deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Rambler
a ghost story for Christmas Eve
A light Christmas lunch was served in the dining room while a radio played popular songs and soap operas of the 1950s. It was an old green radio, a Roberts Rambler, with dials and a leather strap. It seemed to have come with the building. No one ever changed the station it was set to.
An episode of Mrs Dale's Diary, in which the titular character confuses her motorcar's clutch with a hook for her handbag, was playing. Meanwhile, the widowed Mrs Roberts was being helped to eat a slice of "traditional" Christmas pudding. 'Traditional pudding doesn't have dates' she observed, rolling one such example of the product around her mouth.
The girl with the spoon was looking at a television with Eastenders playing on mute. She muttered a vague noise of acknowledgement and blindly pressed the spoon against the widow's mouth again. 'Mr Edward Mitchell will pass on tonight, just as the Mass begins' said Mrs Dale from the radio. Mrs Roberts' normally faraway gaze focused for a moment, and she allowed the girl to feed her. The line of dialogue was a non-sequitur, compounded by the garage mechanic's reply. 'Oh no, Mrs Dale, that there's the clutch. It lets you change gear. I wouldn't put your handbag on it.'
Yet Edward Mitchell, currently slumped in his chair as a bowl of custard cooled before him, did pass on that night.
'She used to be a witch' said Sharnelle to Vicky. They were in the kitchen. Sharnelle was restocking the pantry and Vicky was washing up the lunch things.
Vicky snorted. 'Come off it, Shar' she said. 'You mean she read fortunes on Clacton Pier.'
'Magic does exist, you know, whether you like it or not. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'
Vicky smiled to herself. 'And who said that, Shar?'
'Don't be daft, Vicky. It's in the Bible! Everyone knows that.'
Vicky tried not to sigh and instead channelled her energy into scouring lamb fat from a saucepan. The moon waxed lyrical through the window above the sink, and was a much more pleasant sight than the grey workplace kitchen, with its grease-spattered signs everywhere.
Vicky's dusty blonde hair was tied back in a fierce ponytail, almost a facelift, and her Christmas jumper just looked frumpy on her.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and felt that she looked like one of those fearsome, humourless middle-aged women she hated as a child. The ones who seemed to become teaching assistants and volunteers at Christian youth groups partly out of a pathetic need for control. She hung a dish towel over the mirror.
'You want to hear a ghost story' she said, 'I've got one for you, and it's much scarier than Mrs Roberts. Did you ever hear about The Rambler?'
'No?' said Sharnelle, climbing down from the stepladder and taking a breather by the crates of tomato soup.
'Apparently, he walks the corridors of this very house, at night, and anticipates when someone's going to die. You can hear him coming through the woods if you stand out back and listen. Then he glides through the garden wall, through the locked sliding doors of the living room, and rambles about looking for a soul that he can take back to the Grim Reaper. And the Reaper pays him a nine bob note for each one.'
Mrs Roberts didn't hear anyone rambling about that night. Nor did she hear the radio in the dining room turn on, though she knew it did. Being on the second floor and already hard of hearing, she couldn't have heard the radio even if she'd wanted to, but she knew which song was playing at midnight.
It was Come Softly to Me, by The Fleetwoods.
I want, want you to know
I love, I love you so
Please hold, hold me so tight
All through, all through the night
Mrs Roberts, who'd just passed her ninetieth year; lay in her bed, hands folded across her chest, at peace with even these troubling events. What could she have done if she wasn't? At her time of life, the mortal mysteries would soon be revealed to her anyway. Her hair was as white as bleached bones, and her skin looked always as if it had just wrinkled in water.
She turned her head to the window, though it was just a black square. 'Merry Christmas, Mr Mitchell' she said and closed her eyes.
A light Christmas lunch was served in the dining room while a radio played popular songs and soap operas of the 1950s. It was an old green radio, a Roberts Rambler, with dials and a leather strap. It seemed to have come with the building. No one ever changed the station it was set to.
An episode of Mrs Dale's Diary, in which the titular character confuses her motorcar's clutch with a hook for her handbag, was playing. Meanwhile, the widowed Mrs Roberts was being helped to eat a slice of "traditional" Christmas pudding. 'Traditional pudding doesn't have dates' she observed, rolling one such example of the product around her mouth.
