MORE GHOST STORIES

Here is the Inn mentioned in my ghost stories blog of yesterday.  I was there this morning - and shown the wall in which Mary Brown is said to be buried!

I plan to return very soon for lunch, in the hope of sensing her ghostly presence.  Of course I'll tell you whether these efforts meet with success.  (I have high hopes that they will!)

Before the great fire that occurred in Totnes on 4 September 1990, a building that dated from the fourteenth century had regular visits from an apparition in Elizabethan costume.

A Mrs Audrey Bulley, who lived at 1 Ramparts Walk with her husband Harry, saw a man wearing voluminous pants slit with white over black velvet, a green velvet coat buttoned to the waist, long stockings, shoes with silver buckles - plus a velvet cap boasting the longest feather she had ever seen. 

She stated that when the man saw her frightened face and heard her gasps he gave her a broad and wicked grin!  When Mrs Bulley next saw him, about three weeks later, he was blocking her bedroom doorway.  She exclaimed "Oh, you again!" and walked right through him ...

GHOST STORIES

I think that, living as I do in ancient Totnes, I really need to share some ghost stories with you!

This view of Totnes Castle, which towers above the rooftops,  was taken from my kitchen window.  While Totnes dates back to the Saxons, it was in Norman times that the stone circular keep you can see here appeared.

Not far from the Castle stands a lovely old inn dating back to the fourteenth century.  The Kingsbridge Inn in Leechwell Street is said to be one of the most haunted buildings in Totnes - often the scene of unexplained apparitions and odd happenings.
Mary Brown, a seventeenth century barmaid, is thought to have been seduced and subsequently murdered by the landlord - then buried in the building's walls.

Mary is a persistent ghost who seems to reveal herself chiefly to women.  If true, might this be because of her ill-treatment by a man?  She is often seen standing at the bar and gliding through to the kitchen, where - back in the 1980s - the chef and waiting staff grew accustomed to seeing her.

The owners' dog back then - also seemingly aware of a presence - would bark at empty tables, as did the dogs living in the pub more recently.  A former landlady and her mother both saw the woman, who wore her hair in a bun. 

Well, that's the first of these ghost stories.  Would you like some more?

ALIVE AND DEAD - MESSAGES FROM 9/11

Does the phrase alive and dead make any sense? It does to me, having just watched the TV program MESSAGES FROM 9/11.  Do watch this, if you get the chance.  The program focuses chiefly on the loved ones of people who died in the twin towers.

Impossible to watch dry-eyed as the widow of one victim described her husband's habit, during his lifetime, of collecting quarters so that he always had a handy supply.  She went on to tell how, after his death, she kept finding these coins in the most unlikely - and unexpected - places. She'd find one under her pillow, or in the fridge, or on top of the TV, or on a bookshelf - or wherever.

When she was feeling lost, or sad, or in need of reassurance that she was not alone, another quarter would turn up suddenly to demonstrate her husband's nearness.

Then there was the man who 'lost' his brother, to whom he had been very close. The two men had devised some special phrases by which to identify one another in circumstances such as these.  When the survivor visited a medium she said that she had a message for him that seemed to be in a foreign language, as she couldn't understand it.  She could relay it, however - and, sure enough, it was the exact phrase the brothers had agreed as identification years earlier!

One man told his grieving wife that he had arrived in a place far too beautiful to describe in human language.  She asked for a sign that he was still nearby and, on a day when there wasn't even a breath of wind, a breeze started stirring almost immediately in the trees.  This also ruffled her hair and seemed to whisper against her skin.  She knew her husband's touch.

Let's end with the little girl who was 4 when her father died in 9/11.  She saw him frequently after his death - and chatted happily with him as he sat on her bed.  When her mother questioned who she was talking to, the child couldn't comprehend why her Mom couldn't see him too.

Can we be both alive and dead?  You bet!

IS DEATH AN END?

Is death an end?  This is a question I never asked myself again after moving to Poundbury, the 'dream' Dorset village that Prince Charles built (with the help of his architects and builders)!

Poundbury is built on a powerful ley line linked to Maiden Castle - the largest and most complex Iron Age hill fort in Britain.  This was first laid out over the remains of a Neolithic settlement in 600 BC and it was extended over the next several centuries.  Its vast ramparts enclose an area that could accommodate fifty football pitches and during the Iron Age (800 BC - 43 AD) the site was home to a few hundred people.  Then the Romans claimed it and its inhabitants moved to Durnovaria (now Dorchester).

When I lived in Poundbury stories were circulating of a Roman centurion who kept turning up unannounced in people's homes and of such strong Poltergeist activity (with objects being thrown about and in one instance causing physical harm) that an exorcist had to be sent for.

My own experience occurred one day soon after I'd moved in, when some interior redecoration was underway.  My decorator - Perry - (a very practical, down-to-earth man- with no belief whatsoever in the supernatural) was about to begin painting my landing, stairs and hall. As he began his task he was standing on the landing by a window with an uninterrupted view across to Maiden Castle.

He was holding a large tin of pale pink paint when it was forcibly wrested from his grasp and went spiraling up into the air, turning again and again before slowly heading towards the floor.  In the process pink paint splashed simply everywhere - and Perry was so traumatized that he ran downstairs and out of the house.

It took some persuading before he would come back indoors - and that night at the pub he expected ridicule when he told his friends about the occurrence.  Instead, he found almost universal acceptance of this latest Poundbury 'happening', which came as no great surprise to most of those present.  In fact, his story opened up the floodgates to similar tales!

Glad to say that he returned next day (with great trepidation) to finish cleaning up the mess that had been made and continue with his decorating! 

