A True Tale For Hallowe'en - Re-blogging My Own Ghost Story.

 

 

Michael James Flynn in the middle, with the moustache and waistcoat,
seated next to the man with the tar bucket.

I posted this last year, at about this time - but it has been on my mind and since it's a spooky - but nice - little story, I thought it might be worth while re-blogging it in time for Hallowe'en. I still don't quite know what to make of it even though it happened to me - but it has stayed with me ever since. I leave you to make up your own minds.

Most writers, whether of fiction or non-fiction (and I create both) will tell you that we become so absorbed in our subject matter that we feel as though the people we're writing about are not just real - as they often are - but alive. Sometimes that sense of reality even rubs off onto our nearest and dearest. When I was researching and writing a novel called The Jewel, about poet Robert Burns's wife, Jean Armour, back in 2015, I had talked about her so much that my husband swore that he saw her one night, walking through the door between our bedroom and my office - a woman in old fashioned dress, with something like a mob cap on her head.

My tale for today is quite different, very personal and not nearly so fleeting.

In 2018, I had been deep into research for a new book, about a murder in my Leeds Irish family. The book, called A Proper Person to be Detained, would be published in 2019 by Contraband. On Christmas Day, in 1881, my nana's uncle John Manley had been stabbed in the street by one John Ross and died where he fell. His younger sister, Elizabeth, watched him die. The two men had been casual friends. John Manley had refused to fight, but Ross was angry and drunk and found a tobacco cutting knife in his pocket. The murderer fled, to be apprehended a few weeks later. He was tried and sentenced to death, but the sentence was later commuted to hard labour, a mercy that I felt was probably justified.

In writing the book, I explored the situation of this poor Irish migrant family, whose parents had fled famine, only - like so many - to be abused and exploited in the industrial cities of England and Scotland. Researching the book also gave me the opportunity to find out more about my great grandfather, Michael James Flynn from Ballinlough, County Roscommon. (He went by both christian names.) He married my great grandmother Mary, another of the murdered man's sisters, already a widow with children, in St Patrick's Church, Leeds, in 1888. The Manley family had come from Ballyhaunis in Mayo, but the two villages are only five miles apart, so there may have been family associations. At that time, he was a paviour's labourer, but later, he would describe himself simply as a paviour. He built roads and pavements.

From the accounts of those who knew him, including my own beloved nana, he was a good, kind, generous man who managed to transform the fortunes of the family. The household into which I was born, more than sixty years later, was by no means wealthy. It was still a crowded working class household, but it was warm, clean and comfortable. Nobody went hungry. There were books to read. A piano. My nana remembered Michael as the most generous of fathers. If he was wearing a winter coat and he saw a beggar on the street, he was quite likely to hand it over to the more needy man, to the occasional frustration of his wife who was always counting the pennies.

So what about my Hallowe'en story?

It happened in a supermarket car-park of all places. Not long after I had finished the book. It was one of those chilly, misty mornings, (much like today) with a low sun shining in my eyes as I walked from my parked car to the door of the building. It was early and the car-park was fairly empty. A man walked out of the mist and the sunlight and headed straight for me. I had just crossed the narrow roadway leading into the parking spaces, but halted as he approached. I remember that he put a gentle hand on my elbow and encouraged me to step up onto the pavement as another car passed by. 'Take care, madam,' he said. He was Irish. Not Northern Irish, as so many visitors to this part of Scotland, but a soft southern Irish voice.

'I was wondering,' he said, 'if you might be able to give me something to get myself a bit of breakfast.' He glanced back towards the supermarket doorway. 'They've all been ignoring me,' he said.

I looked him up and down. He was covered in grey-white dust - it looked like plaster dust - from head to toe. He wasn't dirty or drunk. Just - dusty. He wore boots and they too were dusty. He looked like a working man, a labourer.

I didn't hesitate. I looked in my purse, found a five pound note, and gave it to him. I don't carry much cash these days and it was all I had. He thanked me. 'God bless you,' he said. 'God bless you!' And off he went. I watched him walk into the misty winter sunshine, as he headed towards the steps leading up into the town. But I never saw him go up the steps.

