Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

In 1956 life was somewhat different to the way it is today.

Nobody bothered to lock their front doors, relatives and friends just walked in simply announcing their presence whereupon a cup of tea was soon produced or on some occasions a cup of sugar (when a neighbour was short and the shops closed, or they were short of money).

Everyone knew each other and was in the most part generally friendly.

The people of those times had endured the war years and memories of that period, which came to a conclusion only eleven years previously, were still fresh. Rationing of food had barely come to an end and sharing among friends was still very much common place. Fashions were just starting to move away from the austerity dress of the war years, music now featured the new rock and roll and something called skiffle. Teddy boys were in evidence and the shops sold fruit that was being imported from the commonwealth including bananas, about which a popular song of the time was often played on people’s radios, mostly of the old valve type sets. A few things from the United States of America, including Harry Belafonte, Bill Haley and his rock music, instant coffee and pineapple fruit juice had also started to arrive. The new margarine, cheaper than butter, was becoming popular as were the emerging coffee shops.

This way of living was an echo of the austerity war years but also held much promise for a better future and the two put together created an exciting time to be alive.

Paul, an eight year old junior school pupil lived at the end of a row of terraced semi-detached houses, next to a collection of shops that fronted a main road. The shops included a newsagent, bread shop, fruit and vegetable shop and some others. 

The changing times did not register with Paul, who was too young to be appreciative of them and would not have been interested in any case. He lived on the end house next to the first shop. This house and the others in the row had been newly built in the early 1950’s for council tenants. Local councils up and down the country had been building and were continuing to build homes for the improvement of local people, replacing the bomb damaged, out of date or inadequately serviced old properties. Many still had one cold tap in a kitchen, a gas cooker, basic electric lighting and poor or no provision of power outlets. Outside toilets were still much in evidence. The population had increased as a result of the vast number of servicemen coming home from the war needing somewhere to live resulting in a new generation of children being born, the so called ‘baby-boomers’.

Paul was a baby-boomer but wasn’t aware of it.

Not everyone had a television set, certainly Paul’s parents didn’t, but most had an old fashioned wireless for entertainment. Paul and all the children he knew, spent most of their spare time outdoors with their friends playing street or alley games, only listening to the radio (or watching the television if they had one) in the evenings. This was especially so on Sunday afternoons when families gathered round the dining table to share the main meal of the week together. When the weather was fine and it wasn’t Sunday they were often to be found kicking a football in the nearest park, perhaps a mile or so away. That is until it was too dark to see properly or the park keeper chased them away home.

Today was an early Saturday afternoon.

Paul had gone out to find his friends to see what today’s games might be. They should be out and about this early in the afternoon.

Paul had just finished his bite to eat for mid-day; a thick cut sandwich filled with very tasty cold lard dripping that had been used, added to and kept in the one frying pan for the week. It contained all the flavours of the food cooked in it and he thought it delicious. Paul always looked forward to this tasty bite to eat. His main meal, a casserole (light on the meat content) accompanied by boiled potatoes, and of course generous Yorkshire Puddings, would not be ready until about five o’clock.

“Where is everyone?” thought Paul turning the corner at the end of the row of houses towards the estate at the rear.

All these houses had been part of the post war build and they all looked pretty much the same. Most were council houses but some, like the one in which one of his friends lived, had been bought. Paul was aware that his Dad could never buy the house he lived in. He was a returning soldier who did not earn much money, most of them didn’t; the heroes of the previous years were now considered unfit for normal civilian life. Paul had no idea how much his Dad earned but he knew that his Mum had to work hard sometimes to find the money for the rent. He had been told to be quiet some days when the front and back doors were locked and the rent man was due. Paul was a happy lad who never realised that he lived in a sort of poverty; his life was a rich one full of adventure and football.

Wandering along each of the roads in the estate to the rear of where he lived, but not too far lest he fall foul of the ‘gangs’ that roamed about there, he tried to locate his friends.

“Where is everybody?” Paul spoke out loud to himself, which he sometimes did. “Some of them must be out; they were earlier-on before I had to come in for my sandwich.”

  “Oh no,” he exclaimed talking to himself again. “It’s starting to rain.”

The very fine sort of drizzle that often fell in the north-east, the type that gets into everything, was now drifting inexorably down to permeate the clothes of anyone without a coat and hat on. That included Paul. It was fairly light for a few minutes and Paul just tried to ignore it. Becoming a little wet was nothing to be bothered about, his dad, a soldier from the war, would think him soft if he came running in because he was wet as a result of a little drizzle.

Paul did not have many clothes and at weekends he wore his patched up ones and a pair of old shoes that had holes in the soles to play out in; cut-out cardboard inner soles made by his mum made them last longer. His only good clothes were kept for going to the local junior school.

Paul felt the drizzle turn to rain and go down the back of his neck; he shuddered with the sudden cold sensation. Looking up he realised that the clouds had turned a dark foreboding grey and were now delivering streams of rain.

