45. A Friendly Ghost in the Cotswolds

The pretty, honey colored, stone cottage in England's Cotswold area had been on the market for a “donkey's age” said the realtor who rented us the house. She must have been eager to get the house off her list, because to me that was short hand for the owners are desperate.

I didn't know why it hadn't sold or been rented. The house seemed in good repair and was located within walking distance of the train station and village green. It was surrounded by pink and red roses, yellow daisies, blue bells, and smelled sweet and minty like my idea of an English garden. A fruit heavy apple tree was also in the backyard. Rounding out my impression of a real British home were the chrystalline chimes of the nearby Anglican church striking the hours.

My husband, Ben, had been transferred to the area by his American firm which was trying to bring their gourmet brand of dog food to England. We were promised two wonderful years in a foreign country at no cost to us. We thought we had died and gone to heaven. As time went on, we wondered if heaven was the right word for where we were.

My first visit to the tiny, local grocery explained why the house had stayed vacant for so long.

“Ah, and you'll be the new tenants over at Woodside cottage, I reckon,” asked the owner, John Goodson, whose ruddy face seemed to shine with British honor.

“Yes, we're so lucky to be living in a real Cotswold cottage and this fine village,” I enthused. I decided that 'quaint' was not a PC adjective to those who lived here.

“Well, then, did they not tell you about the ghost?” he asked.

“Ghost?” I didn't know whether to be frightened or thrilled at the prospect of meeting an English ghost.

“Perhap I shouldna be telling you the story, but may needs you be forewarned.”

“I love ghost stories, please tell me.”

His clear blue eyes looked straight at me and he said, “Well, not ta worry, Bartholomew wasn't murdered or a suicide.”

“Bartholomew?”

“He's the ghost, you know. A very friendly one. But still and all, he puts some people off.” As he put bread, cheese, and tea into my string carrier bag, he added, “Ya don't seem to me to be put off, though.”

“As long as it's a friendly ghost,” I thought of Casper the friendly ghost I read about as a child. “I wouldn't mind one.” I smiled, accepted my change and walked on home with happy thoughts of meeting a real English ghost. What stories I'd have to tell my friends back home.

I was putting things away when Ben came home. “I think I'll go out and see if any of the apples are ready for harvesting. It'll be a treat to have apples from our own tree.”

A few minutes later, I heard Ben yell and he came stomping into the house.

“I think that tree attacked me,” he sputtered.

“A tree can't attack anyone.” I said.

“Then you tell me why, when I was trying to pick an apple, several others just jumped on my head.”

“Oh, for gosh sakes, apples can't jump on your head. You probably just shook them loose.”

Our phone rang and it was a friend from the states, so the jumping apple conversation was shelved and forgotten.

The next time I went to the grocery, I asked Mr. Goodson to tell me more about Bartholomew, the possibly friendly ghost.

“If he wasn't murdered or a suicide, how did he die?”

Mr. Goodson cleared his throat and then explained. “You understand he was already a fair old age. In fact, he was 101 on the day he died.”

“The poor man died on his birthday?”

“Aye, after all the birthday party guests had gone home, and after he had argued once again with his son about needing to move into a home, the old gent decided he wanted an apple to calm himself down.”

“Did the apples jump on him?” I asked, remembering what Ben had insisted they had done to him.

“Jump on him?” Mr. Goodson looked confused. “Nay, I never heard that. But a branch did break loose and crack him on the head. Doctor said he died immediately.”

“I'm so sorry. Is that why he hangs around as a ghost? Because he's mad at the tree?”

“Missus, I don't know why he hangs around. As far as I know it's all just women's gossip.” And he started talking about the beautiful autumn weather we were having.

That afternoon I made a pie using my grandmother's recipe and the tasty, red apples Ben had gathered without any more attacks from the killer fruit.

However, maybe I ate too much of the pie because that night I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. Faint cries drew me to the bedroom window overlooking the back yard and there I saw Bartholomew for the first time. The moonlight made everything glow with a misty light, but I clearly saw an old man dancing around the apple tree, shaking his fist at it. I jumped back into bed telling myself, I had eaten too many apples and was having a nightmare.

I never told Ben about my dream since I scoffed at his story of attacking apples. However, I did have concerns about eating apples from that tree. I refused, in fact, to make any more pies or applesauce or jelly from that tree's fruit. And I never looked into the back yard if I couldn't sleep at night.

In fact I was relieved when Ben complained all the apples from the tree had disappeared. None were on the tree or even laying on the ground under it. We thought maybe kids had stolen them. Since I was never going to eat another one, it didn't bother me a bit. Although by then I was beginning to doubt Mr. Goodson's story about Bartholomew since no one else ever mentioned him to me.

Another trip to the grocery store may have solved the mystery. The little market had old wooden bushel baskets filled with sweet smelling, red apples that looked a lot like ours. Did helpful Mr. Goodson tell a gullible American woman a ghost story for his own purposes?

The End