“He will help you, Tom. You could be friends and help each other.”
Tom brought the figure closer to his mouth. He whispered something to it, as if explaining.
“I’ll tell you what. Just try it. Go and choose a book and bring it back here. Start turning the pages. Let’s see what happens. You and me, eh? See what happens.”
Tom stood up. Almost as though he were in a dream, he went to the book corner and picked up a book about volcanoes. Mrs McCarthy saw him do it. She watched him carry it back to his place and sit down with it. He started to turn the pages.
“Can I look at that with you, please, Tom?”
Tom looked up slowly. Gordon was standing in front of him, smiling. He looked back down at the book, then at the soldier. “See? I told you he’d come. I’m proud of you, son.” Tom looked back at Gordon and nodded his head.
Gordon sat down next to him. “You look at the picture, and I’ll read the words,” Gordon said. “Then you can read the words and I’ll look at the picture.”
Tom looked at the first picture and his eyes went as round as saucers. The volcano was erupting all over the page! It was like magic. He’d never really looked at a book before and used his imagination. He found that when Gordon was sitting next to him he could read the words quite easily. It all made sense. It was interesting!”
They sat there, engrossed in the book for the next half hour. Mrs McCarthy was reminded why she had chosen teaching as a career. Tom’s dad would have been proud of him. When it was his turn, Tom told them all about the different volcanoes in his book and why volcanoes happen where they do
“Thank you very much, Tom,” Mrs McCarthy said. “We all learned a lot from that, didn’t we?” There were nods around the class, and Tom actually managed a smile. He looked down at the soldier in his hand and seemed happier than he had for a long time.
“Your turn Gordon,” Mrs McCarthy said. The boy was worth his weight in diamonds.
“I’d like to read you a poem by a poet called Robert Frost,” he told them. “It’s called “Fire and Ice”:
FIRE AND ICE
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
NOTES
RHYMES FOR KIDS
Chapter 31
Do You Believe In Ghosts?
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Gordon asked Zack. It was the final day of the summer term. They were walking home with his mum, and the school holidays were now all that separated him from secondary school. He’d been looking forward to it for some time. He was two weeks away from his eleventh birthday.
He would miss his teacher, but the time had come for him to move on. They were both philosophical about it. “I’m going to miss you, Gordon,” Mrs McCarthy told him. “I expect reports.”
“You shall have them,” he assured her. They had shaken hands on it.
“Interesting question,” Zack said. “Some people might consider me a kind of ‘ghost’.”
“I thought that,” Gordon said; “but in books and films and cartoons, most people are terrified when they come across a ghost. I’ve never been terrified of you.”
“And I haven’t ever been scared of you,” said Zack.
Fair enough.
“So, you’re not a ghost,” Gordon said, “and you’re not haunting or possessing me.”
“No, I’m not” Zack agreed, “any more than you are haunting or possessing me.”
“We surprise each other sometimes,” Gordon observed.
“That is certainly true,” Zack agreed.
“You’re quiet, Darling,” his mum said. “What are you thinking about?”
“I was just wondering,” he told her, “if you believe in ghosts.”
Edith was taken by surprise. She’d assumed he’d been thinking about leaving primary school. She gave herself a second or two to consider. “No, I don’t think I do,” she said.
“Did you know,” he asked her, “that our city is the most haunted place in the whole of the UK?”
“No,” she said, “I didn’t know that. I know they do ghost tours within the city walls. I’ve seen the posters.”
“There are at least 73 different ghosts.”
“Who told you that?”
“I looked it up on the internet.”
“We-e-ll,” his mum, said, “I suppose the city goes back at least two thousand years. All those very old buildings with Roman cellars and medieval crypts, you’re going to get a lot of spooky corners, creaking timbers and shifting shadows. Even more so in the old days - before electricity - when they used candles.”
“Lots of people do believe in ghosts,” Gordon said. “I brought it up in class today, when we were talking about cold spots. We had a show of hands. Nearly everybody in my class believes in them.”
“Lots of people think they’ve seen a ghost,” his mum acknowledged, “or been in the presence of something they believed was a kind of a ghost.”
“Like a poltergeist,” Gordon suggested.
“Yes, like a poltergeist, or a sudden cold spot: something that seems to defy rational explanation.”
“But if you don’t believe in ghosts, then ghosts don’t exist for you.”
His mum nodded. “That’s right, they don’t.”
“But,” Gordon insisted, “they do exist for people who think they exist.”
“I’m not sure,” Edith said hesitantly.
“… because,” said Gordon earnestly, “‘there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’”
“Who told you that?” his mother asked him.
“William Shakespeare.”
“Did he now?” said his mum.
“Mum,” Gordon said hesitantly, “I’ve never been to Cornwall, have I?”
That was when his mum got an inkling why they might be having this particular conversation. “No,” she said, “you haven’t.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, several times. Daddy and I went to Cornwall more than once before you were born. It’s one of my favourite places.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Oh, it’s magical,” she told him, dreamily. “Gorgeous, rolling countryside and little country lanes. The air smells wonderful. Then there’s the sea. It’s never far away in Cornwall.”
