This isn’t one of my normal subjects for articles but, having looked out over the meadows behind my house in the dusk, seeing the mist rising and hearing our local parish church bell ringers practising, it brought to mind a ghostly tale involving my dad so thought I’d like to share it with you.

After Dad came back having served in the Army during the Second World War he returned to his home village of Aldborough – an idyllic, typical English village with country pub, local shop and post office, flint cottages around a central green.  The village had outlying farms – some arable, some livestock and some land had been put down to orchards.  It was a thriving village and the majority of villagers felt no need to leave the area to get work; it was literally there on the doorstep for the taking provided you didn’t mind getting your hands dirty.

Dad was no exception.  Before he’d joined the Army in 1939 he’d been working for a local landowner, Mr Cooke, who had several acres of arable land in the area.  Dad had always enjoyed working on the land and, on leaving the local school in the 1930s he’d applied to work for Mr Cooke.  Mr Cooke had instantly seen potential in Dad so had taken him under his wing and had coached him in the various aspects of arable farming.  When Dad returned home in 1945 Mr Cooke had contacted him and asked him if he’d like to carry on exactly where he’d left off and Dad, needless to say, practically bit Mr Cooke’s hand off!  With Mr Cooke’s encouragement, Dad had then gone on to study agricultural botany at Cambridge and, by the early 1950s had received a Diploma for his efforts.

On achieving this accolade Dad was promoted to the rank of crop inspector and part-time manager of Aldborough grain mill which was also owned by Mr Cooke.  It was Dad’s job to ensure that the mill was running smoothly first thing in the morning, to issue the lorry drivers with the paperwork relevant to their deliveries or collections for the day and knew exactly where they were going.  He then went on his rounds of the local farms and returned to the mill in the evening to ensure that all lorry drivers had checked in, that they’d had no problems and the mill was secure for the night.

One evening as it was just turning dusky, Dad arrived to secure the mill and found that one of the lorry drivers was still at the mill.  On getting out of his car Dad noticed the driver, who was standing by the mill door, was looking decidedly scared and pale. 

“What’s up?” he asked the driver.

“Do you believe that story about the mill being haunted?” the driver replied.

Dad laughed.  “Of course not”, he said, “and I can’t believe a down to earth countryman like yourself would believe in that rubbish either!”

“Well,”, the driver went on, “when I arrived back here and got out of my lorry about quarter of an hour ago I swear I saw a ghostly figure close to the stream there” and he pointed to the beck which ran alongside the mill and was surrounded by tall oak trees.  Admittedly, the woodland did look a bit spooky and with the wind rustling the dry autumn leaves, the trickling sound of the water and the odd screeching owl, Dad could see how it could affect someone with a very vivid imagination but Dad had no doubt that there weren’t any ghosts living there!

The driver, after a fashion calmed down a bit and he and Dad began talking about their day.  Suddenly the driver tapped Dad on the shoulder and put his finger to his lips to indicate to Dad that he should keep quiet.

Dad was surprised to hear what sounded like feet sliding through the sandy, gravelly lorry park – he turned to face the lorries but couldn’t see anything.  “It’s probably rats poking around for grain or even a fox after the rats”, he said.  He looked at the driver who had turned extremely pale once more and had a very frightened look on his face.  He pointed over Dad’s shoulder and whispered, “I just saw that figure again; it’s gone behind the lorries there”.

Dad was now beginning to feel that perhaps there was indeed a ghost – it had been a long held belief that the area was haunted and who was he to say that it wasn’t?  He hadn’t believed it but, if he had some evidence, then he was willing to change his mind.  Dad suggested that they should both creep around the car park to see if they could see anything.  He quietly urged the driver to go to the left and indicated that he would go to the right but the driver said he wasn’t going out there on his own but was happy to follow close on the heels of my dad.

And so their ghost hunt began.  Dad, having rethought his strategy, decided it may be a good idea to start by getting down on hands and knees and looking under the lorries.  To his horror he could see two white bony legs and what looked like a calf length white cloak or robe.  Dad, whose bravado was sparked by the poor driver’s fear, quietly made his way along the lorry park to where this ghost had been sighted.

On reaching the point, Dad, heart thumping, looked round the lorry to see …

John Bone – an eccentric old man who lived in a grubby little cottage at the bottom of the lane to the mill.  He stood there in the chill autumn air dressed only in a nightgown and slippers and carrying a shotgun.

“Good grief, John!” exclaimed Dad.  “What the hell are you doing creeping around here?  You nearly frightened us out of our wits!”.

“There int normally no-one here at this time a night”, said John with a distinct Norfolk accent.  “I oft come here of an evening and nab myself a rabbit or two for the pot, or the odd pheasant that come a wanderin inter the woods there”.

It was quite a relief to both Dad and the driver but Dad had to issue a warning to John Bone that int weren’t a good place for him to go a shooting willy nilly when there were still people around and perhaps he should come out a little later at night to do his poaching!