Cumbrian Ghost Stories

by Tony Walker

I did, but she still wouldn’t let me hold her.

  We went for our walk to Ennerdale the next day. It wasn’t as sunny, which was actually a good thing as the climbing wasn’t as hard as it had been in the heat. On coming back, I said we should go to the pub. She seemed ill at ease, on the look-out for something, scanning the lakeside as we walked along the road.

  We had a meal at the Wasdale Head Inn. I got talking to the old bloke in the corner. He had a thick Cumbrian accent, so he was hard to understand at first. I guess he was a retired farmer or something.

  It annoyed Sally that I was talking to him, but she ended up talking to a couple from Newcastle. Eventually, after asking about him and his life in the valley a bit, I asked if there was a ghost around the lake.

  He cackled. ‘You’ve seen her, have you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The drowned woman.’

  That was a shock. That was exactly what I had seen. I took a sip of my beer. Then I described her.

  He nodded. ‘Aye, that’ll be her. Margaret Hogg.’

  ‘Margaret Hogg?’

  ‘Aye, a woman from Surrey. Her husband choked her then drove her up here and put her in the lake. That was 1976. They didn’t find her until 1984 when they sent divers out looking for a French girl who went missing. Otherwise she’d still be there.’

  ‘How did they know it was her?’

  ‘The water’s so cold and lacking in oxygen she didn’t rot. Mind you, he just missed dropping her in the deepest part. He weighted her down, but she only went on the ledge — a hundred foot down. If he’d got it right, she’d have sunk right to the bottom and no one would have ever found her.’

  ‘And have other people seen her? The ghost.’

  He nodded. ‘One or two. I’ve never seen her myself, but I knew a lad from Nether Wasdale as saw her. That was a couple of years ago now, but now and again people say they’ve seen her. It can be anywhere round the lake.’

  I sat back. In one way, it reassured me I wasn’t going mad. In another it was horrible because I’d really seen such a thing. I was trembling. The pint glass in my hand was shaking, so I put it down. I think he saw it.

  ‘She’s got you shook up, hasn’t she?’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘It was just so weird.’

  He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t bother. She can’t do you no harm, son. She’s dead.’

  I sat back. ‘But what does she want?’ I asked.

  ‘What does she want?’ He seemed to ponder that. Eventually he replied, ‘Well, they do say she has good intentions. She comes to warn you of some terrible thing that is going to happen.’

  That was worse. ‘A terrible thing? Like what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all nonsense anyway, just stupid ghost stories.’

  He could see he’d scared me, but I wouldn’t give up. ‘What happened to the lad from wherever, Nether Wasdale was it?’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, Jimmy.’

  ‘Well, what terrible thing happened to him?’

  He grunted. ‘It’s just superstition you know.’

  ‘But what happened to him?’

  It took him a long time to answer, eventually he said, ‘Well, he died in a motorcycle accident.’

  ‘How long after?’

  ‘Not long. Days.’

  ‘So how was that warning him?’

  ‘She appeared twice or three times by his bike.’

  ‘Did she speak?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just a coincidence.’

  I took a drink of beer. It didn’t help. ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  He gazed at the table. ‘Don’t pay it no mind. I shouldn’t have said nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s okay.’ But I couldn’t concentrate on him anymore, I was just thinking about the drowned woman and what she was warning me about.

  ‘Why did he kill her?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Margaret Hogg’s husband.’

  ‘I dunno. Something to do with an affair. Best forget about her now, lad. Honest, it’ll do you no good going on about it.’

  I didn’t speak any more to him about the drowned woman, and I said nothing about it to Sally. As we walked back from the pub, it was still daylight and even as preoccupied as I was I couldn’t help but see how beautiful the place was. Wild and remote, but beautiful. A light breeze ruffled the water of the lake and the waves were very dark because the lake was so deep. I shuddered when I thought about Margaret Hogg being dumped in the depths. Ghost or no ghost, that had happened to a real woman — killed by her husband.

