Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

The world might have forgotten them, but the Great Hagges had not forgotten the world. They kept themselves well-informed. They made good use of the library bus which came to the other side of their island once a month and they took a Sunday newspaper. They were not often pleased with what they read.

‘It really is outrageous,’ declared Fredegonda.

‘Preposterous,’ said Goneril.

‘Pitiful,’ said Drusilla.

Fredegonda had just finished reading aloud an article from the ‘New Books for Young Readers’ section of the newspaper. It started: ‘This delightful tale of ghosts and spectres will charm readers of all ages…’ and went on about a book in which the ghosts were funny and cute and friendly and a lot more besides.

‘It is unendurable,’ Fredegonda continued, ‘to see the glorious traditions of ghosthood in this land trodden into the dust. Chummy spectres, plastic Halloween masks, gooey teenage vampires… there is no end to it. The vampires I have known certainly weren’t gooey. Positively scary, I assure you.’

Drusilla and Goneril exchanged a little smile. The idea of Fredegonda being scared was very amusing. But they understood what she meant.

‘The woman who wrote that book should be flogged. “Delightful” indeed! Centuries of hard haunting being spat upon.’

‘Ridiculed,’ said Drusilla.

‘Mocked and derided,’ agreed Goneril. ‘On the other hand,’ she went on, ‘I do think that the ghosts of Britain are partly to blame. They have become enfeebled and sloppy. I haven’t heard of a single person who has been frightened to death by ghosts in the last ten years. Frightened — yes. But to death — no.’

‘True enough,’ said Fredegonda. ‘Standards have fallen everywhere. The ghosts of Great Britain have been dragged down along with everything else — they no longer understand the meaning of hard work. A professional haunting requires more than just vaguely floating about. Those ghosts must get a grip.’

All three Hagges shook their heads and tutted.

‘Time for a cup of tea,’ said Drusilla, and she got up to make a brew.

Tea always helps one to think, especially when accompanied by a nice plate of sponge fingers. Drusilla’s fingers were particularly tasty. She prepared them herself from a recipe she had got from her mother, and they were a special treat, because it was not easy to get hold of fingers nowadays. Drowned fishermen were becoming scarce, what with all the newfangled navigation aids and coastal rescue helicopters.

‘Delicious as usual, Drusilla,’ said Fredegonda. ‘Now, I have been thinking, ladies, and we must act. We may be retired, we may not be as young as we used to be —’ this was undoubtedly true, Fredegonda having just celebrated her four-hundred-and-seventy-third birthday, which is oldish even for a Great Hagge — ‘but our work is not done. Unseen Britain is in a mess. We have a duty.’

The other two looked at her expectantly. To them, words like ‘duty’ and ‘work’ were like ‘walkies’ or ‘fetch’ to a dog. If they had had tails, they would have wagged them. But Great Hagges don’t have tails.

‘We must establish a training school for the ghosts of Great Britain,’ Fredegonda went on. ‘They must be re-educated. They must relearn the ancient skills. Haunting, terrifying, cursing… proper cursing of course, not just rude words.’

‘Of course! Education is the answer!’ cried Goneril, as she had cried many a time when addressing her trainee nurses.

‘A vital part of our heritage must be preserved!’ boomed Drusilla, glaring fiercely from under her eyebrow, as she had so often done when confronting developers and do-gooders.

And so the Great Hagges made their plans.

There is a tremendous amount to do if you want to start a training school, or rather an Institute of Higher Education, which is how the Great Hagges described their project. There has to be a syllabus with courses in different subjects, a timetable, a proper system for marking and assessment, and lots of rules and regulations. But first and foremost there has to be an actual school building. So the first thing the Great Hagges had to do was find the right place. And because they were the kind of persons who got things done, and didn’t just talk about them, they set out the very next day.

The weather was glorious. The sea sparkled and danced, lapping the white sands and heaving gently against the rocks. An old bull seal lazed out in the bay, his great sleek head bobbing in the swell. The Hagges were quite sad to leave, but at the same time they were very excited about what lay ahead. They enjoyed their quiet life, but they were Improvers at heart, and they hadn’t bossed anybody around for almost a hundred years. So they were in high spirits as they turned inland and marched in single file across the peaty bogs and springy heather to the other side of the island, where they could catch the boat to the mainland.

On the outskirts of the little harbour town was an old stone barn, and when they reached it Goneril produced a large rusty key and opened the doors. Inside was a car. It was a bit dusty, but the midnight-blue paintwork still glowed with the deep hue that is the mark of countless hours of polishing by skilled human hands. On the front of the long bonnet was a small silver figurine: a goddess, or a spirit, with outstretched wings.

‘Will it start?’ asked Fredegonda.

‘I jolly well hope so,’ said Goneril, ‘The man who sold it to me said that it was a high-quality vehicle.’

It was in fact a 1912 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, which Goneril had purchased mainly because she liked the name. They dusted off the cream leather seats and climbed in, with Goneril behind the wheel. The engine came instantly to life, settling into a quiet purr like a contented puma. The man who had sold it was obviously speaking the truth about its quality, for it had stood unused since 1923, when the Hagges had taken it to visit Drusilla’s aunt, then in her six hundred and nineteenth year and poorly. She had had an interesting life. In 1388, as a young Hagge, she had been present at the battle of Otterburn, helping the Scots fight the English army by casting spells and howling imprecations. She had enjoyed herself tremendously. It was probably thanks to her efforts that the Scots had won in spite of being heavily outnumbered.

The ferry was on time and the crossing was calm. As the Rolls headed south towards the English border Drusilla, who was in the back seat, produced a bag of bullseyes for them to suck on.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I saw that they were selling bulls’ eyes in that little sweetshop on the quayside.’

‘But they are only peppermints, dear. You know, sweets. Not proper ones like yours, and not nearly as nice.’

‘Oh, silly me,’ Drusilla giggled. Her giggle was rather an odd sound, halfway between the screaming bark of a dog fox and the scraping of fingernails on a blackboard. It had surprised quite a lot of people in the days when she had been invited to dinner parties in London. But the other two were used to it, and in a cheerful mood of adventure the hunt began.

Daniel Salter lived in Markham Street, at number six. It was his home, and most of the time he didn’t think about it; he just lived there. But now, sitting on the top step outside his front door as the evening shadows lengthened, he thought about it. He thought about what it would be like to live somewhere else. Markham Street lay in a big industrial town in the far north of England, and there were lots of streets that Daniel definitely did not want to live in. Streets with small houses on big thoroughfares where the rush-hour traffic crawled morning and evening, and roared past the rest of the day, filling the air with exhaust fumes. In a street like that nobody could have a cat; it would be run over in no time. And there were often no gardens, or only tiny bits of garden at the front, and they were usually concreted over so that people could park their cars. And there was nowhere for birds to live.