CHAPTER ELEVEN
a day in the life... or death

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

DATE: A DAY AT THE SEASIDE
IN MAY, 1914...

"COME ON, EFFIE, it's your turn!"

The fourteen year-old listens to her calling. Stepping up to the spot of sand, Effie takes her place with the bat. The sea breeze wildly rustles her turrets of mousy brown hair that fall down her back, and colouring her dimpled cheeks ruddy as she grins. Effie's slip gingham dress flaps like a boat's sail around her ankles, as she squats and poses with the bat, elbows poking out and her gaze focused.

Bowling this time is that local boy — Arthur Hoskins. He is the one who called her up, like a challenge. She sees him now and again, always appearing in her family's shop to buy peppermints (rightly so, Effie thinks... she'll be damned if her family don't sell the best sweets in all of Portsmouth). Inside the shop, there is courtesy and politeness between them, just like the rest of the community. But in a game of rounders at the beach, it's time to be ruthless. Their families all ventured outside of town to find a sandy beach to relax on, since the narrow shingles beaches covered in pebbles at home will never do for such game... so the parents sit back, and the children play without a care in the world.

"What's taking you so long, Eff? Or perhaps you'd rather let Fred take the shot," Arthur teases her cheekily, nodding to Effie's younger brother queued behind her; a squeaky thirteen year-old always with a speck of dirt on his face.

"I'm waiting for you to stop chatting, so I can take the bloody shot," Effie retorts with a smug grin.

The boys and girls surrounding them all whoop and chide them in unison, breaking out into laughter. She only responds by digging her heels into the sand, keeping her eyes on the ball. Shaking his head slightly, Arthur starts practicing his swing, while Effie locks her eyes on the ball. Why is he like this? Trying to distract her with that... smile. He might think it works a charm, but when he tosses the tough leather ball...

BAM!

Effie takes her shot, making the ball ricochet off the bat and far beyond the posts, sending the fielders into disarray. There is only one thing left to do — run. She drops the bat amidst all the shouting and applause and starts sprinting around the pitch, hitting each post as she does.

And she's off!

"That's it, Effie! Go on!"

"Get the ball, get the ball!"

"Just toss it to me!"

Half a rounder. Effie feels herself grinning from ear-to-ear, Arthur's dismayed face nothing but a blur as he barks at the others to get her out. Not a chance. One of the fielders lingering by the fourth post has their hands outstretched to catch the incoming ball. Just as they catch it, they whirl around and tap the top of the post with the ball — but not before Effie has already tapped it herself, scoring a full rounder. She collapses onto the pebbles after halting herself so suddenly. Everyone on her team whoops and cheers triumphantly, whilst Arthur's team feel the sting of defeat.

Getting up onto her feet again, Effie laughs as everyone celebrates her victory. Their raucous cheers, the fresh coastal air whipping about her face, the adrenaline pumping through her veins... she can safely say that she has never felt so alive. May the feeling never go away.

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: PRESENT DAY

     BEING dead has its quirks.

Well maybe not dead, but at least immortal... or whatever this strange existence of hers is. Effie realises it sounds morbid, but it's true. After all, without her presence as a ghost, how could she ask Alison the same request every morning?

The routine seems safe and sound when she first wakes up. Effie makes the usual trip from her bedroom, through the walls of Button House — which is slowly starting to glow with the Coopers' efforts at refurbishment — and into the room where the vinyl record player stands. That is where the dilemma lies on this particular morning... because someone is already stood there, waiting patiently too.

"Thomas? What are you doing here?" Effie demands.

Whirling around to face her, the poet says, "Waiting for Alison, of course. I cannot enjoy my sweet music without her."

Connecting the dots, looking down at the record player and back up at him, Effie shakes her head in denial. "No, no, no," she chuckles wryly, "I think there's been quite a mix-up. You see, it's my turn today. It's a Tuesday, and Tuesday mornings mean that I get to play music."

"Tuesday? Do you have any grasp of the calendar year?"

"Do you?"

     And so the bickering ensues, all over the new sacred tradition that has become part of the ghosts' everyday. Now that Alison and Mike aren't going anywhere for the foreseeable future, they seem to accept their intermingled lives with the ghosts that haunt Button House. One example is the record player — each morning, the ghosts take it in turns to start off their day with music of their choice, reaping the benefits of a living person who can actually operate the records. Maybe one day it will become tiresome, but for now, it is quite the novelty to them all.

