Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

He went over to the little wood-burning stove that he had brought all the way from Prague in the boot of his car and poured out a coffee for himself from the ancient pot that was standing on it. He offered Daniel a ginger nut. Then the doorbell rang, and they heard the sound of letters being pushed through the letter box and landing on the hall floor.

‘Do you mind, Daniel?’

Daniel went out. He came back and handed over the post. Mr Jaros took it and sorted through the bundle.

‘It is so rarely interesting,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to have fun and sun in Ibiza, even if I should win the competition… but what have we here?’

He held up an official-looking envelope stamped with the town crest. ‘Have they raised the rates again?’

He reached for a knife from the workbench and slit open the envelope. He took out the letter and read. Then he took off his glasses and walked over to the window. He stood for a long time, gazing silently out.

‘Mr Jaros?’ said Daniel. There must be something serious in the letter.

Mr Jaros turned round. The lines on either side of his nose seemed deeper than ever, and his dark eyes stared at Daniel, seeming to look right through him. Then he recovered himself.

‘I think you should go home now, Daniel. That is enough for today.’

Then Daniel knew that something was very wrong. Mr Jaros had never told him to go home before.

Mrs Wilder looked down from the window of her big room on the first floor and saw her next-door neighbour Karin Hughes walking up the front path. The doorbell rang and then she heard Mrs Hughes in the hall.

‘Hello, Lottie, are you in?’

‘Of course I’m in, dear,’ called Mrs Wilder. ‘Come on up.’

‘Shall I make us some tea first?’ ‘Please.’

‘I won’t be a minute.’

Karin Hughes was rather more than a minute, and when she came up carrying the tea tray she was wearing a slight frown, which she often wore when she had been in Mrs Wilder’s kitchen.

It was many years now since Karin Lindblad, as she was then, had moved from her parents’ farm in Sweden to England. She had got quite used to people walking straight into their houses without taking their shoes off (she had had bad nightmares about that in the beginning, after seeing what was on the city pavements). And when she had recovered from the shock of seeing fitted carpets in the toilet, and huge open fires that sucked all the heat out of the cold damp houses and straight up the chimney, she had got to work teaching her husband, who was an understanding man and loved her a lot, some simple things that even an imbecile could do, like taking your shoes off in the hall and bottling raspberry juice. In the few minutes she had spent in Mrs Wilder’s kitchen she had dealt with most of the surfaces, sneaked some pots of home-made jam into the larder and done a bit of organizing. Karin Hughes had a deep respect for the mystery of writing, so she understood that Mrs Wilder was quite unlike ordinary people who saw things like mouse droppings where no mouse droppings should be.

‘We have had a strange letter,’ she said, putting down the tray and sitting down on the sofa. ‘David is away, and I thought I would ask you about it.’

Mrs Wilder got up from her seat at the window and came to sit beside Karin on the sofa.

‘One like this?’ she asked, holding out her own letter.

‘Yes, just the same. What is it all about?’

‘This, Karin,’ said Mrs Wilder quietly, ‘is a Compulsory Purchase Order. They are going to pull down our houses and build a motorway.’

‘But they can’t. Not just like that.’

‘They can, my dear. Oh yes, they can.’

‘But where will we go?’

‘They will give us money to go somewhere else. Compensation.’

‘Money? Money? They will take my garden, my kitchen, my home, my neighbours. How will money help my heart-sorrow?’ Sometimes when she was upset Mrs Hughes translated directly from her mother tongue, ‘They cannot do this.’

‘But they can, Karin,’ said Mrs Wilder for the second time. And then again, ‘They can.’

‘Things have certainly perked up a bit,’ said Fredegonda.

Dawn was beginning to bathe the crag behind Mountwood in a rosy glow, and the Great Hagges were thinking about bed after a hard night’s work. The students had dematerialized some time ago, but the Hagges had as usual stayed up to discuss the night’s efforts.

‘I’m very pleased to see that the Peabody couple have pulled their socks up,’ Fredegonda went on.

It was true. Since the return of Percy to the bosom of his family all the ghosts had applied themselves to their work, but none more than Ron and Iphigenia, who clearly felt that they had some catching up to do. Only last night Ron had managed to materialize his lidless eyeballs all on their own, and made them revolve in different directions, so that you could see the muscles working. It really would have been terrifying if anybody in Mountwood, Hagge or ghost, had been able to be terrified. And Iphigenia had shown such skill in the voice-and-movement class that the Hagges were seriously considering using her as an assistant teacher for some of the serious remedial cases, such as Vera the Banshee, or the Druid.

‘Though that tree-sprite’s behaviour is really not acceptable,’ said Goneril. ‘I saw that you took her aside and had a word.’

‘I most certainly did,’ said Fredegonda. ‘I think we will see some changes tomorrow.’

‘You were being a bit unfair, you know,’ said Drusilla. ‘Some blame attaches to the Phantom Welder, you must admit.’

They were talking about an incident earlier that night, when the Druid had been asked to appear with his own heart pierced by a golden sickle and dripping blood. He had been extremely nervous about doing this in front of the whole class, and had released such a noisome stench that two bats that had been hanging from the roof beams fell stone dead into Drusilla’s lap, and the kitten that Percy had found in the byre and was playing with in a corner lurched drunkenly across the room and toppled into the well, where it disturbed Angus Crawe with its yowling and had to be rescued with some difficulty.

As the revolting fumes had spread around the room, the Phantom Welder had whispered into the sprite’s ear, ‘Oops, been at the beans again,’ and the silly thing had got one of those unstoppable fits of the giggles, which had reduced the Druid to tears. At least they thought that’s what had happened. He certainly vanished and wild sobbing was heard.

‘Perhaps I was a bit harsh,’ said Fredegonda. ‘The welder is terribly uncouth. But I fear that sprite encourages him.’

‘Well, let’s turn in,’ said Goneril. ‘Tomorrow is another night. And rather a special one. It’s the dark of the moon, of course, and we have to start thinking about their individual projects, now that the basics are in place.’

‘I’ve made us a hot drink,’ said Drusilla. ‘It’s in the thermos on the bedside table.’

‘My goodness, you do spoil us, Drusilla,’ said Fredegonda, as they made their way to the bedroom.

‘Not at all, you deserve it. And I simply had to use that gall bladder, you know. Waste not want not, as they say.’

The Great Hagges got ready for bed. Goneril took the most time about it, because she was a bit worried about the state of her knees. In her youth she had been very proud of them, with their scabby lumps and hairy moles, but recently she had thought they were looking rather smooth. Not quite like human knees, of course, but getting there. Drusilla had produced an ointment that she had made herself (‘But don’t ask what’s in it, dear, it’s an absolute secret’), and now Goneril applied it thoroughly.