You may remember that, for reasons beyond anyone’s understanding, the chair in the corner of the snug was no longer to be sat in – at least by anything remotely visible. This state of affairs had come about through a process of gradual acceptance. Those who entered the room found themselves choosing other seats, often without quite knowing why. Those who did not know better were gently encouraged to reconsider.

“It’s in a draught,” Philomena would say, if pressed.

“It’s purely a matter of position,” said Reggie, which explained nothing but, delivered with his characteristic military authority, sounded entirely reasonable.

The ghost of Father Stamage, who had taken to appearing in the doorway of the snug with increasing regularity, said nothing at all, but inclined his head in the direction of the chair as though acknowledging a presence that had yet to introduce itself properly.

The Tomte, for his part, had made certain adjustments, but had not openly admitted to doing so. A cushion had appeared upon the chair. It was not a particularly comfortable cushion, but it had been placed with care, as though comfort were beside the point. The small table that stood beside it had been moved an inch to the left, and an empty tankard set upon it.

Drury had taken some time to consider the arrangement. For several days, he refused the snug entirely, preferring instead to lie by the door, where he could keep a watchful eye on matters without committing himself. This was not his usual habit, and it did not go unnoticed.

Then, one evening, after a long and careful inspection of the chair, the cushion, and the space between them, he crossed the room and lay down.

Not in the chair, but near it. This was taken, by those present, as a positive development.

Reggie Upton continued to observe the situation with a degree of strategic interest.

“In my experience,” he remarked one afternoon, “it is rarely advisable to ignore an unknown presence once it has secured a favourable position. You never know whether you’re dealing with friend or foe. It reminds me of an unusual incident that occurred in Jaipur, back in ‘eighty-three…”

“Then it’s just as well,” broke in Philomena, anxious to avoid yet another of Reggie’s anecdotes, “that we are not ignoring it.”

Father Stamage approved of this, though he did so quietly.

“There are,” he said, “occasions upon which one must accept that a thing, while not wholly understood, must be respected.”

“My point exactly,” said Reggie, surprised that they appeared to agree about something.

The thought crossed Philomena’s mind that this was not, on the whole, reassuring.

“By the way, has anyone seen the tile?” she asked.

“Tile?” queried Reggie.

“The one with those words that read in both directions. Or did, until they disappeared.”

“Oh the magic square…” said Reggie. “The dashed thing was there on the bar this morning.”

“Well it’s not there now,” said Philomena.

This, too, was not reassuring.

The island of Hopeless is no stranger to occurrences that might be described as somewhat unnerving, so it is hardly surprising that over the course of the next few days life at The Squid and Teapot settled back into its old routine.

Tea and biscuits were served. The fire was laid. Strong drink was taken. Conversations rose and fell in the usual way, though voices tended to lower themselves slightly when turned toward the corner of the room. 

Reverend Davies was rarely seen in the Squid, but when news of the Afternoon Tea and Biscuits Club came to his notice, he thought that a visit might be in order. Unaware of the invisible presence in the snug, he attempted to sit in the corner chair. 

Philomena saw this from behind the bar.

“So sorry,” she said, with a firmness that brooked no argument. “That seat is taken.”

The Reverend looked around.

“I don’t see anyone,” he said.

“No,” said Philomena. “Most people don’t.”

Knowing better than to disagree with Philomena, he chose another seat.

This was, in all respects, the correct decision.

Later, when the chimes of midnight struck and the fire burned low, Philomena stood for a moment in the doorway of the snug and regarded the room.

The chairs were in order.

The table was where it ought to be.

The cushion sat, slightly indented, upon the corner seat.

There was no movement and no sound, and yet, the space was not empty.

Philomena nodded, as one does when satisfied that matters are, if not entirely as they should be, at least as they have decided to become.

Behind her, in the kitchen, the Tomte could be heard attending to something that required attention.

Drury slept, and in the privacy of his room, Reggie Upton scribbled a few notes into his journal.

In the corner of the snug the chair remained invisibly occupied, and had no intention of being otherwise – at least, for the time being.

“Of course I moved the chairs in the snug,” said the Tomte, impatiently. “It’s the sort of thing you have to do in the springtime.”

“Is it really springtime?” asked Philomena, glancing nervously at the rain lashing the windows of The Squid and Teapot. “It’s a hard job to tell one season from another, here on Hopeless.”

“You should go to Boden, in Northern Sweden,” said the Tomte. “The local folks call it The Place Where The Sun Never Smiles.”

“Well,” replied Philomena, “it’s not exactly chuckling for joy around here most of the time.”

“That’s as maybe,” growled the Tomte. “But as long as I’m here to keep the inn looking tidy, you can’t pick and choose what I’m supposed to do.”

“But what’s the business with the haunted chair? Was that really necessary?”

“Haunted chair…?” The little man looked confused.

“The one in the corner that no one wants to sit in,” said Philomena, then she paused, a worried look passing over her face. 

“That’s not down to you, is it?”