  As we walked along, there was a bloke camping by the side of the lake. It was wild camping, and he wasn’t supposed to do it. He had a one-man tent, and a van parked up next to it. As we got close, Sally seemed to stiffen up. She kept walking, but it was like she was forcing herself to act normal. That was weird. I couldn’t understand it. Then she started talking about the view. The bloke nipped into his tent before we got too close. It was only about a hundred yards short of our camper van. I said, ‘He looked like the fella that runs the gym at home.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ I said. I turned as I walked to stare back but he was gone now, inside his tent.

  ‘No, stop staring. It’s rude.’

  ‘He can’t see me. He’s in the tent.’

  ‘Marcus, stop embarrassing me.’

  I felt a flush of shame. It seemed I was always an embarrassment to her. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, keep on walking then.’

  When we got back to the van, she was nice to me. I have no idea why, but then I never do. She’s not nice as much these days but even so it was welcome, whatever the cause of it.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.

  We sat on the camp chairs outside, watching the last golden light of the sun in the west. ‘No, I’m okay,’ I said.

  ‘I’m having one.’ She poured herself some of that Parma violet gin and a Feverfew tonic.

  ‘Nah, I’m okay.’ Truth was I was still thinking about that woman.

  She came out from the van with two glasses. ‘I poured you one anyway,’ she smiled.

  She gave me the glass, and I thought I didn’t fancy it but it might relax me.

  It relaxed me so much that I had another. Sally was so nice to me it was just like old times. But I’m not a spirit drinker so I had forgotten how strong gin is. After two or three of those, I was unsteady as I climbed back into the van. I didn’t bother to wash or clean my teeth. I felt drunk.

  Sally got into bed beside me and as I lay there, the van started spinning. At least I would sleep, I thought.

  And not see her: the drowned woman.

  Much later. ‘Marcus.’ The voice was inside my dreams now. I felt sick and cold with fear. I struggled to wake up. I felt drugged. I felt heavy. My arms and legs felt tied down.

  ‘Marcus.’ She said again. I wasn’t sure if it was inside my head. I wasn’t sure whether I was awake or dreaming.

  But there were voices inside the van. From the depths of my sleep, it sounded like a man talking to Sally. I must be dreaming. I let myself fall back into slumber. It was easier.

  ‘Marcus.’

  I felt her cold hands on me. She was shaking me awake. But I was only dreaming. I needn’t listen to the drowned woman. It was much easier to sleep.

  From far away, another world, I heard a man talking to Sally.

  She said, ‘Do it then.’

  He said, ‘Here?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought we’d get him outside.’

  I thought I should get up, but I honestly couldn’t move and then the drowned woman started shaking me again, violently, rocking me awake. ‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus...’

  ‘What the hell?’ the man said from somewhere. ‘He’s awake. You said—‘

  ‘I did. I did. I gave him a double dose. That stuff you got.
’

  ‘Rohypnol. Not enough then.’

  And then I sat up. The woman was saying, ‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus...’ in my brain. Buzzing like an alarm.

  She was summoning me out of my sleep. My head was heavy, woozy. I was still drunk. Everything was dark but the lights of the van were on. It was deep night.

  ‘Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.’ The drowned woman wanted me to go outside the van. She seemed urgent about it.

  My head was so woozy. I blinked. There was a man in the van standing next to Sally. They both stood there watching me. He had a rope in his hands. A blue polypropylene rope.

  ‘Marcus!’ The drowned woman’s voice was like cold water washing over me. I jerked up. They both looked shocked.

  ‘Do it!’ Sally screamed. ‘Now, before he gets up.’

  But I was out of bed. Still doped up, but I was moving. He snatched at me as I went past but I tugged myself out of his grip.

  ‘Do it!’ Sally yelled, but I yanked free towards the door of the van.

  Then he said, ‘I can’t. Use the knife.’

  Sally had the kitchen knife in her hand. I thought she might hesitate, remembering the years when she had loved me, but she twisted her face with hate. I was just an impediment to her now. My life stopped her getting what she wanted. She wanted both him and my money. So she yelled and lunged.

