The Time of the Ghost. Diana Wynne Jones

wastepaper basket. She went right through, and found herself looking at the wallpaper beyond. But she was so determined that she backed away and threw herself forward again, and again, and again. She still went right through, but, ever so slightly, the basket rocked. The papers rattled and crunkled. Oh good! said Sally. She threw herself at it once more. There was such a rustling that Oliver started to growl again. But Sally knew she was making some impression. If I try hard, she said. Trying does it. I am made of something after all. I’m not quite nothing. I’m probably made of the life stuff that was all round the boys. I shall think of myself like that. Bash, slide, crunkle. Sally thought of herself as strong, crackling, flexible, forceful, and bashed forward again. Bash, crunkle, crunkle.

      She had done it. Instead of going into the basket, she was bounced off from it. The basket, already swaying, swung sideways, tipped and fell heavily, sending a slither of paper out across the Rude Rug. Oliver’s growls rose to sound like a small motorbike.

      Imogen’s voice, bloated and throaty with crying, said, “What was that?”

      “There must be a mouse in the bedroom again,” said Cart.

      “Ugh!” said Imogen. “Send Oliver up.”

      “He won’t go,” said Cart. “Besides, he just makes friends with mice.”

      Sally was hovering, hovering, over the scattered papers. She had done it wrong. The vital letter was still in the basket, packed in by other papers, lying against the floor. And now she found she could not get in to read it. She had made herself so forceful that she kept bouncing off. She could get no further than the letter on top. Wait a minute! This top letter was in Fenella’s writing.

      “Dear Parents, We have killed Sally and disposed of the body. We thought you ought to know. You are neckst of kin. Love, Fenella.”

      What! said Sally. They haven’t. They didn’t. They can’t. So I did come back for revenge!

      Downstairs, Fenella herself had come in. “Oh, is Imogen still grieving? I nicked four buns for tea.”

      “You needn’t have nicked one for Sally,” said Cart.

      No, you needn’t, need you! Sally yelled out, unheard.

      “I didn’t. I need two myself,” said Fenella. “Why is Oliver growling up the stairs like that?”

      “There’s a mouse up there,” Imogen said, still throaty.

      “I’ll go up and catch it then,” said Fenella.

      Sally could not face this. Ever since she read the letter, anger and panic had been swelling in her. Now those feelings swept her away, dissolved her through the wall, then over the field, turning and twisting and hardly knowing where she went.

      

      The next hour or so was more like an unpleasant dream than ever. Sally found herself now here, now there, with very little knowledge of how she got to places or what happened in between. From the fact that everywhere she noticed was filled with the ringing mutter of boys, she thought she was mostly in school. First, she was among the smallest boys queuing up somewhere, each with a brown sticky bun in his hand. Next, she was in a dismal room, with grey ringing distances, in which two or three grey, dismal boys sat writing. Detention. Himself was there, grey as granite. He was sitting marking exercise books. Sally hovered round him, wondering if he was hating Detention as much as the boys did. He looked very grim. The way his hair bunched, iron grey, at the back of his head, put her in mind of the ruffled crest of an iron-grey eagle, brooding on a perch, with a chain on its leg.

      “Please sir,” said a dismal distant boy.

      Himself said, without looking up. “What is it now, Perkins?” His hand, holding a red ballpoint pen, swiftly crossed out, and out. Wrote “See Me” in the margin.

      “I need to pee, sir,” said the boy.

      “You went five minutes ago.” Himself slapped that book shut. Slapped another in front of him. Slapped it open. “I know, sir. I have a weak bladder, sir.”

      Himself crossed out, crossed out. Made a tick. “Very well.” His eagle face lifted, and caught the boy half standing up. “You may be excused, Perkins, on the strict understanding that for every minute you spend out of this room, you spend half an hour in it. Off you go.”

      “Yes, sir.” The boy hesitated and sat down again. He would have to go down two long corridors, and then come back up them, not counting the time in between. That was three hours more in Detention, even if he ran. He looked annoyed.

      Himself lowered his beak and made three swift ticks. A slight moving under the iron skin of his face showed his satisfaction. He was enjoying himself. He loved detecting a try-on. Sally realised it, and realised she did not dare try to attract his attention just then.

      A vague ringing while later, she was in a warm brown room, with thick brown lino on the floor. This room was provided with an iron bed, a white cupboard with a red cross on it, and a desk. Phyllis sat at the desk, dealing with a line of boys. She screwed back the top on a bottle and passed a small boy a pill. “There, Andrew. Are you still wheezing?”

      The small boy put his head back, expanded his chest, and took several long croaking breaths. He seemed to be trying very hard to breathe.

      Phyllis smiled kindly, an angel of judgement. “No wheeze,” she said. “You needn’t come again tomorrow, Andrew. Now Paul, how’s that boil?”

      A large boy with a red swelling by his mouth stepped up as Andrew dwindled away. Phyllis put up a kind cool hand and felt the boil. The tall boy winced.

      “I think we’d better get the school doctor to look at that tomorrow,” Phyllis said. “I’ll give you a dressing if you wait. Now, Conrad. Let’s have a look at your finger.”

      Mother was very busy just now, Sally realised guiltily. She must not try to interrupt her.

      Later again, she found she was with Himself once more. He was sweeping down a corridor among a crowd of boys. One of them was carrying a metal detector.

      “We’re not going to use that again, Howard, unless we find ourselves in any doubt,” Himself was saying. “Untold harm has been done to archaeology by wild metal detecting and wilder digging. We must behave responsibly. Are you sure you marked the place, Greer?”

      A boy assured him that he had marked it. Himself swept on, talking eagerly. He was in his whirling mood, when his coat fluttered behind him like wings and seemed to catch up and carry people in the excitement of his progress. He looked younger like this, Sally thought tenderly.

      “Who knows what it may be?” said Himself. “Possibly a cannonball. Unquestionably, School House was once the site of Mangan Manor, where Cromwell’s army besieged the Royalist forces during the Civil War. We may have lighted on their camp. Yes,” he said, as they thumped through a door, whirling Sally with them, “I plump for a cannonball as the most likely thing.”

      They were out in the gold-green of early evening. The playing field stretched towards faraway trees in faint white mist, flat as a lake, bright as water. The ringing mutter of School went suddenly distant.

      “Neither can we rule out the possibility of something earlier,” Himself continued, whirling out on to the flat green space. “Round here, we have some of the earliest British settlements – but I doubt if those would yield much metal. It’s more likely to be metal from the Roman occupation. I must say I fancy finding a hoard of Roman coins. In which case it would be a treasure trove. Which boy knows the law about treasure troves?”

      Sally paused. Once again, the wide open green space made her uncomfortable. In spite of the hurrying group, she was defenceless. She thought she might dissolve. Besides, Himself