The Ghost Story

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Twenty people gathered in the library of Cavill House. They sat on hard wooden chairs arranged near the fireplace, checking their watches and muttering amongst themselves. A tall wing-backed chair sat in front of the hearth, the small table beside it holding a candlestick and a glass of port. Books sat in the usually empty shelves, draped with fake cobwebs and interspersed with plastic skulls. Jackie and Sandra stood beside the main door, whispering in urgent tones.

"He's late! I'll have to phone Christine." 

"What's she going to do about it? You know what she's like, Jackie. She'll just tell us to sort it." Sandra pried the door open a crack and peered into the entrance hall. She hoped to see their actor striding in through the front door. All she saw was a flurry of snowflakes swirl past the window.

"How? Sandra, it's her event, she should bloody be here. What's she expecting us to do, read the stories ourselves?"

A door near the back of the room opened and the attendants sighed in relief. Jackie leaned forward and dimmed the lights, leaving only the warm glow of the fire, and the pale illumination of the candles. The murmurs of the audience quietened down, and they watched a tall man walk towards the fireplace. Dark brown curls surrounded his face, and blue eyes shone above a neat goatee. Dressed in the Cavalier garb of the seventeenth century, his boots knocked hollow on the wooden floor. He sat in the chair and peeled off his brown leather gloves. Moments passed, and he opened his mouth. 

"Halloa! Below there!"

The audience gasped at the sudden intrusion of a rich baritone voice into silence. The actor cast his eyes across the gathered people and leaned forwards.

"When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box, with a flag in his hand, furled round its short pole. One would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself about, and looked down the Line."

The audience watched, spell bound, as the actor told Dickens' story of The Signal Man. Even the attendants came closer, ignoring their posts at the main door to kneel on the floor beside the audience. Gasps and even Sandra's mild shriek punctuated the calculated pauses of the recital. The actor reached the closing words of the story, and left them hanging in the air. The audience leaned forward, seeking more. The actor fixed the gathering with a meaningful stare which each member felt was intended for them, and them alone.

"Samhain Greetings…and good evening."

The actor faded into thin air, leaving only the ghost of his words in the quiet room. The audience leapt to their feet to begin a five minute standing ovation. Even Jackie and Sandra joined the applause.

The enthusiastic clapping died away. Jackie clambered to her feet and turned on the harsh overhead lights. Sandra skirted the wooden chairs and opened the little side door through which the actor had entered. She led the way toward the small cafe, stocked with interval refreshments for the audience. Twenty people formed a queue, paying for coffee or hot chocolate. 

Two minutes later, a man with wild hair and snow-encrusted trousers hurried into the cafe. He grabbed Jackie's shoulder. Her eyes grew wide when she turned to see his harried appearance.

"Simon! What happened to you?"

"I got stuck out on the back road with a flat tyre. Took me ages to get it changed. I tried phoning to say I'd be late but there's no bloody signal out here."

"That's okay, your replacement came on. The audience loved him! Where did you find him?" 

"Who?"

"The other actor. He came on a little late but he did The Signal Man. Got a standing ovation. You'll have your work cut out for you topping that one!"

Simon stared at her.

"But I didn't send a replacement…"

Somewhere in the house, Fowlis Westerby chuckled.

* * *

Happy Halloween from Fowlis and I! If that's gotten you in the mood for a good ghost story, then you can do no better than No. 1 Branch Line: The Signal Man itself, one of Dickens' finest. You can read it online here...

Monday Morning Ghost 2 - Grey Lady of the Assembly Rooms

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Image by Richard Webb

My first Monday Morning Ghost saw me choose a spectre from my most recent home, in London. This week, I'm coming back to my ancestral home of the North East, and introducing you to the Grey Lady of the Assembly Rooms.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, many major cities had assembly rooms to provide an elegant location for their high society to gather and enjoy genteel forms of entertainment, such as balls and concerts. They were one of the few public places to which women could gain admittance, although unmarried women would require a chaperone. The assembly rooms of towns such as Bath were immortalised in the fiction of writers such as Jane Austen, where the buildings also hosted "marriage markets" as rich parents sought to marry off their offspring.

Newcastle upon Tyne was no different, and the city's Assembly Rooms are located in a fabulous Georgian building on Westgate Road. Designed by William Newton, they opened in June 1776, on Midsummer's night (surely a magical night, if ever there was one). The inscription on its foundation stone, laid in 1774, reads "Rooms dedicated to the most elegant recreation". Indeed, in the past, the assembly rooms have played host to concerts by Strauss, Liszt and Rachmaninov, and Charles Dickens' amateur theatre group staged three playlets here. Royal visitors have included Edward VII, George VI, and Elizabeth II.

