Regular readers will be aware that the works Christmas outing is traditionally held at the Millfields Hotel in Grimsby. What is not so widely known is that we devoted employees are also permitted, on the last day before printing begins on the Christmas Annual, to enjoy an office party. Of course, our party is not one of those lurid orgies one reads about in certain Sunday newspapers but by contrast is constituted more along the lines of a traditional family gathering around the Christmas tree. There is plenty of home cooking (provided by the staff), decorations, holly, mistletoe and a sip or two of ginger wine.

We also play forfeits, one of the oldest of parlour games … Staff members must be given a sometimes embarrassing 'test' to perform, in order to recover a personal possession donated to the game pool. The organisation of all this is in the hands of Marcia Bottomley, Julie Anne, and Saffron. Together they form an all powerful Triumvirate, meeting occasionally in the weeks leading up to the event, to devise something ‘appropriate’ for each member of the staff.

Not attending the Christmas party is not a good career move. The ruling junta regard non-attendance as demonstrating ‘lack of moral fibre’ and promotion prospects tend to dwindle accordingly. This factor weighed heavily with me, for at this time I was hoping to persuade Julie Anne to release me from ‘Puzzles and Posers’ and allow my creative talents to flourish in the field of investigative journalism. There had been at least two sightings of the Office Ghost leading up to the Christmas break, and I thought that I might begin my true vocation with a timely piece of supernatural debunking.

So in spite of the considerable drive involved, the silent morning of the fourteenth of December saw me en route to Grimsby. I elected to drive across the moors to promote a suitable ghostly ambience but, in the event, even if a lustily-codpieced Heathcliff, and Catherine Earnshaw flashing a bit of well-turned ankle, had been at the side of the road, thumbing a lift to Beverley Christmas Market, I would not have spotted them in the swirling mists.

I shook my head – Grimsby – I mean, what on earth had drawn our inspirational leader to Grimsby? Once it may have been the centre of Britain's fishing industry, but today..?

A few isolated snowflakes appeared in the mists…

‘I dreamt last night I went to Grimsby again…’ I pushed the thought from me with a smile, as I flicked the intermittent wipe on yet again.

The typing pool believe implicitly that the Grimsby works are haunted, and moreover that the ghost is one Caroline Turner, the mischievous and fun-loving daughter of Sir Godfrey Turner, the edible fish-oil magnate, whose premises were destined to become the home of the journal in which you are reading these words, and Miss McDonald’s other publishing interests.

Like all really successful ghosts Caroline had met a tragic end, in her case perishing at sea, fishing off the north-east coast of England less than a mile from her home in Grimsby. For some reason, this final watery grave firmly established her claim to becoming our typing pool’s favourite spectre.

I was still musing on the impressionable nature of simple minds when the dark, workhouse form of the factory loomed into view along Petticoat Lane (as I always rather wittily refer to it). I must admit however, that it did not feel much like ‘family’ that damp, chilly morning, when I confronted Angus at the tiny gatehouse adjacent to the familiar wrought iron gates.

‘Have ye an appointment?’ he growled on my approach.

‘It’s me,’ I smiled, ingratiatingly, ‘Er, Charles.’

‘Ye have nae an appointment then,’ he deduced, with irrefutable Scottish logic.

‘I do the crosswords’ I declared weakly, attempting to establish my importance, then growing bolder, if less truthful, ‘and I do reporting as well.’

He regarded me as he might a crate of dubious herring, ear-marked (if herrings can be ear-marked) for early dispatch to the fish-manure processing plant.

'Ye cannae be too careful,’ he said at length, ‘No when Miss MacDonald is on the premises!’

I received this unexpected news with something less than enthusiasm. I had understood that our highly respected chief was safely ensconced in Australia. In my experience the presence of chief executives in general, and this one in particular, do not necessarily encourage that frivolous levity to which serious partygoers must aspire. This, I reflected bitterly, is what comes of her appearing on breakfast television with Rupert Murdoch. Now, apparently, she thinks nothing of jetting halfway round the world for a Christmas party. [Charles! That was on American FoxNews, and was meant to be a secret!]