  The knife stuck in the top of my arm. I felt like I’d she’d punched me but instantly blood spouted from the wound. She pulled the knife back to stab me again, this time somewhere vital, but I stumbled to the door of the van.

  ‘Marcus,’ the drowned woman said. She was standing in the van between me and Sally.

  Water dripped from her. Her cold dead lips formed my name. ‘Marcus.’

  But Sally and her boyfriend saw her. They couldn’t help it. She materialized right in front of them.

  Sally screamed and dropped the knife. As the woman stood there in front of her, Sally put her hands to her face and screamed again. The man backed off, behind Sally, away from the drowned woman.

  She just stood there, accusing them. Accusing them and saving me.

  I grabbed the door handle, still bleeding like a pig from my arm wound. I grabbed it, turned it and leaped out. I ran. I ran and ran, sprinting up the road alongside the dark lake and didn’t stop until I got to the pub. I hammered on the door and they let me in. They saw the blood and called the police.

  Later that night, the police stopped Sally and her boyfriend on the A66 near Keswick. They arrested them for attempted murder. It turned out at the trial that Sally had thought she’d have him choke me and dump me in the lake. They’d dump me in the deepest part. Never to be found.

  But the drowned woman warned me. I guess she’d tried to warn Jimmy at Nether Wasdale about his bike, but he hadn’t understood.

  The drowned woman warned me and saved my life, and I guess it was because she didn’t want someone else to go the way she had.

  That was nearly a year ago. I’m with another girl now. Someone who’s nice to me. Someone who hasn’t once mentioned life insurance.

  3

  The Crier of Claife

  It was a winter evening in December 1856. The wind blew along the lake raising a welter of ripples on water turned red by a sun already descending behind the Heights of Claife.

  I worked on the ferry then from the Bowness side. There had always been ferrymen to take passengers over to Claife and Sawrey, since the days of the monks. In fact, my father was one, but since the railway arrived at Windermere bringing all the tourists seeking the beauty of the Lake District business had boomed.

  The night I am talking about, the light was fading. I stood with my mate Alf Mumberson on the Bowness side, taking a pipe. I’d done reasonably well that day, and was considering finishing when we heard a call from the Claife side. As Alf had taken the last passenger, I expected him to let me have this one, but instead he stirred and stepped towards his boat. Half-turning, but not meeting my eye, as if there was something he was ashamed of, he muttered, ‘I’ll take this one Davey. I know her.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, not wanting to cause a fuss, though she was my passenger by rights.

  I say ‘she’, but the wind had snatched the passenger’s voice and I’d not even registered that it was a woman calling, but he had. It seemed he’d even recognised the voice.

  I’m known for my easy-going ways — too easy going my sister says. Anyway, ‘I’ll wait for you,’ I said. ‘You never know, I might get another fare before the dark falls.’

  He grunted. ‘You don’t need to wait, Davey. Get yourself home.’

  I said, ‘But you’ll only be ten minutes, surely. Then you’ll be on your way back. I’ll wait.’

  But he had his feet in the water, already pushing the boat off the shingle. As he stepped in, gently rocking the hull in the water, he said, ‘As you wish, but don’t wait on my account.’

  I waved his words down. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll walk home with you.’

  And then he was gone, rowing across the waves, heading for the far shore over Windermere. I even thought he was rowing faster than normal, as if eager to meet his passenger. As I peered over in the failing light, I only saw his passenger as a slender figure, black-clad against the shoreline and the rising tree-cloaked hills behind.

  I saw him arrive on the yonder shore and greet the person, and then it appeared they were in discussion for they didn’t strike immediately back. As I watched I grew bored, and the light grew dimmer by the minute, until they were mere shadows within a tangle of shadows. I’d said I’d wait, so I would. But it was cold. I pulled my coat and scarf tight around me and lit another pipe.

  Night fell fully and finally, and he still hadn’t returned. God alone knew what he was doing on the far shore with his woman passenger. Maybe it was some girl from Sawrey or even Hawkshead he had taken a shine to.

