The phantom lady of the Fluer de laise

Audrey Baker put off reading her sister’s diary. It had been two weeks since she’d discovered it and she felt conflicted. Diaries were private and should never be read without permission, but Beverly had been acting so strangely recently, Audrey needed a clue as to what was going on with her sister. And so she opened the battered book, skipped to the last few pages and began to read...

It wasn’t long before Audrey came to an entry that sent a shiver up her spine. 

Today at the telephone exchange I received the strangest call. I answered with my normal “Faversham Telephone Exchange. To which party would you like to be connected?” The line was very crackly and I had to repeat the question twice over. Eventually I heard a response that shook me to my core. “Hello Dear, It’s me, Mum.”

Audrey checked the date of the entry.  Sept 3rd 1941, just 4 weeks ago. But how could that be? Their mother had died nearly 7 years earlier. She kept reading.

I immediately disconnected, I was so shocked. Of course, it couldn’t be mum, it was someone literally getting their wires crossed. But it sounded so much like her. I’m shaking just thinking about it.

Audrey scanned the next few entries. Beverly wrote a lot about her boyfriend Scott, who was in France, fighting the Germans. She missed him so much. 

Then, Sept 6th 1941: It happened again. Same crackly connection, “Hello love it’s Mum.”

I gasped. “I’m sorry Madam, You must be mistaken, I have no mother, who is it you’re trying to connect to?”

“Beve’y, it’s me.” Came the response.

I felt faint. Mummy always called me “Beve’y”. How could this be happening? Was I going mad?

“Mummy?” My voice broke.

The static intensified to the point where I had to rip my headset off. I broke down in tears and poor Wendy had to take me into the kitchen for a nice hot cup of sweet tea. Bless her. I told her this blessed war is getting to me. It is!

Sept 7th 1941; I’m scared to do my job. Every call could be her. Should I tell Audrey? No, she’d think me mad. Perhaps I am. It was 9:30 and I was just about to call it a night when it happened again. This time I was determined to keep talking and hopefully get to the bottom of this.

‘ Beve’y? It’s me love. Oh I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Mummy?’

‘That’s right dear. We’re going to meet soon. Oh I can’t wait.’

‘But mummy you can’t come here.’ I sobbed, ‘You… you’re dead.’

‘Oh no dear. I’m not coming there. You’re coming here.’ It was said as if she was inviting me home for a cup of tea. I took a deep breath, trying to stop myself collapsing onto the floor.

‘But mum I can’t come to you. I… I’m alive, I’ve things to do. Mum I’ve got a fella. We’re getting married… I… I can’t’. I tailed off.

‘I’m sorry love. Scott’s here with us now. He’s nice enough, but I think you could do better…’ then I did collapse. Once again Wendy came to my rescue. Thankfully it was the end of our shift and Wendy walked me home and has put me to bed. The sleeping draft is taking effect. God knows what I’ll be like tomorrow…’

Audrey’s tears splashed onto the last entry of her sister’s diary. Beverly never made it to tomorrow. Her house was bombed at 11:50 that evening, killing her instantly. Later Audrey heard the news that Scott Reynolds had been killed in action, a fortnight earlier. ‘This bloody war.’

That telephone exchange is now housed in the Fluer De Laise, Museum, although it is not connected to anything, it still occasionally rings. Sometimes the the apparition of a young woman is seen around the long obsolete machine. Anxiously waiting for the phone to ring. The call she never wants to hear.

Hanging ‘Witches’ of St Anne’s Crossing

Everyone knows that witches, in the literal sense, never really existed. There was no actual dancing around naked, under a full moon with the devil, familiars suckling from their boobies, spells causing farmer’s cows to stop producing milk and princes turning into frogs.

No. There are no such things as witches… 

Ghosts of witches, now that’s a whole different matter. And the proof is in this image that I drew while watching them swaying from ghost-trees one dark, windy night.

Back in 1645, a young woman known as Elizabeth Harris really got under the skin of Faversham mayor Robert Greenstreet. We can’t determine the exact reason Elizabeth bothered Greenstreet, but considering he was a prominent politician, he likely made unwelcome sexual advances towards her and she, not being involved in politics, found the idea disgusting. Greenstreet, being a politician, could not stand being rejected or the possibility that his advances could cause him public embarrassment, decided to take drastic action. He accused Elizabeth Harris of being a witch.