It was something of a relief to encounter a cheery greeting and a friendly face when I finally gained access to the reception area.

‘Hello Charles. Hatched any good anagrams lately?’ It was Julie Anne, retreating from the mezzanine floor where Miss Susan was holding court.

‘Miss MacDonald,’ I replied loftily, ‘believes that I can move on to bigger things than crossword puzzles.’

If she was impressed, she managed to conceal it quite successfully.

‘For goodness sake Charles, if you don't stick with those thorny cryptics, what am I going to do between Christmas and Hogmanay? Now find yourself a desk,’ she commanded sternly, ‘and do try to look busy. Miss MacDonald cannot abide indolence. Get yourself down to the stationery room and get a notebook or something.’

She paused for a moment, as if running out of things for me to do, then continued, ‘I hope you’ve deposited a pair of panties in the linen basket.’ I groaned inwardly … I had forgotten about the forfeits Triumvirate.

She motioned towards a wickerwork basket placed discreetly at the reception desk, then lapsing into baby talk, she went on, ‘…and I hope you’ll do a yummy forfeit, or Mummy thimply won’t let you have your pwetty knickers back!’ She wagged an admonishing finger in mock reproof, playfully pinched my cheek then, with a swish of her regulation length senior executive skirt, she turned on her heel and shot off, I suppose to give the global economy a helpful tweak.

I had to admit, that this building, which must have once suited Sir Godfrey’s grand design for the production of edible fish-oils, was now ideal territory for ghosts. Corridors and staircases crossed and re-crossed in seemingly haphazard fashion, offering ample opportunity to stretch ghostly limbs, combined with a surfeit of de-materialisation emergency exits. However, no confrontation with Caroline Turner arose, as I tentatively negotiated one grimy red brick passage after another. Then, just as I was beginning to relax, I was abruptly confronted a clanking, hissing, supernatural phenomenon..!

‘There’s tea with, and tea without!’ Miss Gribble deftly brought her tea trolley to a shuddering halt.

‘The biscuits’ she added firmly, ‘are for them upstairs.’

‘Oh, right.’ I ventured, ‘Er, one without, then.’

She busied herself in dispensing the requested beverage.

‘Long time since we had the pleasure of your company at the chapel meeting.’ She proffered a steaming mug in my general direction. 'I've got that negotiation paper typed up for you but,' she added. 'Just what you'll want for crossin' swords with The Enemy of the People. There'll be no demarcation problems while I'm Mother of the Grimsby Chapel, I'll be tellin' ye that!'

‘Oh, right.’ I was aware that my conversation so far, may have appeared a little limited, so I swiftly changed the subject.

‘Just looking for a ghost or two,’ I said carelessly, then brightly, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve come across any Miss Gribble?’

She frowned a moment then fiercely declared, ‘These corridors are teeming with the ghosts of exploited workers whose faces were ground into the dirt by the unscrupulous fish-oil barons.’

She shot me a withering glance and then clanked off, like Jacob Marley after a particularly trying interview with Ebenezer Scrooge.

I pressed on, carefully circumnavigating the storage area with its staircase leading to the library. Saffy, as usual, was patrolling the approaches, checking the razor-wire entanglements and machine gun emplacements, ensuring a warm reception for any would-be reader looking to penetrate his first line of defence. I smiled at him weakly.

‘By appointment only, lad’ he murmured as I sidled past. ‘Appointment only.’

‘…and even then,’ I mouthed silently as I gained the safety of the next corridor, ‘only if there’s a ‘k’ in the month.’

