In High Spirits

Ours was a holiday with a difference – Jean wanted to find a ghost on her birthday break!

JEAN and I had been as eager as anyone to get away on a break when the lockdown restrictions eased. Consequently, we’d booked in haste and ended up in a cramped apartment by the sea, surrounded on all sides by parties of young people letting off the considerable pent-up energy that had been supressed during a year of being restricted to base, on and off.

And when I say parties, I mean parties.

They shouted, they played constant music, they danced on the floorboards overhead and they definitely weren’t in bed by midnight.

“I suppose we could complain to the landlord,” Jean said.

“I don’t really want to, though,” I replied. “I mean, they’re only having fun, and they deserve it after all they’ve put up with.

“It can’t have been easy being young during a pandemic.”

Jean said it wasn’t easy being old, either, but she agreed that we didn’t want to be party-poopers.

“We probably should have taken a cottage, instead of a flat,” she said.

“Huh – try finding one of those this summer,” I told her. “Everything was booked up. Believe me, I looked.”

Then I had an idea. “Tell you what – why don’t we treat ourselves to a second little break?

“We could go away at the end of August and tie it in with your birthday.”

I delved into my handbag and pulled out my diary.

“Look – the week beginning the twentynineth should have loads of availability – all the kids will be going back to school on the first of September.” Jean brightened up.

“I like your thinking,” she said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Possibly not self-catering this time,” I replied. “We could find a nice hotel for a couple of nights.”

“What about one with a spa?” Jean suggested.

“It would be something for us to do.”

“That’s a possibility,” I said. “Or how would you feel about an activity break, if we could find something we like?

“You know, one with crafts and workshops and things – that would certainly entertain us.”

I could see from Jean’s face that the cogs of her mind were working.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Maureen, there’s something I’ve always wanted to do that I’ve never done.” “Ridden a camel?” “Don’t be silly.” “What then?”

“I’ve never stayed in a haunted house. That’s what I want to do for my birthday – spend the night somewhere with a resident ghost!”

I looked at Jean. She was serious.

“I’ve read about such places,” she continued. “Unexplained noises, and cold spots on the stairs.

“When we get home, let’s do a Google search and find one not too far away.

It’ll be much more exciting than a spa.”

****

Castle Clift wasn’t a real castle, but it was a very old hotel on the coast road fifty miles north of where we lived.

It had a reputation for fine dining and a snug bar with an extraordinary collection of whiskies.

It was also famed for being haunted by Poor Alma, the spirit of a serving girl.

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before!” Jean exclaimed, as she drove us up the driveway. “I’ve always wanted to meet a ghost.”

Jean and I were similar in lots of ways.

We didn’t have children, but we enjoyed our extended families, we liked old movies and modern crime dramas and we appreciated our grub.

However, I did not share Jean’s enthusiasm for ghost-hunting.

Not that I was at all frightened – I simply didn’t believe such things existed.

Knowing this, Jean had insisted we each have our own bedrooms instead of sharing a twin.

“I don’t want you putting them off with your scepticism,” she declared.

“You’ll give off all the wrong vibes. Poor Alma has to know she can appear to me.

“And don’t roll your eyes, Maureen.”

“Who said I was rolling my eyes – you’re looking straight ahead.”

“I just know you so well.”

****

We parked the car and took a good look at the outside of our lodgings.

Castle Clift was dark and forbidding. I hoped the interior wouldn’t be as gloomy.

We trundled our wheelie cases into the hallway, where a thin red carpet partly covered the old stone floor.

On the walls were the mounted skulls of various creatures. Deer, mostly, I supposed.

“They give me the creeps,” I murmured to Jean.

“Good – that’s the idea,” she replied, then nudged me in the ribs as a stooped man in an ill-fitting auburn wig appeared behind the reception desk. Where had he popped up from?

“Good afternoon, ladies. Do you have a reservation?” he asked in a warbling voice.

“Yes. We’re Jean Latimer and Maureen Goss and we have booked two rooms for the next two nights,” Jean informed him.

“We’re particularly keen on meeting your ghost, if you can offer us any tips.”

Our host looked at her steadily.

“I take it you’re referring to Poor Alma. Many come, but not all see. That’s all I can tell you.

“Now if you’d care to sign our register, I’ll just fetch your room keys.

“Afternoon high tea is available in the diningroom until five, and àla

carte from six-thirty. The slow-cooked pork shank is particularly good.”

Just then, a lonely howl sounded somewhere in the castle. It didn’t exactly spook me, but it was a little unsettling.

Jean lit up in delight. “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Is that Poor Alma wailing?”

Our host looked at her like he pitied her.

“That was Oisín – our

Irish wolfhound. He’ll want his afternoon tea.”

****

Jean and I decided that afternoon tea sounded like a very good idea and were soon tucking into dainty sandwiches, scones and pastries in the conservatory off the main dining-room.

