Mountwood School for Ghosts Read online

  Daniel’s parents had woken up when the front-door lock splintered. Mr Salter lay awake for a moment, and then he heard a voice on the landing. He got up and stuck his head round the door. He got a shock.

  Standing in front of Aunt Joyce’s door, with her arms folded and a frightful expression on her face, was the biggest, gauntest, ugliest woman he had ever seen in his life. Daniel was standing beside her, looking desperate. John Salter was speechless, but Fredegonda wasn’t.

  ‘Get back inside and lock your door. And take your son with you,’ she hissed.

  She reached out a bony hand, lifted Daniel up by his collar, took a step forward and threw him past his father into the room. Then she gave Mr Salter himself a shove that flung him backwards to land in a heap on top of Daniel, and slammed the door shut.

  Goneril looked at Great-Aunt Joyce. She was in her curlers, wearing her dressing gown and a pair of tartan slippers. She was seated on the carpet, with her legs straight out in front of her. Around her in a circle were eight small lamps, like night lights. Their smoky flames flickered in the gloom.

  ‘I didn’t expect to find you here,’ said Goneril.

  ‘Didn’t you now?’ said Great-Aunt Joyce. But her eyes were no longer the eyes of Daniel’s great-aunt.

  ‘Well, as you know, I had a spot of bother and I needed to keep out of the way, I did. And the old lady happened along just at the right time. A walking holiday in our lovely Irish countryside. So I just borrowed her, if you take my meaning, and bought myself a ticket to Stranraer.’

  ‘And where is the real Great-Aunt Joyce?’

  ‘In Mayo somewhere, she should be. I took her memories, of course – couldn’t manage without them. She’s Maeve O’Donnell now, married to a farmer.’

  ‘Why this then?’ Goneril pointed at the ring of flickering lights.

  ‘Well, that banshee got a smell of me, I didn’t like that. Anyway, I fancied a move to a place with a decent bathroom.’

  As she spoke her face was changing, and she was getting smaller. Soon in front of Goneril sat a small wizened man with a trilby hat on his head.

  But before she could do anything, there was no little man on the bedroom carpet. Instead a wicked-looking snake writhed there. It was a spitting cobra. Its tongue darted in and out. Then it lifted its beautiful, lethal head and spat its venom straight into Goneril’s left eye. She staggered back, her eye useless.

  And the snake was a snake no more. A great shadow seemed to grow in the room; a huge bear, its mouth open showing its vicious teeth, reared up and its enormous arms embraced Goneril in a frightful hug. Long sharp claws tore at her back.

  Goneril was not called the Wardrobe for nothing, but she had met her match. She struggled helplessly to free her arms, to find some way of stopping the life being squeezed out of her. The bear opened its jaws wider, preparing to close them over her head.

  As it did so, a hoarse shout rang out and Angus materialized in the room, the battle cry of the Crawes on his lips, his sword whizzing round his head. Doris passed through the head and body of the bear again and again. It didn’t do any actual harm – it was a ghost sword – but it drove the great bear to distraction. It was worse than having a cloud of angry bees round its head, stinging and humming.

  The bear couldn’t help releasing one huge paw to flap and beat at the relentless blade. It was enough. Goneril freed one arm, took a large cambric handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and wiped her eye. It flashed bright green. Instantly the bear vanished. But Goneril wasn’t fooled. Peering carefully about her, she saw an earwig skittering along the skirting-board. Her green gaze found it, and fixed on it for a long time. There was a look of fierce concentration on her face. Then she relaxed.

  ‘That should be pretty permanent,’ she said.

  Then she looked around, found a little pillbox on the dressing table, emptied out the pills, bent down and popped the earwig inside.

  Only then could she take the time to look to Angus Crawe. There wasn’t much to see. How he had managed, in his weakened and enfeebled state, to drag himself out of the cupboard under the stairs and raise his battle cry for the last time, it was impossible to say. But somehow he had done it. The blood of Starkad the Old ran in his Northumbrian veins, and no Norseman wants to die mewling in the hearth-straw. For now it was over. Goneril could see that he had given all he had. As the last wavering shadows of Angus hovered in the room, Goneril went to the door.