The girl with the spoon was looking at a television with Eastenders playing on mute. She muttered a vague noise of acknowledgement and blindly pressed the spoon against the widow's mouth again. 'Mr Edward Mitchell will pass on tonight, just as the Mass begins' said Mrs Dale from the radio. Mrs Roberts' normally faraway gaze focused for a moment, and she allowed the girl to feed her. The line of dialogue was a non-sequitur, compounded by the garage mechanic's reply. 'Oh no, Mrs Dale, that there's the clutch. It lets you change gear. I wouldn't put your handbag on it.'
Yet Edward Mitchell, currently slumped in his chair as a bowl of custard cooled before him, did pass on that night.
'She used to be a witch' said Sharnelle to Vicky. They were in the kitchen. Sharnelle was restocking the pantry and Vicky was washing up the lunch things.
Vicky snorted. 'Come off it, Shar' she said. 'You mean she read fortunes on Clacton Pier.'
'Magic does exist, you know, whether you like it or not. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'
Vicky smiled to herself. 'And who said that, Shar?'
'Don't be daft, Vicky. It's in the Bible! Everyone knows that.'
Vicky tried not to sigh and instead channelled her energy into scouring lamb fat from a saucepan. The moon waxed lyrical through the window above the sink, and was a much more pleasant sight than the grey workplace kitchen, with its grease-spattered signs everywhere.
Vicky's dusty blonde hair was tied back in a fierce ponytail, almost a facelift, and her Christmas jumper just looked frumpy on her.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and felt that she looked like one of those fearsome, humourless middle-aged women she hated as a child. The ones who seemed to become teaching assistants and volunteers at Christian youth groups partly out of a pathetic need for control. She hung a dish towel over the mirror.
'You want to hear a ghost story' she said, 'I've got one for you, and it's much scarier than Mrs Roberts. Did you ever hear about The Rambler?'
'No?' said Sharnelle, climbing down from the stepladder and taking a breather by the crates of tomato soup.
'Apparently, he walks the corridors of this very house, at night, and anticipates when someone's going to die. You can hear him coming through the woods if you stand out back and listen. Then he glides through the garden wall, through the locked sliding doors of the living room, and rambles about looking for a soul that he can take back to the Grim Reaper. And the Reaper pays him a nine bob note for each one.'
Mrs Roberts didn't hear anyone rambling about that night. Nor did she hear the radio in the dining room turn on, though she knew it did. Being on the second floor and already hard of hearing, she couldn't have heard the radio even if she'd wanted to, but she knew which song was playing at midnight.
It was Come Softly to Me, by The Fleetwoods.
I want, want you to know
I love, I love you so
Please hold, hold me so tight
All through, all through the night
Mrs Roberts, who'd just passed her ninetieth year; lay in her bed, hands folded across her chest, at peace with even these troubling events. What could she have done if she wasn't? At her time of life, the mortal mysteries would soon be revealed to her anyway. Her hair was as white as bleached bones, and her skin looked always as if it had just wrinkled in water.
She turned her head to the window, though it was just a black square. 'Merry Christmas, Mr Mitchell' she said and closed her eyes.
Published 24th Dec 2021
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24th Dec 2021 2:10pm
I like reading about the past - you give me so much to look up here to understand context.
25th Dec 2021 6:16am
The radio that came with the house, a Rambler, transmits announcements of the imminent demise of the residents. This arouses no suspicion in neither the residents nor the staff.
The name of the radio & the name of the grim reaper are the same, hence the overlap.
Interesting description of the young woman's face.
That Mrs. Roberts is described as mummified, desiccated, wan rhymes with the absence of maternal signs of the young woman, as is the allusion to control (the young woman) & lack of it (Mrs. Roberts).
Enjoyed!
The name of the radio & the name of the grim reaper are the same, hence the overlap.
Interesting description of the young woman's face.
That Mrs. Roberts is described as mummified, desiccated, wan rhymes with the absence of maternal signs of the young woman, as is the allusion to control (the young woman) & lack of it (Mrs. Roberts).
Enjoyed!
26th Dec 2021 00:31am
I have to wonder if you have experience with the elderly or care homes, CR? You write so vividly one would think you have first-hand experience. And that, combined with your natural writing talent produces some palatably damn good stories!
Thanks! I worked in one for a day during my job hunting twenties, but nothing came of it. The girl blindly feeding the old woman while watching TV is from a story a care worker told me, about a girl who aced all the coursework in her training and came highly recommended, but was let go on her first day because she was seen blindly jabbing a spoon of mush at a distressed woman’s mouth while watching TV. You can have all the knowledge in the world but still not be suited to a role.
26th Dec 2021 3:38pm
Exactly! It takes a great deal of compassion & patience to assist the elderly.
