by Kitty French
He puts both his hands on his head. ‘Bloody hurt, it did.’
‘I imagine it would, yes.’
‘Write his name down in case you get a vacancy?’
‘I’ll remember it. Little Arthur Elliott.’
‘You don’t know where he lives.’
Resigned, I get up from the comfort of the armchair and cross to sit behind my desk where I open up the wide drawer. Marina has laid out all of my new stationery as if it’s the first day of term. Fresh A4 writing pad, pristine and lined, ready to go. Sharpened pencils. Unused eraser. A neat line of blue, black and red pens. God, I love that woman.
I pick up the pad and a pencil and write ‘Arthur Elliott,’ across the top of the paper. I transcribe the address Big Art relays to me, and then smile, my pencil poised. I’m quite enjoying the feeling of writing things down at the desk, it feels like an actual job.
‘Anything else I should know? Qualifications, that sort of thing?’
I chew the end of the pencil and glance at Big Art, who once more looks on the verge of unsheddable tears.
‘None,’ he whispers.
‘None?’ I say, far louder. ‘Not even an F in woodwork or something?’
‘Bloody bullies!’ the words burst from Big Art’s chest. ‘Gentle giant my Artie is, and they just wouldn’t leave him alone. Always on the outside he was, never included. Me and his mother didn’t even know anything about it until we were called in to see why his attendance was so awful.’
‘He was bullied?’
Big Art nods. ‘Summat rotten. ’Bout his acne, his snake, his height. You know how it is with that sort, like a pack of dogs with a bone. He’d have been alright if he’d had a mate or two, but he never really seemed to find anyone.’
No one understands the loneliness of being an outsider more than I do. If I hadn’t had Marina, my own school life could very easily have mirrored Little Art’s. I look at the mournful, ruddy-cheeked man in front of me and withdraw some proper writing paper from the desk drawer.
‘Come and sit down, Art.’
Half an hour later, he’s a changed ghost. Together we’ve written a letter to Arthur Elliott Jr. offering him the position of apprentice ghost-hunter, stating he’s been highly recommended and that he should come at his earliest convenience and identify himself to Melody Bittersweet, sole proprietor of The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency on Chapelwick High Street. The name has been a subject of hot debate over the last week between Marina and me. She made a strong case for The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency, though I do still fear customers will expect us to turn up in God-awful white jumpsuits and suck their offending ghosts into tanks on our backs.
Big Art beams approvingly at the letter as I fold it in half. ‘Little Art loves Harry Potter, the mystery of it will appeal to him.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have an owl to deliver it,’ I say, licking a stamp and fixing it on the front of the envelope.
In front of me, Big Art is already starting to fade.
‘Seems like you might make your mum’s birthday after all,’ I whisper.
‘Look after him for me.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, carried away by the sentiment. I place the letter in the out-tray to post later on. Look at me using my out-tray! I pause for a second to soak in the mini-thrill of working at my desk for the first time, and then on second thoughts I pull the envelope out of the out-tray and scrawl ‘The management regret to inform you that reptiles are not permitted on the premises’ across the bottom in red capitals. Eternal promise or not, if Arthur Elliott turns up here with a python he won’t make it past the front door.
Chapter Three
‘I forgot the donuts.’
It’s two minutes before nine, and I stare at Marina aghast then lay my head on the desk. ‘We’re doomed.’
She laughs and pulls a pretty, vintage Amaretti Virgina biscuit tin from her huge handbag as she shrugs out of her jacket. ‘Will these do instead? Nonna made them fresh this morning especially for you.’
I groan happily. ‘I love your gran so much more than I love my own. The closest mine ever gets to sticky buns is at her exercise class.’ I lift the lid from the glitzy lime green and gold tin and gaze happily at the shiny wonder of Nonna Malone’s glazed buns.
I sniff the scented air pleasurably. ‘Lemon?’
‘Limoncello babas.’
The heavenly smells that usually permeate the bricks and mortar of Marina’s home fill the office, sweet and comforting, and I wonder if nine in the morning is too early to start main-lining sugar. Marina makes the decision for me by putting the lid back on the tin and moving it a safe distance away from me. She knows me well; I’ve got no stop valve when it comes to sweet things. I’d happily eat that whole tin of babas and then slump in a heap under the desk by mid-morning.
