Becky pulled the water bottle from its holder, took a sip. ‘I’m the school caretaker.’
‘You?’ The caretaker at his last school had been a grumpy old man, who kept complaining about damage to the downpipes and graffiti in the school grounds. ‘But aren’t you too young?’
‘Oh, so there’s an age limit?’ Then she grinned. ‘Nah, you’re right. They were desperate.’
‘Desperate? Why? Are the kids mental or something?’
Becky laughed. Her arms, resting on the rough wood, looked muscly. She must play a lot of sport. ‘All kids are mental.’
‘I’m not mental.’ At least she could understand him.
‘Yeah you are. You zap strangers. Did you find anything interesting down there?’ She nodded her head at the bottom of the slope.
Surely the caretaker should know about the ruin? ‘Don’t you know your own school?’
Becky shook her head. ‘I only started working here this week. And I didn’t go to school here. I came to Longridge …’ Her voice stopped for a moment, as though someone had pushed a pause button, ‘after Dad died. And I was thirteen, so I went to the High School.’
‘My sisters are starting there tomorrow.’
‘Do you like it here? Longridge, I mean?’
Jamie shrugged.
‘I know,’ said Becky, understanding in her voice. ‘I felt like that, too. Don’t worry; it’s a cool place, really. Do you play sport?’
Jamie shook his head. ‘I like computers.’
‘The principal told me the school’s got a really good internet connection.’
‘Really?’ For a moment, just a tiny second, Jamie looked forward to school. He pointed to the tangled bushes, their green tops just visible above the curve of the hill. ‘There’s a ruin down there. I think it’s an old school house.’
Becky sat up straight. ‘Mr Ferris said something about a ruin.’
‘Mr Ferris?’
‘The old caretaker. I don’t know why he worked at a school. Hates kids, Mr Ferris does. He likes fish and chips though, so he talks to Mum. He told her there was an old building.’
Jamie showed her the photo of the stone-walled schoolhouse on his phone.
‘What’s that?’ Becky pointed at a shadow on the screen. It looked kind of like a person.
‘Weird. It wasn’t there when I took the picture.’ Jamie shook the phone. ‘It’s not a very good camera.’
‘It looks like a man,’ said Becky. ‘With his hands on his hips.’
Jamie tipped the phone so the image was easier to see. She was right. The hazy shadow was kind of like a person.
A car pulled up beside the school. Back home there were so many cars that no one paid attention to them. But here in the country you noticed cars. It wasn’t that you were nosey, it was just that you were aware of things that weren’t normal.
Jamie was so amazed that he would even care that a car had pulled up outside a fence that he didn’t pay attention to the man walking across the grounds towards them. He jumped when the stranger spoke.
‘Good morning, Becky. You’ve done the grass already. Well done.’
The man was tall and thin, like a piece of wire. His hair stuck up in tufts and his eyes were so round they looked like two golf balls.
‘You must be the doctor’s boy.’ The stranger held out his hand. ‘I’m Mr Potts. I’m the Principal. Welcome to Longridge.’
Without thinking, Jamie reached up and shook his hand.
‘Jamie!’ whispered Becky.
Too late! The shock ripped into Mr Potts. Jamie could feel it through his palm, like a needle stabbing into his hand. It would have been even stronger for the principal.
Mr Potts’ eyes bulged so far out of his sockets they looked like they might fall out. — His feet stepped up and down, as though dancing. The Macarena, thought Jamie. He’s doing the Macarena!
Jamie tried to swallow the bubble of laughter that rose in his throat. But the image of the Macarena was too strong. Any moment now, he thought crazily, he’s going to put his hands on his hips! And, despite all his trying, Jamie felt his mouth lift in a grin, as though there were two strings on the ends of his lips and someone was tugging upwards, upwards.
Don’t laugh. He’s the principal. You can’t laugh at the principal!
He put his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound, just as the laughter exploded out of him, like a blast from a cannon.
Mr Potts was bent over, his right hand between his knees. ‘What-was-that?’ He sounded like a fish, gasping for air. ‘What the heck was that?’
