Whenever a barrel, crate or box is deposited by the sea upon the shores of Hopeless, expectations always run high. Within these containers there might be food, drink, or even some manner of novelty never before seen upon the island. You never know. The frisson of anticipation is almost tangible. On the day of our tale, a storm had tossed a small wooden crate upon the black sands of the beach. Despite his apparent air of nonchalance, Rhys Cranham was as excited as a child on Christmas Eve as dashed back to The Squid and Teapot to find a crowbar.

Sad to relate, Rhys’ heart dropped at the sight of the box’s contents. He knew that as soon as his wife, Philomena, discovered that the crate was full of tins of paint, each firmly sealed down and secured against the ravages of the Atlantic Ocean, his workload would suddenly increase. 

He was not wrong.

 “That’s just what we need,” declared Philomena, happily. “The Squid could do with a dash of paint here and there. We can start with the indoor privy.” 

As you may remember, that proud architectural triumph was first installed by Sebastian Lypiatt over a century earlier. Sebastian had taken the flushing mechanism from a ship that had floundered on the rocks of Hopeless. By the time that his fellow islanders had finished carrying off anything worth salvaging, all that was left was a pile of dressed stones. These had come from Oxlynch Hall in England, and were the last remains of a dismantled Jacobean manor house, which happened to be  haunted by the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening. When Sebastian decided to use the stones for the privy, Lady Margaret, otherwise known as the Headless White Lady, had nowhere else to go, and so has haunted the place ever since. 

While both the cistern and flush continued to function admirably (save for the occasional sulk during neap tides), the paintwork had grown tired.

“It’s peeling,” Philomena announced, surveying the walls with a critical eye.

Rhys, who had learned to recognise this tone, nodded cautiously.

“Of course,” he said. “Peeling is rarely desirable.”

Reggie Upton, passing by with his teacup in hand, paused.

“Nothing wrong with the present shade, though,” he observed. “Solid. Respectable. Colonial.”

“It’s beige,” said Philomena flatly.

“Yes,” said Reggie. “Exactly.”

Philomena selected from the crate a pot of paint called  Seafoam Tranquillity, which came in a tin bearing the optimistic promise that it would “brighten even the smallest space.”

News that the privy would be closed for renovations raised alarm in some quarters.

Seth Washwell, when informed, went visibly pale.

“I rely on that privy,” he said. “The outside arrangement has no lock on the door.”

“Don’t worry, Seth. No one has ever tried to steal the bucket,” said Philomena reassuringly.

Painting commenced that afternoon.

The first coat went on without incident, though Drury declined to enter the annexe, choosing instead to sit at a dignified distance and observe with eye sockets that he would have narrowed, had it been possible. The Tomte, having been consulted, folded his arms and watched from the corner. 

It was during the second coat that matters cooled.

Not dramatically, but  just enough to be noticeable.

The air shifted. The faintest shimmer disturbed the mirror above the washbasin.

Rhys paused mid-brushstroke.

“Did you feel…?”

“Yes,” said Philomena.

The mirror clouded.

Very slowly, as though written with grave deliberation, four words appeared:

‘This will not do.’

Rhys cleared his throat.

“Father Stamage?” he ventured.

There was a pause. Then, in more elegant lettering:

‘I find the colour to be impertinent.’

A faint, silvery shimmer formed near the cistern. It gathered itself just enough to suggest the outline of a figure, the unmistakable fall of a semi-opaque, filmy nightgown, drifting as though stirred by a breeze that belonged to another century. Lace edged the hem. The fabric clung with faint, ghostly propriety to a form that had once scandalised the Mad Parson, Obadiah Hyde, beyond endurance.

Lady Margaret D’Avening did not fully materialise.

She refused.

On the mirror, a new text appeared:

‘Besides, one does not manifest in proximity to what Father Stamage has called emulsion, and the vapours are most unbecoming.’

Philomena folded her arms.

“It’s hygienic,” she said firmly.

The shimmer wavered, then steadied.

‘And the shade name is presumptuous.’

Rhys coughed to disguise a laugh.

From somewhere near the ceiling came a restrained, clerical clearing of the throat. The air took on the faint, nostalgic scent of cheap brilliantine and incense, as though a curate had hurried through with hair slicked for a sermon and a censer swinging half-heartedly.

Father Ignatius Stamage manifested quietly in the corner.

“I stand with Lady Margaret in this matter,” he said.

There was a pause, until he added, somewhat grudgingly:

“We’ll overlook the Seafoam Tranquility, if it’s just on one wall. Everything else should be white.”

Philomena considered the suggestion.

“Look,” said Stamage in a ghostly whisper. “You don’t want to upset her any more than you have to. You know what she can be like.”

Philomena did know, remembering the sulking and wailing that went on the last time that Lady Margaret didn’t get her own way.

“Okay. That seems reasonable,” she said at last.

The temperature lifted by a degree and Father Stamage’s wraith slowly receded.  The scent of brilliantine thinned and withdrew.

The Tomte, who had been observing the exchange with professional interest, nodded once.

“They have standards,” he murmured.

Drury, still outside, thumped his tail once in approval.

The remainder of the painting was completed without further manifestation, and by evening the flushing indoor privy stood resplendent in white, with a feature wall of Seafoam Tranquillity. 

The ghost of Father Stamage flickered into being and inspected the room cautiously.

“Well,” he said at last, “it feels somehow balanced.”

“It is definitely balanced,” agreed Philomena.

Reggie Upton, observing from the doorway, nodded.

“Compromise,” he said, “is the true foundation of civilisation.”

That night, no further messages appeared on the mirror. No lace shimmered.

In the morning, the Tomte was found polishing the porcelain with evident satisfaction.

Drury approved.

And though no one remarked upon it aloud, the privy felt brighter, not merely in colour, but in disposition, as though the living and the dead had agreed that even in Hopeless, progress might occasionally be permitted, provided it showed proper respect for history, modesty, and white paint.