The Tomte shook his head. 

“No. You can’t blame me for that, whatever it is,” he said, and stomped off to the cellar.

The mysterious Something in the snuggery was not, strictly speaking, visible. Nor was it invisible in any reassuring sense. It had instead adopted the uncomfortable middle ground of being present, particularly in the corner chair. It was the one nearest the hearth, which had always been considered the best seat in the room, and which now possessed the air of being occupied by someone who had arrived early and had no intention of leaving.

Philomena had noticed it first, which was to say that she had noticed the absence of absence.

Drury had noticed it second, which was to say that he had stood in front of the chair and had decided, much to everyone’s amazement, not to sit down.

Strangely, the Tomte had not noticed it at all.

Reggie Upton had been observing the corner chair for some time. He had the narrowed gaze of a man who had once suspected an entire regiment of being in entirely the wrong place. He smoothed his moustache and cleared his throat.

“Something is definitely sitting there,” he said to Father Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit, hovering in the doorway. Reggie guessed that a theological point of view was somehow imminent. 

“I can assure you that whatever this thing is, it is not a ghost,” Stamage said, with some authority. “However, there are presences which take advantage of order. That Tomte fellow invites them in, whether he intends to or no.”

Philomena, who had by now developed a preference for evidence over philosophy, reached behind the bar and produced a small, nondescript looking tile.

“I found this,” she said.

Reggie glanced at it, nodded once, and dismissed it entirely.

“A tile,” he said. “That might come in handy one day.”

“It moves,” said Philomena.

At once, as if mildly put out at being discussed rather than consulted, the tile shifted upon the bar, and letters began, with mild determination, to appear upon its surface.

SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS

“Ah ” said Reggie, seeing an opportunity to impress. “It says: The Sower Arepo Holds The Wheels With Care. The sentence is meaningless, of course, but this is a magic square, a quite famous talisman that reads the same in all directions. It is something that my dear friend, Annie Besant, would have described as being highly significant.”

“Theosophist nonsense!” exclaimed Father Stamage. “It is the Pater Noster, A devotional arrangement. An honest, Christian protection.”

“How do you work that out?” asked Philomena. “That Sator stuff has nothing to do with religion.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” said Reggie, in grudging tones. “Look… “

To no one’s surprise, and with the faint suggestion that he had been waiting for this moment, the old soldier produced a fountain pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and drew a crucifix made of words.                              

“It uses exactly the same letters,” he explained.

“But you’ve got too many As and Os,” pointed out Philomena.

Before Reggie could answer, Father Stamage shouted out triumphantly,

“Alpha and Omega – the beginning and the end!”

“And a lamentable mixture of Latin and Greek,” muttered Reggie.

 “It was used secretly by the early Christians  during periods of persecution,” Father Stamage went on, ignoring Reggie. “It would have been handy for anyone looking to avoid awkward conversations with Roman officials.” 

“Well, whatever the reason, it is – as I originally  said – a talisman.” said Reggie.

“Against what?” said Philomena.

As if in answer, the chair creaked.

Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just enough to suggest that whatever occupied it had shifted its weight, perhaps to listen more closely.

Drury gave a low, uncertain rattle.

Philomena set the tile down on the small table beside the chair.

“I guess,” she said, “that whatever is occupying the chair brought the talisman in with it.”

“So, happily, it means us no harm,” said Father Stamage, who gradually started to fade away. 

No one spoke until  the priest had finally disappeared.

“I don’t buy into all that Pater Noster malarky,” said Philomena. “Whatever is going on here feels a lot less respectable than that.”

Reggie nodded, and leaned forward.

“In India,” he said, “I met a fellow – one of those fakir chaps – who could draw pictures in the air, just by waving his fingers about.”

Philomena frowned, then smiled as she could see what Reggie was getting at.

“Is it all an illusion?” she ventured.

“To some extent,” said Reggie. “You only see that which you are meant to. The difficulty is knowing who is doing the meaning.”

They sat in silence for a while, waiting for the chair to creak again. It didn’t.

Drury, after a long and careful consideration, sat down, not in the corner chair but near it.

“Whatever this is,” said Philomena, “I think Father Stamage was right. It must have been let in by the Tomte, but not deliberately, I’m sure.”

“But everything he touches is steeped in Old Norse, not Latin,” said Reggie.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then smiled.

“But of course, if any of this had been in Old Norse none of us would have understood a word of it. Because it was in Latin, however, Stamage and I recognised the talisman straightaway. What it means, though, is beyond me.”

“Do you think it will go now?” asked Philomena.

They  considered the chair, and the small, stubborn sense of occupation that had now become part of the snug’s arrangement.

“No,” she said, answering her own question. “I think it’s here to stay a while.”

“Then I suggest that the snug be rendered out of bounds to all except residents of the inn,” said Reggie. “We need to find out what, or who, exactly, we are dealing with.”

Philomena nodded, then picked up the tile, now perfectly blank.

