Plunge

I went to the match with Rob and Carol and saw Athletic lose 0-5 against a very good Whitstall Park team. We had a pint in the Hanson Arms beforehand. Rob and Carol stayed until dark and C. drove back across the moors to Saxton.

In the evening I typed out an account of our trips to Borley Church. No work attempted. I’ve been dreaming vividly—Lindsey, Claire, arguments with Dad. I wake up feeling scared about the lack of time I’ve allowed myself to do my extended essay.

I’m in a headlong plunge toward the new term and the third year at Watermouth and soon I’ll be without free time, without time to think or relax, in a very similar position to the one I was in just before my ‘A’ levels.

I have the same intimations of disaster, only this time I don’t think I’ll get away with it.

Drought

In town in the afternoon, at the library. Then I bought a pair of trousers and a suit (£11.70) from Suits Me before coming home with Dad when he got off work at two. He’s still bitter about his dispute at work with a co-worker Frank over who has what weekend off and feels like the bosses always side with Frank. He’s thinking of quitting at Christmas.

At home as I poured over Peter Underwood’s The Ghosts of Borley. I realised how easy it is to be drawn into an obsessive state of mind with regards to this sort of thing. It would be easy to allow it to dominate your life and to become “a crank,” as Lee puts it. Dad, perhaps noticing my sudden interest, said “Don’t get too involved in this or it’ll send you crackers.”

He was joking, but a certain seriousness underpinned the remark. My sudden interest in this has come at an awkward time; I’ve still got stacks of work to do in the remaining five weeks of the vacation—my extended essay of five thousand words to finish, Hegel, Nietzsche and Faulkner to read (although I want to take the Williams Special Subject instead of the latter). I can’t seem to whip up any enthusiasm where University is concerned which, with Mum’s “anything less than a first will be considered a failure” still spinning in my head, is bad news.

The rain streamed down all day which is good news because today it was announced that Easterby has just 23% of its normal water supplies left and that this is dwindling at the rate of 2% a week. This drought is the worst in recorded history and even surpasses the near-legendary summer of ’76.

I’m uneasy again. It’s 1 a.m. and it’s a hot night—76° according to the thermometer on the landing. I’ve been waking up in the early hours of the morning again and resorting to switching on the light for peace of mind—which is really a very silly attitude.

Hissing of summer dark

I caught the 1055 bus to Alverhouse where I met Rob and Carol; they'd just seen Carol’s sister Lynne and niece Melissa onto the bus back to Brynmor.

It was another red hot day, hotter than it was in Watermouth. Both Carol and Mum are learning to drive and Carol drove the car back to Dearnelow, nervous because I was there. She trundled along at a steady 35-40 mph and stalled it just once.

A quiet day passed reading, C. washing in the kitchen, the cats—three years old now—came and went. Robert has enrolled for an M.Ed. course in the teaching of English which begins in October and so he read one of his course books, English As a Discipline of Thought by F. R. Leavis, while I read of Ball, Tzara, Heulsenbeck and co., Zurich 1916.

In the evening we played cribbage and I played Robert the cassettes we’d made at Borley. He told me about the inexplicable uneasiness both he and C. felt on some nights during their fortnight in Calverdale. Neither of them liked to admit their fears to the other. Carol described a sensation of overwhelming sadness and R. recounted how, on some nights as the sun set, they both felt the darkness pressing in on them from all sides. Yet on other nights they felt perfectly at ease . . . The hiss of the tapes brought back to me that awful pregnant silence lurking beyond that heavy wooden door, as if something was there, just beyond the level of human hearing . . .

I feel uneasy. . . .

Haunted audio

I put pen to paper today in an attempt to work which, after countless stops and starts, saw me manage three sides of notes. It was slow progress.

Today was another hot day, a Bank Holiday, and the weather has been like this since I went back to Watermouth. The drought is worse up here. Mum tells me that Mr. Metcalfe who owns the Calverdale caravan told Robert and Carol that he’ll be ruined if the hot weather continues. In Scotland Mum and Dad were told there’s been just three days of rain since March.

I’ve been reading Manuel Grossman’s Dada, Mystification, Paradox and Ambiguity in European Literature. The Dadaists seem without equal for doing as they did in such a way and at such an early date. Lee and I were very keen on researching the life of Arthur Cravan, Dada acolyte and “Poet, Boxer and Deserter of Five Nations” who disappeared in the Gulf of Mexico in 1918. He fought one round with world heavyweight boxing champion Jack Johnstone in 1917 and in the same year scandalised Manhattan by stripping off at a public lecture, causing Duchamp to beam “What a lecture!”

We feel the paucity of written information on this interesting character demands further attention, but as I’ve come across the other actors in this particular saga I realise that to focus on one individual is to miss out on the wealth of humor, interest and total perverse INSANITY of Dada.

Lee called round last night at about nine, bringing with him his dog, a cassette, Borley photos and a book featuring several hauntings in Watermouth. Mum, Nanna P. and Dad listened to the tape on a portable cassette player L. had brought along and seemed fascinated by it all. On side one was audio from haunted squash courts in East Anglia that are built on the site of a WW1 airfield. On the tape you can hear piston engine aircraft and the bustle of a busy wartime hangar, plus footsteps and voices.

