‘Ah, there is no true quality to be had any more. If you could only have seen the pure-white perfect tails of the stallions of the Puszta.’
He went over to the little wood-burning stove that he had brought all the way from Prague in the boot of his car and poured out a coffee for himself from the ancient pot that was standing on it. He offered Daniel a ginger nut. Then the doorbell rang, and they heard the sound of letters being pushed through the letter box and landing on the hall floor.
‘Do you mind, Daniel?’
Daniel went out. He came back and handed over the post. Mr Jaros took it and sorted through the bundle.
‘It is so rarely interesting,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to have fun and sun in Ibiza, even if I should win the competition . . . but what have we here?’
He held up an official-looking envelope stamped with the town crest. ‘Have they raised the rates again?’
He reached for a knife from the workbench and slit open the envelope. He took out the letter and read. Then he took off his glasses and walked over to the window. He stood for a long time, gazing silently out.
‘Mr Jaros?’ said Daniel. There must be something serious in the letter.
Mr Jaros turned round. The lines on either side of his nose seemed deeper than ever, and his dark eyes stared at Daniel, seeming to look right through him. Then he recovered himself.
‘I think you should go home now, Daniel. That is enough for today.’
Then Daniel knew that something was very wrong. Mr Jaros had never told him to go home before.
Mrs Wilder looked down from the window of her big room on the first floor and saw her next-door neighbour Karin Hughes walking up the front path. The doorbell rang and then she heard Mrs Hughes in the hall.
‘Hello, Lottie, are you in?’
‘Of course I’m in, dear,’ called Mrs Wilder. ‘Come on up.’
‘Shall I make us some tea first?’ ‘Please.’
‘I won’t be a minute.’
Karin Hughes was rather more than a minute, and when she came up carrying the tea tray she was wearing a slight frown, which she often wore when she had been in Mrs Wilder’s kitchen.
It was many years now since Karin Lindblad, as she was then, had moved from her parents’ farm in Sweden to England. She had got quite used to people walking straight into their houses without taking their shoes off (she had had bad nightmares about that in the beginning, after seeing what was on the city pavements). And when she had recovered from the shock of seeing fitted carpets in the toilet, and huge open fires that sucked all the heat out of the cold damp houses and straight up the chimney, she had got to work teaching her husband, who was an understanding man and loved her a lot, some simple things that even an imbecile could do, like taking your shoes off in the hall and bottling raspberry juice. In the few minutes she had spent in Mrs Wilder’s kitchen she had dealt with most of the surfaces, sneaked some pots of home-made jam into the larder and done a bit of organizing. Karin Hughes had a deep respect for the mystery of writing, so she understood that Mrs Wilder was quite unlike ordinary people who saw things like mouse droppings where no mouse droppings should be.
‘We have had a strange letter,’ she said, putting down the tray and sitting down on the sofa. ‘David is away, and I thought I would ask you about it.’
Mrs Wilder got up from her seat at the window and came to sit beside Karin on the sofa.
‘One like this?’ she asked, holding out her own letter.
‘Yes, just the same. What is it all about?’
‘This, Karin,’ said Mrs Wilder quietly, ‘is a Compulsory Purchase Order. They are going to pull down our houses and build a motorway.’
‘But they can’t. Not just like that.’
‘They can, my dear. Oh yes, they can.’
‘But where will we go?’
‘They will give us money to go somewhere else. Compensation.’
‘Money? Money? They will take my garden, my kitchen, my home, my neighbours. How will money help my heart-sorrow?’ Sometimes when she was upset Mrs Hughes translated directly from her mother tongue, ‘They cannot do this.’
‘But they can, Karin,’ said Mrs Wilder for the second time. And then again, ‘They can.’
Eleven
The Shortener
‘Things have certainly perked up a bit,’ said Fredegonda.
Dawn was beginning to bathe the crag behind Mountwood in a rosy glow, and the Great Hagges were thinking about bed after a hard night’s work. The students had dematerialized some time ago, but the Hagges had as usual stayed up to discuss the night’s efforts.