So is death an end?  Well, yes, of life as we know it - but it most definitely isn't the end!

LIFE AFTER THE DEATH

I was astonished to read a feature by Eleanor Harding in Saturday's DAILY MAIL relating to life after the death of a 'Mrs Bell'.  My astonishment was because of the uncanny way this tale echoed the story behind my novel OUT OF TIME - and, to a lesser extent, THE PORTRAIT.

See whether you agree after reading this newspaper extract, headed 'HOW RETURN OF A LONG-LOST PAINTING LAID A GHOST TO REST':

'As ghosts go, she was rather a cultured specimen.  The pale Edwardian figure made frequent visits to the mansion home of Alan Smith, always accompanied by the music of Chopin, according to the startled souls who bore witness.

Her interest in the house was a mystery - until the discovery of a long-lost painting that appeared to feature the very same person, sitting at a piano.  When the portrait was returned to Heale House's drawing room, the sightings stopped.

Mr Smith was so fascinated he decided to investigate the history of the painting - and uncovered the sad story of the uninvited guest.  He identified the woman as a Mrs Bell, one of the 15-bedroom mansion's previous occupants, who had been bankrupted and forced to sell all her possessions - including her beloved portrait - shortly before her death in the early 1900s.

Mr Smith said her ghost "would walk along the corridors and in the bedrooms, usually at about one o'clock in the morning".

He continued: "She was usually wreathed in a blue haze and just drifted around - you couldn't see her legs.  Sometimes she would even arrive at the bottom of my bed in the middle of the night.  I thought there must be some kind of scientific explanation, but other people who visited the house were terrified - and they now believe she's been put to rest because she got her painting back."

Mr Smith's family had seen the apparition many times at the house, near Bideford, Devon, before Mr Smith was approached by the owner of a local junk shop, who asked him: "Are you the master of Heales?"

She told him she had something that should be returned to its rightful home and showed him the picture, thought to be by Cyril Roberts, a prominent painter who was based in Paris.  The face was eerily familiar to Mr Smith and he quickly realised it depicted the woman his family had been visited by - and she was seated at a piano in his drawing room.

His research unmasked the subject as Mrs Bell, wife of an Argentine beef rancher who lived in Heale House in the early 1900s.  "From what we know about Mrs Bell, she was a very cultured lady," said Mr Smith.  "It must have been sad for her to see all of her possessions sold."

He confirmed that after the portrait was placed in the drawing room, "she never appeared again."

So, what are your views? Does life after the death of Mrs Bell echo life after the death of Katharine Tice in OUT OF TIME?

DEATH IS WHEN LIFE BEGINS

Death is when life begins: this concept first entered my consciousness when I had just turned twenty-one.  I'd started a new job in Berne, Switzerland, shortly before my twenty-first birthday and, feeling homesick one day, I chanced into a churchyard nestling withinin the Bernese Oberland.

There, on the grave of a young girl, I read the words: WITH DEATH LIFE BEGINS.

At the time I was somewhat sceptical and felt that perhaps her parents had simply been comforting themselves with the hope that Agnes was continuing her existence elsewhere.  But I never forgot that engraving ... and, with life-experience, perceptions change.

Death is the end of our flesh, yes, and our physical presence.  However, we've simply shed our body in much the way that a caterpillar sheds its chrysalis.  Once the chrysalis has outlived its usefulness, the newly emerging butterfly spreads its wings and experiences wonderful, glorious freedom.

This, I have come over the years to believe, is how our spirit feels when it's set free from the encumbrance of a body.  Yes, emphatically, death is when life begins! 

AFTER A DEATH - THE FOREIGNER

In my After A Death series I can’t overlook my romantic novel THE FOREIGNER.  You see, although only my name appears as its author, I didn’t write this on my own!

Many years ago my grandmother told me that some day I’d be a writer.  An ulterior motive was revealed when she added that she’d like my first book to be her life story!

Well, she had died by the time I felt equipped to fulfill her wish – and I soon realized I hadn’t asked nearly enough questions during her lifetime.  So it was a simple decision to write fiction rather than a biography, besides which my imagination is too fertile for me to stick strictly to facts.

I still needed to do plenty of research, however, since my book begins in 1919 and ends in the 1960s.  At times my research seemed endless and I often doubted my ability to complete the work.

But when my doubts occurred some really odd things happened – and these happenings kept recurring!  Whenever I was stymied, help arrived …

Sometimes a word would come into my head – often a German word I’d never heard of – and I wouldn’t even know what it meant.  But when I looked it up, it had the exact meaning of a sentiment I was endeavoring to express.

At first I attributed this, plus my vivid dreams and numerous other events to coincidence.  However, there came a day when I simply began to say: “Thank you, Nama!” each time I was helped. 

I have a cousin in Vienna who had lived in the Czechoslovakian castle where Nama once lived.  After reading THE FOREIGNER Inge wrote to tell me:  ‘It is uncanny how you describe the place and its atmosphere so well, never even having been there.’

I believe that my grandmother, who was strong-willed in life, was equally strong-willed after she died.  She wanted her story told and didn’t mind that I was of necessity fictionalising it.  So she prompted and prodded from beyond death to ensure that I didn’t give up on ‘her’ project.

Let’s end with these further observations on my love story theme from Inge: ‘Life behind the scenes in the Tavistock Theatre seems somehow genuine, real experience – a perfect blend of imagination and fact.  It would be a great pity if this were not presented to a large reading public.’

So – did my grandmother help me write THE FOREIGNER?  I leave you to read it and decide whether she did and whether there is life after a death.