‘I was wondering,’ he said hurriedly, ‘when you were at Dunloon did you, by any chance, see any ghosts? Not the Green Lady or the Red Lady, but proper ones? A phantom dog, perhaps … or a Viking?’
Adolfa backed away from him, her eyes bulging with horror. Was he joking? If there was one thing that absolutely nauseated her, it was anything unreal or weird. She could throw bombs and see people screaming with pain – but ghosts… Ugh!
‘No, indeed I didn’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Quite honestly, I think that jokes should not be made on subjects like that.’
And Adolfa grabbed her gloves and her hat, and hurried away.
But that night, Alex wrote a letter to Dunloon.
Fourteen
The ghosts were very pleased with the message from the Hand.
‘My, my, that’s a very good class of hand,’ said Uncle Louse who knew about these things. ‘There’s nothing classier than being severed. It’ll have a blood-stained wrist stump and get up to all sorts of tricks, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘It is good to be welcomed,’ said Krok. ‘Though it’s strange that we have seen no signs of it. Its invisibility must be very high.’
The ghosts were particularly glad of the Hand’s message because their spirits were becoming rather low. Awful Blossom Time was still showing twice daily and because it was a film that was supposed to be suitable for children, there were a great many chewing-gum wrappers and ice-lolly sticks left behind which stuck to the ghosts’ ectoplasm and made them itch. Being invisible so much of the time made them tired and Cyril was so short of exercise that the stale air had got trapped in his long stomach and came out in bursts at either end, which worried him. They were also getting more and more bothered about how to get a message to Alex back in Scotland without appearing to Mr Hopgood, which they had promised not to do.
What made everything worse, of course, was seeing Carra rise in all its glory so close to them. The East Tower, their own familiar place, was halfway built; they could see the torture chamber quite clearly, and the dungeons where they had picnicked so happily were almost underneath them in the car park of the cinema.
‘It may simply hurt too much to live so close to Carra and be forbidden to enter it,’ said the Viking. ‘We must see it rebuilt, of course, but after that perhaps we should move on and put the past behind us.’
‘We could do that, I suppose,’ said Uncle Louse. ‘Become prairie ghosts. There must be Native American spooks out there, and plenty of them.’
But he spoke very sadly. At his age he did not think he would get on too well with ghosts which were called things like Big Red Knee-joint and wore feathers on their heads.
A few days later the ghosts found another message from the Hand. It said,
ALL IS NOT WHAT IT SEEMS (Signed) THE HAND
The ghosts found this very interesting and it was decided to keep a watch for the Hand and welcome it in person. Since Krok was the strongest and best able to do without sleep, it was he who stayed up and waited.
The first night there was no sign of anything unusual, nor the second. But on the third a pale blue glow appeared round the corner of the screen … stopped … came on again … and Krok saw the Hand’s fine, upside-down fingers coming towards him, crowned with the bloodied bones and muscle of the wrist.
Actually, the Hand had nearly stayed away because the ghosts had made Flossie shut all the doors she had opened in her temper tantrum, and it had not been at all sure whether it could go through solid wood or metal. The way you learn what you are is by people telling you, and there had been no one to tell the Hand whether it was a ghost or not. But when it had pressed itself a few times against the rusty door that led into the store-room behind the stage, it found that it had passed through to the other side.
Knowing that it was not only severed, but ghostly, cheered the Hand very much. All the same when a deep voice boomed at it suddenly out of the darkness of the cinema, the Hand nearly jumped out of its skin, and the lipstick it was carrying under one finger clattered to the floor.
‘Greetings, Oh Severed Hand,’ said Krok.
The Hand gathered up its courage. Bravely it moved forward and climbed across a pair of thonged sandals, up a leather trouser leg, across a chain shirt and into a rough and curly beard. Then it laid its fingers across the speaker’s mouth and waited.
‘Greetings, Oh Severed Hand,’ repeated Krok, for he understood that the Hand, not having ears, liked to feel what people said.
The Hand nodded with one finger, climbed quickly down again, picked up the lipstick and hurried over to the screen.