‘I’m very pleased to see that the Peabody couple have pulled their socks up,’ Fredegonda went on.
It was true. Since the return of Percy to the bosom of his family all the ghosts had applied themselves to their work, but none more than Ron and Iphigenia, who clearly felt that they had some catching up to do. Only last night Ron had managed to materialize his lidless eyeballs all on their own, and made them revolve in different directions, so that you could see the muscles working. It really would have been terrifying if anybody in Mountwood, Hagge or ghost, had been able to be terrified. And Iphigenia had shown such skill in the voice-and-movement class that the Hagges were seriously considering using her as an assistant teacher for some of the serious remedial cases, such as Vera the Banshee, or the Druid.
‘Though that tree-sprite’s behaviour is really not acceptable,’ said Goneril. ‘I saw that you took her aside and had a word.’
‘I most certainly did,’ said Fredegonda. ‘I think we will see some changes tomorrow.’
‘You were being a bit unfair, you know,’ said Drusilla. ‘Some blame attaches to the Phantom Welder, you must admit.’
They were talking about an incident earlier that night, when the Druid had been asked to appear with his own heart pierced by a golden sickle and dripping blood. He had been extremely nervous about doing this in front of the whole class, and had released such a noisome stench that two bats that had been hanging from the roof beams fell stone dead into Drusilla’s lap, and the kitten that Percy had found in the byre and was playing with in a corner lurched drunkenly across the room and toppled into the well, where it disturbed Angus Crawe with its yowling and had to be rescued with some difficulty.
As the revolting fumes had spread around the room, the Phantom Welder had whispered into the sprite’s ear, ‘Oops, been at the beans again,’ and the silly thing had got one of those unstoppable fits of the giggles, which had reduced the Druid to tears. At least they thought that’s what had happened. He certainly vanished and wild sobbing was heard.
‘Perhaps I was a bit harsh,’ said Fredegonda. ‘The welder is terribly uncouth. But I fear that sprite encourages him.’
‘Well, let’s turn in,’ said Goneril. ‘Tomorrow is another night. And rather a special one. It’s the dark of the moon, of course, and we have to start thinking about their individual projects, now that the basics are in place.’
‘I’ve made us a hot drink,’ said Drusilla. ‘It’s in the thermos on the bedside table.’
‘My goodness, you do spoil us, Drusilla,’ said Fredegonda, as they made their way to the bedroom.
‘Not at all, you deserve it. And I simply had to use that gall bladder, you know. Waste not want not, as they say.’
The Great Hagges got ready for bed. Goneril took the most time about it, because she was a bit worried about the state of her knees. In her youth she had been very proud of them, with their scabby lumps and hairy moles, but recently she had thought they were looking rather smooth. Not quite like human knees, of course, but getting there. Drusilla had produced an ointment that she had made herself (‘But don’t ask what’s in it, dear, it’s an absolute secret’), and now Goneril applied it thoroughly.
‘Oh, do hurry up,’ said Fredegonda, who was already in her nightie. She swallowed the last of her drink and climbed into bed, followed by Drusilla. At last Goneril too was ready, and she joined them in t
he huge four-poster they shared. It had been there when they moved into Mountwood, but although built to take the weight of overfed clan chieftains and their companions, it had collapsed instantly when Goneril sat on it to try it out. However, a bit of work with some old oak beams had soon sorted that out. It wasn’t very comfortable, but Great Hagges snort at comfort. In a surprisingly short time the massive structure was trembling and shaking with the huge snores of its occupants.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle, the Shortener was having trouble achieving the peaceful state of almost non-existence that is the spectral version of sleep.
As the daylight grew stronger and the sun threatened to appear over the horizon, he tossed and turned, now invisible, now vaguely discernible, and simply could not find peace. He was doing fairly well on the course, he thought, but he couldn’t shake off the horrible experience that had brought him there in the first place. It had shamed him; it was as simple as that.