Of course, few buildings of such an age escape having ghost stories, and the Assembly Rooms are no exception. Legend has it that on December 31, 1777, a rowdy group of wealthy patrons were celebrating the New Year. The drink flowed and the behaviour became increasingly bawdy, until one of the young men ordered his wife to dance naked for his boorish friends. This being the eighteenth century, a wife was little more than her husband's property, and she did as he demanded. Sadly the shame and humiliation was too much for her, and she threw herself from the musician's gallery in the ballroom. This might sound a little melodramatic to us, but social standing was everything to the upper classes.

Staff at the Assembly Rooms have heard the rustle of a taffeta ball gown, and the Grey Lady often announces her presence with the scent of lavender. The double doors open and close on their own, but are too heavy to be blown open by a draft. On Halloween in 2000, a radio crew were terrorised by unexplained noises and knockings while trying to record a special on the haunting. Another group of investigators experienced changes in temperature, balls of light that moved on their own, and electronic equipment that turned itself on and off. Research into the identity of the lady has proved fruitless, and there is no way to substantiate the legend, but it would certainly seem that there is a sad lady haunting such an elegant building.

Monday Morning Ghost 1 - Old Lady of Threadneedle Street

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I haven't really been doing much with my Fowlis blog, which is very remiss of me (and something for which I've received more than my share of reproach from the delightful Cavalier) and I've decided to start running a weekly feature, looking at British ghosts! After all, I'm working with a paranormal investigations company, and I'm researching the representation of haunted houses for my PhD, so it seems a fun thing to do.

For my first feature, I've decided to take a trip back to London, my former home for seven years, and have a look at the Black Nun of Bank...

Nowadays, there is no crime in the United Kingdom that carries the death penalty, but during the 19th century, it appears that all manner of crimes could be punishable by death. In 1812, a former Bank of England employee named Philip Whitehead was hanged for forgery. That would be bad enough, but his sister Sarah was not informed, presumably to spare her feelings. One day, she arrived at the Bank and asked to speak to her brother, only to be told of his fate by a clerk ignorant of her identity. Sarah didn't take the news particularly well, and she would visit the Bank every day, asking to see Philip. Sarah always dressed in black, and wore a black veil, earning her the nickname "The Black Nun". If the clerks turned her away, she would accost customers instead, always asking for her brother. Eventually the Bank officials tired of her behaviour, and in 1818, they paid her to stay away. Reports suggest that she did so for the remainder of her life.

When Sarah died in 1840, she was buried in St Christopher-le-Stocks' churchyard, which later became part of the Bank's gardens. She was once seen pounding the gravestones with her fist in the churchyard, while she has also been sighted down in Bank underground station. One worker believed he'd spotted an old lady in the station, and given the early hours of the morning thought she'd been locked in, only for her to disappear down a corridor with no exit. Knocking has also been heard inside empty lifts after the station has been closed. Whenever Sarah is seen, she is still dressed in black, and still seeking her brother.

Now, Sarah has occasionally been referred to as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, but this in itself is actually incorrect - the title does in fact apply to the Bank itself.

The Bank of England has been located on Threadneedle Street since 1734. The street itself has been so named since 1598 - previously, it was part of Broad Street. The Bank was founded in 1694, during the reign of William III, making the Bank the first private national bank in the world.. War with France was draining William's coffers, and two merchants agreed to found a national bank that could lend money to the Government. This money was to be used to finance the war, while the interest on the loan would be paid using taxes on alcohol and shipping.

But how did the Bank get its unusual nickname?

Political Ravishment, or the Old
Lady of Threadneedle
Street in Danger! Cartoon
by James Gillray

In 1797, James Gillray produced a satirical cartoon that portrayed the Bank as an old lady dressed in bank notes and sitting on a chest of gold, while William Pitt the Younger makes unwanted advances. A financial crisis was raging, and gold was not being used to back the issue of paper money. Titled "Political Ravishment, or the Old Lady of Threadneedle-Street in Danger!", the cartoon is often believed to have been inspired by Richard Sheridan, Member of Parliament and playwright, who referred "to an elderly lady in the City of great credit and long standing who had made a faux pas" and "had unfortunately fallen into bad company". Such a catchy name obviously stuck.

Personally, I prefer to refer to Sarah as the Old Lady. I've never seen her myself but if you ever find yourself in the area, and a woman in a black veil stops you to ask after her brother, at least now you know who she is!