An English Ghost Story (20 page)

Jordan knew, now. And probably Mum.

There was a war on.

Tonight, he could sleep soundly. The Ipkick would take the watch.

Tomorrow, he would think of victory.

* * *

I
n the end, the women would thank him for it. Steven was master in his own home. Everything came down to him. He must consult – make a show of democracy – but it was his decision, his risk, his triumph. He’d always known it was how his business worked. Now he understood the world outside his office was exactly the same.

Kirsty had come to bed after he’d fallen asleep. She’d done her part of the job, calming down Jordan after the necessary shock. He let her sleep on after he was up, planning to reward her good and faithful service with a lie-in and a late breakfast. He’d cook for the family. A man should be proficient in the kitchen, to show he was not a shirker, that he could cope.

Steven thought of himself as an all-rounder, adaptable and multi-skilled. This was underlined at the Hollow. In its many rooms, the house itself contained his whole life, business and family. It was like a castle, a community unto itself. Each room, each part of the grounds, was a different section of his life, connected by secret passageways and sliding doors. It was all one, all his realm. At long last, after the turmoil of the city, he had risen to the top and become master of his own life.

Last night, he had done battle for his daughter’s honour and prevailed. Precious Rick was routed.

This morning, he would cook. The family would assemble, blearily, at table. He would serve them, joshing them out of their sleepy fug with light banter. They would divide the Saturday newspapers into sections and discuss items of interest to them all.

Later, he would sit in his favourite chair and watch football on satellite TV. Tim would sit at his feet, asking questions about the game. Kirsty would bring him beer and shaped potato nibbles. Jordan, understanding at last, would pop in at half-time and, unembarrassed, kiss him on the top of his head, then dart away like a sylph.

All was right.

He left his wife in her half of the bed, strode to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face and shaved (as he did every day, except Sunday). He dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt.

No one else was stirring in the house.

In the kitchen, he found last night’s washing-up in the sink. What with all the drama, it had been forgotten. When Tim showed his head, Steven would assign him the chore. The sight of encrusted pans and plates put him off the idea of cooking breakfast. There weren’t any urgent customers.

He went outside and blundered (again) into the wrought-iron chair Wing-Godfrey had insisted Kirsty put smack in the way of anyone leaving by the kitchen door. The fabled spot from which the standing stones could be seen.

He had never managed the trick of hunching himself to see through the tree telescope – though he had made a show of pretending, with a delighted ‘Ahhh’. It had made him think there was something wrong with him. He tried again now, letting his knees slacken, twisting his spine, shifting focus.

There was a blur beyond the branches.

He saw a hillock, but not the stones. Figures – men or animals – moved in the early haze, revolving in a slow circle.

Something Kirsty had read out sparked in his mind. He had caught the stones dancing. He remembered the image but not what it meant. Was it a privilege or a sign of impending doom? If it was in a Weezie book, it couldn’t be too threatening. As Kirsty had said over and over, Louise Teazle wrote about the Hollow and her ghosts were friendly. Even the Gloomy Ghost came round. The Kaye woman’s book of ghost stories (where had that paperback come from?) was piffle, haunted house rot made up to spook a gullible public.

It was a shame none of the others were up.

The shapes, which might have been men of stone or stone-age men, whirled faster, raising a cloud of misty white smoke.

His back was cricked and painful. He couldn’t hold this position much longer.

This was for him alone. The others had their personal revelations.

In the centre of the circle was a fire. Under sunlight, the flames were visible only as a shimmer, but smoke poured upwards. The stone men leaped over the fire in turn.

Someone was with the tall, stone figures. Someone small and flesh. He was compelled to dance but wasn’t as skilled as the stones. Steven was momentarily sorry for this comical character who couldn’t keep up. When he – it seemed to be a he, little more than a lad – leaped the fire, his clothes singed and smoked.

Sharp pain climbed Steven’s spine.

The stones came together at last and lifted the lad above the fire.

Steven bent over double, holding his back, and lost the image. The spasm passed. He looked again, twisting his head from side to side. Branches were in the way.

