The Time of the Ghost (21 page)

He settled at length for sarcasm. “I seem to have spawned a coven of witches,” he remarked. Mrs. Gill nodded brightly at this. Himself shot her an irritated glance. “Put that knife down, Imogen—er—Selina—er—Fenella,” he commanded. It was a curious fact that Himself, while he never forgot a single boy he had ever taught, could never remember which of his daughters was which. He always had to go through at least three of their names before he chanced on the right one. As Fenella laid the knife down, he said, “I shall confiscate that. It's murderous. What is that disgusting rabbit doing there? Charlotte—Imogen—Fenella, take it back to the biology lab at once.”

Fenella glowered at him uncertainly. She was not sure he meant her.

“I said take it back!” thundered Himself, letting off some of his rage in a shout.

Fenella hurriedly snatched up the rabbit and set off for the door with it.

“No! Wait!” thundered Himself. “I haven't finished yet.” Fenella stopped and stood clutching the rabbit against her green sack. “What do you little bi—beastly girls think you're doing with this—this bestial display? Answer me. Don't just gape. What's this bowl of disgusting blood supposed to be for? Answer me!”

“Ancient Greek ghost work,” said Fenella. She was almost always the only one who dared speak when Himself was in one of his rages. “It was in a book by Virgil. It's educational. You teach Greek and Virgil in School.”

“Virgil,” growled Himself, “was not a Greek, you ignorant little bi—beast. If you must scour the classics for disgusting acts, at least get them
right.
Who was Virgil?”

“A—a Roman poet,” quavered Imogen.

“Right,” said Himself. It seemed to be becoming a lesson. Himself realized it was. He shot Mrs. Gill another irritated glance and turned it back to rage again by pointing a quivering finger and a glare at the bowl of blood. “This,” he said, “this disgusting object must be got rid of at once. I do not care if you are attempting divination or sacrifice to the gods, but it must go. Selina—Fenella—Charlotte, take it outside at once and throw it away.”

“But we need it,” protested Fenella. “It's cost us pounds by now.”

Himself whirled round on her, ready to rend. But he remembered Mrs. Gill was standing there and roared instead. “I told you to take that rabbit back! How dare you disobey me! Go and do it at once!”

Fenella did not wait to protest. She dived for the door, swinging the rabbit by its hind legs, and disappeared before Himself could change his mind again. Himself swung round on Imogen and Cart.

“Imogen—Selina—Charlotte, I told you to take that horrible bowl away! Do it at once. Take it out into the orchard and pour it away.”

“If you mean me—” said Cart. She was not anxious to move. If she did, it meant losing the hard-earned bowl of blood. And she was afraid to go near Himself. He had a horrible habit of delivering a swinging slap as soon as you were within range. But the worst of it was that she knew that once she moved her bulk from in front of the sink, Himself would be able to see Ned Jenkins crouching underneath it.

“Of course I mean you, girl!” bellowed Himself. “Didn't I
say
so?”

“No,” snapped Imogen, in the funny way she had of suddenly going brave. “You may have
said
Charlotte. But you also said all the rest of our names, too! Can't you ever remember which of us is
which
?”

“That,” said Himself, “is pure impertinence, Selina.”

“I thought as much!” snapped Imogen. “How would you like it if I kept calling you Phyllis?”

Himself's eyes widened. He stood poised to rend, glaring at Imogen in what was half a glare of rage and half a stare of bewilderment. He did not see her point at all, but he knew she was being rude. His stare rapidly became all rage. At that Imogen opened her mouth to say something else. Cart tried to shut her up by kicking her ankle.

Imogen promptly uttered a loud cry and sank to a crouch, clutching the flowing yellow ankle of her trouser suit with both hands. “Oh! My leg!”

