The Ghost Story

The library at Upper Snodsbury, where I had my first job, was a throwback to a previous age. The walls were lined with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling and the solid fixed island stacks were packed with dusty leather-bound volumes that were hardly ever borrowed.

It was not long into my time there as Assistant Librarian that I became aware of one particular “regular”, a man in his fifties who visited several times a week. He was not a library member and never borrowed anything but would take a book from the shelves and sit at a table to read it.

I was curious to see what his taste in literature was, so I looked over his shoulder as I passed by from time to time. It was always the same book, and he invariably had the book open at the same place.

It was a venerable copy of the Complete Ghost Stories of M R James, who was arguably the best ghost story writer of all time. All the stories are worth reading, but why did the man only appear to want to read the same one?

And which story was it? I knew many of them very well, such as “Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad” and “Number 13”, which had always struck me as being particularly spine-chilling, but from how the man opened the book it appeared that it was one of the later stories that seemed to attract him.

On one occasion I was able to glance down at the book just after he had opened it, and I could see that the title was “The Death of Black Arthur”. This was not a title that I knew, so I decided one day to have a closer look at the book after the man had left.

Finding the book was not a problem, as the library only had one copy of the title, so I took it down and opened it at the table that our strange visitor always used. I turned to the place in the book where I had seen him read “The Death of Black Arthur”, but I simply could not find it. I flipped through the pages in both directions but with no luck at all. I looked at the table of contents at the front of the book, but there was no sign of any story with that title. Had I imagined it?

It was a surprise to me that the man did not pay us a visit for the whole of the following week, but on the Monday after that I was sitting behind the issue desk in the library when I became aware of something very strange happening in the bookstacks. There was no doubt about it – I could see a wisp of smoke rising above the top shelves. Could somebody have slipped in there and be having a crafty ciggie?

Of course, I rushed round to have a look and was astonished to see that one of the books appeared to be smouldering. I pulled it off the shelf and dropped it on the floor, where it fell open. As I had half expected, the volume in question was the M R James book of ghost stories that had so intrigued me, and I could see that the pages that were being engulfed in smoke were the very ones where I had searched in vain for the “Black Arthur” story.

There was a sudden burst of flame that died away instantly, leaving no sign that anything untoward had happened. The book looked just as it should do, with all the pages in just as good a condition as they had been in before the fire had started. I was on the point of reaching for the book to put it back on the shelf when I heard a cry of alarm from outside the library. I looked through the window to see that a man had collapsed on the pavement just over the road and that a group of concerned people had gathered around him.

One of them was known to me as a retired doctor and I could see him trying his best to revive the man with vigorous CPR. However, the expression on his face did not look encouraging.

Indeed, it soon emerged that the man on the pavement who, as I had feared, was my unknown reader, had died very quickly from a massive heart attack that had struck at the same instant that the mysterious Black Arthur story had vanished from the M R James book in a puff of smoke and flame. Surely there had to be a connection?

A few days later we had a visit at the library from a gentleman who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Michael Groves. He wanted to ask me what I knew about the victim of the heart attack, which was not a great deal. However, what he was able to tell me was much more illuminating.

“The man’s name was Peter White”, said Inspector Groves. “Last year he finished doing a ten-year stretch for armed robbery, but I always suspected that he was involved in a murder that went back several years before that.

“At the time he came out of prison I was very busy with several other cases, and before I could turn my attention to asking him a few questions he had vanished. He was not at any of the addresses we had for him and it looked as though the trail was going to go cold very quickly.

“However, I spoke to the few contacts I had, including his former cellmate who told me something very interesting.”

“Which was?”

“Our friend Peter White suffered from bad nightmares and had a tendency to talk in his sleep. The dreams appeared to be the same every night, and the cellmate was often kept awake as he repeated, over and over again, words that included ‘must read’, ‘read the story’ and ‘dead Arthur’.

“Last week I got a fresh lead that suggested that Peter White might be in this area, and that he was obsessed with visiting this library. I also got the impression that he realized that I was getting close and he might have to change his plans.”

“That might account for why he hasn’t been here for several days”, I said.

