The kitchen had changed since my last visit. A small fire had been made up in the grate and two plates of bacon and eggs were on the table. There was a freshly baked loaf too and a large pat of butter.
‘Tuck in, lad, before it gets cold,’ invited the Spook.
I set to immediately and it didn’t take us long to finish off both platefuls and eat half the loaf as well. Then the Spook leaned back in his chair, tugged at his beard and asked me an important question.
‘Don’t you think,’ he asked, his eyes staring straight into mine, ‘that was the best plate of bacon and eggs you’ve ever tasted?’
I didn’t agree. The breakfast had been well cooked.
It was good, all right, better than cheese, but I’d tasted better. I’d tasted better every single morning when I’d lived at home. My mam was a far better cook, but somehow I didn’t think that was the answer the Spook was looking for. So I told a little white lie, the kind of untruth that doesn’t really do any harm and tends to make people happier for hearing it.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was the very best breakfast that I’ve ever tasted. And I’m sorry for coming down too early and I promise that it won’t happen again.’
At that, the Spook grinned so much that I thought his face was going to split in two; then he clapped me on the back and led me out into the garden again.
It was only when we were outside that the grin finally faded. ‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘There are two things that respond well to flattery. The first’s a woman and the second’s a boggart. Gets them every time.’
Well, I hadn’t seen any sign of a woman in the kitchen so it confirmed what I’d suspected – that a boggart cooked our meals. It was a surprise, to say the least. Everyone thought that a spook was a boggart-slayer, or that he fixed them so they couldn’t get up to any mischief. Who would have credited that he had one cooking and cleaning for him?
‘This is the western garden,’ the Spook told me, as we walked along the third path, the white pebbles crunching under our feet. ‘It’s a safe place to be whether it’s day or night. I often come here myself when I’ve got a problem that needs thinking through.’
We passed through another gap in the hedge and were soon walking through the trees. I felt the difference right away. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying slightly in the morning breeze. It was a happier place.
We kept walking until we came out of the trees onto a hillside with a view of the fells to our right. The sky was so clear that I could see the dry-stone walls that divided the lower slopes into fields and marked out each farmer’s territory. In fact the view extended right to the summits of the nearest fell.
The Spook gestured towards a wooden bench to our left. ‘Take a pew, lad,’ he invited.
I did as I was told and sat down. For a few moments the Spook stared down at me, his green eyes locked upon mine. Then he began to pace up and down in front of the bench without speaking. He was no longer looking at me, but stared into space with a vacant expression in his eyes. He thrust back his long black cloak and put his hands in his breeches pockets then, very suddenly, he sat down beside me and asked questions.
‘How many different types of boggart do you think there are?’
I hadn’t a clue. ‘I know two types already,’ I said, ‘the
‘That’s good twice over, lad. You’ve remembered what I taught you and you’ve shown yourself to be someone who doesn’t make wild guesses. You see, there are as many different types of boggart as there are types of people and each one has a personality of its own. Having said that, though, there are some types that can be recognized and given a name. Sometimes on account of the shape they take and sometimes because of their behaviour and the tricks they get up to.’
He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small book bound with black leather. Then he handed it to me. ‘Here, this is yours now,’ he said. ‘Take care of it, and whatever you do, don’t lose it.’
The smell of leather was very strong and the book appeared to be brand new. It was a bit of a disappointment to open it and find it full of blank pages. I suppose I’d expected it to be full of the secrets of the Spook’s trade – but no, it seemed that I was expected to write them down, because next the Spook pulled a pen and a small bottle of ink from his pocket.
‘Prepare to take notes,’ he said, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the bench again. ‘And be careful not to spill the ink, lad. It doesn’t dribble from a cow’s udder.’
I managed to uncork the bottle, then, very carefully, I dipped the nib of the pen into it and opened the notebook at the first page.
The Spook had already begun the lesson and he was talking very fast.
‘Firstly, there are hairy boggarts which take the shape of animals. Most are dogs but there are almost as many cats and the odd goat or two. But don’t forget to include horses as well – they can be very tricky. And whatever their shape, hairy boggarts can be divided up into those which are hostile, friendly or somewhere between.
‘Then there are hall-knockers, which sometimes develop into stone-chuckers, which can get very angry when provoked. One of the nastiest types of all is the cattle-ripper because it’s just as partial to human blood. But don’t run away with the idea that we spooks just deal with boggarts, because the unquiet dead are never very far away. Then, to make things worse, witches are a real problem in the County. We don’t have any local witches to worry about now, but to the east, near Pendle Hill, they’re a real menace. And remember, not all witches are the same. They fall into four rough categories – the malevolent, the benign, the falsely accused and the unaware.’
By now, as you might have guessed, I was in real trouble. To begin with, he was talking so fast I hadn’t managed to write down a single word. Secondly, I didn’t even know all the big words he was using. However, just then he paused. I think he must have noticed the dazed expression on my face.
‘What’s the problem, lad?’ he asked. ‘Come on, spit it out. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.’
‘I didn’t understand all that you said about witches,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what 'malevolent' means. Or 'benign' either.’
‘Malevolent means evil,’ he explained. ‘Benign means good. And an unaware witch means a witch who doesn’t know she’s a witch, and because she’s a woman that makes her double trouble. Never trust a woman,’ said the Spook.
‘My mother’s a woman,’ I said, suddenly feeling a little angry, ‘and I trust her.’
‘Mothers usually are women,’ said the Spook. ‘And mothers are usually quite trustworthy, as long as you’re their son. Otherwise look out! I had a mother once and I trusted her, so I remember the feeling well. Do you like girls?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I don’t really know any girls,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t have any sisters.’
‘Well, in that case you could fall easy victim to their tricks. So watch out for the village girls. Especially any who wear pointy shoes. Jot that down. It’s as good a place to start as any.’
I wondered what was so terrible about wearing pointy shoes. I knew my mam wouldn’t be happy with what the Spook had just said. She believed you should take people as you find them, not just depend on someone else’s opinion. Still, what choice did I have? So at the top of the very first page I wrote down
He watched me write, then asked for the book and pen. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to take notes faster than that. There’s a lot to learn and you’ll have filled a dozen notebooks before long, but for now three or four headings will be enough to get you started.’
He then wrote
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s got you started. Just write anything you learn today under one of those four headings. But now for something more urgent. We need provisions. So go down to the village or we’ll go hungry tomorrow. Even the best cook can’t cook without provisions. Remember that everything goes inside my sack. The butcher has it, so go there first. Just ask for Mr Gregory’s order.’
He gave me a small silver coin, warning me not to lose my change, then sent me off down the hill on the quickest route to the village.
Soon I was walking through trees again, until at last I reached a stile that brought me onto a steep, narrow lane. A hundred or so paces further, I turned a corner and the grey slates of Chipenden’s rooftops came into
