A True Ghost Story for Christmas!

Until you personally have had a ghostly experience the whole subject of the paranormal remains theoretical, even absurd.

In the summer of 1988 I was part of the broadcasting team for Tyneside Hospital Radio. The crew consisted of Dan, Oliver and June and had recently been added to by Lynn and then me.

My own slot was 7.30 – 7.45 every Friday evening, for which I penned a series called Cycling through Northumbria. It was subsequently broadcast on BBC Radio as a 14-part series and published by Sandhill Press as Mad Dogs and Cyclists.

Each Friday evening I walked the mile or so from home to Preston Hospital where Tyneside Hospital Radio was based. The hospital was a great shambling Victorian pile on the outskirts of North Shields. The recording studio was way down in the basement and reached by a long flight of stairs or the huge ancient elevator. What a noise it made!

One evening in late August I stepped into the lift and closed the big rattling steel gate. The old construction shook like bones as it descended into the gloomy depths of the hospital.

After several minutes of rattling and clanking and the shadows getting deeper and darker the elevator jolted to a stop. I pushed open the gate and walked down some stone steps and then a series of long low corridors.

On my first evening Dan had greeted me with a handshake, a cheerful grin and said, “Welcome to the Nostromo.” There were groans from the other members of the team. The Nostromo of course was the doomed ship from the movie Alien.

Dan had no doubt so named the hospital basement because the corridors were cramped and claustrophobic with black piping hanging from the ceiling. Old dusty light-bulbs buzzed faintly and gave off a faint yellow light.

How those corridors echoed! My footsteps resounded from the walls as I walked past many closed doors. I had no idea what the rooms had originally been used for.

One of the doors however was open. This room was the base for Tyneside Hospital Radio. It consisted of the broadcasting unit with red light on the door indicating that Dan and Oliver, who opened the show, were on air.

There was a larger waiting room with threadbare carpet, sofas and a desk with a telephone (no mobiles then!) The telephone had thick black rubbery cabling and its ringing echoed for what seemed like forever down the long deserted corridors. Whenever the telephone did ring I felt like picking up the heavy big black receiver and saying, “Hello, Downing Street War Office here, Mr Churchill’s secretary speaking.”

As I walked into the room on that late summer’s evening, Lynn and June, who were sitting on the sofa and preparing their scripts, looked up and smiled brightly. I greeted them back and we settled down to read over our broadcast notes.

A big old railway station clock (I’ve no idea where they got that from) hung on the blistered whitewashed wall and ticked quietly away. Outside in the corridor the huge black piping rattled and the light bulbs buzzed.

Gradually however all three of us in the waiting room became aware of another noise, outside. It was the sound of someone approaching us along the corridor; it was noise of soft soled shoes or slippers on the cold stone floor.

I looked up, frowning. “What’s that noise?” Lynn asked. June did not respond but two small spots of colour had appeared on her face.

The shuffling got louder, closer. My frown had deepened. Lynn was staring at the open door. June was sitting, head bowed, writing furiously. After several long minutes the shuffling stopped, to be replaced by a pounding silence.

This was broken suddenly when we heard, it was quite distinct, a laugh or more accurately, a snigger, a cackle. It was loud enough to cause Lynn to jump to her feet and for me to put down my story and walk out of the studio into the corridor. There was no-one there. The corridor was quite empty.

I looked back into the room and shook my head. Lynn asked June again, this time rather more forcefully, “What was that noise?”

June rubbed her brow. She sighed and put down her script. “It’s the ghost,” she said. “The place is supposed to be haunted. Don’t worry about it.”

Lynn however obviously did worry about it. She resigned from the hospital radio broadcasting team and did not return to it. Had we mistaken some creaking of old wood, the buzzing of the pipes and crackling of dusty light-bulbs for something else? Perhaps.

I was a member of the hospital radio team for a couple of months and never again heard the shuffling or that rather unpleasant snigger from an unseen on-looker.

I did however find out something of interest about the hospital. I found out what the rooms down there in the basement had originally been used for.

They had been the Victorian hospital’s morgue.

The Attic: Part 2

“There is something terrible in that attic with you.”

Those had been the words of an old woman to John a month ago. She was right. The insanity of it, John thought, pouring a glass of water, the sheer madness of living in a flat that really was haunted.

“Can anyone see my hand shaking?” The thought struck him as he lifted the glass to his lips and sipped the water, ice chinking. No-one seemed to notice or care. The Friday morning team meeting continued, with the MD giving his weekly review.

John put down the glass of water and folded his hands on the table. The MD’s voice droned on. The young bloods in the team listened intently or at least looked as if they were. They had given John a hell of a time since joining the engineering firm eight weeks before and his nerves were shot.

“There is something terrible in that attic with you.” The voice of the old woman on the bus haunted John nearly as much as whatever was in his flat: an overwhelming sensation of presence that exuded menace, brutality and an icy cold calculation. Sometimes there was the reek of cigarettes or strong smell of whisky and John did not smoke and there was no alcohol in the flat.

There was also the same nightly dream but was it a dream? He wondered. It was always the same, of awaking to the voice of a girl whispering, “Hello.”

Sometimes he found himself lying with hands folded across his chest as if laid in a coffin. Sometimes he even dreamt that he could feel the child’s small hands lifting his own into position.

“God, it’s so warm in this office,” John thought. He could scarcely keep his eyes open and the MD’s voice just droned on and on. Wintry but bright sunshine flooded the office.

John sipped some water. He closed his eyes just for a moment, just for a second. There was a flash and a face appeared in his mind’s eye. It was the face of the young girl and vivid, incredibly life like.

It was the ghost he kept trying to convince himself that he had not seen once in the attic. She was very pale with her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, as if asleep – or dead.

John’s eyes snapped open and he was gripping the arms of the chair. The MD was still talking. There were nods of understanding from other members of the team. John had begun to sweat. It beaded his brow. His heart started beating hard. He felt sick, no doubt the result of another drinking session the night before. It was the only way he could face going back to the flat – and the night ahead.

