by Alex Shearer
‘Very nice it is too,’ Mrs Scant said. ‘Fruity.’
‘It’s strawberries.’
‘You said.’
‘So don’t go saying I smell of kippers.’
‘We wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Right then. I’ll come in.’
The girl did and the door swung closed behind her.
‘We’d better go to the conference room, I think,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘And hear what this young lady has to say.’
‘Well, I think you ought to take that notice down and bring it with you,’ the girl said. ‘As that’s what we need to discuss.’
‘Indeed?’ Mr Copperstone said, both surprised by and impressed with this girl’s level of assertiveness. ‘Then that’s what we had better do. Mr Gibbings, if you would be so kind … ’
Mr Gibbings went to fetch the notice. Mr Copperstone led the way to the conference chamber – yet another dark and dingy room lined with books.
In appearance the girl was more robust than slender, yet she was not over-large. Perhaps compact was the word. She was not short, and yet neither was she tall. She was not exactly pretty, yet she was not plain either. It sort of depended on the light, and her mood perhaps. She could look quite angelic, and she could look equally as devilish.
‘Please, take a seat.’
The girl did. Her legs, when she sat down, did not quite reach the floor, so they dangled, and she swung them back and forth, as if she were warming up to kicking someone.
‘And may we enquire whom we have the pleasure of addressing, young lady?’ Mr Copperstone asked.
‘Eh?’ the girl said. ‘What are you on about?’
Mr Copperstone actually blushed – or at least appeared to colour. Miss Rolly stepped in and said, ‘Your name. Mr Copperstone was enquiring as to your name. I assume it isn’t Eustace – even though that’s the name on your top.’
‘Of course not. That’s where I go to school. Who’d call a girl Eustace? You’d need to be mental to do that.’
This remark was greeted by a prolonged silence of disapproval; the Civil Service did not support or encourage this kind of observation.
‘Anyway,’ the girl continued, aware of the frosty response but unabashed by it, ‘my name’s Thruppence, if you want to know. And my last name’s Coddley. As for my middle name, I haven’t got one yet, but I might decide to have one at some point in the future. If so, I don’t know what it will be, though I’m considering Mavis.’
‘I wouldn’t have Mavis,’ Mrs Scant advised. ‘Sounds a bit … too old for you.’
‘Do you think so?’ Thruppence Coddley said. ‘Then what about Bohemia?’
Mr Copperstone cleared his throat. Mr Gibbings had by now entered with the notice from the window.
‘I think we’re straying a little from the point,’ Mr Copperstone went on. ‘Shall we stick to the business in hand?’
‘What are you on about?’ Thruppence Coddley said. She turned to Miss Rolly, who seemed to be the most sensible one. ‘What’s he on about?’
‘The notice,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘What did you want to say about it?’
‘Oh yes,’ Thruppence Coddley said. ‘It’s against the law and it’s doing discrimination.’
‘Doing what?’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘You can’t go putting notices up saying “Saturday Boys Wanted”.’
‘I didn’t,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘We only want one of them. It says “Saturday Boy” – singular.’
‘Not the point,’ Thruppence said. ‘What about Saturday Girls, eh? What about them?’
‘Well, what about them?’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘They’re not getting a chance, are they?’ Thruppence said. ‘You can’t go putting notices up advertising jobs for Saturday Boys but not Saturday Girls. You have to say “Saturday Persons Wanted”.’
‘Saturday Persons?’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘What’s a Saturday Person? I’ve never heard of a Saturday Person ever!’
‘Me neither, I must confess,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘But maybe I’m out of touch.’
‘No, it has to be Saturday Persons or it has to be Saturday Boy or Girl Wanted.’
‘Does it? Who says?’ Mr Gibbings asked.
‘The law says,’ Thruppence Coddley said. ‘And I know my rights.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ old Mr Copperstone said. And he seemed to emit a long and weary sigh.
