadily,” said Oswin, looking in the ghost diary. “But we’ve got no sighting to go with it.”

  “Unless you count my hearing someone on the landing,” Gemma said, chewing the top of her pencil.

  “Yes, of course! We thought that was Beryl coming in. Most ghostly activities are unexplained noises. People just write them off as imagined, or the creaking of an old building, or…”

  “Or the pipes?”

  “Exactly!”

  Just then the phone rang again and Gemma scrambled to answer it. This time it was Beryl.

  “Gemma, thank Gawd!” gushed Beryl. Her voice was thicker, slower than usual. It unnerved Gemma. “I’m in a terrible scrape! I need you to come and get me.” She spluttered or coughed, as though fighting back tears.

  “Where are you? What is it?” Gemma asked frantically. She’d never heard her sound quite like this before.

  “I was tricked! I’m down at the Green Barrow.” Beryl’s reply was followed quickly by another spluttering sound.

  “Down at the pub!” Gemma gasped, “Whatever are you doing there?”

  “I told you, I was tricked.”

  Gemma could hear someone talking in the background; it sounded like a man’s voice.

  Beryl continued, “So, it’s like, my legs won’t move—from whatever. I can’t walk. I’m paralysed…” Another splutter “…I think I’ve been spiked—poisoned….Think I’ve been set up…Meeting him...Nnnngh! My face is going numb!” More mutterings in the background. Gemma fancied they sounded aggressive. “…Quickly—get Father to fetch me!”

  “Right,” Gemma said, her heart pounding. “Dad’s not here…” She was going to suggest ringing the police but Beryl gave another strange spluttering noise and the phone went dead.

  Gemma stared around wildly for a moment then she hurried into Oswin’s room, her feet tapping, hands fluttering as she relayed the conversation to him.

  “The Green Barrow?” he said. That was the local pub. “Are you sure she’s not drunk?”

  “I…dunno,” Gemma faulted and twirled a strand of her hair. She was sure that Beryl had been kidnapped. “I just got the impression that Beryl was in some sort of trouble…”

  “She will be if your father finds out,” Oswin quipped. “Come on, we’d better get her home before he gets back, or there’ll be hell to pay and you’ll both be grounded forever.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened, “I hope not! The party—the fancy dress party!”

  The Green Barrow was easy walking distance from the house and, hurrying along, they were there within ten minutes. Gemma rushed in, then hung back in the doorway, looking in at the unfamiliar room. It was dark, full of alcoves and corners, and furnished with wooden tables and chairs and a few claret upholstered armchairs. Little groups sat hunched over their beer glasses or leaned, propping up the high bar. Behind an arched division was a snooker table with a huddle of men glaring her way and menacingly rubbing their cue sticks as though sharpening them for a skirmish. A figure near the pool table, apparently asleep, draped itself like a dirty pile of laundry over a grubby armchair and across a little round table. The low ceiling with all its old-fashioned knick-knacks hanging on the wall made the scene seem dingier than ever. The air was rank with stale spills of beer and wine. There were the sounds of coughs and wheezes and the rumble of men’s conversation. Gemma felt distinctly unwelcome. It seemed the deep hum of conversation paused while everyone and everything in the pub eyed the children out with suspicion.

  “We…er…um…” Gemma spluttered, fidgeting—her feet tracing out quick little ballet steps.

  “We’ve come to fetch her. Beryl MacPherson,” Oswin said loudly. But his voice was thinner than usual.

  “Oh, her,” growled a voice. The children gradually made out the figure of a balding man behind the counter. “I’ve been trying to get her out for the last hour or so. Won’t budge. Says she’s paralysed. She’s drunk, of course. Ran up quite a tab. Luckily I know her father. I hope he sent you with the money for it?”

  “We haven’t any money!” Gemma said. “Dad’s not home.”

  “No, that’s right, we don’t have any money,” Oswin said.

  “What?” demanded the barman, towering behind the bar.

  Oswin swallowed hard before adding, “And I don’t know if you’re legally permitted to sell her alcohol. She’s not quite eighteen.”

  “What?” roared the barman, his eyes beginning to bulge. “She said she was almost thirty!” The pub fell silent.

  The laundry heap at the little round table stirred and raised its head. “Aah ham seventeen going hon thirty!” it slurred.

  Gemma and Oswin exchanged glances. It was Beryl.

  “You bloody kids and your fake I.D.’s ! I’ll have...”

  Beryl talked over the barman loudly, gesturing widely with a drink in her hand, its contents sloshing out as she did so. Her booming voice cut through the pub, making the regulars hunch over their glasses, irritated scowls on their faces.