‘Any word from Little Art?’
I shake my head. ‘Not yet. It’s only been two days though, if you don’t count the weekend.’
‘That letter probably freaked him right out, to be fair. If he’s got any sense he’ll be hiding in the cupboard under his stairs.’ Marina grins, draping herself sideways over our now thankfully dust-free armchair. She’s clocked into work wearing black skinny jeans and a black polka dot chiffon blouse, her dark waves loose around her shoulders. I look down at my own outfit; indigo skinnies and a long sleeved navy and white Breton T-shirt. I knotted a red silk scarf around my neck at the last minute, and between us, I think we’re channelling an air of jaunty Parisian chic. The only marked difference between our look is that Marina is wearing her signature sky-high heels and I’m in my, equally signature, flats. My closet full of ballet pumps and converse trainers brings me as much joy as other women get from their jewellery boxes.
‘It’s not that freaky an offer, is it?’ I find it difficult to judge weirdness effectively; my idea of what constitutes wacko is skewed by the fact that I grew up in screwball central.
Marina pulls a face that says ‘yes, it was possibly the freakiest letter anyone in the whole of Chapelwick has ever received’.
‘You’re working here, and you’re normal,’ I point out, even though Marina isn’t really all that regular. When she doesn’t answer me, I narrow my eyes and think. ‘Glenda!’ I almost punch the air as I shout her name. ‘Glenda’s normal.’
Marina’s laugh drips sarcasm. ‘Glenda’s freakin’ wonder woman. She probably wears her knickers over her tights underneath those close-fitting little power suits.’
That’s the other thing about Glenda Jackson. She’s foxy. Literally. All swept-up red hair and vavavoom bosoms, we have to keep her away from elderly men with weak hearts in case she dispatches them on the spot and gets Blithe a reputation for drumming up business in the most direct way possible.
We both jump as someone taps, feather-light, on the door.
‘God, I hope that’s not Glenda. If she heard me she’ll eat my head without even needing to chew,’ Marina whispers.
‘Shouldn’t be. She doesn’t start until next week. I asked Gran for a week’s grace so we can at least pretend we know what we’re doing.’
‘In a week?’
Whoever’s at the door taps again, just as softly, and Marina hoists herself up and answers it with her hand on her hip.
‘The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency, can I help you?’
It might have sounded professional if she wasn’t chewing gum in the style of Julia Roberts’ wise-cracking prostitute friend in Pretty Woman. Actually, she’s not unlike her . . . except Marina is not a prostitute.
‘Can I speak with Melanie Sweetbitter, please?’
‘Melody Bittersweet,’ Marina corrects. ‘You can’t be that interested in speaking to her if you don’t even know her name.’
I clear my throat and cross the room to stand beside Marina. We watch the toweringly tall, awkward boy on the doorstep turn an unattractive shade of beetroot as he roots around in the inside pocket of his ill-fitting suit jacket. He pulls out a letter I recognise and shakes it open.
Arthur Elliott. He looks like a much younger, paler version of his ruddy-cheeked father.
‘Melody Bittersweet?’ he says, his nervous grey eyes flicking between us.
Marina cocks her head towards me as I step forward and hold my hand out.
‘I’m Melody.’ I try to fill my voice with easy confidence as I shake his clammy hand. ‘You must be Arthur. Come on in.’
I step back to make room for him to come inside, and have to yank Marina back by the arm when she stays in place, blocking the doorway.
‘Shouldn’t we have a password?’ she hisses at me as Arthur edges uncertainly past us.
‘What like?’ I say out of the corner of my mouth.
She shrugs, closing the door. ‘I don’t know! Donuts? Limoncello babas?’
I hold in a laugh. ‘Behave yourself. You’re going to scare people off.’
‘Says the one who sees dead people.’
Arthur is hovering by the desk listening to us, his eyes as round as footballs.
‘Have I come at a bad time?’ The panic in his whispery croak suggests that he thinks he has come at a very bad time indeed and would like to leave right away.
