The friendly ghosts

Draw up a chair and let’s talk about ghosts. After all, it’s the week of Hallowe’en and All Souls’ Day, making it one of those times of the year when our thoughts traditionally turn to departed spirits. Hallowe’en is said to be the day of the year in which the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, thereby allowing the two worlds a greater chance of contacting one another. All Souls’ Day falls on 2 November and is the day in the Christian calendar when prayers are said for the souls of ‘the faithful departed’. Many of us hope that those souls are resting peacefully, but we can’t always be sure that they are.

No wonder our thoughts can turn to dank churchyards, shadowy figures and a sense of creeping horror during these early November days. We enjoy scaring ourselves with ghost stories, safe in the knowledge that they’re only fiction. They aren’t true. We can switch on the lights and chase those phantoms away. Can’t we?

It depends on whether you have a natural affinity for ghosts and other spirits. Are you one of those people who has had several uncanny experiences over the years, experiences that you can’t explain away as being a trick of the mind? Perhaps these were corroborated by other people, making you even more convinced that you saw or heard or touched something that wasn’t of this world. Or are you someone who longs to meet a ghost but has never managed it, no matter how often you seek out haunted houses or hang around churchyards at dusk? Maybe you don’t believe in such things at all, assuring yourself that there is no scientific proof that they exist. Perhaps you’re right, or perhaps you’re simply whistling in the dark to make those unnerving shadows melt away.

As for me, I’ve had some very strange encounters with what I am absolutely certain are ghosts. Such things have happened to me, on and off, throughout my life. And I had a good start, growing up in a house that was haunted by the ghost of a little girl who enjoyed playing tricks on us all. Not only was every member of the household (four adults and two young children) aware of this ghost because of her endless pranks, but people in the neighbouring houses used to see her in our garden and ask who she was. Has she gone away? Apparently not. I was told recently that she is still seen in that garden from time to time.

Such corroboration is helpful when deciding whether what you’ve seen or heard is a truly a ghost or if there is a more pragmatic but less dramatic explanation. Because – especially if you’re of a susceptible and imaginative disposition, or you’ve spent the day scaring yourself out of your wits with the help of M R James – it’s very tempting to tell yourself that any odd noise or peculiar trick of the light has a supernatural origin. Essentially, it is wise to adopt the policy of Sherlock Holmes and examine every logical explanation for what has happened, so that ‘whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth’. And, where possible, to compare notes with other people who have witnessed the same thing. Well, when I say ‘people’, perhaps it would be better to say ‘living creatures’, because ghostly experiences don’t only happen to humans.

Some years ago, I and my husband wanted to move home and spent months searching for the perfect place. Finally, one Sunday lunchtime, we knew we’d found it. It was a very pretty 17th-century house with a wonderfully welcoming atmosphere. The couple who owned it showed us into the sitting room. I was admiring the inglenook fireplace when something by the door caught my eye. A dark-haired young woman was looking at me in an inquisitive but affable fashion. And then she simply wasn’t there any longer. I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing, but suspected I hadn’t. Anyway, we bought the house and moved in. The previous owners had left several pieces of furniture behind, including a nice rocking chair in the sitting room. A couple of days later, three of our friends came over to supper, bringing two dogs. These are the sweetest and most well behaved dogs you could ever wish to meet, yet the moment they went into the sitting room they began to bark and growl at the rocking chair. We’d put it in the corner between the inglenook and the door. The dogs weren’t bothered by any other part of the house, but that corner really worried them.

Then several members of my family came to lunch. It was a hot day and we ate in the garden. My niece went indoors and when she came back she told me she’d seen a ghost. I asked her to show me where this ghost was. She led me straight into the sitting room and pointed at the rocking chair. Had she seen a man or a woman? A woman, she told me.

We lived in that house for three years. Sometimes I would be woken at night by the sound of a woman singing contentedly. We only felt her presence in the big upstairs bedroom and in the sitting room, but she wasn’t frightening. She simply felt like another member of the household. And the house retained its happy, welcoming atmosphere.

Unfortunately, we had to sell the house. Several people wanted to buy it but each time the sale fell through. It was almost as though the house was waiting for the right owner to come along. One afternoon, a couple arrived to view it, and it was clear from the enchanted looks on their faces that they’d fallen in love with the house just as we had. They made an offer that same day, and we were confident that this time the sale would take place. When they returned a few days later to have another look at the house, the husband asked me outright about the ghost. He had sensed her on his first visit – and there was no doubt in his mind that she was female. When I asked him if he was aware of her throughout the house, he said he could only sense her in the big upstairs bedroom and in the sitting room. He also said he wanted her to stay. He liked her. 

