wind. James thought it was very romantic. I reminded James that in my time when one lives on the edge of comfort one does not seek a dilapidated old barn for a holiday.
Then Sean thought we should light a fire for no other reason I believe than fire lighting had come into his mind. James also thought it was a good idea as well even though Jill reminded them it was the middle of August and I suggested that one had to be careful in lighting fires in old wooden buildings in high summer.
There is something about boys and matches. It is a habit which stays with them all their lives and I can only presume it comes from a past when a man who could light a fire had some advantage over his fellows in attracting a mate. I could see the advantage of this but it has been some time since my criteria for a male companion was his pyrotechnic abilities. Never-the-less Sean and James obviously still thought this was the way to girl's heart and insisted on treating Jill and I to a demonstration on fire lighting. With much excitement and tales of previous pyrotechnic adventures our menfolk piled anything that was combustible into the grate. Then gathering an old newspaper Sean crumpled it and pushed it under the wood and taking a match lit it. The paper burnt wondrously but inexplicable the wood was not interested in joining in. James then said he remembered his dad holding a newspaper over the fireplace to get a good draft going. I have seen this done many times at home with usually some success. More paper was gathered, crumpled and lit. However, I presume James did not have an adequate grip because first the centre of his newspaper turned black followed by a circular orange hole. Before I could say anything the paper set alight and flew up the chimney!
But they were not to be defeated. Sean found some liquor and proceeded to pour it on the wood and tossed a lighted match on it. Jill tried to stop him but too late for with a rather disconcerting wooosh the wood ignited at such a rate that burning embers flew out on to the hearth and up the chimney.
A mad panic ensued accompanied by much admonishment of a certain two idiots accompanied by a discussion between Jill and I on why we let them into our beds as we stamped on the embers and smouldering rug to put it out.
Eventually we put out the fire and decided that no further experiments in this area should be carried out if we wished to avoid burning down the mill.
Then for some reason, still inexplicable to this day Sean decided that we should pass the time recounting our favourite ghost stories.
"I’ll go first," said Sean before we could interrupt. He looked around the room as though he was looking for some unwelcome phantom to materialise then moving closer to us he said in almost a whisper.
"You know what worries me about this place is it reminds me of an old haunted house my grandfather had when I was young boy just outside Killarney.
I said. “And why do you think it was haunted?"
"The Pope would visit us at night."
"The Pope!"
"Yes. Just as I be getting off to fairy land I would see glowing by the door a figure. It'd get brighter and brighter until I could see it was a luminous head."
"What did you do?"
"I went screaming off to me grandpa who said don't worry it's only the Pope.”
"The next night there he was again! His eyes would follow me. It was horrible. I only stayed there three nights and refused to go back again."
"Gosh Sean that must have been scary. Did you find out what it was?"
"Yes. Apparently the Pope and his entourage had turned up in Killarney for Mass which was well received. Except they'd turned up at the local Protestant church by mistake. There was hell to pay and it said he cursed the whole county. And from then on figures of the Pope started turning up everywhere."
"What a terrible curse Sean. I'm not convinced James I would want to experience such an apparition.”
To which James replied.
"Elizabeth! Don’t believe a word of it. Its typical Sean blarney. It was just a luminous picture of the Pope on the wall. His grandad used to rent the place out to tourists. There was one in each room powered by a small battery. It was hidden just by the door. When the occupant closed the door there it was.”
“Is that right Sean?” Said Jill. “You had me believing you!"
"They’re everywhere in Kerry." Continued James, "You can buy them from the Nun's shop on top of St Peter's in Rome.”
"The Nun's shop?” Said Jill and I in unison.
"Yea." Said James as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "The Nun's Shop. Go up on to the roof of St Peter's and there you'll find a shop selling God's bric-a-brac. It's run by Nuns. Honest!"
"I don't believe you. Your both as bad as each other", said Jill.