Mrs Scant didn’t appear very interested in what was going on, for the cat had come in, and she was busy petting it. Miss Rolly however, was highly alert, and moreover sympathetic to the girl’s cause. ‘I think this young lady is absolutely right, Mr Gibbings,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘In fact, had you run this notice by me before putting it up in the window, I would have pointed out the mistake and have made exactly the same objection. Men and women and girls and boys should be treated equally. If a job is open to one, it should be open to the other. No question.’
‘But, Miss Rolly,’ Mr Gibbings said, ‘when we consider the nature of the work – dare I say, the possibly dangerous nature of the work … ’
Thruppence Coddley’s eyes lit up, like lights on a Christmas tree. ‘Dangerous work, did you say?’ she said. ‘I like dangerous work. What’s it involve? I do dangerous work all the time. You should see me with the fish-gutting knife. Or getting winkles out of their shells with a pin. Not cut myself once or been carted off to hospital ever. I thrive on danger, I do.’
Mr Copperstone peered at the girl over his half-moon glasses.
‘Don’t you like playing with dolls, young lady?’ he said.
‘I’ve got nothing against them,’ Thruppence told him. ‘But sharp knives are more exciting. And by the way, if any of you ever want any whelks or any jellied eels, my dad does them at reasonable prices and very good they are too.’
‘Well, maybe not just at the moment … ’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘In my opinion,’ Miss Rolly said, ‘we should do as this young lady suggests and reword the advertisement immediately.’
‘Mr Gibbings?’ Mr Copperstone asked, one eyebrow raised in a question mark.
‘No objection, sir,’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘It wasn’t deliberate. I just never thought it was the kind of job a girl might want to do. It’s not that I’m against Saturday Girls as such. Not at all.’
‘Very well. We’ll amend the notice, young lady, and then put it back in the window. Thank you for stopping by to bring the omission to our attention. Is there anything else we can do for you before you go?’
‘Yes,’ Thruppence said. ‘This job – I’d like to apply for it.’
There was a very long silence this time as the four adults looked around at each other, then back at Thruppence Coddley, then back at each other again.
‘Well … ’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘I’m good at Saturday jobs,’ Thruppence said.
‘What Saturday jobs have you done?’
‘Fish gutting and whelks,’ she said. ‘I can supply references.’
‘From whom?’
‘My dad.’
‘I’m not sure that references from relatives –’
‘And my teacher. She’d give me one. She asked me to sieve all the muck out of the sandpit once, and when I’d finished she said I’d done a marvellous job.’
‘Well, that is a recommendation, I suppose. Only … ’
‘Only what?’
‘Only, don’t you want to know what the job is first?’
‘All right, what is it then?’
‘It isn’t for the squeamish,’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘You can’t do fish gutting and be squeamish,’ Thruppence pointed out.
‘It’s to do, you see … ’ Mr Copperstone said, ‘ … with ghosts.’
‘Ghosts?’
More silence. The adults watched the girl’s face for her reaction, to see if it would be one of terror, of fear. But no.
‘I like ghosts,’ Thruppence said. ‘That would suit me fine.’
‘Have you actual
ly seen one then?’ Mr Copperstone said excitedly. ‘Have you got one at home that you could bring round in a jam jar?’
‘No, well, I’ve never actually seen one. Just heard about them.’
‘Yes, we’ve all done that,’ Mrs Scant said wearily. ‘Everyone’s heard about them. But hearing isn’t seeing, is it?’
‘Yes,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘Because if you did have a ghost, that would save us an enormous amount of trouble and inconvenience. It would even save us our jobs.’
‘Your jobs?’ Thruppence said. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you know where you are right now, young lady?’ Mr Copperstone said.
‘Bric-a-Brac Street,’ Thruppence said.
‘I mean, the nature of the building you are in?’
‘Eh … it’s the government, isn’t it?’
‘It is the Ministry,’ Mr Copperstone sighed, ‘of Ghosts.’
Thruppence looked at him, then she started to giggle, then she said, ‘Get out of it. You’re having me on.’