Becky stared at Jamie, mumbling into his palm, and Mr Potts, now rubbing his hand frantically. ‘Um. Jamie was just showing me some stinging nettles. The grey tall stuff, that stings really badly? You must have put your hand on it.’
Mr Potts wiped his forehead with a handkerchief then shook his hand hard, as if trying to shake away the sting. Jamie slipped the buzzer off his finger, into his pocket.
‘Stinging nettle?’ gasped Mr Potts. ‘You’d better get rid of it, Becky, that’s nasty stuff.’
Jamie desperately swallowed the laughter that bubbled and burped inside him. Rob and Stuart would go crazy about this. He could hear them now. ‘You wha’? You shocked the principal?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Potts. ‘I-I seem to be very sensitive to stinging nettle.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Jamie, I don’t understand. How on earth could you hold stinging nettle? And where is it now?’
Jamie stared desperately at Becky. ‘Um, I threw it away. While you were …’ He wanted to say ‘dancing’, but no, if he said that, nothing could stop him laughing again.
There was a pause. Would Mr Potts believe him?
‘Hm,’ said Mr Potts. ‘Well. Welcome to Longridge Primary.’
But his eyes were hard, and his voice was anything but welcoming. And Jamie had the terrible feeling that Mr Potts thought he was lying.
6
First Day
‘You look lovely, dear.’ Mum waved a comb over Jamie’s hair.
‘Muum!’ Jamie ducked. ‘Don’t!’
‘Come on, darling. Just a little comb? It’s really very messy, you know.’
Jamie put his hands over his head. ‘No!’
‘Shona,’ said Dad from the kitchen. ‘Leave the boy alone.’
‘Aye,’ said Hayley. ‘If he wants to look ugly, it’s his problem.’
‘He does not look ugly.’ Mum tousled Jamie’s hair. ‘He looks beautiful.’
This was even worse than the combing. ‘I don’t, do I?’ Jamie asked Dad. ‘Tell me it’s not true.’
Dad swallowed his coffee. ‘It’s not true, son. You’re very ugly.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll say,’ whispered Hayley. ‘Real ugly.’
As usual, Hayley was in a bad mood. — At least, she thought it was eczema. Only Jamie knew the truth: it was prime grade itching powder “guaranteed to create a most terrible scratching”, imported from Scotland in his suitcase.
Hayley had a red rash down the side of her neck and into her top. She tugged at her school blouse frantically.
‘Don’t scratch it dear,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll only make it worse.’
Dad looked up from the morning paper. ‘Did you put some cream on it, Hays?’
‘Yes,’ said Hayley, through gritted teeth. ‘But it doesn’t work. It’s not fair! My first day at school and I look like a traffic light!’
‘You look fine, dear,’ said Mum.
Why do mothers always lie to their children about their appearance? ‘You do look pretty weird,’ said Jamie.
Bernice came into the room. ‘Mum! Did you change washing powders?’
‘No,’ said Mum, staring at black-haired Bernice, now scratching frantically at her neck. ‘What is wrong with you two girls? Maybe you’ve got an infection.’
‘Better take their temperatures.’ Dad turned the page of the newspaper.
Mum sighed. ‘Of course. It’s always me who gets to do thes
e little jobs.’
‘Well,’ Dad started on the crossword, ‘you’re already standing up.’ He winked at Jamie.
‘Right,’ said Mum, a minute later. ‘Hold still, Bernice.’ She stabbed the thermometer into Bernice’s ear, and held it until it beeped. ‘Thirty-seven degrees,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Not an infection then.’
Jamie put his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh as Hayley, too, had a temperature of thirty-seven degrees.
‘Maybe it’s the washing powder.’ Mum looked worried. ‘Jim, did you do anything to the clothes?’
‘Not me.’
‘Or maybe it’s the food. Girls, what did you eat yesterday?’
‘I think,’ Dad said, finishing the crossword, ‘it’s nothing to do with infections, or allergies. Unless they’re allergic to younger brothers.’ He winked at Jamie again, who glared at him. What a traitor!