  “This is mah baby sister ah was telling you about. Isn’t she—hic—sweet? But she’s the reason ah’m so awful with those man and woman games. Don’t understand them see? ’Cos when—hic—other kids were honing their social skills ah was excluded from all that. Had to bring her up, see? Ah had no choice. Mother-God-rest-her-soul died of cancer of the lymph glands and Father-poor-soul is totally absent. He works all the time to avoid the sadness of having—hic—lost Mother, may-she-rest-in-eternal…”

  “Beryl!” Gemma squeaked. “Beryl, stop it! How could you? Oh, Oswin help!”

  Gemma cursed her own stupi
dity: All that thick-voiced slurring on the phone—how could she not have realized that Beryl was drunk? And those little spluttery gasps Beryl had made were just drunken hiccups, not sobs! What a fool she was—why hadn’t she caught on straight away?

  Beryl, meanwhile, stared blearily at her and blinked with an expression of innocent defensiveness. “What? Ah’m only telling the truth. You know me—tell it like it is Beryl …”

  “Yeah, in the loudest, longest possible way,” Oswin mumbled. He strode over to her side. “Come on, Coz, we’re taking you home.” He took hold of one limp arm. “Here Gem, take the other arm.”

  Gemma scurried round with small agitated steps, to grasp Beryl’s free arm. But she swiped at Oswin.

  “As for him—the great genius won—hic—der boy…”

  “Beryl, please!” Gemma cried, her cheeks flushing.

  “Ow ma ears. Don’t scream in ma ears! You hurt ma ears,” Beryl slurred then sank into drunken oblivion.

  The other pub guests gave a cheer,

  “You kids shouldn’t be in here,” the barman said, advancing on them.

  “And neither should she,” Gemma snapped. “She’s only seventeen, that’s too young, isn’t it?”

  The barman stopped in his stride and scowled. “Not according to her I.D.”

  “She told me her drink was spiked,” Gemma said tearfully.

  “Which one?” he scoffed. “She’s had at least seven. That bloke she was with bought the first two. Then he got sick of her prattling on about all her woes and wondered off. No one spiked her drinks. She’s just gotten herself blind drunk in next to no time.”

  “Quick, get her out,” his wife added, coming in from the kitchen. She was a tall, thin woman, with hair piled in a great heap on top of her head.

  “Yeah,” chipped in a regular. “Quick before she wakes up!”

  It was obvious that Beryl was far too heavy and awkward a shape for the two kids to lug all the way home. And none of the adults really wanted to get that involved.

  “Put her in the wheelbarrow,” someone suggested. There was a huge green, wooden wheelbarrow, filled with potted flowers, in the front courtyard.

  “Quick before she wakes up!” repeated one of the snooker players, dropping his cue and hoisting Beryl over his shoulders.

  “Don’t be daft!” the publican said. “That’s for ornamental purposes, I doubt its wheel even turns.”

  The snooker player grunted breathlessly, weaving under Beryl’s weight as he made unsteadily for the front door.

  “Wait!” the publican’s wife cried. “There’s a real barrow out back!”

  Beryl was in that barrow with Gemma and Oswin pushing her down the street in less time than it takes a Guinness to settle. Her legs and one arm were draped over the sides and her head bobbled about with the gentle motion of her transportation. One of the regulars had thoughtfully put a long stemmed rose between her teeth.

  The journey went well and when Beryl woke, three quarters of the way home, she plucked the rose from her teeth, looked at it lovingly and began to sing a power ballad in a warbling voice, slightly off-key. She was noisy, but at least she didn’t fight or struggle. All was going well, considering.

  However, as they rounded the corner and turned into the little gate of their house, Gemma gasped. Griswold was on the porch, unlocking the front door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Griswold, in the act of pushing the door open, froze. “What the…?” His face paled to a sickly grey as he stared at the scene before him.

  “…if I had known for just a second you’d be back to bother me. Go on now—hic—go! Walk out the door. Jus’ turn around ‘cos you’re not welcome…” Beryl warbled, punctuating the lines by stabbing the rose in the air.

  Oswin and Gemma, having pushed the wheelbarrow as far as the door, stopped and silently, gently let it down and stepped back. Griswold, eyes wide and staring, moved to it, slowly leaned down until his nose was almost touching Beryl’s.

  “You’re drunk!” he snapped.

  She blinked at him hazily.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Beryl said, “Father! I have an announcement to make. I think I’m over him now. It’s been tough. But I think I’ll survive without his love. Yes, I will survive, just as long as I…”

  As she slipped into her song once more, the curtains down the street fluttered into action as faces peeked out.

  “Oh, for crying out loud! Let’s get her upstairs to bed,” Griswold said. He was barely audible above Beryl’s singing as he hoisted her up out of the wheelbarrow. “You two haven’t been drinking have you? Let me smell your breath.”