Side two is devoted to Borley: the sighs, grunts and squeaks of non-existent doors chilled us all “to the marrow,” as the narrator of the tape put it. Fairly predictably I felt spooked by all of this, especially as the conversation afterwards was about ghosts—the ‘something’ at the window on Poplar Rise the night Mum’s sister Mary was killed in 1946, our collective ‘experience’ at Marston Moor battlefield years ago, on a hot still summer’s day like today, when Mum and Dad and I simultaneously heard the tumult of a great crowd all around us in the air.

Poor Lee was quite rattled by all this and did his best to try and persuade me to go with him back to his house (as his Ma is away for a few days and he’s all alone in the house), but it was too far and I held firm. I felt a bit bad about it later. With all the distractions he forgot all about the reason for his visit in the first place—to borrow a book on WW1 for his essay on Paul Nash.

It’s a warm night, silent and hot apart from the shrill whine of newly hatched insects in the amphibian tanks in my room and the sound of distant traffic.

Traffic

The roar of the traffic woke me around dinnertime.

I walked wearily about town with Lee; we changed the second floor electricity account at Maynard Gardens into our names and asked after our Borley tape at the offices of Radio Watermouth.

Lee bought an excellent waterproof jacket at a Charity shop.

When vital heat shall leave thy frame!

At nine o’clock last night we let the tapes roll, and Lee immediately heard all sorts of clunks and knocks from inside the church. There wasn’t anyone about, because we checked this countless times, and at 10.16 Lee heard what he described as “a whispered prayer.”

When he said this my blood froze.

He played it for Jeremy who listened through the headphones and reacted with obvious disbelief and alarm. I refused the offer to listen and cursed my own pounding heart as I burrowed down into my sleeping bag.

At half-ten we had to cut the recording short because a couple of carloads of taproom lads and their girls rolled noisily up to investigate us: “Are you college freaks?” “Are you weird?” “I think you’re nutters; you should see someone . . .” and so on . . . Lee played them the tape of the whisper and I heard it for the first time, a barely audible but unmistakably human voice whispering with reverence. What was being said I couldn’t tell.

You could’ve heard the proverbial pin drop it was so quiet, and our dozen guests were spellbound. “What d’you reckon?” one of the lads asked his friend. “I don’t know but I don’t like it.” The girls were scared and thought us strange, we could tell, and they wanted to go, which they did a few minutes later.

Lee soon fell asleep, then Jeremy, and finally me, but I woke up at about three to find Michael crouched over the tape machine, headphones on. There was nothing but the crackle of static which he said sounded frightening, as though the crackling hid something silent, something obstinately refusing to show itself. I disliked listening in on the ‘phones, because even with the others awake, I felt isolated; it was just me and the pregnant hiss of the empty (?) church.

Now here’s the coincidence. The piece of glass Lee found yesterday had 444 imprinted on its surface, and a few months ago when Lee was messing about with a Ouija board he kept ‘getting’ the number 444. I did too when I joined in. And when the whispering voice spoke out through the hiss, the tape counter read 444. Lee only realised this coincidence as we talked to the assembled soul patrol on the porch, and he said it chilled him as much as it had those of us who listened.

And there’s more—Borley Rectory was demolished in 1944, in April, the fourth month: 4/44 – Is this pushing things too far? Is it ‘merely’ a coincidence? Is the Ouija board a limited method of predicting the future in some way? I don’t believe it’s a way of getting in touch with dead souls, but I think if there’s any value to it at all (and I’m inclined to doubt this, because it’s difficult to tell if someone is consciously or unconsciously moving the planchette), then perhaps it’s as a method of dredging the subconscious mind for intimations of future events. Idle speculation, but probably as wrong as wrong can be.

The cassette player was still plagued by static, so we could only assume that the night in the open had caused it to get damp and fucked the electrics somewhat. We didn’t get much else and dropped off to sleep until Mrs. Proudfoot came to unlock the door. She asked us if we’d got anything and we told her of the whispering, and she seemed taken aback and said she’s the one who cleans the church. She sounded nervous, probably because we’d always answered in the negative when she’d asked us if we’d got anything before.

We idled the rest of the day away on a patch of grass in front of the church in the town square, watching the punk-hippies strumming their guitars and sitting about doing their bored youth bit. I dislike Sudbury for its aggressive and unfriendly air. It’s full of kids and teenagers . . . Poor Michael looked sicker that ever.

We spent the journey back engrossed in talk of ghosts etc., and got to Watermouth at midnight. Michael, Jeremy and I are staying the night in Pete’s old room at Maynard Gardens.

444

After we ate last night we caught a taxi back to Borley. It must have been fairly obvious what we were up to and as the cab driver unloaded our bags he asked us with a smirk what we were doing.

We didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The wooden gate to the church creaked as we opened it and we crunched hesitantly up the path. Every sigh of wind in the branches sent my heart racing. We’d missed Mrs. Proudfoot; the church was locked and silent and so we settled ourselves on the grass at the back of the building.

