The Ministry of Ghosts

by Alex Shearer

  ‘Now, see here … ’ Old Mr Copperstone was on his feet. He was an easy-going man but this was a rudeness too far.

  ‘You see here,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘Three months. From today. Soon as I get back to my office, I shall put it in writing and post it to you. I’ll also send you an email.’

  Mr Copperstone looked blank. ‘Email?’

  Mr Beeston stared around the room. ‘Where are your computers?’

  ‘Computers?’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Are you speaking of that Babbage fellow? Isn’t he trying to build one?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Mr Beeston said. ‘How behind the times are you here? Haven’t you kept abreast of modern developments?’

  ‘Of course we have. We have the telephone.’

  Mr Copperstone pointed to the rather antique-looking instrument on his desk.

  ‘Yes, you’ll need to give me the number for that. It’s not on our files. And you’d better get yourself an Apple or a PC.’

  ‘An apple? I don’t eat them. It’s my teeth –’

  ‘An Apple with a capital A! Or a PC!’

  ‘PC Apple? Police Constable Apple? Who’s he?’

  ‘I give up,’ Mr Beeston said. ‘What on earth have you been doing here? Do you even so much as stick your noses out of the door?’

  ‘One does not have to travel in order to seek out the world of spirit,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘For the world of spirit – if it is here – must be all around us. It’s not a matter of travelling to the four corners of the earth, it’s a matter of finding a way through, of finding the key.’

  ‘Well, this department has had over two hundred years to look for it and the key hasn’t turned up. So I don’t think there is a key. Or a door. Or anything. I think this whole place is pointless.’

  ‘Pointless! The venerable Ministry of Ghosts?’

  ‘As you so plainly think otherwise, you have three months in which to prove me wrong. I shall be back, in precisely three months’ time. You’ve had it far too easy for far too long. The taxpayers won’t put up with it any longer!’

  ‘I don’t think the taxpayers even know we’re –’

  ‘They will when I tell them. And they’ll be outraged. Outraged! Don’t bother seeing me to the door, I shall find my own way out. Good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Good day to you, my dear fellow. Allow me to … ’

  The good manners ingrained in Mr Copperstone compelled him to see his visitor out. In the corridor, hearing their approach, Mrs Scant scuttled away before the door could be opened and her eavesdropping revealed.

  She hurried down the stairs to her office, where she sat in front of her typewriter, looking pale and shocked. Soon she heard voices and the sound of Mr Beeston leaving and of Mr Copperstone bidding him farewell.

  ‘Three months, remember. From today.’

  Those were Mr Beeston’s parting words as the door creaked shut behind him, then all that could be heard was the sounds of his footsteps receding over the cobblestones.

  Silence.

  Then the voice of old Mr Copperstone.

  ‘Mrs Scant, Mr Gibbings, Miss Rolly – could I ask you all to join me in my office for a moment? I have some rather grave and important news.’

  They heard him, and called back that they were on their way.

  Mr Copperstone returned to his office. His heart was heavy and his eyes were full. He could feel in his elderly bones all the passing of the years, and he wondered if the struggle had – after all – been in vain. Was this what it had come to? To be forcibly retired, after a life of service and dedication? To be thrown on the scrapheap? To be flung aside like some poor, unwanted thing? Like an outgrown toy, cast aside by a thoughtless child?

  It was hard not to feel sorry for oneself, and yet self-pity was not really in Mr Copperstone’s nature. He had his staff to think of. He had to put them first. So he pulled himself together and he wondered how he was going to break the news to them – that they had three months in which to produce a ghost or their department would be closed down permanently.

  But Mrs Scant had already informed the others. They already knew the worst. Even so, they entered the office as if in ignorance. Out of deference to, and respect for, old Mr Copperstone, they allowed him to break the news to them all over again. And they did their best to appear as though that news was indeed something new.

  6

  A Way to Catch a Ghost

  The sounds of Mr Franklin Beeston’s footsteps echoed through the Ministry of Ghosts long after he had gone.

