A vague ringing while later she was in a warm brown room, with thick brown lino on the floor. This room was provided with an iron bed, a white cupboard with a red cross on it, and a desk. Phyllis sat at the desk, dealing with a line of boys. She screwed back the top on a bottle and passed a small boy a pill. “There, Andrew. Are you still wheezing?”
The small boy put his head back, expanded his chest, and took several long, croaking breaths. He seemed to be trying very hard to breathe.
Phyllis smiled kindly, an angel of judgment. “No wheeze,” she said. “You needn’t come again tomorrow, Andrew. Now, Paul, how’s that boil?”
A large boy with a red swelling by his mouth stepped up as Andrew dwindled away. Phyllis put up a kind, cool hand and felt the boil. The tall boy winced.
“I think we’d better get the school doctor to look at that tomorrow,” Phyllis said. “I’ll give you a dressing if you wait. Now, Conrad. Let’s have a look at your finger.”
Mother was very busy just now, Sally realized guiltily. She must not try to interrupt her.
Later again she found she was with Himself once more. He was sweeping down a corridor among a crowd of boys. One of them was carrying a metal detector.
“We’re not going to use that again, Howard, unless we find ourselves in any doubt,” Himself was saying. “Untold harm has been done to archaeology by wild metal detecting and wilder digging. We must behave responsibly. Are you sure you marked the place, Greer?”
A boy assured him that he had marked it. Himself swept on, talking eagerly. He was in his whirling mood, when his coat fluttered behind him like wings and seemed to catch up and carry people in the excitement of his progress. He looked younger like this, Sally thought tenderly.
“Who knows what it may be?” said Himself. “Possibly a cannonball. Unquestionably, School House was once the site of Mangan Manor, where Cromwell’s army besieged the royalist forces during the Civil War. We may have lighted on their camp. Yes,” he said as they thumped through a door, whirling Sally with them, “I plump for a cannonball as the most likely thing.”
They were out in the gold-green of early evening. The playing field stretched toward faraway trees in faint white mist, flat as a lake, bright as water. The ringing mutter of school went suddenly distant.
“Neither can we rule out the possibility of something earlier,” Himself continued, whirling out onto the flat green space. “Round here we have some of the earliest British settlements—but I doubt if those would yield much metal. It’s more likely to be metal from the Roman occupation. I must say I fancy finding a hoard of Roman coins. In which case it would be treasure trove. Which boy knows the law about treasure troves?”
Sally paused. Once again the wide-open green space made her uncomfortable. In spite of the hurrying group, she was defenseless. She thought she might dissolve. Besides, Himself was still thoroughly busy.
“Of course,” he was saying as they whirled away from her, “we mustn’t discount the possibility of a complete sell. It may be a cache of Coca-Cola tins.”
Sally faded back into the ringing, muttering school. By now there was a strong gusting of gravy from the kitchen. Phyllis was hurrying toward the kitchen with a lady wearing a white overall and a bent cigarette stuck to her lower lip.
“Well, you must do what you think best, Mrs. Gill,” Phyllis was saying. “Haven’t we a tin of processed peas left that we could eke it out with?”
The bent cigarette wagged. “Those all went last week,” said white-coated Mrs. Gill. “Did you order more in, Mrs. Melford? I can’t see how I’m going to manage for the Disturbed Course without, if you didn’t.”
“I’ll see to that tomorrow,” said Phyllis. Thump went the silver door behind them both, and a gust of gravy.
Still busy, Sally realized, hanging heavily in the corridor.
But they must notice me! she was saying to herself before long. I must tell them I think I’m dead. I think it’s important. It has to be more important than cannonballs and processed peas. They have a right to be worried about me.
A battering bell shortly summoned battering feet and furious gusts of gravy to a high brown place full of tables. Sally was sucked in by the rush. And then hung quiet, because everyone hushed. Himself stood up to say, “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.” Again he had a different manner, more like a priest. Himself’s voice rolled out the few words like organ music. Chairs scraped. Cutlery clattered. Voices blared, and Phyllis and Himself were again immersed in talking to the boys at tables where they sat.