She did it so convincingly that Cart misunderstood and bent down to her anxiously. Imogen was forced to turn round and try to wink. Now, it was a peculiarity of Imogen that she could not wink. Not to save her life—and certainly not to save Ned Jenkins's. Perhaps it was that her features were too regular; neither of her deep blue eyes shut any easier than the other. Nevertheless, she tried. She screwed up first one side of her face and then the other. All that happened were two furious grimaces. Mrs. Gill and Himself must have thought she was in agony. And at last Cart understood that Imogen was crouching like that to hide Ned Jenkins.

“Oh!” Cart exclaimed, understanding, and then had to add hastily, “I'm so sorry, Imo.” And since Himself was now glaring at her, she set off sideways round the room, to keep the table between her and Himself. Mrs. Gill's eyes flicked between Cart and Himself, calculating when Cart would come within hitting range. She looked a trifle disappointed when Cart managed to arrive on the opposite side of the table, facing Himself. Her eyes turned to the bowl of blood then, expectantly. Cart looked at it, too, and said, with a blurred, placating look, “It seems a shame to pour it on the orchard. It's such good manure. That's what made the poppies grow in Flanders, you know. Suppose I take it to the kitchen garden and—”

At that Himself plunged forward, with both hands on the table and his face only inches from Cart's. “Your damned dog,” he said intensely, “has just ruined the kitchen garden. I said
pour it away
!”

His shout was at point-blank range. Cart jerked back, snatching up the bowl as she went. The blood swirled, and as liquid swirled in an enamel bowl often does, it let out a long note, a low, melancholy moan.

Mrs. Gill's eyes widened. And the sound seemed to draw the ghost, just as it drew Mrs. Gill. With Mrs. Gill's eyes on it and the ghost hovering beside her, Cart carried the bowl to the back door and out into a fine mist of rain in the orchard.

“Has he gone yet?” said a deep whisper from behind a clump of nettles.

“No,” said Cart. Indeed, he had not. Himself's voice could be heard raging at Imogen now. “I think Ned's had it,” Cart muttered. She carried the bowl up the orchard to Monigan's hut, and bent to push it inside.

No!
screamed the ghost.

Cart paused, considering. “Yes, but I can't let it get too diluted with rain,” she said, just as if she had heard. She pushed the bowl inside the hut and walked away behind it, where only the upper half of her would be visible from the kitchen window, until she came to a smaller enamel bowl, which was sometimes used for feeding the hens. It had a small quantity of dirty water in it. “Good,” said Cart. She picked up that bowl and made great play of pouring the water away where she would be seen. Mrs. Gill would be looking, even if Himself was not. Then, with the bowl bumping against her leg, so that it was not obvious that it was rather smaller, she went back down the orchard and opened the kitchen door.

“The blood is disposed of,” she announced.

Himself swung round from glaring at Imogen, who was still squatting on the floor. “Good,” he said. “Right. And if there is any more disgusting nonsense like this, I warn you, the trouble will be terrible. Have you little bi—beasts got that into your thick heads?”

“Yes,” said Imogen and Cart in chorus.

“Very well.” Himself went and swung the green door open for Mrs. Gill. “After you, Mrs. Gill.” His voice came courteously. Mrs. Gill, looking rather let down, was obliged to go through it in front of Himself. Himself followed, trying to bang the door to relieve his feelings. Since it was a swing door, all it did was thud back and forth all the time Imogen was unwinding herself from the floor.

“Where's the blood?” Imogen asked as soon as the door stopped.

“In Monigan's hut,” said Cart. “I'm sure that's ill omened, but—”

“Shut up!” Ned Jenkins said hollowly from under the sink. “He has a horrible way of coming straight back again.”

“He only does that to boys,” said Imogen. She put her hand down to help Ned crawl out, which he did, somewhat mucky. “You've got custard all over your back,” Imogen told him severely. “Hold still.” She was wiping him down when Howard crunched cautiously out of the living room. A second later Fenella put her head round the back door.

“The rain's stopping,” Fenella said. “Shall we do it here or outside?”

“Outside,” said Cart. “All old witchcraft was done outside. Besides, there are more places there to run away to.”

