The Ghost Of Marley Hall

Jill loved her new flat, but no-one told her it came with an unusual flatmate . . .

JILL sat up in bed. She could smell something. She sniffed the air. Fire? No. She breathed a sigh of relief. She checked the clock. This was the third night running, and at exactly the same time. Five o’clock on the dot.

She had only moved into the newly decorated flat a few days ago so the smell of paint hadn’t disappeared yet, but there was something else. What was it?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t something she need worry about. She pulled the duvet up and went back to sleep.

When next she opened her eyes the sun was streaming in and it was time to get up. Jill jumped from her bed and pulled a brush through her brown hair.

Last Wednesday she’d begun a new job with a building society here in Redmarley and life was great. Well, almost.

Ever since Josh had waltzed off with her ex-best friend she’d been unsettled.

The trouble, her mother told her, was that she was too picky.

But Jill had ideas about romance and was looking for someone a bit different. Would she find him here? Time would tell.

Marley Old Hall had been turned into apartments and Jill had been lucky enough to rent one.

“The owner’s gone abroad for two years,” the estate agent had said. “Not everyone likes sloping ceilings, and I’m afraid it’s rather small.”

Jill thought the sloping ceilings were romantic.

Her flat had been part of the servants’ quarters in the Hall’s heyday, but the grounds had been sold and now the windows looked across a housing estate.

Once she’d eaten breakfast and washed up in her brand-new kitchen, Jill decided to sort her books.

The job took longer than she expected because she kept rereading her favourite bits before putting them on the shelves.

Job done, she collected the boxes, squashed them up and set off to find the dustbin area.

Outside her flat she followed the corridor which led to the top of the main staircase.

Peering over the rail into the hall below, she pictured what it would have been like when the Marley family lived there.

Parties, music and the chatter of voices, glittering chandeliers, handsome men and women in fabulous clothes.

Now it was so quiet . . . She’d almost reached the bottom step when the boxes slipped from her arms and crashed to the floor of the entrance hall.

The door of one of the downstairs flats opened and a young man appeared.

“What’s happened? You frightened me to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Jill said, rescuing the pile of cardboard. “I’ve just moved in, and I’m trying to find out where the rubbish goes.”

“Through that door there, down the hall and out at the back. What number are you?”

“Five B. I’m Jill Waters.” Jill hoped the other apartment-dwellers were friendlier than this.

“The bins are all numbered so you’ll know which is which. Be sure to close the lid; we don’t want stuff blowing about.” He blinked. “I hope you don’t mind ghosts.”

Ghosts? That was cheering. She realised an old house like this was bound to have legends.

But she was far too sensible to believe in such nonsense.

Probably he was only trying to wind her up.

The bins weren’t hard to find and, rubbish disposed of, she was on her way upstairs when the door opened again.

This time, the young guy wore a thick pair of glasses. He was clutching a slim book.

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Nathan. I thought you might like a read of this.” He held out the book. “History of the Hall. It might interest you if you’re new to the area.”

A shy smile lit up his face.

“Nice to have someone younger about the place.”

Before she could thank him, he vanished back into his flat.

Taking the book, she returned upstairs. There were still jobs to do so she didn’t open it until supper was over.

It held reproductions of paintings and a centre spread with a photograph of the Marley family.

It was dated 1862, and they were lined up on the front steps with the staff behind them.

It was fascinating reading about the grand times they’d had. Balls, house parties for the races and dinner parties.

Footmen, parlour maids, laundry maids. And Jill was actually where the servants used to sleep.

She felt her eyes closing. Although she was only halfway through the book, the rest would have to wait for another day.

She woke again to the strong smell of soap and starch.

As Jill reached for the light, for a moment she thought she saw a young woman in a blue dress standing by her bed.

She shook her head. She had the Marley family on the brain. That was what came of reading so late.

The next day was Sunday. Jill sorted out the rest of her belongings and carried another pile of rubbish to the bins.

It was difficult managing the heavy doors which swung shut the moment she let go of them.

She saw that Nathan must have had a similar problem, for he’d fixed his with a large metal doorstop. Should she knock on his door and ask him where he’d got it?

“Not lost again, are you?” he said when he opened the door.

Nathan still seemed nervous, but he invited her in. As they sat and he told her about the Hall, he seemed more relaxed.

He certainly made excellent coffee and served it not in a mug, but in a china cup and saucer.

It was as if he were trying to make up for his behaviour the previous day.