     "Morning..."

     A sleepy but chirpy voice comes from the doorway, Alison emerging with a plaid shirt hanging around her shoulders. From her neck dangles a stopwatch, most likely used for the Captain's morning routine; a sprint around the grounds in the fastest time possible. He is determined to strengthening his muscles... even if he is dead, and any effort to do so is futile.

     "Right, so I was thinking of what to request this time—"

     "Actually, it's Thomas's turn today," Alison cuts Effie off cheerfully, lifting the needle on the record player.

"What?!" Effie protests. "But it's Tuesday!"

"You say it's Tuesday every day. And all you've played for the last month is the 'Chicago' soundtrack on full-volume."

"Because it's perfect!"

Looking longingly at the record player, Thomas clasps his hands together and utters sweetly: "If music be the food of love..." Moments later, after a brief crackle, the record player bursts into song:

"I don't care if Monday's blue,
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too,
Thursday, I don't care about you,
It's Friday, I'm in love..."

As The Cure track fills the room, Thomas starts jovially hopping and dancing to it. "He just really speaks to me!" he cries happily, outstretching his arms and spinning around. Despite her grudge over not monopolising the record player, Effie cannot help but crack an endeared smile at his pure bliss. Meanwhile, Julian walks through the room — trouser-less as always — and rolls his eyes at the poet's enjoyment of The Cure.

     "Oh, no, this berk again... get a job!" Julian heckles him on his way through.

As Alison walks into the next room, Effie follows her, now lacking in something exciting to do. Today, she is the worst thing a ghost can be... bored. Usually, she would have the other ghosts to bounce off, but even they occupy themselves with their own activities these days.

"Ooh, eh, eh, four is bum," says Robin, who is seated at a table in front of a crossword. Since he cannot write the answers himself, he relies on Alison to transcribe what he tells her into the little boxes.

"Robin," Alison sighs, "for the last time, no newspaper's going to—"

"Three letter, gluteus maximus..."

The caveman points at the crossword hint. Delighted, Alison amends her statement and picks up the pen.

"Oh yeah, you're right!"

"Is bum."

"Yeah... B-U-M."

Over by the other side of the room, Julian is playing a one-sided game of Pong on the laptop that Alison set up, while she puts on an old VHS tape of a football game for Pat. "So, where did we get to?" she asks him.

     "World Cup '86," says Pat eagerly, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It's quarterfinals. England-Argentina."

     Indeed, one of the benefits of this afterlife is catching up on everything you missed. For Pat, this means all his favourite football matches he never got to see... the only problem is that, most often, Julian has seen them, from back before he died. Today is no different. "Ah, the Hand of God," Julian muses.

     "You what?" Pat retorts.

     "Maradona – scores with a handball, swings the match."

     "Well, don't tell me the score—"

     "2-1 to Argentina."

     Pat's eyes grow wide with betrayal, standing bolt upright with his hands balled like fists at his sides. "What's wrong with you?!" he exclaims in high-pitched horror. "You absolute—"

     "Dickhead!"

     "Robin!" Alison scolds Robin, who just blurted out the crude remark.

     "What was that?" Effie's eyebrows fly up, as she whirls around to face the caveman; did he just say what she thought he said? But then, pointing at the crossword, he clarifies himself.

     "Is six-letter, 'permit to travel'... dikhet!"

     "Oh, ticket!"

     After the confusion over the answer, Alison goes to fill in another part of the crossword for Robin. She seems to grow even more wary of Effie following her through the house, the ghost even more restless than ever. "Are you going to follow me all morning, Effie?" she eventually asks.

     "I'm bored, Alison..."

     "You have plenty of things you could do. I'm just heading to check on the ladies—"

     "And Humphrey."

     "— Yes, and Humphrey, to check how their reading is getting on. You could actually sit down and try to get through 'The Great Gatsby' beyond Chapter 2. I thought you liked it."

     "I do like it," Effie insists. "But I only like it when you read it to me. And I know you made it very clear last time, that you do not have the time or patience to eloquently read out the pages."

