“If you really want to give a pint,” Fenella said, flourishing the triangular knife, “I’ll help you. Just hold out your jugular, and I’ll make you a cup of tea afterward.”
The boy stared at her, the knife, and the bloodstained knot in her hair. Then he put the cup down and fled. The other boy was given tenpence, which proved to be all the money anyone had.
“I hope the rest don’t ask for money,” Imogen said as with jerky, clumsy, distasteful movements, she, too, punctured her wrist and, with surprising efficiency, let quite a trickle of blood run into the basin.
Unfortunately everyone asked for money. The two small boys proved to be the first of a rush of donors. Jenkins and Howard both came back with two more small boys each. Howard, in addition, had hopefully brought the corpse of a rabbit from the biology lab. It proved to be pickled. They laid it on the table, stinking of formaldehyde, raw and drowned-looking, and supervised the nosebleeds of their four donors. All four of these demanded at least a pound. Cart sighed and wrote them out IOUs for the money.
“The rabbit will do to stand for a sacrifice,” Howard said, needling at his finger with his tiepin. “We ought to have one if we’re going to be properly pagan.”
By this time word had got round the school. Boys—mostly smaller ones—began to arrive in numbers, cautiously tiptoeing through the orchard or sliding furtively round the green door, carrying paper cups and tinfoil tart dishes each containing a precious drop of blood. It soon emerged that the market rate for a donation of blood was one pound, twenty pence. No one would take less. Some demanded more. These were usually the ones who arrived without a trace of blood and expressed themselves willing to be punched on the nose for money. The price for this was one pound, forty pence. Ned Jenkins did the punching. He was good at it. But if no blood resulted—and not everybody bleeds easily—the boy was given a steak knife and asked to produce his own. The price then went down again to one-twenty. Cart wrote out IOUs—a good sixty pounds’ worth, it seemed to the ghost. But not everyone wanted only money. Most of the donors had heard there was a ghost. About a quarter of them gave blood at a reduced rate of one pound on condition that they were allowed to stay and watch what happened when the ghost drank the blood.
“Wait out in the orchard, then,” Cart told each of these. “It ought to be outside, anyway,” she explained to the others. “It was outside in the book. I think they dug a trench for the blood.”
The orchard began to become rather crowded. The level of cloudy red liquid in the bowl rose encouragingly. Fenella waved her carving knife above it with increasing glee.
“Lots of lovely gore!” she chanted. “No foreign ghosts wanted.”
The ghost hovered above, looking down at Fenella’s disheveled head and waving knife and, below that, the grubby bowl of ropy red blood. I can’t be you, Fenella, she said. I’m not enjoying this at all. It’s quite disgusting. I must be Imogen.
But Imogen did not seem particularly disgusted. “It’s a funny thing,” she was saying, from the middle of the crowded kitchen. “Apart from the rabbit, I have a feeling of rightness about the whole thing. I know it’s going to work.”
“Well, I think it’s quite disgusting, frankly,” said Howard. “Don’t you, Ned?”
“Yes,” said Jenkins. “But Imogen’s right.”
A number of people seemed to agree with Howard. A group of bigger boys—Nutty Filbert was among them—was now standing in the orchard among the waiting donors, expressing their opinion. Mostly they did it with jeers and boos, but every so often they broke out into a chant. “We think you are disgusting! We think you are disgusting!”
“Take no notice,” advised Imogen. “They don’t know a serious emergency when they see one.”
The chanters were in full cry when the back door opened and Julian Addiman put his head into the kitchen. “What is going on?” he asked, laughing. His eyes gleamed, and his wet red lips shone. “I hear you’re calling for blood.”
“Of course. It’s a way to make ghosts speak,” Cart answered briskly.
Julian Addiman looked at Fenella waving the knife over the bowl and the rabbit lying beside it, at Howard and Jenkins, and at the latest pair of donors. He seemed full of sly amusement. At that moment the bell shrilled for the end of Break. “Ooops!” said Julian Addiman. “Let me know if it says anything.” And he slid away laughing.
“Hey!” called Fenella. “Give us some blood first.”
But Julian Addiman, to the ghost’s relief, was gone. The donors in the kitchen sped after him. The chanting group in the orchard was going away, too, and so were most of the waiting donors, slowly and disappointedly. But quite a number seemed determined to hear the ghost and lingered on hopefully under the trees. And a further party of fresh donors was just arriving—eight or ten of them—advancing across the orchard from the hedge, carefully carrying paper cups.
“Doesn’t it matter to them that Break’s over?” Imogen wondered, watching them advance through the window.
“Most people can think of an excuse if they really want to,” said Howard. “Oughtn’t we to be going, Jenk?”
“I want to know what the ghost says,” Jenkins answered. His pale chin was bunched mulishly.
That was the moment when Mrs. Gill pushed open the green door, saying, “You come and take a look, Mr. Melford. They’ve got enough blood in here to float a battleship.”
CHAPTER
11
Himself was in the kitchen doorway. Howard, who was nearest to the living room, made a running rugby dive through its door and vanished in a faint crunch of cornflakes. Jenkins, who had been with Imogen by the window, had no choice but to bend down and cram himself under the sink. Imogen stood in front of him. Cart hastily joined her, and the ghost joined the pair of them, with the idea of getting as far away from Himself as possible. Fenella, out of pure bravado, looked Mrs. Gill unlovingly in the eye and went on waving the carving knife.
“Weaving spiders, come not near,” Fenella intoned. “Spotted snakes with double tongue—one of which is in this room now—must get out of here or get down on the floor and wriggle.”
Himself took in her, and the bowl of blood, and the rabbit as he advanced into the room. He looked ready to do murder. Outside in the orchard his silhouette was recognized and caused consternation. Those waiting to hear the ghost dived for cover. The party of donors advancing with paper cups first backed away, then ran in panic for the hedge, throwing down the paper cups as they ran.
“Oh, well. We’d got about enough blood,” Cart murmured.
“You see, Mr. Melford?” Mrs. Gill asked triumphantly.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Gill,” Himself said cordially, and he went back to hold the green door open for her to go away.
Mrs. Gill, however, ghoul as she was, pretended to misunderstand him. She moved over to the table and folded her arms, where she stood eyeing the bowl of gore with strong expectation.
Himself was forced to come back into the kitchen. This caused an uncertain pause. Everyone well knew that Himself wanted to let rip in one of his screaming rages. He wanted to roar and shout and hit people and call his daughters bitches, but he did not want to do it with Mrs. Gill looking on. So he stood there mantling and glaring, an eagle ready to rend, and nobody else knew whether to be scared, relieved, or embarrassed.
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 uncertai
nly. 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 sal
low 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.”