  ‘Fredegonda, dear, come in. It is time to bid farewell to Mr Crawe.’

  Together the two Great Hagges stood solemnly before the wispy fragments of Angus. Only his face could be made out now.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Crawe, we owe you our thanks,’ said Fredegonda.

  They heard, oh so faintly but quite distinctly and well-articulated, ‘Nae bother. Ta-ra then lassies.’

  And he was gone. Goneril blew her nose.

  In the workshop at number four Markham Street, Mr Jaros sat and wept. Jessie was dead. She had heaved one last, tremendous sigh, wagged the tip of her tail in a final greeting to her beloved master, and the light had faded from her eyes. As he sat there in the half-light, with his heart breaking, Mr Jaros thought he heard a voice.

  He raised his tearful face. It had come from outside, somewhere above the moonlit street.

  ‘Haway then, Jess. Aa could use a bit of company.’

  Then, as clear as a bell, he heard the joyful barking of a dog.

  Back in number twelve, Drusilla noticed instantly that the ghosts’ decline had been arrested. The shimmer around them lost its sickly hue and began to recover its normal bluish look. The Druid even sat up and started mumbling a few stanzas.

  ‘Well done, Goneril,’ said Drusilla, to nobody in particular.

  Fredegonda and Goneril returned shortly after.

  ‘That’s sorted,’ said Fredegonda. ‘It was that tiresome Irishman, the Gruagach.’

  ‘Wasn’t he being hunted by the whole of Tír na nÓg for messing with a member of their royal family? A bit of a scandal, as I recall.’

  ‘That’s the fellow. But Goneril’s fixed him. Now it’s back to Mountwood, I suppose, for a bit of rest and recreation.’

  ‘Yes, they won’t be much use for a good while,’ said Drusilla, looking at the ghosts, who were clearly better, but still very weak and wobbly.

  Charlotte was sitting unnoticed in the corner of the room. Her heart sank.

  Jack Bluffit left his house and climbed into his car. It was midnight, but he wasn’t going to bed just yet.

  He had sat thinking all evening. Was that Robby trying to pull a fast one? All this talk of ghosts and threats and jinxes, all the extra money that was being poured into the development. There was a scam going on somewhere; he could smell it. Was Big Robby trying to rip him off? It would be just like him. He had to have a look at what was going on, see if he could figure it out. Then he would shove it in Robby’s face, and make him pay.

  He left his car a few streets away and walked up to the site. The arc lamps were blazing, and men were hard at work. Robby had made a lot of calls, twisted a lot of arms, and scraped together a new crew. Tough guys they were. Jack walked round the site until he found a place where he could scramble over the fence unseen. He dropped down on the other side, and keeping low he ran to a clump of rhododendrons that still stood forlornly, surrounded by piles of reinforcing iron and discarded pallets.

  Thirty-one

  After the Battle

  Percy stood alone, invisible, despairing, on the plinth where General Markham had been until recently. His parents were disintegrating, and waves of panic-stricken sorrow washed over him. He would be an orphan.

  The work went on around him, men in hard hats shouting to each other, cranes swinging heavy girders, the thump of heavy pile-drivers slamming into the night sky. But Percy hardly noticed it. He would never be an artistic Percy now, or a gymnastic Percy, he would just be Percy. Perceval the Pitiful, the Lonely Ghost. Not his mother’s Percy, not his father’s Percy.
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  ‘I’ll just be me,’ whispered Percy to himself. ‘And what use am I?’

  In a sudden fury at the injustice of his fate, Percy stamped his foot.

  All hell broke loose.

  First came the darkness. Every light in the city went out; the blackness was thick and impenetrable. Then a vast rolling rumble filled the whole sky, followed by a furious crack of thunder. Daggers of lightning split the night, stabbing the earth beneath again and again. And now the ground in front of General Markham’s plinth heaved and gaped open, exposing the angry red glare of fire. There was a roar of flames. They licked up into the darkness, and there was a foul smell of sulphur in the air.

  And out of the pit they came. First, jabbering and screeching, came a horde of black-winged furies, fell creatures of the night, flapping and circling, their cruel faces and murderous eyes searching for victims, their talons spread, ready to rip and tear.

