After that happened, the clock couldn’t be moved without danger of damaging it. When old Mrs Bartholomew came, she had to buy the clock with the house. You see, Tom? It’s all quite straightforward, if you reason it out.’
From that time, abruptly, Tom ceased to hope for anything from Mrs Bartholomew.
The possibility of Hatty’s being a ghost stayed in his mind, however—at the back of his mind. He was not even aware of the presence of the idea, until one day in the garden it became the cause of a quarrel with Hatty herself. It was the only real quarrel that ever took place between them.
They were beginning to build their tree-house, in the Steps of St Paul’s; as usual, Tom was directing, while Hatty did the work of pulling and plaiting branches together, to make the walls. The floor—of old pieces of boarding that Hatty had found in the potting-shed—was already in place.
Hatty, as she worked, was singing to herself from hymns and songs and ballads. Now she was singing the end of the ballad of Sweet Molly Malone:
‘Her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Singing, “Cockles and Mussels,
Alive—alive-oh!”’
And Hatty continued to hum and murmur, under her breath, the refrain: ‘Alive—alive-oh! Alive—alive-oh!’
Suddenly Tom said—he blurted it out before he could help himself: ‘What’s it like—I mean, I wonder what it’s like to be dead and a ghost?’
Hatty stopped singing at once, and looked at him slyly over her shoulder, and laughed. Tom repeated the question: ‘What is it like to be a ghost?’
‘Like?’ said Hatty. She turned fully to face him, and laid a hand upon his knee, and looked eagerly into his face. ‘Ah, tell me, Tom!’
For a moment, Tom did not understand her; then he jumped to his feet and shouted: ‘I’m not a ghost!’
‘Don’t be silly, Tom,’ Hatty said. ‘You forget that I saw you go right through the orchard door when it was shut.’
‘That proves what I say!’ said Tom. ‘I’m not a ghost, but the orchard door is, and that was why I could go through it. The door’s a ghost, and the garden’s a ghost; and so are you, too!’
‘Indeed I’m not; you are!’
They were glaring at each other now; Hatty was trembling. ‘You’re a silly little boy!’ she said (and Tom thought resentfully that she seemed to have been growing up a good deal too much recently). ‘And you make a silly little ghost! Why do you think you wear those clothes of yours? None of my cousins ever played in the garden in clothes like that. Such outdoor clothes can’t belong to nowadays, I know! Such clothes!’
‘They’re my pyjamas,’ said Tom, indignantly, ‘my best visiting pyjamas! I sleep in them. And this is my bedroom slipper.’ His second slipper had been left, as usual, to wedge the flat-door upstairs.
‘And you go about so, in the daytime, always in your night-clothes!’ Hatty said scornfully. ‘And it’s the fashion nowadays, is it, to wear only one slipper? Really, you are silly to give such excuses! You wear strange clothes that no one wears nowadays, because you’re a ghost. Why, I’m the only person in the garden who sees you! I can see a ghost.’
Hatty would never believe the real explanation of his clothes, and Tom chose what he thought was a shorter counter-argument: ‘Do you know I could put my hand through you—now—just as if you weren’t there?’
Hatty laughed.
‘I could—I could!’ shouted Tom.
She pointed at him: ‘You’re a ghost!’
In a passion, Tom hit her a blow upon the outstretched wrist. There was great force of will as well as of muscle behind the blow, and his hand went right through—not quite as through thin air, for Tom felt a something, and Hatty snatched back her wrist and nursed it in her other hand. She looked as if she might cry, but that could not have been for any pain, for the sensation had not been strong enough. In a wild defence of herself, Hatty still goaded him:
From that time, abruptly, Tom ceased to hope for anything from Mrs Bartholomew.
The possibility of Hatty’s being a ghost stayed in his mind, however—at the back of his mind. He was not even aware of the presence of the idea, until one day in the garden it became the cause of a quarrel with Hatty herself. It was the only real quarrel that ever took place between them.
They were beginning to build their tree-house, in the Steps of St Paul’s; as usual, Tom was directing, while Hatty did the work of pulling and plaiting branches together, to make the walls. The floor—of old pieces of boarding that Hatty had found in the potting-shed—was already in place.
Hatty, as she worked, was singing to herself from hymns and songs and ballads. Now she was singing the end of the ballad of Sweet Molly Malone:
‘Her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow,
Singing, “Cockles and Mussels,
Alive—alive-oh!”’
And Hatty continued to hum and murmur, under her breath, the refrain: ‘Alive—alive-oh! Alive—alive-oh!’
Suddenly Tom said—he blurted it out before he could help himself: ‘What’s it like—I mean, I wonder what it’s like to be dead and a ghost?’
Hatty stopped singing at once, and looked at him slyly over her shoulder, and laughed. Tom repeated the question: ‘What is it like to be a ghost?’
‘Like?’ said Hatty. She turned fully to face him, and laid a hand upon his knee, and looked eagerly into his face. ‘Ah, tell me, Tom!’
For a moment, Tom did not understand her; then he jumped to his feet and shouted: ‘I’m not a ghost!’
‘Don’t be silly, Tom,’ Hatty said. ‘You forget that I saw you go right through the orchard door when it was shut.’
‘That proves what I say!’ said Tom. ‘I’m not a ghost, but the orchard door is, and that was why I could go through it. The door’s a ghost, and the garden’s a ghost; and so are you, too!’
‘Indeed I’m not; you are!’
They were glaring at each other now; Hatty was trembling. ‘You’re a silly little boy!’ she said (and Tom thought resentfully that she seemed to have been growing up a good deal too much recently). ‘And you make a silly little ghost! Why do you think you wear those clothes of yours? None of my cousins ever played in the garden in clothes like that. Such outdoor clothes can’t belong to nowadays, I know! Such clothes!’
‘They’re my pyjamas,’ said Tom, indignantly, ‘my best visiting pyjamas! I sleep in them. And this is my bedroom slipper.’ His second slipper had been left, as usual, to wedge the flat-door upstairs.
‘And you go about so, in the daytime, always in your night-clothes!’ Hatty said scornfully. ‘And it’s the fashion nowadays, is it, to wear only one slipper? Really, you are silly to give such excuses! You wear strange clothes that no one wears nowadays, because you’re a ghost. Why, I’m the only person in the garden who sees you! I can see a ghost.’
Hatty would never believe the real explanation of his clothes, and Tom chose what he thought was a shorter counter-argument: ‘Do you know I could put my hand through you—now—just as if you weren’t there?’
Hatty laughed.
‘I could—I could!’ shouted Tom.
She pointed at him: ‘You’re a ghost!’
In a passion, Tom hit her a blow upon the outstretched wrist. There was great force of will as well as of muscle behind the blow, and his hand went right through—not quite as through thin air, for Tom felt a something, and Hatty snatched back her wrist and nursed it in her other hand. She looked as if she might cry, but that could not have been for any pain, for the sensation had not been strong enough. In a wild defence of herself, Hatty still goaded him:
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