Sally became desperate. She tried battering herself, fluttering and hovering, first round Himself, then round Phyllis. Look at me! Notice! It’s Sally. It’s Sally and I’m DEAD!
“Would you care for some salt?” Himself asked Paul with the boil. Paul, looking shamefaced, hurriedly passed Mr. Melford the salt.
Phyllis laughed. “Julian, tell Ned he can’t do that. It’s not possible.”
I give up, Sally said. No, I don’t. They’re bound to pop in and see how we are later on. I’ll get them to notice me then. And until then I’m going to HAUNT my beastly sisters. I’m going to scare them thoroughly.
On that thought she shot back toward the green-covered door. Imogen was just going through the door, too. She flung it wide as Sally arrived and flung both herself and Sally through into the passage beyond. There Imogen tripped on the ends of her yellow trousers and fell into the kitchen.
“What’s up? Or rather down?” said Cart. She and Fenella were standing, looking expectant, beside the kitchen table. There were three places laid on it.
Imogen heaved herself up onto her elbows. “Oh, nothing,” she said bitterly. “They’ve forgotten to leave us any supper again. That’s all.”
There was silence. Imogen lay there; Cart and Fenella stood looking depressed. None of them behaved as if this was unexpected. Indeed, Sally knew it was not. It happened fairly often. I don’t think I’ll start haunting them just yet, she decided. She knew too well how they were feeling.
Below her, Imogen’s eyes bulged waterily. “This is the last straw,” she said. Her voice croaked. “I think I shall simply starve and die.”
Cart and Fenella leaped toward Imogen and hauled her off the floor. “Oh, Imogen, don’t cry again,” Cart said. “The rest of us have to listen to you.”
Fenella said, with menace, “I’ll go to the kitchen.” Sally had expected that. It was usually Fenella who went to deal with School for them. Since Sally felt she had had enough of Imogen grieving that afternoon, she went with Fenella. Fenella marched down the passage, swung wide the green door, and marched to the silver door. Thump. Fenella let the silver door swing shut behind her and stood meaningly, waiting to be noticed.
School kitchen was a hot vista of gravy steam, white enamel, shiny taps, and greasy black floor. Three white-coated ladies were standing in the steam by the serving hatch. They had finished their own supper, as the three plates covered with scraped gravy on the table showed, and were drinking out of thick white cups. They were laughing loudly and did not notice the thump of the door. Nevertheless, Fenella did not move. She did not do anything that Sally could see, but somehow, she became steadily more and more noticeable. Her green sack became shriller, her buck teeth seemed to grow larger, and her whole self, with its wriggly dark hair and insect knees, shortly seemed to fill the whole end of the kitchen, vengeful and brooding and waiting. Sally much admired this. It was a gift Fenella had.
Two seconds later Mrs. Gill’s bent cigarette turned that way irritably. “You,” she said, “have been told often enough not to come in here bothering us when we’re working.”
Fenella simply stood and looked at her.
“I shall tell your mother,” said Mrs. Gill. She put down her cup and ran at a saucepan of steaming custard, which she shook vigorously, to show how busy she was.
Fenella spoke, deep and loud. “I came,” she said. Really, Sally thought, it was as if Fenella was doing
the haunting and not Sally at all. “I came because we haven’t got any supper again.”
“Well, there’s no need to look at me like that!” Mrs. Gill retorted. “I’ve got enough to do without running after four great girls that ought to be able to look after themselves. You’ve got a kitchen in there. You ought to cook for yourselves. When I was your age—”
Icily Fenella cut through this. “There isn’t a cooker in our kitchen.”
“Then there should be!” Mrs. Gill said, scoring a triumph. “Your mother should ask for one to be put in, and then—”
“Our supper is paid for,” said Fenella. “Tonight.”
“I can’t help that!” shrilled Mrs. Gill. “It’s none of my business who pays for what. I’m only the cook here. And how your mother expects me to manage on the provisions I get, I just don’t know!”
The other ladies, looking nervously at Fenella’s brooding face, seemed to feel Mrs. Gill needed support.
“There wasn’t hardly enough meat to go round, dear,” said one.
“And the veg was off. We had to eke out with frozen,” said the other.
