by Alex Shearer
Boom, boom, boom, boom! Thud! Boom!
What was the thud? How the thud? Never a thud before. Old Mr Copperstone had never heard a thud. Not in all the days of his Ministry. Oh yes, there had been deliveries, there had been callers, there had been the ringing of the doorbell and the occasional boom of the knocker. But never a thud to go with them. How had it been accomplished? Whoever had managed such a thing? Not just a boom, but a thud.
Mr Copperstone crept from his office and out onto the stairs. His staff were already there assembled, looking up to him for guidance and counsel.
‘Mr Copperstone, sir,’ young Mr Gibbings said. ‘There appears to be someone –’ But he could not finish the sentence, so overtaken was he by emotion.
‘At the door,’ Miss Rolly said, taking over. ‘We seem to have –’
‘A caller,’ Mrs Scant said.
Poor old Mr Copperstone just stared at them in bewilderment, as if his years of leadership were behind him and his talents had turned to rust through long disuse.
‘A caller?’ he said. ‘But we’ve not had a caller in … in years. I wonder … what do they want? Who could it be?’
Boom, boom, boom, boom! Then once more that mysterious and terrifying thud!
‘Perhaps if we just all stand still and keep quiet –’
Boom, boom, boom! Crash!
A crash now as well. The caller could do crashes too.
‘I don’t think they’re going to go away, Mr Copperstone, sir,’ young Mr Gibbings observed. And rightly too. For the caller was not about to go anywhere other than inside the building presently closed to him.
‘I know you’re in there!’
‘He knows we’re in here,’ Mr Copperstone repeated in a whisper. ‘What are we to do?’
‘I think we’ll have to let him in, sir,’ Miss Rolly said.
‘It’s Head Office here!’ the caller shouted from the other side of the door. ‘Department of Economies!’
‘It’s Head Office!’ Mr Copperstone repeated. And he might have added the words ‘we’re doomed’. But the expression on his face and the look in his eyes said it all really.
‘Let’s just sit tight and he’ll go away. They’ve gone away before,’ Mrs Scant said. ‘Haven’t they, over the years? They’ve gone away before and so they’ll go away again. Stands to reason. Just got to outwait them.’
Boom, boom, boom! Thud! Crash! Jingle jangle!
‘Oh, my. Good lord!’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘He can do jingle jangles as well. We’ve never had a boom, a crash, a thud and a jingle jangle before, ever.’
‘I’m afraid he means business,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘We’re going to have to let him in, or by the sound of it, he’ll break the door down.’
‘Let me in, or I have an authorisation chitty here, signed by the Executive Admin. Department, entitling me to break the door down. And the subsequent repairs and new door lock will have to come out of your budget!’
‘Our budget,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘That’s rather unfair. I don’t see why we have to pay for his breaking the door down. I shall be writing a few strongly worded letters to the Cabinet Office if that –’
‘I think, sir, we’d better let him in, don’t you?’
‘I’m afraid, Mr Gibbings, that you might be right. Are we all agreed?’ They nodded. ‘Shall we go together then? All for one and one for all, as it were?’
So, shoulder to shoulder, they went to the front door, and the lock was turned and the security bolt slid back. Outside, Mr Beeston found the handle turning now, and the door responding to his grip, finally yielding to the force of his arm and his personality.
The door swung open, accompanied by such a fine collection of creaks that it was almost a symphony. There was Mr Beeston on the doorstep. And there were Mr Copperstone, Miss Rolly, Mr Gibbings and Mrs Scant ready to greet him. But no warm words were said. There were no endearing or flavoursome greetings.
‘Head Office,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘My ID, if you’d care to see it. I’m here to do an inspection. I’ve got a list of staff here. I assume that you will be Mr Copperstone?’
‘At your service,’ Mr Copperstone said, putting on his bravest face and his most suave manner. But he felt neither suave nor brave within. He invited Mr Beeston to step inside with the utmost trepidation.