     Alison just sighs loudly, as the pair of them enter a half-wallpapered room where more ghosts reside. Each of them are sat in front of a music stand with a book propped up — whilst Kitty, Fanny and Humphrey indulge themselves in literature and non-fiction of their own, Mary is starting from scratch to learn how to read. Today, she faces a children's book for learning the alphabet, awash with primary colours and big letters. She is currently staring at a giant picture of a horse next to the letter H.

     "'Orse," says Mary, in her thick West Country accent.

     "No," Alison patiently points at the giant H on the page and enunciates, "Ha-ha-ha-ha-horse."

     "Oh, laughing 'orse!" Mary then concludes with a smile, as if she understands completely now.

     Giving up on Mary's reading lessons for one morning, Alison moves on to the others, offering to turn the page for them since they cannot do so. Kitty is in a fit of giggles over her Australian bodice-ripper romance, 'Deep Longing Down Under' (which even entices the buttoned-up Fanny), whilst Humphrey is in the midst of a biography about King Charles I, the beheaded king of England... perhaps a little too on-the-nose, he has come to realise.

     A while ago, Alison tried to get Effie into 'The Great Gatsby' — this Fitzgerald name did seem to ring a few bells, and she is enjoying the story so far. All of the roaring '20s in its glory through New York brings her back to her own memories there. But nevertheless, she struggles to get through it...

     Alison still isn't letting it slide. "Not a big reader, then?" she asks.

     "Never have been," Effie shrugs, a sudden insecurity creeping in. She can almost smell the chalk dust from the schoolroom as a child, and feel the sting of the cane against her open palm. Reluctantly, she can hear the scolding from her teacher ringing in her ears: Stupid child. "I've never been able to sit down and focus long enough to get through a book," Effie explains. "The words... they swim in front of my eyes, and by the time I've gotten through one page, I've taken forever. I suspect it's the reason I got so many lashings at school... one of them, anyway."

     "Hm..." Alison just hums, taking in what Effie just told her; like the information adds up somehow.

     "Anyway, were it Saturday night, I'd be watching Strictly, but instead I'm so terribly lost!"

     "Well, let's see... you could always hang out with Philip?"

     "Philip?!"

     Effie echoes the name, shell-shocked. She almost feels as though she has paled in an instant. The image of her late husband springs to her mind, clear as day — Philip Connolly, tall in stature, with the dark hair that sometimes fell into his cool blue eyes, usually from neglecting his own care over his work. Alison observes her reaction curiously, softening once she realises she has clearly stirred up something within Effie.

     "I meant Philip, the— ah, speak of the devil," Alison turns to the doorway. "Morning, Philip!"

     Through the big, wooden front door of Button House, a man with cheerful eyes and a bushy grey beard steps in — he couldn't be more different from Effie's Philip — and the ghost soon connects the dots as his assistant steps in. Philip, the archaeologist. Working in the basement to excavate the plague pit. Ah... Finding calm in this realisation, Effie composes herself again. What was she even thinking? Why would Philip be here? And when has she ever reacted like that to his name?

     "Hi, Alison!" Philip (not Connolly) chirps. "Back to the grindstone?"

     "Yeah..."

     "Which reminds me, we found this grindstone." He excitedly removes a large stone from his jacket pocket, showing it off to Alison. Effie couldn't be less impressed. It's just... a rock? To him, however, it is an incredible artefact. "Fourteenth century. Honestly, your cellar is literally a gold mine."

     A hopeful twinkle appears in Alison's eye. "When you say literally—"

     "Archeologically speaking."

     "Ah... yeah."

     No chance of a cash-in there, then. Philip and his assistant, Gwen, head down to the basement with their equipment. Now that the situation has presented itself, Alison looks pointedly their direction, urging Effie to follow them. Fine, she thinks. At least it will be more exciting than leeching onto Alison while she does admin. Just the thought of it leaves the flapper girl stifling a yawn behind a clenched jaw.

Since the Captain revealed the plague pit and forced the Coopers to set down their roots at Button House, the team of archaeologists have been hard at work, fascinated as they dig deeper and find more of the village residents consumed with plague. Little do they know, of course, that they all stand watching in a huddle — their buboes and rotten teeth murky in the darkness of the basement. In amongst them (but not too close, thank you very much!) stands Effie, looking glamorous and bejewelled compared to the rest of them.

