Neville and Kyle burst into the room – Neville with a big white plastic bag, Kyle with the saved Luke Baker vase. Tom gave a disapproving frown but all Kyle said was, ‘He’s my mate, it’s what he would have wanted.’ He yanked the front door open, pounded down the steps and into the rain, Neville close behind.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Ralph.
‘Grab anything you can find that holds water,’ said Tom. ‘Hurry, Ralph, he doesn’t give us long.’ And he dashed into the downpour, too.
By now a whole string of water-gatherers had begun to scurry past with pails and buckets and tin cans and jars. Mrs Spink came through in her stockinged feet, carrying her Wellington boots at arms length.
Ralph stopped her by the door. ‘Mrs Spink, what’s happening?’
She pointed outside. The ‘rain’ was belting down, sluicing through a hole in the down pipe by the door, splattering the mane of a lion statue. ‘This is how we gather fresh water, dear. Jack sprays us now and then from his watering can.’
His watering can? Ralph took a step back. ‘But he spits in it. And Knocker slobbers his tongue round the rose. And you can’t drink water that’s been in your boots.’
‘It’s better than going thirsty, dear.’ And away she went, with her wellies at the ready.
Ralph couldn’t believe it. He glanced into the thin strip of Miniville garden and saw the miniones splashing about, drenched to the skin, holding high their pots and vessels, trying to guess where Jack would tilt the can next. It was shameful and humiliating. Watered on, like weeds. And dangerous, too. For if Jack decided to tilt the can sharply, the water droplets exploded like bombs off the bottom of the tank. Neville was knocked off his feet by such a blast and swilled into a pool of free-standing water. He was rescued by the one-eyed decorator, Sam. Ralph didn’t fancy it one little bit, but for the good of the group he knew he’d have to join in and get soaked too. There was just one problem. ‘I don’t have anything to collect water in,’ he shouted.
But as he turned to search, a container appeared. It was a rounded glass lampshade in the shape of a large white raspberry, like the type he’d seen in his grandma’s bathroom. And it was floating.
Just floating.
In mid-air.
Out of nowhere came a woman’s voice. ‘So, Rafe, we’re alone again.’
Ralph’s feet fused to the floor. ‘M-miriam, I th-thought you’d gone away?’ he stammered, making slow circular movements of his eyes. This time, the ghost hadn’t shown herself. But her prickly presence was all too apparent. And Ralph didn’t like the way she was bouncing that shade. It reminded him of a demon bowler preparing to unleash a wicket-breaking delivery, the ‘wicket’ in this case being his head.
‘I see. Is that what you want?’ she huffed, raising the hairs on the back of his neck like a row of magnetised iron filings.
Ralph shut his eyes and ground his teeth. He didn’t want to be haunted, but he did have some sympathy for Miriam’s cause. It was her house they’d invaded, after all. He tried to give a tactful answer. ‘I didn’t mean to send you flying. I didn’t know it would happen. It was just a sort of accident, sorry.’
‘Hmph,’ she went.
Ralph’s ear tips froze. ‘I mean it,’ he squeaked. ‘Please believe me. We just…I just…want you to be happy.’
Aw, that sounded totally naff, but Miriam did not react aggressively. In fact, she seemed rather pleased by the remark. ‘Oh Rafe,’ she said with a rush of cold air that made the strands of his fringe beat fast, like cilia. ‘Stay with me forever. That would make me happy.’
The lampshade bobbled. The tools on the floor began to dance. Ralph made a cry like a startled blackbird. He didn’t like this. He’d always hated that film Mary Poppins – and here he was, starring in a real-life version.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t belong here, Miriam. I’m—’
‘Ralph, come on,’ Tom called from outside.
‘Oh!’ went Miriam, annoyed by the intrusion. A rubber-handled hammer rose up off the floor.
‘Don’t!’ Ralph cried as the hammer went spinning towards Tom’s head. Luckily, it clipped the inner frame of the door and dropped to the floor with no damage done.
‘Who are all these people in our house?’ the ghost tutted.
Ralph clenched his fists and blew a little steam. He’d had enough of this. This ghost needed…busting. ‘Miriam, I command you…come forth!’