  Old Mr Copperstone sat behind his mahogany desk, while arranged around the room in front of him, in various attitudes of dejection, his staff waited for him to speak – though they knew already what was to be said.

  ‘That … person,’ Mr Copperstone began. ‘That … personage who has just left, was from the Department of Economies. He was here, he said, to trim the dead wood.’

  ‘Dead wood?’ Miss Rolly interjected. ‘I hope that isn’t how he sees us.’

  ‘It’s exactly how he sees us, Miss Rolly, I am afraid to say. He is of the opinion that our Ministry here is old fashioned and redundant and – it pains me to repeat it – he believes that our work here is pointless and unnecessary. He doesn’t believe that ghosts exist.’

  ‘Not exist? No ghosts?’ young Mr Gibbings said, incredulous. ‘Then what have we been working here for all these years? And the people who worked here before us?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘All because the Ministry of Ghosts hasn’t come up with a ghost in the past two hundred years or so, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It could just mean that ghosts are very good at hiding and at disguising themselves and they are somewhat on the sneaky side.’

  ‘They could be absolutely everywhere!’ Mrs Scant agreed. ‘There could be dozens of them in this room with us right now.’

  ‘Hundreds!’ Miss Rolly said.

  ‘Millions!’ Mr Gibbings said – but Mr Copperstone gave him a look as though to convey that millions of ghosts in the room was possibly an exaggeration.

  ‘Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there. After all, can you see electricity?’ Miss Rolly said. ‘Or magnetism? But they’re there, and we know they are, see them or not.’

  Mr Copperstone held up a hand for silence.

  ‘Be all that as it may,’ he continued, ‘none of it would convince a sceptic such as our recent visitor. The crux of the matter is that we have three months from today in which to produce a ghost. A convincing and undeniable ghost. One that looks, sounds, feels and smells like a ghost – if they do smell.’

  ‘They smell of peppermints, according to Throgmorton’s Book of Ghosts, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gibbings. I am aware of the theories. I have read them all.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I only meant … ’ But Mr Gibbings never did finish saying what he meant, his voice just tailed away.

  ‘And what if we don’t produce a ghost in time, to that gentleman’s satisfaction, Mr Copperstone?’ Miss Rolly said.

  ‘Then the Ministry will be closed down. And those of us still young enough will be redeployed in the Ministry of Sewage –’

  ‘Ministry of Sewage!’ Miss Rolly exclaimed. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Nor the smell of it,’ Mrs Scant said.

  ‘As for those elder members of staff, such as myself, we will be retired. Sent home – for good.’

  ‘But, Mr Copperstone, sir – you have been at the Ministry of Ghosts for … well … forever.’

  ‘I have given my life to it, Mrs Scant. It will sadden me to leave. It will sadden me even more to have no successor to whom I can pass on the mantle. It will be as though my whole life’s work has been … in vain.’

  There was a long, respectful silence. Miss Rolly broke it, with a note of optimism.

  ‘Unless, of course, we can find a ghost, sir.’

  ‘Easier said than done, Miss Rolly,’ Mr Copperstone sighed. ‘The Ministry has been
looking for the things for over two hundred years now. Our predecessors were dedicated men and women. But for all their looking, they found nothing. They have died, and had they wished, or been able, they could have returned as ghosts themselves, and could have given us the full facts of life on “the other side”. But no. Total silence. Not a dicky bird. Not as much as the ghost of a dicky bird. No ghost and no dicky and no bird at all.’

  ‘Then maybe we haven’t been looking in the right places, sir,’ Mr Gibbings said – for he was young and headstrong, and thought that his ideas were sparkling and original, and had not been considered before.

  ‘If you read through the archives, Mr Gibbings, you will see that the Ministry has looked everywhere,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Expeditions have been sent out all over the world. When Scott went to Antarctica, he was asked to keep an eye out for ghosts. When Clive went to India, same thing. When Mallory went up Everest, he too was requested to keep his eyes peeled and his wits about him. All to no avail. Plenty of reports of strange noises and odd goings-on, oh yes, but a real live ghost to bring home –’

  ‘Or a real dead one, sir,’ Miss Rolly said.