  After them, creeping, crawling, leaping, came every kind of beast that ever fed man’s deepest fears, and death was in their eyes. The dread Dullahan, on his black stallion, rode the air. The Fenris wolf that one day will swallow Odin Allfather at the twilight of the gods leaped from the fiery depths, threw back its fearsome head and howled.

  There was a hissing of serpents, and Medusa the Gorgon, with writhing snakes for hair, rose from flames. She stared with her baleful eyes – the look that no man may meet, for it turns him instantly to stone.

  Jack Bluffit was still in the rhododendron bush. He had been thrown on his back when the thunder roared and the ground shook. He lay there, terrified, as unearthly screechings and the roar of flames filled the air. He had to get away. He rolled over on to his stomach and started crawling. He stood up, prepared to step out of the bush and make a dash for safety. He peered through the foliage. He saw total desolation, illuminated by the red glare of the fiery pit. The entire site was a shattered, smouldering wasteland.

  Jack was filled with a mad, unstoppable rage. He clenched his fist and shook it in fury at the destruction of all his plans and schemes. He heard a hissing sound, and looked straight into a pair of unfeeling, staring eyes.

  The bus was on time. On the stroke of midnight it turned into Markham Street and drew to a halt outside number twelve. The ghosts, fully restored, were gliding about saying their farewells. There was not much excitement and laughter, only the quiet partings that mark the aftermath of battle.

  The loss of Angus Crawe had been hard, even though they knew he had chosen the hero’s way.

  Everybody was there, even the Bosse-Lynches. The Phantom Welder floated over to them. Mr Bosse-Lynch flinched slightly, but he stood his ground.

  ‘Shall we let bygones be bygones?’ said the Phantom Welder.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Bosse-Lynch. ‘I understand you had a rough deal. And you have saved our homes.’

  ‘Credit goes to young Percy, I’d say.’

  All the ghosts had been stunned when they found out that in their midst was a hell stamper. They had only heard rumours that such spectres existed. As far as any of them knew, the last one known to walk the earth had been over two thousand years ago, when a whole Greek island had disappeared beneath the Aegean Sea. Ron Peabody was so swollen with pride that they thought he might explode, and Iphigenia was not much better. And neither of them, really, could put Percy’s success down to poetry or physical exercise. He was what he was.

  The hell-stamper himself was saying tearful goodbyes to Daniel and Charlotte. ‘You will come to see us? Please say you will. Samson wants to see you too. The Great Hagges won’t mind, I’m sure.’

  Daniel and Charlotte weren’t as sure as Percy, although when the Hagges had left earlier, Fredegonda had said, ‘For children, you are not too bad. I’ve seen worse.’

  Then Daniel had got the courage up to ask, ‘Er . . . Great-Aunt Joyce . . . ?’

  Fredegonda had just looked at him.

  Then she climbed into the Rolls and said, ‘Goneril, that reminds me. Stop at the post office on the way home, will you? We have a little parcel to send to Ireland.’

  As the Rolls, that noble triumph of British engineering, accelerated smoothly away, Goneril declared, ‘My goodness, I’m starving after all that exercise. I could eat a horse.’

  Drusilla leaned forward and poked her nose over Goneril’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s funny you should say that . . .’

  Now it really was time to go. As Kylie got on to the bus she gave Karin Hughes a shy little wave and whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you for the tree.’

  Margaret Hamilton hurried up breathlessly, with Mary on her arm. ‘Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left. She just won’t settle down. I think she wants to say goodbye to Vera.’

  At that moment they all realized that Vera was not with them. She had been the slowest to recover, and was still nothing like her former self. The loss of Angus had almost broken her fragile spirit. And now she had disappeared.

  Then, from high above the rooftops of Markham Street, an unearthly sound was heard. It started as a sort of sighing moan, and then got louder and louder, becoming an eerie, heart-stopping cry that rose and fell and rose again; it bore all the sorrows of the world and cast them to the sky. Then it fell silent.

  After a moment Vera materialized, wiping her nose.

  ‘I have wailed,’ she said. ‘For Angus.’