When I finally entered the stationery room I was convinced that there was no one else in there. With all those cupboards and shelves, I couldn’t be certain, I just felt no other presence in my immediate vicinity – I get these feelings and they’re normally quite infallible. So when a slight movement interrupted my search for a reporter’s notebook, I recoiled with an audible cry that was not altogether completely suppressed as I finally caught sight of a ghostly form, apparently counting pencils.

‘Why, Charles,’ said Miss Susan MacDonald, ‘I’m sorry. Did I startle you?’

‘Miss MacDonald!’ I cried, in some confusion and not a little relief, ‘I thought you were –’

‘- a ghost?’ she returned in some amusement ‘Charles, I’m surprised, I thought you didn’t believe in such things.’

‘Well, of course, I mean, I don’t’ I stammered somewhat incoherently. ‘No one really believes in ghosts.’

‘Oh don’t they?’ she said coolly. ‘I do!’

Some moments later I was returning thoughtfully to the main office. Miss MacDonald’s story had been simple, but delivered in such matter of fact, tones that it was difficult not to be impressed. Susan MacDonald was not, after all, Victoria Prettybows, one of our most ardent ghost-spotters.

It seems that when Susan and Marcia Bottomley first took over the derelict building, they frequently worked late into the night, and were on numerous occasions the sole occupants of the premises. During these late hours, it was not unknown to enter a corridor and catch a glimpse of a retreating white figure disappearing around the corner at the opposite end.

Although naturally disconcerted at first by these manifestations, the two women had actually managed to come to terms with sighting their uninvited companion, and to continue undeterred in their self-appointed task of developing the business to become a significant player in the great world of publishing.

As I listened to Susan’s tale I recovered a little of my aplomb, and was even emboldened to resume my role of sceptical observer.

‘Oh,’ I scoffed, ‘It's always a 'white form'.  No dress-sense at all, these ghosts.’

Susan remained unruffled [in that beautiful Scots lace blouse I was wearing? I don't think so], ‘Well, my ghost was wearing white…’ she paused a moment, then went on, ‘…a white night-dress actually, a girl’s nightie – with pretty coloured ribbons and embroidery...’

When I returned to the main office a nylon clothes line had been strung across the room, and the entire contents of the linen basket pegged out in typical washing day style. Some of the girls had arranged fans in strategic locations and I must say that it was a sight to lift the spirits as the line of gaily-coloured panties swayed gently in the breeze.

Marcia Bottomley was taking first turn as Mistress of Ceremonies, and Dennis and Tammie had been delegated as her all-too-willing assistants. At a signal from Marcia, Dennis advanced on the dancing row of pretties and selected, apparently at random, a rather sweet pair of lavender French knickers. Pink with embarrassment and excitement, he returned to the platform amid oohs and ahs of appreciation, mingled with just an occasional whistle or catcall from the shopfloor printing staff.

Taking the flimsy garment delicately by the waistband between the forefinger and thumb of each hand, he hoisted it triumphantly high above his head and intoned the well known mantra:

All heads turned as the crimson-faced victim (a member of middle management, not above reprimanding junior staff publicly for some minor infraction), made her way through the workstations and desks to the platform. Marcia gravely consulted her notes, and adjusted her spectacles while rummaging in a tea chest containing props. Finally she produced a beribboned babies’ dummy:

‘You must sit in a high chair in a corner of the office for one hour, sucking your dummy like an obedient baby…’

A ripple of approving applause ran through les tricoteuses of the typing pool. Le directoire had evidently applied an appropriate and popular forfeit.

‘…The typing pool will elect a nannie who will come and give you din-dins!’

The ripple swelled to a roar.

There was much more in the same vein as a succession of intimate garments were waved aloft by the ever-eager assistants, and embarrassed performers submitted to their respective fates. The quality of the performances was mixed, but I must put in a word for Miss Gribble who entertained us all royally with her rendition of the song, 'The Saucy Little Bird on Nelly’s Hat'. Provided, as she was, with ‘appropriate’ millinery by a malicious committee (which might well have fazed a lesser mortal) the redoubtable Hectorina responded defiantly, with a comic turn of true verve and panache.

