The Adventures of Loulou Archives

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 6: Martial Peace and War

Separate beds

He did have a good day yesterday though. Baby, as the infant predator has been named, continues to cause chaos at the Hall. Young Dean was in the tiger compound and the cub reached out with its gargantuan paw and ripped off his trouser leg. Dean, holding a bucket of extremely strong smelling cub faeces, screamed and threw the sewerage all over Brigitte, who was coming to check on Baby. Her immaculate hair hung awkwardly in brown dreadlocks, her spotless quilted jacket had artistic splattering and even her gold earrings dripped with poo. Not a happy lady! The Captain danced a jig upstairs, overjoyed at the sight (I have only once witnessed him have genuine compassion for a woman; Old Williams wife, Maria who was an elegant, spirited woman. I think he fell in love…).>

Brigitte is here every other day, spending a lot of time with the cub; checking its nails, brushing its soft fur and just generally ignoring it whilst using her phone. A little odd really, as she is huddled up out there in the cold but perhaps she likes her privacy. Emily thinks she has a secret but we can’t get close enough to see her phone because that demon black dog keeps getting in the way. Always whizzing about at high speed, it knocks us for six when it flies through us. Nightmare! We still don’t know its name. We have a plan though…

Martial Peace and War

And a question; Adults in love. They sleep in the same bed usually don’t they? It’s just; they sleep apart, Charles and Brigitte. Now, I’ve seen the older folks taking separate rooms after many years of marital peace and war but young lovers? Charles is an atheist and Brigitte a religious mystery. She certainly doesn’t get up early for church on a Sunday; she waits for breakfast in bed, in her bed. He snores but without the operatic resonance of his father’s snorts that echo through the Hall as I type. So dare I ask, what’s her problem?

So, farewell sweet readers and remember; things don’t just go bump in the night…

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 5: Small Tokens of Desire

By Betty Rawson

Henry didn’t give up and constantly sent Martha small tokens of his desire (shoelaces, dried flowers and occasionally salted fish). In 1660 he returned to the Hall with his proposal of marriage in hand and battle plans in his head. The royalists were approaching Hull and plans needed to be made.

That night, after a hearty meal and a decent amount of beer, he fell on his knees and proposed to Martha with his fellow soldiers, made stupid with drink, jeering around him. Bad idea… Mrs Baker swooped in like a vulture on a dying soul and clutching Martha to her, she announced that her daughter was betrothed to a local farmer; very wealthy (with a gut to match) and 20 years older than the delicate beauty. Martha was to be married the very next day. She then shuffled her off outside and bundled her into a cart which was to take her on to her fiancé.

Henry tried to pull her out but was stopped by the farmer’s men who were chaperoning Martha to her rather sad fate. He ran in front of the horses, only to be half trampled and left by the road side as the cart rattled off into the future. He never saw her again. Some of his men carried him inside where he downed enough beer to water down the anger and pain that ravaged his body. He stumbled onto a bed of straw and watched the shadows play all over the walls as his candle flickered. When he awoke he was dead, slightly toasted around the edges but most definitely dead. A house fire had almost destroyed the Hall, taking Henry and the mice in the walls with it. My mother and I had watched the blaze, feeling only its warmth in the cold night, never knowing he was burning to death behind the dark silhouette of the Hall.

Rippled Rugs

When I joined him upstairs a short time later, all he could do was to pace the corridor that held the door to Martha’s room, as if she might appear and make the world a wonderful place again. Hating womankind, he rippled rugs that caused housemaids to fall downstairs, breaking their necks. Henry nudged the cook who found herself flinging boiling water on anyone around her. He did that for a while, about a hundred years if I remember rightly and then he gave up. Travelling became his passion combined with the search for his family which lead him all over the continents.

Around the late nineteenth century, he returned from a spell in a country called America with a poem in his head. He had witnessed the assassination of one of his heroes; Abraham Lincoln, another man of the people. The poem started with the line; O Captain, my captain (the name of poet, Walt Whitman comes to mind) and he repeated this day and night until, without realising, we were all calling him, the Captain.

Such is his story so far…

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 4: O Captain! My Captain!

By Betty Rawson

Midnight

Evening all.
It’s midnight in the dark and cold Hall and the earth walkers are snoring gently under their blankets, apart from old William whose snores sound like the pained grunting of a sheep giving birth.