A triangle of glass was missing from the leaded lights adjacent to the Waldegrave tomb, so Lee taped the microphone to the leg of his tripod and pushed it through the gap, resting it on a ledge on the tomb so that it was pointing towards the door. This was at three minutes past midnight, and exactly thirty minutes later we recorded a very loud bang—“like a desk lid being dropped” said Lee—followed by a noise like the dropping of tin tacks or the rustle of paper.

We also captured numerous other noises. One in particular, that sounded like the ‘tock’ of a grandfather clock, we heard repeatedly. Another noise was reminiscent of a bottle or jug full of liquid being set down. For the next four hours we took turns at listening through the headphones to the hiss of the tape in the empty church. We fell asleep at about half four as the sky turned from black to grey and then to blue.

I woke up feeling shattered, a new day to be faced with weariness. The sun shone from a clear sky, but I just wanted a warm clean bed to sleep in. Michael looked terrible; half dead, grey like a corpse, huddled on the grass in his grubby overcoat, hands in pockets, his sunken cheeks drained of colour. All he needed was an empty cider bottle beside his prostrate form and the scene would’ve been complete.

We hid our things beneath a tree and set off for Sudbury and a meal at the Casa André and a trek round the town buying provisions. We were overcome by weariness but trailed back to Borley via Brundon and the ex-railway line to find a slight dark-haired man holding court to a dozen or so people in the church, telling them in a documentary style voice of the legend, and reeling off dates and names with textbook thoroughness.

He introduced himself to us—he was a self-proclaimed “Borley researcher,” Richard Vandendale—and told us he had a letter in his pocket that gave him permission to visit the Rectory site itself. Would we like to come along?

We followed him across the road to the Cottage and he was gone a long time. Eventually he came breathlessly back to tell us that the owner of the house would give us a look at “the last surviving relics of Borley Rectory” if we’d donate £1.00 to the church funds. Jeremy reluctantly coughed up, and we trooped next door to the back of the bungalow where an elderly man in shorts greeted us.

“The gateposts of Borley Rectory” he announced, pointing to two tall wooden posts leaning (and almost pushing over) his prefab garage. And sure enough, there they were. Mr. Vandendale confirmed this, comparing them with a photograph he had which showed the Rectory drive way, gate posts in situ. They stood against the garage wall—enormous, weathered, split and green with age, like two religious relics.

Mr. V. enthused about them and rattled on to our host: “Oh, they’re marvelous!” etc. Michael muttered disbelievingly under his breath about the lunacy of paying £1 to see “two sticks” as he put it, and I almost agreed, but on reflection it was worth it. Our host was amused at Mr. V.’s glee and was full of smiling criticism of Harry Price. “He should’ve been shot.”

He told us that he was planning on selling the gateposts to an American who’d been so enthralled that he’d hardly been able to tear himself away. How he plans on taking them to America I don’t know for they must be all of ten, twelve feet high and weigh several hundred pounds. Our host seemed interested in Mr. V.’s photographs, and so while they talked we waited in the road.

We had our permission to visit the site of the Rectory. There’s now nothing to be seen of the enormous building that once stood here and the site is smooth and green and covered in part by fruit trees. A wall crosses the grass (not contemporary with the Rectory apparently), and at the back of this are garages and outbuildings. The Rectory garden has been swallowed up by the gardens of the bungalows which have been built down the road, although a portion of the Nun’s Walk is still in existence in the orchard.

Mr. V. set about determining exactly where the Rectory stood and wandered to and fro across the grass, clearly in his element, but I grew bored and so returned to the church. Lee stayed, and grubbed about in the dirt at the foot of a tree discovering fragments of Victorian pottery, a window sash cord, and a small piece of ornate glass with the numbers 444 embossed on the surface.

There were several people visiting the church and they all seemed very interested in what we were doing. We played them the loud bang we’d recorded the previous night, and I saw them jump at the suddenness of the sound. Mrs. Proudfoot turned up, and Mr. Vandendale ensnared her with a guidebook sermon, but she seemed interested. She told us that a relative of hers used to sit on the church council and attend meetings in the Blue Room at the Rectory.

We unfurled our yards of cable and placed the microphone on the altar, directly in front of the crucifix – “is nothing sacred?” bitched an indignant visitor—and we felt like saying, “not to science, no.” The mike seemed to challenge whatever it is (if anything) that inhabits the church, and to parody the crucifix on the altar. Mrs. Proudfoot locked the door and we were all set. We invited Mr. V. to stay with us but he refused, saying he’d paid £9.50 for a bed in Sudbury and wasn’t about to waste it.

So we’ve settled down in our sleeping bags in the porch to await the dark.

Darkening

We departed for Borley this morning. It was a chaotic beginning; we missed our coach to London by a matter of minutes with the result that we also missed our connecting services, so we had a two-hour wait at Victoria coach station.

The weather deteriorated as we drove into Essex and the coach splashed through a cloudburst near Rivenhall. We reached Sudbury at half-past seven. We lugged our bags through deserted market town streets and across the fields towards Borley, following the course of a now long gone railway line.