Down in the basement, even Boddington the cat, hitherto silent, seemed to cower in dread anticipation.
5
A Difficult Interview
‘Tea, sir?’ Mrs Scant asked. ‘Tea, Mr … ?’
‘Beeston,’ Beeston said. ‘Franklin Beeston. And no thank you. I am not here to drink tea. I am here on more compelling matters.’
‘Tea for you then, Mr Copperstone?’
‘Em, thank you, Mrs Scant, that would be rather … ’
Mr Copperstone caught sight of the solemn and sour expression of the man sitting in the visitor’s chair on the opposite side of his desk, and he changed his mind. Tea suddenly seemed rather frivolous, not a thing to be bothering about right then.
‘Em, not just now, thank you all the same, Mrs Scant. Maybe later.’
‘Very well, sir. And will you be wanting me here to take any dictation?’
Beeston’s look said no, that the meeting was to be a confidential one.
‘No thank you, Mrs Scant. I’ll ring if anything’s needed.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘And close the door after you, please,’ Mr Beeston commanded. Mrs Scant didn’t care for his tone, nor the implication that she was one to eavesdrop and to snoop.
She made her way to the door with all the dignity she could muster, let it close behind her, walked away down the corridor, stopped, tiptoed silently back, then applied her ear and her eye to the keyhole – these items taking regular turns.
‘So what can I do for you here today, Mr … eh … Beeston? To what do we owe this unexpected visit and undeserved honour?’
‘I wouldn’t bank on the “honour”, Mr Copperstone. Not a bit.’
‘Oh … ?’
In truth, Mr Copperstone felt nervous. Although the senior man, both in years and in rank, he felt now as he had done when a small boy and suddenly summoned before the headmaster for he knew not what. But he always soon found out. And rarely liked it.
‘The fact is, Mr Copperstone, that I am, as I said, from the Department of Economies –’
‘You did, and yet I didn’t even realise there was such a department.’
‘There is, Mr Copperstone. There has been for some years. And one by one we have been auditing all the other departments. And a few weeks ago, down the back of the filing cabinet, I found you.’
‘Me? That is, us? Behind a filing cabinet?’
‘All your departmental information. I have it here. Such as it is.’ Mr Beeston extracted a Manila folder from his briefcase.
‘Oh yes?’ Mr Copperstone said, appearing to look both interested and unperturbed.
‘I – nor anyone else, it seemed – even knew of the existence of this place. We were astonished to learn of it. It seemed incomprehensible that there should be such a department in the modern world –’
‘Well, we strive to do good work here … ’
‘I shall be coming to that.’
‘Oh.’
‘Founded 1792, I understand?’
‘I believe it to be the case.’
‘In order to prove or to disprove the existence of spiritual manifestations colloquially known as “ghosts”.’
‘Indeed, that is our function. The Ministry is a venerable institution.’
‘It’s that or a useless one. Because this institution has now been in operation for well over two centuries. It has absorbed huge amounts of taxpayers’ money. And what, Mr Copperstone, has this department discovered after two hundred years of investigation? Do ghosts exist, or don’t they?’
Mr Copperstone took a moment to answer. Mr Beeston pressed him to reply.
‘Yes, or no, sir?’
But it was
not, Mr Copperstone felt, a yes or no question with a no or a yes answer. It was more complex than that.
‘Well?’
‘Results to date have been somewhat inconclusive,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘But rest assured that investigations are continuing, and we hope to have some answers soon.’
Mr Beeston put the Manila file down on the desk.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I am afraid not. I am here to inform you that investigations are not continuing.’
‘Not … ?’ A look of concern crossed Mr Copperstone’s face; he reached for his breast pocket, as if troubled by his heart.
‘If this department has been unable, after more than two hundred years of looking, to discover whether or not ghosts exist, then there is only one possible conclusion to be drawn. Don’t you think?’
‘That the ghosts are hiding?’ Mr Copperstone suggested.