And you’re frightened of us?< We barely make a noise and are almost completely invisible, so just what is there to be scared of? The witching hour of midnight, when we all come out to scare the living daylights out of you; just where did that idea come from? We are here all the time, watching. We don’t sleep, as there is no need too. And consider, the worst time to try and get your attention would be when you are dead to the world, asleep. Add it up! Night is a calmer, quieter time so you may see a flicker of us or hear a passing whisper, when in the day, all would go unnoticed. I have to state though, (after watching many a paranormal programme in the company of young Charles) that in photographs, we do NOT appear as orbs or mist (check your camera lens for dusk specks and finger smudges, light rays etc...It’s not us!). I have seen the rare shot of someone from upstairs, caught fuzzily present in the frame but our forms vibrate so differently to yours, the earth’s light cannot give us a static shape. So don’t bother. Take a look at my selfie... You can see us but then again, you can’t. Besides all of that, we don’t want to scare you. Well, most of us don’t.

O Captain! My Captain!

As I am enjoying my writing now (nothing bad has happened to me up here, no punishment, as yet, for my rule breaking) and I am in the mood to tell you the Captain’s story. It’s a difficult tale but an interesting one. He was born by the name of Henry Johnson in 1615 in Ganton. In 1650, after working on a farm he joined the Parliamentary army (with Oliver Cromwell) and rose up the ranks to commander for his leadership and good judgement. The crucible of combat was his life blood. He was a man of the people, his men were his family.

He met her in 1658 on a visit to the Legards (then the owners of the house). She appeared at the table with a tray of steaming pigeon pie and his heart was lost. Martha Baker was her name. Oh, yes, Baker… daughter of the guttersnipe housekeeper. He barely touched his pie. Next day he slipped her a badly written note asking her to meet him in the garden at midnight (so romantic but this is his telling of it). Night fell and his heart beat faster on hearing footsteps in the darkness. He lifted his lamp to catch sight of Martha’s beautiful face approaching, only to find the grisly visage of Mrs Baker scowling back at him. She informed him that her daughter was meant for a better class of man than him, a mere farmers boy and disappeared back off into the darkness of the hall.

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 3: Havoc At The Hall

By Betty Rawson

emily in the hall

Havoc at the Hall this week. The tiger cub (whose name I think is Baby) has destroyed the dog kennel and every soft toy Charles could find to keep him busy. Days now Charles has spent on his tablet, researching; how to live with a tiger, best tiger pens, feeding and claw cutting. Brigitte arrived a few days ago and they had a long serious chat before she trimmed the cub’s talons. Okay, I admit to you she is a vet and well, I made up the bit about her being a gold digger. She had to move away for a new job so she and Charles have to be apart. Sorry, sometimes I get carried away with a story and basically, I fib. I don’t mean any harm. I spend too much time with the Captain and his misogynist attitude can rub off…

Anyhow, the cub has come all the way from Thailand, from Charles and Sophia’s Great Uncle Rex, who went upstairs a while back. This was Rex’s inheritance to them, as everything else he owned was confiscated by all the people he owed money too. He led a darn good life Great Uncle Rex, or so I hear!

Poisonous Potions..?

Over the last couple of days, Charles has been constructing a huge cage in the garden, taking up nearly all the lawn that William has carefully tended all his adult life. There may be arguments ahead. Charles, however, has had a new lease of life. His brown eyes are sparkling and he’s out in the fresh air. Normally he mixes potions in his workshop and barely notices the day. He’s a homopsych…NO! A homeopath, which sounds too like psychopath to me but Emily says he is a doctor and the potions aren’t poison but medicine. He’s like his Dad, William, who spends the whole day pottering, scribbling and creating in his madly cluttered laboratory. What a pair.

A time way back

oliver selfie

My Dad was a blacksmith in Ganton when I was downstairs, spending all his time in a forge. He was a bit of an inventor; he made my leg braces. Ah, this brings me to another tiny fib that you probably barely noticed but I feel I should own up to. In my early childhood we were very poor, which is why my mum had to leave and get work at the Hall. Food was very basic and milk expensive, especially when you have nothing and most days I was left inside, wrapped in a tight bundle whilst my parents worked. So my little legs grew a bit twisted and skinny and it was hard for me to move around. My Dad made me metal braces. Quite amazing they were; like the legs of a robot today but noisy and they did stick a little now and again. I had to grease them every day.

Being at the Hall helped me, as we got the leftovers from the Master’s meals; bits of fatty ham, vegetables (a real treat), old bread and delicious dripping. I f I had a mouth now, it would be watering.

A chimney is no place for a child

My braces were part of the reason I moved upstairs; they got stuck in the tight chimney space and I hung upside down for ever, until some thick embedded soot gave way and down I plummeted. I shouldn’t have been up the chimney but it was her, that nasty bundletail housekeeper, Mrs Baker. She said all the others were out so I had to go up the chimney. My mum begged her not to send me up but there was nothing she could do. The housekeeper was known to call servants to the kitchen and discipline them, using extremely hot metal spoons on flesh. Heart made of coal, that lass. I understood, my mum was powerless. Have you ever felt like that? Watching your world I am sure there are millions of you out there that have, in many different ways and for many different reasons almost every hour of every day.

