Entry # 18

This Old House

By

Paul Freeman

The old house looked the same, all crumbling mortar and rotten timbers, even the overgrown ivy appeared no different. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, who would have guessed, he thought to himself, that he would come back after all these years and buy the old heap. His eye was automatically drawn to an upstairs window, a dark gaping hole in the off-white wall.

Somebody had boarded up the front door and downstairs windows, they needn’t have bothered, nobody from around here would set foot inside the place. He remembered growing up in the area, none of the kids would come near this place, even the bravest of them were petrified of the old house. It was still considered ‘the old house’ back then, he smiled as he remembered.

The place was haunted, they said. ‘Don’t go down there or the White Lady will get ye.’ Some swore they had seen her, looking out from that top window, dressed in white. There were countless sightings and rumours, ‘walk three times around the house at midnight, on the night of a full moon and she’ll appear,’ they said. ‘Old Mick saw an English man do it back in the fifties. The man was never seen again.’

All nonsense of course, superstitious rubbish. He believed it as a kid though. He even thought he had seen her himself. He had accepted a dare to go into the house, he didn’t want to but he was thirteen and there was a girl to impress, he could not turn down the challenge. He got as far as the front door when he heard a creak, he imagined a rope swinging from the rafters, when he looked up there she was. Her white gown floating in the breeze. She was staring at him, two black pits for eyes, that look turned his insides to ice. He ran and ran, to hell with impressing girls. He cried all the way home. He could laugh now.

They even had a name for the ghost, Mary McGuire, maid, married and widowed all in one day. The story goes; it was during the Irish civil war, the Irish rebels had fought the British army to a standstill and a ceasefire was declared. The Irish sent a contingent to London to negotiate a peace treaty, that treaty resulted in the island being divided, twenty six counties were set free, six remained under the control of the British. This sparked a civil war between pro-treaty and anti-treaty factions. Setting brother against brother, father against son. Ironically the pro-treaty side who formed a government used British guns against their former comrades.

The story doesn’t say which side Mary McGuire’s new husband fought for, only that on the evening of her wedding he was called away, there was an ambush and he was shot dead. So, a widow on her wedding night. They say she was distraught upon hearing the news and was found hanging from the ceiling of the bridal chamber the next morning. Every night since she comes down off the rope and comes to the window searching for her lost love.

He shivered at the memory of the old ghost story. She’s going to have to find somewhere new to live, he thought to himself, his construction firm had big plans for this place and there was no room for ghosts in the new development.

He kicked in the door and stepped inside into the darkness. It smelled of decay and neglect, the staircase in the hallway was rotten away, even the ceilings had gaping holes, he could see right through them. It’s about time this place was demolished, he thought.

He heard a creaking noise, a shiver ran down his spine. He felt a breeze on his face, he swung around his eyes opening wide in shock. He couldn’t breathe, his chest felt as if someone had stabbed him in the heart with an icicle.

Falling…falling…blackness.

*****

The old house looked the same. The estate agent felt an odd, unpleasant sensation every time he came out to the place.

“So what happened to the previous owner?” A voice interrupted his thoughts

“It’s a strange story, he was a local lad, made it big up in Dublin with his own construction company. He came back here a few years ago with big plans to develop this site into a shopping centre. Then he just disappeared,” the estate agent answered the young couple.

“How very odd,” the woman said.

“Hasn’t been sight nor sound of him in years. The company just want to get rid of the place now,” the estate agent shrugged.

“Well that’s to our gain so, we really like this village and plan to start our family right here,” the man said, smiling at his wife.

“Well, she’s all yours, come by the office later and we’ll sort the paperwork.” They shook hands and the estate agent left the couple to wander around their new property.

As he walked from the overgrown garden he glanced back. What was that in the window? He knew all the old stories about the house, every local did. He wondered should he have said something to the new owners… and have them laugh at him for spouting such superstitious nonsense? He shook his head at his own foolishness and with a wave left them to it.

  

Entry # 4

Ghosts of Jazz

By

 Alan Place

The town of Cheltenham is renowned worldwide for many things, from music festivals to the girls school and the racing, depending on your taste and what you want. Behind this rich Edwardian exterior lies a little story that I hope will tantalize your imagination.