  ‘What? Oh yes. Quite so. No, to my knowledge we have explored every avenue.’

  ‘Sir,’ Miss Rolly said, ‘I do believe there is one approach that the Ministry has never adopted.’

  Mr Copperstone glanced at her over his half-moon glasses. Was it possible that she was correct?

  ‘What approach is that, Miss Rolly?’

  ‘If I can first just remind you, sir, of Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting.’

  ‘The ghost hunter’s bible? We all know it well, from cover to cover. It is the handbook of our profession. Our lodestone and guiding star. What of it, Miss Rolly?’

  ‘Does it not say, sir, that ghosts will often appear only to those who have a kind of sixth sense?’

  ‘It does. And?’

  ‘Or to those of a peculiarly naive and innocent nature – pets and animals for instance. It says that dogs, for example, can become aware of a ghostly presence long before any human knows of it.’

  ‘We did have a dog once, when I first started in the Ministry,’ Mr Copperstone reminisced. ‘Very rare breed. A ghost-sniffer he was. But he never sniffed any out as I remember. The only thing he seemed to be good at sniffing out was your ham sandwiches.’

  ‘But it’s not just dogs, sir. Grimes and Natterly say there are other creatures that ghosts are drawn to.’

  ‘Then they have slipped my mind. Remind me, Miss Rolly, what these exotic creatures are.’

  ‘Children!’ Miss Rolly said. ‘Children – according to Grimes and Natterly – have a sensitivity that adults do not. A sensitivity they lose as they grow older. But while still young enough, they can not only see ghosts, they can even attract them, lure them in, as it were. Draw them near to you, as if children were some kind of … bait.’

  Mr Copperstone looked concerned. He removed his glasses, polished them on his impeccable handkerchief, and returned them to his nose.

  ‘This is all very true, Miss Rolly,’ he said. ‘I am aware of it. But the Ministry long ago ruled that the use of children in the luring of ghosts would be to expose those children to trauma and danger, and would be quite unethical.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘But in my experience children are pretty robust sorts of creatures. I can’t see that a few ghosts would frighten most of them. Quite the opposite. Children probably frighten ghosts more than the other way round.’

  ‘Children certainly frighten me,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘I saw a bunch of them in the street the other morning and they were absolutely terrifying. It’s a good job I know some Japanese self-defence.’

  ‘And our options are rather limited, Mr Copperstone, sir,’ Mrs Scant – who had been rather quiet for a while – interjected. ‘And we don’t have a lot of time. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.’

  ‘Meaning, Mrs Scant?’

  ‘Meaning, sir, that we’re up the creek without a paddle. And if using a child is going to find a ghost for us and save the Ministry and our jobs, well, then maybe we ought to get one.’

  ‘Hmm … ’ Mr Copperstone sat thinking it over. ‘I’m still concerned at the ethics of it … the possible damage –’

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen, sir? That the little blighters will have a bit of a scare. Well, they’ll soon get over that. And we can pay them. There’s quite a bit of money in petty cash this month.’

  ‘Hmm … yes … I see the value of the proposal, Miss Rolly. Only, does anyone here have any children that they could spare for such a job? My own children … well … they’re nearly as old as I am now. Possibly even older. All grown up and off around the world. I never see them. So that is rather a problem, isn’t it, Miss Rolly? We don’t have a child to use as ghost bait – if I may put it like that.’

  ‘I’m sure we can get one, sir. There’s thousands around the place.’

  ‘I can’t see their parents agreeing to the proposal.’

  ‘They might not need to know … immediately.’

  ‘And where would we get a suitable child from? After all, they don’t grow on trees, do they, Miss Rolly?’

  ‘We just advertise, sir. A notice in the window, to start with. Maybe a postcard down at the newsagent’s.’

  ‘Then, if that doesn’t work, a hot-air balloon with an advertisement on the side!’ Mr Gibbings chipped in.

  ‘I don’t think the Ministry could afford that, Mr Gibbings. And I’m sure such an advertisement would breach several hundred regulations.’