From the corner, there came no movement at all, which, in Hopeless, is not necessarily a comfort.

Tradition has always demanded that there are, in any well-run establishment, certain arrangements that ought not to be tampered with.

At The Squid and Teapot, these arrangements were not written down, largely because no one trusted anything written down to stay where it had been put. Nevertheless, they were understood. The fire was laid a particular way, the teapot lived where it chose to live, and the chairs in the snuggery existed in a state of quiet agreement with the people who used them.

Philomena Bucket was not, by nature, given to unnecessary interference. Her only concession to change, in recent weeks, had been the civilised introduction of afternoon tea in the snuggery, inspired by her trips to the mysterious Not-Hopeless, where various delicacies, including tea and biscuits, could be harvested. It was therefore with some nervousness that she stood in the doorway of the snuggery one morning and regarded the room with a faint but growing sense that something had gone subtly, but decisively, wrong. Had she overplayed her hand with this afternoon tea and biscuits business, and somehow upset the equilibrium of the inn?

She looked around the room, trying to spot the issue. Nothing, at first glance, was out of place.

That, she reflected, was precisely the problem.

Reggie Upton’s chair stood by the fire, as it always had. She looked again. No, it wasn’t quite to the fire. The chair was angled, ever so slightly, as though in quiet disagreement with the notion of warmth. A second chair, usually content to lurk companionably beside it, had withdrawn a fraction, creating a gap that served no obvious purpose. Another had turned itself just enough to face the wall, which, while not unprecedented in Hopeless, was generally considered a private decision.

Philomena stepped into the room.

The floorboards creaked in a manner that suggested they, too, had noticed.

She crossed to Reggie’s chair and nudged it back into what she considered to be its proper alignment. She felt a certain amount of resistance; it was nothing physical, but almost a matter of spirit. Then, with an inaudible sigh, the chair agreed to settle with a small shrug of begrudged resignation.

“That won’t do,” she murmured.

Behind her, there was a polite cough.

Ariadne Middlestreet hovered at the threshold, handbag in hand, as though uncertain whether the room was currently accepting visitors.

“Is the snuggery open?” she asked.

“Of course it is, Ariadne,” said Philomena. “Though I’m not entirely convinced it agrees.”

Ariadne stepped in cautiously, her eyes moving from chair to chair with the careful attention of a woman accustomed to objects that occasionally acquired their own, unique significance. After all, until just a couple of Christmases ago, she had been landlady of The Squid and Teapot for more years than she cared to remember, and thought she knew all of its little idiosyncrasies.

“Things look the same as they ever did,” she said.

“Yes,” said Philomena. “That’s what concerns me.”

Norbert Gannicox arrived shortly afterwards, carrying with him the sort of purposeful air that suggested he had come in search of tea and would accept no philosophical objections from the furniture.

“Morning,” he said briskly, before selecting a chair and sitting down with the confidence of a man who had never yet been defeated by domestic arrangements.

He lasted perhaps three seconds.

Norbert paused, then shifted slightly. He frowned, and with great deliberation, stood up again.

“I don’t like that one,” he said.

“No,” said Philomena. “Nor do I.”

He tried another chair.

This proved, if anything, worse. It placed him at a conversational angle that suggested he ought to be addressing someone who was not, at present, there.

Norbert looked across the room.

“Who usually sits there?” he asked.

“No one,” said Philomena.

Norbert considered this.

“Well, it feels as though something is. Or at least, trying to be there.”

At that moment, Drury appeared in the doorway.

He surveyed the room, took one step inside, and stopped. His tail gave a single, thoughtful movement. Then, with a decisiveness that brooked no argument, he turned around and lay down just outside the threshold, as though unwilling to commit himself to the current arrangement of things.

Philomena watched him.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You can sense it too, can’t you?”

By the time Reggie entered, the situation had not improved.

“My dear Philomena,” he began, theatrically, “I find myself in need of tea and a chair of known reliability.”

“That may be difficult,” she replied.

Reggie paused.

“Good Lord,” he said, looking around. “Has something… happened?”

“No,” said Philomena. “That’s exactly the problem, but there’s something going on.”

“Look,” said Reggie, after another short pause, “far be it for me to stir up trouble, but if things have been shifted and the feeling that the snuggery is suddenly getting uppity, there’s only one person – and I use the term ‘person’ advisedly – who can possibly be responsible. You recall what happened when you were redecorating the flushing indoor privy…?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Philomena.

“Are you talking about the Tomte?” asked Ariadne, warily.

She thought back to how the Tomte had flatly refused to help her and Bartholomew when they relinquished ownership of The Squid and Teapot, and moved into the old Blomqvist house, where the little man had been guardian for years. His objection had been that they were insufficiently Scandinavian.

“Yes,” sighed Philomena. “Ever since we had a visit from that Valkyrie – Astrid – he has been much bolder, wandering around the place all hours of the day and night.”

“And, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Norbert, “interfering in things that are none of his business.”

Reggie Upton had not been listening to a word that Norbert had said. With a glint in his eye, he smoothed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger.