  There was an ominous hush as Beryl went quiet for a moment.

  “Oh no! Oh no! I’m going to be sick! To the loo! To the loo!” she boomed to all the neighbors, before leaping free of Griswold, running through the door and bounding up the stairs two at a time, with the eerie speed and purpose of a dolphin torpedoing through the water, leaving the rest staring agog at her disappearing bulk.

  She was lavishly sick for ten whole minutes, during which time she called repeatedly for her back to be patted. Then, demanding an escort to literally hold her hand, although she was on all fours, she took a further ten minutes to crawl, groaning, across the landing to her room. There she insisted on being hoisted into bed, and on having Gemma mop her face with a damp cloth until she fell asleep.

  * * * *

  The next morning Griswold replaced the curtain rails in Beryl’s room, as she groaned and tossed in her bed. She called for Gemma to mop her brow again.

  Gemma sat with the cloth limp in her lap, her mobile phone in her hands, staring open mouthed at the foot of Beryl’s bed. Her heart pounded so fast she should be running, but she knew her legs were too jellied up with fear to carry her and her stomach was a churning pit of terror. For there at the foot of Beryl’s bed was the ghost.

  The ghost stood in her housecoat and her scarf with curlers on her head. Her arms were folded in front of her, and she unfolded them regularly to bring a cigarette to her lips. All the while staring at Beryl. She wore a readable expression today—a mixture of contempt and disgust. But there was more. In the smoke meandering lazily from her cigarette, were two little shapes. As light and gaseous as the smoke themselves, they writhed and twisted in a playful dance in the illusive substance.

  Griswold was plainly unaware of the visitors and busy muttering to himself about Beryl’s shameful lapse into drunkenness. Beryl, of course, was also insensitive to the ghosts. She took Gemma’s hand and whispered feebly, “Gemma tell me…ooh, my head!—it hurts so…to speak, but I must ask…it didn’t happen…just an awful nightmare…my Coast sweater in the toilet…it was just a dream, wasn’t it?” There was a pause as Gemma gazed wide-eyed at the foot of the bed. Beryl mustered all her strength. “Wasn’t it? Ooh, my head!”

  “Yes Beryl,” Gemma mumbled in flat, dead tones and without turning to face Beryl. “It was all just a horrible dream.”

  Her fingers had been so unsteady, her text had come out badly, but Oswin had read it and understood at once.

  “Ghost Bs rm now.”

  He snatched up the Ghost-O-Meter and skidded across the hall. There he saw where Gemma, eyes like saucers and deathly pale, stared transfixed at the foot of Beryl’s bed. Her stupid family had not the slightest inkling that Gemma was in a state of absolute terror. Oswin’s detector sprang into life before he had aimed it properly at the foot of the bed.

  Its LCD indicator lights flashed and it clicked and whistled gaily and loudly.

  “Wwheeeee…click…click…pop…wwwwheeeeeeeeeeeuuuuu…” went the ghost detector.

  Oswin’s grinned wide. It was working perfectly. The atmosphere at the foot of Beryl’s bed was indeed highly charged. And the room was cold. Whatever it was that Gemma was seeing—for Oswin could
see nothing—was there in a field of highly active particles at least. And it was a biggie.

  At the noise of the detector, Beryl let out a long, shivering moan and pulled the quilt over her head. “Noooooo!”

  Griswold, who was standing on a chair by the window, spun around. He wobbled dangerously on his platform.

  “Oi! Quit it!” he snarled, but in his heart of hearts he thought it was good to see his nephew sporting a toy gun—a real boy’s toy. What a refreshing change from all that swatting and tinkering with test tubes!

  Besides, it was just desserts for Beryl to have her hangover worsened by that awful racket! He smiled. Griswold’s smiles consisted of a quick flash of teeth behind his bristling moustache; they were easily missed as they faded instantly.

  “Bloody kids!” he muttered, turning back to his work.

  Gemma blinked, shivered and rubbed her face. Then she turned to Oswin. “It’s gone,” she mouthed. “Did you see it?”

  Oswin shook his head. He took another reading instantly—Griswold wobbled, Beryl moaned—and it was ever so slightly lower. Almost too good to be true!

  Oswin came in every ten minutes for an hour and took readings. The audio indicator grew quieter with each reading and the lights display, fainter and briefer. But Beryl’s protesting wails did not.

  “Aw, now look, boy,” Griswold said at last. “You’ve run the battery down already!”

  Oswin looked at him for a moment before saying, “Er…yeah, well, at least it’s not so loud now.”

  Gemma took a page and a half to describe the sighting in her diary and dutifully recorded the readings.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Gemma, but I’ll be handing in your ghost diary to my teacher as part of the project. You’re like a subject in my project.”