I sincerely trust that I may be excused from describing my own ordeal, which in retrospect is now a merciful blur. My only firm recollection is that, as luck would have it, Julie Anne had taken over the role of Chief Prosecutor. As a direct result of this, the normally touching little ceremony of a warm embrace between tormentor and victim, followed by a gracious returning of the forfeit, was perversely protracted until it finally degenerated into an indecorous and embarrassing tug of war! For some reason (which I am completely at a loss to explain) she and the company at large found this hugely amusing.

Having finally regained my knickers, it was some time before I regained my composure, and was able to resume my detached observer’s view of the ongoing proceedings. Here again my attention was drawn to the behaviour of Dennis and Tammie. They had clearly been granted freedom of choice in their dubious work, and it became increasingly obvious that they were, in fact, indulging their own personal preferences like inexperienced girls in a lingerie boutique, each provided with an open-ended gift voucher!

A game within a game steadily developed as they took turns to visit the line, with each of the duo blatantly shunning a very old-fashioned pair of plain white pantaloons. To an informed observer like myself, it was clear from an elementary count that Tammie was destined to win this particular little game, and so it proved. Finally left with no alternative, Dennis had to bear the spurned item back to the platform, and raise aloft the forlorn Victorian drawers with the long legs and drawstring waistband. I noticed that a small frill had been applied at the termination of each leg, and the embroidered initials CAT had been picked out ornately on the front of the left leg in blue embroidery silk.

‘Of course, it might a political statement.’ I remarked to my nearest companion, unaware that an unaccountable hush had fallen on the entire assembly, and that my flippant remark had been heard by every one present. I could have sworn that, at the same time, the office had become cooler – almost cold, as not a living soul approached to claim the antique knickers. The uneasy silence was finally broken by Susan Macdonald herself. ‘Bring Mr Saffron,’ she said tersely to a nearby wide-eyed office girl…

It was not long before the great man was hurrying to the scene, reaching for his spectacles, and assuming his most professorial air. Carefully, he took the garment and examined every feature minutely. Almost reverentially he pressed it to his cheek before laying it down, then turning to the hushed and expectant audience he delivered a ringing proclamation:

‘Drawers!’

I tried to suppress a smile. ‘Knickers!’ would have carried so much more force.

‘Fine spun lawn…’ he continued, ‘Late Edwardian - perfectly genuine - favoured by the modern young ladies of the day. The initials,’ he went on, flourishing a Baker Street magnifying glass, ‘have been applied by an amateur.’

A little buzz of speculation ran around the office.

Saffron held up his hand…

‘I should say…’ with impeccable timing the old pro hung back just a trifle, milking the moment, ‘…they might bring…’ he pursed his lips and sucked in an audible intake of air, ‘…fifty or sixty pounds at auction on eBay!’

A murmur of appreciation spread through the company and there was even a smattering of applause.

I glanced around the room. There was no doubt that Saffie’s one-man ‘Going for a Song’ had broken the tension, and the animated hubbub of party conversation had already resumed. Julie Anne in particular seemed in good spirits, and may even have been congratulating herself inwardly on the success of a rather elaborate practical joke, although the perpetrator remained a mystery.

Susan MacDonald alone looked wistful, grave and preoccupied. I thought she looked paler too, as I eagerly approached.

‘Oh, Miss Macdonald,’ I struggled to engage her attention, ‘Miss MacDonald, I could do a piece about this. I could -’

Her voice in reply was withering and utterly dismissive, ‘I’ll have you transferred permanently to ‘Helpful Hints from the Laundry Room’ if I hear another word!’

It was ten times worse than performing my forfeit. I knew that Miss MacDonald intended writing her own gossip update this year, but whether that would explain the mystery of the Victorian drawers I could not tell.