Unaccountably, he was rattled by what he’d seen. Its character was different from everything else at the Hollow. There had been a sacrifice, he knew. The stones hadn’t been dancing just for the joy of it.

He had to sit down. His back still had twinges.

* * *

I
t was the middle of August. How long had they lived at the Hollow?

Kirsty really couldn’t remember.

Not more than two months, though. Not even six weeks.

It might have been years. Long enough to forget what came before, then begin to remember it again.

The old pattern showed under the new whitewash.

Last night, the Old Girl had initiated her, showed her how to make the Hollow work. This morning, the ghost’s words were hard to recall. Often, Kirsty’s friends from the other side were maddeningly vague.

She tried the chest of drawers.

She was tempted by the middle drawer that was always a jumble of surprises, but hesitated. Life in this family was always a jumble of surprises. She was scarcely the happier for it.

She pulled out the bottom drawer, hoping for a present, and found a school exercise book with a home-made cover of stiff wallpaper decorated with Braille flowers. She took it out and shut the drawer.

Was this a present? Or, as sometimes in the Weezie stories, a thing so long lost it had been forgotten? Opening the first page, she saw a child’s writing, copy-book neat but with the odd scrawled correction.

‘Once, not so long ago and not so far away, there lived a good little girl named Weezie. Actually, she was not so little as all that any more and perhaps not so good either…’

In the first sentence, the two ‘so’s had been crossed out, then inked in again. In the second sentence, ‘as’ had originally been written twice, and replaced with ‘so’.

It was a draft of
Weezie and the Gloomy Ghost
. The book was published when Louise Magellan Teazle was just twenty, but this seemed the work of a child. There were spelling mistakes, corrected. In a flash, Kirsty knew this had been written when Louise was Weezie’s age – when Louise
was
Weezie – and revised a few years later.

How had the teenage Louise – only a little older than Jordan – felt about coming back to this story, written in innocence to fill one of the devil’s idle hours? Was she embarrassed, as Jordan would be if surprised by an old photograph of her dressed up for a primary school pageant? Or did she recognise a purity she would devote the rest of her life to recapturing?

This was a priceless find. Wing-Godfrey’s Society would be giddy.

She should approach Louise’s publishers. Or, better still, set up her own imprint. How difficult could that be? Her experience with Rose Records would be an advantage. There should be a facsimile edition of the original text, with the amendments. At the back of the exercise book were unfamiliar illustrations for the familiar story. Some were childish, some skilled; the girl Louise and the teenage Louise, visibly developing another talent. A few were rough sketches of the famous Kees Van Loon pictures. Others – mostly of the ghosts – were unique.

She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor and read the whole thing.

The original version was simpler. None of the ghosts, except the Gloomy Ghost, had names or characters. And Hilltop Heights was baldly the Hollow. There was a confusion about grammar, with the odd first-person sentence slipping in.

A tiny droplet of ice slithered between Kirsty’s shoulder-blades. Was this supposed to be a story? Or was it a diary?

Suddenly, she didn’t want to share the discovery.

* * *

T
he smile in the Summer Room window was fixed and fanged. Tim tried to avoid looking, but whether he was inside the house or out, the smile would catch his eye.

The Ipkick didn’t like to talk about the smile.

It was one of the IP, all right, but not with the programme. Tim thought he knew who to trust, but even a single joker in the pack made him suspect other cards of hiding caps and bells.

He took up a position in his tree, U-Dub at the ready.

The BS was defeated, but the threat wasn’t done. Behind her were other hostiles. Faces unknown, motives mysterious. At least his sister was out in the open, where he could mark her down.

Tim kept scanning the orchard, U-Dub cocked, watching for the tiniest tell-tales. He no longer felt he was a part of the landscape. That had been an illusion.

He was an alien, an intruder, a ravager. He could be nothing else.

The smile was there, above it all.

He was certain the smile was hostile brass, but there was no proof, no sign beyond his feeling.

He would let loose, eventually.

