Rural ghosts

“Have you ever met a ghost?” I asked Don on the occasion of one of my weekly evening visits.

“Of course not, they don’t exist except in the minds of certain people. Crikey don’t tell me you’ve become one of them?”

Don emptied another bottle of beer into his glass while I took a small sip of my sherry before starting my story.

“When I first started work I used to live in the village of Great Bookham in Surrey and worked in London. In those days there was countryside all around the village. The local squire had long ago refused to allow the railway line any where near the village area and the new village of ‘Little Bookham’ had grown up near the station. This had the effect of making Great Bookham a more desirable area once the motor car arrived.

I had a twenty minute walk from home to the station and on most occasions found the exercise very enjoyable.”

Don giggled to himself at this point. “Bit different nowadays isn’t it?”

“Well it was long time ago, obviously before we met and I moved down here.”

Don nodded and told me to stop blathering and get on with the story.

“Right then; coming home one night on the train I fell asleep. As was often the case when this happened I woke up as the train came through the tunnel just before Great Bookham station. I think the smell of sulphur woke me up as much as anything. Then it slowly sank into my tired mind that the line had been electrified years before. I woke up properly as the train hissed to a halt and then the familiar noises of the porter shouting out the name of the stations along the line made me think twice.”

“Bookham station Bookham station; Effingham Junction and Guildford train.”

What ever had happened to Clandon, both the Horsleys and London Rd. Something strange was going on. My mind was still clearing as I got out of the carriage onto the misty platform; I realised that I’d just got down from of one of the obsolete slam door carriages and that the porter wasn’t using the PA system but shouting as he walked along the length of the train!

I hurried to the front of the train and sure enough an old steam engine was pulling the carriages. Perhaps I’d got on a steam enthusiasts train by mistake, so I thoughtfully wandered to the exit, season ticket in hand. The ticket man took no notice as I waved the card in his face; he only seemed to be taking an interest in other people’s old fashioned green tickets.

Come to think of it that was strange in itself. Everybody else had green cardboard tickets! Then a very old fashioned car drove up and parked in the taxi rank. I think that was when the penny finally dropped. All the taxis were very old sit up and beg types instead of the more rounded modern shapes.

I had a good look now at the people walking around me, even their clothes seemed very old fashioned especially those worn by the women. A young lad was selling the evening papers “Star, News and Standard” he was obviously straining his voice to make himself heard but I could only just hear him.

Then as I tried to get near to him to check the date printed on his papers it happened for the first time. Jostling for their late evening news several people walked through me. It was a strange sensation I can tell you!

Somehow or other I guessed I had gone back in time and couldn’t make myself seen or heard. This feeling was reinforced when I bemusedly wandered across the road and was driven through by a motorcycle and sidecar. I started going home my normal way along a footpath but after a few steps it petered out in a dense thicket of blackberry bushes. There was only one alternative left to try and that was to turn round and walk the long way home.

I cut across to the path leading to Bookham village and walked up the rise from the station. Even the path didn’t feel right somehow but at last I reached the outskirts of the village. Well at least the Barn Hall was in the right place but the road where I lived was only a rough track. There were some houses built along it however so I walked down looking for the kink in the road where I lived. Nothing! There was only a large field with a pond and some horses grazing.

I recognised the pond! My father had often told me how he’d incorporated this as a feature in his back garden in the 1930’s but it obviously hadn’t happened yet.

Becoming very worried and beginning to feel a bit frightened, I retraced my steps back to the beginning of the road. The only familiar structure was the Barn Hall, well that was several hundred years old so was obviously a fixture in the landscape. My guess was that I’d somehow travelled back into the early 1900s, but how on earth I was going to get back home was beyond me at the moment.

A piece of paper pinned to the notice board on the side of the Barn Hall caught my eye. ‘A W.I meeting will be held next Tuesday, featuring the well known local clairvoyant Angela Morris. Come and see what the spirits have in store for you.’ Another flyer had been stuck across the original. It just read ‘TODAY’ in large red letters.