Knelt down next to the pit, Philip not-her-husband the archaeologist speaks into a small recording device, talking about his findings. "Right. Hard to be conclusive about the cause of death, but, er... well, it's going to be plague, isn't it?"

"Ding ding ding," Effie teases, while all the other basement ghosts murmur in agreement.

"From the pelvis, I'd say female."

The basement ghosts cheer, like he just got the answer right on a quiz show.

"Thirty to forty."

"Down, down..." says the identified plague ghost, somewhat smugly.

"Bowed right femur. Probable limp."

"The winner!" She punches her fist in the air, having been correctly identified.

"Evidence of extensive syphilis."

The plagued woman's eyes suddenly go wide, as she pales more than she already has. "No, no, not that bit..." she mumbles.

"How convenient," Effie grins, sensing the punchline about to arrive...

... And surely enough, Philip delivers it. "Same as the male from yesterday."

"Geoff!" one of the other ghosts exclaims in horror.

"What?" Geoff shrugs, but looking completely guilty of the extramarital affair.

"Someone's been a naughty boy!"

"Bet you thought you'd gotten away with that one, didn't you?" Effie chides, just as the door opens to the basement and reveals Alison. The joy at another living person being in the basement sends a ripple of excitement through the plague ghosts. "Ah! Just in time, Alison," the flapper girl announces, "you won't believe what Philip found!"

"I forgot to say, that, um..." Alison takes a moment to compose herself, trying to ignore the overpopulation of ghosts in the room. "We've got a photographer coming today to take a picture for our brochure."

"Oh, for the hotel?" Philip asks cheerily.

The flapper shakes her head. "No, no, my friend, we're well past that."

"No, we... we... we ran out of money, and also... this." Alison gestures vaguely to the plague pit, seeming uncomfortable. "So we're thinking of trying to use some of the big rooms for functions, weddings, you know. Which will be nice."

Effie has heard this idea herself, and she must admit she thinks it's brilliant. Perhaps a hotel would have been a tad too invasive for the ghosts, but the occasional party to spruce things up? She can't think of anything better. After all, Effie can think of nothing else that beats a good celebration.

"And we need to get a good shot of the front," Alison adds, "so do you think you could move your van?"

Grimacing, Philip replies, "I could, but—"

"Yes, great, thank you! Any end in sight?"

"Er, yeah, nearly there. A few more days." Philip looks around at the plague pit with a twinkle in his eyes. "Sorry it's taken so long. There's just so much history on this site. Honestly, if these bones could talk..."

At this, Alison stretches her smile thinly, but it does not spread to her eyes. "Yeah, well, that would save us all a lot of hassle, wouldn't it? But then... who'd believe you?!" She lets out a bout of harsh, pained laughter as she exist the room, leaving Philip perplexed over her strange behaviour.

Pretending to be unaware of what is amiss, Effie looks around at the plague ghosts and asks, "What's up with her?"

They shrug and shake their heads, as if they have no clue either. But isn't that what everyone is doing at this stage? Simply pretending that their situation isn't as bizarre or frustrating as it actually is — if you didn't let go, you'd eventually go mad...

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

HAVING grown tired of the dark in the basement, Effie emerges to tag along with Alison once more — whether she likes it or not. The sun shines bright and the clouds are generous with their coverage. Perfect for a photoshoot, one could argue. Effie relishes in the fresh air, even if she cannot breathe it in, and clearly she is not alone. Crouched by the doorstep is the familiar Tudor jester, absorbed in the journey of a small ladybird along the slab of stone.

"Hello, Norman," she greets him.

     He looks up at her with a contented jingle. "Oh, hello!"

     "Anything... interesting there?"

"Yes, this speckled creature is so beautiful, is it not?"

"... I think you've been spending too much time with Thomas."

"Look at him go," Norman muses fondly, watching the tiny insect crawl along. "Just a small being making his way in the world, not sure where he's going, but he will get there in his own time. And the spots! I do love spots, perhaps I wish my garments were more spotted, but alas—"

"Mike, the photographer's here!"

"Coming!"

