Yesterday I had tea with Sarah across the lane, and met Caroline, wife of Patrick who goes to my Italian class. The talk ranged around the village, the notorious harvest supper, Wolf Hall, trees and their diseases and, finally, ghosts. Both lots of people live in old houses, Sarah's dating back in part to the 17th century, and the others' to the early 19th century; mine is a relative baby at 1870. As the snow fell outside and the wind rattled the window frames Sarah told us of noises she hears but dismisses as the normal creaks of an old house. What sounds like footsteps is just the timbers contracting at the end of the day. Her partner isn't so sure, whispering tremulously when he visits, "What's that?" as another unidentified groan echoes around the back staircase. But Sarah refuses to be intimidated. You just have to take a firm hold of your imagination, she believes. Even her eyes widened at the real ghost story. For years after the other pair moved into their house, in the darkest months of December and January, the doorbell would ring at all times of the day and night. The scent of roses along an upstairs passageway was a powerful presence from time to time, and Caroline and her daughter would often feel that someone was near them, or just passing by. One evening Patrick saw Caroline walk into the boot room at the end of a corridor, and he called to her. No answer. He called again, and still getting no reply went looking for her. But she was upstairs at the time. We sat there, smiling reassuringly at each other, but when the cat flap went suddenly with a loud crack we all jumped.
I've been measuring my oil usage in this first year in Medlar Cottage, aware all the time of falling prices. The usual cost is around £600 for 1,000 litres, which amount of fuel seems to have done me for at least 12 months. This morning the paper warned of a bottoming out of the market and soaring prices due to American wells at a standstill, and so it was with a sick heart that I finally ordered a refill. The heart recovered rapidly when I was quoted £414, a saving on last year of nearly £200. Sure, if I'd ordered earlier I'd probably have got an even better price, but I needed to know what my consumption is, so great news all round. Inexplicably the people who had the house before me used twice as much oil, and nearly twice as much electricity. What the hell went on here, cannabis farm in the spare bedroom?
We had a ghost in our cottage at Balintore. It was a friendly little girl. Son in law saw her at the top of the stairs in a white nightgown. Thought it was our granddaughter Lucie, but when he checked, Lucie was asleep. Another time, Stuart and our friend Mike were in the sittingroom, and the clock on the mantlepiece flew across the room, smashing into the wall. We think the girl, who ever she was, didn't like the passing of time. But the clock in the kitchen, which was a 1950's extension, kept perfect time!
ReplyDeleteI can only read stuff like this in the daytime. Come the dark I don't want to know!
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