Free Ghosts on Board by Fleur Hitchcock Page A

a waistcoat and long shorts like a Victorian chimney boy. I can’t really see his features, but Flora Rose is clearer – she’s bent over, studying the shiny buckles on Tilly’s handbag. I imagine she’s looking at herself, and I can see that she isn’t all that old, maybe 12 or 162 if I add in the extra 150 years. They’re like a pair of black-and-white photos tinted purple, and a touch see-through.
    Weird, and a little sad.
    â€˜Maybe there’s an airship or something here,’ says Tilly. ‘Didn’t the Victorians have airships? Tom, you could talk a lot and fill it with hot air.’ She smiles sweetly and drains my water bottle.
    â€˜My dear child, there are NO airships here,’ says Victor, sighing and standing close to Jacob who is removing large clods of purple jelly from his clothing.
    â€˜This stuff is really sticky,’ says Jacob.
    â€˜Come to the sea, dear boy. Let’s see if we can wash it off,’ says Victor.
    I watch them go, wondering if I need to follow. But they can’t get off the island – no one can unless we build a boat or wait for the
Trusty Mermaid
– so I let Victor take Jacob out of sight. After all, there’s only so much of Jacob that anyone can stand.
    â€˜Let’s face it. We’re going to have to build a raft,’ says Eric.
    â€˜How?’ asks Tilly. ‘Don’t you need tree trunks and rope and things?’
    I pull open the graveyard-shed door, which comes away in my hand. There’s a heap of rotting rubbish on one side, a sled, a couple of rusty buckets, a rotting boat and an axe. I pick up the axe and to my surprise the handle feels quite solid.
    Underneath that I find a saw. Blunt, but still a saw.
    â€˜Right, if we’re going to build a raft, we need loads of wood.’
    â€˜The Fearful Forest?’ says Eric. ‘It is trees after all.’
    I stand on the edge of the graveyard looking towards the sea. There’s more light out there. The centre of the island looks completely black, not at all inviting. That forest is at least ten minutes’ walk into the gloom.
    â€˜That forest’ll have to go,’ I say in a voice that sounds an awful lot more confident than I feel. ‘As you say, they’re only trees.’ I swing the axe over my shoulder. ‘Anyone coming with me? Anyone going to help?’
    â€˜I’m staying here,’ says Tilly, pulling two soggy Woodland Friends from her bag and arranging them on a gravestone. ‘Call me when you’ve finished.’
    â€˜I’ll come,’ says Eric, picking up the saw. ‘Jacob?’ he calls towards the harbour.
    â€˜Leave him, I say – he’s covered in purple stuff.’
    â€˜Flora Rose?’ I ask. Two purple blobs emerge from the shadows at the far side of the graveyard. ‘Can you guide us to the Fearful Forest?’
    â€˜If you’re sure,’ says Flora Rose, sighing. ‘You might want to stuff your ears with something – it gets louder the closer you get. I’ll just go and tell the other two what we’re doing.’
    â€˜Shall we sing to keep off the creeps?’ says Eric, picking up bundles of black moss from the ground and handing me half. I try to turn it into earplugs but it crumbles and falls out, leaving me with gritty ears. Eric marches into the darkness and launches into the Field Craft Troop anthem, ‘We Are Hardly Scared of Anything’.
    â€˜We are hardly scared of anything,
    We can barely fear the raven’s wing,
    But bold be our stride with our cut staff at our side  … ’
    Our walking slows a touch as unseen things grab at our arms, but I keep pressing forward and we plunge into verse two.
    â€˜We are hardly scared of anything  … ’
    â€˜What an awful song,’ says Flora Rose, appearing at my elbow. ‘I think we should go back to the harbour – have you ever heard of the