‘Greetings, Oh Mighty Warrior,’ it wrote.
They were now introduced. To the Hand, who had lived alone in murk and gloom so long, finding someone to tell things to was happiness indeed, and very quickly and excitedly it wrote the story of its life.
‘In 1881,’ wrote the Hand, ‘I was still joined to a man named Arthur Brett who came from England to find gold. Most of the people who took part in the Gold Rush went to California, but Arthur found that there were small amounts of gold here in Texas. He went into partnership with a man called Erik Erikson and they started a mine. But Erikson was a crook. He wanted all the gold for himself and one day he murdered Arthur by pushing him under a trolley. The wheels went over Arthur’s wrist so that I became severed from him. Why I stayed and became ghostly and the rest of Arthur did not, I don’t know. These things are very mysterious. Since then I have lived by myself in the mine, which is dark and flooded and, to be honest, I have sometimes been very lonely and sad. Though one must not grumble.’
Krok was very interested in all this and very sorry for the Hand.
‘But where is the mine?’ he asked, bending down very low so that the Hand could lip-read.
‘It is underneath the cinema,’ replied the Hand, writing with its lipstick. ‘Reached by a tunnel from behind the storeroom. It is a dreadful place but you are welcome to visit.’
Krok was amazed. A mine so close! Yet now that he thought of it, the cracks in the wall of the building, the mysterious passages leading nowhere, should have warned him that there was more to the Rex Cinema than met the eye.
‘Why don’t you come and live with us here?’ Krok wanted to know.
‘Thank you, but I must stay and avenge the murder of Arthur Brett,’ wrote the Hand.
By this time the lipstick was worn down almost to its stump and the Hand, exhausted by so much communication, crept away.
The other ghosts were very excited by what Krok had to tell them and when the Hand came back two days later they were all waiting to welcome it.
Everybody liked it at once. Flossie loved the blue glow it made and wanted to keep it for a night light, and Uncle Louse was delighted with its excellent manners, for it climbed at once on to his lap and bowed, bending all its fingers from the knuckles in a most courtly and old-fashioned way.
Only Cyril was at first puzzled, not being sure whether it was something to bark at or to chase, or to back away from in terror, but when he had done all these, he suddenly shot out his forked tongue and began to lick the Hand all over.
There is nothing that tickles more than being licked by a hellhound, but though the Hand couldn’t help quivering and shaking, it made no attempt to get away. It was as though it knew that what was happening was important.
And when Cyril had finished, the ghosts were quite awed by how handsome their new friend looked now that the grime and muck of a hundred years was washed away. The blue veins ran like little rivers across its skin; the half-moons at the base of the nails were beautifully shaped, and what they had thought was a piece of string tied round the little finger turned out to be a signet ring stamped with Arthur Brett’s initials.
‘You can see it comes from a good family,’ murmured Miss Spinks – and turning as she always did to Krok, she whispered, ‘Do you think we might ask it to write a letter for us to Alex in Scotland? It writes such a beautiful script.’
Krok thought this wa
s an excellent idea. A letter like that could go through the ordinary post – they could have a reply in no time. He repeated what Miss Spinks had said to the Hand, who seized the lipstick stump and almost ran to the screen.
‘I would be delighted. Charmed. More pleased than I can say,’ it wrote. ‘To be a Helping Hand as well as a Severed Hand would make me completely happy. Or rather as happy as I can be until I have avenged the murder of Arthur Brett.’
So it was decided that the Hand should come back next day when the ghosts had got some writing paper and stamps from the manager’s office. Miss Spinks also suggested that they should stop calling the Hand ‘it’ and call it ‘he’ because it was so manly and strong.
The Hand, who was getting very good at lip reading, was tremendously pleased. An ‘it’ is a thing but a ‘he’ is a person – and as he made his way back to the mine he moved lightly, almost as if he were dancing – as people do when they have found friends.
But at the end of the week, a cleaning lady called Millie Jones who worked in the cinema handed in her notice. She said she was sick of rubbing a lot of gibberish off the screen with lipstick remover, and she got a job in a launderette instead.