“But he clearly couldn’t stay away for ever”, said the Inspector. “He felt compelled to come here, for some reason I just don’t know, but the stress on his weak heart was just too much for him.

“So do you know”, the Inspector asked me, “anything that might explain this compulsion?”

I told him about the story in the M R James book and the fact that the man I now knew to be Peter White kept on reading it, even though I had never been able to do so myself. When I mentioned the title of the story the Inspector’s eyes opened very wide indeed.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten? This is Upper Snodsbury, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is”, I said.

“The victim of Peter White’s murder came from this very village. He was born in the Rectory.”

“That’s the house next door”, I said.

“And what was that story’s title exactly?”

“The Death of Black Arthur”.

“It would appear that the victim has called his killer home and exacted his revenge. Would you believe that the house next door was the scene of the birth of the late Arthur Black?”

© John Welford

 

Mrs Bryant

 

The last time I saw Mrs Bryant was on a warm, sunny morning in early September. I always enjoyed popping in to what had once been the village post office but was now the nearest thing we had to a shop in our small village, although the range of goods for sale was always somewhat limited.

Mrs Bryant had been the village postmistress for many years, being the last in a long line of her forebears who had played this role. She was widowed quite a long time ago, the marriage having produced twin sons who were now in their mid-40s.

One of her sons had followed the family tradition but was based at the sorting office in the nearest town, from where he drove his delivery van round all the tiny villages in the locality. Mrs Bryant had been in the habit of delivering the post to the villagers and local farmers, and was reluctant to give up this role. James therefore deposited the village post with her while he used his van to save his mother the trouble of pushing her bike up all the farm lanes. This had become more important since she had started to develop a heart condition which meant that much exertion made her very short of breath.

Mrs Bryant now sold local produce in her shop, such as milk, eggs and whatever vegetables were in season, as well bread that she had baked herself. She also gained a small income from the campsite up the hill at the back of her house. This was a fairly small field that was entirely surrounded by high hedges and was therefore not visible from the road or any nearby footpaths. It had become quite a popular venue for campers who valued their privacy.

However, it was the current intake of campers who were on Mrs Bryant’s mind as I visited her that morning.

“I’ve got a bunch of naturalists on my field this week,” she told me. “None of them wearing a stitch of clothing. They might call themselves naturalists, but I ask you – that’s not natural, is it?”

I thought the obvious answer one that she might struggle to understand, so I didn’t give it. Neither did I point out that her campers were unlikely to be there for the purpose of studying the flora and fauna of the neighbourhood, and the word she wanted was nearly in her vocabulary but not quite.

Instead, I was happy to listen to Mrs Bryant as she went into one of her regular panegyrics about her other son, Graham. She was proud about what both her sons had achieved, but Graham had given her something that she could never have imagined coming her way, namely an extensive knowledge of parts of the world that she had not known existed before Graham was able to tell her all about them.

This was because Graham had gone to sea as a steward on board a cruise liner and he regularly sent her letters and postcards from the places he visited all over the world. On one of his periodic returns to the UK he had given his mother a globe of the world and a compass and he showed her how, wherever he had gone on his voyages, she could work out exactly in what direction he might be from where she was now, in the village.

Mrs Bryant was therefore willing to indicate to anyone who cared to know – as well as those who did not – precisely where Graham was. Not only that, but she could tell them the names of all the places and put her finger on where they were on the globe before pointing in precisely the right direction. I never knew her to get this wrong.

However, if you were to ask Mrs Bryant where somewhere was that was beyond the confines of the village, but still within England, she would not have had a clue. She had been born in the house she lived in now, and certainly knew every square inch of the village as far as the limits of her original postal round, but that was it. In her younger days she had occasionally visited the local town, without really knowing where she was in geographical terms, but these days she did not even do that. Everything she needed was either brought to her by her son James or came in the post.

Later that day, after James had called with the post for the village houses, Mrs Bryant paid a visit to the campsite up the hill in order to deliver a few letters. As she approached the gate that led through the hedge she suddenly felt unwell and fell to the ground. Some of the campers had seen this and rushed over to help, forgetting to cover up as they usually did when a non-camper approached.

Presumably it was the sight of four completely naked men and women leaning over her that brought on the heart attack from which Mrs Bryant failed to recover.

