A Willing Spirit

A WILLING SPIRIT

I'll never forget the first time I clapped eyes on Lady Lydia. She was
the sexiest ghost of the lot.

I'd been catching glimpses of shadowy forms ever since we'd begun
maintenance work at Hartley Hall. It started with the nervous looking
medieval monk I spotted when we were pumping out the cellar, then there
was a stooped old buffer with a silver tray in the dining-room and a
monocled, adult Lord Snooty type who popped up all over the place,
glancing over his shoulder like the law was after him.

When I asked old George, my gaffer, if he'd seen anything, he said no,
the only apparition he'd experienced was his old lady in an oatmeal
face mask one Friday night and that was quite spooky enough, thank you.
He recommended early nights and a cutback in my lager intake. Besides,
he said, they couldn't see me - so why worry?

Which is what I thought, until I encountered Lady Lydia.

I was in the ballroom, up the long stepladder, grappling with a bird's
nest of old electrical ring circuit when a nasty draught round my
ankles made me look down.
She stood directly beneath me, looking up, so I got this aerial view
of a beautiful, sad little face framed with golden ringlets that
tickled their way down onto a deliciously bare expanse of creamy white
bosom

It was bad enough when she gave me that dimpled grin of hers - I could
feel my legs turning to plasticene - but when she licked her index
finger with a couple of inches of kitten pink tongue and beckoned me
down, my ladder started wobbling wildly and dropping my spanner I had
to grab a beam to save myself from taking a nosedive.

When I trusted myself to look down again she was gone and old George's
less appealing carcass was there in her place.

"What's all the commotion about, young Barry?" he grumbled. "Can't I
leave you alone for two minutes without you trying to wreck the
joint?"

"I've just seen another one, " I mumbled faintly.

"Blimey, lad," he said, helping me down, "you're shaking like a leaf.
What was it this time - a headless horseman?"

"It was that lovely bit of stuff in the portrait on the staircase," I
said, "and I'll swear she was giving me the come on."

"Strewth!" said George, "the one with the big You Knows? That was no
ghost, lad - that was just wishful thinking. When I was your age I
remember getting just like that about that green Chinese girl we had
hanging in our lounge."

I made a mental note to stop confiding in George.

Every day, at knocking off time, the po-faced curator did her tour of
inspection, checking up on our work in progress and that there were
still twenty-seven silver snuffboxes in her favourite display case. One
evening, I hung about till George had gone and pumped her about Lady
Lydia Hartley (1643 -1667).

"Well, dear," she said brightening, "I can tell you a thing or two
about that little madam that isn't in the guide book!" - and she didn't
hold back.

Neither apparently did Lady Lydia. Shortly after marrying the somewhat
loony sixth Earl she'd proceeded to systematically seduce each of his
brothers in order of succession, followed by every male retainer on the
estate (in descending rank).

Her luck eventually ran out. One day the Earl came across his wife and
his pig-man at it in his stables and went berserk with jealousy and a
flintlock pistol. He shot the pig-man, strangled Lydia, then went
completely barking and was dead of a stroke within a year.

That night I dreamt wildly of Lydia poised high on some cloudy peak,
sprouting fangs, wings and talons and swooping down on me like a
smothering black tornado. I woke in darkness, sweating and wondering if
I should phone in sick.

In the morning I laughed it off. We'd be finished by the weekend
anyhow, so I decided to get stuck into my work and ignore things
paranormal. She was only a ghost and ghosts couldn't harm you.

But living or dead, Lydia evidently never believed in playing to the
rules and it soon dawned on me that she was out to get me. Whenever I
was doing something dodgy - leaning over a churning cement mixer or
wielding the circular saw - she'd appear, blowing fruity kisses through
puckered lips, fluttering her long lashes, one crooked finger
relentlessly beckoning.

She saved her party piece for our final day at the Hall. Our remaining
jobs being outdoors, we were getting a move on because there was a
distant storm brewing.

George sent me up on the roof to erect the new weather vane while he
packed our tools away. Thunder rumbled ominously and rain pelted down
on me as I gingerly shuffled my trainers along the slippery
ridge.

"I don't think this is such a good idea, George!" I yelled, as the
first lightning struck, back-lighting the Gothic fountain on the
terrace. Astride its spouting sea serpent sat Lady Lydia, arms
outstretched, as naked as the day that she was strangled and laughing
maniacally.

Paralysed, I stood in a pool of water, holding aloft a huge chunk of
metal, awaiting my fate. From the corner of my eye I'd just time to
make out George waving a huge monkey-wrench and screaming at me to stop
arsing around and get the hell down, before the next lightning bolt did
its worst.

Hartley Hall has reopened to the public. It's very smart now. Even the
ghosts look better. The monk in the cellar glides contentedly on his
way, the old buffer with the silver salver has a jaunty spring in his
step and Lord Snooty is usually to be seen relaxing with a yellowing
copy of the Sporting Times.

Don't panic if you should catch sight of Lady Lydia -she's not the
siren she was. Nowadays she trails lamb-like behind a shimmering
phantom in hobnails and a boiler suit - who is George, the spectre with
the twenty million-volt supercharge. END