‘No, no. Come and sit down, Arthur. You’re right on time.’
‘I am?’ If anything, he looks even more disconcerted to hear that he’s on time for an appointment he didn’t even know he had.
Marina steps forward and swings the swivel chair in front of the desk around to Arthur. He swallows hard, as if there’s a chance it’s electrified, and then lowers his lanky frame into it and licks his lips.
‘Water?’ I ask, walking around the desk and taking my seat. The boy nods. I’m not surprised. He looks as if he’s about to pass out. ‘Marina, could you grab Arthur a glass of water, please?’
‘Whisky in it?’ she jokes, looking at him, and he shakes his head slowly.
‘I only drink beer. Two cans on a Friday with my dad.’ His eyes suddenly fill with tears and Marina looks stricken. I lower my eyes and give him a second to gather himself.
‘That water?’ I prompt Marina, and she pats Arthur on the shoulder as she disappears in search of a glass. That’s the thing about Marina. She’s full of wisecracks, everybody’s funny girl, but there’s a sentimental vein that runs through her to the core. She sat beside me and cried when Kate Winslet pulled that old guy around the swimming pool while I stuck my fingers down my throat and fake gagged into the popcorn. You get the idea.
‘You sent me a letter,’ Arthur said, looking at his lap.
‘I did. I heard that you might be the right person for a job that’s come up here.’
He looks up at last, but the expression in his eyes tells me that he doesn’t believe me.
‘You heard from who?’
God. Sticky wicket. I can hardly tell him that his dad came to see me in his high-vis jacket and talked me into offering his son a job, can I?
‘A . . . friend?’ I try, and his eyes grow even more troubled. Ah, that’s right. He doesn’t have friends.
‘Umm . . . an old teacher?’
He shakes his head, and I remember his father’s words about Arthur bunking off.
‘You know, I can’t remember,’ I say, waving my hand vaguely in the air. ‘Let’s talk about the job and it’ll probably come back to me.’
He looks at me warily, still unconvinced.
‘It’s not much,’ I say, because I haven’t actually thought about what the job will be. ‘Helping out around here, learning the ropes, and coming with me on assignments out in the, er, field.’
He glances at his super-shiny black lace ups. ‘Will I need to buy some wellies?’
I frown at him.
‘For the fields,’ he explains.
‘Oh! No . . .’ I smile. ‘Sorry, Arthur. No, I meant out in the field, as in when I go out to visit clients in their homes, or buildings, or, er, wherever their problem is.’
‘But not in fields?’
I shake my head. ‘No fields.’
He runs a finger around the inside of his shirt collar and gratefully accepts the glass of water that Marina has returned with. He knocks the whole thing back in one go and then hands her the empty glass.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
‘And you won’t need to wear a suit.’ I smile. ‘We like to keep things casual around here.’ I realise I sound like I’m quoting from a seventies handbook of how to be a hipster boss for buttoned-up people who don’t have a clue.
Marina nods. ‘Yeah, casual. Dress down Fridays. Wear pink Wednesdays. Naked Tuesdays!’ She throws in jazz hands for good measure, because she clearly doesn’t feel that she’s terrified poor Arthur enough. His sudden coughing fit suggests otherwise.
‘She’s just kidding,’ I say quickly. ‘She’s like this all the time, you’ll get used to her. I have.’
‘The letter . . . it said trainee ghost-hunter,’ Arthur says, finding his voice at last.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘The agency is very new, but it’s our aim to help people who feel that their property is, for want of a better phrase, haunted.’
‘And we do . . . what?’
‘Well,’ my eyes dart a silent warning at Marina to let me do the talking. ‘We go in, find out if there are any ghosts in there, and if there are, we figure out what they want and hopefully resolve the issue so they can move on.’
Arthur’s gaze never leaves my face as I speak.
‘How will we know if there are ghosts or not?’
I clear my throat. ‘Okay. So, don’t freak out, but I can see them.’
He jumps inside his jacket and looks at me as if I’ve grown an extra head.
‘With special ghost-hunting goggles?’
