Beasties, Bogles and Other Surprises

Alayne Barton

The Island of Rum, 31 October 2003. In my dream I am being attacked by a giant bat. It isn't swooping around my head or dive bombing me in the usual manner of bats however. No, this bat is jumping up and down on my stomach; its small hands are pummelling my shoulders; it is shouting. Shouting. . .? Groggily I grab it and hold it close. It squirms impatiently and tries to lever my eyelids open. 'Is it Halloween yet, Mummy?' 'Yes, it's Halloween tonight,' I reply, struggling to keep freezing bat feet away from my warm tummy. 'This night?' it persisted. 'Yes, this night.' 'Yay!' it shouts and leaps up, punching the air in jubilation and taking the bedclothes with it. I shiver in the suddenly icy air and sit up to retrieve the duvet. As I do so I notice the fairy in the doorway. It looks decidedly downcast. 'What's the matter Tinkerbell?' I ask. 'Will the Hags come tonight?' the fairy enquires mournfully. I think for a moment. There isn't much point in lying. 'Probably,' I say. The fairy plods slowly over to the bed and climbs onto my knee. 'I don't like the Hags,' she says. I stroke her soft head. 'I know,' I say, but you know they're not real, don't you?' She twists round and shoots me a scornful look. 'They are real. They're real people dressed up.' Oh God, it's too early for this, I think. 'Well, yes, they are real people,' I say soothingly, 'but they're people you know. People who would never hurt you. It's just for fun.' 'Well I don't think the Hags are fun. At. All.' And with that she flounces off, banging the door behind her for good measure. I groan and fall back among the pillows, prompting the sleeping form beside me to shift. I poke it hard and the beast's face emerges. It vaguely resembles my husband. 'Morning,' it croaks, 'have I missed something?' The old adage about rural communities making their own entertainment is especially true when you're on a small island with a population of twenty five. Over the years, various legendary pranks have become institutions in themselves, and the tradition of the Halloween hags is one such. Every Halloween two islanders transform themselves into horrible apparitions and set out to petrify the village. They burst uninvited into houses, throw monkey nuts, upset bookshelves and cause all round chaos. Usually a couple of cans of beer will see them on their way, but with each year they have become more and more mischievous. Last year's Hags filled guitars with cutlery and melted cassette tapes in the toaster, amongst other things. As far as the children are concerned, the unpredictability of the Hags is at once delightful and terrifying, and the anticipation of their visit drives them to near-hysteria. The school day passes in a blur of black crepe paper and sellotape. At half past two they trot home and we spend the afternoon making Newt's Eye Pizza, Green Slime Jelly and Dead Man's Fingers. The kitchen is a bombsite but the cleaning up will have to wait. We still have our lanterns to make. As I carve out the turnips I am watched by the Fairy, who in plaintive tones demands pumpkin instead. The Land Rover comes for us at six. This evening's procedure is differing from the norm as there is to be a Halloween party at the school, to which the whole community is invited. Many of them will have been motivated by the euphemistic 'Refreshments' printed on the poster. Liz, the teacher, has done a great job. Toothy lanterns flicker on the windowsills, ghosties and ghouls hang from the ceiling and wispy spider's webs are everywhere. The children sit down to eat and the adults get wired into the wine. Afterwards there are silly games; apple dooking, doughnuts on strings and a spookily disgusting feely game involving peeled grapes and cold spaghetti. The Reserve Manager, glass in hand, bolt in head, chats idly to a sparkie from the mainland with a perpetually alarmed expression. Behind them a mummy jives with a red devil. Suddenly the main door crashes open and an icy draught howls in. The lanterns gutter, casting wild shadows across the walls. 'The Hags are here!' the children scream and grab hold of each other in a rustle of bin bags. The smaller ones scramble for their parents. Someone turns the music off and one by one the candles die. 'Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum. . .,' booms the voice, sending the children into fresh paroxysms of squealing. 'We'll eat you Rumachs ? every one!' We wait, hearts racing, but instead of the thunderous footsteps we are anticipating, there is a slight shuffling noise and two figures appear dimly in the classroom doorway. 'The Hags are dead! Long live. . .the Drags!' one of them shouts and snaps the lights back on. For a moment everyone is speechless, then the whole room erupts in laughter. Striking a pose before us are Stuart, estate worker and Niall, ghillie, clad in tight dresses, stockings, stilettos and wigs. They're immaculately made up and each brandishes a handbag which they proceed to open and shower us with monkey nuts. The children look bemused and the sparkie seizes his chance and makes for the other door. Someone puts the music back on and the party resumes with renewed vigour. It seems a new island tradition has been born. Much later, my husband and I leave with two sleepy children in our arms. The Bat lifts his head off my shoulder for a minute and says blearily, 'That was fun. Next year I want to be a Woolworth.' I smile and his head sinks back down. A moment later he is asleep.