  Then she turned to where Margaret Hamilton was standing with her baby on her arm. ‘Goodbye, little Mary,’ she said, and leaning over she whispered something into her ear. Mary gurgled happily.

  The bus finally departed. Peter Richards and Jim Dawson watched it go.

  ‘What on earth am I going to do now?’ said Jim. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Freak Storm Puts an End to Markham Park Development’, read the headline.

  In smaller letters underneath it said, ‘Council to finance affordable homes on country estate.’

  Daniel and Charlotte were sitting on Mrs Wilder’s sofa, taking it in turns to read aloud to her while she poured out the tea.

  Inside the newspaper they read, ‘Star journalist Sam Norton exposes corruption in City Hall.’

  There was a very long article all about how huge expensive projects had led to wanton destruction of the city – and all to line the pockets of entrepreneurs and civil servants. The article ended, ‘But where is the spider in this web of deceit and lies? Where is Jack Bluffit?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ said Mrs Wilder. ‘Probably in Rio de Janeiro enjoying his ill-gotten gains.’

  Charlotte glanced at Daniel, and then she said, ‘Mrs Wilder, what about a walk up to the park? Just to see what’s happening.’

  ‘Well, if you think you can get me there, that would be very nice.’

  So the three of them walked slowly to Markham Park, Charlotte on one side of Mrs Wilder and Daniel on the other, just in case.

  Already the restoration had begun. There were lots of volunteers from the streets around the park, digging flower beds and putting in new plants. The leader of the council had decided that General Sir Markham’s wishes should be respected. ‘In perpetuity means just that,’ he had declared. There was an election coming up.

  Daniel and Charlotte led Mrs Wilder to the edge of the park, where a rhododendron bush that had somehow weathered the disaster stood by itself. Partly hidden by the new foliage stood a statue. It was of a man shaking his fist in fury at General Markham, who had been rescued from his skip and now gazed proudly over the city from his plinth.

  Mrs Wilder studied it in silence for a while.

  ‘Well, children,’ she said eventually, ‘they do say that you should be careful what you wish for. One day your wish might come true.’

  They turned for home. They came to the iron posts and walked on down Markham Street. As they approached Mr Jaros’s house they heard voices raised in furious argument.

  Mr Jaros and Peter Richards were sitting on the front step. At their feet, lying on Mr Jaros’s jacket lay Angus, the puppy who had arrived onl
y a few days earlier. He lay fast asleep with his paws in the air and his tummy warming in the sunshine. He was oblivious to the battle raging above him.

  ‘He has the speed, and he has the technique, I tell you. He is really top class.’ Peter sounded very worked up.

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Mr Jaros, dragging the fingers of one hand through his hair and waving the other one about. ‘I say pooh to that. He is flashy, he is young and pretty, but it takes more than that to make someone great.’

  ‘I bet you, in five years they will be calling him a genius.’

  ‘Never, not in fifty years.’

  The children walked past with Mrs Wilder. It seemed better not to disturb the argument.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Wilder. ‘I suppose it’s about that violinist who played at City Hall last night.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Daniel, who had been round at Mr Jaros’s finishing off Charlotte’s box earlier that morning. ‘They’re arguing about the Argentinian midfielder that United has just bought. They’ve been at it for days. When they get tired of it they’ll start arguing about music again.’

  Mrs Wilder sighed contentedly. It was as it should be. You can only have a furious fight about nothing at all if you know that your home will still be there tomorrow.

  About the Author

  Toby Ibbotson is the eldest son of award-winning author Eva Ibbotson, whose novel The Abominables he edited with her first publisher, Marion Lloyd, following his mother’s death. Mountwood School for Ghosts is his debut novel, from an original idea by Eva and planned out in detail by the two of them before her death. Containing all the warmth, humour and spark of Eva’s novels for younger readers, which are being rereleased alongside this publication, Mountwood School for Ghosts marks Toby out as an exciting new storytelling talent in the children’s book world. He lives in Sweden with his family and writes whenever he can.

  ‘What joy to find the rare spirit of Eva Ibbotson lives on, perfectly rendered, through her son Toby. Mountwood School for Ghosts shimmers with the wit, style and special sense of fun of the very best kind of children’s book’