Lee had brought along a cassette he’s just bought from Croom-Hollingsworth, an amateur aficionado of the Borley legend, who recorded it at the Church. We listened to this as the sun sank red and bloated to the horizon. On the tape is the clunk of latches, the creaking open of nonexistent doors, unidentifiable bangs, whirs and clicks and, most chilling of all, two unmistakably human sighs. A team of TV investigators also spent a night in the Church and they saw lights in the chancel that changed shape as they began to approach them. An object—never found—was flung at them, too.

It was getting dark as we trudged the road to the church, our heads full of the spirit of the place (no pun intended). I was more apprehensive than last time and as we hurried through the fast darkening trees to the porch, my senses were on full alert, my eyes darting to and fro from shadow to shadow. The thin metallic noises of bats echoed through the air as they fluttered around and around the church between the yews.

The usual carload of local youth arrived for their noisy nighttime thrills so we left & have walked back to Sudbury for food. . . .

Party piece

I met Lee and Jeremy at Maynard Gardens in the evening.

Lee’s mate Michael Pugh from Easterby is in Watermouth for a while. He just turned up unexpectedly this afternoon and so I took my sleeping bag round for him. Stu came along too and we went to the pier.

Michael doesn’t say much, and just seems to hover on the periphery of whatever’s happening, smoking or smiling with a sunken-cheeked look. The story is that the boredom & frustration of his Graphics course in Madaston has reduced him to eating dog ends and downing pints of piss for money as a ‘party piece.’

He and Lee got friendly during the Foundation course in Easterby (’82-’83), reading about Dada and doing ‘Art Volé’ stunts together (i.e. break ins at derelict factories). Michael had long hair then; now it’s short and greasy & hangs lank across his forehead. Perhaps he’ll come to Borley with us?

Lee, Jeremy and I are planning on going back next Tuesday. We’re taking £300-worth of sensitive recording equipment with us that we’ve borrowed from the Art College.

Door

We were awakened only twice last night—once by three blokes who, on seeing the eerie glow from the porch of the otherwise dead and dark church, stopped their car and crept nervously through the churchyard to investigate.

They saw the tape recorder and asked if we’d heard anything. The second time was around 3.30 in the morning—a ‘clunk’ on the inside of the church door that woke both of us up. Lee whispered to me, asking if I’d heard it.

Unfortunately, I had.

I can’t say what it was, and at the time I didn’t dare speculate. The rest of the night passed off without incident. We were awakened at 7.30 by the arrival of Mrs. Proudfoot who unlocked the door as usual, but we fell asleep again and slept on till 10.30.

We finally packed up our things and struggled back to Sudbury with heavy bags in sticky heat. We waited for a non-existent London bus at 1.30 before catching a coach to Colchester and from there on to Waterloo, and finally to Watermouth.

I slept like a log when we got back.

The most haunted house in England

Lee didn’t sleep at all last night and I dropped off for perhaps half an hour, but woke up cold and shivering beneath my thin blanket. Several bungalows have been built nearby on the grounds of the now demolished Rectory and in one of them, several dogs began to howl and then, just as suddenly, stopped again.

Lee was all for making a move and so, not prepared to stay alone in the field, I reluctantly got up and we walked back up to the church.

Across on the south side of the road is the site of the former Rectory, a place Harry Price called “the most haunted house in England.” Some of the site now lies in the garden of Borley Cottage, which shares the same red brick and high sharp-angled roof of the Rectory and which was bought recently by a retired Colonel for £79,000.

As we approached, seven or eight people were standing by the gate of the cottage gazing across the neatly clipped lawn towards a group of trees and which is where the Nun, last seen in 1972, is reputed to walk. All that remains of the Rectory is a couple of walls, one standing above ground next to the cottage, the other forming part of a stepdown to a lower level and a neighbouring field. We stood with the people, gazing into the shadows. A couple had gone over into the garden to sit by the Nun’s Walk and we could hear them whispering to one another.

Lee and I explored the site, finding nothing but smooth grass. In an adjacent outhouse Lee found an old billiard ball & the remains of old furniture. On the wall of the building someone had chalked the faceless figure of a nun standing with arms outstretched, a circle inscribing the heart, from which a black congealed liquid ran down onto the floor.

Back at the Church, another less obvious rap had been recorded. It was now about four a.m., and a séance was being held on the porch of the church by three girls who used an upturned wine glass as a planchette. They told us they do this sort of thing regularly, “although we only ever manage to get through to a little boy whose spirit will disappear if he knows he’s dead.” They told us that he considers their ouija board to be his own. They did once get another ‘spirit,’ that of an evil man who swore and whose appearances were accompanied by a strong foul smell. He wanted to arrange a meeting with one of the girls, although she—understandably!—declined the offer. One of the amateur researchers joined in the séance and said he could feel the glass vibrate as it started to move.

In the next hour or so they ‘contacted’ an occupant of the Church, spelling out the initials ‘T.M.’—previous rectors of Borley include Thomas Muriell (1680-1709) and Thomas Massenger (1454-1460). ‘TM’ was asked if he was alone in the church?—No—Did he like it there?—Yes—Did he ever come out?—No—Was Harry Price there and were his stories correct? At this the planchette swung wildly around in circles in the middle of the board giving no response either way. One of the girls asked for a positive sign that the ‘spirit’ was present inside the church, and although TM readily agreed, we waited for several minutes and nothing happened. “He must be weak,” said the psychic investigator. Lee and I nodded knowingly.

