by Hilary McKay
Why are you going with Max? To get away from the man-round-the-corner?’
‘No!’ said Charlie, and he thought, did James Bond ever have to answer such stupid questions?
Charlie’s mother was equally useless. She said, ‘You’d better not be planning anything silly.’
Imagine, thought Charlie, James Bond going off on one of his missions and having to put up with his mum saying he’d better not be planning anything silly.
Nobody treated him like a superhero, not even Max. Max told him his ghost story all over again as they drove to Aunt Emma’s.
‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,’ Max said.
‘Yes I do,’ said Charlie. ‘You’ve told me dozens of times. Sleeping on the sofa bed in the dining room …’
‘It smells of dinners,’ said Max.
‘… In a black dark room where the light switch is next to the door so you have get out of bed and grope about on the wall to find it.’
‘I’ve brought a torch,’ said Max. ‘But something about that house jinxes torches. I couldn’t get one to work last time.’
‘You told me that before too,’ said Charlie. ‘And about the scratching noises and the tapping sounds and the way the air goes suddenly cold …’
‘It’s the sort of ghost,’ said Max, ‘that touches you. It breathed on me, did I tell you that? And then I felt its fingers in my hair.’
‘It was Aunt Emma’ groaned Mum, from the front seat. ‘I’ve told you and told you it was just Aunt Emma!’
‘There was no one there,’ insisted Max.
‘She probably simply popped in to see if you were warm enough and kiss you goodnight.’
‘IT WAS NOT AUNT EMMA!’ Max growled. ‘Aunt Emma doesn’t even do stuff like that.’
This seemed to be true.
‘Max!’ exclaimed Aunt Emma as soon as they arrived. ‘How nice to have you here again! Relax! I won’t kiss you! I remember how much I hated kissing relations when I was your age! And this is …’
‘Charlie,’ said Charlie, giving her a very James Bond-ish look. ‘The name’s Charlie.’
‘Charlie!’ said Aunt Emma, looking down at him. ‘Goodness, how you’ve grown! Much more than Max has! Come in, 007!’
From that moment Charlie and Aunt Emma were friends. She was unlike anyone he had ever met before. She seemed to understand him. Right from the start, she treated him as if he was the bravest of the brave.
Because of this, Charlie became fearless.
When Aunt Emma sent him off with Max to explore the house it was Charlie who crawled among the boots and shoes in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Why?’ asked Max.
‘Just checking for skeletons,’ said Charlie, airily.
At supper time it was Charlie (who was never allowed near the cooker at home) who fried the sausages and onions for hot dogs while Max made banana splits for pudding. The banana splits were good, but Charlie’s hot dogs, nearly black and piled with onions, were fantastic.
Afterwards he astonished Max and Aunt Emma by scrubbing the frying pan clean.
‘I thought it was beyond all help,’ said Aunt Emma. ‘I was going to throw it away!’
As a reward for cleaning the frying pan, Charlie was sent to climb a wobbly stack of chairs to the attic trapdoor in order to bring down a very smelly old tent.
‘You won’t want to use it tonight,’ said Aunt Emma as she helped them put it up in the garden (Max holding up poles while Charlie bashed in tent pegs with an enormous mallet). ‘It’s far too musty. But by tomorrow it will be aired. You can sleep in it then if you like.’
After the tent was up they went for a run down to the park, before it was dark. Max showed Aunt Emma football tricks and Charlie showed her how he could hang from his knees on the climbing frame. A little while later he also showed her how he could land from that position on to his head without making a fuss.
‘I meant to do it,’ he said, when he had stopped blinking.
‘We’ll go home,’ said Aunt Emma, magnificently, ‘past the Hell’s Angels Pub. You can have a drink and pick which motorbike you like best. The bikers line them up outside. They look wonderful.’
The bikes did look wonderful. Max said he might start saving up. Charlie, swigging lemonade beside a crowd of leathery bikers, as close as he could get to the biggest bike of all, felt like he owned the lot already.