“You don’t think that he’s put that empty chair for…”

“Astrid? No,” said Philomena. “She’s not someone likely to drop in for tea and biscuits.”

“Pity,” muttered Reggie. “A dashed fine looking woman.”

“Then who is it for?”

“Well, I don’t want to sit there,” said Ariadne, and Norbert nodded in agreement.

“Just for today,” said Philomena, decisively, “let’s have tea in the kitchen. I’ll try and talk to the Tomte later, and find out what’s going on.”

In unspoken agreement the tea and biscuits club trailed off, as one, to the kitchen.

Only Drury, still sitting outside the snuggery door, heard the unmistakable sound of a teaspoon gently striking porcelain.

Ever since his untimely death on Hopeless, Father Ignatius Stamage had come to regard his old Oxford college, Campion Hall, as a place of refuge. Accessed via the interior of his hat, the college invariably behaved itself. Corridors remained where they were put, doors opened when expected, and nothing of consequence ever bounded unexpectedly around a corner.

Until now, this arrangement had suited him very well. Things, however, had gone horribly wrong when Durosimi O’Stoat had managed – albeit inadvertently – to send Drury clattering noisily along the hallowed corridors of his beloved alma mater.

Having completed a thorough inspection of the chapel pews, Drury discovered the library and entered it with the air of a dog who has just realised that the world contains shelves.

The smell here was different. It was paper, dust and old leather. And, faintly beneath it all, that familiar and reassuring trace of cheap brilliantine and incense.

Drury followed the scent with professional interest.

Behind him, Father Stamage paused at the threshold and considered the situation with what dignity he could muster.

“Drury,” he said firmly, “this is a place of quiet study.”

Drury wagged, and several vertebrae responded enthusiastically.

Inside the library, a young Jesuit sat alone at a long wooden table, surrounded by books of a seriousness that suggested they had never once been opened for pleasure. He was making notes in a careful hand when he became aware of a presence.

He looked up.

Drury looked back.

For a long moment neither moved.

The young man blinked once, slowly, as though attempting to adjust the world into a more acceptable arrangement.

“I see,” he said at last, in the tone of one who did not, in fact, see at all.

Drury took this as encouragement and approached the table, placing his front paws gently upon it. His claws made a small, decisive tick-tick on the polished wood. The inkpot rattled supportively.

The young Jesuit followed the line of Drury’s skeleton from paw to shoulder to skull.

“I wonder,” he said quietly, “if this might be allegorical.”

Drury sniffed the ink.

Father Stamage closed his eyes.

“Not allegorical,” he said. “He is, regrettably, literal.”

The young man looked up again, this time at the faint, shimmering outline of a clerical figure hovering near the door.

He considered this.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. He seemed completely unfazed, as though skeletal hounds and phantom priests were frequent visitors.

“That does seem more likely.”

Across the room, another novice had risen to his feet.

“Is there a dog in the library?” he asked.

“There is,” said the first.

“A real dog?”

There was a pause.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that we may need to reconsider what we mean by ‘real’.”

Meanwhile, Drury had discovered a chair and, finding it agreeable, attempted to sit on it. This proved only partially successful. The chair remained where it was. Drury did not entirely do so.

His tail continued to wag as a pile of papers slid quietly to the floor.

Father Stamage stepped forward, gathering what remained of his composure.

“Drury,” he said, with a firmness that suggested he would very much like to be obeyed, “we must return at once.”

Drury turned his head.

The word return held promise.

Back on Hopeless, Durosimi O’Stoat had begun to pace. Knowing how fond the Bucket woman was of that infernal hound, its disappearance would invite nothing but trouble. 

“This is inconvenient,” he muttered.

He drew another small symbol in the air, made a slight adjustment, and tried again.

Inside Campion Hall, the air shifted.

Drury’s ears, or the memory of them, pricked.

Father Stamage straightened.

“Yes,” he said quickly, “that will be Durosimi attempting to correct his mistake. Do try to remain still.”

To no one’s surprise, Drury did not remain still.

The corridor seemed to tilt slightly, as though reconsidering its allegiance.

The novices felt a sudden draught, and smelt, quite distinctly, marsh water. They watched, open-mouthed and not a little awe-struck, as the dog, the ghostly priest, and a small portion of the room’s composure were simply no longer present.

Silence returned.

The first novice looked down at his notes.

He read the last line he had written, then very carefully crossed it out.

“I think,” he said, “I won’t include that in the final essay.”

Back on Hopeless, Drury reappeared with enthusiasm, although Father Stamage did not.

From his hat, which was still lying in the grass close to Not-Hopeless, came a long, measured sigh.

Durosimi brushed his hands together and glared at Drury. 

“There,” he said. “The problem is resolved, finally. Thank goodness. Now go away.”

(That might not have been his exact phraseology, but I’m sure you get the drift).

Drury wagged his bony tail. 

After a moment, Father Stamage’s voice emerged, weary but intact.