John swallowed and his throat felt dry, sore. He closed his eyes and again there was the flash of light and then the girl’s face and this time her eyes snapped open.

John lurched to his feet, knocking the chair over with a thud. The MD’s voice trailed off and every face in the room turned to him. He excused himself, went to the gents and filled the sink with cold water and splashed his feverish cheeks.

When he looked up it wasn’t his face he saw in the mirror but the girl’s and she was staring at him. The ground seemed to shift under John’s feet. He staggered from the bathroom and made for the office’s main exit.

He was desperate for fresh air and pushed past people, ignoring annoyed voices. Once outside he walked, hands shaking, sweat glistening on brow, tears filling in his eyes.

He got to the Plough Inn at the bottom of the street and, going to the bar, ordered a whisky. He drank it then ordered another and then another. Around him polite lunchtime conversations murmured, along with the chink chink of glass and cutlery.

“Are you alright sir?” The barman asked John. He stared back with reddened eyes then walked unsteadily outside.

When he closed his eyes there was the face again but this time the girl was speaking though there was no sound. She must have been saying something important because her brow was furrowed with concentration. She seemed more and more frustrated that she couldn’t make herself heard.

“Stop it stop it!” John screamed, slapping his brow. “Get out of my head! Get out!”

There were more pub stops on the way home and by the time John reached the old house he was very drunk.

He stood, swaying, staring up at the attic far above, its black windows visible amidst gaunt trees. It was snowing. John’s breath steamed in the bitter cold and the street lights glowed in the dark.

Unsteadily, John climbed the stairs to the house door and searched his pockets for the keys. He let himself in and walked along the corridor, his shoes echoing on bare aged wood.

The house was indeed very old and it smelt of age. Voices and a TV could be heard from the downstairs flat. More voices echoed in the cavernous stairwell.

John began climbing the steps as there was no lift, feeling the threadbare carpet beneath his feet. Old wood creaked and voices echoed.

The staircase wound its way up through the heart of the Victorian building, right up to the red door of the attic. John got the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

As usual it shuddered on the carpet, peeling paint coming off the wood in a small shower. The attic was bitterly cold and John could see his breath. He let the door close and stood in the hallway, swaying.

“What do you want from me?” He screamed, slurring his words. There was no reply, there was only the deep silence of the old house.

John removed his coat, letting it fall to the floor. On turning on his mobile phone he saw that there were several missed calls from work. Still fully clothed he crashed onto the bed and fell into a feverish sleep.

———————————————————————————————–

He awoke with a sharp intake of breath and lay dazed, not sure what was going on.

He felt sick, rolled over and vomited. There was a terrific din in the attic. It was the sound of what must have been a dozen bells. A century ago these had summoned the servants but the bells were not there now, there was only the brass hooks from which they had hung.

John lay back on the bed, his hands shaking uncontrollably and the acidic taste of bile filling his mouth. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly then there were fists grabbing his shirt and a young girl’s voice shouting, “Come on, you’ve got to get out of here!”

John sat up with a shuddering gasp and there was the girl staring at him. He could see her as plain as day and could feel her breath on his face. Some part of his stunned mind noted that it smelt faintly of mint.

He was staring at a girl who had been dead for over a century.

Then the blinding flash again, the crackle of sound that was like static electricity and she was gone. But John was moving now, staggering off the bed and out of the room into the hall.

It was so cold he shook. He watched, stunned as ice formed before his every eyes on the window. Glass cracked with a piercing shriek. The bells had stopped ringing but there was another noise now, a slow nasal breathing that came from the kitchen. There was also a very strong smell of gas.

“What the….,” John whispered. As he walked slowly along the corridor the slow nasal breathing grew louder.

The kitchen was in darkness but a figure could be glimpsed standing by the oven. As clouds drifted clear of the moon, its light slanted in through the small attic window, illuminating the figure.

John saw a man, or what had once been a man, standing with his back to him. It had long matted hair and hands covered in wrinkled, shrivelled skin and with long yellow finger nails.

As the face turned slowly the dreadful nasal breathing grew louder. Plumes of icy breath billowed against the wall. Yellowed spike like teeth came into view and when John saw the thing’s face he screamed.

It was holding something in its claw like hands; a box of matches and every gas appliance had been turned on full. John got to the attic door, fumbling with the latch, fumbling and shouting through clenched teeth, “Come on.”

He got the door open and ran down the stairs. A man, opening the door of his apartment turned, startled when he saw John rushing down the steps and shouting, “Go go go!”

More voices echoed loudly as people came to their doors and asked what the din was about. John screamed at everyone to get out. He wrenched open the main house door and fled down the stairs, into the snow and the darkness.

The explosion threw him to the ground. When he turned over it was to see the attic disappearing into a ball of fire that rose, crackling, into the winter sky. Bits of wood reigned down. There was also the sound of breaking glass as the attic windows blew out and the people below screamed as shards of it cascaded down.

John threw up his hands to protect his face, wincing as he felt bits of glass cut them. More people ran towards the house. Someone was crouching by John’s side, asking if he was alright. He nodded, transfixed, staring up at the attic as it blew itself apart.

More people arrived and some went into the burning house to help out several of the elderly residents. There was a lot of shouting. A sizeable crowd now stood stunned in front of the house. After several more minutes the sound of sirens could be heard, wailing.

At that moment John saw it, coming towards him.

He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the fire and the falling snow. Fear gripped him.

He struggled to get to his feet but there was no escaping the small blue light that approached.

John stared wildly around. No-one else seemed to have seen it. The plume of bright blue light hovered over him.

He heard the voice of the child, the young girl who had just saved his life. Her voice was close and yet at the same time very far away.

She whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you until you are well again.”

The Attic

“Hello,” a voice whispered in the dark.

And John was suddenly wide awake.

The attic lay steeped in the deep silence of a winter’s night, moonlight draping the wardrobe.

