It happened late one Wednesday afternoon. Mrs Endhouse was sitting on a hard chair in her kitchen, with her feet up on the coal scuttle, in front of the unlit fire. The mobile library had finally brought the book she ordered weeks ago: Edward Gibbon's 'The History of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' volume 3. She was shaking her head and chuckling - occasionally muttering some comment, like:

'Yer right about that blithering buffoon of an Emperor, Edward! Nasty piece of work, he was. I remember the blighter! Got what was coming to him though, didn't he?'

Just as she was thinking about lighting the fire and making a brew, Tinker came running into the room so fast that he couldn't stop. He extended his claws to give himself some purchase on the stone floor, while his back legs overtook his front end as if they hadn't yet received the Stop! message from his brain. Patience followed him, hopping sideways, in that endearing and ungainly way vultures have of moving along the ground. Mrs Endhouse raised an eyebrow and was about to make some tart remark, when Miss Marsh rushed in, dishevelled and flustered.

'Good grief! What ails the three of you? Daphnie, you look as though you've seen a ghost!'

'Oh, it's worse than that. Much worse! It's my father!'

'Your father? What's so terrible about your father?... Wait a minute... I thought your father died years ago. Come to think of it, I remember when your father died. It was about six years ago, wasn't it?'

Miss Marsh nodded, breathless from her run.

'So what are you saying then? Is the old man haunting you?'

'Not exactly.'

'Do stop heaving and puffing woman, and sit down. Get your breath, pull yourself together and try to make sense!'

Miss Marsh sat and composed herself. Tinker yowled and Patience croaked at Mrs Endhouse as she frowned from one to the other of them, her expression darkening.

'Oh bugger!'

She glowered at Miss Marsh.

'Daphnie Marsh, I thought you would've had more sense! I told you we'd find you a suitable assistant in good time. But you wouldn't wait, would you? It takes time and you're just an apprentice. No self-respecting familiar will associate themselves with an untrained witch. They're a proud and ancient race. You have to prove yourself before they'll commit to a long term relationship.'

Miss Marsh looked meek and contrite. She'd taken a shine to Patience and tried to persuade her to join her, but Patience had just laughed. She was already committed to her own mistress in Africa and would soon have to return there. Even so, she'd grown fond of Miss Marsh and wanted to help her. In the area of Africa where her mistress lived, witches sometimes used zombies as assistants. Zombies were less choosy than familiars - mainly because zombies had no choice. So Patience had taught Miss Marsh a ritual to draw the most suitable assistant to her. Apparently, Patience had not considered it important to inform Miss Marsh about the kind of assistant this ritual might 'raise'.

What a mess. Mrs Endhouse was livid. She was beginning to think that she should never have agreed to teach Miss Marsh. The one advantage of taking on an older student is, they're less likely to do anything stupid or dangerous. So much for that theory! She sighed and changed her expression from one of anger to one of resignation.

'All right. Well. What's to be done?... Where is he now?'

'He's in my back garden.'

'And what's he doing?'

'He's sitting on the grass, staring at a dandelion.'

'Hmm.... Typical. It's the colours. He ent seen no colours for six years. Zombies can't resist bright colours. They're fascinated by them. I hope no-one can see him there!'

'Not unless they go right in to the garden.'

'Well, I hope he don't move then! We'd better go and have a look at him. Have you talked to him yet?'

Miss Marsh explained that she'd been too shocked to start with. She hadn't even recognised him to start with. He didn't smell very nice. He wasn't himself. Her father was quite stout and he dressed smartly - and he hated weeds. This dead person was very thin, dressed in rags and seemed to be in thrall to a dandelion. She did try to talk to him once she'd calmed down sufficiently, but he couldn't seem to concentrate and his vocal equipment was not working.

Patience lowered her head and made a quiet croak of embarrassment. Mrs Endhouse glanced at her and tutted.

'You were just trying to help. You didn't understand. In this country, when the dead rise, they leave their bones and their mouldering flesh in the ground. You just don't see zombies in England. It ent traditional. People don't like that sort of thing over here. Tell 'em there's a haunted house or a haunted wood, and they get a little thrill of excitement. Show 'em a zombie and they'll go screaming mad.'

Patience made another little croak and a hop.

'Well, he's awake now. He won't want to climb back in that cold, damp hole. Perhaps we can persuade him to put his body back though. No reason for him to trail that unsightly hulk around with him. He'll be a lot more comfortable and lively without it. Come on. Let's go and see the patient.'

They all trooped out through the back door and round the field to Miss Marsh's back garden. They found her father as she described, like a raggedy old scare-crow, sitting on the lawn, examining a dandelion. The expression on his face might have looked serene, with a little more flesh. Miss Marsh knelt down and put an arm round his shoulder. Mrs Endhouse gently patted his hand and asked him how he felt. He looked up with what might have been a smile and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. Then he pointed to the dandelion and his face crumpled. Dry sobs shook his fragile frame.

'There there, Mr Marsh. Don't you upset yourself. There's been a bit of a mix up. You was woken up in error. It ent fitting. Would you like to go back to your rest?'

The corpse shook its head a little too vigorously and something fell off.

'Alright. Well, you don't have to stay in that knackered old body. That can go back into the ground. We can free you from it and then you can stay up aloft without upsetting the neighbours. Most of them won't be able to see you once you've shuffled that thing off. How would that be?'

He looked from Mrs Endhouse to Miss Marsh. Then he looked back at the dandelion and reached down to cradle it in his bony hand. The rays of the setting sun glinted like gold on its petals, so that it looked like a tiny, brilliant little sun glimmering in his dead, grey fingers. He nodded.

It was hard to get him away from the dandelion. In the end, Mrs Endhouse picked a bunch of flowers and held them in front of his face. He stood up and followed them, like a zombie, back to the grave yard. The greatest stroke of luck was, nobody saw them going. Miss Marsh brought a spade. When they reached his grave, he was persuaded to step in by dropping the flowers into the hole first. Patience snipped the immaterial bonds between body and spirit. She was an old hand (or 'beak' rather) at the job. The now inanimate corpse dropped into the hole and the ghost of Mr Marsh drifted back to ground level. And he looked like his old self at last. He looked a stout, cheerful, robust fellow of about 50 years. His suit looked smart and clean. And he was transparent, of course.

Smiling at her father, Miss Marsh started to shovel back the soil.

'How are you feeling now, Dad?'

'Light as a feather.' He said, in a voice as thin as a wisp.

Fiction by Tibley Bobley

Tibley Bobley

22.05.08 Front Page

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