‘No!’ Mr Beeston snapped. ‘That there aren’t any, of course. There are no such things. And it is a complete waste of time and money to go on looking for them. How many of you work here? I have it down as four. Correct?’
‘Four plus the cat,’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘Oh yes, the cat. And what’s he doing? Idling on the job, is he?’
‘I expect he’ll be in the basement, keeping the mice at bay.’
‘Maybe he’s keeping the ghosts at bay too, and that’s why you never catch any.’
‘You know, I’ve never considered that. Do you think that could be it? That ghosts and cats are allergic to each other?’
‘I was not being serious. That was sarcasm.’
‘Oh, sarcasm. Oh.’
‘The fact is, Mr Copperstone, that this department is in serious trouble. To be blunt, the government deems your Ministry to be a product of the dark ages of myth and superstition, and one which cannot be tolerated in the modern world. In short, the present government does not believe that so-called “ghosts” exist, and if you cannot prove otherwise then the Department of Paranormal Affairs – aka the Ministry of Ghosts – will be shut permanently. Unless you can very rapidly justify your existence, it will be closed down.’
‘Closed down! But – good heavens – all our sterling work here … ’
Mr Beeston folded his arms and sat back in his chair. ‘Oh yes. Your sterling work. Tell me a little about that if you would, Mr Copperstone. How exactly do you and your staff go about determining the existence of ghosts? What precisely do you do all day?’
‘Do?’
‘Yes, do?’
‘Well … ’
‘Do you go out and scour the locality for ghosts? Do you go off on ghost hunting expeditions? Do you travel the world to investigate reported sightings? Do you pop down to the cemetery of an evening … ?’
‘Well, not in the evening, no, as that would mean overtime … ’
‘During the day then? Or what?’
‘No, I think you misunderstand the nature of our work here, Mr Beeston. What we try to do here, you see, is not so much to go out in search of ghosts, as to try to create contacts with the world of spirit. To get the ghosts to come to us.’
‘And how do you do that?’
‘We ask the relevant and appropriate questions, sir.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, we say things like, “Is anyone there?”’
‘Is anyone there?’
‘Or, “Who’s that?”’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Or, “Give us a sign!”’
‘A sign?’
‘Or we have the occasional seance together and try to get the ghosts to spell things out on our Ouija board. Which reminds me, I was going to put in a chitty to buy a new Ouija board, as ours seems to be wearing out.’
‘And has anyone ever made contact from the world of spirit via your Civil Service issue Ouija board?’
‘Not what you might call contact as such. But we keep on having a go. Every Tuesday.’
‘Mr Copperstone!’
‘Mr Beeston?’
The two men were so different in character they were almost of separate species. One was old school, one was new. Copperstone was all old-world charm and half-moon glasses, over which he could peer in a most engaging way. He was a man who was exceedingly well read and who could converse on any subject under the sun. He could tell you about his school days and his time in India; about his childhood with his chum Chubby Smitterton and the incident with the sausages. He could regale you with anecdotes until the cows came home, got milked, and wandered away again.
But Mr Copperstone’s anecdotes were wasted on Mr Beeston, who was all about ‘time’ and ‘efficiency’ and ‘value for money’. Mr Copperstone, with his elegant inlaid cufflinks and his handmade shoes, was a mystery to him. No, modern times had suddenly entered the offices of the Ministry of Ghosts, and like it or not, Mr Copperstone and his staff were to be dragged into them, if necessary by the scruffs of their necks.
‘Mr Copperstone, tell me this – what do you and your staff do all day? Describe an average day to me. Tell me about it.’
‘Well, let me see … ’
Under the elegant exterior, panic was rising. Mr Copperstone – when faced with the question as to what he did all day – wasn’t that sure that he knew the answer. He knew he did the crossword; he knew he had forty winks; he knew he later on had another forty winks – making eighty winks in total, but surely other people had more. It wasn’t that much, was it? Not eighty winks. Not when you considered all the winks you could have if you put your mind to it.