The young man washed his face with his hands. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, not yet anyway. He pushed back the sheets and walked, bare feet slapping on threadbare carpet, along the corridor and into the kitchen. His hand fumbled around in the dark, found the light switch and flicked it.

The old bulbs buzzed into hesitant life. John went to the sink and poured a glass of water. The tap rattled, the fridge hummed faintly. John lifted the glass and drank.

“It’s a dump.” This was the damning verdict of Anna, a work colleague, on the flat. She had driven him from the office to view the place three weeks ago. And she was right.

John sighed, rinsed then dried the glass. The house may have been the height of luxury a century ago but now it was simply a big, shabby old pile on the outskirts of the city. The flat was way up in the attic. The landlady had informed him that it had once been the servants’ quarters.

Still, the place had atmosphere. On the hallway wall were the bells with which the servants’ had been summoned, one hundred years ago. There was a 1920s lampshade in the sitting room and a mangle in the bathroom.

A Victorian wardrobe stood lopsidedly in the bedroom corner. In the 1950s someone had tried to straighten this by resting one of its big ornate legs on a pile of newspapers. Inside the wardrobe were age gnarled drawers. One label remained, on the top shelf, which said: Collars.

John climbed back into bed, turned over and stared at the wall. Another small voice, his own, nagged him that this might turn out to have been a Big Bad Decision: the job, the place, the flat.

———————————————————————————————–“Hello,” came the whisper in the night.

And John was wide awake and staring into the darkness. He was sweating and yet at the same time icy cold. No …. he frowned. No it was the room; the room was glacial despite the electric fire.

What the hell, John thought. His heart was pumping hard, hammering in his chest.

That voice …. he had really heard it. It had awoken him.

“Don’t be stupid,” John said out loud. And then froze, rigid. He was lying with his hands folded across his chest, as if … as if laid out in a coffin.

The same thing happened the next night, and the next, and the next. It was always the same, being awoken by a young girl whispering in his ear, “Hello.”

And John would be lying there, drenched in cold sweat – with his hands folded across his chest.

His first month in the attic and new job passed amidst the first onslaught of winter. Gales screeched against the gaunt old house and bare leafless trees ground their bony like branches.

On a Saturday afternoon, with the wind booming and banging around the attic, windows shuddering and lights flickering, John sat with a chair pulled up in front of the fire. He was reading the jobs section in the newspaper but couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus on the task in hand.

He was floundering at work, not just struggling but floundering (marketing assistant for an engineering company in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.) It had quickly become apparent that the job was not as advertised, stuck in a dreary office and part of a small, close knit team that had not accepted him.

Bit by bit this rejection by the team had turned into the drip drip drip of workplace bullying. After a month of this treatment John’s sleep patterns were shattered, he was always wide awake and staring at the ceiling before the alarm clock sounded. He dreaded the bus trip to work and dreaded even more the long torturous day ahead of being ignored, shunned or shouted at.

People congratulated him on losing weight. If only this was due to dieting. In reality, he wasn’t eating properly. It had come to the point where shaving was an effort; exhaustion drained him, all the result of harassment at work.

John stared at the newspaper’s jobs section so hard his eyes ached. Tears welled up. Big Bad Decision ….. and the ridiculous dream he was having, the same nightmare every night.

There was always that whispered hello. The voice was so close he felt, or dreamt he felt, cool breath on his ear. But the voice was also faint, distorted, as if far away.

John turned the page. The clock ticked on. The gale screeched and the old attic creaked and groaned.

And slowly, gradually, John became aware of being watched.

At first he dismissed this as a ludicrous notion and concentrated on reading but the sensation grew ever stronger until he could no longer ignore it.

His hold on the newspaper tightened. He was now gripped by the conviction that there really was someone sitting in front of him, their stare burning through the newspaper and into him with hate and loathing.

The clock ticked and the gale shrieked and that sense of another’s presence in the room became overwhelming.

John knew that if he lowered the newspaper he would see a face, inches from his and the hated filled eyes would be drilling into him. His guts twisted when he heard, unmistakably, the slow steady breathing of another person.

John stared at the page. His eyes bulged. He could see the paper wrinkling, hear it rustling, as the other person’s breath met it.

John’s heart raced. Sweat dampened his brow. His own breathing was quick and shallow. It got quicker and harder, quicker and harder.

Then …. he lowered the newspaper in one shaking move. There was no-one there. The room, of course, was empty, except for him.

Grinning ruefully, John was startled by the ancient telephone bursting into life. He dragged himself out of the chair and walked to the table by the window and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” he said.

The line crackled and went silent. Then there was more crackling. John was about to hang up, sharply, when he heard a voice. It said, “Is that Mr Errington? It’s the City Council here – about setting up the Direct Debit for your Council Tax?”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” John replied.

“Please wait,” the council official said. “I need to get your details on screen.”

John smiled, yes that was fine … and then heard quite clearly, a man behind him. It was a grating voice, guttural, barely human in fact. It sneered, “Ring ring, ring ring.”

John spun round, stunned. He stood rooted to the spot, staring across the empty room.

———————————————————————————————-

He awoke with a startled cry. In his fitful sleep John had felt small fingers lifting his hands and folding them across his chest.

His breath steamed in a bitter cold, despite the fire.

And then he saw her, in the corner of the room, illuminated by moonlight. It was a young girl in Victorian dress. John glimpsed pale hands at her sides, the glimmer of fair hair.

He was transfixed with fear. His breathing was ragged, a series of shuddering gasps. Some part of his stunned mind told him that this couldn’t be happening. But it was.

“What do you want?” He asked. His voice seemed shockingly loud in the pounding silence.

The girl slowly shook her head and then the air seemed to shift around her, to turn, the space of the attic changing – and she was gone.

John crouched on the bed, gasping and shivering.

———————————————————————————————-

An old woman was sitting next to John on the bus. She was staring at him.

He tried to ignore her but could sense the staring. He looked determinedly out of the bus window, not that he could see much, just the blizzard and street lights.

A blast of Siberian like wind filled the bus as the doors wheezed open and people clambered onboard. All the time, the old woman watched John.

