He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small book bound with black leather. Then he handed it to me. ‘Here, this is yours now,’ he said. ‘Take care of it, and whatever you do, don’t lose it.’

The smell of leather was very strong and the book appeared to be brand new. It was a bit of a disappointment to open it and find it full of blank pages. I suppose I’d expected it to be full of the secrets of the Spook’s trade – but no, it seemed that I was expected to write them down, because next the Spook pulled a pen and a small bottle of ink from his pocket.

‘Prepare to take notes,’ he said, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the bench again. ‘And be careful not to spill the ink, lad. It doesn’t dribble from a cow’s udder.’

I managed to uncork the bottle, then, very carefully, I dipped the nib of the pen into it and opened the notebook at the first page.

The Spook had already begun the lesson and he was talking very fast.

‘Firstly, there are hairy boggarts which take the shape of animals. Most are dogs but there are almost as many cats and the odd goat or two. But don’t forget to include horses as well – they can be very tricky. And whatever their shape, hairy boggarts can be divided up into those which are hostile, friendly or somewhere between.

‘Then there are hall-knockers, which sometimes develop into stone-chuckers, which can get very angry when provoked. One of the nastiest types of all is the cattle-ripper because it’s just as partial to human blood. But don’t run away with the idea that we spooks just deal with boggarts, because the unquiet dead are never very far away. Then, to make things worse, witches are a real problem in the County. We don’t have any local witches to worry about now, but to the east, near Pendle Hill, they’re a real menace. And remember, not all witches are the same. They fall into four rough categories – the malevolent, the benign, the falsely accused and the unaware.’

By now, as you might have guessed, I was in real trouble. To begin with, he was talking so fast I hadn’t managed to write down a single word. Secondly, I didn’t even know all the big words he was using. However, just then he paused. I think he must have noticed the dazed expression on my face.

‘What’s the problem, lad?’ he asked. ‘Come on, spit it out. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.’

‘I didn’t understand all that you said about witches,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what "malevolent" means. Or "benign" either.’

‘Malevolent means evil,’ he explained. ‘Benign means good. And an unaware witch means a witch who doesn’t know she’s a witch, and because she’s a woman that makes her double trouble. Never trust a woman,’ said the Spook.

‘My mother’s a woman,’ I said, suddenly feeling a little angry, ‘and I trust her.’

‘Mothers usually are women,’ said the Spook. ‘And mothers are usually quite trustworthy, as long as you’re their son. Otherwise look out! I had a mother once and I trusted her, so I remember the feeling well. Do you like girls?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I don’t really know any girls,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t have any sisters.’

‘Well, in that case you could fall easy victim to their tricks. So watch out for the village girls. Especially any who wear pointy shoes. Jot that down. It’s as good a place to start as any.’

I wondered what was so terrible about wearing pointy shoes. I knew my mam wouldn’t be happy with what the Spook had just said. She believed you should take people as you find them, not just depend on someone else’s opinion. Still, what choice did I have? So at the top of the very first page I wrote down ‘Village Girls with Pointy Shoes.’

He watched me write, then asked for the book and pen. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to take notes faster than that. There’s a lot to learn and you’ll have filled a dozen notebooks before long, but for now three or four headings will be enough to get you started.’

He then wrote ‘Hairy Boggarts’ at the top of page two. Then ‘Hall-Knockers’ at the top of page three; then, finally, ‘Witches’ at the top of page four.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s got you started. Just write anything you learn today under one of those four headings. But now for something more urgent. We need provisions. So go down to the village or we’ll go hungry tomorrow. Even the best cook can’t cook without provisions. Remember that everything goes inside my sack. The butcher has it, so go there first. Just ask for Mr Gregory’s order.’

He gave me a small silver coin, warning me not to lose my change, then sent me off down the hill on the quickest route to the village.

Soon I was walking through trees again, until at last I reached a stile that brought me onto a steep, narrow lane. A hundred or so paces further, I turned a corner and the grey slates of Chipenden’s rooftops came into view.

The village was larger than I’d expected. There were at least a hundred cottages, then a pub, a schoolhouse and a big church with a bell tower. There was no sign of a market square, but the cobbled main street, which sloped quite steeply, was full of women with loaded baskets scurrying in and out of shops. Horses and carts were waiting on both sides of the street so it was clear that the local farmers’ wives came here to shop and, no doubt, also folk from hamlets nearby.

I found the butcher’s shop without any trouble and joined a queue of boisterous women, all calling out to the butcher, a cheerful, big, red-faced man with a ginger beard. He seemed to know every single one of them by name and they kept laughing loudly at his jokes, which came thick and fast. I didn’t understand most of them but the women certainly did and they really seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Nobody paid me much attention, but at last I reached the counter and it was my turn to be served.

‘I’ve called for Mr Gregory’s order,’ I told the butcher.

As soon as I’d spoken, the shop became quiet and the laughter stopped. The butcher reached behind the counter and pulled out a large sack. I could hear people whispering behind me, but even straining my ears, I couldn’t quite catch what they were saying. When I glanced behind, they were looking everywhere but at me. Some were even staring down at the floor.

I gave the butcher the silver coin, checked my change carefully, thanked him and carried the sack out of the shop, swinging it up onto my shoulder when I reached the street. The visit to the greengrocer’s took no time at all. The provisions there were already wrapped so I put the parcel in the sack, which was now starting to feel a bit heavy.

Until then everything had gone well, but as I went into the baker’s, I saw the gang of lads.

There were seven or eight of them sitting on a garden wall. Nothing odd about that, except for the fact that they weren’t speaking to each other – they were all busy staring at me with hungry faces, like a pack of wolves, watching every step I took as I approached the baker’s.

When I came out of the shop they were still there and now, as I began to climb the hill, they started to follow me. Well, although it was too much of a coincidence to think that they’d just decided to go up the same hill, I wasn’t that worried. Six brothers had given me plenty of practice at fighting.

I heard the sound of their boots getting closer and closer. They were catching up with me pretty quickly but maybe that was because I was walking slower and slower. You see, I didn’t want them to think I was scared, and in any case, the sack was heavy and the hill I was climbing was very steep.

They caught up with me about a dozen paces before the stile, just at the point where the lane divided a small wood, the trees crowding in on either side to shut out the morning sun.

‘Open the sack and let’s see what we’ve got,’ said a voice behind me.

It was a loud, deep voice accustomed to telling people what to do. There was a hard edge of danger that told me its owner liked to cause pain and was always looking out for his next victim.