  The cold grew and seeped into my bones. I stamped my feet and finished my pipe, tapping out the ashes on the rock. I decided there were no more passengers for me this night, so I dragged my boat up and tied it fast, shipping the oars.

  Still Alf Mumberson didn’t return. It was proper night now, and the skies dark with clouds so no stars nor moon shone through. The wind strengthened with the night and after another fifteen minutes, I left Alf Mumberson to his fate and walked home to Bowness.

  The next morning, Alf arrived late; I’d already had three passengers. The weather was better, but in the clear morning light, Alf looked pale and tired.

  ‘What happened to you last night?’ I laughed, giving a wink.

  ‘I told you not to wait,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I was there about half an hour after you went. What were you up to? Have you got a woman over there?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  A few passengers came over and we were busy. Later when we had a breather, I joined him in a pipe. As we puffed, he said, ‘Well, if you must know, there is a woman.’

  I grinned. ‘Thought so. So that’s what you were up to in the dark. I hope she took you somewhere warm.’

  He seemed strangely serious. ‘Warm isn’t important, love is what’s important.’

  I mocked him. ‘Love is it? My my, now the lad talks of love.’

  ‘If you’d known love, Davey, you wouldn’t be so hard about it. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world.’

  I feared he would go off on a lyrical speech about the beauties of love, so I cut him short. ‘So who is she?’

  He gave a sly smile. ‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’

  I shrugged, indifferent. ‘It’s nothing to me, Alf. Just don’t be catching your death of cold in those damp woods.’

  But now I’d broached the subject, he couldn’t stop talking about it. Just before we ate our bread and cheese for lunch, he said, ‘Davey, she’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. Beautiful, clever and refined.’

  ‘Then what’s she doing with a rough boatman?’

  He huffed. ‘Maybe she se
es qualities in me that others don’t. Maybe she sees I’ve got prospects.’

  ‘And do you?’ I said, knowing he hadn’t.

  He snorted. ‘You’re not worth talking to Davey Strong.’

  I laughed. He was a moody one, always had been, easy to sulk, but easy to bring round. I said, ‘But you won’t tell me her name?’

  ‘Sabine. She’s called Sabine.’

  I raised both eyebrows. ‘And what kind of a name is that? No Margaret or Joan or Ann good enough for you? You have to find a Sabine.’

  ‘She’s not local. She’s not from round here.’

  ‘Then where’s she from?’

  ‘I don’t know—London, or America.’

  ‘London or America? There’s a bit of a difference.’

  He shrugged wildly, irritated by my insisting on details. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Just she loves me and I love her.’

  ‘But you meet her on the lakeside. Outdoors. Does she take you to meet her family?’

  ‘She says she will. She says she’ll take me to see her father soon.’

  After that, I got a passenger and then another and rowed them back and forwards between Bowness and Claife. The clouds gathered, and it began to spit with rain. Night would not be long coming on that dark winter afternoon at the close of the year.

  We waited a long time with no passengers and Alf seemed lost in his thoughts. I was about to give it up and go home when again the call came from the Claife side. This time, even I could hear it was a woman’s call, light and sweet and clear, calling over the water.

  He stood up instantly, as eager as a pointer dog.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Sabine?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  Teasing him, I said, ‘I should take the fare. It’s my turn. Like it was last night.’

  ‘No!’ he yelled. He turned to me, his lips raised as if he was going to snarl no again, but he calmed himself and said, ‘Please, Davey. You know I love her.’

  ‘Aye, I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘And she loves me.’

  I was more circumspect this time. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What do you know, Davey Strong? You’ve never been loved, so how can you know?’

  I’d known Alfred since we were boys at the village school, and everyone in Bowness knew everyone else’s history. I wasn’t married, it was true. I had been engaged, but she’d gone off with another and I hadn’t found anyone else, but I was content enough living with my mother and sister. Still, it was hard of him to say that. I gave a cold look. ‘You’d better be getting to your lovely Sabine.’