That sounded even naffer than the previous line – yet surprisingly, it worked. There was a pause, then the beautiful ghost shimmered forth. Despite her general washed-out appearance, she seemed to be a deeper shade of grey around the cheeks.
‘It’s not our house. It’s your house,’ Ralph told her. ‘We don’t want to be here. We’re trying to escape. We’re being held prisoner by a man called Jack. You must have seen him?’
‘The ogre?’ she queried, looking for the first time vulnerable – and frightened.
‘Yes. No. Sort of. Yes. He’s normal size, really; he just made you tiny. He’s stolen you from Yorkshire. He’s the one you should throw things at. He’s going to put you on display at the seaside, Miriam.’
‘Oh, how I love the sea air,’ she breezed. ‘Do you remember when we walked along the promenade at Eastbourne?’
Ralph slapped a hand across his eyes. ‘Miriam, I’m not your Rafe.’
There was a pause. Miriam turned away, stage left. ‘Oh, I know,’ she said crossly, tossing him the lampshade. Ralph fumbled the catch but managed to keep a grip. He glanced outside. He could still gather water, if he was quick.
‘I have to haunt someone. It’s my job,’ Miriam sighed. ‘It’s far more interesting if I pretend you’re him.’ She toyed with a string of pearls around her neck, letting them spill through her fingers as she spoke. ‘I suppose you’re going to leave me, now, just like he did?’
‘I can’t. I told you, we’re trapped in here.’
Miriam twizzled a bone china hand and practised some wraith-like ballet steps. ‘Then we are equals, for I am trapped also.’
‘But you’re a ghost,’ Ralph said as she pirouetted round him. ‘You can go where you like. You can walk through walls if you—’
Bingo. Suddenly, an idea struck him. An idea so bizarre and yet so very neat that he wondered how his brain could have missed it before. Could the ghost be the opening they were looking for? ‘Miriam, can I ask you a question?’
‘You’d like to dance a Charleston?’
‘No,’ Ralph said.
‘You want to ask for my hand in marriage?’
‘No,’ Ralph said. ‘It’s about being a ghost.’
‘I’m so lonely,’ she sniffed, laying a hand across her breast.
‘You don’t have to be,’ said Ralph, making her pout. ‘Your Rafe is out there somewhere, isn’t he?’
Miriam flicked her eyes to one side.
Ralph pointed to the outside world. ‘All you have to do is go and look for him, don’t you? Erm, can you walk through glass?’
So Close…
‘Of course,’ Miriam said, waving her arms with a theatrical flourish. ‘I can pass through any kind of medium, Rafe. I can fly as well.’ And with a whoosh that swept the dust into a vortex, she took off and circled the chandelier.
Meanwhile, from the garden, Tom was shouting: ‘Ralph? What are you doing? Come on. We need you.’
Ralph raised one hand, gesturing for patience. If he could just keep Miriam on the floor for a moment, all their problems might be solved. As she came back to hover in front of him he said, ‘Miriam, listen to me. I think I can help you.’
‘With my deportment?’ she said, whisking the lampshade off him again and prancing back and forth with it balanced on her head.
‘No. I can help you escape back to Yorkshire, away from us, away from the ogre. All you have to do is walk through the glass and steal his watch.’
Miriam flexed her knees and put out her arms like the wings of an aeroplane. ‘Go outside?’ she qu
eried.
‘Yes,’ Ralph said.
‘I can’t, my love.’
‘But you just said you could. You said you could pass through glass.’
‘Oh, Rafey, don’t be such a bore. You know perfectly well why I can’t go out. I’m doomed to haunt this house. My spirit is tied to these horrible walls. If I pass beyond them, I’ll surely die.’
‘But you’re already dead!’
‘Not dead dead,’ she tutted.
‘How dead do you have to be before you snuff it?’
Miriam’s eyelids fluttered like moths. ‘If I walk beyond these walls, terrible forces will be unleashed. You wouldn’t want to see me in danger would you, Rafe?’
‘I suppose not,’ he said, his spirits sinking. For a moment, there, things had seemed so promising. But Miriam was right. Why should her ‘life’ be put at risk, just because she wasn’t of this world?
‘Besides,’ she said gaily, tickling his chin with the glitter-cold again, ‘I have to await my Rafe’s return.’