“I can’t believe you thought that sound was a ghost,” I said, looking fondly at Oisín, who was lying stretched out in a large patch of sunlight.

“Well, how was I supposed to know there was a dog about the place?” Jean replied.

“We’ve only just got here. I need to get a feel for my surroundings. Then I bet I see Poor Alma.

“I hoped the man on reception would be a bit more forthcoming. Surely it’s a selling point, having a famous resident spirit.

“I’m going to try asking the waitress when she brings more tea, see if I can find out something more.”

“What makes you think she’s going to bring more tea?” I enquired.

“Because I’m going to ask her.”

Our waitress was, indeed, happy to fill us in on the story of Poor Alma.

It turned out she’d been a serving girl at Castle Clift in Victorian times. An orphan, she had found employment and a home at the castle when it had been a family residence.

Against all convention of the day, she and the youngest son of the resident Staples family had fallen in love and Johnny Staples had promised to marry her.

“His mother and father wouldn’t hear of it and threatened to send Alma away,” the waitress said.

“But Johnny didn’t want her cast out without any kin into a cold world, so he left instead.

“He agreed to enlist in the Army if Alma could continue living at Castle Clift, all the time hoping that his parents would eventually relent.”

“I take it they didn’t,” Jean chipped in.

“They didn’t get the chance. Johnny Staples died in Crimea.

“When Poor Alma learned of his fate, she threw herself into the ravine behind the castle. The gamekeeper found her, frozen to death.” Jean’s eyes were huge. “And now she haunts the place,” Jean said. “Why? Is it for revenge?”

“Not revenge. She’s still looking for Johnny.”

****

Full of our afternoon tea, we agreed we’d go to our neighbouring rooms and have a nap.

I flicked on the television and checked the BBC news channel for anything big.

After a few minutes, I switched it off and lay down. Through the wall, I could hear the familiar sound of Jean snoring. Just like home.

I must have drifted off myself, then, because the next thing I knew I was awoken by a strange sound. It was high and distressed.

It was a little like a child’s cry, yet not entirely like a child’s. Where was it coming from?

My window was small, and I couldn’t see much from there. Perhaps Jean would know what it was. I knocked on her door. “Jean. It’s me – Maureen. Let me in.”

Jean opened the door, rubbing her eyes.

“I was just having a lovely dream, Maureen. I was snorkelling and I came upon a talking octopus.”

“Did you hear that peculiar sound?” “What sound?”

“Shh. Listen.”

We both stayed quiet. “I can’t hear anything,” Jean said.

“Well, it’s stopped now.” “What sort of sound was it?” Jean asked.

“A sort of . . . wailing,” I replied.

Jean gripped my arm. “Do you think it was Poor Alma? Honestly, Jean, if you get to meet her and I don’t that will be so unfair.”

“Of course it wasn’t Poor Alma,” I said. “It was probably just a child.”

“Have you seen any children since we got here?” Jean demanded. “It’s not exactly the sort of place you’d bring kids.”

I had to admit she was right.

“Well, we’re both awake now,” Jean went on.

“Let me wash my face and then I suggest we go downstairs and try one of the whiskies in the snug bar.

“It’ll give us an appetite for dinner.”

Not that Jean or I had ever needed much help to feel hungry, but the thought of that nice cosy place appealed.

Fifteen minutes later, we

A lonely howl sounded somewhere in the castle

were seated in two leather armchairs in front of a crackling log fire, each sipping from a glass of amber liquid.

“You can really taste the peat in this one,” Jean commented.

Outside, the summer seemed to have deserted us, and rain and wind beat against the windows.

Oisín slunk in and sprawled across the hearth rug. I bent and scratched his ears.

“I wonder if that’s Johnny Staples in the picture.” Jean said.

I followed her gaze to a large painting hanging on the chimney breast.

It was of a handsome young man in uniform.

“Could be,” I guessed. “Although if they were a military lot there could have been any number of soldiers in the family.”

“I’ll ask the bar steward,” Jean decided.

The steward confirmed that the young man in the portrait was, indeed, Johnny Staples.

Jean perked up at this news.

“And is there a portrait of Poor Alma we could see? Maureen, I’m

sure if I got a look at her it would help me to attract a visitation.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” the steward said.

“Only the well-off could afford to have their pictures done – no-one painted servants in those days.”

“Oh, how sad!” Jean wailed. “Imagine Johnny going off to war and no picture to take with him of his sweetheart. Perhaps he took a lock of her hair.”

“Personally, I find locks of hair rather creepy,” I told her.

“My father cut off my plaits when I was eleven and heading to grammar school.

“My mother kept them in a biscuit tin in the sideboard until she died.”

“How marvellous!” Jean declared. “You never told me that before.”

The steward asked us if we’d like to see the dinner menu.