His mind turned to the deserted chapel on its windswept promontory that was his home. Ghosts don’t usually haunt churches or chapels or other places of worship, because the clergymen who are in charge of them are very particular about which other-worldly beings they are prepared to associate with, and they have quite effective methods – bells, books and candles to name but a few – of dealing with the ones they don’t approve of. But no priest of any denomination had set foot in this chapel for years. In fact the place had been abandoned when the Shortener was still alive.
He remembered happy days working in his little funeral parlour among the coffins and corpses. He had always been a thrifty man, and had never understood why there was such a fuss about some simple adjustments that saved everybody time and expense. The removal of feet, or indeed sawing through shin bones in the case of particularly tall cadavers, meant much shorter coffins, and that was a saving of several pounds. The simple people of his village should have been grateful to him. But they weren’t. The Shortener sighed. Instead, when they found his little cupboard with the extra parts in it, they had simply thrown him over the cliff without a second thought.
But that wasn’t what caused him such pain; he had returned to haunt the chapel happily for many years. Then, only a month or two ago, a gang of teenagers had broken through one of the boarded-up windows and started malarkeying about among the pews. The girls had very short skirts and lots of make-up. The boys had baseball caps (although they never played baseball) and basketball shoes (although they never played basketball) and ripped jeans, although they weren’t very poor and had hard-working parents, as far as he knew. The Shortener had seen his chance to give them a real fright, and waited patiently for a moment of silence, so that he could eerily appear and smile the little smile he had been practising. At last the moment came. But just as he was materializing behind the dusty altar, one of the boys said, ‘Hey, check this out,’ and they all rushed round to peer at something that glowed faintly bluish in his hand.
‘Eeuu . . . that’s disgusting!’
‘Shift over and let me see . . .’
‘That is unreal . . .’
They used a lot of other words that the Shortener had never heard in chapel before, and he knew that his moment had passed. When the youths started climbing out of the window he tried a little cackle, just to send them on their way.
‘Oh, shut it,’ said one of the boys.
‘Shut it yourself,’ said the girl who was climbing out behind him. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Yeah, right,’ came the reply, and they chattered and tittered off into the night.
The Shortener had been badly shaken by his experience and immediately signed up for Mountwood, but he simply couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he was useless, washed-up, and would never be a ghost for the modern age.
At that moment there was a quiet tapping on the wall of his little room, and one of the sprites floated through. It was almost light and she was barely visible, but sprites are not really ghosts, and dawn and dusk present no serious problems for them.
‘Hello there. Are you still up?’
‘Er, yes, I am. Do come in’
‘I was just wondering if you would do me a favour and partner me tomorrow in Miss Goneril’s class. I want to do my best, you know, after what happened.’ She shuddered slightly as she recalled her interview with Fredegonda.
‘And you are such a fantastic materializer,’ she added. ‘So solid, I mean; you’re almost real sometimes.’
‘Oh well, thank you. But it’s a gift, you know. No credit to me, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s silly; of course it’s a credit to you. Will you help me?’
‘What about the Phantom Welder? You seem to be great pals. Wouldn’t he be a better choice?’
‘I knew you would say that. But it’s not like you think. He feels that he doesn’t fit in, and tries to cover it up with his silly jokes. But I must do some serious work tomorrow; I’m not just an empty-headed blonde, even though I am empty.’
She was a forest spirit of Scandinavian descent, and when she turned her back you could see that she was completely hollow.
The Shortener regretted his snide remark about the Welder at once. ‘I’ll be happy to help, if you think I can be of use.’
‘Oh yes, of course you can. You are so . . . steady. Thank you. Until tomorrow night, then. We can meet up a bit earlier and rehearse.’ And the sprite vanished.
The Shortener felt much better. By the time the first rays of the sun escaped the fir-clad ridge and leaped into the valley, he was at peace.
