Mountwood School for Ghosts

by Toby Ibbotson

  Ron started thinking about his son, Percy. He was a bit of a softy, it couldn’t be denied, and Ron wished Iphigenia would see that. There was nothing wrong with poetry – he himself was fond of a bit of noble verse. But all these birds and butterflies were sapping the lad’s willpower, and willpower was the most important thing of all. He should know. Once in his life he had lacked willpower, and look what had happened.

  Ron stared gloomily into the darkness of the courtyard and his thoughts turned yet again to that fateful week in his life. Oh, how he had worked! Honing his body to perfection, swimming for hours up and down the Thames, with the tide, against the tide, across the tide. At last he had been ready to go where no man had gone before. Nobody had ever swum the English Channel. They said it was impossible, but he, Ron Peabody, was going to do it. And then, that evening, the visit to the theatre, and the glorious vision on stage. Love at first sight. Love? No, adulation, worship.

  For three nights in a row he had simply gazed at the miracle that was Iphigenia, all else forgotten. And he had won her heart. A week later, that newspaper headline had screamed at him from every street corner, every paperboy yelling out the news: ‘Captain Webb swims the English Channel.’

  He had learned a grim lesson then. Willpower. He had found the love of his life but the price had been high indeed. If he had waited, controlled himself, he could have been famous forever. Instead he threw himself headlong into ecstasy, and missed the goal of his life. He had found some comfort in other goals; the Bristol Channel had never been swum, nor the Irish sea. But still . . . willpower, that was the thing.

  Ron pulled himself together, dismissing the past from his mind. It was time to return to class.

  ‘Now then,’ said Goneril, when the ghosts had drifted in after their break, ‘I want you all completely visible and attentive. Make a ring, please. Kylie, perhaps you should show us what you can do.’

  Kylie wasn’t the tree-sprite’s real name, or rather, she didn’t actually have a name, but the Welder had said she looked a bit like some pop star he had seen a picture of, and the name had stuck.

  ‘I’ve asked the Shortener to help me,’ she announced, as she floated into the centre of the ring of spectres. ‘He is going to play the human.’

  The Shortener stood up shyly, and taking off his bowler hat he made a little bow. Then he concentrated very hard, and gradually the faint wavery luminescence that is normal for a ghost faded, and he became so firm that no one who met him on the street would ever suspect that he was an apparition and not solid flesh.

  A wave of ghostly applause fluttered around the ring. And now the young sprite advanced towards him. She really was charming – beautiful big eyes, blonde hair that hung like a soft curtain around a heart-shaped face, a wide smiling mouth and even a little dimple in her left cheek.

  With an enchanting smile she held out her hands towards the Shortener, and in a low breathy voice she murmured, ‘Oh, you handsome stranger – please come to my arms. I need to be held. I long to be embraced.’

  The Phantom Welder muttered, ‘Blimey,’ but luckily for him he was on the other side of the ring from Goneril, who was completely focused on Kylie, studying her every move.

  Then the sprite stopped, as though overtaken by shyness, and lowered her head. Her hair tumbled forward like a golden veil, covering her features. The Shortener had rather lost his concentration. He was a very fine materializer but a very poor actor, and he just stood there.

  ‘Now!’ hissed the sprite, from underneath her hair.

  ‘Ooh, er, sorry,’ said the Shortener.

  Then he lifted his arms, spread them wide and advanced towards the Sprite. Everyone could see that he was a bit embarrassed, but they willed him to go on. He approached the magical figure before him, and when his arms were almost embracing her, she lifted her head and the curtain of hair fell back as she raised her face to his. It was covered in huge boils, some of which had burst, her nose was half eaten away by some rotting disease, her open lips were dry and cracked and between them her tongue could be seen, infested with yellowy green pustules.

  ‘Give us a kiss, then, sweetheart,’ she croaked.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ said the Shortener, as he had been told to. He wasn’t really horrified, that goes without saying, and he wasn’t any good at pretending to be horrified either, but he did his best, and the sprite’s performance was impressive.