That was the end of his search for today; friends would not be coming out today. A little drizzle was one thing but playing in the rain would not go down well with mums and besides it was becoming very cold rain.

His mind was made up. Turning on his heels he decided it would be best if he went home straight away, at least until the impending storm blew over. A small run of a couple of hundred yards and he was back at his front door.

Paul reached up for and turned the door knob, to walk straight in, into the hall-corridor. The front door was never locked unless sometimes when the rent man was due. He wasn’t too wet and his mum would not be unhappy with him but he did pause for a moment to brush and shake off some of the rain onto the bare lino floor. What had soaked-in would dry off shortly despite the lack of a regular fire in the house.

The family living space was the room at the rear of the house off which a small kitchen and pantry were extended. This was quite a normal arrangement for families finding themselves in one of the ‘new’ homes. They also had a front room downstairs and three bedrooms and the novelty of an inside bathroom upstairs.

Paul walked down the short corridor, past the front room, the parlour, which was reserved for any special guests that may come to his home. It had the nicest pieces of furniture, the best hand made rugs on the lino covered floor and an open fire laid with paper, wooden sticks and a top layer of coal ready to be lit. Paul could only remember one special guest years ago but even though he must have been very young at the time, he remembered the occasion of the special visitors but could not recall the fire being lit.

The fire in the rear room in which normal life went on was usually lit and would be blazing away but only if it was very cold outside; it wasn’t today.

Here in the north-east of England that could be most times of the year with winters being very bitter. Today was a reasonably mild day, despite the increasing rain, so the fire would be just sat there waiting to be lit or the ashes still smouldering away if had been alight the previous day.

Something that Paul’s mum also did on a rainy day was to bring in to the house, the washing hanging on the line outside in the small back garden. She would bring it in to hang it up to dry on an inside washing line that could be rapidly strung from one corner of the back room to the opposite corner where steel eye bolts were a permanent fixture, creating a diagonal washing line. This way it also avoided the washing dripping on to the one radio, ‘salvaged’ from the war by his dad. This was kept in another corner on a small polished wooden table on which a white crocheted linen cloth was laid. It had interesting words on the big dial face like ‘Hilversum’ and ‘Luxembourg’ that fascinated Paul.

Continuing along the small corridor, reaching the closed door into the back room he swung it open and bounded through but pulled up fast. There standing in front of one of the large sheets hanging on the inside clothes line was another young boy of about the same age as Paul.

Paul instantly thought of all the ‘cousins’ he had been required to ‘entertain’ in the past, a very dubious pleasure and this had to be another. Last year it had been a girl that instantly disliked him with the feeling being mutual. His mum had an extended family with half brother and sisters that lived many miles away that he knew nothing about. At his age it had not made much sense with all these relatives turning up, usually brought by unfriendly ‘Aunties’. His mind usually turned to think of his friends on such occasions, which would be waiting for him to go play football in the park or play kick-can in the back alley.

That was until before the horrible girl arrived, yet another cousin apparently, who wanted nothing to do with any boy; that had been a disastrous day. Only a month ago he had barely finished breakfast when yet another of his interminable cousins called David arrived with his mum, Paul’s aunty Betty, one of the half sisters of Paul’s mum. He had been told to go out and play with David, a boy a year or two older than Paul and doing as he was told he set off out the back door almost having to drag David behind him. Unfortunately David was something of a softie, he spoke posh, his shoes were polished and he wore a tie when it was a weekend. He didn’t want to play football because that would mess up his shoes and besides he said, “I don’t like football, I prefer rugger.” A right posh snob he was in Paul’s mind.

That dreadful event was now long behind him and no more than a strange memory. But now he faced another dilemma. Who was this new ‘cousin’ or whoever he was standing before him.

“Hello there,” Paul attempted being as polite as he could, as his mum had taught him, in case this was another ‘posh’ relative.

The young lad before him did not reply but did manage a smile. Paul cheered up a bit and smiled back. As young lads of his age were prone to do when meeting someone not encountered before, he eyed up this new arrival.

He was the same height as Paul and had the same short-back-and-sides haircut as did all young lads reflecting their dads preferences for this period in time; a military cut that all men and most boys sported. The bright blue eyes of this new arrival really caught Paul’s attention.

“Hello,” Paul tried to be polite again, “who are you?”

He smiled trying to be really friendly; this might go down well with his mum if his things didn’t work out well. The new arrival did not reply but smiled once more at Paul.

“That’s a good sign,” thought Paul, “but why doesn’t he speak.”

Paul’s eye’s wandered downwards to take in this new visitor. He was wearing a light blue, open collar, short sleeved shirt over which he sported a sleeveless fair-isle cardigan having a coloured knitted cable pattern in red and blue. This was a posh looking cardigan that had been carefully knitted or perhaps even bought.

“He‘s quite smartly dressed,” thought Paul again to himself. “But there again he is visiting and his mum would make sure he looked properly dressed and smart.”