If Angela was any good at all I thought she might be able to help me with my problem, even though strictly speaking I wasn’t even born yet! I could hear the drone of voices from inside the building and walked through the door on impulse.

A lady, who I assumed was the well known Angela, was on the stage asking if anyone had a relative by the name of George. As I came in she suddenly stopped talking and looked at me strangely. ‘Come and sit on the stage I’ll talk to you after the meeting’

“Thank you” I said, “you’re the first person who can see and...”

‘Don’t verbalise I can’t hear you,’ she said ‘think what you want to say.’

I thought about what I’d just said and she nodded and continued making sure that everyone in the audience had a chance to indicate that they knew somebody called George. One or two people had put up their hands and I twisted round so that I was facing the audience myself. There was the misty outline of a man standing near one of the people with a hand in the air claiming George as their relative.

Angela concentrated and I assumed she was talking to the spirit of George. “George says he is well and happy and that you’re to continue with your life as you have already planned.”

The lady she was talking to burst into tears and said “thank you” several times between sobs. Angela had a quick look round the assembly and pronounced that there was only one other spirit in the building and she was going to deal with that one in private, then she declared the meeting closed.

After the crowd had dispersed I heard Angela’s voice inside my head. ‘Now you’re a rare one,’ she said, ‘you haven’t been born yet so rather unusually you must be a ghost from the future!’

I explained that I lived in the 1990’s and had no idea how I’d got into this era and all I wanted to do was to get back to my own time frame.

‘You’re lucky to have met me,’ said Angela, ‘there are a lot of fake mediums about these days and I’m one of the few genuine ones you’ll find in the profession, let alone in this area!’

She considered my story carefully and quickly came to a conclusion. ‘I think that we have to try and return you before your time line becomes too broken,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back to the station and put you on the next train to Waterloo, I think you’ll find that your familiarity with the modernity of the station will jolt you back into your period. Look me up at Flushing House in Station Rd, the next time you go home, I’d like to know if you made it OK.’

Half an hour later I reckon the porter at Great Bookham station must have thought the lady was crazy. From his point of view she’d bought a platform ticket for one and then opened and shut a carriage door, before standing on the spot waving until the train disappeared into the tunnel on its way to Waterloo.

----O----

“And that’s it,” said Don “you obviously got back and you’ve told me a very good story but I’m afraid I don’t believe a word of it!”

“There is a little bit more,” I replied “and I think you’ll be convinced when I’ve finished my tale”
Don went out into the kitchen and got himself another bottle of beer. “Right then,” he said as he settled himself, “convince me!”

“Angela had been right,” I continued. “Once at Waterloo I got back home the same evening and after a few disbelieved explanations about my lateness I went off to work the next day and returned home again with no further complications.

The following weekend I got into my car and drove round to Flushing House to see if I could contact Angela 70 odd years later.

Flushing House was one of those grand gentleman farmers houses built before the First World War. I parked on the gravelled area in front of the building and knocked on the door.

A lady of about my own age answered and let me in when I asked after Angela Morris. “I’m afraid she died about 10 years ago, is your name Geoffrey?”

I agreed that was my name. “Thank goodness you’ve come then. Mother sometimes talked about you and she insisted that we had to leave her room exactly as she kept it all these years. There’s a letter for you on her dressing table, but she insisted that only you could go in and collect it.”

She pointed up the grand staircase. “Turn right on the landing and it’s the second door on the left!”

I followed her directions and then for some reason stopped at the door and knocked. I heard Angela quite clearly say ‘Come in,’ as I opened the door. The ghost of a little old lady was sitting at the dressing table. She turned as I came in.

“Oh good it is you, you obviously got back home alright then.”

I nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

“Don’t worry young man I quite understand, one minute you’re a ghost, the next minute I am, that’s life dear. I wrote you a letter 70 years ago you’ll have to pick it up yourself now I’m afraid. Anyway now you’ve arrived safely I can leave,” and she waved to me as she faded away.

“Well,” said Don, “what does that prove?

I reached into my pocket and gave him the old letter which he read. “Oh!” he said quietly as he handed it back, “I see what you mean!”