Officials immediately arrested and interrogated her, and when I say interrogated, I mean tortured and when I say officials; I mean a couple of Greenstreet’s cronies. Subsequently, officials apprehended and tortured three more women until they, too, admitted to committing vile, witchy deeds. These deeds coincidentally matched precisely the strange perverted sexual fantasies of the interrogators. 

No one knows what happened to Elizabeth Harris. There is no mention of her being hanged, or burnt at the stake. The official records claim she remained alive when the other witches were executed, but a more compelling narrative is that she perished during interrogation. So I’m going with that.

It could be that she gave up the names of the three other women whilst being tortured, and who could blame her? I would incriminate everyone I knew at the mere sight of a hot poker. But perhaps Elizabeth died without giving up any names. Her killers, wanting to legitimise her murder, came up with the names of three other women they didn’t particularly like and claimed that Elizabeth had incriminated them before she died. Obviously it’s wrong to speculate, but then again, is it? Men who torture women don’t deserve the benefit of any doubt. 

So let’s just state as fact (although, let’s be clear, I made it up) that poor Elizabeth died while being tortured, bravely refusing to supply any names. Evil, spineless Greenstreet and his cronies came up with 3 other names to legitimise the death of a totally innocent woman. Those names were Joan Cariden, Joane Walliford and Jane Hott. (I bet she was too. That’s why she had to put up with the unwanted attentions of the local men, who turned against her when she rejected their advances. Some things never change.)

A name that appears in Joanne Walliford’s statement is Thomas Letherland, who appears to have fallen out of his window and landed on his arse. For some reason - she probably saw it and laughed, he blamed Joanne and her witchy ways. Let’s just hope he really hurt himself when he fell and that he lived a long, painful life of falling out many more windows.

It is rumoured the trio were strung up in a tree in the village square, near where the water pump now stands. It is more probable that they met their demise a little way out of town, possibly at the intersection of Ospringe/South Road and Lower Road. This spot is likely where all executions took place. Crossroads throughout England became places of execution. It was said that ghosts would be confused at an intersection. This seems too ridiculous to be true, but people were ridiculous in those days, so who knows?

What isn’t ridiculous is the fact that this is the location the lady ghosts are seen, gently swaying in the wind. When I saw them, one of them, the Hott one, smiled at me, or was it a sneer, as if to say that they were having the last laugh. Probably living it up with the devil and still laughing at that idiot falling out of his window.

This image has different hair to the final poster. I still quite like this one though so I let it stay here.

The Fat Boy of Peckham

Several years ago while living in Peckham, South London, I read about Johnny Trunley - The Fat Boy of Peckham. Born in 1898, by the time Trunley was 5 he was quite famous for being fat. (12 stone)

I thought he would be a great subject for a poster… and a blog

Firstly there is the jarring fact that a Victorian child could be exploited for being overweight. In the days when people like the elephant man, bearded ladies, and the like would travel the country in touring freak shows with, it seems little or no empathy, let alone sympathy. Johnny would also perform in Fred Karno’s music hall announcing “I Want to be a Jocky” to an appreciative audience.

Shockingly Trunley was managed by his father, who obviously had a vested interest in insuring his son grew wider as he grew taller. It says a lot that Trunley’s life as a travelling Freak was cut short when his manager father died in 1912 and then war broke out forcing rationing on to the people of Britain. Johnny trunley lost a lot of weight. He went on to have a successful career as a local jeweller until his death at the age of 47 of pulmanory. A condition that may not have been deadly had Johnny not had such an unhealthy start in life.

But there is another aspect to this story that is equally shocking when we compare it to contemporary times. Until recently an overweight child was a rare and fascinating spectacle. Now, in the days of supermarkets and their bulk selling initiatives, cheap, overly processed food, computer games and paranoid and self conscious parents who drive their children everywhere, Britain has a huge proportion of overweight children.

This poster is a commentary on the strange world that was the Victorian era and a reflection of the even stranger, less caring world of the 21st century.

THE SAD MONK OF ABBEY STREET

I was recently invited to join a ghost walk around the studio where I work, Number 1 Abbey St, otherwise known as Creek Creative. It’s a Victorian industrial building, first utilised by the local brewery before becoming a busy timber merchants. It now houses a cafe, a gallery and collection of artists’ studios as well as being a bustling hive of activity for the living dead.