Twelve
Saving Markham Street
Charlotte and Daniel walked up through the iron posts to the park and sat down under General Markham. Every house on Markham Street had received the same official letter. As usual there was a bit of a wind blowing, not your typical cold dry easterly that keeps the beautiful beaches of the north-east swept clean of people even at the height of summer, but a mild gusty breeze from the south-west.
‘Guess what,’ said Charlotte, looking out over the city to the river in the distance. ‘I’ve just realized for the first time why cranes are called cranes.’
‘Oh?’
‘Because they look like cranes.’
And Daniel saw that of course she was right. The huge skeletal cranes lining the river on the other side of town looked like great wading birds with big beaks about to pounce on some unsuspecting frog or minnow.
They were quiet for a long time. Then Charlotte said, ‘We can stop this, Daniel. You can appeal to an independent inspector – I looked it up last night. If we oppose it, then they have to have an inquiry. We must protest, start a campaign. Save Markham Street.’
‘It won’t work,’ said Daniel. ‘My dad says that there is going to be a shopping centre as well, and that means not only the council against us but also all the big businesses who want to sell stuff. They have billions of pounds, and hundreds of clever lawyers.’
‘But you always read in the papers about the little people fighting Big Business.’
‘Yes, but not about them winning.’
Charlotte got horribly angry, suddenly, and to her annoyance even started to cry. ‘So we just give up and go away, do we? You don’t care enough, do you? Being sorry for yourself isn’t the same thing as caring, you know. Caring is putting up a fight. Or maybe you don’t have to bother, maybe you’ve got it all planned already, a nice place to move to, some new friends. And Mrs Wilder and Mr Jaros and Mrs Hughes’s peonies can just lump it. Have you ever heard of Rosa Parks?’
Daniel shook his head.
‘Well, there’s a surprise.’ And Charlotte walked off. But before she was out of earshot she stopped and turned round, and as a sudden gust whipped her hair around her tear-streaked face she shouted, ‘Use your head, Daniel. What else is there to do?’
Daniel sat in misery for a while on General Markham’s pedestal. Charlotte was wrong about one thing. They didn’t have a nice place to move to.
As he wandered slowly home Daniel
thought about the conversation over breakfast that morning. His father had tried to be cheerful, but Daniel knew him well enough. The great big house they lived in had been bought years ago, when nobody wanted to live in that kind of place. Now it was worth much more money, but it was in an awful state, particularly the bathroom, and they had borrowed a lot of money from the bank that would have to be paid back. They would never find anywhere like it.
When he got home his mother and father were in the living room, having one of those conversations that stop when someone comes in.
‘Hello, Daniel, we were wondering where you had got to. Could you tell Aunt Joyce that supper is on the table?’
‘No.’
‘Daniel, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t easy for any of us, you know.’
Daniel said nothing, but turned and left the room, ran upstairs and threw himself down on his bed. They would have to move to some horrid place miles out of town, on a busy road, two bedrooms and a kitchen and a little living room where you couldn’t even talk to each other because of the noise of the traffic outside. He knew very well that he was acting spoiled. He knew that lots of people lived very happy lives in small houses that they thought themselves lucky to have. But they didn’t have Aunt Joyce. There would be a ‘granny flat’ built on top of the garage, and there she would be, forever – a plague, a pestilence, the Black Death – making all their lives a complete misery. And there would be no Charlotte to escape to, no General Markham, no Mr Jaros, no Swedish cinnamon buns, no Tompkins and no Jessie.
The next day the local paper carried a big headline on the front page: ‘JOBS FOR THE REGION.’
Charlotte sat at the kitchen table and read it aloud to her mother, who was making breakfast and dressing Jonathan and George and wiping the baby’s nose all at the same time.
‘The local chamber of commerce predicts that the new Markham Park Retail Centre will create at least five hundred new jobs,’ it began.
Then there was an interview with Jack Bluffit, Head of Planning, who talked a lot about regeneration, and getting things done, and bringing business to the city. The retail centre would have eco-friendly panels on the roof and there would be upmarket outlets. A chef who was famous from the television for using rude words and bullying people would open a restaurant.
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