‘Jamie!’ hissed Hayley and Bernice. They sounded like angry snakes, but the way they stepped towards Jamie and drew back their fists was anything but snake-like. ‘What have you done?’
Jamie backed away. ‘Nothing.’
‘Jamie!’ Mum sounded serious. ‘What exactly do you mean by “nothing”?’
‘Um, nothing much?’
Mum sighed. ‘Come on girls. It’s only itching powder.’
‘How did you know?’ Jamie clapped his hand over his mouth. How could he be so stupid? He’d just admitted it. Bernice and Hayley would kill him! They had that look in their eyes right now; the look that said, “look out little brother, you are dead meat.”
‘Girls!’ Mum stepped in front of Bernice’s spiky nails. ‘Go and get changed.’ She scowled at Jamie. ‘Get him later. After school.’
Dad folded the newspaper into quarters and stuck it in his bag. ‘Got to go,’ he said cheerfully. ‘See you later, honey.’
‘Don’t you “honey” me. What do you mean, egging him on like that?’
‘Och, honey. Don’t worry. It’s just a phase. He’ll grow out of it.’
‘He had better,’ said Mum grimly. ‘Or he won’t make it to adulthood.’
* * *
It was after school, and Jamie was munching a biscuit at the breakfast bar while Mum cut up vegetables.
‘You don’t need a computer to write a letter, Jamie,’ said Mum. ‘You can use pen and paper, you know. When I was little I didn’t even have a computer.’
Jamie had heard this a hundred times. The when-I-was-young speech: how lucky he was to have all these things poor Mum didn’t have as a child. Computers, the internet, an iPod, a DVD player … the list went on.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Did you have fire?’
‘Another reason for using a pen and paper,’ Mum sliced a tomato viciously, ‘is that it will allow you to hide silently beneath your bed. So when your sisters come home they can’t find you.’
‘Why should I hide from them?’
‘They were planning on killing you after school, remember?’
‘Oh,’ said Jamie, uneasily. ‘Yes.’
It was dusty under the bed, but it felt safer than being out in the open, where Bernice and Hayley might find him. Jamie lay on his stomach in the dark while he thought about what to say. When he told them about his school he didn’t want Stu and Rob to think, ‘Och, the poor wee bairn’. Jamie wanted his friends to be jealous.
He dug his phone from his pocket, turned on the screen for a light and tried to write as neatly as possible.
* * *
Dear Stuart and Rob
How are you? I hope you are well. We had our first assembly today. It was all right.
It would sound better if he was having an awesome time. Jamie scratched out “all right” and wrote “great”.
There are only three classrooms at school. We have plenty of tech stuff, Bluetooth board, laptops and iPads.
(This was true – but his teacher couldn't make the Wi-Fi work.)
The teachers are fantastic
(this was a lie).
There is Mrs Flowers. She teaches the junior school. All the kids between five and nine are in her class. She seems okay. Mr Pressick is my teacher. He’s from South Africa. He used to be in the army and he’s super tidy. He says the reason he works at Longridge Primary is because it’s the only school that would take him. I don’t think he's joking.
Mr Potts is the principal. I met Mr Potts earlier.
He didn’t want to tell Rob and Stuart about that.
There’s an office lady called Mrs Hays, everyone says to look out for her because she’s really nasty. Maybe she’s softening me up, because she seemed okay to me. She smiled and said she hoped I’d have a nice day.
There’s only seventy kids or so at the school. They all know each other.
(true)
They are really friendly.
(lie)
I have twenty kids in my class.
(true)
We start lessons tomorrow. Today it was just getting to know people and stuff. I’m the only new person there, though, so it didn’t take very long.
Jamie didn’t want to tell them about the rest of his day. So he just added,
Your friend, Jamie.
* * *
Lying in the dusty darkness, Jamie thought about his first day at Longridge School. It had been as horrible as he’d imagined it might be.
First, there had been the usual “What I did in the holidays” news. The children took it in turns to tell what they’d been up to. Apart from Jamie. Because no one could understand his accent.
