and had written his own first ghost story at age 13. Writing during college lectures instead of taking notes, Rowlands published numerous ghost stories in student publications between 1958-63, and thus was born Father D. O’Connor, whose reminiscences are very much in the classic English ghost story tradition. Since those days Rowlands’ stories have appeared in
M.R. James observed that “places are prolific in suggestion,” and David. G. Rowlands agrees: “My stories invariably encapsulate a setting that has impressed me. It needs no deep penetration to recognize my ‘Longbury’ of the story as an amalgam of Longville and Rushbury—the latter being one of the loveliest villages in Shropshire. The house/wash-house/chapel complex was situated in my old home village (Iver, Bucks), however, and was only demolished as part of a redevelopment scheme in 1973. It was much as I’ve described it—the scullery with range, the chapel and that dank, dark, gloomy washhouse. I did indeed hear children’s voices all about me—it was a very strange house—and to this day it remains quite inexplicable.”
Fr. O’Connor made it a regular custom to invite other clergy to dinner from time to time, a pleasant little ecumenical exercise resisted only by a somewhat dour Presbyterian. On such occasions the table talk might center on ‘shop,’ local gossip, antiquities or anecdotes.
One particular evening, the Baptist and Anglican ministers only were present—a Mr. Cummings and a Rev. Timothy, respectively. A remark from the Rev. Timothy about the grievous matter of one of his church bells needing to be recast had launched Fr. O’Connor into anecdotes of early itinerant bellfounders. Beginning with Robert Catlin, who had cast the local tenor bell in the churchyard, he came by devious routes to a sixteenth-century monk of St. Milburg’s—the Cluniac Abbey at Much Wenlock in Shropshire—one William of Corvehill: noted for many mechanical and artistic talents, but especially for bell casting and bell hanging… but—by your leave—I will keep that for another occasions.
Mention of Wenlock sufficed to enthuse the Rev. Timothy, who was a keen student of architecture, and we had a long exposition of the beauties of the Guildhall in that quiet little Shropshire town. His panegyric on the paneling was interrupted by Mr. Cummings, who inquired whether the wheeled stocks were still there.
“I believe so, my dear fellow,” replied the Anglican, “but why do you mention
Mr. Cummings laughed. “No reason, really. It just reminded me that my great aunt Lucy was threatened once by the vicar of Wenlock (or is it Rector? I forget) with being put in the stocks and wheeled through the town and surrounding villages.”
“She must have been a character,” I commented.
“Yes,” he said musingly. “She was widely believed to be a Wise Woman or witch; certainly people came from miles around for her cures.” He laughed (the Baptist congregation being very small in our village). “It’s a pity I haven’t inherited her talents, maybe.” He grew suddenly serious: “Though I’m glad I haven’t.”
Fr. O’Connor caught my eye and winked so that Mr. Cummings could see.
“Ha,” he said, “that sounds like the basis of a good story, Cummings; what about it?”
Mr. Cummings thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “It reflects badly on my relatives, but as they’re all dead and buried long ago, I don’t suppose any harm can come of telling the story now.”
“Well then, gentlemen, I propose we adjourn to the study, where we can talk in comfort over a pipe or two,” said the good Father, rising to say Grace.
When we were all comfortably ensconced, Mr. Cummings began his story:
My grandfather was the son of a Shropshire yeoman farmer,” he began. “He blotted his copybook by marrying a Romany girl (of all people!) and his father threw him out in consequence. The couple went to Hereford, where my father was born, and they both worked in the cattle market. However the girl tired of the restricted life, upped and went off with a drover, leaving him to raise my father alone. He moved to Gloucester as stockman for an auctioneer and lost touch with his family, apart from his sister, this eccentric old dame who lived on Wenlock Edge. (The family farm went to my grandfather’s younger brother). My father entered the auctioneer’s as a trainee clerk, married the boss’s daughter and ultimately managed the business for her family. All this is by the way however; what concerns my story is that at the age of ten, or thereabouts, I succumbed badly to bronchitis and the doctor recommended a holiday away from the lower reaches of Gloucester. My poor Dad was at his wits’ end what to do about it, since he was too proud to ask help from my mother’s family, despite her urgings. Then he remembered his old aunt. Somehow, it was settled that I should go and stay there for six weeks or so.