So a minute later the bowl rested carefully propped on a clump of wet grass against the slope of the orchard. Around it wet nettles and baby apples in the trees winked in the sallow sunlight. Monigan's hut steamed dankly. In a ring round the bowl stood Cart, Imogen, Fenella, Howard, Jenkins, and all who remained of the blood donors. These were four smaller boys, each rather damp in the trouser legs and sprinkled over the shoulders, with traces of blood round their noses.

There was an expectant silence. In the distance the hens pecked busily, not in the least interested.

“Nothing's going to happen,” said one of the donors disgustedly. “They ripped off our blood for nothing.”

Fenella gave them a look of deep contempt and raised both skinny arms. “Ghost!” she boomed. “Ghost, come and drink.”

At that, with varying degrees of awkwardness, everyone else raised their arms, too. Howard did it limply, with both hands drooping, as if he hoped no one would notice. Ned Jenkins stretched up, like someone reaching something off a shelf. Imogen contrived to look like a priestess. “Come and drink,” they all said, not quite together.

The ghost hovered miserably over the bowl. Under the shiny surface, ropy tendrils of thicker blood were slowly dispersing in the thinner liquid from the ox hearts. She was not sure she could even try to drink it. It was like cannibalism. And Cart had put it in Monigan's hut, as if it were an offering. Monigan was there. She could feel Monigan, pressing down in the orchard, watching with a sly, sarcastic amusement like Julian Addiman's, daring her to drink. It was like the dead hen all over again.

All the same, it seemed her one chance to explain to them and get them to help. But if it meant that Monigan could take her once she drank—She did not know what to do. And she could not bear to drink, anyway.

Monigan was highly amused. In the circle round the bowl, people's arms were going down. They were ready to give up. The smaller boys had their hands in their pockets and were showing signs of shuffling away. And still, the ghost hovered, unable to do anything. She might have done nothing had she not suddenly been interrupted by something in the hospital, seven years in the future.

A voice by her ear said faintly, “We need another bag of blood here.”

Another bag of blood?
she asked, bewildered. Then she remembered. All the time she hovered here, she was having blood transfusions. She was being given life from blood that unknown generous people had given because they knew it was needed. Was that so different from drinking blood? It was the same here, except that she knew whose blood it was. And although the small boys had given their blood for money, Howard and Jenkins and her sisters had been just as generous as the unknown hospital donors. And what a waste of both gifts if she were to refuse them and let Monigan take her away at midnight.

She lowered herself in a rush, in order not to have to think about it. The shining pool in the bowl came up at her, full of reflections of leaves and baby apples, with no sign of a reflection of her. It was, she found when she was near enough, fizzing faintly with the same electric life feeling that people's bodies had. But it was weaker. It did not stop her lowering herself into its sticky, prickling surface.

It felt as if she was having a bath in soda water. She fizzed all over. She tried to do something which would be like gulping the stuff in, but it did not work like that. It was more as if she took the blood in through her whole surface. She could feel it going in, tingling all over what now felt definitely like a body.

She stood up, fizzing. There was a curious roaring in her ears, a blur of green pressing on her eyes, and a sharp rainy smell to her nose. None of it was clear, but she knew what it was. For just a short while she was hearing, seeing, and smelling as people do in bodies. At the same time she could feel Monigan going away. Monigan was sarcastic, angry, and not defeated yet, but she was leaving the orchard. Something had been done there which was outside Monigan's power.

Around her they were all staring. Most of their faces were white. The smaller boys managed to be leaning backward and forward at once—backward in terror, forward in fascination.

“Standing in the bowl!” one was whispering. “It looks like a girl.”

“Hanging. It's all blurred,” said Howard's voice. “Who is it?”

Yes
, said the ghost.
Who am I? Don't you know?
This was what she said. But what she heard, and what the others certainly heard, was not so much a voice as a moaning, like the noise of liquid swirling in an enamel bowl, only with words in it. And the words were broken patches of words. It was like a faulty radio circuit. “Who I… who I… oh, who I?” she went, like a broken owl.