Poor Mrs Bryant, who knew so well her own little world, much of what was thousands of miles away, but almost nothing of what lay between. I won’t forget her in a hurry.

© John Welford

Proxy Buyer Beware

 

“Does my bum look big in this?”

The temptation to reply “Your bum would look big in anything, my dear” was nobly resisted, but only just.

Shopping was never Derek’s favourite occupation, and any faint enthusiasm he might have had disappeared completely when he was forced to accompany his wife Barbara on one of her expeditions. On this occasion she had insisted that they spend all day touring the shops and take lunch at one of the town’s better restaurants.

He therefore had no choice in the matter, given that she positively refused to cook anything that evening and if he wanted to get a decent meal today it was this option or nothing. At least Barbara had offered to pay for lunch, although everything else she bought would – as usual – be charged to his credit card.

She now appeared from the changing room holding two dresses, one red and the other green.

“Which do you think will look better on me?” she asked.

To his experienced eye the red dress looked a lot cheaper, so that was the one he chose.

“So what’s wrong with the green dress?” said Barbara. “I much prefer the green dress, so that’s the one I’m going to buy”.

Derek felt an impulsion to ask why she had bothered to offer him a choice, but he also knew that it would make no difference if he did. He soon found out that his initial fear about the price was a valid one. The green dress cost something over £100 more than the red one.

And that was how the morning proceeded. They visited just about every clothes shop in town, omitting only the ones that sold ladies apparel at what Derek considered to be sensible prices, and Barbara was delighted to add a number of classy new items to her wardrobe, at her husband’s expense.

Derek’s primary role was that of wielder of the credit card, but his secondary function – namely beast of burden - was called into play in no small measure. It was therefore with considerable relief that he was able to put down all the bags and packages when they reached the restaurant.

The menu was an impressive one and contained one of Derek’s favourite dishes, turbot with mushrooms and ginger. Barbara was paying, so that was what Derek chose.

“Have you seen the price of it?” Barbara said. “That’s far too expensive. You can jolly well have the scampi”.

So Derek had scampi for lunch.

After lunch, Barbara reminded Derek that it was her birthday the following week, and she knew exactly what she wanted for her present from her husband. So off they went to the jeweller’s shop where Derek soon found himself on the wrong end of a massive bill for a pearl necklace.

Derek reminded her that it was his own birthday not long after hers, and that there was a rather nice camera that he would quite like to have. He pointed it out to her in the shop window.

“Six hundred pounds for a camera?” Barbara exclaimed. “You have to be joking. You can have that little point-and-shoot one over there. Fifty pounds is quite enough to spend on a camera”.

Barbara then decided that she wanted to have her nails done, so she headed for a nail bar where a row of bored looking East Asian teenagers were beavering away making women’s hands look beautiful and probably earning only a pittance themselves.

“While I’m in here, you can go to the travel agent and see about our holiday for this year. I want you to come back with three possibilities and I’ll decide which one we’re going to choose. I want to go somewhere nice, but we’re not spending a fortune.”

Given that the family tradition had always been that the annual holiday was paid for by the lady of the house, this latter comment came as no surprise to Derek.

Half an hour later Derek rejoined Barbara at a nearby coffee shop and showed her the details of three holidays that he had discussed with the travel agent. Barbara did not take long to make her choice, plumping instantly for the cheapest option.

“Are you sure about that?” Derek asked.

“Of course I am”, Barbara said. “That one will do perfectly well for us. Now go back to the travel agent and make a firm booking”.

With all the shopping done and the holiday booked, Derek and Barbara headed for home. Barbara was delighted with her purchases, most of which had been paid for by her husband, and Derek looked somewhat satisfied with the day’s proceedings as well. Had Barbara glanced in his direction at any time she might have been puzzled as to why an enigmatic smile was playing around his lips, but this was not something that she bothered to do.

In the weeks that followed, Derek continued to be in an upbeat frame of mind, whistling happy little tunes to himself from time to time. Barbara was not used to this, and she started to wonder what Derek had to be so pleased about. Perhaps he was looking forward to going on the holiday they had booked?

That was precisely the reason, although Barbara was completely wrong about one aspect of it.