"Suite yourselves. Anyway whose turn to tell a ghost story. Elizabeth tell us that one about Cowdray house you told me when we were up in Midhurst. That's a good one."
"I will James and you can tell the story of the ghost in the White Room at the Coaching Inn at Midhurst where we first stayed together.”
“Ah!" Said Jill giving me a gentle and friendly nudge “So that's where you first got shacked up.”
Oh dear. I was caught out again. If I ever return to my time I will gather up what little reputation I have and seal it in a box in the hope there will be a little left for my old age.
And so we recounted our tales. How we laughed. But as we conversed the room seem to grow darker and each drew closer to the other. Though obviously not in a way so that anyone would notice.
J.
I like ghost stories but there is a time and place for them and this old place with its flickering shadows from the oil lamps was not one of them. I was very conscious that not only were we a long way from anywhere but I didn't even know where we were. After a while Elizabeth decided that the effects of the Calvados and the mirth and merriment required a visit to the loo. This was met by some laughter and to encourage her we reminded her to look out for ghosts and any bogey men who might be lurking in the shadows. Before she went I also thought it best to give advice on what to expect of French bogs by recounting one of my experiences.
I don’t know whether any of you have ever visited one of those French loos on a campsite. I can tell you they require nerves of steel and extremely strong muscles in the thighs accompanied by an excellent sense of balance and should not be attempted if one has drunk more than normally required to be mildly happy. They consist of a wooden cubicle from which you can watch the stars if it is not cloudy or raining. This box has a small hole in the floor, either side of which are two raised plinths for your feet. The meaning of these becomes apparent later. A large cistern hangs above and if you are lucky a chain is attached to the ball cock lever, for without it one must jump in the air to reach it. After one has completed one’s ablutions and if, required, finished using the month old copy of Le Figaro thoughtfully provided by the campsite patron, a difficult operation is then required. Firstly, ON NO ACCOUNT must the ball cock lever be pulled until you have positively established that the door is unlocked and can be opened easily. It is also important to ascertain whether the door opens inwards or outwards otherwise severe bruising can occur. Then holding your breath you must simultaneously pull the lever, leap from the plinth, push open the door and run as fast as you can. For up from the floor like a bubbling cauldron the cistern will discharge a huge deluge of water which firstly submerges the plinths and then follows you for some distance across the field!"
E.
With James' instructions in mind and fearing no training in such matters, I proceeded to the loo which thankfully I found was not only inside and had a roof but also blessed with a more modern arrangement. It had a large plate glass window which while it allowed one to view the countryside it conversely and rather disconcertingly also allowed any person outside to view the interior and the activity within. Unfortunately my relief was only temporary as just as I had settled myself I heard what I thought were footsteps on the gravel outside.
J.
The first we knew of Elizabeth's plight was when the living room door burs
t open and my Elizabeth cried “There is something or someone outside!” At first we thought this was another ghost story but when we regarded the distress on her face our laughter stopped in an instance. The silence was deafening save for the footsteps on the gravel. I could sense from the ladies that they expected some manly act to be performed such as to go and investigate the cause of the noise. Immediately in response Sean reached for his cigarettes for courage. “Damn. I've run out of fags again but luckily by good fortune I have a backup supply.”
Then as if by magic Sean produced a little pouch tied by a string and a packet of Rizzlas. He undid the pouch and poured what looked like a very, very dry tobacco into an open paper. I remember buying a bag of this awful stuff in my smoking days at college. As a student I found one could save money for beer by buying rollups. I was told that rolling a fag was a simple operation for any man who wished to impress a lady with his “fingerative” abilities, but this particular dry tobacco had to be treated with care. For those of you considering taking up this occupation I will give some advice if not warning.
First the tobacco must be gently poured on to the paper then carefully rolled and sealed using the tongue to wet the gum. At all costs the “cigarette” must be kept horizontal at all times. Any slight incline and the dry tobacco will fall out of the tube. This