Almost immediately. I had one of those sudden intimations of something odd. Not in a bad way. Not frightening at all, you understand, but uncanny. And strangely uplifting. I headed for the supermarket, but had to find a seat and sit down for a moment or two. I felt quite shaky. It struck me that I have seldom, if ever, seen or heard an Irish labourer travelling alone in this part of the world. Ulster yes, but Irish? Tattie howkers used to come, but they seldom do now, and besides, it wasn't that time of year.

I can see him now, feel his gentle hand on my elbow, his warm 'God bless you!'

All through my shopping, and all the way home, I thought about my kind, generous, much loved great grandfather, a man I had never known, but who was very much on my mind. Of course the sceptics will easily explain it away. And in a strict sense, it is perfectly explicable. Isn't it?

But I know what I saw. And I know what I felt. And it's an encounter that I still treasure.

What do you think?

PS: If you would like to read a made-up supernatural tale, you'll find my strange little novella Rewilding free on Kindle, from Friday 27th until 31st October.

PPS: I've started to write a novel, or perhaps a novella - I don't know which, but it will be as long as it needs to be - about John Manley's sister, Elizabeth. She has been on my mind ever since I wrote A Proper Person to be Detained, and from time to time, I've done more research about her and the tragedy that befell her and drawn some sad conclusions. She needs a voice, and perhaps I need to give it to her.   

Rewilding - A Free Spooky Tale for Christmas

 

If, like me, you enjoy reading and telling spooky stories over Christmas, you can download my novella Rewilding, free on Kindle from 24th till 28th December. 

I reread it recently, while I was setting up this Kindle promotion, and I was quite disturbed by it, especially since I was reading it on my own e-reader in the dark, in the middle of the night. I wondered where on earth it had come from! 

If you read it you'll probably see what I mean. You may find it surprising how often writers reread work they wrote some time ago, and wonder how they did it. It does sometimes feel as though something else takes over and tells the tale. 

Oddly enough, the thoroughly scary episodes of Danny Robins' excellent 'Uncanny' series, dealing with a haunted Highland bothy, Luibeilt, were not part of the inspiration for the novella, which was written some years earlier. But this is one of the Uncanny stories that has really stayed with me and is well worth a listen, especially the recent 'catch-up' episode. 

So where did my story come from? 

Partly, it was inspired by a talk I attended about a writer cycling ancient routes across the Highlands, sleeping in remote bothies - and it occurred to me how much more hazardous and nerve-racking this might be for a woman to do alone. It was also inspired by this extraordinary and haunting song from Julie Fowlis. And perhaps an abiding and professional interest in folklore, especially places where the boundaries between this world and another seem to be 'thin'. The glen in the story is one such place. 

One more thing to note: the 'each uisge' is a creature that is a whole lot more dangerous than a kelpie. 

If you want to know how and why - you can read the story. But do listen to the song as well because all may not be quite as it seems. And do let me know what you think in the comments!

Ghostly Heights

My mother, Kathleen, at Haworth, back in the late 1940s.

I love a good ghost story, don't you? Especially at Christmas.

It's just one more reason why I love Wuthering Heights so much. (See previous post!) There are convincing supernatural elements to the story, subtle and always queried by the narrators, but they stay with the reader long after the book is finished and this reader, at any rate, is in no doubt about what Emily herself believed.

The first and perhaps most memorable incident is the appearance of the ghostly Catherine Linton, invading Mr Lockwood's nightmare. 'Why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton,' he writes afterwards. She hovers outside, tapping on the window of her own bedroom, trying to get in, and prompting Lockwood - with an early intimation of the intense cruelty, physical and mental, that permeates the novel - to rub her wrist over the broken glass in an effort to dislodge the unwelcome apparition. Catherine declares that she has 'been a waif for twenty years.' As indeed she has, if one assumes that she can't rest without her soul mate. 

In the last part of the novel, just at the point where Heathcliff's revenge is almost complete, something or someone intervenes. Throughout the novel, Nelly Dean, who tells most of the tale to Lockwood, has characterised herself as superstitious as well as religious. She can only relate in disturbing detail what she sees - or rather what she perceives that Heathcliff watches  - something that she cannot see. 

Most dog or cat owners - me included - will know the uneasy realisation that the animal is watching something that moves about, but it's something that you can't see. 

At this point, towards the end of the novel, most readers can't help bur remember a much earlier scene in which Catherine, after Heathcliff's unexpected return, and the inevitable renewal of hostilities between him and her husband, is driven to distraction by her own self imposed suffering, fracturing her personality.