By now it was light, and people started to disperse, some huddling down in their sleeping bags on the porch to get some sleep, others wandering off to their cars to get something to eat.

I managed a couple of hours sleep lying in the grass beside the porch but woke up at about half-past seven freezing cold. The sun soon warmed me up. It was going to be another hot day, and across the Stour valley towards Suffolk a sea of mist lingered in the hollows and swirled among the trees. Lee and I felt hungry, thirsty and tired, but we lingered in the churchyard after everyone else had left, taking photographs and ciné film of the church.

At about nine, a Mrs Proudfoot came to unlock the church door. She regarded our presence with wry amusement, and mirthfully asked if we’d seen or heard anything.

The Church is quite old—it dates to the twelfth century, and according to the handbook available inside, a wooden structure probably stood there in Norman times. There’ve been 54 rectors since the first one in 1236, although Borley aficionados are familiar with the names of the last few—the Bulls, Lionel A. Foyster and Guy Smith. The Rectory was built in 1863 by the Reverend Henry Bull Snr., although it was his son and namesake (also a keen Spiritualist) who promoted the hauntings at the Rectory. His successor, the Reverend Smith were quoted as saying the Rectory was not haunted, although a look at his private correspondence reveals that he believed otherwise.

It was his successor, the Reverend Foyster, who recorded much of the spirit activity. Poltergeist activity seemed to focus around his wife Marianne, and messages to MF appeared mysteriously on the Rectory walls. I think it was the Foysters who built a summer house especially to watch the Nun on her regular sojourns through the Rectory garden. The Rectory was rented to Price in the late 1930s, and he made it famous with his book, The Most Haunted House in England, published in 1940. The Rectory burned down in 1939 and was demolished completely six years later.

The interior of the church is dominated by the monumental tomb of the Waldegraves that occupies the north side of the nave. It’s 14 feet high and is composed of two effigies, both with hands clasped in prayer, the first of Lady Waldegrave, the other her unnamed second husband. An elaborate canopy rises above the slumbering figures and is supported by six Corinthian columns. The inscription reads, “Lo’ within this tomb lies Edward Waldegrave and (with him) Frances, formerly the companion of his bed, but now of his grave.” It’s adorned with the effigies of the five Waldegrave children, Charles, Nicholas, Marie, Katherine and Magdalin. The tomb was obviously once painted with bright colours but these are now faded & dusty, and the stone is painted to look like marble.

Next to the tomb, mounted high on the wall, is a kneeling effigy of Magdalin Southcote (“Waldegrave’s daughter and Southcote’s only spouse!”). At the eastern end of the Church stands the altar, beneath an elaborate stained glass window depicting the Crucifixion. On the southern wall are two more stained glass windows dedicated to H.D. Bull and J.P. Herringham (these are described in the handbook as “very pleasant”). The western end of the church comprises the tower (built in the 1400s) and the font.

It was in this area that lights were filmed, and heavy asthmatic breathing recorded. A framed yellowing photograph hangs on the wall showing the junior Bull on the occasion of his marriage in 1911, looking a bit like Wyatt Earp with a big handlebar moustache (Lee took this outside and re-photographed it). There’s an organ on the southern wall of the nave and Lee and I discovered a carved pentagram with 666, runic letters and an inverted crucifix writ beneath, carved on the lid. On the walls of the church, people have carved their initials and the date into the stones; one on the north wall of the nave dates to the early 17th century and another in the porch is dated 1722.

Lee and I were soon alone, the last group of people climbing into their car and driving away. I found the family plot of the Bulls at the eastern side of the churchyard where Henry Bull Jnr. and Snr., plus a wife and daughter are buried. The churchyard is full of yew trees that have been clipped into smooth shapes, with large round bases and a gravel path wends its way between these to the 16th century brick-built porch and the front door.

As we took photographs, I noticed a woman striding determinedly towards us from the Cottage opposite. She came to the churchyard wall, leaned over and angrily demanded that I stop taking photos of her house as this was “an invasion of privacy.” She was quite irate at first, but after I’d explained that I wasn’t in fact taking pictures of her house and that we weren’t any part of the “shenanigans” of last night, she calmed down and even half apologised. Later, as she drove past us in her car she waved, so we seemed to have won her over.

I can fully appreciate her anger. The locals must be heartily sick of the very mention of Borley Rectory by now, and no doubt regard the incursions of the numerous cranks and thrill-seekers (including us, I suppose) with at best mild amusement and at worst utter contempt. The guidebook to the church contains a short paragraph near the back which suggests the local attitude; “There are, of course, those who suggest the church itself is haunted. Many old churches and buildings have chill areas which some would class as ghostly, but those who have lived long in the village and we who worship in the church have not experienced anything which would support such thoughts.”