“I should like it to be recorded,” he said, “that Campion Hall is not equipped for the presence of dogs of this, or any other, description.”

Drury, having enjoyed himself immensely, picked up the hat once more and trotted happily off in the general direction of The Squid and Teapot.

Oscar Wilde once famously declared that the only thing he could not resist was temptation. He would probably have been surprised to learn that this is a characteristic he shares with a certain skeletal hound (as well as being dead, of course), and why the aforementioned Drury considers himself to be totally blameless in the following sequence of events. After all, the finger of blame should really point at Philomena Bucket. If only she had been more careful when putting things down, the problem would never have arisen. Dropping her duster and rushing off to see why both of her children were crying was no excuse. Father Stamage’s hat had been left on the sideboard where any Tom, Dick or Drury might reach it with ease, and be tempted to run off with it.

Of course, this was not the first time Father Stamage’s Capello Romano had been given the Drury treatment (see the tale ‘The Accidental Adventures of Father Stamage’s Hat’) and on that occasion the fault could be squarely laid with Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, who was using it as a frisbee to entertain the children, Caitlin and little Oswald. Anyway, it’s sufficient to say that Drury had once more succumbed to temptation and stolen the ghostly priest’s hat. 

By the time he had grown tired of the game, Drury found himself in that uniquely strange area of the island known as Not-Hopeless. Regular readers may remember that upon leaving the island some months ago, Doctor Pyralia Skant had opened this liminal fissure as a gift to The Squid and Teapot. Here Philomena was able to gather some precious provisions; these were items of food and drink previously unknown on the island, and thereby improve the inn’s bill of fare.  And it was here that Drury discovered Durosimi O’Stoat throwing spells at Not-Hopeless in an attempt to make it his own private larder. 

When the honour of The Squid and Teapot is at stake, Drury is usually the first to run to its aid and, with no one else being available on this occasion, he decided to take matters into his own hands – well, teeth, to be exact. Without a second thought (or even a first, knowing Drury) he flung himself at the sorcerer and grabbed hold of Durosimi’s coat-tails (yes, honestly. The O’Stoat coat has tails). 

As you might imagine, this didn’t go down particularly well with Durosimi, who was in mid-incantation at the time. He spun around angrily, still chanting, and – either by design or accident – Drury immediately disappeared. 

The explanation for this remarkable occurrence could be found some considerable distance away, in the spiritual interior of Father Stamage’s battered Capello Romano, a hat which, at that moment, lay somewhat undignified in the scrubby grass of Not-Hopeless, where Drury had dropped it during his interruption of Durosimi O’Stoat’s spellcasting. 

At that precise moment Father Ignatius Stamage was enjoying one of his customary perambulations through the hallowed corridors of Campion Hall, Oxford. As regular readers will know, once safely ensconced inside his hat and soaking up the heady mix of sweat, cheap brilliantine and incense, the good father preferred to imagine the college exactly as it ought to be: quiet, orderly and entirely devoid of undergraduates.

He was midway along the cloister, admiring the dignified stillness of the place, when he became aware of a noise.

At first it was no more than a faint tapping sound, somewhere in the distance. This was followed by a curious clattering, rather like a collection of teaspoons being shaken in a biscuit tin.

Father Stamage stopped.

Campion Hall, in its ideal state, did not make noises.

The clattering grew louder.

Then came the unmistakable sound of claws – many claws –  skidding enthusiastically across polished stone.

Before the startled Jesuit could form a theological opinion on the matter, Drury burst around the corner of the corridor at a speed which would have impressed even the most athletic of living dogs.

He slid across the floor, overbalanced slightly, recovered with admirable dignity, and wagged his tail with such enthusiasm that several vertebrae rattled like loose cutlery.

For a moment the two regarded one another.

“Good heavens,” said Father Stamage faintly.

Drury, clearly delighted to discover that the hat contained an entire building, bounded past him and disappeared through the open doorway of the chapel.

Unfortunately, this particular chapel was not empty.

Two young Jesuit novices, engaged in a perfectly respectable discussion concerning the finer points of Ignatian spirituality, looked up to see a large skeletal dog trot cheerfully down the aisle and begin sniffing the pews with professional interest.

One of them blinked.

“I say,” he murmured, “do we normally have… dogs?”

The other considered this carefully.

“I’m fairly certain,” he replied, “that we do not. Especially ones who look like that.”

Drury paused at the altar rail, sat down briefly, and scratched behind his ear (or rather, the place where an ear had once been).

His tail thumped enthusiastically against the wooden pews.

The novices stared at, what both assumed to be, an undisputed Hound of Hell.

“Brother Leo,” said the first quietly, “I am beginning to suspect that my vocation may require further reflection.”

Meanwhile, Father Stamage hurried after the dog with what dignity he could muster.

“Drury!” he hissed. “This is a place of learning!”

Drury glanced back over his shoulder, entirely unrepentant.

Then, spotting an open doorway leading to the library, he trotted inside with renewed enthusiasm.