But he’ll never come back, Ralph thought sadly. That was how it was with ghosts, wasn’t it? The people they were waiting for never came back. Which begged the question… ‘Who’s upstairs in the tower room, then? We thought that was your Rafe, lighting candles for you.’
‘Him?’ Miriam gave a snort of displeasure. ‘That old fool? I shall curdle his blood if he doesn’t leave soon.’
‘You mean he’s real?’
‘You mean I’m not?’
Ralph decided not to pursue this. Interesting as the concept was, he wasn’t quite ready for a philosophical argument with a neurotic ghost. ‘Who is he?’
‘Oh, Rafey. How should I know? He just appeared. Like you. Like the others.’
He’s a minione? thought Ralph. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Old,’ she said unhelpfully. ‘A horrible gargoyle. He never stops scribbling on my walls. And oh, those dreadful squeaky chains. This way, that way, he drags them every way. I can’t get a wink of sleep in there. Every night I have to come here and float in the parlour.’
‘Why is Jack keeping him locked away?’
‘Because he’s annoying.’
‘Miriam?’
‘He is. He never stops shouting, Rafe.’
‘What does he say? Do you know? I can’t tell. It sounds like ‘Belt a teacher,’ but what is it really?’
Miriam flapped a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Please, Miriam. It might be important.’
‘It’s nonsense, Rafey. Gobbledygook.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Please, just tell me.’
‘Oh, very well. He says—’
Annoyingly, before Miriam could answer, Rodney Coiffure burst into the parlour asking had the water collection finished?
With a pop! Miriam disappeared back into her ghost-world. Unsupported, the lampshade dropped. Just in time, Ralph put out his hands and caught it.
‘Ingenious choice,’ said Rodney. He showed Ralph the baseball cap he intended using as his water bowl. Then he dashed into the ‘rain’ with Ralph close behind him.
The rose was sprinkling out the last of its contents. By now, the miniones were walking dishcloths. Ralph couldn’t understand why Tom hadn’t told them to forget catching water and just fill their containers from the free-standing pool they were wading around in. That question was answered when Jack produced a grimy-looking bathroom sponge and drove it round the base of the tank to soak up any excess puddles. The miniones dived into the house for cover. But Ralph, inexperienced in Miniville procedure, was picked up on a tidal wave and swept against the front wall of the aquarium. He bounced off the glass and his lampshade broke into four clean pieces. It was barely a tenth full.
Jack hurled the plastic watering can aside. ‘GIT BACK TO WORK, YOU LOAFERS,’ he boomed and blew a thick cloud of cigarette smoke over them. It choked and burned in the back of Ralph’s throat. Coughing uncontrollably, he fell to his knees. Haunted, soaked and now poisoned by tar, he couldn’t even cry ‘I hate you’ any more.
And yet, bright moments lay on the horizon. For, as the cloud of smoke began to disperse and Jack disappeared towards Annie’s kitchen, Ralph found himself at the face of the tank, about to watch a comedy caper unfold, a bizarre little episode that would have all manner of outcomes and effects – ultimately leading to his passage out of Miniville…
Anyone for toast?
It went like this: Jack had grilled some toast for breakfast. The warm, crisp smell of it hung in the air, stirring the hunger bunnies in Ralph’s stomach (he’d eaten very little since he’d been shrivelled and couldn’t face the prospect of sugar beads for breakfast). The toast was on a plate on the arm of the sofa. Ralph had zero chance of reaching it, of course, but the same could not be said of Knocker. With a lurch more in common with a hog than a dog, he leapt onto the couch, tipping the plate and its contents off. Down he jumped again, and in doing so, somehow managed to spear half a slice of toast with his wooden leg. He twizzled it impatiently, left and right. It was a pitiful sight and Ralph couldn’t help laughing. He had seen dogs chasing their tails before, but never their master’s freshly-grilled breakfast. Round and round and round went Knocker, flicking out his stick as he picked up speed. He was on his tenth spin and seriously twizzle-dizzy when the toast worked its way to the end of the stick and…
Wheee… it winged towards Ralph like a giant brown frisbee…
Instinctively, he covered his face, forgetting there was a thick glass barrier protecting him.