“Have you ever stayed in the bit of Cornwall where we’re going?”
Edith shook her head. “No, but I feel like I belong there, somehow. Your gran once told me that her gran had told her that we came from Cornwall, way back when.”
Gordon felt the hair stir on the back of his neck. He saw Zack shiver. “Mum,” he said, “you felt it, didn’t you?”
“Felt what?” his mum asked him. He had a feeling she knew what.
“When we first looked at that cottage where we’re going to stay, it invited us. It didn’t invite dad; it invited us.”
“I did find it … inviting,” his mum admitted. “I don’t quite know why. Maybe all that history. I don’t think it had anything to do with ghosts.” She was worried suddenly that Gordon might be scared about staying there.
“Oh, don’t worry mum,” he assured her. “I’m really looking forward to it. I can’t wait to get to Cornwall.”
“Good,” said his mum, relieved. “Neither can I.”
They were home.
NOTES
PHILOSOPHICAL; OUR CITY; POLTERGEIST; INKLING
Chapter 32
An Uncanny Resemblance
Gordon looked out at the world that was passing them by at that particular moment. The sun was shining strongly, as it had a perfect right to do in August. The trees were heavy with summer foliage. Sheep grazed safely in the fields stretching away on ei
ther side of the road. Their lambs looked sturdy and well-fed.
“Not far now,” Victor said. “’Little Melling 2 miles’ that last signpost said.”
It was just like any other piece of countryside really, so why had Gordon’s spine suddenly begun to tingle? It was the strangest feeling. “Can you feel it, Zack?” he asked.
“I feel … what you feel,” Zack told him. That wasn’t quite the same thing. Gordon frowned and tried to concentrate. He’d never had a feeling quite like this one before. He knew it had something to do with what he could see out of the window.
The road curved, and the land to his left dropped into a smooth sloping valley. Had he known it would do that?
“I’ve never been here before,” Zack told him, to save Gordon the trouble of asking.
There was a steep, wooded hill on the other side, about half a mile away. Near its top, in a large clearing, stood an old manor house. Gordon stared at it and shivered suddenly. His mother turned to look at him.
“What’s the matter Darling, are you cold?” she asked. Gordon shook his head. He made a brave attempt to smile.
“Somebody just walked over your grave,” Zack said, sombrely.
Gordon was shocked. “That’s a weird thing to say.”
“Sorry,” Zack said. “People say it sometimes when they shiver like that.”
“I don’t like it,” Gordon told him.
“What, the saying or the feeling?”
“Both.”
Edith smiled back at him, with a hint of anxiety in her eyes, and Gordon turned his attention to the manor. The square turrets on each corner gave it the look of an old fortified house. Its gleaming windows were large and rectangular. It faced west, and on a day like this the rooms behind those windows would be bathed in a warm glow until the sun sank.
A grand doorway imposed itself on the central section. The lawns in front of it stretched for a considerable distance down the wood-fringed slope. It had probably looked just like that for centuries. A feeling of resentment welled up from somewhere deep inside Gordon.
“Whoah,” Zack said, “What is going on?”
His mum glanced at the map. “That must be Mellingford Hall,” she said, “the ancestral home of the Davenports. It’s been in their family for centuries. They’re still living there, according to the Guide Book.”
Mellingford Hall, the Davenports. Gordon did not remember ever having heard of either before. Given Gordon’s incredible memory, that meant that he hadn’t. So why had his feeling of resentment turned into something like rage? He hated that house. He despised those people. “This isn’t you, Gordon,” Zack said suddenly. “You don’t do rage. This is something else.”
“If this is what possession feels like,” Gordon told him, “I don’t like it. Don’t leave me.”
“Don’t you worry, mate,” Zack assured him. “I’m going nowhere. Our privacy is being invaded. That’s a skipload of animosity.”
Was this how Tom felt when he thought about the people who had killed his father in Afghanistan? Gordon suddenly had a whole new understanding of hate. It was corrosive.
The road ran down the hill towards a cluster of houses and a small parish church. Gordon didn’t recognize the houses, but the church was familiar. A picture flashed through his mind. It was of the same church surrounded by a different cluster of houses: timber-framed, wattle-and-daubed and thatched. There was smoke curling from their chimneys.
“That,” said Zack, thoughtfully, “is probably how this place looked in Elizabethan times. Or maybe Jacobean.” Gordon clenched his teeth and willed the hateful feelings away. They subsided, becoming a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. Victor drove on, oblivious.
The road swung left, making its way across the valley towards that wooded hill and the manor house. Edith turned around to smile again. Gordon felt sadness, an old sorrow, tears shed long ago. She turned back and the feeling went away.
“This is a roller-coaster,” said Zack on full alert. Gordon was so glad he had Zack looking out for him. He didn’t really feel up to looking out for himself. It was a bit like being attacked by a virus. He’d been robbed of most of his energy.
They passed a sign warning them that the road was about to get even narrower. His father steered them carefully round a tight bend. The trees on either side were now so close together that they shut out most of the late afternoon light. They were in the fringes of the wood that Gordon had seen from the other side of the valley.
