A Christmas Hornpipe and Other Ghostly Yarns

By Bob Leaver

A CHRISTMAS HORNPIPE AND OTHER GHOSTLY YARNS is a collection of 13 tales of the supernatural. Inspired by the Victorian classics in that genre, though the stories herein are written with a Queer sensibility and an affectionate sense of humour.

Perfect for Christmas – and all the whole year through.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781312090552

Book preview

Preface

PICTURE IF YOU WILL the snug seclusion of a candlelit study at Gaylord College, Oxbridge on a stormy night in late December over a hundred years ago where Oxbridge academic and confirmed bachelor, the Reverend Professor Doctor Montgomery Mablethorpe Zoomer, is seated on a Chesterfield wing-back chair before a roaring log fire to share the ritual of Ghost Stories, over a Christmas bowl of Smoking Bishop with his coterie of young, fresh-faced student acolytes.

Setting aside his cup of steaming punch, he opens the dusty tome that rests upon his knees and begins to read in a mellifluous voice…

A Christmas Hornpipe

AS AN UNDERGRADUATE at Gaylord College, Gideon Rees-Clitteridge had been fortunate to secure rooms on campus on the top story of the Queensberry Halls of Residence, for the duration of his three-year tenure; with its oak-panelled walls, feature fireplaces and views over the pretty Baskerville Meadows, he considered himself truly blessed.

He felt equally blessed that throughout his residency, the rooms across the landing had been occupied by Timothy Big Timbo Cratchit with whom he shared a cordial relationship and bathroom facilities. It was an equitable arrangement as Cratchit was nothing if not meticulous in regard to personal hygiene and never left so much as his ring around the bathtub. Timbo did, however, have the vaguely unnerving habit of entering said bathroom without knocking with alarming regularity whilst Gideon was at his ablutions.

Term time was drawing to a close and, with the nights drawn in with it, by half past two in the afternoon, darkness had descended upon Gaylord. Gideon lay submerged, chin deep, amongst the soapy suds by candlelight when Cratchit burst into his reverie, fresh from the rugby pitch and bringing with him the distinctive whiff of damp earth, fresh sweat, and testosterone. The flickering candlelight cast Timbo’s silhouette against the bathroom wall and ceiling, magnifying it so as to look like that of a hulking monster not a man; a monster in motion as he peeled off his striped rugby shirt and, casting it aside, asked, with a laugh, if there was room in the tub for a little one?

Gideon observed, dryly, that there was nothing little about Cratchit and he must wait his turn. At which, his friend peevishly closed the lid to the water closet and took a seat.

Now, what’s this the provost was telling me about your intention to spend Christmas and New Year on campus? he asked, inquisitively. You certainly kept that one quiet.

Gideon frowned. There were things he’d rather not discuss - even with as trusted a friend as Tim; his strained relationship with his family being one of them.

Oh, you know, I get the college library all to myself and then there’s the provost’s yearly ritual of Christmas ghost stories.

You could, on the other hand, do me a great favour?

Gideon arched an eyebrow.

A favour? What sort of favour?

I’ve told you before of my Uncle Scrooge?

Your benefactor? Yes, often.

More of a second father really- At any rate the custom is for me to spend Christmas with him. He is a jolly good sort and all but I was rather hoping you might join me. Company, don’t you know? He is somewhat housebound these days and I thought perhaps we could venture out at times and explore the city.

But aren’t your parents usually in attendance?

Normally, yes. But they’re off up North doing missionary work in Barnsley this Yuletide, so I dare say it’ll be just him and I for the most part. Oh, do say you’ll come!

Well- Gideon began.

Cratchit didn’t wait for him to finish and, darting from his seat, thrust a meaty paw under the bathwater and shook Gideon firmly by the hand whilst professing his profuse thanks.

I didn’t say yes and that is not my hand, Gideon replied.

Timbo yanked back his arm and blushed.

But you will, won’t you?

If you insist.

I do!

Then it is settled.

The train from Oxbridge arrived at Paddington Station amidst a flurry of snow. The two young gentlemen took a hansom cab to Cornhill, stopping on a side street nearby at the black gated entrance to a gloomy cobbled yard. Having alighted, they passed through, Timbo leading the way, each carrying their portmanteaus and, much to Gideon’s surprise, came upon an 18th Century Mansion which was tucked away where it seemed to have little business to be. Once standing outside the frontage, however, it was clear that here was an oasis of calm amidst the hurly-burly of city life.