Tracey, a local medium, walked us around the building commenting on what she experienced. Accompanying her was Liz, who organised the event and Michael who was there to record the tour for local Faversham radio. I was at hand to take notes and sketches, which I was then to turn into a finished painting.

After encountering several ghosts throughout the building, we came across this little monk in the basement. Tracey said his name was Francis, but I’m thinking that may have been a miscommunication. More likely he was telling her he was a Franciscan monk. Francis the Franciscan monk sounds like a character from a very unpopular kids book. Anyway I’ve drawn him as a Franciscan monk and I’m going to call him Billy Bob.

Francis of Assisi started his branch of monkdom in 1209. In order to reflect the absolute poverty of his member monks, Francis adopted the drab, hooded tunics worn by the Assisi peasants. No bling for Francis and his brethren. I have dressed Billy-Bob in the same garb. Which brings up a point I’ve often wondered about. Why is it that clothes get to come back as ghosts? Fair enough that people, with a soul and an energy can re appear after death, but what about a shirt or a pair of trousers. Ghost clothes are more amazing than ghost people. If you think about ghosts logically, they should all appear naked.

Back to the story. Apparently Billy Bob is running away from the violent destruction of Faversham Abbey which occurred back in 1538. (I’m not sure it was destroyed while people were actually in there, it wasn’t a siege, but Billy Bob was there and he knows better than me.) Wracked with guilt and shame that he didn’t stay and pray in the collapsing, burning abbey like his brethren, he scurries away bruised and bloodied until he finds himself cowering in the basement of No 1 Abbey St, which must be confusing for him as this place isn’t built for another 350 years.

Tracey described him as being small and unshaven with bloodied feet and hands. He was clutching at his throat as if suffering from smoke inhalation. She didn’t say he was green, that was just me using my artistic license. If Billy Bob had kept going in the same direction for 20 feet or so he would have bumped into a big bosomed queen Elizabeth l and he could have told her what he thought of her horrible dad, who’s fault it was that he was in this predicament.

We weren’t told why dead Queen Elizabeth was hanging about in the basement, although according to Tracey she was very agitated because she had been kept waiting. Now we know where Charles gets it from.
The plan now is to show Billy Bob the painting and see if he likes it. I think he will because I’ve just realised I’ve made him look a little like Mark Rylance.

This piece needs some work before I make it available for sale.

The Grey Lady of the Woolpack Inn

No one knows who this lady is… or do they? No they don’t. But here’s an interesting story I dug up whilst researching this ghost. Personally I think this goes a long way to explain who this lady is and why she won’t leave the Woolpack. 

Back in the 1880s lived a young, successful businessman called Charles Stephens. His devoted wife was called Catherine and they lived in Mountain St, Chilham. It was an idyllic, married existence, or so everyone thought. 

On Catherine’s 30th birthday, Charles was scheduled to go to a business meeting in Canterbury. He arranged to be back in time to meet Catherine at the Woolpack for a birthday lunch. Unfortunately the only business Charles was engaged in that day was funny business. He was having an affair with an unknown married woman named Betsy Rogers. Whilst Charles rodgered Betsy Rogers, Mr Rogers arrived home unexpectedly. The two men engaged in some very exuberant fisticuffs and Charles fell back, cracking his skull on the mantle piece.

His last words were “Argh… you’re standing on my hand.” But before that, he said “I’ve got to get to the Woolpack. It’s Catherine’s birthday.” But of course he never did make it to the Woolpack, nor anywhere else for that matter. He died right there in the bedroom, his blood soaking into the floor, his hand crushed under the heel of Mr Roger’s boot. He was still very cross with Charles.

Poor Catherine waited and waited. Finally she was told the dreadful news. She showed no emotion but quietly and with great dignity got up and walked home. The next day she returned. “I’m waiting for my Charles, he’ll be returning from a business trip in Canterbury any minute now,” she would tell anyone that asked. She would then sit for an hour nursing a small sherry before walking home and repeating the excursion the next day… and the next… and the next. Aside from her daily visit to the Woolpack, she lived a remarkably functional existence. People learned not to speak of her husband’s demise and she refused to engage with it.

This pattern was repeated for many years before Catherine, by now an elderly lady, passed away. Some people say she died of a broken heart, although it was more likely to be her broken neck, which she sustained by falling down the back steps of the Woolpack during her last visit.

