A Ghost Story of the Norfolk Broads

A Ghost Story of the Norfolk Broads

  by A M Kirkby

  Text Copyright © 2011 A M Kirkby

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

  Short stories

  A Ghost Story of the Norfolk Broads

  The Tin Heart

  Sword of Sorcery

  Novellas

  Walsingham Way

  Green Land

  Doppelgänger

  Novels

  Etruscan Spring – forthcoming

  Etruscan Blood - forthcoming

  Children's books

  Kasbah cat

  Pagliaccio the opera cat

  A Ghost Story of the Norfolk Broads

  by A M Kirkby

  We were on the homeward stretch of our holiday on the Broads. A late holiday that year – we'd both been busy at work till the end of September – but we didn't regret it; the Broads were quiet, the sky clear, mornings misty and demure, tall church towers rising dark from the grey mists. When we'd set off from Stalham, it had been just after dawn; the trees overhanging the Ant dripped with moisture, and with the engine off and the sails catching the lightest of breezes, all we could hear was the slow splashing of dewdrops into the still river.

  We'd been down as far as Geldeston, the furthest you can take a boat on the Waveney; ate in the firelit bar at the Locks, and moored up on the bank there, cosy in our two berths.

  But the next day, everything started to go wrong. It had rained heavily overnight, and the Waveney was flowing fast and deep. We scraped under Beccles Old Bridge with half an inch to spare – if that.

  We reached Breydon an hour before we'd planned, and although working from the tide tables we should have been at slack water when we passed through Yarmouth, the Bure was running fast. Our motor could hardly push the boat forward. The confluence of the rivers had become a whirlpool, and the boat – shallow in draught and broad in the beam like all the classic Broads cruisers – started to spin in the mangling currents. We were losing control. Desperately, I tried to steer against the current, pushing the throttle as far as it would go. The boat shuddered, started to veer the other way, into the reverse of the spin it was already in; and then with a jolt, we were out of the maelstrom and pushing heavily, slowly, up the Bure.

  On a bright summer's day this stretch of the river isn't unattractive, if you have a post-modern appreciation of urban detritus. Matt does, I know, though I sometimes tease him about the way he obsessively photographs graffiti. There are sheds, old scrapyards, allotments, a few Asda trolleys lying on their backs like overturned sheep, helpless and moribund. There are peeling black-painted garage doors with multiple padlocks, and I wonder what secrets they are keeping.

  When it's raining, though, and you're making heavy weather of a river in flood that's running against you, and your gloves are soaked, and the rain's started to trickle down your neck, annoyingly both freezing and tickling, and you can feel the cold coming up through the soles of your shoes – well, the back side of Yarmouth is grey and dull and horrible. Matt brought me a cup of thick vegetable soup, but though the cup warmed my fingers, the rain soon started diluting the soup, and by the time we'd passed the last rusting scrapyard, I was left with a cup of congealing slime.

  We'd planned to motor up the Bure as far as we could, and moor up near Thurne. We'd done it before. But with the flood against it, we were falling way behind. The river here is bare; featureless marshes on both sides. Reeds and grass rustle in the wind; marsh harriers hang almost unmoving in the sky, and the few scattered cows we saw seemed to be congealed in time, as if the clock had stopped and our boat – and the driving rain - was the only thing left moving. But though it didn't feel like it, the afternoon was trickling away, and it was already half dark when we got to Stracey Arms, the lights of the pub garish across the water, the sunset ahead of us, glaring with nightmare streaks of red and orange.

  We made the wrong decision. We should have moored up there; but instead we decided to stick to our plan, and try to get as far as Thurne. We thought the full moon might give us some light; but soon after the Stracey Arms, dark clouds strangled it, and our weak navigation lights hardly shone as far as the banks of the wide river.

  Eventually we gave up. It was fully dark now, only a smear of purple on the far horizon remaining, and a far line of streetlight orange to our left. We decided to moor where we were. Matt played his torch on the bank till we found a wooden post to tie to at the bow; we put in the mudweight aft, so the boat wouldn't swing out into the river.

  The flood waters were well up; Matt slipped on the slimy wood, and swore as his foot slid into water where the earth behind the pilings had been sucked away by the river. There seemed to be water everywhere, and no land visible. There was no sound but rain and wind, and the shrouds beating their interminable rhythm on the mast of our boat.

  Still, we were well equipped for the evening. We both changed our sodden clothes, and a bowl of spaghetti made us a bit happier. I tipped about a quarter of our last bottle of red wine into the spaghetti, and we drank the rest, and hugged for a bit to keep warm, and were about to draw the curtains and turn in when we saw the pub across the river.

  No strings of lights like Stracey Arms; here only the windows shone out dimly over the water.

  “Funny,” said Matt, “We didn't see it before.”

  I looked on the chart. “Nothing on the map. Not before Thurne, and that's this side of the river.”

  “Give that map here. You've probably got it the wrong way... no, no, you're right.”

  A small victory, but I allowed myself a little smile. I knew that would annoy him. Anyway, whether or not it was on the map, there was the pub, with a single lamp swinging from a bracket outside, and the windows yellow and warm, like firelight. By now, the rain had stopped, and though it was cold, we decided to risk taking the dinghy across.

  There was another boat tied up outside, a small rowing boat with a tarpaulin crumpled up in the back, and the oars shipped. We tied up next to it, and went in.

  It was a traditional pub; lit only by gas lamps, as if the generator had cut out. There was a single handpump, unlabelled, and a couple of bottles of whisky with names we didn't recognise, and packs of Players behind the bar. An eel glaive hung over the fireplace, its tines shining in the light of the flames. Time passes slowly in places like this.

  The landlady was behind the bar. She had a long, rather sullen face; so did her husband. Not the usual kind of square-jawed crudeness of many of the locals, but the rather aristocratic, disapproving look of the saints we'd seen on the fifteenth century painted rood screen at Ranworth church. They were wearing rather old fashioned clothes, too; you don't often see a man wearing a grey suit like that these days, with a dark tie and a dark waistcoat; and she had her hair brushed up on her head. Though I suppose she might have been paying a more up-to-date tribute to Amy Winehouse – but if she was, she'd got the style badly wrong; it was more Upstairs downstairs (Matt would say I'm showing my age by remembering that). Besides, she looked to be in her thirties; I would
n't have thought she was a fan.

  “Bit quiet tonight,” I said.

  “Trade is poor, “ the landlady told me. “Now the wherries don't come, we've lost a lot of our business.”

  The wherries haven't come for years, I thought, but fortunately I had enough tact to keep my mouth shut. (Matt often says I've got no tact, and he's usually right, but I was a bit edgy tonight; I'm not sure why.)

  We ordered a couple of whiskies, and sat down by the fire. Oddly, though the fire warmed our fronts nicely, we could still feel a cold draught at our backs, and though we moved the chairs a couple of times, we could never quite manage to avoid it. The landlady wasn't particularly chatty, and her husband didn't seem encouraging – he was busy anyway , going out to bring in more wood for the fire, and piling it up in the hearth - so we just sat and stared into the crackling flames.

  Though the husband said nothing, he was very demonstrative with his wife; every time he passed her behind the bar, he'd brush her neck or her waist with one hand. And I noticed he looked at us both as if we were competition. Not likely – two old queens on a boat – but he seemed suspicious of us; I caught him staring at us a couple of times.

  And the landlady seemed a bit nervous, too. She seemed to be waiting for