During the International jazz festival which is usually held on the last weekend of April, thousands of fans flock to the town to see today's names. This story is a taste of real jazz for you, I hope. With all the festival pomp going on at the Town hall, the Budwieser stage and the theatre. Everybody misses the real home, a small venue and now all but forgotten. Walking past the town hall, and heading to the Montpelier district, you have to cross the road, it was here that I first took note of real jazz music. The club is called the Subtone, unless you know where to look and listen, it is so easily missed.

Under all the huge Edwardian buildings used as offices for anything from solicitors to hair dressers, lies a small path to a little club. No more than about  fifty feet long by a hundred feet wide and nearly always smoky, this is the real jazz not the big stages for the modern imitation by 20 year olds who think hitting a few notes makes them a jazz icon.

I was standing at the gate, when I thought I heard someone playing a trumpet, thinking it might be from a fringe event, I ventured down and to my surprise came across a wonderous thing. As I stepped through the gate, the door opened to the club, and a doorman met me."Good evening sir, I hope you enjoy the show." he said.

 "Thank you,’ I replied. “Can you tell me who is playing tonight, please?"

 "That I cannot say sir."

 "Cannot or will not." I enquired both intrigued and a bit annoyed.

 "Come on in, and you will see why I cannot answer the question sir."

 "I will be delighted to see why you cannot say." I said getting more than interested as to the meanings behind the statement.

As I stepped in, I could see the stage at the back, covered in the smoky atmosphere I was expecting, what followed was something trult amazing.I could  vaguely see figures moving about. Nobody was solid, just a mist and the outlines of bodies, yet the music was so clear as if the people themselves were there. The forms seemed to change shapes, to suit the mood of the music.

Coming from the stage I could hear a trumpet playing, and recognised the style of West coast jazz,familiar to Chet Baker in his prime, alongside the sax of Gerry Mulligan and  clarinet of Art Pepper, on the drums it appeared to be Buddy Rich.

“This is wrong!"I thought. Turning to the man next to me I said "Excuse me sir,but don’t you think Chet is on form tonight, and that clarinet of Art is so clear, after all these years."

The man turned and said "Sorry sir, we are watching different sessions, I cannot see who you do, for me it is Colttrane, Miles Davis, Gene Krupa up there."

 "How come? We are in the same room, looking at the same stage at the same time.”

The weirdness of the reply aroused my interest immenely, I started to walk around the club asking various people who they saw and got all combinations possible. I found out that even though there were over a hunders people in the room, there was little cross over for the session and no two sessions were identical. Musicians were there from Ike Quebec to Coleman Hawkins, Tony Williams to Lonnie Donnegan, and the styles went from the early 20s to the skiffle of the late 60s, the more I found out, the less I found I knew, this was a total mystery.

In the midst of my confused state, I finally got to the door, and had a talk with mine host. "I see what you mean now, you could not tell me who is playing, as you had no idea."

"That is right sir, the secret of the club is that YOU decide who appears. You can come every night and never see the same group of performers playing the same tunes, it is all up to YOU."

"Can you answer a few questions for me please?"

"If I can I will be glad to !"

"Thank you very much," I replied "I see there is no sign of either Jamie Cullum, Polar bear, Ingrid Laubruch here, or any other modern jazz group.Do you forbid it?as the jazz here is so pure.”

"Not at all, everyone is welcomed, but without realising it, you answered your question when you said MODERN jazz, the people you mentioned are still alive." Seeing my puzzled look, my new friend explained to me "When you asked around, didn't you notice, everyone saw someone different. Yet they had one thing in common, they have all passed the veil of time to this endless stream of jazz."

"I see now, the only qualification is being dead then."

"That is correct sir.

"How come, with all the festival going on in town, so few people have come here and yet standing at the gate, I can hear the music?"

 "Again you have answered the question sir, YOU heard the music, because you wanted to and you have been here before, so knew where to look for us."

 "One or two more questions, first is there a nationality bar, or is it any dead jazz musicians?"

"No sir, we have no bar at all, the other day someone left saying they were listening to Joe Zawinul, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Django Reinhardt, among others."

"As the festival is over soon, will you be closing down and finishing until next year then?’

"No sir, as I said this is an endless stream of jazz, it never finishes and we play all evenings to ever increasing crowds."

I thanked the doorman as I turned to leave and walked up the steps to the main road. All the time, thinking of the various questions raised. How many variations of styles from 20s through be-bop to skiffle and beyond, all the musicians who had joined the band.And the non-answerable question.

   "Who is in the best band ?"

There are as many answers as people asked, as we all like our jazz differently.