Behind him, the ghostly priest closed his eyes.

“Lord,” he murmured wearily, “grant me patience.”

Back on Hopeless, Durosimi O’Stoat stood very still and frowned.

“That,” he said slowly, “was not the intended outcome.”

---

To be continued…

It was generally agreed that The Squid and Teapot had been running rather smoothly of late.

The floorboards creaked only when they meant to, the kettle whistled with commendable tone and punctuality, and the flushing indoor privy had reached a state of negotiated harmony between modern paintwork and traditional hauntings. For Hopeless, this amounted to a golden age.

To the surprise of no one, the ghost of Father Ignatius Stamage found this suspicious.

“Too much equilibrium invites complacency,” he announced one afternoon, his voice drifting down from somewhere near the ceiling of the public bar.

Reggie Upton looked up from his tea.

“Does it really?” he asked politely.

“Indeed it does,” said Father Stamage firmly as he flickered into vision. “I feel that, following the events of the last few weeks, the building would benefit from a modest blessing.”

Philomena, who had little patience with this sort of carry-on, had long since learned to approach his clerical enthusiasm with caution. 

She lay down her dishcloth with an air of authority.

“A blessing?” she enquired suspiciously. “Will it be at all messy?”

“Not in the least,” said the ghostly Jesuit. “A brief manifestation, a little incense, a few  well-chosen words.”

“I take it you’ve spoken about it to the Tomte?” said Philomena, innocently.

There was a pause.

“I see no reason why he should be concerned” said Father Stamage.

Rhys glanced up to the ceiling and suppressed a grin.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Stamage, suddenly somewhat uncertain. “He’s a reasonable sort of chap.”

This, as it transpired, was optimistic.

The Tomte appeared shortly after the preparations began. He stood in the doorway of the bar with his cap pushed back and his arms folded, watching Father Stamage’s attempts at organisation with the quiet concentration of a man observing someone stack firewood incorrectly.

The ghostly clergyman had managed a partial manifestation near the fireplace. His outline shimmered faintly, the familiar scent of cheap brilliantine and incense drifting gently across the room.

“Standards must be maintained,” he was saying, arranging an invisible ritual geometry around the hearth.

The Tomte tilted his head.

After a moment, he stepped forward and moved the poker two inches to the left.

Father Stamage paused mid-incantation.

“You did that deliberately,” he said.

The Tomte said nothing, but moved the tongs slightly closer to the grate.

Rhys coughed.

“This is obviously a professional disagreement,” he murmured to Reggie.

Father Stamage resumed.

“Let this house be… “

The Tomte quietly rotated a chair so that it faced a different direction.

“…a place of order and…”

The salt cellar slid two inches along the bar.

The clergyman’s outline flickered.

“My good fellow,” he said with strained patience, “I am attempting to establish a sacred arrangement.”

The Tomte regarded the room.

Then he picked up a spoon and placed it beside the teapot.

“That’s a domestic arrangement,” he replied.

The two men – one faintly transparent, the other barely a foot high – regarded one another with professional gravity.

From the mirror behind the bar came a faint shimmer.

Lady Margaret D’Avening, still refusing full manifestation in daylight, observed proceedings from the reflective surface with considerable interest. The semi-opaque drift of her nightdress shimmered faintly at the edge of the glass.

“Gentlemen,” she said coolly, “surely there is room for both theology and housekeeping.”

Drury, who had been lying by the fire throughout, had stopped snoring and was all ears (or would have been, had he actually possessed any).

The Tomte adjusted the position of the rug.

Father Stamage cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said at last. “We shall proceed… collaboratively.”

The blessing resumed.

This time, the Tomte allowed the candles to remain where they were, though he corrected the angle of the hearth brush and discreetly straightened the bell above the door.

Father Stamage completed his final words with solemn dignity.

“Amen,” he concluded.

The air warmed slightly.

The Tomte surveyed the room.

Everything appeared to be satisfactory.

He nodded once.

“Yes, that’s acceptable,” he said.

The scent of incense faded. Father Stamage’s outline softened and withdrew toward the ceiling.

Lady Margaret’s reflection vanished from the mirror with the faintest rustle of lace.

Philomena looked around the room.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Reggie went to check his pocket watch, then remembered that he’d given it to Winston Oldspot. 

“I imagine so,” he observed. “It seemed efficient enough.”

Rhys glanced at Philomena.

“Was that a real blessing?”

“It was, if it makes him happy,” she said. “But Granny Bucket might have had another opinion on the matter.” 

The Tomte nodded in silent approval at this remark. 

Drury thumped his tail once more, then promptly settled back down to sleep.

And for the rest of the evening, the inn felt especially well behaved, as though both heaven and housekeeping had briefly agreed on where everything ought to go.

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.

Reggie Upton had always believed that a gentleman should carry a watch.

He did not insist that others should do the same, after all, Hopeless was not a place inclined toward punctuality, but he himself preferred the quiet assurance of knowing that time, at least, was behaving in a predictable manner somewhere in his pocket.