Fifteen
Alex’s letter was brought to Lady Trottle on a silver salver and it surprised her because Alex, like most boys, had never been too keen on letter writing.
She was alone at the time. Dunloon was so expensive to run that the Trottles had run out of money and Sir Ian had gone to London to try and borrow some more from a bank.
‘Dear Aunt Dorothy,’ Alex had written,
‘I arrived safely in America and I’m having a very nice time here. Mr Hopgood is most hospitable and the rebuilding of Carra is going well. But the thing is, I’m a bit worried about my ghosts. Your friend Adolfa Batters came to tea today and gave me all sorts of kind messages, but she didn’t seem to know anything about them. I’ve never felt right about asking them to go away – not that they wouldn’t be fine at Dunloon, but you know how it is. Has Cyril settled down? Is Flossie behaving herself? If you could just send me a few lines to say they’re all right, I’d be most grateful.
Thank you very much,
Your affectionate cousin,
Alex’
Lady Trottle put down the letter and thought. This was not a thing she did often, but she could do it if she tried. Then she rang for the butler and said, ‘Phillips, have you seen any of the new ghosts lately? The ones from Carra?’
‘No, my lady; I have not. I’m happy to say there have been no more floating bedsocks or governesses in Sir Ian’s bath.’
‘It’s strange that they should suddenly have gone so quiet. What about our own ghosts?’
The butler said he hadn’t noticed them of late. ‘But, of course, our own ghosts do not give any trouble.’
‘Well, let me know if you see any of them. I’ve had a letter from my young cousin, the MacBuff of Carra.’
Two days later, the butler came to say that the Green Lady and the Red Lady had been seen in the linen cupboard and Lady Trottle went up to find them. Both spectres, when they saw her, attempted to vanish, but when she wished to, Lady Trottle could be firm.
‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you. Where’s Hal?’
Handsome Hal appeared, waveringly. He, too, looked uneasy.
‘I want to know what’s happened to the Carra ghosts,’ asked Lady Trottle. ‘They were here a few weeks ago because I saw them. But there’s been no sighting since and I’d like to know why.’
The Green Lady looked at the Red Lady and then both Ladies looked at Hal.
‘The Carra ghosts did not fit in,’ said the Red Lady at last. ‘We tried to show them how things were done in an aristocratic household, but they seemed to be quite unable to learn.’
Lady Trottle frowned. ‘This happens to be my home,’ she said, ‘and I gave them sanctuary. You will kindly tell me where they are now.’
‘We don’t know,’ said the Green Lady, fanning herself.
‘Stop whirring that fan at me,’ said Lady Trottle. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘We didn’t see them go. They just went. The day after—’
She broke off as Hal gave a warning, spectral cough.
‘The day after what?’ said Lady Trottle sharply.
‘We were forced to discipline the dog … after dear Sir Ian sat on the dead ferret.’
Lady Trottle’s lips twitched into a smile. Her husband often annoyed her and she had enjoyed seeing him leap up from the sofa with pieces of dead ferret stuck to his behind.
‘How did you discipline him?’
‘We sent him to the cowshed. And after that, the ghosts just vanished. It was extremely rude of them. They didn’t say goodbye and the Viking left a throwing spear which is no use to anyone. I fell over it on the way to my closet.’
Lady Trottle was worried by this news. She felt that she had failed in hospitality. ‘You’re quite certain they’re not just somewhere being invisible?’
The Ladies nodded.
‘Well, then I’m very displeased with you. Very displeased indeed. The Carra ghosts were your guests. Their home has been pulled down; they have nowhere to go; heaven knows what has happened to them. You’d better keep out of my sight or I’ll have you exorcised.’
The ghosts were quiet till Lady Trottle had gone, but then they began to titter with glee and to mock and to jeer.
‘Their home has been pulled down, did you hear
that!’ ‘They have nowhere to go!’ ‘They’ll be haunting some Scottish pigsty and
serve them right!’
Lady Trottle went downstairs, much disturbed, and wrote at once to Alex, explaining what had happened.