Later in the afternoon we got sceptical opinions from the Church Warden and his wife and Mrs. Proudfoot: “You’re wasting your time y’ know” said the Warden as his wife laughed. “There are no ghosts here, never have been. . . .”

We intended going to Sudbury for something to eat—we had half an hour or so to spare until the pubs opened and our target was a pub lunch—so we sat in the church in the quiet of the sunny morning. Everything was deathly still apart from the whine of an occasional fly that buzzed at the windows or the muffled chirp of a bird in the trees outside. Gradually, as we sat and listened, we became aware of tiny scrapes and bumps and bangs coming from the altar region of the church. We both noticed a subtle change was taking place; the quiet pious aura typical of a country church was replaced by one less benign.

We felt sure that the air temperature was dropping, and as I stood beside the Waldegrave tomb I became so chilled that the flesh on my arms stood up in goosepimples. We sat in the pews beside the tomb, straining our eyes and ears towards the increasingly unnerving noises, which perhaps were caused by birds coming and going in the roof, or the stirrings of slumbering bats, which we’d seen a lot of last night as they flitted between the yews. But some of noises sounded too odd.

At times we got quite alarmed and left the church in a hurry, only to pluck up courage once we were out in the sun and creep back in. In an effort to determine where exactly the noises were coming from, Lee sat in a chair beside the altar, which was dedicated to the memory of one of the Bulls. The noises just as suddenly ceased, and we heard nothing. Yet when we resumed our position in the pews the shufflings and surreptitious scraping recommenced. It sounded as though someone were moving around beside the altar, trying to be as quiet as possible but not quite managing it.

I left to write up what we had heard in my notebook and Lee stayed on inside but came running out after hearing what he described as something approaching him across the floor. Inside again, we both heard a noise that sounded as if someone was padding very quietly up the carpeted central aisle. At one point Lee thought I’d whispered something barely audible in his ear, and was shocked to turn around and find me standing across the church by the door. We both heard vague, gravelly footsteps outside, ran out to investigate and weren’t really surprised to find the churchyard deserted. Lee also experienced a chill area beside the font.

All of this of course can probably be put down to the stirrings of our over excited imaginations. Subconsciously perhaps, we believe the church to be ‘haunted’ and want to experience something to confirm our faith, and so our ears and minds seize on every click and creak and magnify it. The guidebook claims the church does have chill areas and noises, and these latter might be caused by the contraction and expansion of ancient timbers as they’re warmed up and cooled down each day. Still...

At 12.30 we left for Sudbury and ate a hearty meal at the Casa André before walking the couple of miles back to Borley. It was very hot and the sweat prickled our faces and made the journey, for me at least, very uncomfortable. Once back in the church we noticed the atmosphere was again placid and unremarkable, but sure enough within ten minutes the unsettling raps and clunks began again.

During the afternoon several groups of elderly walkers made their appearance, looking round the church or kneeling for a little private prayer in the pews, making us wonder how on earth we could ever be frightened by the place. One of the Ipswich psychic researchers made an appearance again, a tall plump chinless man with a plump well-fed kid and a similar-looking wife, and sounded interested in what we had to say. He said that if we were staying the night maybe he would come back later and stay with us a while, although his wife didn’t seem too pleased at this idea.

We passed the rest of the sunlight hours lounging around on the grass outside or in the porch of the church. We wanted to spend a night actually inside although everyone we spoke to about it said they didn’t rate our chances as there’d been a lot of damage caused by people allowed in before. At about seven, the white haired Church Warden and his good-humoured wife came to lock the door and turned our requests to stay inside down point blank and made me for one feel rather foolish.

Later on Mrs. Proudfoot came along to lock up and seemed surprised when she discovered this had already been done. She again gave our rather weak and half-hearted attempts to be allowed in for the night short shrift: “No one is allowed to stay inside now. The last group who did so were accompanied by a set of rather weird people who refused to leave in the morning. We had to call the police.” To be honest, I was thoroughly scared by the prospect and secretly relieved we weren’t going to make it in.

So, leaving a note in case our psychic researcher companion should honour his vague promise to return, we set off back to Sudbury for a drink at The Anchor. Our sleepless night was catching up with us. We both felt absolutely knackered and the prospect that awaited us hardly helped. It was pitch black as we walked back. We stuck to the road all the way because our route across the fields looked menacing and difficult to negotiate in the starless night. We got to the church at half-past eleven. Keeping our nervy instincts under firm control we strode with forced nonchalance through the darkness, collected our bags from where we’d hidden them beneath a yew tree and prepared our meagre sleeping arrangements.

Luckily we’d brought candles with us (appropriately enough they were “Price’s Candles”) and thankfully lit a dozen of them, which gives us some measure of light and heat to the bleak porch. It’s a windy night; the trees around the churchyard are swaying and sighing and the darkness beyond the feeble pool of flickering light is impenetrable. I’m trying not to concentrate too much on its presence.

I am ‘in bed,’ huddled beneath my blanket trying studiously to ignore all sounds by writing this.

Eternal crackle

We left as planned today, although not as early as we’d hoped. I slept the night on Lee’s floor, woke at ten and we actually set off an hour or so later as Watermouth was preparing itself for another scorching day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat was already intense and uncomfortable as we struggled to the bus stop with our bags.