'Look!' she cried eagerly, 'that's my room with the candle in it, and the trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph's garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn't he? He's waiting till I come home that he may lock the gate. Well, he'll wait a while yet. It's a rough journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton Kirk to go that journey! We've braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I'll keep you. I'll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won't rest till you are with me. I never will!'

She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. 'He's considering - he'd rather I'd come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!'

And only a little later, in a final, heartrending scene between the two, Heathcliff cries: 

'You teach me now how cruel you've been - cruel and false. WHY did you despise me? WHY did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. You loved me - then what RIGHT had you to leave me? What right - answer me - for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, YOU, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - YOU have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - oh, God! would YOU like to live with your soul in the grave?'

We remember that 'be content, you always followed me' during those final disturbing scenes when it's clear that Heathcliff is at last within sight of his heaven, one only to be attained by following his Cathy. Afterwards, Joseph will swear that he sees 'two on ’em looking out of his chamber window on every rainy night since his death', and a little shepherd boy will tell Nelly that 'there's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab, un' I darnut pass 'em.'

We should always remember that the final lines of the novel are written by a person who, visiting their graves, cannot imagine 'unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth'. Beautiful as they are, these are written by the supremely prosaic Mr Lockwood.

I think Emily had other ideas. 

My Favourite Folk Tale

 

My Postgraduate Masters degree was in something called Folk Life Studies. I studied at Leeds University, with folklorists Stewart Sanderson and Tony Green. Among the many books we read on that course was one called Folk Tales of England edited by Katharine Briggs and Ruth L Tongue. It was first published in 1966 and I think I bought it second hand, because I note a little 60p in the corner. There are many tales that, back then, were 'newly collected'. I too was one of that generation of folklorists who went about with tape or in my case cassette recorders, persuading people to tell their stories. In my case it was the fishing traditions of South Ayrshire. 

This little book, however, contains my very favourite folk tale  - one of those stories that has stayed with me down all these years. I think about it periodically and laugh - because it's a funny story.  But with Hallowe'en fast approaching, appropriate for the time of year as well.

It's called Summat Queer on Batch, and it was recorded by Ruth L Tongue, on September 27th, 1963. She remembers this as a favourite story of an old North Somerset groom from about 1907. It is, however, a much older 'motif' to be found in many other stories right across the world. A 'batch' is a piece of open common land or moorland.

Here it is, transcribed verbatim from Ruth's recording.

There were a old widow body 'oo 'ad a little cottage up to Batch and 'er come to market with 'er bits to sell, and she wouldn't go 'ome no how. Well, they axed 'en and all she'd say was, "There's Summat Queer on Batch!" and not a word more. Well, Job Ash, 'e say to 'er, 'Never 'e mind, my dear, I'll go up Batch for 'ee. No fear!' And 'e up and went.

'Twere a bit of a unket wind up to Batch, road was lonely and wind did blow whist. 'E got to cottage, t'were a little cottage like, with a front door and back door opposite each other and kitchen were on side o' passage, sitting room were t'other side o' passage and stairs was in cupboard. In 'e goes, front door were wide open, and 'e swing the bar acrost, and 'e go to back door, and 'e swing the bar acrost there. Then 'e take a look-see to sitting-room. Weren't no one there. Then 'e gave a look-see to kitchen. No-one there neither. Then 'e rub 'is hands together and 'e think o' the drubbing they lads was going to 'ave.

'E opens door - cupboard door - upstairs to bedroom. When he got up to bedroom, wasn't no-one there neither. 'Where be they tew?' said Job and 'e come down and front door were open - back door were open tew. Bar were set back. Well, Job 'e took a quick look-see outside back door and it slammed tew be'ind him and bar slid acrost.

Well, Job, 'e took off round corner o' that 'ouse and 'e didn't stop to look - gets round by front door, as fast as 'e could, and just as 'e got to front door, that slam in 'is face tew, and bar come down acrost. Well, Job, 'e took a deep breath, 'e did, and then 'e takes a look over 'is shoulder, and there were Summat Queer standing right be'ind him. 

At that, Job 'e took off down that road, like 'e were at Shepton Mallet races. 'E were a girt fleshly feller and when 'e'd got about a mile or so, 'e sat down on a 'eap of stones, and 'e puff like a pair of bellowses, and 'e got out is neck-ankercher, and 'e rub is face, thankful.

