A Ghost Story
Tom Williamson is a teacher and a writer and lives in a quaint seafront cottage in a coastal town in the West Country. He had bought the cottage in the Seventies just before the prices had escalated and then struggled to pay the monthly mortgage which had risen to 15 % p.a., but fortunately he had managed to put down a large deposit, having saved much of his teacher's salary during his first ten years at the local primary school. He considered himself to be fortunate in having courted and later married a girl who was not at all extravagant or ostentatious and who had developed the art of frugality in the home without apparently suffering from any feeling of deprivation. Her name was Karenza Hosking. She had a trusty sewing machine which her mother had passed on to her and made her own clothes and even shirts for Tom which he proudly wore to work. Karenza was sensible, even-tempered and industrious and kept the house clean and welcoming. She was a good cook and produced tasty meals which Tom enjoyed on his return from a tiring day at school.
Tom had submitted a number of short stories to a number of publishers without success but one Spring day he returned home to find an envelope awaiting him with a logo of a well-known publishing company on the front. Sensing that it might contain a further rejection he casually tore it open and proceeded to read the contents with little anticipation. A slow smile spread across his face as he read on and Karenza looked at him expectantly. “Anything interesting? “ she questioned, and Tom replied: “Well, it seems that they were interested in the last story I submitted and they want me to develop it further and produce a ghost story which they will consider publishing in an anthology.” “Well, it's good that you have the Easter holiday coming up so you will have some time to work on it,” said Karenza, her eyes shining with pleasure. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “This may be the break-through you have been waiting for,” she exclaimed.
The Spring Term came to an end and Tom would descend the flights of steep steps to the harbour side and stroll along the pier where the fishing boats were moored after disembarking their early morning catch. Ideas began to form in his mind as he envisaged the scene as it would have been a couple of centuries before. How would it have appeared in 1812 he thought? – it was the year of the retreat from Moscow, leading to the the final defeat of the French army and their mercenaries under the iron rule of Napoleon Buonaparte. So that was it...a historical ghost story set in a West Country town, when smuggling was rife and cases of brandy and tobacco were spirited into the country under cover of darkness. The scene before him faded as he sat on the harbour wall and in its place appeared a strangely evocative and antiquated picture of red-sailed fishing smacks, women in shawls, bonnets tied at the chin and long voluminous skirts picking out the fish they would cook for dinner while their menfolk squatted on the ground mending nets and exchanging ribald jokes with their companions.
It was approaching lunch-time and Tom traced his way back up the hill to his white-washed former fisherman's cottage which overlooked the busy harbour. His wife was sitting in the spare room designing a blouse for her sister-in law, to give her for her birthday. “Your lunch is on the table,” she called, as Tom closed the door behind him. He quickly ate his lunch and mounted the stairs to the second bedroom which acted as a study. He walked over to the window, surveyed the scene below as the seagulls wheeled and careened around the chimney-tops, and then he settled down to work on his story. His mind recalled a distant age, an age of war and tumult, death and destruction and the dawning of an Empire which had now disappeared, apart from a huge Rock and a few scattered islands. Even little Cornwall was urging for a return of the Stannery Parliament, the revival of the language and greater autonomy from Westminster. The black flag with its white cross was once more to be seen fluttering in the breeze across the countryside from Gunnislake to Penwith.
Luke Bolitho was a sturdy Cornishman who had had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His wife had sent him to Falmouth to buy some provisions for the house. She needed yarn to knit the warm woolen jumpers that she spent her evenings knitting for the fisher-folk who often paid her in kind, a leg of mutton, a woven basket, a pair of boots or a new bonnet. Luke had a few pennies left over from his purchases and made his way to one of the many public houses which lined the harbour. A group of young women dallied outside wearing bright dresses and gaudy make-up and they shot sidelong glanced at Luke as he approached, but his throat was dry and he badly needed to slake his thirst. As he pushed open the door he heard raucous sounds and raised voices and observed a couple of drunkards at the bar exchanging insults, but he ignored them and ordered a pint of his favourite ale known as Blue Anchor. He spoke a few words to the barman who muttered in lowered tones “Watch out for yisself when you be leavin'.. The navy's in port!” After a hour Luke left the pub and prepared to make his way back home.
The next thing he knew was that he was being dragged into an alleyway and accosted by rough hands. He struggled to get away but was knocked senseless by a blow on the head. When he finally regained consciousness he was on a ship bound for France. A few soldiers were lounging around and upon spotting Luke one of them, a sergeant, came over to where he lay on the deck. “Here you!” he said, “ A gift from King George, lord bless him!” He thrust a shilling into Luke's hand.
News soon went around the neighbourhood that Luke was missing and his wife was distraught with worry. News filtered through of the distant war and the victory of the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and eventually men began returning home, many with grievous wounds from battle.
Luke's wife, Thomasina, was at home in the front garden when a stranger who had returned from the wars swung open the gate, “Mistress Bolitho?” he called out. “I am the bearer of bad news I'm distressed to inform you. Your husband Luke was in my regiment at Verdun. He was hit by a French musket ball and passed away in my arms but before he died he asked me to find his wife and tell her the story of his decease.”
The poor woman was inconsolable, but the former soldier did his best to comfort her and she made up a bed for him in the parlour. The next day she made him breakfast and it was not long before he moved from the couch and into her bedroom. The neighbours soon came to accept the arrangement and the newcomer whose name was Daniel became a respected member of the community. He was a carpenter by trade and he soon began to make a reasonable living by creating articles of furniture as well as assisting with housing projects in the area.
Meanwhile faraway in France Luke was still very much alive. True, he had been badly wounded in the battle and had fainted for lack of blood but he had been found on the battlefield still breathing by French peasants who had carried him gently to a barn and laid him on a bed of straw while tending to his wounds. A local woman nursed him back to health and a local doctor called regularly to visit him until he was fit and well and able to take his leave. During his slow recovery he had picked up a smattering of French and this helped him to make his way to Le Havre where he took a sail boat across to Plymouth. As the boat departed from the harbour he thought back on the events which had brought him to that point in his life and he began to dream of his return to his old home town on the Cornish coast. He thought of his wife and how he had missed her starry gazy pies and pasties.
It was eventide and the boats were just leaving port to trawl for their nightly catch. The gaslamps were twinkling and the night watchman was setting off on his rounds. Mistress Bolitho was busy in the kitchen preparing supper and a peat fire was burning in the grate. A young child, barely two years' old was playing with a wooden horse on the rug in front of the fire. Daniel was upstairs taking a nap after a long day's work. Candles placed on the table where supper was to be laid lit up the room casting shadows on the white stone walls. Outside the dogs were barking as if at the approach of hostile footsteps. A full moon lit up the cottages in a ghostly glow. Sudden gusts of wind rattled the doors and windows and the scent of wood-smoke penetrated the room. The door handle turned, the door creaked open and there, on the thresh-hold stood....”A ghost..a ghost...lord have mercy on us...!” Mistress Bolitho screamed, dropping the kettle on the floor and she promptly fainted.
Suddenly the room was full of people as neighbours rushed in to see what on earth was going on.
“A ghost...a ghost...” people shouted, as Luke stood there with an expression of utter bewilderment.
Tom Williamson put down his pen and called down to his wife, Karenza. “I finished my story!” “The kettle's on, “ she replied, “Come down and let's have tea. I made scones and jam.”
Alan S. Jones
updated by @alan-stafford-jones: 02/13/16 12:47:51AM