The watch in question was a heavy silver hunter, inherited from a distant uncle who had believed firmly in the empire, cavalry charges and correct waistcoats. Reggie wound it each morning without fail. The faint tick of it had accompanied him through wars, shipwrecks, two engagements that never quite reached the altar, and more cups of tea than he could count.

It had also survived Hopeless, which was saying something.

Winston Oldspot, the current Night-Soil Man, did not carry a watch.

He carried many other things: a shovel, a bucket, and an optimism that had yet to be dented by experience, but not a watch. When contemplating the time, Winston would look at the sky with cheerful uncertainty and hazard a guess that was rarely accurate but always enthusiastic.

Reggie watched this for several weeks before deciding that something ought to be done.

It was a quiet, late evening at The Squid and Teapot when the matter finally came to a head. Doc Willoughby had recently decided to eschew the relative comfort of the flushing indoor privy, after Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, decided to manifest unexpectedly while Doc was in the throes of relieving himself. Unfortunately, her sudden appearance took Doc by surprise and there followed certain embarrassing consequences of a trouser-related nature, which we need not go into. Anyway, these days Doc relied on the outside privy, and was enjoying its facilities when Winston blundered in, thinking that it was the early hours of the morning.

Disturbed by the commotion this caused, Reggie went to investigate. Quickly summing up the situation, as the indignant Doc made a quick exit, he drew the watch from his pocket.

“Winston,” he said, in the tone of a man about to issue orders that could not be refused, “have you ever owned a proper timepiece?”

The Night-Soil Man looked slightly alarmed.

“No – though we were taught to tell the time at the Orphanage,” he volunteered.

Reggie nodded, as though confirming a theory he had long suspected.

“Splendid,” he said, placing the watch in Winston’s palm, “I believe you need this more than I do, old chap.”

There was a pause.

Winston turned the watch over carefully, as one might examine an unfamiliar species of crab.

“It’s… very shiny,” he said.

“It’s a hunter,” Reggie replied. “Silver case. Reliable movement. Wind it daily, and never argue with it.”

“Isn’t that the one you carried in India and Africa?” Winston asked.

“The very same,” said Reggie briskly.

The young man looked horrified.

“I can’t take that,” he said. “It’s far too important.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie. “A watch is only important when it is being used. And I find that these days, time and I have reached an understanding. It no longer needs watching quite so closely.”

Philomena, who had been standing safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man, leant against the door of the inn, dishcloth in hand, and pretended not to listen – but, in reality, listened very carefully indeed.

The Tomte appeared briefly out of one of the outhouses,  glanced at the exchange, and nodded once before disappearing again.

The following morning Winston attempted to wind the watch.

This proved more complicated than expected.

He turned it too quickly at first, then too gently, then not at all, and finally presented it to Reggie with the expression of a man who feared he had broken something older than history.

“It ticks,” Reggie said, holding it to his ear, and suppressing a smile. “That’s always a good sign.”

Drury, who had followed at the old soldier’s heels, lifted his head and watched Winston with mild interest, as though assessing whether this new responsibility suited him.

Over the next few days, the watch became a small but noticeable presence in Winston’s life.

He checked it before setting out to work. He consulted it when the tide seemed uncertain. He began planning his rounds to coincide with what the rest of the island would call ‘Unsociable Hours.’

“It is remarkable what a bit of silver can do,” said Tenzin.

“It isn’t the silver,” said Reggie. “It’s the trust.”

One morning, just before dawn, Winston paused at the edge of the marsh to check the watch. The tide was turning, or perhaps thinking about turning, and the air held that faint sense of expectation that Hopeless sometimes indulged in.

For a moment, the watch stopped.

Winston frowned.

He tapped it gently, as he had seen Reggie do, and held it up to his ear.

Nothing.

The silence lasted only a second- maybe two at most – but it felt longer.

Then the watch resumed its steady ticking, as though nothing had happened at all.

Winston shrugged, closed the case, and continued on his way.

Later that night, as he prepared to start his rounds, Reggie appeared at the cottage door.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” he said quietly.

Winston blinked.

“Felt what, Reggie?”

Reggie smiled faintly.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Come on, I’ll keep you company. Did I ever tell you about my fight with Jan Smuts, during the Boer War…?

Winston heaved his bucket onto his back, and smiled to himself in the darkness.

Hours later, after the night’s work was done, Winston stood outside his cottage, with the watch cupped carefully in both hands.

“I think it likes being out here, by the marsh,” he said.

Reggie nodded.

“Some things do,” he replied.

They stood together for a moment in companionable silence, listening to the tick of the watch blending with the soft settling sounds of the island.

At breakfast Reggie told Philomena what Winston had said. 

“The funny thing is,” she said. “Since Winston started carrying that watch, everything else seems to be arriving just when they’re meant to.”

“Things on Hopeless happening on time?” laughed Rhys. “That’s impossible.”