He asked if she’d had time to read the book.

“I wondered if you’d got to the bit about the ghost, Polly? She was a laundry maid and is said to haunt the top floor. I hope she didn’t disturb you.”

“What happened?” Jill asked.

“She was supposed to be meeting one of the footmen but had to finish the ironing first. She must have been hurrying because she was found at the bottom of the back stairs with a broken neck.

“Oddly enough, they never found the iron. The family used to say she’d never rest until she got it back.”

He really believed the story, Jill marvelled. Personally, she felt a laundry maid looking for a lost iron was hardly romantic.

She smiled politely. “I really came to ask where you found your doorstop. Was it somewhere local?”

“That old thing?” He laughed, and she saw that beneath his shyness he had rather a kind face with sparkly blue eyes.

“There’s a junk shop in the village, a real Aladdin’s Cave. Ask Mrs Morris, the owner. She used to work here and I’m sure she’ll find you something.” “Not you again!” When Jill put on the light the same mysterious girl was standing by her bed. Was this Polly, the ghost?

“What’s wrong?” she asked, patting the bed and inviting the apparition to sit down. Perhaps if she took her seriously, Polly would go away and then Jill could get back to sleep!

“There’s so much ironing!” Polly wailed. “There’s a big dinner tonight and there’s ever so many napkins and I’d arranged to meet my young man.

“But I can’t go until I’ve finished my work and now I’ve lost my iron!”

Getting out of bed, Jill led the way into the kitchen and produced her smart electric iron. Polly shook her head. “That’s no good, miss.” She looked around. “You see, I tripped and the iron flew right out of my hand. It’s down these stairs here.”

Jill decided she must have been imagining things

And she walked straight through the kitchen wall and disappeared.

Jill gasped. Had Nathan been right when he’d talked about a ghost?

Polly didn’t return for several nights and Jill decided she must have been imagining things, which was just as well, because there was so much to learn at the building society.

By the time she got home her head was spinning and it seemed ages before she could drop off to sleep.

Since Jill was the sort of person who normally fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, she was aware it was making her irritable.

Thursday night was worse than ever. Jill tossed and turned, twisted, threw the duvet off and then pulled it back on.

She was worried that tiredness would make it difficult to concentrate at work, and that would be serious.

At last she got up and made herself a cup of cocoa, but just before she dropped off to sleep Polly appeared.

“Go away!” Jill shouted. This was doing her head in; she’d never get a decent night’s sleep. Sitting up, she scowled at Polly.

“Go away,” she repeated. “Go and find your young man. Go and get your ironing done.”

“But I need my iron, miss. I haven’t got my iron!” Tears ran down Polly’s face.

Jill pulled the duvet over her head and closed her eyes.

The next morning, despite her best efforts, she was late for work. She knew she would have to do something.

On her way home, as she drove through the village, she suddenly recalled Nathan’s description of the junk shop.

Maybe she could kill two birds with one stone – get a stopper for the door and solve Polly’s problem at the same time.

Determined to sort things out, the following Saturday she put aside the idea of a lie-in and went into the village where she found her way to the junk shop.

It was small and poky and the lady who ran it looked almost as old as the shop.

“A door-stop? Just help yourself, my love.” She pointed to the back of the shop.

Jill knew exactly what she wanted and soon found it. Among a muddle of bent forks and chipped plates was an old flat iron.

She picked it up and blew the dust off. It was perfect; black and heavy, it would surely be what Polly was looking for.

In fact, she reasoned, it could have come from the Old Hall and might be the very iron Polly had lost.

Before she went to bed she put it on the windowledge. Five o’clock.

“Polly, is that you?” Why did she ask? Who else could it be?

“I’ve found your iron, Polly, it’s on the windowledge. Go see.”

Polly looked at the iron. Her face went pink and she started to giggle.

“He’ll be ever so pleased to see me!” she said and picked up the iron.

Or rather, the ghost of the iron. Jill saw it in Polly’s hand and watched as she disappeared through the kitchen wall where, according to the book, there had once been a back staircase.

Peace at last. Was Polly at peace? Jill hoped so. She hoped Polly had found her sweetheart and that they were happy together.

What about Nathan? What would he say? Would he mind that the ghost had gone? Somehow Jill discovered she was looking forward to telling him the story.

Sometimes, in the following months, Jill smelled soap and starch, drifting through the flat whenever she found a pile of neatly pressed clothes she could not remember ironing. n