One more thing before day breaks…

To be true, life wasn’t that much fun downstairs for me; dragging my feet about and feeling tired and hungry all the time. At least without my body I can move where I want and never need to eat or drink. In fact, at first it was wonderful but it just gets dull up here. 349 years of dull, more or less. It’s my own fault I’m still around but I will save those confessions for another time.
One more thing before day breaks… The black shape I mentioned before has appeared again. I don’t think any human is due to die, so maybe it’s here to watch and wait over a body downstairs; the cub, Baby, who amazingly enough, chases it around the slowly changing garden and growls as the form dances in front of him. Charlie will eat the cub surely in a couple of weeks ,so the black shape has come to pick him up. That’s all that makes sense to me and Emily.

I have been trying to take a picture of myself and one of Emily but as we don’t appear solid it’s a difficult job, I can tell you. That’s all for now folks!

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 2: Are You Mad, You Creatures Downstairs?

By Betty Rawson

Hello, living friends.

I have managed to get my hands (not that I have any) on Charles’ tablet tonight and must update you on a happening at the Hall.

There is a new animal here that looks just like a cat but I have been informed by Maria (died here 2012) that it is a tiger cub and it will grow extremely large and dangerous.

Are you mad, you creatures downstairs?

What would possess you to take into your home a lethal killing animal? I presume he will slaughter and eat it but you have odd traditions regarding food down there…

A Gold Digger

Charles, I must explain, is the son of William, the Hall’s present resident. William has a daughter, Sophia downstairs, and his wife, Maria is with us, occasionally. Charles’ girlfriend left him (thankfully I say) a month ago and he has been struggling to talk to anyone ever since. Not that he talks much with his Dad or anyone else anyway, he’s a quiet man, happy with his own company but he is sad. The cub could be just what he needs.

Charles is here every day, working in his workshop, keeping an eye on his father and the house but he doesn’t seem to have much fun. I hope he keeps the cat here…

There are other animals downstairs in the house. Apart from the four score and ten mice there are two dogs; the terrier Harry and a sausage dog called Dolly (I call them Hunter and Sausage!). Charles isn’t very keen on Dolly and mostly ignores her. She belonged to Brigitte, his girlfriend who left in a flurry of tears. Personally, having seen so much in my time upstairs I think she was a gold digger. When she realised that the Hall was fraying at the seams and the pot of money, relatively small, she made some pathetic excuses and disappeared, leaving Dolly behind. Good riddens I say.

Alone in the Attic

Emily has been trying to draw the baby tiger but it’s very difficult not have a solid body to use like you do. She has had a hard time young Emily, since she died of that horrible cholera. Her mum, like mine, worked here as a house maid when the hall was rebuilt in 1860. The top floor was taken off and the servants ended up living in the small space under the roof, with very basic sanitary conditions. The toilet was outside in the grounds but some of the younger children just couldn’t make it and when one young servant arrived from the south he brought the disease with him. Many died in the attic. Emily was ill one morning and her mum was sent out to the neighbouring village for supplies, so Emily stayed in the attic alone. She died of dehydration before her mother returned. Her mum left the next day a miserable wreck, Emily’s body having been quickly thrown into a shallow grave. There was no money for anything you expect today; a coffin, a ceremony, a party. The job was done quickly to avoid any more disease and everyone just got on. Emily, once she got used to the fact she was no longer downstairs, tried to search for her mother but being so young, didn’t know where to look. I tried to help but it was 1860, almost two hundred years after my passing and Anlaby had trebled in size. The Captain took her out looking to the local inns where she saw lots of drunken men and women but not her Mum. She often talks about her and sings to us, the songs of her childhood. I find it all a bit maudlin and prefer a good dance tune but it keeps Emily going.

Invisible to the living

Death, really, is a pretty regular business. It’s just a shock to find you are invisible to the living and no longer have a body that feels. Walking through walls becomes normal quite quickly. I do miss eating though; crunching the tight skin of a shiny apple and letting the juice cascade into your mouth and down your chin. If I had saliva my mouth would be watering.

I must say that I do enjoy a good memorial service in this century. No one downstairs speaks much to us upstairs, so it’s great to hear someone extolling the virtues of a new member to our flock, even if sometimes those qualities have been exaggerated. One woman, named Susan, was described by her family at the funeral, as kind and giving. She turned up and bullied Emily who only dared hover in a small corner of the attic. The spot where she died in fact. The Captain soon sent Susan packing, shouting, “Get lost wench, you have a face like a trout and a mouth that should stay shut. Never return.” So…Don’t believe everything you hear at funerals.