‘Climb on if you like,’ said one bike’s owner kindly.
‘Wow!’ said Charlie and vaulted on to the saddle as if he had done it all his life.
He stayed there until a yellow car drove up, causing him to tumble to the ground, dodge behind Max and Aunt Emma, and start running very fast.
‘Race you back home,’ he called to Max, over his shoulder.
‘It was a completely different car,’ Max yelled after him, and Charlie slowed down to a more dignified trot. He was quite recovered by the time Max and Aunt Emma caught up with him. They found him peering through the window of the dim shadowy dining room, in the hope of spotting a ghost.
Max bent down and peered too.
‘You’ll both be much too tired to be haunted,’ said Aunt Emma, laughing at them. ‘I hope you won’t feel very disappointed if no ghosts turn up tonight.’
‘Charlie will be,’ said Max, and Charlie was.
4
What Happened in the Dining Room
Charlie was terribly disappointed.
He could hardly believe it. There they were, Charlie the hero and Max the terrified, side by side in their sleeping bags on Aunt Emma’s pull-out sofa in the dinner-smelling dining room, all prepared and ready for the ghost.
And what had happened?
Not only was there no ghost, there was also no Max-the-terrified.
Max was fast asleep.
Asleep! thought Charlie. Snoring! And where is that beastly rotten spook?
Not here, growled Charlie to himself. After all that fuss! I could have been camping at Henry’s!
The more he thought about this the more cross he became.
So cross, that when Max snored a particularly happy, comfortable snore, Charlie kicked him.
That was a good thing to do. It stopped the snoring at once. In a moment Max was awake and staring into the dark and asking (in a very panicky way), ‘What was that? What was that? Charlie, did you feel something?’
‘It was only …’ began Charlie, and then suddenly realized that his kick had been mistaken for a ghostly kick.
He had begun to say ‘it was only me’ but now he changed his mind.
Charlie said, very calmly and soothingly, ‘I didn’t feel anything. Go to sleep.’
Max did, falling into sleep as quickly as he had tumbled awake.
Poor old Max, thought Charlie kindly, and gave him a little tiny poke.
And another, from the other side.
‘Nooo!’ moaned Max in his dreams and hid his head under his pillow.
He was clearly being haunted. Even his snoring sounded haunted.
There was something very pleasant, thought Charlie, about seeing brave Max hiding under a pillow.
But I’d better get him out, he decided after a while, in case he suffocates.
Very gently Charlie pulled the pillow away.
This woke Max. He rolled over, sat up, grabbed Charlie and shook him.
‘Hello?’ murmured Charlie, as if he had been asleep for hours.
‘Charlie!’ hissed Max urgently. ‘It’s here! I felt it in my sleep. I went suddenly all cold. Listen!’
Charlie listened and heard the sounds old houses make at night; creaks and rattles, bubbles in water pipes and the wind in the trees outside. Nothing ghostly at all, in fact he had never felt less haunted in his life.
Max did not agree.
‘It’s just like last time,’ he said unhappily.
‘It’s not like last time,’ said Charlie. ‘Because I am here! I’ll put the light on.’ He hopped out of bed and groped his
way over to the switch by the door and flicked it.
Max sighed with relief.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ he asked Charlie.
Charlie shook his head, smirking.
‘Well, I hate it,’ said Max. ‘I knew it would be like this. It’s just like before. I wish there was somewhere else we could go. I wish we could sleep in the tent … Charlie!’
‘What?’
‘We could sleep in the tent! We’ve got sleeping bags! We can just get out the window!’
Charlie was not pleased. Any other time he would have loved to climb out of the window and sleep in a tent (especially when he was supposed to be sleeping somewhere else), but at the moment he was enjoying being the ghost that was haunting Max. He would have liked to do it for a bit longer.
‘What if the tent is haunted too?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be daft!’ said Max, cheering up very quickly now that the light was on. ‘Whoever heard of a haunted tent? Hurry up!’