We liked her, too. She was a friendly soul. And most of the ghosts I’ve encountered over the years have been equally benign. Although not all of them. But theirs is a story for another time. 

The power of a good book

According to Anthony Powell, books do furnish a room. And you have only to look round any room that I’ve ever lived in to see how true that is. Actually, in the case of my office you might even suggest that books can clutter a room, but we’ll brush that thought aside.

Books also have the power to heal. Well, they do for me, at any rate. From the Dr Seuss books that I used to love as a small child, which were a particular solace whenever I was laid low by whichever bug was doing the rounds at the time, to the Katy series by Susan Coolidge and a lot of Enid Blyton in between.

Books can also have the power to make me ill. I discovered that in dramatic fashion one summer when I was engrossed in a novel whose protagonist was dying from a particularly unpleasant form of liver disease. As the book progressed, I felt increasingly ill. I found that I was experiencing many of the symptoms that the main character was going through. I knew I’d come out in sympathy with her and that I wasn’t really ill at all, except that somehow I was. But the book was far too good to abandon – I had to know what happened. Normally, I’m sorry to finish reading a book if I love it, but on this occasion I was very relieved. And so was my liver.  

For obvious reasons, these days I avoid books that are going to make me unwell. But when I am ill (which doesn’t happen very often, even though this blog may give a very different impression), I know exactly which books to choose because of their restorative properties. I once cured a bad back with the help of PG Wodehouse. He wasn’t actually there yanking me about, you understand, but he didn’t need to be because I was in the sublime company of Jeeves and Bertie Wooster. The bad back melted away within days and I’d found two friends for life.

Nancy Mitford is another cure-all, especially The Pursuit of Love, which I first read when I was in bed with a terrible cold. Within an hour of starting the book, I felt so much better that I celebrated with tea, toast and blackcurrant jam. Dear old Nancy has also cured me of murderous hangovers on more than one occasion.

Miss Read, with her Fairacre and Thrush Green books, is a guaranteed restorative. She cheers me up if I’m unhappy about something, too. Maeve Binchy also came to the rescue once, at the start of a year in which it felt as though all the Fates had come together simply to use me like a dartboard, as they hurled various misfortunes my way. Everything seemed to be coming apart at the seams, so it was bliss to be able to disappear into Maeve Binchy’s novels and forget about the maelstrom raging around me.     

My mother once took a purler while wearing a pair of shoes that were too big for her and broke her upper arm. It had to be strapped to her side, which meant many nights spent sitting up in bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped round her arm, too uncomfortable to sleep. Her nightly companion was Dick Francis – but only in the form of his novels, I hasten to add. Unfortunately, she read so many of them that she couldn’t bear to look at a single one ever again because they always reminded her of that dreadful time. She also went off frozen peas.

According to Anthony Powell, books do furnish a room. And you have only to look round any room that I’ve ever lived in to see how true that is. Actually, in the case of my office you might even suggest that books can clutter a room, but we’ll brush that thought aside.

Books also have the power to heal. Well, they do for me, at any rate. From the Dr Seuss books that I used to love as a small child, which were a particular solace whenever I was laid low by whichever bug was doing the rounds at the time, to the Katy series by Susan Coolidge and a lot of Enid Blyton in between.

Books can also have the power to make me ill. I discovered that in dramatic fashion one summer when I was engrossed in a novel whose protagonist was dying from a particularly unpleasant form of liver disease. As the book progressed, I felt increasingly ill. I found that I was experiencing many of the symptoms that the main character was going through. I knew I’d come out in sympathy with her and that I wasn’t really ill at all, except that somehow I was. But the book was far too good to abandon – I had to know what happened. Normally, I’m sorry to finish reading a book if I love it, but on this occasion I was very relieved. And so was my liver.  

For obvious reasons, these days I avoid books that are going to make me unwell. But when I am ill (which doesn’t happen very often, even though this blog may give a very different impression), I know exactly which books to choose because of their restorative properties. I once cured a bad back with the help of PG Wodehouse. He wasn’t actually there yanking me about, you understand, but he didn’t need to be because I was in the sublime company of Jeeves and Bertie Wooster. The bad back melted away within days and I’d found two friends for life.

Nancy Mitford is another cure-all, especially The Pursuit of Love, which I first read when I was in bed with a terrible cold. Within an hour of starting the book, I felt so much better that I celebrated with tea, toast and blackcurrant jam. Dear old Nancy has also cured me of murderous hangovers on more than one occasion.

Miss Read, with her Fairacre and Thrush Green books, is a guaranteed restorative. She cheers me up if I’m unhappy about something, too. Maeve Binchy also came to the rescue once, at the start of a year in which it felt as though all the Fates had come together simply to use me like a dartboard, as they hurled various misfortunes my way. Everything seemed to be coming apart at the seams, so it was bliss to be able to disappear into Maeve Binchy’s novels and forget about the maelstrom raging around me.     