The bus got going, bumping and rattling, slush swishing under the tyres. John was determined to ignore the old woman sitting next to him and thought about his conversation that morning with his mother, back home in London.

He’d stood in a draughty corridor with his mobile phone, away from the desks and his wretched co-workers who so tormented him.

“Big Bad Decision mum,” he’d said.

There was however the relief at a possible solution …. “Get out John,” his mother had urged. “Come home ….”

“She’s warning you.” The voice broke into John’s thoughts and he came back to the present, to the bus and the cold and the snow and the old woman staring at him.

He could smell her faintly sour breath, her unwashed body. Her face was deeply lined, with a sharp hook nose and penetrating eyes.

“I’m … sorry?” John blustered. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

“She’s warning you,” the old lady said again, “the little girl. It’s a warning.”

John’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. He turned cold. “How did you …. What do you mean?”

The old woman smiled faintly. Her eyes were compassionate as well as wise. She said, “The spirit of the little girl is trying to help you but take heed.” Now the woman’s eyes became serious; deeply, darkly serious. Frightening.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “There is something else in that attic with you John, something terrible.”

To be continued ……

Mr Young’s Trip To The Seaside

“Yes sir, how may I help you?”

Robert fidgeted. He didn’t know what to say.

The ticket clerk waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Several minutes passed and the people queuing behind Robert grew a little restless.

The ticket clerk’s eyebrows rose even further. He asked again, “How may I help you sir?”

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” Robert blurted and dashed away. Normality resumed, with the queue inching forwards as the clerk dispensed tickets.

Robert hovered, clutching his briefcase. Voices echoed through the palatial railway station. And most of all, there was the sound of steam trains. They couldn’t be seen but they could certainly be heard: boom hiss, boom hiss, boom hiss. Periodically, clouds of smoke billowed up to the station’s capacious glass ceiling.

Robert was annoyed with himself. He’d been planning this for weeks, anticipating the great adventure: his first train trip.

With a stoic straightening of the shoulders he rejoined the queue and several minutes later was once again standing in front of the ticket office.

“How may I help you sir?” The clerk asked. He was a little balding man with a pencil behind his ear and ink stained fingers. The watch chain hanging from the pocket of his waist coat glinted. Behind him, next to a portrait of Queen Victoria, the big station clock ticked the minutes by. It was 11.40 precisely.

The ticket clerk’s small beady eyes peered up at Robert from behind the lenses of his spectacles. But it was not an unfriendly look, indeed there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“I want to go somewhere,” said Robert, “on the train.”

“I see, and where did you have in mind sir?”

 “Well, where does the train go?”

The clerk gave a small sigh. He took the pencil from behind his ear and held it between his chubby fingers. “There are many trains that go to many places,” he explained.

Robert thought about this. “Well …. I want to visit the seaside.”

“Aah,” the  clerk said portentously. They were making progress. “You would like a ticket to Shields-by-the-Sea. Will that be single or a return?”

“Oh I’m single,” Robert said, “I just need the one ticket, thank you.”

“No sir,” the clerk said patiently, “will you be desiring to return today?”

“Oh I see,” said Robert. “Well yes, I have to go to work tomorrow.”

“Indeed so sir,” intoned the clerk. He licked his fingers and leafed through his pad of inky tickets. The enormity of the moment washed over Robert and he felt sure he would faint. He ran his finger around the inside of his stiff, white, starched collar.

The clerk wrote on the ticket, pencil scratching. The station clock ticked. The clerk peeled the ticket from the book with a flourish and Robert handed his fare over.

With the twinkle still in his little friendly eyes, the clerk said, “Enjoy your journey sir.”

Robert, a bag of nerves, nodded. He dropped his ticket as he picked up his briefcase and then dropping the case as he picked up his ticket.

Blushing, he gathered up his worldly belongings. “Thank you,” he said to the clerk who inclined his head.

Robert showed his ticket to the man at the barrier …. and was admitted to the railway station’s inner sanctum.

Robert could scarcely believe it. His head swam. He had never seen so many people from all the social classes in one place together, though they were not actually quite together.

To one side were gathered the ladies and gentlemen of the Upper Orders, a great number of top hats and fine frock coats, walking canes and clouds of cigar smoke. The ladies wore capes of fur over long silky skirts, bustles swishing as they moved. Wearing delicate white gloves, they fanned their faces. Robert gazed at a sea of summery bonnets and parasols.

The Middle Class passengers waited, logically thought Robert, in the middle of the station, a crowd of men under bowler hats and ladies wearing crinoline dresses and petticoats.

The working class passengers were crowded into the far corner. Not much evidence of cigars and top hats there, Robert observed. The women wore shawls over coarse, rather shapeless dresses, the men cloth caps and open neck, collarless shirts.

Voices echoed, children ran about, dogs barked and a young man ushered chickens back to the menagerie of animals a farmer had with him. This included two goats and a cat.

Robert joined his middle class brethren, nervously. Sweat matted his fair hair to his brow. His heart pounded.

Presently, a train guard came striding along the platform. There was a murmur of expectancy from the passengers. Several more minutes passed. The chickens were still running around the platform and a goat was nibbling the hem of a lady’s dress.

And then a new sound could be discerned. Goose pimples swept Robert’s arms.

He could hear a steam train – and it was getting nearer and louder, boom and hiss, boom and hiss, boom and hiss.

People began picking up cases and bags. The farm lad stopped the goat from trying to eat the lady’s dress.

The steam locomotive, pulling three carriages in the livery of the North-Eastern Railway, came pounding into the station, smoke pumping from its long ornate funnel. Gold patterning shone through billowing smoke and steam. The carriage livery was a crimson edged with gold. This was the 12.01 from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Shields-by-the-Sea.

Robert’s mouth dropped open. His sensations had never witnessed such an effect – especially the noise. He dropped the suitcase and planted his hands over his ears. The train came to a shuddering halt. Steam rose from the panting engine. Doors opened and people spilled out.