So Charlie hurried up. It was never much use arguing with Max when he had got an idea in his head. He knew that if he refused Max would go anyway and leave him behind in the dining room.
So he helped to very quietly open the dining room window and bundle the sleeping bags and pillows out into the garden. It was not long before they were back in bed again. This time the sounds were different, wind on canvas, the rustle of leaves, a tiny scuffling somewhere in the garden.
‘That’s better,’ said Max happily. ‘All right, Charlie?’
Charlie was not all right. His chance of being a hero had now completely gone. Max had rescued himself.
Bother oh bother oh bother, thought Charlie. Out loud he said, ‘Let’s tell Awful Stories.’
‘In the morning,’ said Max, yawning.
‘You don’t really believe we left that ghost behind?’
‘Yes I do,’ said Max. ‘Because you can tell when a place is haunted. You can tell by the horrible feeling you get. That dining room feels very, very haunted, but this tent is fine. Can’t you tell?’
‘They both feel exactly the same to me,’ said Charlie truthfully. ‘Anyway, what if the ghost gets out of the window?’
‘I closed it,’ said Max, snuggling down in his sleeping bag.
Charlie suddenly remembered a useful ghostly fact.
‘Ghosts can walk through walls!’ he said. ‘So I expect they can get out of windows dead easy! Dead! Ha! That’s a joke. Dead! Get it?’
‘Very, very funny,’ said Max sleepily.
‘What I think is,’ said Charlie hopefully, ‘is that the ghost crept out of the window, and crawled after us across the lawn and is HERE RIGHT NOW!’
There was no reply.
Just a sleepy silence.
That went on.
And on.
And on.
Charlie gave a big sigh.
5
What Happened in the Tent
In the deepest, darkest part of the night Charlie awoke with a thumping heart. It was very quiet. Max lay motionless beside him. All the same, Charlie knew some noise had disturbed his dreams. Some alien noise.
Charlie waited, listening in the darkness.
The cold was horrible. It came in icy waves, lapping over his face.
‘Max,’ whispered Charlie.
The air in the tent smelled of dampness and attics and old, old age. The cold grew worse. Outside something rattled and rattled. A strange shape moved on the canvas wall of the tent, a round darkness, like the tip of a finger, slowly tracing a small faint line.
WHAM!
Something enormous landed in the middle of Charlie’s stomach.
‘Max!’ yelled Charlie. ‘It’s here! It’s come back! It must have really followed us out of the window!’
Max groaned.
‘Get up! Get out! I know what to do!’
Even as he spoke Charlie was already outside the tent, and tugging Max, sleeping bag and all, on to the grass. ‘Out of the way!’ he yelled, running round in the dark, pulling up tent pegs and unhooking guy ropes. ‘Mind the poles! Ha!’
The tent collapsed while Max, the snail who had left the ghostly trail on the canvas and next door’s cat (who had only jumped on Charlie to see what he was) all stared in amazement.
‘Ha!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Got him! Got him, Max! Trapped! Squashed flat!’
‘Charlie, you nutter!’ said Max. ‘Now what’ll we do?’
‘Lie down on him!’ cried Charlie. ‘Keep him squashed! Come on!’
He flung his sleeping bag on the heap of tent and wriggled inside it. Max, after a few moments hesitation, did the same.
‘I bet he wasn’t expecting that,’ said Charlie, smugly.
‘I bet he wasn’t,’ agreed Max.
‘I should think it would put him off haunting for life. Well, not for life … because of course he’s dead, but you know what I mean … put him off jumping on people, anyway.’
‘Is that what happened then? Did something jump on you?’
‘Yep.’
‘What did it feel like?’
‘Heavy. And strong. And enormous. Have you ever been jumped on by Henry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, like that. Only bigger. Like about ten Henrys.’
‘Not like a cat?’
‘No!’
‘I just wondered, because there’s a cat on the fence. I just wondered if it could have been that.’
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘Ten million times bigger. Definitely. Don’t worry though. It must be flattened by now.’