  Aspontaneous round of applause broke out among the ghostly group, with a ‘Jolly well done!’ from Ron Peabody.

  The sprite’s boils disappeared in an instant, and with a satisfied smile she bobbed a little curtsy and joined the others.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ said Goneril, ‘you have obviously been putting your back into it . . . if you see what I mean,’ she added, remembering that the sprite didn’t have a back. ‘That was an excellent piece of work.’

  Fifteen

  Mrs Wilder Speaks Out

  The Public Inquiry into the Compulsory Purchase Orders for the Redevelopment of Markham Park and Environs was held in one of the county courtrooms close by City Hall. The room was fairly full. Some of the audience were just there out of curiosity, and there was a whole Year Eight class who were there as part of their Citizenship Studies course. Most of the residents of Markham Street had showed up, and a couple of reporters, and the front row was occupied by a lot of men in suits. In the middle of the row sat a man with his arms crossed and his stubby legs planted firmly on the floor. Daniel could only see the back of his head, his thick neck in a tight collar and his heavy shoulders.

  ‘That’s Jack Bluffit,’ said Peter Richards, when he saw where Daniel was looking.

  Next to Jack sat Frederick Snyder, with a briefcase beside his chair. His eyes slid about the room, taking in the audience, and he looked very pleased with himself.

  Lord Ridget entered, tall and thin and elegantly dressed in a well-tailored suit, and took his place at the front of the room facing the public. After him came the county clerk with a folder under his arm; he sat down in a chair slightly behind and to the side. Lord Ridget was wearing a pair of half-moon spectacles that his wife had told him made him look more intelligent. They didn’t help much. He had vague blue eyes that seemed about to pop out of his head, a long nose and almost no chin. None of this was his fault; these things happen in families where people marry their own relations over hundreds of years. He might have been a warm and thoughtful person in spite of it, but he wasn’t.

  He opened the inquiry by flapping his hand at the clerk, who stood up and read aloud for a very long time about the proposed motorway and shopping centre. Then, one after another, the suited men in the front row stood up and spoke about how important it was to make way for modernization, regeneration, urbanization and a lot of other –ations.

  The residents of Markham Street were sitting together in a row near the back. Daniel and Charlotte were next to Mrs Wilder. She had her best black coat on, and a pair of fur-lined boots. Her grey hair had been nicely done in a bun by Mrs Hughes. She looked very proper, not at all wispy and dressed-in-a-hurry as she sometimes did at home. She leaned forward with one hand on the handle of her stick and the other cupped behind her ear so as to catch what was said.

  For a while Lord Ridget tried to look as though he was listening intelligently to everything, but fairly soon he gave up; there is only so much you can do with a brain that gets very little exercise. Soon he leaned back in his chair, looking sheepish, and closed his eyes. He tried wrinkling his forehead, so that the audience would suppose he was thinking, but nobody was taken in. He was bored to death and half asleep already. When at last the suits had finished, the clerk leaned forward and coughed in his ear.

  ‘Eh? Oh yes.’ Lord Ridget sat up. ‘The objections will now be heard.’ He slumped back into his chair.

  Peter Richards stood up and made his way to the front. He was a fine violinist, and could have played in any orchestra in the country. But he had chosen to work in the city where he had been born and brough
t up. Now he made a moving speech about the beautiful old cityscape, its churches and chapels, its docklands, its terraced houses sweeping down to the river, so much a part of the northern industrial heritage.

  ‘This heritage must be preserved at all costs,’ he finished.

  The Markham residents clapped.

  As soon as he was done, the chunky figure of Jack Bluffit rose from the front row.

  ‘Now, my lord, I will make my report,’ he said, in his harsh no-nonsense voice. ‘This so-called heritage is on its last legs. The place is falling down and ripe for demolition. I have the surveyor’s report here.’

  Frederick Snyder had opened his briefcase. He handed Jack a folder already open at the right page. Jack looked down at it.