The guard waved a flag. The driver and fireman leant out of the engine and watched the passengers disembark.

The new passengers picked up their luggage and moved towards the train. Robert did not have the faintest idea of where to go. On the first carriage was inscribed the dedication First Class. The next carriage was Second Class and the third was an open top wagon, clearly designated for the Working Classes.

The interior of the First Class carriage looked very fine indeed, with upholstered chairs, table cloths, gas lights and window blinds. Robert stared down at his ticket, struggling to assimilate all the information it contained.

Then the guard was at his side and after a quick glance at the ticket said, “Second Class, Coach B, sir.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Robert and clambered onboard. The interior did not have the fine fixtures of First Class. There was a long wooden bench on either side of the carriage but at least it was closed to the elements. Robert found a place by the window.

Several tumultuous minutes went by, with the train and the platform a babble of activity. The carriage filled up, with people standing as well as sitting. Finally, the guard blew his whistle and the carriage doors were shut.

The train jolted then moved. The station platform glided past as the train picked up speed, hissing and steaming, steaming and hissing, rattling and clanking.

The sunshine, the swaying of the carriages, all had a hypnotic effect on Robert. He gradually relaxed until finally his case was rested on his knees and his hands lay on top of the case.

He looked out of the window, at the great conurbation that was the city sliding past, becoming the middle class suburbs and then outlying farms. Suddenly, Robert had travelled further than he had ever done so before in his entire life.

The other passengers who were used to train trips dozed or read but Robert was transfixed by the unknown land through which the train sped at a mind boggling 35 mph.

Robert took his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and clicked it open: 12.09. It was 10 miles to Shields-by-the-Sea. Robert calculated that the train would cover that distance in around 20 minutes.

It hardly seemed like five minutes because Robert sat, transfixed, looking out of the window at the farms and the lanes, the men and the horses working the land.

He sat forwards as a new marvel came into view. He had read about it in books, had talked to people who claimed to have seen it.

Was that, Robert wondered in amazement ….. was that the sea?

He gawped and stared, quite overwhelmed by this vision. It was the sea! And beaches too! Sand dunes rose on either side of the train, gleaming and golden.

The train steamed past a sign that declared Shields-by-the-Sea. Seized by excitement and nerves, Robert stood.

The train jolted and slowed. A station platform slid into view. The train shuddered to a stop. A guard opened the door and the disembarking passengers stepped down onto the platform, the guard tilting his hat and murmuring, “Sir. Ma’am.” 

Robert stood on the platform. He watched the carriage doors being closed and the guard striding up and down. He blew his whistle and waved his flag and the train inched forwards, picking up speed.

The noise lingered in the air for a long time after the train could no longer be seen. After consulting the timetable on the wall Robert wandered out of the station and along a cobbled street. This led through the  fishing village of Shields-by-the-Sea.

Robert knew of the place, had read about it, he’d even talked to people who had visited it but the little fishing village was a good 10 miles from the city. It was a foreign land.

The briefcase bumped against Robert’s leg as he walked past medieval houses. The young man felt as though he had travelled back in time to Shakespeare’s England. The technological wonders of the 19^th Century had yet to arrive here.

And then, there was the beach. When Robert saw the sand under his shoes he scrambled away from it. Was sand corrosive? He wondered.

He looked about him. There was no one on hand who could offer advice. Robert knelt down and unlaced his shoes and removed them – and his socks – which he tucked into the shoes. Then the thought struck him, what if sand could corrode his bare feet?

He applied some logic to the matter. Why, if sand was dangerous the Government would do something about it! People wouldn’t be allowed to walk on the beaches!

Robert, tucking his shoes under his arm, raised his bare right foot and stepped forward. His foot landed on the sand. Nothing catastrophic occurred. Indeed, the sensation of sand on his sole felt distinctly pleasant.

The young man cautiously presented his left foot to the beach. Again, nothing horrible happened. He began walking, to the sea. A  mellifluous blend of sounds affected his sensations with a desirable outcome. Robert was relaxed.

He consulted his fob watch: 12.45. The return train was at 3.30. He had plenty of time.

He walked to the water’s edge and experienced the most curious phenomena. He stared down at the sand. His feet were wet! He observed with scientific fascination as they sank into the glistening sand.

Robert was ill prepared however for happened next. A wave rolled ashore and between his toes. The young man got such a shock he turned and ran but didn’t get very far because he tripped and fell over his briefcase.

Rather gingerly, Robert sat up. “Well that was foolish,” he told himself. “How would science advance with such timidity?” He brushed the sand off his clothes and stood up. Then he walked back down to the sea. And put his bare foot into the water. “See,” he thought, “quite harmless. Cold yes but no other disadvantage suffered.”

Robert walked along the shoreline, his senses regaled by a tide of new experiences.

Finally, he came to an outcrop of rock and climbed up onto it and sat down. He opened his briefcase and took out his sandwich and a napkin. He spread the napkin on his knees and whilst eating the sandwich gazed across a sparkling sea to sailing ships on the horizon.

Having finished his lunch, Robert lay back and gazed up at the cloudless sky and after a while fell asleep. He dreamt of the steam train and the chickens racing around the platform and the sunlight shimmering like stars on the sea and the ticket clerk’s voice, “How can I help you sir?” Over and over. And then the voice was getting louder and it wasn’t a man but a woman, “Are you alright?”

Robert opened his eyes. A young lady was standing over him, a look of concern on her face. Robert scrambled to his feet. “Oh. Yes. I’m fine, thank you, fell asleep after my exertions. Walked along the beach.”

“Oh, it’s glorious,” said the young lady. She shaded her eyes and gazed out to sea.

“Do you live here?” Robert asked, noting the basket of flowers the woman carried.

“Aye, in Shields-by-the-Sea.”

The two looked at each other, a little uncertainly. Then the woman offered her hand in greeting, “I’m Rebecca.”

“Robert,” said Robert, shaking her hand. “Rather sandy.”

They smiled and walked along the cliff towards the village. Rebecca explained that she was a teacher at the elementary school.