The exterior of the building appeared to have been lovingly and lavishly maintained in contrast to the buildings that abutted it, which not only seemed to have seen better days but had almost all been exclusively given over to merchants’ offices. Built of red brick over five floors, with sash windows, framed by lighter brick, that stood either side of the impressive front door, which, in turn, was painted a glossy black and bedecked with an extremely large, impressive, and highly polished brass doorknocker.

Timbo skipped up the four stone steps to said entrance and had no sooner raised one hand to the knocker to announce their arrival than the door was opened wide by a short, stout, elderly woman who looked up at the young master and beamed; revealing a set of ebony and ivory teeth, reminiscent of a grand piano keyboard.

Why, if it isn’t your great, kind self, Master Cratchit?! she cried. Then her smile faltered. Oh, sir. ‘Tis your Uncle Scrooge! and she fell forward into his arms, weeping uncontrollably.

Gideon darted forward in fear of the pair tumbling down the steps, but Timbo had everything under control. With all the gentle agility of a rugby left-winger he swept her off her feet and carried her, under his arm, over the threshold and into the beautifully appointed interior, leaving Gideon to bring up the rear with their luggage, placing it in the hall and closing the door to the winter chill behind them.

He swiftly followed the ceaseless wailing and was led into the welcoming warmth of the front parlour just as Timbo lay the woman on a chaise-lounge, went down on one knee beside her, and began to pat her hand.

My dear Mrs Chuff. Why do you take on so.?

Her wailing only increased in volume.

Timothy turned to Gideon.

Quick! he urged. A glass of water!! The woman is hysterical!

Gideon spied a jug and glasses on the dresser and filled a tumbler to the brim. Handing it to his friend he was somewhat alarmed when Cratchit, took a sip himself before throwing the remaining contents into the face of the prostrate Housekeeper.

But it did the trick.

Spluttering, Mrs Chuff shot up to a sitting position and, as she dried her face on the front flap of her apron, she thanked the young master, heartily, for bringing her to her senses. Having once regained her composure, she strove to explain the rationale behind her emotional outburst. Old Master Scrooge’s health had decidedly taken a turn for the worse.

Gideon took in the cheerfulness of the room, at odds with the mournful situation. A fire burned brightly in the grate; its light glinting off the holly and ivy decorations. A fir tree stood in the corner of the room, gaily decorated. Indeed, the whole room seemed to pulsate with Christmas joy.

Having collected herself, he heard Mrs Chuff offer to take them up to see ‘the dear, old, dilapidated master.’

She led them into the hall and up the sweeping staircase. It was broad and impressive; wide enough to drive a hearse and horses up, Gideon observed somewhat ghoulishly.

They entered the old master’s closet and there he lay upon the four-poser bed, the bed curtains drawn back on their brass rings and each tied to one of the ornately carved, wooden bed posts. His eyes closed, his head in repose, grey hair splayed upon the pillow, his wrinkled hands folded atop the eiderdown.

The three formed a semi-circle alongside and stared down at the prostrate body as if grieving beside an open grave.

Mrs Chuff observed, He’s breathing very queer, when he does breathe at all.

Has the Doctor seen him? Cratchit enquired.

Mrs Chuff nodded.

He left shortly before you young gentlemen arrived. He didn’t stay long. Took one look and said he was a goner for sure and that he couldn’t stop as he had another appointment at the brewery. Was hardly worth him turning up apart from his fee, he said. Honestly! And with what they charge for house calls! Daylight robbery if you ask-

Oblivious, to her ranting, Cratchit stepped forward and took his uncle’s hand in his, leaned forward and, Gideon noted, with a gesture of uncharacteristic gentleness, Tim kissed the old man lightly on the forehead.

It was at that moment Uncle Scrooge opened his eyes.

Tim? he sighed.

Yes, Uncle. Home for Christmas.

I’m glad, my boy.

Can we- Can I get you anything, dear Uncle?

Willy! Ebenezer gasped. Only Willy.

Willy? Tim responded. Willy who?

Wil- his uncle began to reply but slipped once more into unconsciousness.

Cratchit let go of his hand and stepped back.

He wants Willy, he stated, puzzled. Do you know of any Willy, Mrs Chuff?