  ‘There is subsidence, the buildings’ foundations are unstable, the sewage system is a hundred and fifty years old, the road surface is shot to pieces and needs major maintenance,’ he said, stabbing his stubby finger at the paper as he spoke. ‘We have estimated the cost of bringing Markham Street up to a reasonable standard, and it runs to millions. A lot of millions,’ he added for good measure.

  Daniel and Charlotte looked at each other. Now they understood what that man with the pens in his pocket had been doing.

  Jack Bluffit wasn’t finished. ‘And that’s not all,’ he said, his voice rising in indignation. ‘I have discovered that in Markham Street some very shady business goes on, conducted in a private residence: unsanitary, unsafe, child labour being used. It should be stopped.’ Bluffit looked around feeling pleased with himself. With a bit of luck those reporters would pick up on the child-labour bit; that was always newsworthy.

  Mr Jaros, sitting next to Mrs Wilder and trying to follow the proceedings, thought, Who could that be? I’m the only person with a business on Markham Street.

  Then it struck him. In a rage he leaped out of his seat and started gesticulating and shouting things in Czech. This was actually a good thing, because if he had told Jack Bluffit in English what he was going to do to him (it included rope and rusty pitchforks) he would have been arrested.

  Lord Ridget looked very startled. Then he grabbed his gavel and started banging it madly on the bench in front of him. ‘Stop it, silence, be quiet! This is not a public house.’

  But Mr Jaros seemed unable to stop, until Mrs Wilder tugged at his sleeve and said gently, ‘Please, Fjodor, sit down.’

  With a great effort Mr Jaros got a hold on himself and dropped back into his chair, sinking into a miserable silence with his head in his hands.

  ‘That didn’t do us much good,’ whispered Daniel.

  ‘You can say that again,’ Charlotte replied.

  Now Jim Dawson stood up and moved to the front of the room. Daniel and Charlotte crossed their fingers. In a quiet voice he spoke of a centipede that little George had found under a waste bin in the park. It showed some interesting anomalies in the second and thirteenth segments.

  Lord Ridget appeared to be in a coma.

  Jack Bluffit turned in his chair and started signalling to someone sitting in the row behind him. A kind-looking gentleman with a moustache and a red waistcoat stood up.

  ‘Hello, Jim,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Professor Manley,’ Jim replied.

  ‘I am not here entirely voluntarily,’ said the professor, ‘but as you know I am among other things Scientific Advisor to the Department of the Environment, and I must fulfil the duties that this entails.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Jim. He liked and admired Professor Manley. Loved him really. They had spent many happy days on the moors together with their butterfly nets and collecting tins back when Jim had been a student.

  ‘Well then, I am aware that you are a resident of Markham Street, but now I speak to you as a fellow naturalist. Can you truthfully say, Jim, as a scientist and a man of honour, that the morphology of this centipede is of unique scientific interest?’

  Their eyes met. There was a silence that seemed to go on for a long time, though it was probably only a few seconds.

  ‘No,’ said Jim.

  The professor smiled in sad sympathy. Jim went back to his seat. Peter put an arm round his shoulders.

  Daniel looked at Charlotte again. ‘From bad to worse,’ he said.

  Now Bluffit was leaning forward in his seat, grimacing at Lord Ridget and making a chopping movement with his hand.

  Lord Ridget peered at him. ‘What? Oh.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That seems to bring things to a conclusion.’

  ‘Not quite.’ A calm and very distinct voice spoke out. It came from Mrs Wilder, who now got to her feet, leaning on her stick. ‘I have something to add.’

  Lord Ridget looked at Jack Bluffit, who had sunk back in his chair again. Bluffit shrugged his shoulders, as though to say, ‘What do I care? That old baggage can hardly make a difference.’

  Daniel was thinking, ‘Oh no, please, don’t let her be made to look a fool.’

  ‘In Markham Park,’ Mrs Wilder began, ‘right in the middle, is a statue of General Sir George Markham, who as I am sure we are all aware fought and died for his country in a foreign land. However, perhaps not everyone knows that the park, and the statue, and the streets around the park, are built on what was once Markham land. For General Markham was not only a soldier. He cared about the people of this city, and he bequeathed the land to them, to be enjoyed as a place of rest and recreation in perpetuity. Well, maybe I’m getting old, but I thought that “in perpetuity” meant “forever”. But apparently it means something else. It means “until Jack Bluffit wants something”.’