“Oh really? I’m a librarian, in the city. I’ve been planning my expedition to the seaside for a long time.”

“On the train?”

“Yes indeed. Have you ever been – on a train?”

“Oh no,” the young lady looked at Robert. He noted how her blue eyes danced with light. She had a strong face he thought and a very direct gaze. “I don’t think it’s safe,” she added earnestly. “The human body is not designed for such velocity.”

“Well I’ve survived. And there were people on the train who use it all the time and they didn’t look … squashed.”

Rebecca thought about this. She nodded thoughtfully. After this slightly awkward moment their conversation was relaxed, easy, as they strolled into the village. Robert told her about the lectures he had attended at the Literary and Philosophical Society in Newcastle, about how he had even had a telephone installed at home and could ring some of his friends. Rebecca was astounded by this.

When he told her about the potential of electric lighting, expounded by William Armstrong one evening at a packed Lit and Phil, Rebecca could only shake her head in wonder at such marvels.

“Would you like an ice cream?” Robert asked when they reached the little cobbled street, the Elizabethan houses leaning overhead, their ancient, black wooden timber at odds with the new age of science, of telephones and tram rails – and trains.

Rebecca smiled. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Robert went into the shop, having to duck under the doorway. The interior was a clutter of baskets and lobster pots, bric-a-brac and glass jars full of sweets. There were chairs and tables, stools and chests that must have been a hundred years old at least, thought Robert.

He walked up to the counter, on which sat the great, ornate till. An elderly lady came out of an inner room. She was rather severe looking, dressed all in black, with boots that clicked loudly on the wooden floor. Even her hair was black, drawn back into a tight efficient bun.

“Er, may I order two ice creams please?” Robert asked.

A brilliant smile spread over the old woman’s hawk like face. “Whey aye hinny!”

Rebecca and Robert walked down the high street, past the shops and the public houses, eating their ice creams. And then, with a sudden twinge, Robert realised that his train was due. It was nearly time to part company with Rebecca.

She was studying the outer façade of the railway station. “I’ve heard of Newcastle,” she said. “But it’s 10 miles away.”

“It’s a long way,” Robert agreed. “But you should visit, on the train.”

The young lady considered this. “We’ll see. Will you be revisiting Shields-by the-Sea? I go walking along the cliff top or on the beach every Sunday.”

She’s a bit forward, thought Robert, a little taken aback. But after all, these were modern times!

“Yes, sounds good,” Robert said. Then he had an inspired idea. “I’ll send a telegram, from the city Post Office to the one here, to let you know when I’ll next be visiting.”

Rebecca nodded with enthusiasm. “I’ve seen Miss Thomas in our little Post Office use the telegram machine. What an age of wonder we live in.”

“Oh indeed.”

Robert and Rebecca shook hands. The young lady walked off down the street, looking back over her shoulder at Robert and smiling.

And then the steam locomotive came clanking and hissing into the station and there was once again the magical experience of a train journey.

Robert was already planning his next journey to Shields-by-the-Sea – the following Sunday.

The Ghost of the Black Monk …..

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that the ghost of the Black Monk would come looking for me ….

When we were children, me and my mates, we all lived in Tynemouth, would steel out of our homes at midnight and go ghost hunting. We’d shin down drainpipes and sneak across gardens, to meet at Queen Victoria’s statue. Then we’d head up Front Street, climb into the castle and go searching for the Black Monk, so called because of his dark, hooded cloak.

Mooching around amongst the tombstones and through the ruins of the castle, we often scared the living daylights out of each but never actually encountered the elusive spectre.

Until one night ….. I woke up and there, standing at the foot of my bed, was the Black Monk himself. In the depths of a shadowed cowl, his eyes were like burning coals. I screamed and pulled the blanket over my head.

When finally I plucked up the courage to peek again, there was no ghost there. A clock ticked quietly. Everything was as it should be.

I did not return to the castle on any more another ghost hunting expeditions.

The legend of the Black Monk has a basis in reality. During a Viking raid on Tynemouth Priory in the 10^th Century one of the attacking warriors was wounded and taken prisoner, though the idea of a berserk Viking being subdued by monks stretches the imagination a little.

The Viking’s name was Olaf. He was nursed back to health by the monks, converted to Christianity and became a monk himself. Now, it came to pass that there was a second Viking raid onTynemouth. Clearly lightning does strike twice in some cases.

One of the Vikings killed in the ensuring battle – these monks were clearly not to be meddled with – was Olaf’s brother. Inconsolable with grief, Olaf spent most of his time in the priory chapel, praying for the soul of his slain brother. And he died there, crouched before the altar.

Ever since, so the tale goes, Olaf’s ghost can be seen wandering the priory grounds and gazing forlornly out to sea.

Or standing at the foot of the bed of mischievous young boys …..

History and legend grow like a tree through Tynemouth, stored in books, in the castle and the buildings and in family tales that are handed down from generation to generation.

In the railway station, for example, somewhere in the magnificent glass ceiling will be an inscription, a sign, left by the Victorian work party that built this place. Every station has them. It’s worth looking for on any visit to Tynemouth Railway Station.

The castle was built in 1296. Inside are the remains of the 11^th Century priory, now silent and windblown but once candle lit, the slow chanting of monks drifting over the hilltop.

Stepping into the cool dark shadow of the castle entrance, first impressions are of the smell of cold, ancient stone, of the wind whispering over aged walls and through silent dungeons….

After looking around the ancient graveyard, enjoy great views of the River Tyne and North and South Shields piers. On the north side of the great river are the formidable Black Middens rocks where so many ships have come to grief.

The statue of Admiral Lord Collingood is a dominant feature. Son of a Newcastle merchant, Collingwood was born in 1748. He played a key role in the Battle of Trafalgar.

When Lord Nelson was mortally wounded Collingwood took command of the British fleet from HMS Sovereign. On his death in 1810, Collingwood’s reputation was such that he was laid to rest in St Paul’s Cathedral.