Fenella smiled at them. It was a ghastly sight. It was as if her face had split open. “Never mind. You’ll both be interviewed on television when we die of starvation.”
The two looked at one another. Fancy!
“Oh, all right!” snapped Mrs. Gill. “I’ll see what’s left in the fridge. You’ll find some bread and some cheese in that cupboard. And I can spare some custard.”
Mrs. Gill flounced to the cupboards and the fridge and clattered out bowls and plates. Fenella stood silently by, accepting everything Mrs. Gill offered. She accepted twice as much as there would have been in the ordinary way, and a bowl of custard. Shortly her skinny arms were braced round almost more food than she could carry.
“Thank you,” she said at last. It was royal.
“I don’t know why your sister can’t carry some of it,” Mrs. Gill said fretfully, heaving the custard saucepan off the stove. “She’s twice the size you are.”
Fenella’s chin was lowered to keep a block of cheese in place. She gave Mrs. Gill a quick, shrewd look from under her knotted hair. “If you mean Sally,” she said, “she’s dead.”
Mrs. Gill’s mouth opened, with the cigarette stuck to its lower lip. She spun round, holding the saucepan. She looked straight at Sally, hovering at Fenella’s side. Her open mouth stiffened, until it went almost square. She screamed, “AHA-aaaaa-a-a-a!” a long, fading scream, like someone falling off a cliff, and dropped the saucepan. Custard flew. It went in yellow dollops and strong gouts, through Sally, across Fenella’s insect legs, and along the kitchen floor right up to the silver door. The other two ladies screamed as well at the sight of it.
“Oh, dear,” Fenella said briskly. “What a pity.” She turned and picked her way, slithering a little in the river of custard, to the door. She pushed through the door. Thump. Sally dived after her.
Mrs. Gill broke out screaming again behind the door. “Oh, look at that! It went through the door! Did you seeeee? It went throooough!”
She was clearly audible beyond the green door as Fenella eased herself and her armful of food carefully through that. Imogen and Cart sped to meet her.
“Oh, good!” said Cart, seeing the food. “What’s that noise?”
“Fenella, you are clever,” said Imogen. “Who’s screaming?”
“Mrs. Gill,” said Fenella. “She’s covered me in custard. I think she must be psychic.”
“What do you mean?” asked her sisters.
“Psychiatric then,” said Fenella, who was never sure about difficult words. “Physical. You know.” She went carefully to the table and eased her armful down on it. Cart caught a skidding bowl full of tinned tomatoes. Imogen caught the block of cheese as it toppled from under Fenella’s chin.
“Yes, but what happened?” they demanded.
“She thought Sally was with me,” said Fenella.
Neither Cart nor Imogen showed the slightest sign of guilt. They laughed, Cart heartily, Imogen waterily. “But Sally’s not here! What do you mean, Fenella?”
Fenella never explained anything properly. She had once told Sally she didn’t know how. She peeled a slice of corned beef off a cold fried egg and did her best. “She thought Sally was a ghost and threw custard all over the floor.”
This puzzled Imogen. “I didn’t know you got rid of ghosts with custard.”
Cart was puzzled, too. “But Sally can’t be a ghost.”
“Can’t she?” asked Fenella. “Look at Oliver.”
The smell of food had roused Oliver, and he had woken to discover Sally here again. He heaved up, rumbling and dribbling a little, and waltzed toward the table, looking rather menacing. He can’t bite me, even if he tried, Sally said uneasily.
“He walks just like a camel,” said Imogen. “He swings his legs out sideways.”
“That’s his deformity,” said Cart. “I think he’s just hungry.”
“Doting fool!” said Fenella.
Oliver took advantage of the situation to pass his nose across the table and work his magnetizing trick again. After an almost unnoticeable pause for swallowing, he was growling again.
“It’s not fair,” said Fenella. “Cold fried eggs are almost the only thing I like!”
Cart pushed Oliver’s nose away and began sorting out what food he could eat. She had to supplement cold roast potatoes and tinned tomatoes with four tins of dog food. Oliver took a lot of feeding. When Cart dumped the plates down on the floor for him, it seemed to reconcile Oliver somewhat to Sally’s peculiar presence. His growling subsided. The tail end of him swayed sedately, while the blurred fore end bent busily to pushing the plates around the floor. The other three settled to supper. Sally watched wistfully. She did not exactly feel hungry, but it would have been nice to eat something, too, for company. And it did irritate her, the way Fenella, after picking at everything on the table, refused to eat anything but cold baked beans.
