“Perhaps you could ask my grandmother about someone who used to work in her kitchen? A workhouse girl. I think her first name was Minnie,” he mused. “And her last name began with T. It was strangely similar to your own, Miss Temple. Could it be Tuttle? Yes, that’s it. Could you ask my dear old granny whatever happened to little Minnie Tuttle?”
Minerva’s voice sounded strained. “I don’t appear to be getting anyone of that name,” she said bravely.
Omigosh, I thought, the poor darling! That’s her ! She’s Minnie Tuttle.
This guy had evidently been digging around in Minerva’s past, a past she found so painful that she’d invented a whole new identity for herself.
“Figured out whose side you’re on yet?” Brice whispered.
“Yeah, this creep’s got it coming,” I agreed. “But what can we do? We’re totally not meant to interfere.”
He grinned. “And we’re not going to.” He nodded at the ghosts. ‘What do you say, guys? Shall we make it a team effort?”
They looked stunned. One spirit asked Brice something, in a distorted underwatery voice.
“No, seriously,” Brice said. “You’re the experts. We’re just here to help you do your stuff.”
It would be incredibly unprofessional of me to reveal what happened next, so I’ll just tell you that ten minutes after we hijacked the seance, the paranormal investigator bolted from the house. The final straw was definitely when Minerva’s spirits told her to ask him about an important public examination in which a pupil with the initials O. D. did something he shouldn’t.
I know! How do ghosts get hold of this information? How could they possibly know that Mr Smith’s real name was Obadiah Dunhill?
I was on such a high that I slapped Brice’s palm and said, “Yess!”
“Didn’t I tell you it would be a blast?” he boasted.
Lola just beamed at us, like: You see! You kids can play really nicely together if you try.
After Obadiah fled, Minerva lay back in her chair, sniffing at a bottle of smelling salts. The real-life spirits hovered solicitously in the background. Minerva looked exhausted but deep down I think she was relieved to be back in the bona fide psychic bizz.
Charlotte was pulling back the heavy curtains, letting in what little daylight there was. Then she turned and I saw her face, and my elation died away.
“May I leave now, Miss Temple?” she asked timidly. “You said I could have the morning off? My mama died two years ago today and my brother and I are going to visit her grave.”
Lola gave me a helpless look.
“So that’s why Georgie stole the flowers,” I whispered.
Georgie was waiting in the kitchen, looking astonishingly different without his grime. He had surprisingly delicate features for a boy, I thought. He scrupulously divided his stolen daisies into two bunches, handing one of the bunches to Charlotte, and they set off down the street.
Georgie didn’t say a word as they walked along. Charlotte kept giving him worried glances, but after ten minutes she couldn’t stand it any longer and said, “We must try not to be sad, you know, Georgie. Mama and Papa’s troubles are over now. They are with the angels, watching over us from Heaven.”
For the first time since we’d met him, Georgie lost his temper. “There IS no Heaven, Charlotte!” he yelled. “The angels didn’t help you when you were living on the street. It was me who found you that job. We’re on our own. There’s just you, me and Uncle Noel, no-one else.”
He stormed ahead, leaving a pathetic trail of purple daisy petals.
“Wait! Georgie, wait for me!” Charlotte went hurrying after him.
“I used to feel like Georgie,” Lola murmured. “Didn’t you, Mel?”
“Totally,” I admitted, “and I didn’t have it anything like as hard as these kids.”
A fit of violent coughing had stopped Charlotte in her tracks. Georgie ran back looking stricken. He waited anxiously until she’d recovered, then he silently took
Minerva’s voice sounded strained. “I don’t appear to be getting anyone of that name,” she said bravely.
Omigosh, I thought, the poor darling! That’s her ! She’s Minnie Tuttle.
This guy had evidently been digging around in Minerva’s past, a past she found so painful that she’d invented a whole new identity for herself.
“Figured out whose side you’re on yet?” Brice whispered.
“Yeah, this creep’s got it coming,” I agreed. “But what can we do? We’re totally not meant to interfere.”
He grinned. “And we’re not going to.” He nodded at the ghosts. ‘What do you say, guys? Shall we make it a team effort?”
They looked stunned. One spirit asked Brice something, in a distorted underwatery voice.
“No, seriously,” Brice said. “You’re the experts. We’re just here to help you do your stuff.”
It would be incredibly unprofessional of me to reveal what happened next, so I’ll just tell you that ten minutes after we hijacked the seance, the paranormal investigator bolted from the house. The final straw was definitely when Minerva’s spirits told her to ask him about an important public examination in which a pupil with the initials O. D. did something he shouldn’t.
I know! How do ghosts get hold of this information? How could they possibly know that Mr Smith’s real name was Obadiah Dunhill?
I was on such a high that I slapped Brice’s palm and said, “Yess!”
“Didn’t I tell you it would be a blast?” he boasted.
Lola just beamed at us, like: You see! You kids can play really nicely together if you try.
After Obadiah fled, Minerva lay back in her chair, sniffing at a bottle of smelling salts. The real-life spirits hovered solicitously in the background. Minerva looked exhausted but deep down I think she was relieved to be back in the bona fide psychic bizz.
Charlotte was pulling back the heavy curtains, letting in what little daylight there was. Then she turned and I saw her face, and my elation died away.
“May I leave now, Miss Temple?” she asked timidly. “You said I could have the morning off? My mama died two years ago today and my brother and I are going to visit her grave.”
Lola gave me a helpless look.
“So that’s why Georgie stole the flowers,” I whispered.
Georgie was waiting in the kitchen, looking astonishingly different without his grime. He had surprisingly delicate features for a boy, I thought. He scrupulously divided his stolen daisies into two bunches, handing one of the bunches to Charlotte, and they set off down the street.
Georgie didn’t say a word as they walked along. Charlotte kept giving him worried glances, but after ten minutes she couldn’t stand it any longer and said, “We must try not to be sad, you know, Georgie. Mama and Papa’s troubles are over now. They are with the angels, watching over us from Heaven.”
For the first time since we’d met him, Georgie lost his temper. “There IS no Heaven, Charlotte!” he yelled. “The angels didn’t help you when you were living on the street. It was me who found you that job. We’re on our own. There’s just you, me and Uncle Noel, no-one else.”
He stormed ahead, leaving a pathetic trail of purple daisy petals.
“Wait! Georgie, wait for me!” Charlotte went hurrying after him.
“I used to feel like Georgie,” Lola murmured. “Didn’t you, Mel?”
“Totally,” I admitted, “and I didn’t have it anything like as hard as these kids.”
A fit of violent coughing had stopped Charlotte in her tracks. Georgie ran back looking stricken. He waited anxiously until she’d recovered, then he silently took
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