The people of the North-East did not forget him. In 1845 the statue was built. Its pedestal was designed by non other than John Dobson.

Walking along the south side of Front Street, a story from my mother’s wartime childhood, she lived in Colbeck Terrace, came to mind. One bright sunny morning she was wandering past the Salutation Inn when all hell erupted.

At first no-one knew what was happening, until they realised that a German fighter plane was strafing Front Street. Someone grabbed my mother by the hair and dragged her into a shop doorway just as the bullets screamed past, ripping up the street.

Then an RAF fighter, the pilot was Polish, arrived and a ferocious dog fight ensued. Crowds gathered to watch the deadly confrontation and applaud and cheer as the German aircraft screeched, black smoke streaming from its wings, into the North Sea.

One of the many rumours surrounding Tynemouth, another branch of its history tree, is that of the Battle of Front Street. Many years ago, so says the legend, workmen were digging up the street.

One of the men was down in a ditch and his shovel struck something hard and it wasn’t stone. When the workman brushed away the soil he got such a shock he jumped to his feet and shouted to his mates.

He had uncovered a skull, grinning up at the world with a shattered head ….

It is a rich interweaving of history and legend, to be savoured over dinner at the renowned Marshall’s Fish and Chip shop, which has been there for as long as anyone can remember.

Steeped in history – and battle

The ever present wind, sighing around the still mighty walls; its whispered tales are of hundreds of years of history.

If only the wind really could tell its tales, what epic events it could describe in the long life of Newcastle-upon-Tyne’s Castle Garth.

The original Motte and Bailey was built in 1080AD by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror. King Henry II rebuilt the Norman fortress as a stone castle in the latter half of the 12^th Century and it was added to by King John during the following century.

The castle covered a huge area, as far west as the city’s railway station and down to the quayside where archaeologists have found the remains of medieval buttresses. As for the name, Castle Garth – Garth is an old English word for enclosed space or garden and ironically, the castle was indeed once a place of gardens.

In 1619 a royal courtier, Alexander Stephenson, was given the land inside the castle walls by King James I. Stephenson divided his newly acquired real estate into gardens and leased them out.

These were joined, over the years, by houses and pubs and a self-contained community developed within the castle walls. There would have been a maze of narrow lanes crowded with people, goats, hens and pigs, timbered houses leaning crookedly over noisy inns, the smells of freshly slaughtered animals mingling with that of ovens and open sewers.

This town within a town remained firmly under the control of the Crown, however, not a powerful northern lord or the Corporation of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The North was always a rebellious region and the King wasn’t taking any chances.

Castle Garth was briefly refortified during the English Civil War but after that its days as a military base were over and in the 1840s the area around the once mighty castle Keep was cleared to make way for the railway.

The great hearth in the King’s Chamber has been cold and dead for a long time but it’s not difficult to imagine a roaring fire, throwing shadows onto a rush covered floor, the smells of woodsmoke and candles heavy in the air, the room echoing to the sound of conversations that changed the course of history.

The names scratched into the walls date from 1644 when the Royalist garrison was besieged by Parliamentary forces during the English Civil War. Two of those ancient signatures are Thomas Cuthbert and John Danby. We will never know if they survived the siege.

The King’s Chamber also has a garderobe or medieval toilet, though to call it such is a little on the grandiose side. A garderobe consisted of a hole over a chute. Below the chute is a chamber, into which the waste fell. The castle had several such garderobes and one suspects that chamber cleaning was not the most popular job on the servants’ duty roster.

A visit to Castle Garth is worth it just for the views from the top of the Keep. The panoramic views of some of the most beautiful streets and buildings in Europe, many designed by John Dobson and Richard Grainger in the 19th Century, can be enjoyed. And of course, there are the breathtaking views of the Tyne’s bridges and of the river itself.

The Great Hall is another highlight of any tour. Medieval monarchs spent a lot of time travelling their kingdom and when here at Castle Garth the King would have governed the country from this very hall, which would have hosted state banquets.

There would have been smoking braziers and hounds loping around the tables at which the monarch and his guests feasted, entertained by a bard singing. Streaming from crackling torches in their rusting brackets, acrid smoke would have blackened the low raftered ceiling.

Outside meanwhile, sunlight runs like blood over the street and brings to mind another fact – the original Norman fortress was built on a Saxon cemetery. At one point something like 600 skeletons were found when the area was being cleared.

There are probably thousands of bodies under Newcastle-upon-Tyne’s streets.

The Escapade of Nana Corke’s Fish Supper

Most journalists get a chance to work on many and varied stories. This has certainly been my experience.

My own particular hobby has been the collection of funny stories. Every family has them, tucked away in people’s memories or handed down from generation to generation.

One of the funniest stories I ever came across was in fact from my own family.

It involved my late mother, Mrs Maureen Rooney, nee Corke. During the Second World War her home was on Colbeck Terrace, Tynemouth in Tyne and Wear. She lived there with her brother, Terry, and mother, Alice (who I always knew as Nana Corke). During the war Alice’s husband was away overseas in the Forces.

One of the most popular stories, which my mother and uncle used to laugh over was the Escapade of Nana’s Fish Supper.

Now, Nana loved her Friday night treat of fish and chips, washed down with a bottle of stout. 

Every Friday, at 5pm sharp, my mum and her brother were sent to Marshall’s Fish and Chip Shop on Tynemouth Front Street to buy nana’s supper of haddock and chips.

“Lots of batter mind you,” Nana would call after them. “I want me bit batter!”

On this particular evening, Terry and Maureen had purchased said fish and chips and were wandering back along Front Street, my mother carrying the precious cargo.

And then the unthinkable happened. She dropped Nana’s fish supper and before Terry could rescue the assemblage a number 11 bus ran over it.

Aghast, the two children stared down at their mother’s crushed supper.

 “Oh no!” Maureen cried. “What do we do now?”

“Only one thing for it,” Terry said with a stoic straightening of the shoulders. He crouched down and began scraping the fish and chips off the ground.

