She had booked at the last minute, knowing it, was not a popular destination, so was not surprised to find the hotel filled with more elderly residents. During the fortnight they had kept apart from her; not joining her table at meal times; not doing more than nod when eyes looked in the bar. This had all suited her fine, as she had hiked up into the hills to sketch and think up new curses for her all too recent ex-boyfriend, rather than join the retired on their trips out. She imagined potteries and vineyards but never actually saw notices up about any arranged tours. While she captured the views in pastels or pencil, snacking on the packed lunches the staff provided, she never dwelt on what her fellow holiday makers might be doing.

     On, the last day, she sat on the concrete wall by the entrance to the hotel, bags around her feet, waiting for the taxi that would whisk her to the airport and then home to the now single flat. She adjusted her straw hat to keep the late summer sun out of her face. For the first time, she realised, one of the other vacationers was approaching her.

     "Departing ma'am?"

     No, I'm waiting for the sea to grow legs, she thought to herself. "Yes, back to drizzly Britain."

     "Well, we all have to go home eventually". He wore loose shirt and Bermuda shorts, his skin still pale like cod. In contrast, her own complexion had passed through pink to light brown.

     "You've avoided the sun. "She made idle conversation."

     "H'm? Oh me, I do not tan at all."

     "Or your friends", she had not noticed this fact before.

     "Very strong, er, very strong lotion. Yes that would be it. "He did not sound confident about the excuse," Continuing to chat, "enjoyed your stay?"

     "Oh yes. Gave me a chance to get my head straight.

     "Same could be said for some of our crowd," he smiled, more to himself than to her. "Oh, sorry, we haven't been introduced properly. Sir Henry Fitzhubert, "he bowed slightly, his bald patch exposed to her view.

     "Tracey Shaw, 'Sir'."

     "Oh, not used that really for simply ages. It would cut no ice with half of that lot. "he thrust a thumb over his shoulder towards some of his follow tourists."

     "Are you all part of a Club or something? "asked Tracey. "I got the impression you all know each other, and there was something when I booked in. The management seemed to be saying that you were all regulars."

     "We have been coming here simply ages. Ever since 'Cooky' first found this place for us. It is quiet, discreet, accepts us for what we are."

     "You make it sound like you're a right bunch of ravers. Loud disco's, drink and drugs, rampant orgies." She impishly grinned at Henry.

     "Oh, some of them like to break the odd ornament, but we tend to frown on that. Too much trouble and they might not allow us to come here again."

     "School teachers? Police?" Tracey tried to guess what they did.

     "We all", Henry paused and thought how best to phrase it. "We are all associated with National Monuments and Stately Homes back in Britain."

     "You're guides?"

     "A bit more than that, dear lady."

     "Curators, like museums, or managers or whatever they have?"

     "No. We are more, what you might call, part of the furniture of the places involved. "He changed the subject. "I do not suppose you will be coming back here? Far to quiet for a young thing like you."

     Tracey checked her watch and thought, where was the taxi? "Oh, have to see about that. What about you?"

     "Tell the truth, do not want to leave. Not a lot to go back to."

     "Problem at your Stately Home?"

     "I, unfortunately, have not got a Stately Home, I have been stationed at Edgely Marsh, once a Civil War battle-field, now an open rubbish pit. All the households in three counties send their waste to my patch of ground."

     "Can't you get another job?"

     "Not so much a job as a", he searched again for the right word.

     "Vocation?" Tracey suggested.

     "Sentence", he sagged slightly.

     "How do you mean?"

     "Oh, every so often I'm supposed to traipse round and scare off folks."

     "You're a gamekeeper." She leapt to a conclusion.

     "No, I'm a ghost."

     Tan or not, Tracey decided Henry Fitzhubert spent far too long in the sun.

     "Oh, Yes."

     "Three and a half centuries ago I was leading some men from the Regiment against some damned Parliamentarians through Edgely Marsh. It will be in some history book somewhere. Of course, they doubtless told my parents I died valiantly fighting for the King. Truth is, I fell off my horse and hit my head on a stone. Since then my spectral form has lurched around doing the 'Wooo' stuff. Gets a bit boring really. Courting couples haven't been up there for ages. Now all I have to haunt is a Council Refuse Site. Rats and Seagulls just ignore me."

     There was a silence. Then Tracey gathered her thoughts.