‘Well, we, I … that is … we come in, we open the post, if there is any –’
‘And is there?’
‘We do get quite a few flyers about having a pizza –’
‘So you come in, and deal with the mail. That sounds as if it takes you all of five minutes. Then what?’
‘Then my secretary, Mrs Scant, will ask if we want some tea –’
‘Tea!’
‘Then, after that, we’ll get down to the hard graft.’
‘That’s the bit I’m interested in. Tell me more about that.’
‘That’s when we get down to trying to make contact with the spirit world by using all the means at our disposal.’
‘Such as the Ouija board?’
‘Yes.’
‘And calling out, “Is anybody there?”’
‘Yes, but you have to keep doing it,’ Mr Copperstone explained. ‘It’s no use just calling the once and expecting an immediate answer.’
‘What else do you do?’ Mr Beeston demanded.
‘Well, we … we might put a little notice in the window.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Em, well, saying: ghost wanted, no experience necessary. Or, ghost wanted. small reward given. Or –’
‘And so far, what have all these efforts produced?’
‘Well, as I say, things are still rather up in the air. But rest assured, Mr Beeston, we are ever vigilant. And one day soon we hope to be able to announce to the world that ghosts either do, or do not, exist. And that will be our finest hour.’
Mr Beeston had now come to the end of his tether. He snatched the file from the desk and stuffed it back into his briefcase, next to his flask and sandwiches.
‘Mr Copperstone – shall I tell you what I think?’
‘Please do. I’m always keen to hear the opinions of others.’
‘Mr Copperstone, I have worked for the Department of Economies for some time. Prior to that, I worked for the Ministry of Social Security, investigating bogus claims. I pride myself on being able to smell a rat.’
‘They can smell bad,’ Mr Copperstone agreed. ‘Especially the dead ones. Fortunately for us, we have the cat.’
‘I have never, in the course of all my investigations, come across a more pointless, useless, time-and-money-wasting department than this one.’
Mr Copperstone blinked at him, uncertain of what he was hearing. There was some mistake, surely. This man couldn’t be serious.
&nbs
p; ‘I am giving you, Mr Copperstone, precisely three months in which to prove the need for a Ministry of Ghosts. Three calendar months from today to come up with a so-called ghost. If, by the end of that time, you have failed to produce one, then I am going to recommend to the Minister that this department be closed down.’
‘C-close us down?’
‘Forthwith, on expiry of the deadline. And permanently.’
‘C-close down the Ministry of Ghosts? B-but, it has been in existence since –’
‘I know!’
‘Seventeen ninety-two.’
‘It doesn’t matter how long it has been in existence; it is now looking very redundant. It has outlived whatever usefulness it once had, and I doubt it ever had any. It seems to me that it is about as relevant to the modern world as the Department of Horse-Drawn Vehicles – which is now defunct.’
‘Did we have one of those?’
‘Or the Ministry of Witchcraft.’
‘I didn’t realise –’
‘Or the Department of Rubbing Sticks Together to Start a Fire –’
‘Did we really –’
‘No, of course not. I just say it to illustrate how out of date your department is. You have three months, Mr Copperstone, to produce a ghost. And not just some fake spook from the joke shop. A real live – well, dead, actually, I suppose – ghost. If you can’t do it, then we must conclude, after more than two hundred years of searching, that ghosts don’t exist. So the need for your department will be no more.’
‘But what’s to become of us?’ Mr Copperstone said, very alarmed by now. ‘Myself, my staff, who have given such loyal service –’
‘I dare say they’ll be redeployed somewhere. I hear that the Ministry of Sewage has some vacancies that need to be filled.’
‘Sewage? The Sewage Department? My staff?’
‘While, as for yourself, sir, it would seem to me – and no rudeness intended – that retirement might well be an option.’
Mr Copperstone looked shocked, even bereft. ‘Retire? Me? Retire? But –’
‘You seem of an age, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘Yes, but what would I do all day?’
‘The same as you do now, by the looks of it, sir – not much!’