The Ministry of Ghosts

by Alex Shearer

  Tim shook his head.

  ‘Sorry. Too much homework.’

  ‘Far too much,’ Thruppence agreed.

  ‘Then maybe tomorrow?’

  Thruppence looked at Tim.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I could fit a bit in tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow it is then,’ Mr Copperstone said, delighted. ‘Tomorrow it is. And who knows, by this time next week, we may have ourselves a ghost. Oh yes. We may have ourselves one very much alive and kicking ghost to show to our Mr Beeston.’

  ‘I don’t know so much about the alive and kicking, Mr Copperstone,’ Mrs Scant said.

  ‘No. True. Dead and kicking would do,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Or not even kicking. Just as long as it’s a ghost. Yes. Just one little ghost. That’s all we need. Can you do that for us, do you think?’

  ‘No problem,’ Tim said.

  ‘We can do it if anyone can,’ Thruppence said. ‘Well, I can.’

  ‘And me too.’

  ‘You can rely on us,’ Thruppence said. ‘Well, on me, anyway. I won’t let you down. I don’t know about him.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ Tim said emphatically. ‘So do we need a contract in writing for these jobs?’

  ‘If our word is good enough for you, young man, then your word is good enough for us.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Tim said.

  ‘And me,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Then we shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow. And to a long – though not too long – and fruitful association.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Tomorrow it is,’ Tim agreed.

  ‘By the way,’ Thruppence said. ‘I tell you one thing I’m going to do tomorrow, before we get started on this ghost stuff.’

  ‘What is that, young lady?’

  ‘I’m going to polish up your brass nameplate outside. It’s a disgrace that. You’ve let things slide there, you have.’

  ‘Yes, we have been remiss. We used to have a maintenance man to do it, but he retired and was never replaced,’ Mr Copperstone explained.

  ‘Well,’ Thruppence said, ‘how do you ever expect anyone to know you’re here when they can’t even see your nameplate? No wonder the ghosts aren’t turning up. They probably don’t know where to go. I’ll bring my own buffing-up dusters and polish. But I’ll expect reimbursing.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Copperstone said.

  Thruppence left it at that. Then she and Tim both departed from the Ministry and made their ways home.

  ‘Like a breath of fresh air in the old place,’ Mr Copperstone said when they had gone. ‘The very presence of these youngsters just seems to blow the cobwebs away.’

  ‘Don’t know why we didn’t think of it years ago,’ Mrs Scant said.

  ‘Yes. Why didn’t we?’ Mr Copperstone asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Mrs Scant said.

  ‘Anyway, back to work I suppose, until five thirty. Though there isn’t very long to go. Any chance of a cup of tea, Mrs Scant?’

  ‘Of course, sir. I’ll go and boil the kettle.’

  And off she went to do so.

  But she must have got distracted, for, as usual, the tea never did arrive.

  13

  No Hugs

  Thruppence Coddley must have polished up the brass nameplate on her way to school, early the next morning. For the sunlight now sparkled brightly upon it and it gleamed boldly with all the smartness of new pins.

  The Ministry of Ghosts, the plate now proclaimed. Whereas previously the name had not so much proclaimed itself as shamefully muttered its existence with dull, smudged, shabby and tarnished embarrassment.

  A small wooden box had been left adjacent to the doorstep, and on this box Thruppence must have perched to enable her to reach the sign. She no doubt intended to retrieve the box on her way home that afternoon.

  Under the box were two cloths – one for applying and one for buffing-up – and a bottle marked ‘Best Fish Oil Polish’. Not that there was any lingering smell of fish, just the faint aroma of strawberries.

  Mr Copperstone was the first to see the renovated sign.

  Well, look at that now, he thought to himself. See how it sparkles. It makes you proud to be in the Ministry. It really does. Why, in some ways, it’s just like the old days again. Back when we were busy and at the centre of things. With comings and goings and the phone always ringing, and the telegram boy ever at the door, with news of fresh ghost sightings, or with requests from film stars to come and visit for an hour or two.