“Granny Bucket always used to say that time is a courteous guest,” said Philomena. “It behaves when treated properly.”

Reggie tapped his empty waistcoat pocket thoughtfully, and raised his teacup.

“To Winston,” he said.

Drury thumped his tail once, approvingly.

And somewhere, deep in the machinery of things that were older than any of them, the hands of a small silver watch continued their patient work, keeping time not for Reggie Upton anymore, but for the island that had decided it might, occasionally, be worth the effort. 

There are days on Hopeless when nothing happens at all, and these are generally the ones that deserve the closest attention.

The Squid and Teapot had settled into one of those stretches of quiet that follows excitement, when even the regular customers speak in softer tones, as though reluctant to disturb whatever it was that had been put right. The fire burned evenly and the kettle sounded a little less shrill than usual. Drury occupied his usual place by the hearth, his snores rising and falling in slow, contented measure.

It was Philomena who first noticed that the marsh smelled different.

It was not unpleasant, but simply cleaner, as though the tide had rinsed something away that no one had quite realised was there. She mentioned it to Reggie Upton, who sniffed the breeze with professional enthusiasm and declared that it reminded him of the early morning air in Rajasthan, although he had no idea why that should be.

The Tomte had noticed that something was different, as well. He is traditionally meant to be a reclusive fellow, but since the visit of Astrid, the Valkyrie, he had been much more in evidence, busying himself around the inn at all hours of the day and night. You could be forgiven for assuming that he was keeping a look-out, on the off-chance that she might return. 

Tenzin, the young Tibetan monk who called The Squid and Teapot home, smiled to himself as he watched the Tomte moving from chair to door to hearth with quiet determination. Windows were latched. Rugs straightened. Even the rarely used bell above the front door was adjusted twice, until it rang with a note that was somehow more decisive than before.

“Spring cleaning?” Tenzin ventured.

The Tomte looked at him for a long moment.

“Lines,” he said at last. “The lines need to be kept straight.”

Tenzin decided not to ask which lines.

Outside, Drury rose from his place without ceremony and padded toward the edge of the grounds. No one thought much of it at the time. The skeletal hound often walked alone, particularly when things seemed a little odd. The ghost of Granny Bucket, who had decided to extend her holiday, watched him go and nodded in approval, as though a small but important appointment was being kept.

To all intents and purposes the day passed without incident.

Which is to say, there were small things.

There was the lone gull that would not land near the marsh, and a patch of fog that hesitated at its edges, then drifted away again. Even the tide paused. It was not long enough to be remarked upon by anyone,except those who noticed such things.

By late afternoon, even Tenzin realised that something was waiting. Not maliciously. Not even urgently. Simply testing, as one might test a door to see if it had been properly closed.

Drury stood at the far edge of the path, where the ground becomes uncertain and the marsh begins to decide what it will be next.

He did not growl or bark, but simply stood, ribs lifted, head high, watching something that was not visible to anyone else.

Back at the inn, the Tomte set down his broom and listened. He tilted his head slightly, then cleared his throat. It was a small, deliberate sound, no louder than a polite cough.

For a moment Philomena felt the peculiar sensation that something was pushing against the doors and windows of the inn, then the feeling passed.

Drury took one step forward and gave a low bark.

Nothing answered.

Out on the marsh the lone gull returned, and showed little interest as the fog rolled in with the tide. Somewhere in the distance, a loose shutter that had been rattling for years fell still and remained that way.

By the time Drury came back inside, everyone seemed to have forgotten that something unknown had nearly happened. He shook himself once, scattering a little dark mud that did not behave quite like mud ought to, and settled beside the fire with a satisfied sigh.

Granny Bucket glanced up from her ectoplasmic knitting.

“That was well handled,” she said.

“Handled?” Tenzin repeated.

Granny only smiled.

Later that evening, Philomena noticed that the Tomte was gazing fondly at Drury. He nodded toward the old hound as he replaced his cap.

“Good dog,” he said quietly.

Drury glanced up, acknowledged the remark, and returned to sleep.

Nothing else occurred that night.

No lights in the marsh. No one had dreams of oars or voices, or heard hoofbeats.

And yet, the inn felt different. Things seemed somehow clearer, as though some unseen boundary had been walked and agreed upon by parties who preferred not to leave footprints behind.

The next morning, Rhys remarked that the air felt lighter than it had for days, and Tenzin declared that he had slept better than he had in weeks, then immediately apologised for saying so, in case it tempted fate.

Granny Bucket closed her knitting bag and rose to leave.

“Nothing came through,” she said, almost to herself.

Philomena followed her to the door.

“Do you think it will try again?” she asked.

Granny considered this.

“Oh, everything tries again,” she said cheerfully. “But not today.”

Philomena stepped out into the morning light, and tugged at the bell above the door, which sounded clear and certain.

Behind her, Drury lifted his head, listened to something only he could hear, and let it pass.

The island of Hopeless settled back into its ordinary business, which is to say, it waited.