Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s young Night-Soil Man, was always glad of whatever company he could get, even that of the ghostly Miss Calder, who helped manage the Pallid Rock Orphanage. Miss Calder had recently taken to dropping by, and updating him on the various goings-on at his old alma mater.
“Most of the boys and girls of your year have left, or are leaving soon,” she said, sadly. “Heaven knows how they will manage, fending for themselves.”
“Are there any new kids starting?” asked Winston, not really interested in the answer, but happy to be having a conversation.
“There is always a number of orphans looking for a home with us,” replied Miss Caldwell. “As you know, life expectancy on the island can be unpredictable, to say the least.”
Winston nodded. His own parents had vanished without a trace when he was just ten years old.
Miss Calder’s face began to change, her soft beauty alarmingly transformed into a grinning skull. Winston had seen this before, a hundred times or more, and it had long ceased to trouble him; it merely meant that she was becoming emotional.
“It is so sad,” she said, partly regaining not only her composure, but some of her face as well. “Our youngest – and newest – arrival is an adorable little boy who can’t be any more than two years old.”
“What happened to his parents?” asked Winston.
Miss Calder shrugged helplessly,
“He was found washed up on the beach, barely alive, “ she said, and once more Winston found himself looking into the fathomless eye-sockets of a skull.
It was much later that night, and Winston was joined on his rounds by his old friend, Reggie Upton. You may remember that Reggie’s lack of a sense of smell allowed him to quite happily enjoy the company of the Night-Soil Man without retching, dry heaving or passing out. The two would exchange whatever bits of gossip they might have gleaned, and while Reggie could provide some juicy tidbits regarding the activities at The Squid and Teapot, Winston’s conversation was usually confined to the abysmal state of the island’s many and varied privies. Tonight, however, there was something different to talk about.
“I hear that there is a batch of new kids starting at Pallid Rock this week.”
“Oh dear,” said Reggie, concernedly. “Has there been a sudden surge of fatalities on the island?”
“Not that I know of,” admitted Winston, “but there never seems a shortage of children going into the orphanage. According to Miss Calder, the youngest this time is only two years old.”
“Poor little chap.” said Reggie. “Life on this island is hard enough, but it must be doubly awful for the youngsters who lose their parents.”
Winston said nothing; he was too busy fighting back his tears.
By the time that Reggie came down to breakfast, late the following morning, everyone else in The Squid and Teapot was getting on with their day. Philomena was making the first batch of Starry- Grabby pies; Rhys was banging about in the cellar; Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk was meditating and Caitlin, Rhys and Philomena’s adopted daughter, was being Caitlin.
“Anything I can do to help?” volunteered Reggie, wiping crumbs from his moustache.
“You could entertain Caitlin for an hour,” said Philomena, looking decidedly stressed. “She’s in one of those ‘getting under people’s feet’ moods this morning.”
“Happy to,” beamed Reggie, “but how keen she’ll be to have an old duffer like me keeping her occupied is another matter.”
“We’ll see, but I take your point,” said Philomena. “It’s a real pity she hasn’t got a brother or sister to play with.”
“God knows, it’s not for the want of trying,” broke in Rhys with a grin, emerging from the cellar and rolling a barrel of Old Colonel before him.
Reggie couldn’t help but notice the faint blush that coloured Philomena’s pale cheeks.
Just then an apparition slipped silently through the kitchen wall, nearly giving Reggie a heart attack. It was Miss Calder, but not as he had seen her before. Her usually attractive face had been transformed into a loathsome death’s head.
“Miss Calder, whatever is the matter?” asked Philomena, who was well aware that, to look like this, the ghostly manager of Pallid Rock Orphanage must be in a highly emotional state of mind.
“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” said the ghost, “but we seem to have something of a problem at the orphanage.”
As she spoke, Miss Calder’s face flickered disconcertingly between her normal countenance and the terrifying bone-white skull, which was somewhat off-putting to everyone.
She went on to tell them that Pallid Rock’s latest and youngest arrival, a two year old, whom Reverend Davies insisted be named Oswald, spoke no English and was refusing to eat or drink, so traumatised was he at being suddenly plunged among older, larger and very much noisier children. As she spoke, and the story poured out, Miss Calder calmed down, allowing her to resume her usual, pleasing form.
“I wondered if you might be inclined to lend Caitlin to us for an hour or so, please, to see if playing with a child of his own age might settle him down?”
Philomena looked at Rhys, and an unspoken agreement passed between them.
“We can do better than that,” said Rhys. “Bring him here to meet Caitlin and if he’s happy, then he can stay.”
Had the long dead Miss Calder been in a position to breathe, she would have exhaled with relief.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I can collect him at bedtime.”
“When Rhys said that Oswald could stay, he meant stay with us – forever – if he wants,” said Philomena.
Miss Calder needed no second telling; she vanished into the ether, leaving only a spectral ‘Thank you again’ hanging in the empty air.
When Philomena saw Oswald she fell in love immediately. Like Caitlin he was fair, to the point of being unusually pale, but where Caitlin was bold and rumbustious, Oswald was quiet and withdrawn. Nevertheless, his hunger-strike was brought to a abrupt end with a large slice of Starry-Grabby pie and a small cup of sarsaparilla, the non-alcoholic root beer brewed especially for Norbert Gannicox, Hopeless Maine’s teetotal distiller.
“This is working,” said Rhys, watching the pair play together.
“They seem very happy in each other’s company,” observed Reggie.
“For the first time ever,” said Tenzin, looking around at the others, “I feel part of a big, happy family.”
Philomena smiled and nodded.
“A family indeed,” she declared. “And now we are six.’
Cloistered in the inn’s famous flushing privy, Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage listened to the conversation in the kitchen with the preternatural hearing peculiar to the spirit world.
“Blasted cheek,” muttered Father Stamage. “Now we are six, indeed. What about us?”
“I was here before any of them,” complained Lady Margaret, cradling her head in her lap, adding, “that’s the living for you, I suppose… they can’t be relied upon.”
“And heathens and heretics to boot, every last one of ‘em,” said Father Stamage. “I’ve a jolly good mind not to haunt the place anymore.”
“Me too,” agreed Lady Margaret.
She paused, and considered what fun she might be missing.
“Well, not until Christmas, anyway,” she said.