Over the course of the next ten minutes, Mr Copperstone, Mrs Scant, Miss Rolly and Mr Gibbings did their best to explain, as concisely and with as few diversions up side roads as possible, the history and purpose of the Ministry and the nature of the sticky situation in which they now found themselves. They further explained the theories of Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting, expounding the apparent sensitivity of children and animals to the presence of ghosts. They could see and detect what adults could not. And they could even act as a kind of bait to lure ghosts in, due – possibly – to their open and non-judgemental natures. Whereas adults were more inclined to give a ghost a bad name and to think the worst of it.
When they were done, Thruppence Coddley sat quietly for a while, pondering what she had heard.
‘So, basically, you want someone to get you a ghost?’
‘Just so. And we have three months in which to do it.’
‘You want someone to sort of … lure a ghost in.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Or to find one somewhere else and bring it to you?’
‘That would be perfect.’
‘Hmm … ’ Thruppence said. ‘What’s the money like?’
‘Negotiable,’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘So let’s negotiate then,’ Thruppence said. ‘But you’d better know from the off that I don’t even get out of bed for less than a tenner an hour.’
‘Ten pounds! Ten pounds an hour!’ Mr Copperstone was aghast. He clutched at his breast pocket and the general region of his heart.
‘Though I may consider coming down a bit,’ Thruppence said. ‘Depending.’
‘On what?’
‘Circumstances,’ she said vaguely.
‘Well, you would need to put in a formal application,’ Mr Gibbings said.
‘I just have.’
‘I felt that was rather informal, myself.’
‘It’s as formal as you’re going to get,’ Thruppence said. ‘I don’t really do formal. I’m not doing pages of application forms and all that business. Not just for a Saturday job.’
‘Well, we are obliged,’ Mr Copperstone said, ‘to advertise any job for at least forty-eight hours, under Ministry rules. So we’ll have to put the amended sign up in the window, in case there are other applicants. Then we’ll be able to make a decision. So, in the meantime, if you’d care to leave your name with us … ’
‘I’ll need it, won’t I?’ Thruppence said.
‘Pardon?’
‘My name. I’ll be needing it, so how can I leave it with you? I can’t go home with no name, can I? No one’ll know what to call me. They’ll just say, “Here’s whatsherface back from school,” and they won’t know who I am.’
‘No, I didn’t mean leave your name in that sense, I meant … we’ll just make a note of your name and your interest in the position, and we’ll advertise for another day or so, and … and we’ll be in touch.’
Thruppence looked dubious, as if there were some kind of swindle going on, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
‘Well, all right then, I suppose. I’ll write it down for you.’ They gave her a pen and paper. ‘There,’ she said, when she had finished. ‘Thruppence Coddley, Good Coddley’s Fish Shop. Just Round the Corner From Here. And I’ve written my mobile number, as well as my home number, if you need to give me a call.’
‘Mobile number?’ old Mr Copperstone said. ‘And what might that be?’
Thruppence looked at the other three civil servants as if to say, ‘Is he for real?’ and they returned her gaze with what she assumed were sympathetic glances, as though they all knew and accepted that Mr Copperstone was getting on in years and no longer at the cutting edge.
‘Right then,’ Thruppence said. ‘You’ve got my details, if you need to get in touch. But if anyone can find you a ghost, it’ll be me. I’m not scared of much, and even when I am I can handle it. So no worries on that account. I’m quite happy to go looking for ghosts anywhere, up the belfry, down the cemetery, round at the crematorium, wherever. And don’t forget, if you want some whelks for your tea, my dad’s got the best whelks for miles. And if anyone ever tells you I smell of kippers, they’re lying, as I don’t, ’cause I only ever smell of strawberries, and all my friends can tell you that, so there.’
With those remarks, Thruppence hopped down from the chair, picked up her bag, and indicated that the interview was over, for she was a busy girl, with much to do, and with plenty of whelks on her plate.
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ Miss Rolly said.
‘No need, I know the way,’ Thruppence said.
But Miss Rolly went with her. At the front door, as Thruppence was leaving, she called after her and said, ‘Thruppence … ’
‘Yes?’