My mother once took a purler while wearing a pair of shoes that were too big for her and broke her upper arm. It had to be strapped to her side, which meant many nights spent sitting up in bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped round her arm, too uncomfortable to sleep. Her nightly companion was Dick Francis – but only in the form of his novels, I hasten to add. Unfortunately, she read so many of them that she couldn’t bear to look at a single one ever again because they always reminded her of that dreadful time. She also went off frozen peas.

A few years ago I went flying and managed to break three bones in my right wrist. My initial interest in seeing my normally straight wrist transformed into an S-shape swiftly wore off, and after three days in hospital I emerged with my right arm, now studded with K-wires, encased in plaster from armpit to knuckle. It was bent at the elbow and only fit for hailing taxis. Unfortunately, as we lived on Romney Marsh at the time, where there are more sheep than people, I was a bit stymied on that score. Anyway, getting to sleep at night was almost impossible, and I needed comfort and entertainment in equal measure. So I reread every Jilly Cooper novel from Riders onwards in chronological order and, happily, unlike my mother and Dick Francis, it didn’t put me off the exploits of Rupert Campbell-Black and his fellow inhabitants of Rutshire. Give up one of my favourite authors? Now that really would make me ill. 

 

A Rye smile

Is it really early July? I’ve spent the past few months writing solidly, proofreading and doing more writing, so the seasons have rushed past my office window and I haven’t had much chance to get out into the fresh (and frequently damp) air and experience them at first hand. I’ll be writing about the results of all this work in the next few weeks.

Despite being so busy, I’ve still found time to go shopping. No, not the sort of shopping trips that involve major credit card usage, followed by major angst when the bills come in. I’m talking about everyday shopping – bread, fresh vegetables, some nice cheese. Not so long ago, we used to buy all these things in a weekly supermarket shop that was slightly frazzling (I always seem to be standing in the wrong place and having to get out of the way) and completely anonymous. It was all rather depressing, and we would often come home with our shoulders hunched around our ears and our nerves standing on end. But then we saw the light. We realized what was on our doorstep.

Doing as much of the weekly shop as possible in Rye has become a huge pleasure. We buy our bread, wine, cheese and salad oils in the farm shop. All our veg and fruit (not to mention local free-range eggs that taste the way all eggs should taste) comes from the greengrocer’s. Rice, flour, the Carley’s organic pumpkin seed butter to which I am addicted and all sorts of other things are snapped up from the health food shop. Books from the Martello Bookshop. All these shops are independently owned. All of them have character. Unlike our erstwhile dashes round a supermarket, this new style of shopping is relaxing and far from anonymous, because we stop for a chat in each of the shops. We keep up with one another’s news, chat to friends and neighbours who pass by, get the lowdown on what’s happening in the town. It’s how we all used to shop, and I never fail to enjoy it. I always come home smiling.

There is a strong tradition of this sort of shopping in Rye, and it’s described in all its glory and complexity by a man who was once a prominent Rye resident. EF Benson, the author of over seventy books, lived in Rye for just over twenty years until his death in 1940. He was a keen and astute observer of human nature, and he was amused by the shopping habits of people in Rye, who tended to collide in doorways with their marketing baskets, or would scuttle out of harm’s way when they saw their current nemesis bearing down on them. He put his observations in a series of six novels that are now known as the Mapp and Lucia novels, in which Rye is very thinly disguised as Tilling (so-named after the River Tillingham which runs through Rye). The series begins with Queen Lucia, which introduces us to the unforgettable Lucia, who lives in the Cotswold village of Riseholme (based on Broadway) and rules the inhabitants with an iron hand that is sometimes lacking its velvet glove. No one ever gets the better of her for long, try though they might. Elizabeth Mapp is cut from similar cloth although, as we discover in Miss Mapp, she is far more malevolent and scheming than Lucia, and likes to have the upper hand in Tilling. When these two women finally meet (and clash repeatedly, like cymbals) in Mapp and Lucia, it’s as though a bomb has gone off. And further bombs are detonated in Lucia’s Progress and Trouble for Lucia. Both these women would be trying beyond belief if it weren’t for EF Benson’s sharp humour, forensic eye for detail, gentle mockery of their pretentions and his wonderful compassion for the vagaries of human nature. (And, coming from the strange family that he did, he’d had plenty of practice at that particular art.)

I have read my copies of the six novels so often that they are now falling apart. Well, they are thirty years old. My mother once had to stop reading Lucia in London on the train because she was laughing so much that everyone was staring at her. If you’ve never read them, give them a go. They might be the best bit of shopping you’ve done in ages.