Dial a Ghost

Chapter Three

Aunt Maud was right. There was someone who cared about ghosts and who cared about them very much. Two people to be exact: Miss Pringle, who was small and twittery with round blue eyes, and Mrs Mannering, who was big and bossy and wore jackets with huge shoulder pads and had a booming voice.

The two ladies had met at an evening class for witches. They were interested in unusual ways of living and thought they might have had Special Powers, which would have been nice. But they hadn’t enjoyed the classes at all. They were held in a basement near Paddington Station and the other people there had wanted to do things that Miss Pringle and Mrs Mannering could not possibly approve of, like doing anticlockwise dances dressed in nothing but their underclothes and sticking pins into puppets which had taken some poor person a long time to make.

All the same, the classes must have done some good because afterwards both the ladies found that they were much better than they had been before at seeing ghosts.

They had always been able to see ghosts in a vague and shimmery way but now they saw them as clearly as if they had been ordinary people — and they did not like what they saw.

There were ghosts eating their hearts out in cinemas and bottle factories; there were headless warriors in all-night garages, and bloodstained brides who rode round and round the Underground because they had nowhere to sleep.

And it was then they got the idea for the agency. For after all if people can adopt whales and trees in rain forests — if schoolchildren can adopt London buses and crocodiles in the zoo — why not ghosts? Only they would have to be proper adoptions, not just sending money. Ghosts after all are not whales or crocodiles; they can fit perfectly well into the right sort of house.

‘There might be people who would be only too happy to have a ghost or two in their stately home to attract tourists,’ said Miss Pringle.

‘And they’d be splendid for keeping off burglars,’ said Mrs Mannering.

So they decided to start an agency and call it Dial A Ghost. Miss Pringle had some money and was glad to spend it in such a useful way. She was a very kind person but a little vague, and it was Mrs Mannering who knew what to do about furnishing the office and getting filing cabinets and putting out leaflets. It was she too who arranged for separate doors, one saying Ghosts and one saying People, and printed the notice explaining that they would see ghosts on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and people who wanted to adopt them on the other days.

But it was kind, dithery Miss Pringle who engaged the office boy. He was called Ted and she gave him the job because he looked hungry and his parents were out of work. He was a nice boy, but there was something he hadn’t told the ladies — and this ‘something’ turned out to be important.

After the agency had been going for a few months Miss Pringle and Mrs Mannering began to specialize. Miss Pringle dealt with the gentle, peaceful ghosts — the sad ladies who had been left at the altar on their wedding days and jumped off cliffs, and the cold, white little children who had fallen off roofs in their boarding schools, and so on. And Mrs Mannering coped with the fierce ones — the ones that were livid and revolting and rattled their chains.

And every evening when they had finished work, the two ladies went to the Dirty Duck and ordered a port and lemon and told each other how their day had gone.

‘I had such a delightful family in just now,’ said Miss Pringle. ‘The Wilkinsons. I just must fix them up with somewhere to go, and quickly.’

‘I think I saw them. Not bloodstained at all, as I recall?’ said Mrs Mannering.

‘No, not at all. You could say ordinary, but in the best sense of the word. They told me such interesting things about the war. Mrs Wilkinson used to queue for three hours just for one banana, and the old lady once held down an enemy parachutist with her umbrella till the police came to take him away. And there is such a dear little girl — she wasn’t born a Wilkinson, they found her lost and abandoned. She could be anyone — a princess even.’

‘It shouldn’t be difficult to find them a home if they’re so nice.’

‘No. Except that there are five of them; I don’t seem to have anyone on my books who’ll take as many as that. They’ve had such trouble in their lives — there was a sister…’ She told the sad story of Trixie and the flag. ‘And Mrs Wilkinson is so worried about her son. Apparently he was really clever — the top of his class and a patrol leader in the Scouts — and then he got mixed up with this dreadful girl who cadged chewing gum from the American soldiers and sneered at him. It seems to me so wrong, Dorothy, that a family who gave their lives for their country should have to haunt a knicker shop.’ She looked across at her friend and saw that Mrs Mannering was looking very tired. ‘My dear, how selfish of me! You had the Shriekers in, didn’t you? I saw Ted going to hide in the lavatory — and the poor geranium is still completely black.’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Mannering was a big, strong woman but she sat with her shoulders hunched and she had hardly tasted her drink. ‘I really don’t know what to do, Nellie. They’re so rude and noisy and ungrateful. If it wasn’t for the way they carry on about children, I might find them a place — after all they’re nobly born, and people like that.’

‘We can’t have them hurting children, that’s true,’ said Miss Pringle. ‘I wonder what made them the way they are? I gather even the sight of a healthy child drives them quite mad?’