I like to think Catherine Stephens is the Grey Lady, still waiting for Charles to return from his business trip all those years ago. If you do happen to see her, give her a smile and a nod but under no circumstances mention that Rogers woman!

And that is the legend, which I just made up (or did I?) of The Grey Lady of the Woolpack Inn (or is it?)

Diana’s Walk

This romantic tale took place way back when men wore stockings and buckles on their shoes and women wore god knows what, but there was a lot of it. Diana lived in a homestead at what is now Judd’s Folly and she had a beau who lived on the other side of Bysing Wood at Oare. No mention is made of his name but I like to think it was Gordon.

The two would meet for secret assignations in the woods. Late at night, while the two households slept, Gordon would tryst through the forest to Diana’s home. He probably threw pebbles at her window to attract her attention. She would hastily sneak down stairs and out of the house where the two young lovers could steel away into the woods for some much anticipated privacy. 

Once settled in a suitable location, Gordon would excitedly unwrap his small package and right there in the moonlight he’d goad Diana into touching his precious cargo. I like to think it was his collection of ancient arrow heads, or perhaps he proudly showed her his display of birds eggs he’d found amongst the surrounding marshland.

Anyway what they did there is incidental to the story. One night their moonlit trist, was violently interrupted by a gang of murderous bandits. In buckled-shoe days Faversham, a port town, would have been full of undesirables, transients, pirates and prostitutes. Not that I have anything against prostitutes. In fact I quite like them. Especially Judy from number 45. She’s real nice. No, it’s their clientele that rub me up the wrong way. But that’s another story.

Imagine Gordon and Diana’s terror as they’re surrounded by these cut throats. I dread to think what they put Diana through before eventually killing her in a most brutal manner. And it was brutal, for true to their non de plume, these fiends actually did cut her throat. In fact she was decapitated to death.

Poor Diana and poor Gordon. He was left to live, which suggests the transient nature of the murderers. They knew Gordon had not seen them before and that they wouldn’t be in Faversham long enough to be identified. Wracked with the horrors of what he’d seen, guilt and shame that he couldn’t protect Diana and I bet his egg collection was cruelly smashed Gordon could no longer live with himself. Tragically, he took a rope and returned to Bysing woods where he hung himself from a sturdy tree, his lifeless body gently swaying in the wind. 

No doubt he was looking forward to meeting his lady love behind the pearly gates but alas, the sin of suicide prevents such a happy outcome and he was refused entrance. Without Gordon, Diana refused to stay. Instead she wonders the woods eternally looking for her lost love and his buckled shoes.

The Lost Sailor of the Shipwright’s Arms

The Lost Sailor of the Shipwrights Arms.

Many years ago a Dutch ship ran aground in the marshes near the shipwrights pub. The captain escaped the sinking ship and seeing the distant light of the Shipwright’s made his way through the harsh terrain towards his salvation. Some accounts have him dragging a mysterious religious icon made of iron along behind him. Finally more dead than alive he makes it to the pub and bangs on the door. The publican  heard the noise but fearing the banging was made by pirates or bandits or other such scallywags ignored the racket and stayed in bed. Let’s face it, he was probably pissed. The next morning the barman opened the door, most likely to visit the privy, only to find the prostrate body of the captain, dead from exposure and exhaustion. Since that time a ghost of the captain has been seen lurking about the place and scaring the customers with his glowing red eyes.

If I believed in ghosts, then I would definitely believe this story. We don’t know whether there were any other sailors that perished when the ship floundered, but as they’re never mentioned in the accounts I’ve read I think we can assume that this was a lone sailor, used to confronting problems head-on. He sails boats around various seas, he navigates by the stars, he wrestles sharks to their death and does it all with his shirt off, muscles glistening under the harsh, blistering sun... except when he’s navigating by the stars. He’s a man’s man, a can-do kind of guy. So why is it, after tracking though miles of mud, sea and marshes and finally reaching his potential salvation does he give up so easily. 

Anyway it’s a great pub, in a great location. Should you happen apon the Lost Sailor of the Shipwright’s Arms some cold, dark and windy night as you drink that well earned pint, give him a smile, a wink and ask him WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU KICK THE BLOODY DOORS IN RATHER THAN JUST CRAWL OFF AND DIE?

The second of my Ghosts of Faversham series, the first being Alice Arden. Posters and cards available at etsy.com/shop/AtomicSquibbler