  Truly, the Ministry of Ghosts had once been a lively and a hectic place. The newspapers had written about it. Its progress was reported. On at least a weekly, if not a daily, basis.

  MINISTRY ON VERGE OF NEW FIND!

  FRESH EVIDENCE FOR EXISTENCE OF GHOSTS! PHOTOGRAPHS EXPECTED SOON! INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD OF THE MINISTRY OF GHOSTS – EXCLUSIVE!

  GHOSTS – SOON EVERY HOME WILL HAVE ONE, PROMISES MINISTER.

  UNIONS THREATEN INDUSTRIAL ACTION UNLESS MINISTER GUARANTEES GHOSTS FOR THE WORKING MAN. ALL WE WANT IS EQUALITY, SPOKESMAN SAYS.

  FEMINIST ORGANISATION DEMANDS GHOSTS FOR WOMEN. DEMONSTRATION EXPECTED IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

  ALLEGED MURDERER CLAIMS: ‘IT WAS GHOSTS THAT DID IT!’

  But when the ghosts did not appear, and when conclusive evidence never came, attention waned. The newspapers found other things to write about and the world moved on. Ghosts were a nine days’ wonder, a fashion, a fad. The Ministry became a subject of ridicule.

  WILL THE MINISTRY OF SPOOKS EVER FIND ONE? NOT A GHOST OF A CHANCE!

  MINISTRY OF GHOSTS? OR MONEY DOWN THE DRAIN?

  MINISTRY OF TIME-WASTERS, one headline said. WHAT DO THESE CIVIL SERVANTS DO ALL DAY? SPIRITS? THEY COULDN’T EVEN FIND SPIRITS IN A WHISKY DISTILLERY.

  Then after ridicule, obscurity. The Ministry slipped from public view, sinking like a wrecked ship beneath the waters of the ocean, to lie on the deep, dark seabed, out of sight and out of mind.

  But now here was evidence of revival – a shimmering, sparkling brass plate.

  At around eleven o’clock that morning, another exceptional event occurred in the Ministry of Ghosts: the telephone rang – with a real caller at the other end of it, not merely a salesman or a wrong number.

  Mr Copperstone stared at the phone – not that it was his job to immediately answer it. It was up to one of the staff to do that, and then, if necessary, to pass the call on to him. But he did wonder who was calling.

  Is it, he thought, for me?

  Downstairs the telephone simultaneously rang at the small switchboard by Mrs Scant’s desk.

  In their adjacent offices, Mr Gibbings and Miss Rolly looked up from their work; they stood and went to peer out into the corridor.

  ‘The telephone?’ Miss Rolly said.

  ‘Ringing?’ Mr Gibbings said. ‘At this time?’

  ‘What am I to do, do you think?’ Mrs Scant said.

  ‘Answer it!’ Miss Rolly said decisively.

  ‘You think I should?’

  ‘Definitely!’ Miss Rolly said.

  ‘But cautiously, too,’ Mr Gibbings counselled. ‘Nothing too abrupt.’

  Mrs Scant darted back into her office.

  ‘Hello,’ she was heard to say. ‘Ministry of Ghosts. How can I help you today?’ Her voice took on a tremulous note. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, Mr Beeston. He is. I’ll put you through.’

  Then she was talking to Mr Copperstone, saying, ‘Call for you, sir. It’s that awful Mr Beeston on the other line.’

  Much as Mr Copperstone would have preferred not to talk to him, he was duty bound to say, ‘Thank you, Mrs Scant. Please put him through.’

  After a series of clicks, Beeston’s voice boomed through the speakerphone on Mr Copperstone’s desk.

  ‘Copperbum! Is that you?’

  ‘Copperstone, actually, Mr Beeston. And yes, it is me.’

  ‘Good. Now see here, Copplebum –’

  ‘Stone!
’

  ‘See here, Stonebum, I’m ringing to see if there has been any progress. On the ghost front. You got one for me?’

  ‘No, not as yet. But you were only here last week and we do have three months, I believe … ’

  ‘Two months and three weeks now.’