As Derek pointed out to her a week before their departure date, when it was far too late to cancel, the holiday he had booked - at her insistence - had been for over-60s only. Derek was 62, but Barbara a mere 58.

He would be delighted to take one of his friends from the bowls club to fill the otherwise vacant slot.

© John Welford

Museum Piece

 

I have always enjoyed visiting museums and re-connecting with the past by looking at objects that were made centuries ago. I have also long had an interest in ancient history, particularly that of Greece and Rome.

I was therefore very keen, during a recent visit to Berlin, to take in the magnificent Altes Museum which has one of the world’s best collections of classical antiquities. I am not sure that my friend Bernie was quite so excited by the prospect. I had made contact with Bernie when I knew that he was going to be in Berlin on business. He had a spare day and was happy enough to join me on a tour round Museum Island to drink in the culture.

It was not long before I was oohing and aahing at the items on display in the Altes Museum. I spent quite a long time gazing at the collection of sculptured heads of Roman Emperors and other prominent people from that era. As I pointed out to Bernie, many of the images you see in books of ancient history that cover the Roman Empire are photographs of these very pieces, which are either the originals or copies made shortly afterwards to satisfy Roman demands for heads to adorn temples where various Emperor worship cults were encouraged.

“Look!” I said. “There’s Tiberius! And that’s Trajan! And Caracalla!”

I was in something approaching Seventh Heaven, although I don’t think that Bernie had even reached First Heaven at this stage. He was far more interested in something else that was going on in the room, and, as things turned out, I should have been too.

As I learned later, a young mother had brought her 6-year-old son to the Museum, although the boy’s interest in ancient history was probably around the level of my friend Bernie’s. The kid had been happily riding his skateboard on the paths that crisscross the Lustgarten in front of the Museum and was not best pleased to be told that he had to stop whizzing up and down and be dragged round the Museum.

As applies to all visitors to the Museum, backpacks and other encumbrances have to be checked in at the Museum entrance before their owners are allowed through into the galleries. The mother had tucked the skateboard into a strap on the outside of her backpack and had put it on the floor while buying her tickets for the Museum.

This was just the opportunity that the youngster had been waiting for. It took no time at all for him to pull the skateboard out from its strap and set off into the Museum. These smooth floors were just ideal for skateboarding, especially as he could weave his way around the various plinths and display cases at high speed and have a whale of a time so doing.

What made the game even more exciting was that his mother and several museum attendants were soon in hot pursuit. This was the chase to which Bernie had had his attention drawn. He could see that he was in an excellent position to solve the problem, which he did by standing in front of the approaching skateboarder and forcing him to stop.

At least, the skateboard stopped but the boy did not. He continued to run the length of the gallery, as did his pursuers.

And what did I do while all this was happening? I was still lost in a world of my own, completely mesmerized by the dozens of carved heads displayed before me. I just did not hear any of the commotion going on behind me.

I took a step backwards to get an overall view of the full display. My right foot caught the edge of the stationary skateboard, causing me to lose my balance. I spun halfway round, so that my left foot landed plumb on top of the skateboard.

The stationary skateboard was stationary no longer. It shot away with me on top, although my skateboarding skills left a lot to be desired. The owner of the skateboard, who had now been apprehended and was being hauled back into the gallery, would probably have been glad to give me lots of tips to improve my technique, but I was definitely not in the mood to ask for any.

My journey was ungainly but short. It ended when I crashed into a plinth on which stood a statue of a Roman lady, possibly a relative or concubine of one of the Emperors whose heads I had just been admiring, posing as the goddess Venus.

I was not aware that I had been travelling at any great speed, but it was clearly enough to cause the tragedy that then ensued. The statue could not stay any longer on its plinth but toppled backwards with me desperately clutching on to it for support.

When the lady hit the floor there was a loud crack and I saw to my horror that her head was no longer on her shoulders. It was now rolling away towards those of the Emperors. Neither was one of her arms still where it should have been.

Given that the lady was pretending to be the goddess Venus she was not wearing much to get in the way of her highly feminine curves, and I was now lying on top of her with my hands where they should certainly not have been.

Had she not been a statue, and a decapitated one at that, there was every chance that she might have had a very good case against me for a serious sexual assault.