Hearts in their mouths, they presented Nana Corke with her supper. Terry even poured his mother’s glass of stout and Nana appreciatively patted her son’s hand, “You’re a good lad,” she said.

Maureen and her brother watched, transfixed, as Nana Corke transported a forkful of fish to her mouth. She chewed happily, listening to the wireless.

And then a frown crossed her face. The sound of her teeth grinding on gravel was quite audible.

 “Oh my ….,” Terry breathed.

“Oh no,” Maureen concurred.

 Finally, Nana screeched, “What’s this?”

 Maureen and Terry didn’t wait to find out. They made a run for it.

It was later reported by a neighbour that during their escape bid they looked like Laurel and Hardy trying to get through a doorway at the same time.

The Gates of Hell

One spring afternoon in 2004 I worked on an unforgettable story.

It all started unremarkably enough with a phone call from a young woman who said that her grandfather had a story to tell.

Sitting at my desk in the Editorial Office of the Evening Gazette in Middlesbrough, I asked for more details.

My telephone never stopped ringing. I arrived at work each morning to, typically, 20-30 messages on my answering machine.

But as the young lady, Carol, told me about her grandfather, I listened with increasing interest.

Carol’s granddad, Billy, had served on the Arctic Convoys during World War Two. Would I like to interview him?

Would I! I arranged to go out to Billy’s home first thing next day.

Billy lived in Nunthorpe, just outside of Middlesbrough. As promised, I arrived at 9.30 sharp at Billy’s small house. Carol was there to greet me. She had the same eyes as her grandfather. He was tall and thin, sitting in his favourite fireside armchair, legs covered with a tartan shawl.

As Carol went off to make us a cup of tea, I settled down on the sofa and took in my surroundings; a budgie chirping in its cage; small electric fire; rather threadbare carpet; sofa; two chairs; old grandfather clock in the corner.

Billy was frail, the veins standing out on his long thin, cold hands and around the bridge of his nose. But his eyes were bright blue and he was as sharp as a button.

When Carol came back with the tea, she poured us a cup each and then laid a hand gently over Billy’s. “Now granddad,” she said. “You were going to tell Chris about your time on the convoys? You wanted to tell him something.”

Billy nodded and then coughed; it racked his thin, failing body and it clearly cut Carol to the core, to see him like this.

“Have you heard of the Gates of Hell, young man?” Billy asked, his old voice crackling slightly.

I shook my head.

“Well, in 1942 I found out that there really was such a place as Hell on Earth.”

Billy then told me his story, of his first Arctic Convoy in the winter of 1942. It was compelling and Carol and I listened, riveted. I wrote furiously, part of my mind already sifting through the information, deciding which scenes would be the most evocative.

Billy was 20 in 1942 when he joined the Merchant Navy, as a boiler stoker. He joined his ship, which I will call the Ellen, at Loch Ewe. This is from where the Arctic Convoys left, ushered out into the North Atlantic by their naval escort.

And there was a lady in white. Standing on the hillside, she sang There’ll Always Be an England. My pen scratched faster and faster on the notebook. This was good stuff. This was a very good story. I had heard of the Woman in White, singing as the convoys left, but had thought it a legend. Until now.

Talking at length like this was clearly taking its toll on Billy; his story periodically disturbed by that racking cough of his. Then Carol would wipe the thick white flem from his lips, lovingly, with a tissue.

‘This man is dying,’ I thought. There was nothing I could do. I could just do my job, and that was to listen and to write.

The tension amongst the crew of the Ellen mounted as the convoy made its slow way to Iceland, and specifically, to Bear Island.

The RAF escort fell away the further out the convoy pushed, beyond the protective reach of Fighter Command.

“The sea had many moods,” Billy said. “But mostly it was bad. Booming and exploding and throwing the ship around like a matchbox. And these were big ships.

“As we approached Bear Island, I was on deck, we all were. I was standing next to my shipmate, Frank, an older man who had served on several convoys. He was white lipped with tension – and with fear. Because beyond a small stretch of water, known as the Gates of Hell, the German U-Boats awaited us. Masses of them, on the surface of the sea, as bold as brass. Waiting.

“With the Ellen pitching and rolling and the wind screeching in my face, I stared at the dozens of U-Boats and whispered, “Oh my dear God.”

“Frank dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, ‘There’s no God here, lad.’ He turned to go then stopped and looked back at me, saying, ‘Whatever happens, stick with me. Like glue. Ok? I’ll get you through this. If I can.’ “

Billy’s throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow. He felt physically sick with fear.

“Down below, in the bowels of the ship, in the engine rooms, we couldn’t hear the Luftwaffe mauling the convoy,” Billy told me. “Or the returning fire from our naval escort. But we knew when a U-Boat had taken out one of our merchant vessels because, I swear Mr Rooney, you could hear a ship in its death-throes. You could feel it booming and screaming and echoing through the Ellen. Constant, all around us, the screams of ships going down.”

By the time the convoy reached Murmansk, it had lost nearly 30%, Billy reckoned, of its ships. A lot of men had died.

Shore leave however soon dispelled any notions that the seamen of the British convoy had had a tough time when they saw the state of the Russian town, with bodies frozen in ice and daily, devastating German air-raids.

At this point in his narrative, Billy leant forward and laid a hand over mine. “And do you know what cargo we were carrying, Mr Rooney?” he said. “Boots. Boots! When we found out, Frank laughed till he cried and then he was weeping and I can hear it still.

“But you see, boots were just as important as tanks.”

Billy told me that he – and Frank – had finally arrived safely back in England. And then the interview was over.

Carol gently kissed her grandfather’s brow.

Then she walked me to the door.

“Well, can you use it, the story?” The young woman asked me.

“Oh definitely,” I said, clipping my pen into my top pocket. Then I said, “He hasn’t got long left, has he, Billy?”

Tears filled Carol’s eyes. She shook her head.

I received a letter from her a week later, informing me that Billy had passed away in his sleep.

But he had been delighted with the story, which had been published.

And I was very pleased.

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