Caught the No. 31 to Binston Park and hitched from there, getting a lift from a man who saw my kitbag and thought I was in the RAF. He took us to Junction 8, right at the start of the M354. For ages we tried to persuade cars to stop, enduring the usual thumbs-ups, blank looks and those bastards who indicate they’re stopping and then drive off laughing, before moving to the opposite side of Junction 8, which was all but devoid of traffic. Scores of cars turned off towards Watermouth but only the odd one or two came our way, and none of the drivers seemed inclined to even give us a glance.

All those people who swept past us in otherwise empty cars angered us, but eventually we were lucky and a lone driver pulled up, dropping us at the M3 turn off where we’d scarcely put our bags down before a Ford Transit van pulled up. The driver was a big W. Indian who was taking his wiry insect-like New Yorker passenger to Brixton, so we had an entertaining journey all the way into S.W. London, the American regaling our chauffeur with various tales and stories that reduced the latter to helpless hoots of laughter, which he frequently interspersed with “wow” in his gravelly, incredulous voice. He was deferent towards his passenger, as though he was impressed by his cosmopolitan authority.

We were dropped at Chiswick, and from there we gave up hitching, having saved just a pound for our efforts. We caught a bus into Kensington and from there we got the tube to Victoria. A coach ticket to Sudbury cost £3 each and we had a two-hour wait.

Our journey out of London and through increasingly rural vistas of cornfields, copses of green verdant trees, and tiny country roads was marked by a growing sense of excitement. As the coach headed into Essex we were in high spirits, passing through Romford, Brentwood, Ingalestone, Chelmsford, Witham, Rivenhall (a tiny place marked only by its old church tower lit by the dying sun), Braintree, Halstead and eventually, at 9 p.m., Sudbury.

As we climbed down from the coach the sun had just sunk below the horizon.

Sudbury was a few shops and Church grouped around a market square, the streets nearly empty even at this early hour, except for the usual gangs of local youth who always seem so prominent in these sorts of towns. We bought a burger from the back of a mobile fast food stall parked in the middle of the square, and set off along the road towards Long Melford and Borley, some two miles distant.

It was getting dark, and our route took us off the main road, down a footpath and into fields alongside the placid River Stour and out through a herd of cows that seemed alarmed at our sudden appearance. The buildings of Borley Hall were silhouetted black against the fading sunset sky, its windows lit and lonely in the blackness.

We came upon a roughly tarmac’d road which wound its way past an orchard and joined with another road, and we were in some confusion as to where Borley actually was, wandering along this road between high hedges (our imaginations working overtime) but seeing no signs of a church, only new and expensive looking houses sheltering behind trees and imposing driveways.

We finally turned round and walked back in the other direction, past a couple of semi-detached houses and the village hall (1878), the road climbing gently now through fields toward the blackness of trees ahead, crowning the hill. Numerous cars passed us, heading in the same direction. The distant trees were occasionally illuminated by torch beams, and the road turned left and swept away towards Borley Green as Borley church loomed up on our right, black and massive among its sheltering trees. As we drew nearer we realised with a sinking feeling that Pete’s predictions were about to be confirmed.

No less than a dozen cars were parked on the lay by in front of the grave yard gate, thirty people at least, laughing and talking, drinking coffee from flasks in the back of their Cortina estates and trudging to and fro in ceaseless procession up the gravel path to the church. We cursed them and their kind and I felt ashamed and embarrassed to be a part of this.

A loud American voice demanded to know where the Nun’s Walk was. The candle-lit porch of the church was filled with people and a couple of amateur authorities from Ipswich Psychic Research Group had set up a tape recorder with a microphone inside the church on the font, and they held court to dozens of people who hovered around the fringes of the candle light; numerous kids and teenagers, most of whom gave the impression that they were here just for fun (the mobile burger van man had said a lot of people visit “mostly just for a giggle”). I think a lot of them had come up from Sudbury especially for the anniversary.

In the darkness of the graveyard, amid the sculpted yew trees and tombstones, handfuls of people wandered around, gazing through the church windows or lying in the grass under the trees, giving the impression that they were quietly waiting for something to happen. There was an air of conviction about them, as though they were certain that they were about to see or hear something unexplained.

Lee and I took on the role of sceptics, and investigated one noise the frightened crowds were attributing to ghosts and deciding it was cows. Various people claimed to have heard things, or seen lights moving inside the church or among the bushes behind it and they clustered round the windows, peering inside. Round the back of the church, Lee and I shone our torches inside, which caused the people round at the front and on the porch to overreact with loud cries of “what was that?” etc. How gullible and subject to group suggestion most people are! It was both amusing and annoying watching them all reacting with alarm and dread to every tiny noise & rustle in the grass.

One lady was head and shoulders above the rest in the foolishness stakes, a self-proclaimed “medium” who chided Lee and I for shining our torches through the church windows because “You’ll make the lights go away.” Later, as the amateur psychic researchers replayed the recordings they’d made, she solemnly declared every rumble and scrape of noise to be ghostly voices or spectral organ music. One bystander said she could hear voices on the tape, and as the tape was replayed the medium enthusiastically said that yes, she could hear them too, and patted one of the psychic researchers heartily on the back saying “Well done! Well done! We have got some good results.”