  At this the reporters, who had been looking very bored, sat up, grinned at each other and started scribbling in their notebooks.

  ‘Let’s see how Bluffit takes that,’ whispered one of them to his neighbour.

  Jack didn’t take it very well. His face turned a very dangerous-looking purplish red colour, as though he had swallowed a large dumpling that had only got halfway to his stomach before wedging itself tight.

  Mrs Wilder was just warming up. ‘Being interested in the arts,’ she said, ‘I am acquainted with a number of painters and sculptors, and I am assured on very good authority that a certain Mr Snyder has been making enquiries about the creation of a large equestrian statue, to stand at the centre of the new retail park. Mr Snyder is Jack Bluffit’s personal assistant, and need I add that the statue will not be a statue of Jack Bluffit’s personal assistant.’

  At this Snyder’s head swivelled round on his thin neck and he stared intently at Mrs Wilder. His face was expressionless. Jack Bluffit’s neck was now puce with touches of crimson.

  ‘Is it possible,’ she said, ‘is it even thinkable, that the wanton destruction of a whole city neighbourhood has been set in train to satisfy one man’s personal vanity? I do not wish to accuse, of course. I merely ask.’

  Jack Bluffit exploded out of his chair and roared, ‘That is slander, Lord Ridget. That is defamation of a faithful servant of this city. Strike it from the record. I’ll sue if this goes on.’

  ‘Er, I think that’s enough now,’ said Ridget to Mrs Wilder. He looked worriedly at Jack’s swollen features and tight collar, wondering if the council would build on his riverbank if Bluffit had a heart attack.

  ‘But I haven’t quite finished, my lord,’ said Mrs Wilder politely. ‘If I may just add some concluding remarks – on another topic,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, very well then. But keep off the personal stuff.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ She went on. ‘The Markham family have always been soldiers. General Markham’s son fought at Ypres, and his grandson was tragically killed during the defence of Tobruk in 1941, while hunting the Desert Fox.’

  This impressed everybody in the room except Jack Bluffit; General Rommel, nicknamed the Desert Fox, was the most brilliant and wily commander of the German forces in the Second World War. Henry Markham must have been quite a man. Mrs Wilder was not being untruthful, she would never be that, but she had chosen her words carefully. Henry M
arkham had died in North Africa, and he was hunting the desert fox at the time, but it was a real desert fox that had been nosing around the dustbins outside the mess tent. Henry came from a good family and had had an expensive education, so he couldn’t resist slaughtering innocent animals; catching sight of the creature, he had grabbed a sub-machine gun, shouted, ‘Halloo!’ and ‘Tally-ho!’ and rushed out into the night, stepping on one of the land mines at the camp perimeter that he himself had laid only a few hours earlier.

  ‘I have been in communication with Henry Markham’s son William, now living in Marbella,’ continued Mrs Wilder, ‘and I would like to conclude by reading out his letter to me.’ She read:

  Dear Mrs Wilder,

  It comes as shock to me to hear that Markham Park is to be desecrated. I know that it meant a great deal to my great-grandfather, and he certainly intended it to remain untouched as a gift to the people of the city. It is such a lovely spot, is it not? What a shame that tradition and heritage should be brushed aside for commercial gain and so-called modernization. Is there really nothing to be done? Surely someone will step into the breach and save the park and its neighbourhood?

  Yours sincerely,

  William Markham, Bart.

  There was a PS that said that if they took away the statue and sold it, then Mrs Wilder should send the money to him in Marbella, but she didn’t read out that bit.

  Mrs Wilder sat down. With both hands on her stick, she stared fixedly at Lord Ridget, as though expecting something to happen. Daniel heard her mutter something that sounded like, ‘Come on, you imbecile, think.’

  Lord Ridget was sitting up, and a pained expression came over his face as he tried to get his brain to work. Finally he spoke. ‘Er, who was that letter from, did you say?’