‘I think they must have gone back to Carra and be haunting somewhere near there. I’ll have enquiries made – and I’m really very sorry, my dear boy. As soon as they’re found, I’ll invite them back personally and keep my own ghosts in order. As for Adolfa Batters, I don’t know who she can be. I don’t know anyone called that and one could hardly forget such a strange Christian name. Perhaps she’s got me mixed up with the Trottles of Farmlington – my husband’s brother and his wife – though they wouldn’t be likely to send messages to you!’
Lady Trottle finished her letter and sealed it. She even put on a stamp. But then she left it lying in the muddle of papers on her bureau so that it did not reach Alex until weeks later when a maid found it and posted it. So Alex went on trusting Adolfa and believing what she said, and for this he was to blame himself horribly later.
Sixteen
Ratty and Oscar had been reporting every few days to Adolfa in the Twinkle Hamburger Bar. They had never been allowed more than one hamburger and they had never been allowed a beer. But the week after Adolfa went to tea at Green Meadows they hurried into the restaurant and both of them were gibbering with excitement.
‘Well,’ said Adolfa, who was as usual stroking Hitler’s curl.
‘We’ve discovered something, Adolfa,’ said the Hulk.
‘I discovered it,’ squeaked Ratty, who was sitting on Mr Guggenfelder’s book of Body Building Exercises to make himself look taller. ‘Not you; I did! When we were down in the dungeons laying the underground cables.’ He lowered his voice and leant across the table, whispering in a hot and agitated voice.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Adolfa when he had finished.
‘I’m quite sure. Absolutely certain. Some of the older men knew about it. It’s been disused for years, but it’s there.’
‘So now can we have a beer?’ asked the Hulk.
Adolfa ignored him. She put the curl to bed and shut the locket with a snap. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘my plan is complete. Yes, I see my way now. Listen carefully, both of you: this is what I want you to do…’
As the weeks passed, the people of Granite Falls became more and more excited as this genuine, proper Scottish castle rose in their midst.
Mr Hopgood had announced that the Great
Opening Ball would be held on 14 December. He had invited all the important people in Granite Falls and quite a lot of people who weren’t ‘important’ but simply nice, like the petrol pump attendant and the lady in the corner store who sold him the Extra Strong Peppermints he sucked to soothe his stomach. And even the people he couldn’t invite would be able to see the castle floodlit in all its glory and hear the pipers as they marched round the battlements before the dancing began.
By the beginning of December no town could have been more Scottish than Granite Falls. The owner of the Skyway Motel took down the picture of the President which hung in his dining room and put up one of the Queen at Balmoral stalking deer. The chef at the Twinkle Hamburger Joint invented a Macbuffburger made of minced kipper and oatmeal. And the manager of the Rex Cinema decided to have an all-night showing of Scottish films at the same time as the ball, with the usherettes dressed in tartan, and special sweets like liquorice bagpipes and sporrans made of toffee to serve in the intervals.
Meanwhile the ghosts were holding a meeting.
‘Are we agreed, then?’ asked Krok.
Miss Spinks, fresh from the drinking fountain, nodded sadly, sending a shower of drops over Cyril who looked at her reproachfully out of his saucer eyes.
‘It will not be so bad, perhaps?’ sighed Uncle Louse. ‘They can’t all be called Big Knee Joint or Wise Toe Nail. There might be some quite ordinary ghosts called Cynthia or Fred.’
‘And there might be little papoose spooks for Flossie to play with,’ said Miss Spinks – and the poltergeist, who was drawing a picture of the Big Blob with a melting chocolate bar on one of the seats, let out a Native American war whoop in her piping voice.
The ghosts had decided to leave the cinema and go West. The pain of seeing Carra, now almost finished, so close to them and knowing that they could never again live there and call it home was too great to be borne. If they had heard from Alex everything would have been different. To see Alex once more they would have lived in the cinema for ever, but though the Hand had written a most beautiful letter and bravely gone out at night, looping along Main Street after everyone was in bed to post it, there had been no answer. (This was because the Hand had not been out of the mine for a hundred years and did not realize how things had changed. Though he felt most carefully for something round with a slit in it, he had posted the letter in a litter bin.)