No wonder your stomach sticks out so! Sally said to Fenella. You’re like a starved savage in a famine poster! Savage indeed. She recalled Fenella worshiping Monigan and Fenella’s letter: “Dear Parents, We have killed Sally…” I think I shall start haunting you now, Sally announced.
There was, Sally knew, a kind of ghost which threw things about. After her success with the wastepaper basket she was sure she could do that. She reached for the salt cellar. To her surprise and exasperation, nothing happened. She reached for it again. Still nothing. She could make no impression on it at all. She could not seem even to move Imogen’s handkerchief, which Imogen had prudently crumpled beside her place in case she cried again.
Oh, bother! Sally cried out. I’ve forgotten how! Oliver responded to that with a sudden growl. He seemed to have resigned himself to Sally, but he did not like her shouting. I hate you all! Sally shouted, and flounced off, bobbing and whirling, to perch on the draining board.
“You know,” remarked Cart, “if Sally was here, she’d just have got to the part where she shouts out that she hates us all.”
Sally glowered at Cart from the draining board. You wait, she said. People can see me. Mrs. Gill did, and I can move things. Just wait till Mother and Himself come in, and then I’ll shrivel you all with guilt!
She was certain both parents would come and see them as soon as School was over for the evening. Hopefully she watched the big wall clock for nearly an hour. There was a bell and distant shrill bustling from School. Now, she thought.
However, no parents appeared. Sally had to move from the draining board then because Imogen cleared the table. Even bodiless, Sally did not fancy sitting on dirty dishes. She thought it might be a hopeful sign that Imogen was clearing up. Himself got very irritable if he saw the mess they lived in. But Imogen was not behaving as if she was expecting Himself. None of the sisters was. Imogen was tidying in a vexed, restless way, as if she felt more grieving coming on. Cart was reading. Fenella was lying on her bulging sto
mach under the table, spitting chewed-up pieces of paper at Cart’s feet. She missed every time.
The latch of the outside door clacked. Sally sprang up. So did Oliver. Imogen turned round from the sink, and Cart laid down her book.
“Hallo,” Cart said cheerfully. “Come on in.”
Ned Jenkins slid round the door, clutching a paper bag, grinning rather guiltily. “We brought the jar of coffee,” he said. “Have you any spare food?”
“Because,” said Will Howard, sliding in after Ned, “there was practically nothing for supper again, and we’re starving.”
“Drat you!” Fenella exclaimed from under the table.
“Why?” asked Ned Jenkins, bending down to look at her.
Fenella looked accusingly up at him. “You made me jump, opening the door, and I swallowed the piece of paper I was chewing.”
“Paper doesn’t kill you,” said Ned Jenkins.
“Yes, it does,” Howard said cheerfully. “It wraps itself round your appendix and you die in agonies.”
Fenella gave him the look which had defeated Mrs. Gill. It had no effect on Will Howard at all. “How many more of you are coming?” she said witheringly. “I’m not going to chew any more paper until you’ve all arrived.”
“Stinker’s up to his ears in physics,” Ned said, rubbing Oliver’s back with his paper bag. “Greer, Wrenn, and Shepperson are all prancing around in wire helmets, waving swords. And Howard told Nutty Filbert we weren’t coming here tonight—”
“Why?” said Fenella.
“Because Filbert’s mad,” Howard said blandly.
“But we’re pleased to see you two,” Imogen said kindly.
She said it so grandly that Howard bent down under the table and whispered to Fenella, “Is your sister saying hallo, or is she letting me know my socks smell?”
“You are stupid!” said Fenella.
Ned Jenkins said awkwardly, “Julian’s coming. He went to scrounge some buns from Perry’s.”
Cart turned round from plugging in the electric kettle, beaming. Sally could see this was good news to her. “Let’s have that coffee here,” she said. “I saved enough milk, I think.”
The Time of the Ghost Page 5