Mrs Mannering nodded. ‘There’s nothing they wouldn’t do to children: slash their faces, strangle them in their bedclothes, set fire to them.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not mealy-mouthed, Nellie, you know that. If someone comes to me with his head under his arm and says “Find me a home”, I’ll say “Fair enough”. I’ve fixed up spooks that played chopsticks with their toe bones; I’ve fixed up moaners and I’ve fixed up dribblers — but I won’t take any risks with children. I really think we’ll have to cross the Shriekers off our books.’

Miss Pringle shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t like to make an enemy of the Shriekers.’

‘No.’ Even Mrs Mannering, tough as she was, didn’t like the idea of that. ‘Well, we’ll give it a bit longer. Perhaps something will turn up.’

The Shriekers were a most appalling set of spooks. They weren’t just violent and cruel and fiendish; they were snobbish as well. Nothing on earth would have made the Shriekers haunt anything as humble as a knicker shop. They lived in a frozen meat store on the other side of the city.

It was a dreadful place, but the Shriekers didn’t mind the strings of sausages that fastened themselves round their throats as they glided about, or the tubs of greasy white lard, or the sides of cut-up animals hanging from hooks in the ceiling. They were so filthy and loathsome themselves that they hardly noticed the stench or the cold or the slime on the floor.

Once it had not been so. When they were alive, the Shriekers had been rather a grand couple. Their names were Sir Pelham and Lady Sabrina de Bone and they lived in a fortified tower beside a lake. Sir Pelham rode to hounds and shot pheasants, and Sabrina wore fine clothes and gave dinner parties and kept a house full of servants. In fact they were so important that Queen Victoria once came to stay with them on her way to Scotland.

But when they had been married for about ten years, the de Bones had a Great Sorrow and this had driven them mad. No one knew what their sorrow was; they never spoke about it, and the grief and guilt of it had turned inwards and made them wilder and crazier with every year that passed. Even before they became ghosts people had been terrified of the de Bones, and now the sight of them sent the strongest man running for cover. Sir Pelham still wore the jodphurs and hunting jacket he had worn when he broke his neck, but they were covered with filth and gore and he carried a long-thonged whip with which he slashed at everything that crossed his path. His forehead had been bashed in by a horse’s hoof so that it was just a mass of splintered bone; his left ear hung by a thread, and through the rent in his trousers you could see his scarred and vicious knees.

His wife was even worse. Sabrina’s dress was so bloodstained that you couldn’t see the fabric underneath, and hatred had worn away two of her toes and her nose, which was nothing but a nibbled stump. She had picked up a phantom python on her travels and wore it slung round her neck so that the evil-smelling eggs it laid broke and dribbled down inside her vest. Worst of all were her long fingernails, from which bits of skin and hair stuck out because of the tearing and scratching she did all day.

Not only were the Shriekers hateful to look at, but they were the most foul-mouthed couple you could imagine. You could hear them shouting abuse at each other from the moment they woke up to the moment they went to bed.

‘Do you call that blood!’ Sabrina would shriek when her husband dripped some gore on to the ground. ‘Why that isn’t even tomato ketchup! I could put that on my fish fingers and not even notice it, you slime-grub!’

‘Don’t you dare call me names, you maggot-ridden cow-pat,’ Sir Pelham would yell back. ‘What have you done today, I’d like to know? You were going to strangle the butcher’s boy before lunch and there isn’t a mark on him. And your python looks perfectly ridiculous. You’ve tied it in a granny knot. Pythons should be tied in a reef knot, everyone knows that.’

The only time the Shriekers were cheerful was when they were working out something awful to do to children. When they had thought of some new way of harming a child, Sabrina would open one of the containers and take out a pig’s trotter to put in her hair, and string a row of pork chops together to make a belt for her husband, and they would do a stately dance in the dark, cold hall so that one could see how proud and grand they had once been.

But it never lasted long. Soon they’d tear everything off again and bombard each other with pieces of liver and start screaming for more horror and more blood.

The Shriekers had a servant, a miserable, grey, jelly-like creature; a ghoul whom they had found asleep in a graveyard with a rope round his neck. He slept behind a waste bin and every so often they would kick him awake and tell him to cook something and he would totter about muttering, ‘Sizzle’ or ‘Roast’ or ‘Burn’ and swipe vaguely at the sausages with a frying pan. But the cold had almost done for him — ghouls are not suitable for freezing — and the thought of doing their own housework made the Shriekers absolutely furious with the kind ladies of the adoption agency.

‘Those human blisters,’ yelled Sir Pelham, ‘those suppurating boils!’

‘I bet they’re lying in their beds snoring while we rot in this hell-hole,’ shouted Sabrina.

But the Shriekers were wrong. At that very moment, though it was late at night, Miss Pringle and Mrs Mannering were putting one hundred leaflets into brown envelopes and sticking on one hundred stamps. The leaflets were addressed to the owners of grand houses and stately homes all over Britain, and offered ghosts of every kind suitable for adoption straight away.

And two days later, one of those leaflets dropped on to the dusty, marble floor of Helton Hall.