Longbury, where she lived, was a tiny community on the Wenlock Edge, immortalized by Houseman’s verses. Even such a communal backwater was a microcosm of a divided Christendom, however, for there were Anglicans (of ‘high’ leaning), Methodists, Congregationalists, Baptists, Roman Catholics and even a few ‘Friends’ of austere persuasion, who met over the village shop.
My great aunt’s residence, “Rose Cottage,” was a rambling place that had belonged to her husband’s parents, who used to run the village school; and it was situated at the end of a little lane that led off the main street through the village. A singlestory wing had been added about a hundred years earlier and this was fitted out and used as the Baptist chapel. There was some mystique surrounding my great uncle, who had been custodian of the chapel and lay preacher as well, and I was told he had gone abroad in ‘The Lord’s Service.’ It was only later that I learned he had actually disappeared—at the same time as, and presumably in the company of, a buxom young farm girl who had attended the chapel and in whose spiritual welfare he had shown great interest. Needless to say it had been the scandal of the district for years, though I daresay any eloping couple need have gone no further than had my grandfather to escape local opinion. So far as Shropshire villagers of that period were concerned Hereford and the North Pole were equidistant!
My aunt had assumed the caretaker’s role and a minister used to bicycle over from Stokesay; there being no Sunday train service.
From the start of my visit I was afraid of the old lady, though she was kind enough to me in a gruff sort of way. She must have been in her sixties then, I suppose, dressed always in black material that had gone greenish with age, and which had been polished to a sheen from long use. She had rounded, vaguely benevolent features, belied both by a sharp pair of hazel eyes and a curiously sibilant voice that instilled respect far more than any stridency could have achieved. Her greeting was typical:
“Well, Harold,” she said, peering at me from top to toe, “I don’t suppose you want to be here any more than I want you, but I suppose we must make the best of it; blood is blood, after all. Mind your manners and keep out of my way, and we shall get along, I daresay.”
How well I remember that cottage! There were two downstairs rooms; the one—termed the ‘Scullery’—was dining and kitchen combined, dominated by a huge kitchen range which I had to ‘blacklead’ every day as one of my tasks, and with red enameled doors that had to be polished until I could see my face in them. The other downstairs room was next to the chapel, sharing a wall (though there was no door connection); cool and dark with chintzy furniture and pervaded by that unmistakable smell of the long-unlit coal fire. Occasionally if I entered on a Sunday, I could hear the chapel piano through the wall—played with more vigor than skill—and the discordant mumble of singing. There was a little alcove, curtained off, with scrubbed table, pair of scales, huge stoneware pestle and mortar and other impedimenta of the herbalist; for the old lady was much in demand locally as a ‘Healer’ or ‘Wise Woman’ and was clearly a thorn in the flesh of the local doctor. Indeed, she had a daily stream of visitors—some furtive, some defiant, some afraid, a few resigned; but all clearly in awe of the old curmudgeon. Since she was both astute and imperious, I imagine she must have accumulated more knowledge about local people and their affairs than was good for them. The path outside divided in two—one main sweep going from the front door (there was no back!) to the gate into the lane; the other went past the new wing, crossing the chapel path (worshippers came in by a different gate) and on to a long dark shed, called ‘The Wash House,’ with sagging rainwater barrel outside and mangles, stones, flatirons and sinks inside. A substantial hook and pulley system ran on a rusty wire the length of the shed, for easy handling of laundry baskets.
My aunt lived alone since her husband’s defection, and a ‘daily woman’ came in: a Mrs. Bardette, who was as