Max chuckled. The cat on the fence stuck a leg straight in the air and began a midnight bath. The snail that had hidden ever since his journey up the wall of the tent had been so surprisingly interrupted, once again began his travels. Aunt Emma’s garden began to feel a very peaceful place.
‘This is really good,’ said Max. ‘Look at the stars!’
‘Stars are all right,’ said Charlie, ‘but they’re not star shaped, are they? They shouldn’t really be called stars I don’t think.’
‘What’d you call them, then?’
Charlie paused, trying to think of a better name for stars than stars, and at that moment the snail met an enormous obstacle in his midnight trip across the canvas of the tent.
The obstacle was Charlie.
The snail was a stubborn snail. He did not give up or turn back. He began, very slowly, to climb over.
‘I’d call stars …’ began Charlie, ‘something more like … WHAAAH!’
It felt just like a cool finger had reached over Charlie’s pyjama top and touched his shoulder. ‘It’s in my sleeping bag!’ he bawled. ‘Crikey! Now my sleeping bag’s haunted!’
He struggled out, rolled it up, jumped on it, fell on it, punched it and sat on it, panting. The snail clung, terrified, to the collar of his pyjamas. The cat disappeared over the far side of the fence.
‘Has it gone?’ asked Max, half dead with laughing.
‘I think so,’ said Charlie, gripping his sleeping bag tight shut. ‘It’s not in here anyway … EEEUUYUK!’
‘What now?’
‘It licked my neck! It’s in my pyjamas!’
‘Charlie!’ protested Max, but already parts of pyjamas were flying through the air.
‘That’s disgusting!’ roared Charlie, ‘I’m not putting up with it! A ghost in my pyjamas LICKING MY NECK!’
Bare and indignant Charlie grabbed his pyjamas, screwed them, knotted them and hurled them in a ball over the fence.
‘There!’ he yelled. ‘That’s it! Gone! Hurray! I’ve got rid of it! I did it! I did it! Did you see that, Max?’
‘Yes. Yes I did,’ said Max. ‘You emptied the ghost out of your sleeping bag and screwed it up in your pyjamas and chucked it over the fence. It was fantastic.’
‘I bet you’re glad I came,’ said Charlie, clambering back into his sleeping bag.
‘Yes I am,’ said Max.
‘Do you think it’s worth trying to go to sleep?’
�
��Don’t know. Might be.’
Charlie sighed and burrowed into the folds of collapsed tent.
In the garden next door the cat sniffed his pyjamas and then curled up in the middle of them and closed his eyes.
However the snail, who had clung desperately to Charlie’s pyjama collar as he flew over the fence, uncurled and hurried away.
Charlie went to sleep, and Max went to sleep, and the cat went to sleep, but the snail did not. He slid off and hid in the bushes and never went camping again.
6
What Henry Thought
On Monday afternoon as Charlie and Henry walked home from school Charlie told Henry all about Aunt Emma’s and the haunted tent and the battle under the stars that he had fought to save Max from the ghost.
Henry said, ‘It doesn’t sound much like you.’
Charlie admitted he supposed it didn’t.
‘And are you sure you can actually collapse a tent on a ghost and shake it out of a sleeping bag and squash it flat and throw it over a fence?’ asked Henry. ‘Because I’ve never heard of anyone doing it before.’
‘Ask Max if you don’t believe me,’ said Charlie, crossly.
‘It didn’t come back then?’
‘No. Not that night, nor the next night when we had to sleep in the dining room because it rained so much water poured in through the holes in the tent. It didn’t come back at all.’
‘Perhaps the rain put it off.’
‘I put it off!’ said Charlie.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Henry politely. ‘Do you remember when there were ghosts on Doctor Who and you hid behind the sofa with your fingers in your ears?’
Charlie, stooping to pick up a penny from the gutter, wished very hard that a ghost would swoop up right at that moment and get Henry there, where he stood, in the middle of the street. He decided that if this happened he would not do a thing to prevent it.