All the faces around me, bar one, displayed shock and horror. The one that did not was that of my friend Bernie, who seemed to have found something to laugh at.

“You know they say that you’re only as old as the woman you feel?” he asked. I did not answer.

“Well”, he continued, “According to this label that makes you approximately 1,764 years old.”

He hadn’t finished.

“And, going by your current salary, that is the age you’re likely to be when you’ve finished paying for the damage”.

© John Welford

Make 'Em Laugh: a story

William Shakespeare, having shuffled off his mortal coil, was stuck in Purgatory awaiting the final decision as to whether his soul should spend eternity upstairs or downstairs.  He was approached by one of the demons-in-charge with a job offer.

“Hi there, Will”, he said. “How’s things?”

“To be honest”, said the former Bard, “It’s getting a bit wearisome. Hanging around here for hundreds of years is – not to put too fine a point on it – dead boring.”

“Good point – well made”, said the demon, whose name was Bert. “And that’s why I’ve popped along to see you. You’ve got at least another 500 years to go, so you might like something to do to fill in the time.”

“You bet I would”, said Will. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well”, said Bert, “How would you like to write another play?”

“What’s the point of that?” Will asked. “Who’s going to perform it and who will watch it?”

Bert was happy to give him the lowdown.

“There’s a batch of souls just coming up for assessment. As you might expect, it’s an anxious time for them, not being sure how it will turn out, so I reckoned that it would be a nice gesture to put on a bit of entertainment for them the night before, and who better than you to do the honours? We’ve got hundreds of dead actors round here, so getting a cast together should be no problem at all. What do you reckon?”

“What sort of play did you have in mind?” Will asked. “I’m pretty versatile, you know.”

“I certainly do know”, said Bert. “I’ve seen all your plays.”

“You have?”

“But of course! There’s always a demon around at every stage performance. Whenever somebody fluffs a line or falls over the furniture that’s because one of us has been having a bit of a laugh. In your case, the demon was me.”

“I’m not sure if I should be grateful or not.” said Will. “But I still don’t know if you want me to write a comedy or a tragedy.”

“Oh, a comedy of course”, said Bert. “You gave me some great giggles when you were in your prime, and more of the same would be fantastic.”

“So which of my plays did you enjoy the most?” Will asked. “Was it, perhaps, ‘A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream?”

“On no”, said Bert. “All those daft fairies floating about? Far too soppy for me.”

“OK, so how about ‘All’s Well That End’s Well’? ‘As You Like It’? Twelfth Night’?”

“Not really my scene”, said Bert. “I can’t say I was convulsed with laughter at any of those.”

“So what did make you laugh, then?”

“I just loved it when that dopey git stuck his sword through the curtain and stabbed the wrong guy.”

“That”, said Will, “was in Hamlet – one of my tragedies.”

“But it was great”, said Bert. “The way he slowly went mad. I also loved it when that old codger went completely doolally and wandered over the heath saying stupid things. I creased up watching that.”

“You mean King Lear?”

“That’s the one. Pure comic genius!”

“Another tragedy, need I say? Did anything else take your fancy?”

“The Scottish play, of course – those witches had me rolling in the aisle, not to mention the Queen losing her marbles. Just brilliant!”

“I dread to think what you made of ‘Titus Andronicus’”.

“The best of the lot, my friend! Throats slit, hands cut off – and when the Queen of the Goths eats that pie with her sons baked inside it? The tears were rolling down my cheeks!”

“So you want me to write something along similar lines?”

“Absolutely!” Bert replied. “Some of those souls will need a good chuckle. They won’t get many where they’re going.”

“Yes”, said Will, “All that fire and brimstone doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“What do you mean?” said Bert. “I’m talking about the poor mutts who are forced to spend eternity in Heaven.  All that praying and genuflecting – not too much to amuse anyone there. On the other hand, Hell is a very jolly place, not to mention a darned sight warmer.”

“And where do you reckon that I’ll be sent to?”

“Hell, of course. No problem there. All playwrights and actors end up in Hell. They love it. Do you remember all those times people kept telling you to go to Hell? That was me and my fellow demons congratulating you for a job well done!”

© John Welford