  ‘Yes, well, we are working hard –’

  ‘That’ll make a nice change for you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, we have engaged two freelance ghost hunters to –’

  ‘They experienced?’

  ‘Oh – enormously.’

  ‘How are you paying them?’

  ‘We have the money all budgeted for.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting any extra. So don’t think you are.’

  ‘We are quite confident, Mr Beeston, that if anyone can find us a ghost, these two will be able to do it.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Intuition,’ Mr Copperstone said.

  Beeston snorted derisively.

  ‘Intuition? Really? Well, I’ll be ringing again for further progress reports, so don’t go thinking I’ve forgotten about you.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘And you might care to mention to your staff that I’ve checked out the Ministry of Sewage, and there is no shortage of vacancies. In fact there’s a nice sewage works about five miles down the river from you. I’m sure they’ll fit in there nicely. So good day to you then, Bubblewrap.’

  ‘Copperstone!’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  At that, the line fell silent.

  ‘Ignoramus,’ Mr Copperstone muttered to himself. ‘All the manners of a warthog. The calibre of people in the service these days. They’re just not gentlemen any more.’

  He looked up from his desk and mutterings to find three faces peering at him around the door.

  ‘Anything important, sir?’ Mr Gibbings asked.

  ‘Just that Beeston fellow,’ Mr Copperstone said. ‘Checking up on us. We’ve two months and three weeks left to find a ghost.’

  It was frightening how the days sped away. It really was. Time just vanished, like an apparition. It was here one moment, right in front of you, then suddenly it was gone, and you wondered if it had ever really been there at all.

  That afternoon, once school was over, Thruppence Coddley and Tim Legge walked together down Bric-a-Brac Street, in what might best be described as uneasy companionship.

  They had never been enemies, and yet, although they did not live far away from each other, and were in the same class, they had never exactly been friends either.

  Tim had his crowd and Thruppence had hers, and so it was. There was the occasional nod, the intermittent, ‘All right then?’ But little more than that. So the atmosphere between them was a touch uneasy.

  It was Thruppence who decided to take the initiative.

  ‘Tim,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I know you’re not my best mate and I’m not yours, but I think that what we have to establish here is a professional working relationship.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Tim said.

  ‘We have to work together to find a ghost, but that doesn’t mean we have to be all over each other and all lovey-dovey and stuff.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tim said. ‘Just what I was thinking. I’m not into lovey-dovey.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Especially not with girls,’ Tim said.

  ‘Nor me either,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Nor with boys either, come to that,’ Tim said.

  ‘Nor me,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘In fact I’m not the lovey-dovey type at all. Full stop. So we’ll just keep things on a professional footing, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Just what I was proposing,’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Then let’s shake on that,’ Tim said. ‘But no hugging. And no cuddles.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Thruppence said.

  So they shook on the deal, and agreed that they would work together as detached professionals to find a ghost. And while they agreed to look out for and to help each other – also on a professional basis – and to assist each other should either of them fall into danger, there was to be no lovey-dovey stuff, and absolutely no hugging of any kind whatsoever. Unless hugging was needed, as in – for example – getting your arms around someone to pull them out of a barrel.

  ‘Though I can’t see either of us being stuck in a barrel,’ Tim said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Thruppence said. ‘Though there is the possibility of someone getting stuck in a big drainpipe, perhaps.’

  ‘We’ll just have to take it as it comes and play it by ear,’ Tim said.

  ‘Right,’ Thruppence said. ‘And one more thing, that I’d better make clear now, is that just because my dad runs a fish shop, that doesn’t mean I ever smell of kippers. All I ever smell of is fresh strawberries. And if anyone ever says otherwise, there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Tim said. ‘Fine by me.’

  They had now arrived at the Ministry of Ghosts.

  ‘Coh, that nameplate’s a bit bright now. What happened?’

  ‘I polished it up this morning,’ Thruppence said. ‘Smart, isn’t it? Dazzling, even.’

  ‘So, shall we knock on the knocker or … ?’

  ‘They did give us a door key each and say come and go as you please … ’

  ‘All right,’ Tim said, fishing the key he had been given from his pocket. He had attached it to his key ring, along with the keys for his house and his money box. ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘Hello!’

