A College Mystery

'Peter - this is a rather sad mystery, but it is about Christ's...'

So reads the scrawled note in the front of the leather-bound copy of 'A College Mystery' that arrived in the post for me at work last week. The 'mystery', by A.P. Barker, was sent to me by an alumnus of the College I work for in Cambridge, Christ's, because he thought some of the fellows might be interested. Preoccupied by ghosts as I am, I've intercepted it before they could get a look in!

The tale concerns an apparition in the Fellows' Garden, where I've often sat to read at lunchtime, or stood beneath the famous Milton Mulberry tree (fancifully claimed to be the spot where he wrote 'Paradise Lost'). Apparently, a number of former students of Christ's with rooms overlooking the gardens have 'observed the figure of a man emerge on the lawn under the great chestnuts, on the left, and walk slowly and deliberately, with bent head, as far as the great yew and the weeping ash. There he invariably stopped suddenly and turned towards the may tree, and then faced the garden again, on the right, and either disappeared by the green beech, or came out on the lawn past the great copper beech, skirted the border of that bed, and then faded from view by an old elm near where the sun dial now stands. They described the figure of that of a tall, heavy, elderly man, dressed in black, with a swallow-tailed coat and high collar and stock. He sometimes raised his face; but the sudden halt at the great yew was invariable.'

Imagine my mounting sense of foreboding when the ghost in question turned out to come from Derbyshire! One of the sections in 'A Pint For The Ghost' deals with unfinished business, and the business that preoccupies this particular spirit is a terrible crime that he committed for love, a sense of guilt he needs to assuage... It was a great read, though I spoke to a historian at the College who takes a dim view of the saga.

The tale ends with a rather profound reflection on the nature of guilt and absolution:

'Is it that, in the regions of spirit, intention, or even desire, brings the same responsibility as accomplished fact?'

Who you gonna call...?

Now then. My excitement about the May 8th showcase is mounting. Why? Because I'm anticipating the bright lights? The giddy heights of the stage? The terrified audience? Nah, that's all well and good, but what I'm excited about surpasses it. Yesterday, a friend revealed that he will be coming to the showcase in a Ghostbusters t-shirt... It doesn't get much better than that. Apologies for embarrassing said friend, who will now be obvious to all and sundry. If you see him, give him the thumbs up. Or buy him a pint for his ghost.

Preparations for what I'm calling 'An Aperitif for the Ghost' are going pretty well, and I'm spending this week concentrating on set design. Conscientious as I am, I've been particularly distracted by the tricky dilemma of drinking on stage. Having spent a fruitless afternoon pondering what liquid I might pour into tankards to imitate beer, it took a swift half at my local to supply the necessary, obvious solution.

Don Paterson quotes this snippet from a book on theatre sound effects at the start of his collection, 'Nil Nil':

"A real door slammed offstage gives the best effect."

'Nuff said. I won't, however, be using real whisky, much as a dram might help to steady my nerves. Apple juice seems to be the best. I remember seeing a brilliant production of Pinter's 'No Man's Land' in London before Christmas - in the first scene, the characters had quaffed so many drams the actors would have been comatose if it were real... But, of course, I'll need to do some serious whisky drinking in the week running up to the showcase, just to get myself into character, of course. I'm also in search of beer mats, tankards, beer towels and other pub regalia, so I might be propping up the bar, pestering local landlords for a few charitable donations before May 8th. It's a hard life, but someone has to do it.

Joseph Braddock's Haunted Pubs

Skulking round a bookshop in rainy Fort William the other week, muttering about not being able to climb any hills because of the weather, I found a brilliant guide to Britain's haunted houses in a tiny, secondhand bookshop, which redeemed the day for me. The author is Joseph Braddock who, by coincidence, 'regards himself primarily as a poet', if the dust jacket is to be believed. You have to love an author who dedicates his ghostly musings to: 'my wife, who has walked with me round the edge of the unknown'.

The book contains a fantastic chapter on haunted pubs, intriguingly titled: 'Haunted Pubs and the Runcorn Poltergeist'. My favourite pub ghost is Charlie, resident of a small whitewashed country inn near Taunton. Apparently, one of Charlie's tricks was to magic beer from thin air:

"On entering the bar one morning Mr. Phillips the landlord found that a seven pint enamel jug was full to the brim with beer, although he was positive it had been empty when the household went to bed the previous night."

I've often found the opposite problem with my pint... I could have sworn that glass was full five minutes ago.

When I worked in the Red Lion (on the way to Matlock from Chesterfield), we were supposed to have a cellar ghost who rattled the bottles in the fridges late at night, or moved the barrels around. I never saw her - it was a lady, dressed in grey, according to my boss - but I did always find the cellar unnaturally cold, as if a breeze was blowing through it, and I never lingered too long when I was bottling up.

An aperitif for the ghost

The time is drawing near... on May 8th, I'll be performing a short extract from 'A Pint For The Ghost' (a shot? An aperitif?) at the wonderful Norfolk and Norwich Arts festival, alongside the other Escalator winners. For a measly fiver (that won't even buy you two pints round Cambridge way) you can have a taster of the ghosts show and watch four other great performers. I've finally managed to isolate 20 minutes of the show and I'm starting to learn my lines, so come along to watch and be afraid! The theatre at Norwich Arts Centre is really dark and sinister, so it's the ideal venue for the purpose. Who knows what kind of ghouls might join the audience...

Then, on May 9th, I'll be trying out some of the ghost poems in front of a different crowd at Poetry-next-the-Sea, a brilliant festival by the seaside in Wells, Norfolk. I'm expecting cider, fish and chips, tacky rock and maybe the odd poem. I'm looking forward to meeting the ghosts of Norfolk along the way.