And then 'e look down and there's a girt flat foot aside o' 'isn. Then 'e look up a little further and there's a girt airy 'and by 'is knee. And then 'e look up a little further still and there's a girt wide grin.

'That were a good race, weren't it?' sez it.

'Ar!' sez Job. 'And when I've got my breath back, us'll ave another!' 

Spooks Week: A Haunted Road

 

Culzean Castle 

This isn't my story, but it was told to us by the friend involved, a man of profound common sense, not to say scepticism, which made it all the more impressive. 

He and a couple of colleagues had taken a party of scouts to camp at Culzean Castle for the weekend. This was a local event and they were pretty close to home, which was just as well, because the wife of one of them was in the advanced stages of pregnancy. They had, however, hiked there, carrying backpacks, and had no other means of transport. 

In the early hours of the morning, a message came through to the Castle that she had gone into the early stages of labour. This was before the days of mobile phones, so it was a landline message. Not wanting to inconvenience anyone further, the husband decided that since it was a fine summer night, he could easily walk the few miles back to the town of Maybole, to pick up his car. Our friend said that since there was still a supervisor left behind for the youngsters he would keep him company along the road and come back to the campsite in the morning. 

If you don't know this part of the world, there is a road running to the west of the A77, closer to the sea.  Head south and it will go to Maidens and will ultimately rejoin the main road south at Turnberry where Mr Trump has his hotel. Northwards, it will take you to Ayr, but a few miles north of Culzean, at a place called Pennyglen, you can branch off towards Maybole. At night, it's a quiet rural road, and certainly the quickest way back to the town. 

Remember, this is an old road, with a violent history. Or at least the surrounding countryside has a violent history. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there were two factions of the Kennedy family, the Earls of Cassilis and the Lairds of Bargany, holding sway north and south of here, and sometimes they came to blows. The feud had been long and bitter. Most notably they came to much more than blows when young Gilbert Kennedy, the Bargany heir, fell victim to an attack by the powerful Earl of Cassilis on 11th December 1601, as he rode from Ayr to Girvan, a journey of some twenty two miles. 

'He was the brawest manne that was to be gotten in ony land,' says a contemporary chronicler, in the old Scots of the time. 'of hich stataur and weel maid, his hair blakk, bott of ane cumlie feace'.  In other words, he was tall, dark and handsome. Even though he was 'feerse and feirry and wander nemble' (fierce and fiery and wondrous nimble) this was a deliberate ambush, the odds were stacked against him and he and his travelling companions were wounded or murdered. Astonishingly, he was carried to Maybole, mortally wounded but still alive, where Cassilis, in his role of 'Judge Ordinar' of the county threatened to kill him if he showed any signs of recovery. He was further transported to Ayr and died there a day later. 

If you're intrigued, you should seek out S R Crockett's The Grey Man, a novel that will tell you a lot more about that time and place. 

But - to resume our spooky tale. 

The two men were young and fit, and they were walking smartly along the road in the direction of Maybole, when they heard, somewhere in the distance, the distinctive clip clop of approaching horse's hooves. Summer nights are short in this part of the world, and the sky was already beginning to grow lighter with that liquid grey light of very early morning. The rider seemed to be coming closer. Now riders are not uncommon on these roads, although as our friend said, not usually at three in the morning. But they weren't unduly worried. They carried on walking. 

The expectant father, anxious to get home, had pulled some yards ahead. Our friend said that around the bend in the road, just ahead of him, came a tall black horse with a tall rider, swathed in what appeared to be a dark cloak. Surprisingly, he seemed to be wearing a 'slouch' hat - 'like the ones you see in the movies', he said. His first thought was to wonder what on earth somebody was doing riding in fancy dress along the back road from Maybole to Maidens. 

However, that thought quickly gave way to surprise when he saw his friend pause for a few seconds, and then quite suddenly take to his heels, run past the rider at a rate of knots and head off into the distance. He was standing stock still in astonishment as the rider calmly trotted past him. Who could it possibly be, to give his friend such a fright? 

He raised his eyes to the figure.

'As true as I'm sitting here,' he said, 'there was no face at all, no head even, between the hat and the cloak. Just a gap where it should be.'

'What did you do?' we asked.

'What do you think I did?' he said. 'I ran too. I don't think either of us stopped until we were back home in Maybole!'