     "If you're supposed to be a ghost, what are you doing here; you're not dressed like a Cavalier; and, thirdly you're solid." She leaned forward and prodded his colourful top. Except her fingers, hand and up to half her arm disappeared. The sensation was of cold, pins and needles. Like times she had woken up after sleeping on her arm.

     "Do you mind ma'am? It is considered impolite in some circles."

     Tracey lurched back.

     "Ghost!" A whisper.

     "Not prone to lying."

     "Ghost!!" Louder."

     "Yes, as I said."

     "Ghost!!!" A yell.

     "Please keep calm."

     "Scared the others will find out?" Her eyes wide, backing off.

     "H'mm. We are not supposed to tell people."

     "Other ghosts?"

     "All of us." Silence for a minute.

     "All of you?"

     "Yes."

     This took some getting used to. Ghosts on holiday.

     "Perhaps I should explain. I think it was L.P.Hartley who asked why ghosts haunt places where they were unhappy. Well, we don't have that much choice. What we do not do is haunt somewhere all the time. Just every-so-often. This allows us some time off. 'Course, we did not start taking holidays together until Thomas Cook died. Obviously, not many hotels will accommodate us." Disneyworld is out.

     "What do you do? On these holidays?" Tracey nervously checked her watch. The taxi should be turning up soon.

     "Exchange news. Enjoy the rest. Have holiday romances."

     "Affairs? You're ghosts in love?"

     "I have been trying to woo that lady," he pointed to a woman wearing a chiffon scarf around her neck.

     "Who is she?" Tracey whispered.

     "Anne Boleyn."

     "Henry the Eighth's wife?"

     "That is her indeed. I have always had an attraction to older women."

     "Executed?"

     "Why else would she ware a scarf? Can put the hotel staff off, head rolling down a corridor. She is a bit of a celebrity in ghost circles. She haunts about seven different sites. One week she will be at one castle, next at another."

     "You're ghosts. What can you do, you know?"

     "I'm not enough of a cad to 'paint you a picture', as it were. Suffice to says I think Milton in one of his works described Angels intermingling, their subtle bodies like clouds."

     "Clouds. Shit. "Henry reacted visibly to a woman using such language. "I'm supposed to be flying through them in about an hour and still no sign of the taxi.

     "My dear Tracey. Keep calm. One thing you learn when you are dead is patience. Believe me, tomorrow is the day to do everything."

     "But if I miss the plane, there will be all sorts of complications. Ticket on standby, might not get back for days. My money is practically out. Watch my bags."

     Tracey stormed off towards the reception. Behind her, Sir Henry muttered, "I don't think that anything in there would suit us."

     In reception, Tracey was very angry with the Manager.

     "What!!!"

     "Sir Henry. He said cancel your taxi."

     "Sir Henry? Wait till I see him", she stormed out towards the holidaying Royalist, "What gave you the right?"

     "Ah. Miguel told you."

     "To Bloody Right."

     "You can get another taxi."

     "Miguel is ordering me one. Why? Why did you cancel my taxi?"

     "Ah. I can't explain."

     "Oh. Was it all the fashion at the court of Bonnie Prince Charlie to cancel sedan chairs?"

     "King Charles actually, the other was much later. And I was never at the court."

     "Oh why don't you go off and try and become Henry the Ninth with Anne over there." She slumped down on the suitcases, her face twisted into a grimace.

     The later flight was actually relatively easy to catch. Tracey slept through the night. Touching down at Heathrow to be stunned by the mass of press at the airport.

     "How does it feel Miss Shaw?"

     "What made you change 'planes?"

     "Do you have a guardian angel?"

     Even the bastard ex-boyfriend was there, a photographer and journalist following him, all beams and crocodile tears.

     "Darling. You're alive. Darling. The earlier flight. Darling. Crashed. Darling. Tragedy."

     "Oh......, and where's that slut you left me for last month. The one you said could make you happy like I never could?" Leaving him surrounded by open-mouthed press-dogs, used to hearing the unexpected from politicians and corrupt policemen, not frizzy-haired elf-like waifs with wire-rim glasses who have just escaped certain death.

     Using an atlas she had last consulted to finish some fifth-form homework what felt like centuries ago, she found where Edgely Marsh could be found in the heart of England.

     Tomorrow, in the lead shot of her old car she would fire herself at that heart.