Reading it was a formality, though – we’d decided hours ago we were having that slow-cooked pork shank.

****

“Well, even if you don’t get to see your ghost, I’m notching this up as a resounding success,” I said, setting down my knife and fork. “That was delicious.”

“Agreed,” Jean answered. “I’ll put a good review on their website when we get home.”

“And at least we got to hear the story of Johnny and Alma, and to see his picture.”

“We did. Wasn’t he handsome? But I haven’t given up on sensing Poor Alma’s ghost yet – the night is young.”

“The night might well be, but I’m not. I think I’ll have an early night, Shrimp, if it’s all right with you.”

“Fine by me. I think I’m just as likely to encounter the ghost in a darkened bedroom as anywhere full of people.”

We shared a dessert and a pot of decaff coffee and climbed the stairs to bed.

“Night, Jean. Hope your ghost visits you.”

“Night-night, Maureen. I hope so, too.”

I got ready for bed, checked the news headlines and crawled under the covers with my book.

No young people singing and dancing overhead. Just peace and quiet.

The next thing I knew, I was wakening out of sleep, my paperback still in my hand. I checked my watch – two-forty a.m.

There it was again – that high crying sound, strange, and not entirely human.

That must be what had woken me.

This time it was more urgent, more distressed.

I had the feeling that the source of the sound wasn’t very far away. I climbed out of bed and went to the window, but couldn’t see much in the dark.

Loosening the catch, I edged the window open and the sound became clearer.

As well as this, I could smell something. Still sleepy, it took me a moment to realise it was smoke!

I leaned out as far as I could to see what I could make out.

My room was above the car park, and in the window of the nearest vehicle I could see flames reflected – the hotel was on fire!

“Jean! Wake up!” I cried, scurrying out on to the landing.

“Fire! Fire!” I shouted, knocking on the neighbouring doors.

A middle-aged man burst out of his bedroom.

“Is it really a fire?” I confirmed that it was, he immediately went to the emergency button on the wall and in a moment a deafening bell was wakening the whole establishment.

Jean appeared in her doorway.

“We have to go,” I said, grabbing her arm. “There’s a fire.”

Along the corridor, we found an older couple, frailer than us, and helped them down the stairs.

In the lobby, the reception man, also in his pyjamas and his wig even more askew, was directing people out to a safe meeting place in the car park.

“You need to call an ambulance,” Jean told him. “Some of these people will need help to get warmed up, at the very least.”

He said he’d already called the fire brigade but would ring for an ambulance, too.

Out in the car park, we formed a huddle, putting those who looked most vulnerable at the centre to try to trap some heat around them.

I understood penguins did something like this during blizzards.

Although we were well away from danger and the receptionist had the good grace to come along and inform us that everyone was accounted for (including a disgruntled Oisín), we could all see and hear that the fire was real.

“It was you who raised the alarm, wasn’t it?” a woman asked me.

“What on earth alerted you?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I replied. “A strange noise woke me – a sort of anguished crying.

“I was looking out my window to try to find out what it was and I saw the reflection of flames.”

“It must have been her!” Jean cried. “It must have been Poor Alma, warning you!”

Some of the other residents murmured in agreement.

“Maureen, Poor Alma saved our lives. If she hadn’t woken you, we could all have perished.”

The fire brigade sent two tenders, and we were impressed as the firefighters dismounted at speed, targeted the fire and quelled the flames.

“Here comes the ambulance,” Jean said.

Only the elderly couple we’d led out needed attention. The rest of us felt we were fine.

Our receptionist came by again to inform us that a coach would be arriving in a few minutes to take us all to Castle Clift’s sister hotel, the Green Gables, a couple of miles away.

There would be rooms for everyone.

“The fire brigade will stay on and ensure that everything’s safe. All being well, you can return tomorrow.

“The fire seems to have started in the cellar and spread to the linen store above, but it was

There it was again – that high crying sound

extinguished before it reached the rest of the building.”

“Why didn’t the smoke alarms go off?” I asked.

“That will be a matter for investigation,” the receptionist said.

Jean and I shared a twin room at the Green Gables.

“I can’t believe Poor Alma chose you to appear to,” Jean said.

“That makes two of us.” “But you can’t deny it any more,” Jean insisted. “You heard her. She must have been prowling about, looking for Johnny.

“I hope she finds him one day and I hope he’s proud of what she did tonight.”

I put on my sleep mask and pulled up my covers.

If Jean wanted to believe Poor Alma had saved us all, then where was the harm?

I admit, I’d almost begun to wonder myself until, from the coach window as we were leaving the car park, I saw a flock of peacocks and peahens watching us from the lawn. Ah, yes – peacocks.

I’d heard that when they cried the sound was most unsettling, resembling that of a distressed child, almost human but somehow other-worldly.

It occurred to me to tell Jean, but in the end I decided to keep the peacocks to myself. ■