Two steps later, Mike's chunky sneakers have trodden straight onto the ladybird without a clue. Norman lets out the most blood-curdling cry of horror Effie has ever heard — and to think it could come from this, of all things! Alison seems clueless as to why the jester just screamed, but tries to ignore it as she meets the photographer. Meanwhile, the jester shakes his head with a sad jingle over the scene of the crime.

"No, wait, Norman... look..." Effie taps his shoulder and nods to the ladybird. If they squint hard enough, they can see the insect writhe out of its body and take flight, whilst leaving its old spotted shell behind. Even bugs can become ghosts, it seems. Maybe it's not a surprise after one of Barclay's dogs ate a pigeon and immortalised it in Button House.

Slightly unsettled by her strange encounter with Norman, Effie catches up with Alison and Mike. She at least has the decency to stay quiet; make no mistake, she is as nosy as she would like to be.

     "So, the aim is to turn it into a venue," says Mike.

     "A venue for what?" the photographer asks.

     "Er, well, you know, weddings, parties, bar mitzvahs..."

     "Bat mitzvahs."

     "For bats?"

     "... What?"

     "Huh?"

     The awkward silence between Mike and the photographer bloats like a slowly-inflating balloon, getting worse with each second. Effie's head falls into her hands out of second-hand embarrassment. If I weren't dead already, she thinks, this interaction alone might finish me off. Alison quickly clears her throat and tries to get the conversation started back up again.

     "Um, we need it to look nice, so if you could avoid the bad bits..." Alison says hopefully.

     "What, all of them?" the photographer scoffs.

     Ouch.

     "Well, just find the best angle?" Mike suggests.

"Yeah," Alison agrees, "I mean, we know that the camera never lies, but if it could not tell the whole truth, then that would be very handy for us."

Having taken in the oddities of the house and its owners, the photographer nods decisively. "I'll see what I can do."

"Great!"

With the photographer, Effie continues to follow Alison around the lawn, crouching behind the digital camera as he takes his shot. She is still fascinated by how technology had advanced since her time — the photos are taken so swiftly, and in colour too! It is as though it captured right where they were standing into the frame. She is having a perfectly good time, until someone rudely interrupts by sticking their head out of the above window.

"Alison!" Fanny squawks, "Get the tradesman off the lawn!"

"Oh, bugger off, Fanny!" Effie argues back.

"OFF THE LAWN! Snap-snap!"

"It's just grass, Fanny!"

Alison, unable to deny the ghost's command anymore, awkwardly turns to the photographer and asks him, "Um, Rory, can we try just...? This way?" Then she starts to usher him further and further off the grass, like a sheepdog chasing after its flock. "Yeah, that's good—"

"All the way OFF THE LAWN!" Fanny shrieks. Only when the trio have removed themselves completely off the grass and onto the gravel, does she retreat from the window, although she still looms sceptically behind the glass. Effie gives a small roll of her eyes, exasperated by the personality clash of the two women once more. Does she have to ruin everything, even a harmless photoshoot? she thinks with a huff.

But little does she know just how much of an 'impression' Fanny can make...

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

AUTHOR'S NOTE !

( date: 31st october, 2023 )
( edited: 16th october, 2024 )

happy halloween! it felt appropriate to update flapper girl today, since ghosts is kind of spooky, especially the events that end up transpiring in this episode (more on that next chapter...) and now act two is underway! really excited to get into this, since the second season is probably my favourite of them all.

this chapter was mainly to establish that the alison and the ghosts have their own routine going now, and also to show how you're going to be learning more about effie as we go along! from flashbacks to her own re-telling of her life, it is going to be drip-fed across the whole book. i'd say that the act two flashbacks mostly focus on her early life, but it's not necessarily going to be chronological either. effie is slowly feeling more comfortable with the others and alison, or being reminded of her life thanks to more external sources, so it kind of triggers memories for her.

also for those who have finished season 5, how did we find it? (not too many spoilers in the comments for those who've yet to see it, please!) i thought it was brilliant, it was just as hilarious as it was heartbreaking, and now i'm excited/nervous for the christmas special.

thank you for all the love on this fic, i'm honestly so pleasantly surprised that people seem to be enjoying it. see you next time!

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horrible histories
icon of today:
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[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

( a halloween special of
the one and the only...
STUPID DEATHS! )

have a good day/evening,
— IMOGEN ♡