  ‘Well, we’ve nothing to lose, in my opinion, Mr Copperstone,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘I, for one, am confident that the ghosts are there. I’ve felt on numerous occasions that they were right behind me. Or off to my left. Or they’d just left the room as I came into it. Or they came into it as I went out.’

  ‘Me too, Miss Rolly,’ Mr Gibbings said excitedly. ‘I’ve felt that way also. Always so near, yet always just out of reach. Elusive is the word. But if you want to catch something, you first have to bait the trap. It’s all explained in Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting.’

  ‘So did they ever catch one?’ Mrs Scant asked. ‘Natterly and Grimes?’

  ‘They died in mysterious circumstances, before they could put their theories into practice and their plans into action,’ Mr Copperstone said.

  ‘Ah … mysterious circumstances, eh?’ Mrs Scant said. ‘I’ve heard of them.’

  Mr Copperstone had by now come to a decision.

  ‘Very well, Miss Rolly – I think your suggestion is our only option and our only hope. We have to give it a try. We can’t let the Ministry be closed down. We can’t let two hundred years or more of history be snuffed out, just like that. The Ministry of Ghosts is an institution. Is this feeling unanimous?’

  It was.

  ‘Very well. Miss Rolly and Mr Gibbings, would you put your heads together and come up with a suitable advertisement as soon as possible? Which, subject to my approval, we will immediately put up in the window.’

  ‘And what would you like me to do, sir?’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Scant. I wonder if it would be possible for you to make us all a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Of course it would, sir. A pleasure. I’ll go and do it now.’

  Off Mrs Scant went, to boil the kettle. But, as ever, her tea-making took an interminably long time. You did start to wonder if your tea was ever going to arrive, or whether you’d still want it when it did.

  ‘And maybe you could look in on the cat, on your way, Mrs Scant. I expect I ought to explain what’s going on to him at some point. Not that he’ll understand, of course. But he is a sort of member of staff.’

  ‘If I see him, I’ll mention it, sir.’

  ‘Thank you all then. Let’s press on. We might yet save the Ministry of Ghosts from extinction. I hope we do. Yes, I hope we do.’

  The meeting was over, and all went about their business – apart from
Mr Copperstone himself, who had no real business other than to delegate business to others. He sat behind his desk, waiting for his tea and thinking of the past and of the heady, glory days of ghost hunting. And, little by little, his eyes grew heavy, and one by one (though he did only have the two of them, so it didn’t take long) they closed.

  Soon a ghostly sound was heard. But it was only someone snoring.

  7

  Saturday Boy Wanted

  It was left to youngish Mr Gibbings to compose the advertisement. It took him most of the morning. Considering what he came up with, this might seem like an overly extravagant expenditure of effort for a slightly meagre achievement.

  ‘Boy Wanted’ – his first draft began. Then he decided to be more specific. ‘Saturday Boy Wanted,’ he rewrote. ‘Saturday Boy Wanted, Mostly For Saturdays. Light Work. Good Wages. Easy Hours.’

  He studied the paper in front of him. Was Saturday Boy the right thing? What about a Friday Boy instead? Or a Tuesday Boy? Or a Sunday Boy? No. That wouldn’t do. Boys were at school from Monday to Friday, and they might have trouble getting away on a Sunday, due to commitments: football matches, family activities, homework. Best to keep it as it was.

  Saturday Boy Wanted. Mostly For Saturdays. Well, that was fair enough. It explained the extent of the commitment. It made things clear that a boy was needed only for Saturdays and that would be all.

  Light Work? Was that all right? Or should Mr Gibbings be more specific? Should he actually say that ghost hunting was involved? Or would that put the more timid candidates off? But did he want timid candidates? Oh, leave it as is, he decided. No need to deter potential applicants in advance. Get them in, get them interested, get them signed up and started.

  Good Wages. Would they be? Mr Gibbings thought so. Good for a Saturday Boy anyway. You didn’t have to pay boys a lot for them to think that they were earning big money. A couple of pounds, a few chocolate bars and a bottle of lemonade, that would do for most of them. They’d be happy with that. And maybe an apple. Yes, petty cash could probably run to an apple as well.