I shake my head. ‘No, Arthur. I see them with my eyes, and I hear them with my ears. I’m a normal person, just like you, except that I can see and talk to dead people.’
I speak in a low, measured voice and he takes it all in.
‘And you too?’ His gaze slides to Marina, who barks with laughter at the suggestion.
‘No way, José. Bruce Willis over there is on her own with that one.’
Arthur pauses. ‘You know it wasn’t Bruce Willis who could see dead people in that movie?’
I admire him for having the balls to correct Marina. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. He looks back at me and the flare of hope in his eyes is unmissable.
‘And you can teach me to see dead people too?’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t something you can be taught,’ I say tactfully. ‘You either do or you don’t. I don’t choose to be able to do it. I just can. All of my family can.’
Arthur looks as if a light bulb has suddenly gone on in his head. ‘So are you like that Leo Dark off the telly?’
I resist the urge to growl, ‘Not much, no.’ Instead, I sigh and say, ‘Sort of. A little bit. Only I’m a lot, lot better.’
‘She is,’ Marina pipes up from the chair. ‘She sees them everywhere, all of the time. You’ll get used to her.’ She smiles sweetly and adds, ‘I have.’
And then, surprisingly, a wide grin splits Arthur’s face, like a slash of pure sunshine.
‘You two are funny.’
Marina doffs her imaginary cap. ‘We’re here every day.’
I look him square in the eyes and choose my next words carefully. ‘Well? What do you say, Little Art? Want to be here every day too?’
He goes still, and then slowly picks up his letter from the desk and tucks it inside his jacket pocket while he considers his answer. When he looks up, his eyes tell us his decision before his mouth does.
‘I’m in.’
I smile widely and reach out to shake his hand. This time his hand isn’t clammy and his smile is genuine.
Marina escorts him to the door and shakes his hand too as she sees him out.
‘See you in the morning,’ she says, pumping his hand. ‘You’re a wizard, Arthur.’
He stalls and his brow furrows. ‘I’m a trainee ghost-hunter, not a wizard.’
<
br /> Marina rolls her eyes and I look down to hide my smile. Things are never going to be dull around here with these two.
Marina closes the door and leans her back against it. ‘I’ll bet you a tenner he doesn’t show up in the morning,’ she says.
‘He’ll be here.’
I saw the change in him when I called him Little Art. He knows exactly who recommended him for the job, and he doesn’t want to let his dad down.
I grab the tin of Nonna’s Limoncello babas and lift the lid, inhaling the smell so deeply that it’s a wonder the buns don’t levitate.
Marina rummages in her bag and pulls out a pack of fresh Sicilian dark roast. ‘Coffee break?’
I nod as a snort of laughter bubbles up my windpipe. ‘Naked Tuesdays.’
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all coffee’d up and I’m trying to decide if a third Limoncello baba would send me into a sugar coma when Leo sodding Dark swans onto the TV screen with an affected flick of his cape.
‘Someone should tell him not to take fashion tips from Sherlock Holmes. He’s no Benedict Cumberbatch.’ Marina curls her lip and I love her for her loyalty.
I’d reasoned with myself that the TV was a necessary purchase for the business of watching CCTV recordings and such like. We most definitely won’t be using it to watch morning TV or re-runs of Charmed. No siree. Well, not once Glenda Jackson starts, anyway. I reach for the remote and turn it up, feeling the beginnings of a tingle down my spine as we watch the outside broadcast from an old, decrepit, Victorian gothic house I vaguely recognise.
‘I know that place,’ Marina says, brushing crumbs from her jeans. ‘It’s out on the edge of town. Brimsdale Road, I think?’
I nod, listening to the owner bemoaning the fact that he can’t keep workmen on site because of the numerous reports of ghostly hauntings at Scarborough House. Leo is nodding along, frowning in all the right places as he listens to the guy, Donovan Scarborough, grumble about the fact that he’s inherited a house that’s proving nigh on impossible to sell. The buyers he’s lined up are keen to change the place from a house into a nursing home, but they’ve got a serious case of the jitters and won’t sign on the dotted line unless, in their words, it’s officially declared a poltergeist-free zone. He couldn’t load his words with more derision if he tried.