* * *

S
teven looked at the Hollow and thought, How many animals can you see in this picture?

Tim was in the orchard. He had spotted his son’s face, brown and green as usual, peering out of the tree he had made into his secret cave.

Who did his son play with all day?

(Not the stones, thank heavens.)

Kirsty and Jordan were in the towers, not having come down from their rooms all morning, sleeping it off. Jordan’s pillow stiff with tears.

Dozens of jobs still needed doing, but he was at a loose end. It wasn’t the same without an audience, without someone to talk to, to show off his prowess for.

Tim would do, but he was the one who could take care of himself. Steven didn’t want to intrude into his son’s private world. It would last a short enough time as it was. He wanted his women around him as he fixed up the work-bench in the barn or sorted through the junk in the spare rooms, reclaiming space for the family and unearthing the treasures left behind.

He looked at the tree again. No sign of Tim.

The last time he had spent alone with his son was the day they’d gone to find the standing stones. Tim had dashed about the circle, hiding behind each stone, playing visual tag with his Dad, peeking out to catch and be caught.

At the centre of the circle was a depression (a fireplace) where no grass grew. Both Tim and he had instinctively not stepped on that bare spot, keeping within the shadows of the stones.

It was a big clock, he thought, an arrangement of phallic sundials. A masculine place, concerned with measuring and ritual, with fire and blood. Then, it had impressed and even excited him.

Now, he was a little frightened.

He could never let the women know, of course. It was important he show no fear, that he set an example they could live by.

Tim would never find his way back there on his own.

Steven’s head buzzed. The memory had been so vivid, and yet…

It hadn’t happened, had it? Tim and he had driven all over the moor and not found the standing stones. He remembered that peculiar rubbery smell the hunchback’s inside got after a few hours in the sun. In the end, they had just come home, disappointed and puzzled. What he had just recalled, down to the smoothness of the stones and the sponginess of the turf, was a phantom memory, a scrambled patch of
jamais vu
.

From it, he learned a lesson. He must warn his son not to go alone onto the moor in search of the stones. But in such a way that the warning would take and not be interpreted as a dare.

Things would have to change. Lulled by the charm of the Hollow, he’d let things drift, surrendering to forces beyond his control. Now, he would put his foot down.

He walked to the French windows. A pane, high up, flashed at him, setting his teeth on edge. He looked again but couldn’t tell which pane it had been, or even what he had seen. Just reflected sunlight.

The Summer Room was empty, cool after the heat of the outside. For a moment, he thought something was standing in the cold fireplace. When he looked, there was nothing but a fall of soot which needed to be swept away.

He sat in his chair, and waited.

* * *

R
ick was settled, one way or another. But the weight was not lifted. Anger still sprouted inside her like a seed. That was good. Anger burned fat. Anger made her lean. Anger was the road to her goal.

Jordan didn’t need to wear the next dress. She wasn’t ready for it in any case. She needed no outward sign of the woman she was becoming. That person was carried in her burning heart. Best she show only her girl shell.

She put on clothes she didn’t know she had. Grey skirt, white blouse, magenta blazer, knee socks with tartan tags, striped tie, stout-toed shoes. A straw boater went with the outfit, its bow matching the sock-tags.

Jordan went downstairs.

Dad was in the Summer Room, sunk in shame as well he should be. At her entrance, he looked up, puppyish and eager, then shuddered.

He was repelled by the old shell, the sluggish thing Jordan was outgrowing. Even he was that sensitive.

‘I wondered where everybody was,’ he said.

She shrugged. There was nothing to be said to him.

‘No one came down for brekky,’ Dad continued. ‘Or lunch. I thought I was home alone.’

She wished he would stop dropping oh-so-subtle hints. Everything he said came back to meals, to food, to her.

‘Can I get you anything, doll?’ he asked.

‘Once and for all, Dad,
I’m not hungry!
’

She intended to speak with quiet force, demonstrating cool command of the situation, warning him off from further badgering. Instead, she shouted. Her voice reverberated in the chimney and came back at her.