Splat. Knocker and the room were obscured from view as the toast gummed itself, marmalade-side first, to the wall of the tank.
Ralph ran sideways to get a clearer view and was just in time to see Jack march in, tread on the edge of the plate, and send it and the second slice of toast spinning. Splop. It landed on the builder’s hat.
Jack’s words were like a nuclear explosion, far too loud to be understood, but the kick he aimed at Knocker’s head needed no explaining. The terrier veered away just in time and scuttled underneath the trestle table. In two strides, Jack was by the tank.
Ralph backed away, fear coursing through his heart. He’d been spotted, he knew, but he was too proud to run.
‘You,’ the giant builder rumbled. Through the parting curtains of his worm-thin lips his teeth showed up like a row of cracked tiles. He looked at the toast and his gaze grew darker. Then, in one terrifying lunge, he slapped his bony hand flat against the bread and sponged it along the wall of the tank.
Ralph was terrified. He had once had a dream where he was trapped in a car while a clown washed the windscreen with orange-coloured acid. If a nightmare could be lived through, this came close. He dodged left. He dodged right. But whichever way he went, the marmalade followed, until it was smeared all over the glass and the toast was thinning out and turning soggy. Jack grimaced as margarine squirted down his wrist. He scooped up the slice and hurled it, palm first, into the tank.
Ralph braced himself. He had nowhere to run. No place to hide. It was Dinosaur Day and the meteor was coming. He waited for his young life to flash before him, hoping he’d remember the fluky headed goal he’d scored in the playground at primary school when Kyle Salter (of all people) had been between the posts. But, as the blanket bomb of breakfast came slapping down, nothing flashed or sparked or played out before him. He waited three seconds, then opened his eyes. Ground level was a sea of brown and orange. He was standing at its centre, in the hole that Knocker had punched with his stick.
‘Drat,’ Jack snorted. ‘Missed.’ He cracked his knuckles and lurched away.
Penny’s voice shouted down from the balcony window: ‘Ralph! Oh my goodness! Are you OK?’
Ralph freed his foot from a slimy blob of marmalade and waved back to show he was sticky, but safe.
Tom, Neville and Wally were all outside now, all looking on in wonder at the toast. Ralph flicked a splat of margarine out of his hair and stepped towards Tom’s outstretched hand. The toast had
the texture of a well-worn mattress. It was like walking on the skin of a thick rice pudding. He was on his knees twice before the swamp was crossed.
‘This is champion,’ said Neville, extending a tape measure around the crust. ‘This’ll keep us fed for a good three days.’
Ralph screwed up his face. ‘You’re not going to eat it?’
‘Got to,’ said Wally, ‘or the flies will come.’ He broke a crumb or two off the crust and gobbled it up like a hungry sparrow.
Ralph’s stomach rolled. He looked at Tom who said to Neville, ‘Let’s cut it up and get it inside.’
‘Aye,’ said the carpenter, sizing up the job.
He took a small tenon saw from his belt.
To Ralph’s surprise, the toast didn’t taste too bad. It had landed dry side down, so apart from a few globs of garden mud and the sickening thought of Jack’s nicotined fingers staining every grain of polished wheat, the ‘grand dinner’ (as Kyle Salter referred to it) was reasonably enjoyable. It was a strange sight to witness, twelve people (Miriam didn’t attend) sitting around the edge of a chunk of bread, nibbling their way towards its centre.
It was during the dessert course, while the miniones were munching through the piece of toast with the heaviest concentration of unspread marmalade, that Ralph told Tom about his second clash with Miriam.
‘She came again?’ Tom said, keeping his voice low.
Ralph nodded, stifling a burp. ‘That’s why I was late collecting water. She told me about the tower room. She says it’s not a ghost in there, it’s a man.’
Tom stopped eating. He slowly wiped his lip. ‘Did you ask her about him?’
‘Yes, she said—’
‘I say, Rafe, old chap, pass the salt, would you?’
Ralph instinctively looked for it, tutting when he realised he was being taunted – by Kyle Salter, who else?
Salter, who ate like a chimpanzee (and sounded like one too), passed a hand across an open mouth that was churning toast into cardboard-coloured slop. ‘This a private conversation or can anyone join in?’