Weird

Something very weird happened today.

Doreen, who doesn’t live in Swallow, but has just started coming to church here as part of the monthly round of services, said after the service that she had had the strongest impression of a tall priest with a long thin face, wearing a biretta and a red cape standing next to her so close that she was convinced he was going to put his hand on her shoulder.

I showed her some archive pictures, and she picked out this, adding that it was the first time she had been shown an actual picture of someone she had seen in this way, but that there was no doubt that this was the man she had seen.

The Reverend Cyril H. Jacoby was Rector here from 1935 to 1963, and I assume that he died some good long time ago. His very distinctive choice of costume was and is unusual for an Anglican priest, especially one far enough away from the extremes of the anglo-catholic movement to be married.

All this is rather disturbing for someone like myself who is firmly convinced that ghosts are superstitious nonsense based on nothing more than an excess of cheese and pickled onions late at night (or something similar).

If you like ghost stories read on, this one is also supposed to be true . . . Ethel was my grandmother's second (and favourite) sister.

Auntie Ethel's Neighbours
A true story retold

Auntie Ethel didn't stand for nonsense of any kind. She was the headmistress of a Senior Girls' Elementary School, and nonsense was most definitely not a part of the job description. She stood about four foot ten inches tall, had piercing blue eyes, and an almost uncanny knack of divining the truth of an improbable tale, and the untruth of a plausible narrative. Her girls feared, respected and adored her, and no-one ever had the temerity to doubt her veracity.
It happened more than half a century ago, and there is not a shred of corroborative evidence, but if Auntie Ethel said it was the truth, then that undoubtedly is what it was.
When she retired, she moved out of the school house and bought herself a house on a new estate which was being built on the edge of the town. The house was so new that when she moved in, the other half of the semi was unoccupied and remained so for several weeks. Auntie Ethel went about the business of settling into her new abode - arranging furniture, books and ornaments, hanging pictures, meeting the neighbours and reaching terms with the local tradesmen, until the day came when a Pickfords van drew up at the house next door and began to disgorge its contents.
Undoubtedly, Auntie Ethel was interested in her new neighbours, but she had far too much to occupy her in her own house to spend the morning staring out of her front window making a mental inventory of their belongings. However, by the middle of the morning the van had gone and she felt that it would no longer be an unpardonable intrusion to make the first friendly overtures; so she put the kettle on the gas ring to boil, folded her apron neatly away in a kitchen drawer, smoothed her hair in front of the hall looking-glass, and went to pay her first call on the people next door.
Time might eventually make them backdoor friends, but courtesy and custom demanded the formality of the front door on this first occasion. The wait after she rang the bell was of some minutes duration, and Auntie Ethel allowed herself the luxury of giving way to inquisitiveness so far as to glance through the still uncurtained expanse of the sitting room window. A few larger pieces of furniture had been placed by the removal men, but the sofa, chairs, occasional tables and rugs had been left huddled together with half-a-dozen laden tea chests in the centre of the room. On one of the chairs, unresponsive to either the sound of the doorbell or the face at the window, sat an old lady slowly unwrapping and examining the contents of the largest packing case. Auntie Ethel looked away.
The young man who answered the door was hardly dressed to receive company, but, then, it had not crossed Auntie Ethel's mind that he would be. Her perceptive eye took in every detail of his old paint-bespattered flannels and knitted waistcoat as he finished pulling on a tweed jacket to hide his rolled-up shirt sleeves.
"Yes?" he asked. "Can I help you?"
“I live next door," she replied, taking note of the hastily suppressed irritation which crossed his face. "I'm just making elevenses, and I wondered if you would like me to bring you round a cup of tea."
A young woman appeared from the direction of the kitchen, smiling, her hand held out in greeting.
"That would be lovely. I haven't unearthed the kettle yet although I'm sure that I packed it near the top, and as for the teacups . .”
"I know," said Auntie Ethel; "I've only been here a few weeks myself. Well, I mustn't detain you; I'll be about five minutes with the tea."
Back in her own kitchen, Auntie Ethel made the tea, and poured it out into three of her second best cups carefully placing the saucers on top to keep it warm, and arranged them with the milk and sugar on a tray.
This time, almost before she had rung the bell, both the young people were on the doorstep ready to receive her. As he took the tray into his hands, the young man hesitated, then asked,
"Are you coming in to have tea with us?"
"Oh, goodness no! I wouldn't dream of intruding on your first day. I know perfectly well that you've got more than enough to do without having to bother with visitors. Just pop the tray back when you've finished, and don't bother about washing up.!'
The young man glanced at the tray again, and looked puzzled.
“But there are three cups.”
"Of course. for you, your wife, and the old lady."
“What old lady?"
"The one in the sitting room. I saw her as I came by."
The young couple looked at each other, the puzzlement growing. "There is no old lady. There's nobody here but ourselves."
Auntie Ethel had always been very firm with her girls on the subject of good manners and agreeableness; on the other hand, she was not one to let a clearly erroneous statement go unchallenged.
"I assure you that she was there five minutes ago. She was unpacking a box of china ornaments."
The young man shook his head in perplexity; clearly he did not wish to contradict her directly again.
"Would you mind describing this old lady?"
Auntie Ethel had no objection to humouring the young man by answering his strange request.
"Iron grey hair done in a bun at the nape of her neck, navy blue dress with an oft-white polka-dot, long cuffs, draped neck, matching belt, small navy hat decorated with artificial cherries . ."
As she spoke the colour drained from the young woman's face, and, before Auntie Ethel had fairly begun on her description of the hat, the young woman had let out a muffled shriek and fled into the kitchen.
Auntie Ethel’s narrative stuttered to a halt.
"What's the matter? What have I said to upset her?"
"You have just described my wife's mother to the life,” replied the man. "She died six weeks ago."