Emily has just told me the cub, sleeping with the dogs in the kennel, is ripping all their bedding to shreds. This animal could prove to be great fun for us all, upstairs and downstairs. Let the chaos begin…

Until next time, my friends.

Betty Rawson’s Musings Part 1: The Ghostly Blogger Of Anlaby’s Musings

By Betty Rawson

Loulou is travelling to England to stay in a haunted house and defeat another Machiavellian plotter (male of course). But how will our heroine fare? And will the resident ghosts make her feel at home or send shivers down her spine? Perhaps our voice from the past may make sense of all this?

Greetings to all you warm blooded children out there, somewhere. I watched a recent inhabitant of the house blogging and decided to try it for myself as I am worried about something. Took some doing I can tell you. Oh, do you remember me? My name is Oliver and I hang around the Old Hall in a place called Anlaby, in England. Good to meet you again. I can’t tell you my age because it’s a bit irrelevant after so many seasons have come and gone. A year is a smudge in time. You see, I have been here since 1666 when I died falling down a chimney. My death was over quickly, didn’t really hurt much, but it took a bit of time for me to understand that no one could see or hear me and that I could literally glide through anything. In this life I can only watch but sometimes I play too.

Once, in a small dark space in the Hall called a Priest’s hole, I messed with a monk who was trembling in the near dark, crouched over a single candle flame. I blew out the candle (takes a lot of spinning around I can tell you) and the priest started whimpering. He shook all over and lit it again and I blew it out. This happened four times. The final time I could see his smile in the darkness as he focused on where I was hovering. He left the flame to smolder. Moments later we heard the stomp of heavy boots on the floorboards overhead. The priest was still smiling when light flooded the tiny room and thick arms wrestled him out. I never saw him again but one of the other upstairs people said he was back at his church, somewhere called Wilson Street and he seemed quite happy changing the decorations around in the local graveyard. They said he was proving something to the living but you lot just don’t listen. You’re all too preoccupied with your senses; eating, watching flickering screens or jigging about to music. Pointless trying to communicate with you through magic.

My friend Emily, who died of cholera here at the age 5 in 1860,tried to connect with one of the recent living inhabitants whose name I think is Sophia (the sound between the upstairs and downstairs levels can be muggy and distorted). She sat on her bed and tried to cuddle up with the sleepy girl. Emily said Sophia’s body went stiff as a board and she pulled her covers over her head. Not much fun you warm blooded ones downstairs. Emily tried to tug them off her but Sophia started to yell so she gave up.

An old man called William lives in the Hall at present. He came here as a lad of 5 and I think

he is now 90. The upstairs people like him because he cares for the house. Sure, it needs a new roof and the ceilings are cracking but he tries his best. The Captain, who rules the upstairs with his roar and his sword, even likes him. The Captain doesn’t like women. He made William’s Mum swallow her tooth by knocking a vase over, making the tooth puller jump. The tooth ended up killing her by embedding in a lung. She’s here sometimes but she pops to a place called Germany to watch relatives. He also tripped up little Sophia who fell onto a spikey fire grate and a prong stuck into her head (Sophia, I must explain, is William’s daughter). She was fine, a few stitches that’s all. She left many moons ago but visits her Dad, occasionally and stands in her old bedroom when she comes and talks to us, telling us to be good and that she isn’t frightened of us anymore. I like her.

The Hall was supposed to have been built way back in a time called the 11th century. I have been under the house (a dirty place I can tell you) and it has old stone bricks holding up the walls. When I was five, half the house was burnt down by soldiers while Mum and I watched, hiding behind one of the big oak trees in the garden. Such heat that I will never feel again. Our faces were bright red for days after. The Captain died during that fire and has unfortunately been here ever since. He pops down to somewhere called London now and again but always comes back. He says it’s to do with honor and battle but I think its rubbish. We put up with him because he was in the first ten to stay upstairs here and I bet no one else wants him around…meaning he has nowhere else to stay. Many upstairs people wander. I have nowhere else to go so I just hang around at the Hall, playing with the mice in the walls.

I died on this day in 1666 so, as a remembrance, I will push all the dirt and ash stuck in the chimney down to the room where the old man sits. Just to remind him that I’m here. I feel a little nervous today though, as I mentioned earlier. Something new appeared upstairs yesterday…not fully yet but just its essence, a glimpse of it. It seems to speak a different language and moves incredibly fast. I don’t know why it’s here or what it is. Old William is ill so I wonder has the stranger come for him or for someone else. I will watch and wait in the corners till next I write.

Separate beds

Martial Peace and War

Rippled Rugs

Midnight

O Captain! My Captain!

Poisonous Potions..?

A time way back

A chimney is no place for a child

One more thing before day breaks…

Hello, living friends.

A Gold Digger

Alone in the Attic

Invisible to the living

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