Willy? she replied. I don’t know no Willy, I’m sure. She shook her head. I fear he’s delirious, sir. Pay it no mind, sir.

But Cratchit was unconvinced.

At dinner, Gideon found he could not help but refer to the tenderness Tim had exhibited towards his uncle.

I am immensely fond of the old man, Cratchit admitted. Who wouldn’t be? My family were grindingly poor and if it were not for his intervention, I might not even be here.

Not here?

No. For I was a sickly child. If Uncle had not intervened-

Cratchit let the thought hang in the air.

Even if I had survived, the most I could have hoped to achieve is to be clerk on a few shillings a week. He took a sip of wine and considered, No. He was a saviour to me. I hold him in the highest regard.

A good man indeed, Gideon observed.

It was not always so, Timbo chuckled. He was something of an old reprobate at one time, I do believe. Then something magical happened. A transformation. Nobody knows quite how or why save for himself. But it occurred fifteen years ago this very night.

When the evenings pleasant intercourse was at an end, the young friends parted company and retired to their own rooms. Gideon fully expected to fall swiftly to sleep under the snug, heavily padded eiderdown but his mind staunchly refused to comply. It whirred like the innards of a carriage clock – on and on and on – with unceasing momentum.

Willy? What did Tim’s uncle mean by it?

The more he thought, the more perplexed he was and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought. The question of Willy bothered him exceedingly.

Every time he resolved within himself, to go to sleep, his mind flew back again to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked through again.

Finally, he drifted into a form of half sleep; feeling as if he was perched on the edge of a yawning chasm into which he would inevitably plunge.

It was then, as he lay on his side facing the wall, that he had the peculiar impression that someone had climbed under the covers at his rear; followed by the further impression that, that someone was now spooning him from behind; then, the queerest sensation of all, that of a tongue licking his ear from earlobe up to the crown.

He lay petrified – stiff with alarm. Then he heard the voice; a gruff, rasping, and unmistakably masculine voice, half whisper half chuckle. It asked lasciviously-

Are you up for a game of Blanket Hornpipe?

Timbo screeched in panic and, sitting bolt upright, turned to see-

Nothing. For there was no one there and nothing to see.

By breakfast time, Gideon had almost managed to persuade himself it had been nothing more than a troublesome dream. Had it not been for Tim remarking on hearing a cry in the night, he might have dismissed it entirely. But, upon reflection, he doubted it.

After breakfasting, they decided to venture into the city for, as Big Tim had observed, Christmas was not Christmas without presents and they had brought none with them.

They set out on a leisurely stroll into the heart of the city, during which Gideon, reluctantly, took the opportunity to unburden himself of the unsettling experience of the night before.

Having checked to see they were not being observed, Tim cupped his friend’s left buttock and squeezed it firmly, whilst assuring Gideon, at the same time, not to worry as it was, in all likelihood, just wishful thinking.

Then Cratchit threw up his hands, threw his head back and laughed uproariously at Gideon’s mortified expression.

Recovering his composure, Gideon could not help but join in with his friend’s amusement for, truth be told, he had never known a man more disarming nor so blessed with such an infectious a laugh as Tim’s ribald though good-natured one was.

They parted on the main thoroughfare that Christmas Eve morning, agreeing to meet back at the Church gates in an hour and proceeded to set off in opposite directions.

Shopkeepers or their assistants had shovelled snow from the pavement in front of their establishments into the street and sprinkled salt upon the path to ensure safe passage. The sky was heavy with the portent of yet more snow to come. Yet there was cheerfulness abounding. All manner of shops were resplendent and bustling with eager shoppers; the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine perfumed the air.

Their shopping completed, and laden with packages, the two men met before the Church gates as arranged and headed off to take luncheon at a local tavern.

It was on the way there that they chanced upon Fred, Scrooge’s nephew by birth.

A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, young Timbo! Fred exclaimed, shaking him warmly by the hand. The exercise being repeated as soon as Gideon had been introduced.

After exchanging pleasantries, Fred’s face grew very grave.

I am heartily sorry to hear of Uncle Scrooge’s condition. Heartily sorry. If there is anything I can do?

Tim assured him there was nothing to be done but wait.

"I’m sorry we can’t dine with you tomorrow as per tradition, but my wife is soon to go into labour and has taken to her bed. She does so appreciate me shouting