  But there was no answer.

  ‘They must be out,’ Tim said. ‘Or in a meeting.’

  ‘Maybe they’re having forty winks.’

  But there were no sounds of snoring either.

  ‘Maybe they’ve gone home early?’ Thruppence said.

  ‘Yes. Maybe they just do a half day on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Hello!’ Thruppence called again, but all she got in reply was a faint meow from somewhere.

  ‘At least the cat’s here somewhere.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter if they’re here or not, for the moment,’ Thruppence said. ‘Come on, let’s go and find the library. We can have a look at that book they were on about.’

  ‘Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting?’

  ‘That’s it. Come on.’

  They made their way past the grandfather clock. As they did the chimes struck the quarter hour with grim solemnity, even with foreboding.

  ‘I couldn’t live with that,’ Thruppence said. ‘Chiming away every quarter of an hour. Drive me nuts.’

  They pushed open the door to the library and went inside. Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting was not hard to find; it was lying upon a table. And on the wall shelves surrounding it were hundreds, even thousands, of other books, all on ghosts and apparitions and the dead and the undead and the afterlife and the world of spirit.

  Tim picked one up at random. Dust exploded from its pages, making him cough.

  ‘We can’t read all these,’ he said. ‘It would take years.’

  ‘Look at this one,’ Thruppence said. ‘Ghosts and How to Exorcise Them.’

  ‘Exercise them?’ Tim said.

  ‘No, exorcise. Exorcise means to get rid of them.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘Bell, book and candle, it says here.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tim said. ‘Is that right? Why can’t you just tell them to go away?’

  ‘They don’t take any notice of you, I expect. Anyway, let’s have a look in the index here.’

  Thruppence went to the back of Grimes and Natterly’s Manual of Ghost Hunting and ran her finger down the index page until she came to C for Children.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘There’s about ten references here. There’s “Children: Attraction of Ghosts to”. And there’s “Children: as Bait to Lure Ghosts”. Then there’s “Children: Ghosts of”.’ />
  ‘No thanks,’ Tim said. ‘We’ll skip that.’

  ‘Then there’s “Children: Terrorising of by Ghosts”.’

  ‘Skip that too.’

  ‘Hang on, look at this though,’ Thruppence said. ‘Further up at the top of the page. Look at this entry: “Catching and Keeping Ghosts Once Found. How to Trap Ghosts and Stop Them From Escaping”.’

  ‘Look it up,’ Tim said. ‘We’re going to need to know that. Finding a ghost is only half of it. We’ve got to keep it as well, to show to people. Or how can we prove we’ve done the job?’

  Thruppence leafed through the pages of the tome. It was a huge book, as thick as a monument and as wide as a paving slab, and when you turned a page over, it fluttered down, like the wing of an eagle.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  They both read as follows:

  It is essential, for the trapping of ghosts, to use a strong and robust glass container. No other material will do. Ghosts may pass through wood, through stonework, through iron and steel and solid walls. But they cannot pass through glass. Hence genies are kept in bottles – though a glass stopper must always be used. Never make the mistake of using a cork. If you try to use a cork, your ghost or genie will be out of the bottle immediately. Your ghost will disappear, and your genie will be up to untold mischief, as you are now no longer the master of it. A glass stopper is essential, or a ghost catcher may come to a sticky end.

  ‘A sticky end?’ Tim said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know,’ Thruppence said. ‘An end. That’s sticky.’

  ‘But what sort of sticky?’

  ‘Not very nice sticky, I would imagine.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘But we should be all right on that score. I noticed plenty of glass jars and bottles in the tackle room.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And they all seemed to have glass stoppers to them as well.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You know, those hinged ones, on springs, like you get on lemonade bottles sometimes. Plus some screw tops.’

  ‘I know. Okay. So we know what to trap a ghost in. But how do we get it to go in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thruppence said. ‘That could be a problem.’

  ‘I mean,’ Tim said, ‘you can’t just say, “Excuse me, Mr Ghost … ”’