We could only watch with amused contempt. The tape did capture one convincing noise, a loud clunk which echoed and sounded to have come almost certainly from somewhere inside the church. It was quite chilling to listen to.

More cars arrived, and things began to get out of control. A neighbour called the police and the young PC told us all to move on saying there never have been any ghosts at Borley, so Lee and I left and walked down the road about 200 yards to a cornfield where we’ve spread out our blankets and are going to try to sleep (and where I’m writing this by penlight).

The sky is clear and the stars glitter overhead in icy glory. Out here, far from the polluting effects of sodium street lighting, the Milky Way is clearly visible as a softly glowing band running from horizon to horizon. It’s odd to think what I’m seeing is the light of a billion suns, light from a galaxy so vast it can’t be comprehended in its entirety. Occasionally a meteor flares briefly as it streaks across the sky and then is gone in the blink of an eye.

The eternal crackle of the Universe, a vast emptiness above our heads silent, cold and utterly still apart from the noiseless pinprick of a satellite gliding its lonely path among the stars.

Pseudery

Lee and I were planning to go to Borley in the afternoon but after I’d signed on, sat in a café with Stu, and finally got down to Maynard Gardens, we both started to realise that we were being too unrealistic to expect to be able to hitch the 150 or so miles to Essex.

Lee has bought films for his two still cameras, the Ricoh KR-10 and the Pentax Spotmatic, plus a three-minute film for the Yashica ciné, and has a half side of ciné film left in the Chinon. We’re borrowing Ian’s stereo Walkman cassette recorder, and we’re bringing three blank C-90 cassettes. We still have to buy penlight batteries and candles, and have to retrieve the torch from Smith Square, which I hid as we were discovered by the cops. By the time Ian showed up having forgotten the Walkman, we decided to delay our trip until tomorrow morning.

Lee was helping out with a performance at the Art College at 1.30. I didn’t bother to go along, knowing too well the extent of the pseudery involved, and Lee said it all looked very amateurish and shamefaced, as though the performers knew how empty-headed and pretentious they were being. Performance art is a popular past time at the College and appears to be a thorough waste of time and effort, most of it seeming so jaded and predictable that it rarely stimulates or captures the imagination, or acts as a catalyst for further thought. It usually ends up with just an audience of bored fidgets.

Steve showed up again in the evening, down in Watermouth for the weekend. He has his visa for America, and apart from continuing concern over the ever plunging exchange rate, he’s all set to go at the end of August.

Lee and I plan to set off early tomorrow morning. Pete believes there will be hundreds of like-minded people in Borley this weekend. I hope not, and I hope the event doesn’t turn out to be a complete fiasco and waste of time.

Bravado and expectation

I visited campus and did some work for my extended essay, looking up references to the Beats in magazines and periodicals, seeing if they were in the library: nine of my forty two were. It was another hot day, the sun burning even at ten when I walked for the bus with Barry—no wind, the sky a limpid, bleached out blue, the colours of the trees and buildings tired in the heat.

I got back to Westdorgan Road at about three and a couple of hours later Stu’s friends arrived—Paul East and Stan, the former tall and thin with a face somehow reminiscent of Ivan Lendl’s, when not talking staring hard with dark eyes under a frowning brow. Both were dressed fairly similarly in pointed boots adorned with buckles and studs, black canvas jeans and leather jackets.

Next weekend Lee and I have planned a trip to Long Melford and the site of Borley Rectory. We plan to spend a couple of days and nights with tape recorders and ciné and still cameras. When the Rectory burned down in 1939, the ‘hauntings’—whatever they are—moved next door to the church where a TV crew filmed mysterious pin pricks of light on the choir screen and recorded chilling sighs and shuffling footsteps. July 28th is reputed to be the date on which the Borley Nun walks the Rectory grounds, so Lee and I—full of bravado and expectation—plan to use the full battery of our visual and audio equipment to record whatever it is that’s there.

In the evening I fell to talking of it with Stu, Barry and Stan. The darkness felt heavy and thick beyond the curtains and the little pool of light from the lamp. The wind was blowing a gale and I got a tiny taste of what might be the real gut-freezing fear to come. Stan said he’s been to Borley but there isn’t much there apart from the Church. Where the Rectory once stood is wasteland, and the whole village consists of a couple of houses. It made him wonder why there’s such a big church for such a small village.

I tried to imagine staying overnight in one of the most haunted churches in England and found I could imagine it quite well, especially at night. Come daylight, the familiar sounds and sights reassure and it’s hard to capture the state of utter apprehension and animal fear, of a kind I’ve never experienced.

My daylight rational self knows that if ghosts exist they’re simply undiscovered natural phenomena behaving according to unknown but predictable principles and says ‘Go! It will be interesting’ But in the dark, the primeval fears surface, especially in the musty ink-black inside of a church, the night concealing who knows what, and my midnight animal mind says ‘Why have a potentially horrible experience?’

But as Stu says, most likely nothing will happen.