Mr Pressick gave up asking him to repeat himself and told him to write the answers on the whiteboard. But because Mr Pressick was very particular about keeping the whiteboard tidy, he only let Jamie write in a corner. So Jamie had to stand with a marker in his hand, writing in wee letters what he had done for his holidays. There wasn’t much to say.
‘I moved house,’ Jamie wrote. ‘And got a dog.’
No trips to Majorca or Africa or Disneyland. Nothing exciting. Just packing, coming here, and unpacking. It had been a good idea to write about the dog, though.
Connor, a wiry boy with curly hair, wrote on the whiteboard: ‘What sort of dog?’
‘A Labrador,’ Jamie stared at the marker pen. Why did Connor need to write? Jamie wasn’t deaf.
Connor looked embarrassed, like he’d had the same thought. He coughed, and started talking out loud. ‘I’ve got a collie. He’s four. How old is yours?’
Jamie shrugged. ‘We got him off the internet. I don’t know.’
‘Write it down, Jamie,’ said Mr Pressick.
‘I can understand him,’ said Connor.
‘I can’t,’ said Mr Pressick. ‘Gabi. What did you do in your holidays?’
Jamie sat down with relief.
‘I’m Shelley. Mr Pressick is so mean,’ whispered the girl opposite him. ‘I can understand you.’
‘Thanks,’ whispered Jamie. Shelley wore braces on her teeth. He always ended up sitting opposite someone with braces. It was like a curse.
Jayden Harris was the mean kid in the class. His nose was flat at the top, as if someone had sat on him and squashed his face, and his desk was next to Jamie’s. Every time Jamie talked, Jayden sniggered. Eventually, Jamie stopped talking. Better to sit in silence than be laughed at all the time.
At lunch, Connor talked nonstop about his dog. He was called Mouse, which seemed a strange name for a dog, but whatever. Mouse could do all kinds of tricks and won a medal at the sheep dog trials.
‘What does your dog do?’
‘Chases balls,’ said Jamie. ‘And digs holes.’
After he’d finished his lunch, Jamie sneaked down to the ruined schoolhouse. Even though the place was kind of creepy, he liked the old building. It was private and quiet and there was no one here to laugh at him, to remind him he was different. He lay on the grass beside the tumbledown wall and made up rhymes about Mr Pressick and Jayden Harris.
A whisper in his ear, a tickle on his stomach. Jamie s
at up quickly. What was that? Had someone called him?
‘Hey, boy!’
He blinked. Was this for real? There was no one, just the blue of the sky and the green of the trees. And the great grey nettles that towered above his head. He relaxed, just for a second, then shot up like an uncoiling spring.
Nettles? Nettles?
He whimpered, rubbing his arms. These plants were big and grey and had long spikes on their leaves. Much more serious than Scottish nettles. And he was standing right in the middle of them! How could he have got here and not noticed?
He stood absolutely still, not daring to move. Again, he heard a murmur, a giggle; felt a quiver on the back of his legs.
‘Scaredy cat, scaredy cat, sitting on the doormat.’
Jamie shook his head. Just a fly. Or a bee. Or a wasp. A wasp? He whimpered again, louder this time. Should he call for help?
The day, so bright and clear, suddenly seemed dim. What should he do? Jamie crossed his arms against his chest so that he didn’t accidentally brush against a leaf, and tried to stand as still as a stone. He hated nettle stings. Just then, a breeze blew, ruffling the tops of the nettles, sighing against the trees. Was it his imagination, or was that a stern voice, a bossy voice – a teacher’s voice?
‘I’m here,’ he quavered, not wanting to talk too loudly in case he brushed against a nettle.
‘Ah. Yes.’ A man with young eyes and a bright smile stood on the other side of the clearing. He wore a waistcoat with a chain coming from the pocket, striped trousers, and a hat with a flat top.
Jamie whimpered. ‘Get me out of here!’
‘Come. Take my hand, lad. Good. Can you feel it?’
Jamie bent forward, moving only at his waist so his legs stayed out of the nettles, and grabbed the man’s hand. It was dry and cold. Strange to be so cold on such a warm day. ‘Aye. I can feel it.’
The Prankster and the Ghost Page 3