“Let’s hope we don’t meet anything coming the other way,” Victor said cheerfully. “These roads are living up to expectations. What do you think of Cornwall so far, Gordon?” Not getting a reply, he half-turned to glance at his son in the back; and in that moment, Gordon saw a young woman in a long black dress standing in the middle of the road, right in front of their car. She must have stepped out from the trees.
For a splintered second, Gordon saw joy on her face. Her arms were spread wide in welcome, her mouth open as if in greeting. She was looking straight at him.
“LOOK OUT DAD!”
Gordon jerked his head away in horror, his eyes tight shut. Victor slammed his foot on the brake and the car came to a slithering, screeching halt. He’d been somewhere near the speed limit. He must have hit her!
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad!” Gordon stammered, his eyes still tight shut. “She stepped out right in front of you. Nobody can blame you!”
His father rested his head on the steering wheel. “What,” he asked slowly, “was that about?” His wife tightened her grip on his arm.
Gordon opened his eyes. “That woman, Dad!”
“Take it easy Gordon,” Zack whispered.
“She was right in the middle of the road!” From somewhere behind the panic came the realization that he hadn’t felt any kind of bump. His father breathed out heavily. He put the car in neutral, applied the handbrake, opened the door and got out. He walked all round it, squatted down in front of it, stared underneath it. Then he stared through the windscreen at Gordon. Gordon had never seen that expression on his face before.
“Zack, do you mind?” Gordon was strapped in, so he couldn’t turn around to look out of the rear window.
“No problem,” Zack assured him. “Just relax. Breathe deeply.” Zack knelt up on the back seat so Gordon could get a clear view of the road behind the car. It was deserted. Not a soul.
Victor shook his head slowly, getting a grip on himself. His heart had slammed up to maximum when he’d hit the brake. His hands still had the imprint of the steering wheel on them. “It must have been a shadow, trick of the light,” he muttered. His son was ultra-sensible. He wasn’t given to scaring his parents with imaginary … Well at least, not since …
Victor walked back up the hill, past the tyre marks. He looked from side to side, just to make absolutely sure. Zack was shedding no light, which meant he had no light to shed.
Edith held her hand out to Gordon. “Tell me what you saw” she said gently. It had been a long time, as far as she knew, since her amazing son had seen something that nobody else had been able to see.
Gordon began to cry, another incredibly rare event. It was relief, really, that nobody was lying dead in the road. “It seemed as though she knew me,” he told his mother, “and she seemed so glad to see me.”
His mother nodded slowly. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes too, even though she was smiling. “What did she look like?” she asked softly.
“She knows something,” Zack whispered. “I wish I did.”
Gordon looked at his mother in wonder. What was happening? Who had he seen, out there in the road?
“She looked almost exactly like you,” he said.
NOTES
LITTLE MELLING; ELIZABETHAN TIMES, OR MAYBE JACOBEAN.
Chapter 33
There Ought To Be A Law
Five minutes later, the road ran over a pretty stone bridge and collided with a village street. Little Melling was a tiny village at the foot of Mellingf
ord Hill. It boasted a village green, a fine old inn and some beautiful, half-timbered houses.
“Best stop at the pub and ask,” Victor suggested. “The directions are a bit vague from here. Locals will know where it is.” He steered the car into an empty spot between a shiny new Range Rover and a muddy old jeep and hopped out. “Back in a tick” he promised, and disappeared inside the pub.
“Nearly there” Edith said. She was trying to get the holiday back on track.
“It’s certainly pretty,” Zack commented. He nipped out to stretch his legs and give Gordon a better view.
The ancient building’s thatch was pristine. Its window boxes were full of pinks and pansies. Somebody had spent a lot of money doing it up. It was in The Good Pub Guide, and probably did a roaring trade, especially in the peak holiday season.
“It didn’t always …” Gordon said. Zack was back in the car in a flash. Somebody had walked over Gordon’s grave again, though his mum didn’t seem to notice this time. Anyway, here was his dad, back after less than two minutes.
“You should see it in there!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “It’s like stepping back in time. There are some real characters.”
“They’ve got a log fire going in the big black grate.” Gordon said.
His dad stared at him. “Yes, they have,” he said. “How did you …?”
“I can smell the woodsmoke.” Gordon told him.
“Did they know?” Edith asked.
Victor was back in the driver’s seat, fingers flicking the key in the ignition. “Oh yes, they knew all right. Knew a bit more than they let on, if you ask me.” He backed the car out carefully. Clipping that Range Rover would put a dent in their holiday funds.
“What do you mean?” Edith asked him.
He swung the car back on to the main street. “About 200 yards up here on the left. It’s an unmarked turning - no road surface, just a dirt track. ‘Hob’s Lane’ the Landlord called it.”
“Whoops!” Zack exclaimed.
“What?” Gordon asked him.
“Oh, nothing,” Zack replied evasively.
“No secrets,” Gordon reminded him.
“It’s nothing, really,” Zack assured him. “Just a bit of local superstition I expect. “Hob” used to be a term for the devil, or an evil spirit. It survives in ‘hobgoblin’.