“Mum’s not at work,” said Christine plaintively. “She’s working nights, Beverley, Mum’s not—”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Beverley irritably. “I don’t care where your rotten Mum is do I?” There was a noisy minute or two while Christine objected to her mother being called “rotten”, and then for a while peace reigned as each girl swore never to speak to the other again.
“Anyway,” said Beverley finally, screwing up her crisp bag and throwing it under the seat, “Anyway I’m glad I’m not speaking to you, Christine Lee, because you’re soft, and when I do my magic charm you’d only run off and tell somebody.”
“What magic charm?” asked Christine at once, forgetting she had just vowed she would never have anything to do with Beverley in her life again, ever. “What magic charm, Bev?”
“I’m not telling you,” said Beverley stubbornly.
It took Christine almost ten minutes to make her change her mind.
“Well,” whispered Beverley at last, “I went to the library, see, and I found a book all about this church we’re going to.”
“A book!” muttered Christine, impressed. She was a very poor reader herself and never deliberately went looking for books.
“And it had a picture of the church and a gargoyle up on the roof—”
“A gargle?” Christine broke in, mystified. “What gargle?”
Beverley went into fits of laughter and finally explained to her friend that a “gargoyle” was the name for an ugly kind of statue they sometimes had on the roofs of old churches.
“Anyway this church has got one as well, and it’s a really horrible one, and if you say the magic charm over it—it comes alive!”
“Ugh, no,” said Christine, shutting her eyes in delicious terror.
“Yes,” said Beverley, and suddenly hooked her fingers like claws and made a hideous face, moaning, “I’m coming, I’m coming, to get YOU!!”
Christine let out a scream that nearly made the driver run into the lorry in front. After that Mr. Morris made them sit apart for the rest of the journey.
Church Milton was a village, very small compared to the big industrial town Beverley and Christine came from. Hundreds of years ago it had been quite an important place and a handsome church had been built there which still stood, on the sloping ground above the main street. A neat graveyard was spread around it, and a lych gate stood at the front of the path which led to the arched main door.
“Isn’t it lovely?” said Christine as she climbed out of the coach.
“Stop here a moment all of you,” said Mr. Morris as the classes swarmed around him. Oddly enough the fact that they were in the country and away from the noisy traffic had calmed all of them down. They still larked about, but without yelling very much.
“Does anybody know why this is called a ‘lych gate’?” asked Mr. Morris, staring at them all in turn.
“Yeah,” said Beverley loudly. “It’s because they used to put dead bodies under it before they were taken in to be buried, and ‘lych’ means body, sir.” She basked in the silent admiration of the class.
“Quite right, Beverley,” said Mr. Morris approvingly. “Does anyone know anything else about the church?”
“Please sir, it’s got a gargle on the roof!” Christine burst out, then yelped in pain as Beverley trod on her foot.
“That’s right, very good, Christine,” said Mr. Morris in surprise. “Mind what you’re doing, Beverley. Now, look up on the roof all of you—” he pointed, and fifty-eight children stared upwards. “Can you see that dark, hunched shape up there? That is a gargoyle. Now a gargoyle,” he continued impressively, “is a grotesque statue sometimes carved over the waterspouts of medieval churches. ‘Grotesque’ means misshapen and ugly—very similar to the face you’re pulling now, Smith.” Everyone laughed and Philip Smith stopped trying to amuse his friends by exaggerated squinting. “This gargoyle has a legend attached to it,” Mr. Morris went on slowly. “According to the old story, a witch who lived here in the village hundreds of years ago had the power of casting a spell on it, which would make it come to life during the hours of darkness. Then it would do whatever the witch told it, including breaking into houses and carrying off her enemies. Nobody could stop it because it was tremendously strong, and arrows and swords just bounced off its stone skin. In the morning the witch’s enemies would be found dead at the bottom of the church tower, all their bones broken.”
When he had finished there was a satisfactory, fascinated silence.
“Of course it’s only a story. Right.” Mr. Morris glanced at his watch. “All of you are to be back here for three o’clock. Don’t drop litter, don’t trespass in people’s gardens and don’t go outside the village. Clear? Off you go, then.”
They trooped away reasonably quietly. Beverley and Christine waited behind until the others had gone.
“Now then, where’s my charm.” Beverley began to rummage through her bag.
“Oh, don’t bother about it, Bev.” Christine dithered uncertainly. It wasn’t that she really believed Beverley’s charm would work, she just didn’t want to see it tried.
“Where’ve I put it? Where’s the rotten thing gone? I know I put it—ah!” Beverley waved a scrap of paper in triumph. “See, it’s here. Right then, come on!” She ran off impatiently through the lych gate and up the gravel path to the church, with Christine following reluctantly.
Inside the church it was cool and shady. Dust floated slowly in the broad sunbeams that shone through the plain glass windows. They tiptoed to the back of the church and through a door marked “PRIVATE”, which led to a narrow stone room with a flight of curving steps at the end. It was the entrance to the church tower.
“It’s up here,” whispered Beverley, and clutched Christine’s arm. “Come on!” Quickly the two girls began to climb.
Their legs were aching by the time they reached the top of the stairs. The day had clouded over and as they came up on to the tower roof, which was flat and encircled by a parapet a breeze sprang up that made Christine shiver. She refused to go near the wall to look at the dizzying view, but Beverley lived on the fourteenth floor of a block of flats and heights did not bother her. Suddenly she gave a little yelp of joy and beckoned her friend over.
“It’s here! Chris, come and look!”
Cautiously Christine crept forward and peeped over the edge of the parapet, while Beverley craned over, dangerously far.
The statue was crouched at one corner of the tower, squatting on a stone ledge. It was about four feet high and shaped something like a man, but a dwarfish, muscular man with bulging eyes and a protruding tongue. Two bat-like wings spread up from its heavy shoulders. Its chin was resting on its clawed hand as if it were deep in thought.
“It looks like my Dad when he’s doing the Pools,” giggled Beverley irreverently.
“Come away from the wall, Beverley,” said Christine in alarm. “You’ll fall.”
Beverley unfolded the paper with the charm written on it. She grinned, and began to chant in an eerie voice. Christine turned pale.
“It’s wicked to do magic in a church! I’m going!” fretted Christine. Beverley waved her arms, swaying from side to side for dramatic effect.