‘I admire your pluck. We girls must stick together and fight for equality. Onwards and upwards, Thruppence. Onwards and upwards for women’s rights!’
And the hitherto rather po-faced and somewhat surly Thruppence gave a wide and rather wonderfully engaging smile. It was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.
‘I wasn’t too rough with them, was I?’ she said.
‘Not a bit,’ Miss Rolly told her. ‘You were just right.’ And she too gave a sunshine smile, and they grinned at each other like conspirators, hitherto unknown to each other, and surprised, and yet delighted, to find themselves in the same conspiracy. ‘I’ll put a word in for you,’ Miss Rolly promised. ‘If someone else applies for the job too, I’ll try to make sure you get it.’
‘Thank you,’ Thruppence said. ‘I’d better go. Got homework to do.’
‘Bye then,’ Miss Rolly said.
‘Bye.’
Thruppence went on her way, and Miss Rolly closed the door, and in the vestibule of the Ministry was the faint aroma of strawberries – but in a way, it was more than that, it was also like a breath of fresh air.
10
Another Job Seeker
The door knocker of the Ministry of Ghosts had rested unused, and the panels of the door had stood unbattered for many a long year. Visitors were few and callers were scarce, and of casual enquirers, there had been none for decades.
But now, within the space of as many days, two people had employed both bell and door knocker to attract the attention of those within, and here, upon the third day, was yet another.
It was morning, and the day was fresh, and the Ministry had only just opened. But already there were callers and seekers of attention.
Again? Mr Copperstone thought, as the sound of rapping rose up to his sanctum. More callers? It is getting busy. First that obnoxious Beeston, then that rather spirited Thruppence girl, and now today, yet more summonses to the door. We are getting popular. My oh my. It’s positively the rush hour.
Yet, while Mr Copperstone thought these thoughts, he had no intention of acting upon them. If some caller wished to be admitted, it was not his job to open the door to them. He was too important for that. He was, after al
l, a very senior civil servant, and opening doors was a matter for the lower grades.
‘I’ll get it,’ Mr Gibbings called. He left his desk and headed for the corridor, but Miss Rolly and Mrs Scant were already there. In truth, they all felt rather stimulated by this sudden influx of callers, for it made them feel significant, and at the centre of things, after so many quiet years of peripheral inactivity and, well, boredom.
‘Things are hotting up here, aren’t they, Miss Rolly?’ Mr Gibbings said, as they all made their way to the front door. ‘We seem to be in demand, all of a sudden. We’re quite the business, these days, here at the Ministry.’
‘Yes, Mr Gibbings,’ Miss Rolly said, somewhat loftily. She felt that Mr Gibbings’ puppy-like enthusiasms were rather juvenile and lacking in proper bureaucratic solemnity.
Mrs Scant was already at the door, with her fingers towards the handle. The door pulled back – it seemed to be creaking a little less loudly than usual – and it opened wide to reveal a boy on the step. He was somewhat freckled, but not to excess, and while he looked very clean, he did have something of the air of an unmade bed about him. This was by no means due to lack of hygiene or scarcity of soap, so much as from a natural propensity towards untidiness.
‘’Allo,’ the boy said.
‘It’s a boy,’ Miss Rolly said to Mr Gibbings in a low voice. ‘A small one.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them before,’ Mr Gibbings confided.
‘So have I,’ Miss Rolly said. ‘But never with so much shirt sticking out, or with so much hair standing up in all directions.’
The boy was wearing a sweatshirt with the word ‘Eustace’ on the front – just as Thruppence Coddley had been the previous afternoon. So the three adults staring at him now knew enough to understand that this was unlikely to be his own name but referred to the school that he attended.
‘What can we do for you, young man?’ Mrs Scant said. ‘If you’re here to clean the chimney, I’m afraid we’re no longer on coal, as we have moved over to gas. So chimney sweeping is no longer needed. Though, if you are looking for something useful to do, you can always polish the old coal scuttle.’ The boy looked at her with an expression on his face which clearly revealed that (a) he thought she was a bit batty, and (b) he had no idea what she was talking about.