HERE. IT MUST BE DONE BY TONIGHT.
Simnel didn’t argue. Arguing would mean that Bill Door remained in the forge, and he was getting quite anxious that this should not be so.
‘Fine, fine.’
YOU UNDERSTAND?
‘Right. Right.’
FAREWELL, said Bill Door solemnly, and left.
Simnel shut the doors after him, and leaned against them. Whew. Nice man, of course, everyone was talking about him, it was just that after a couple of minutes in his presence you got a pins-and-needles sensation that someone was walking over your grave and it hadn’t even been dug yet.
He wandered across the oily floor, filled the tea kettle and wedged it on a corner of the forge. He picked up a spanner to do some final adjustments to the Combination Harvester, and spotted the scythe leaning against the wall.
He tiptoed towards it, and realised that tiptoeing was an amazingly stupid thing to do. It wasn’t alive. It couldn’t hear. It just looked sharp.
He raised the spanner, and felt guilty about it. But Mr Door had said — well, Mr Door had said something very odd, using the wrong sort of words to use in talking about a mere implement. But he could hardly object to this.
Simnel brought the spanner down hard.
There was no resistance. He would have sworn, again, that the spanner sheared in two, as though it was made of bread, several inches from the edge of the blade.
He wondered if something could be so sharp that it began to possess, not just a sharp edge, but the very essence of sharpness itself, a field of absolute sharpness that actually extended beyond the last atoms of metal.
‘Bloo/dy hellf/ire!’
And then he remembered that this was sloppy and superstitious thinking for a man who knew how to bevel a three-eighths Gripley. You knew where you were with a reciprocating linkage. It either worked or it didn’t. It certainly didn’t present you with mysteries.
He looked proudly at the Combination Harvester. Of course, you needed a horse to pull it. That spoiled things a bit. Horses belonged to Yesterday; Tomorrow belonged to the Combination Harvester and its descendants, which would make the world a cleaner and better place. It was just a matter of taking the horse out of the equation. He’d tried clockwork, and that wasn’t powerful enough. Maybe if he tried winding a— Behind him, the kettle boiled over and put the fire out.
Simnel fought his way through the steam.{33} That was the bloody trouble, every time. Whenever someone was trying to do a bit of sensible thinking, there was always some pointless distraction.
Mrs Cake drew the curtains.
‘Who exactly is One-Man-Bucket?’ said Windle.
She lit a couple of candles and sat down.
‘’E belonged to one of them heathen Howondaland tribes,’ she said shortly.
‘Very strange name, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Windle.
‘It’s not ’is full name,’ said Mrs Cake darkly. ‘Now, we’ve got to ’old ’ands.’ She looked at him speculatively. ‘We need someone else.’
‘I could call Schleppel,’ said Windle.
‘I ain’t ’aving no bogey under my table trying to look up me drawers,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘Ludmilla!’ she shouted. After a moment or two the bead curtain leading into the kitchen was swept aside and the young woman who had originally opened the door to Windle came in.
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘Sit down, girl. We need another one for the seancing.’
‘Yes, mother.’
The girl smiled at Windle.
‘This is Ludmilla,’ said Mrs Cake shortly.
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Windle. Ludmilla gave him the bright, crystalline smile perfected by people who had long ago learned not to let their feelings show.
‘We have already met,’ said Windle. It must be at least a day since full moon, he thought. All the signs are nearly gone. Nearly. Well, well, well …
‘She’s my shame,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘Mother, you do go on,’ said Ludmilla, without rancour.
‘Join hands,’ said Mrs Cake.
They sat in the semi-darkness. Then Windle felt Mrs Cake’s hand being pulled away.
‘Oi forgot about the glass,’ she said.
‘I thought, Mrs Cake, that you didn’t hold with ouija boards and that sort of—’ Windle began. There was a glugging noise from the sideboard. Mrs Cake put a full glass on the tablecloth and sat down again.
‘Oi don’t,’ she said.
Silence descended again. Windle cleared his throat nervously.
Eventually Mrs Cake said, ‘All right, One-Man-Bucket, oi knows you’re there.’
The glass moved. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently.
A bodiless voice quavered, greetings, pale face, from the happy hunting ground—
‘You stop that,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘Everyone knows you got run over by a cart in Treacle Street because you was drunk, One-Man-Bucket.’
s’not my fault. not my fault. is it my fault my great-grandad moved here? by rights I should have been mauled to death by a mountain lion or a giant mammoth or something. I bin denied my deathright.
‘Mr Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake.
she is happy here and waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket.
‘Who is?’ said Windle.
This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line that generally satisfied without further explanation.
who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that drink now?
‘Not yet, One-Man-Bucket,’ said Mrs Cake.
well, I need it. it’s bloody crowded in here.
‘What?’ said Windle quickly. ‘With ghosts, you mean?’
there’s hundreds of ’em, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket.
Windle was disappointed.
‘Only hundreds?’ he said. ‘That doesn’t sound a lot.’
‘Not many people become ghosts,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘To be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.’
or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.
‘Will you hark at him,’ said Mrs Cake.
I wanted to stay in the spirit world, or even wine and beer. hngh, hngh, hngh.
‘So what happens to the life force if things stop living?’ said Windle. ‘Is that what’s causing all this trouble?’
‘You tell the man,’ said Mrs Cake, when One-Man-Bucket seemed reluctant to answer.
what trouble you talking about?
‘Things unscrewing. Clothes running around by themselves. Everyone feeling more alive. That sort of thing.’
that? that’s nothing. see, the life force leaks back where it can. you don’t need to worry about that.
Windle put his hand over the glass.
‘But there’s something I should be worrying about, isn’t there,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s to do with the little glass souvenirs.’
don’t like to say.
‘Do tell him.’
It was Ludmilla’s voice — deep but, somehow, attractive. Lupine was watching her intently. Windle smiled. That was one of the advantages about being dead. You spotted things the living ignored.
One-Man-Bucket sounded shrill and petulant.
what’s he going to do if I tell him, then? I could get into heap big trouble for that sort of thing.
‘Well, can you tell me if I guess right?’ said Windle.
ye-ess. maybe.
‘You don’t have to say anythin’,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘Just knock twice for yes and once for no, like in the old days.’