This sort of dress was also normal for the time, if a little dated and a little posh perhaps. One of Paul’s friends was sometimes dressed like this. Paul’s eyes moved downwards.

Like all young lads of Paul’s age, he was wearing grey trousers over which the woollen knitted cardigan just lapped. There was something distinctly wrong with these trousers. They were the same type as Paul wore for school and even the old patched pair he was now wearing.

The short trousers of this new arrival looked distinctly odd. They did not end in the exposure of bony bare knees but in strange wisps of ‘smoke’. There were no legs to be seen and there was nothing between the strange wisps of ‘smoke’ and the floor. Nothing was holding the new arrival up; he did not have legs and there were certainly no feet to see.

Paul looked up in shock, his heart starting to pound; this was more than odd, it was rapidly becoming frightening. Paul lifted his staring eyes up the figure opposite him, from the wisps of grey, past the Fair Isle sweater and up to where their eyes met once more; he was smiled at once more.

The realisation of what Paul had now encountered struck home in his young mind and shockingly so; this was a ghost, a real, a very real ghost.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” Paul let out an uncontrolled and most dreadful scream, which he could not stop. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” it continued unabated and now definitely out of control. Paul felt his body shaking, his legs turning weak while his feet were glued to the floor

His eyes were fixed on those of this apparition and with a great effort he managed to unglue his feet from the lino.

Turning on his heels and still screaming he shot back through the door as fast as his feet would take him into the hall. He didn’t look back now; he was terrified to do so. He chose to dive through the door into the front parlour almost breaking it off its hinges in his madness to escape from what he was desperate to leave behind.

He was still screaming, he couldn’t control himself; every breath was no more than a swift intake to continue his cries of horror as he dived straight under the beautiful solid oak draw-leaf table. Neatly laid with a decorative linen table cloth, Paul did not even give a second thought to it in his dreadful, trembling fright. He didn’t want to see anything anymore, his eyes were closed tight shut as he hit the floor beneath the table in a tight, screwed up bundle.

Paul’s cries abated a little, but only as far as a desperate, frightened sobbing, muffled as a result of his head jammed between his knees around which his hands were tightly clasped.

Paul’s mum was upstairs and hearing the commotion came rushing down to find out what it was all about. She found him under the table completely inconsolable and resistant to any urging to get him out. An arm round his shoulder seemed to frighten him more so Paul’s mum desisted.

Through the panicked hysteria Paul managed to blurt out about a ghost in the back room. Just speaking about what he had seen did nothing to assuage his panic and state of shock.

Paul’s mum went quickly to investigate but there was nothing to be seen. She went straight back to sit under the table with him and try some simple consoling without any touching until he was ready.

It must have been nearly an hour before Paul’s mum eased his terror sufficiently that she managed to extricate him, to have him sit him in one of the posh chairs of the front room and have him explain properly what had happened. Reliving the events was not at all pleasant for Paul but through some more sobbing he managed to tell his story.

He would not go into the back room unless accompanied and even then it took some effort on his part and a lot of coaxing by his mum to get him to move there.

It took some months before Paul settled down to normality; going to bed was particularly difficult for him. His mum had to stay with him until he fell asleep for quite a while afterwards; not something a young lad of his age should require.

Paul never forgot his frightening encounter and for many years afterwards, right through his teenage period, if the subject was raised he would feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise up and his hands start to tremble and go cold.

Through his school days and even into work and college, should the memory of that event come to mind, for some reason or other, the fear would build up him rapidly and uncontrolled with the neck hairs still rising. He had better control of himself now, of course, but the memory continued to haunt him.

~ o ~

Author’s Notes.  

This story is completely true because it is my story, my personal experience, which I have considered appropriate to tell, to pass on to you, the reader.

I haven’t used my real name, nor have I described correctly the location of where this event took place, although there are some hints and general similarities, while the year it took place is definitely correct.

If you don’t believe in spirits, ghosts, apparitions or phantasms, whatever you may wish to call them, I would ask you the reader, to think again because I assure you that they are most real.

How such things can be explained or what interpretation you may place on such events and whether or not they may cause you harm, or not, you will only come to a your own personal understanding of such things from your own experiences.

Of interest is that many, many years later, a trawl of historical newspapers, at the local office archives, revealed that a young boy, along with others, had been playing on the building site where these houses were being constructed in the early 1950’s. They had all climbed up the scaffolding but in some way he had made a mistake, or overbalanced perhaps and fallen off, killing himself in the process.

Perhaps the ‘incomplete’ boy I had encountered was one and the same unfortunate who had fallen from the scaffolding.

It would seem that he didn’t want to, or perhaps couldn’t, leave this place, this existence, forever wanting to play with a new found playmate; me at that time, others perhaps afterwards, I don’t know.

That house was never the same and when I finally left at the age of nineteen, I felt a great relief come over me.

The cold, goose bump sensation never left me although. Every time I was asked to recall the story it caught me out, that is until not so long ago; writing it down has helped.

~ o ~