Walls of Jericho

1901, the year Queen Victoria died, would also prove to be the death year for the less famous but well-to-do Jericho Adams, Esq. of 8 Ash Grove, (named for its complete lack of Ash trees) in Birmingham.

The day began auspiciously, with the usual pair of kippers with toast served by Rose, the in-between maid. Jericho read ‘The Times’ in studious silence until he was alone, when the latest copy of ‘Punch’ appeared from beneath the linen tablecloth.

Snow drifted down outside the bay windows, smoothing the lumps and bumps of the grove, turning the sooty industrial suburb crystalline white.

A real fir tree towered in the window, decked with candles, (un-lit as yet), flocks of paper angels and gaudy, red satin ribbons tied in bows.

Jericho rubbed his belly, which was straining against his Paisley waistcoat, when he heard, from the fireplace, a heavy thump followed by several smaller ones. Showers of soot cascaded onto the mosaic tiles.

“Damnation and thunder,” Jericho bellowed.

He got up, stalked to the chimney breast, and poked at the offending pile of singed feathers, (pigeon, he determined) which lay there. He heard a fluttering behind the wall. Ah, if only he had stopped there and called for a chimney sweep, Jericho Adams might not have met his maker that chill Christmas Eve.

But, being a man of great determination, and also of a somewhat Scrooge-like disposition, he proceeded to shove a poker up the chimney, dislodging flurries of soot, debris, and twigs from a bird’s nest. He heard a soft cooing, so Jericho climbed into the cold hearth, peering up the dark shaft, just at the same moment as a piece of brick, newly dislodged, sailed downwards and hit him full in the face with some force.

It was a huge shock for Rose, the in-between maid, when she came in a few minutes later to clear away the breakfast dishes to discover her employer’s stout body lying in the hearth, face blood-smeared and eyes unseeing, with a scorched pigeon beside him.

Jericho had been a lifelong bachelor, so with no family to inherit, 8 Ash Grove was put up for sale, cleared of its material possessions, cleaned and then vacated by the staff. And, although Jericho’s mortal remains were promptly removed by the undertakers, what no one had considered, or conceived of, was what would become of his spirit.

His whole soul was stitched into the bricks and mortar of 8 Ash Grove and now he would not, indeed could not, leave.

Christmas 1922, 8 Ash Grove.

The notes of the hit song, ‘I’m Just Wild About Harry’ streamed out of the open windows of number 8, mixed with a medley of laughing, singing voices. The Christmas party at the Fairlisles was in full swing, where anyone who wanted to be someone in the city had to be seen or face social death.

Decorative flappers flirted and flounced around the rooms, kissing under the mistletoe sprigs, drinking daiquiris and chasing the butler, who was dressed as Santa and didn’t want to be caught, as he was going steady with the upstairs maid.

Elspeth Fairlise, youngest twig of the family tree, sat under the dining table, with the titanic-sized turkey sitting above her, tinsel dangling around her, and both knees pulled up to her chest, crying her eyes out. Her fiancé, Harry, had just dumped her, and it was Christmas Eve. The words to the song were not helping her mood.

A voice whispered in her ear, “Young lady, could you kindly move over, you are sitting on my foot. Why, may I enquire, are you weeping so?”

Elspeth froze. She was alone in this secret under-the-table world except for a faint shadow forming beside her, growing, fattening, bulging  . . .

“Please don’t scream,” it said, as she opened her mouth to do just that. “It hurts my ears.”

An arm snaked out and touched her shoulder. A mince pie floated at the end of the arm. “For you. Forget that young swine. He does not deserve a girl as lovely and fair as you are.”

Elspeth felt herself warm to the ghost, for that was what he clearly was. “My Mama told me this house was haunted. I never believed her.”

The ghost sighed. “That’s the trouble with young people these days, too much science and not enough imagination. I exist, therefore I am.” He did a funny half-bow. “Jericho Adams, at your service. Would you like me to feather and tar your young man? Or ‘fill him with daylight’ as you say these days?”

“Shoot him? Jeepers, he does deserve it.” Elspeth perked up at the possibility. And demolished a second mince pie.

Jericho eyed the pastry with envy. “I used to partake of such repasts, once. It’s been years since I ate a Christmas dinner.”

Elspeth eyed Jericho’s portly frontage. “But, I see you are quite well-upholstered, sir.”

“You try fasting for over twenty years, doll-face, and see how you like it,” Jericho snapped. He hadn’t quite mastered the lingo.

She took his shadowy hand in her own warm one. His fingers slithered like eels in a bowl, around her own, but it was tolerable. “Come with me,” and she tugged her new-found ghost companion out from under the table.

In the garden a peacock screeched nearby, and the fountain, with its stone cupid poised and pouting, was spurting necklaces of watery diamonds. A group at the party were singing familiar carols – ‘Good King Wenceslas’, followed by ‘Hark the Herald Angels’. Jericho hummed along. Elspeth led the way to a secluded part of the garden, and, placing Jericho’s insubstantial hand around her waist, she gently took the other in her own.

“Shall we dance, kind sir?” she asked.

“With me?” he replied, tears glittering on his lined cheeks. “You wish to dance with me?”

“It’s Christmas,” Elspeth replied, so many years younger than her partner, but also so much wiser.

Christmas 1966,  8 Ash Grove

The Beatles blared from the radio, as Marianne whirled around the living room, clutching a photo of the Fab Four to her chest, whilst holding a hairbrush as a microphone before her open, bright-red, lip-sticked mouth.

The plastic Christmas tree behind her, wobbled when she twirled past. It was lopsided anyway, and Marianne’s decorations were haphazard: plastic angels dangled, wings downwards; glass baubles balanced on twigs; paper doves fluttered, talons clutching at branches, and Mary, holding baby Jesus, lolled precariously at the peak.

“Blimey, lass, can’t you get that tree sorted?” Marianne’s Dad eyed the concoction with a wary eye, and sucked on his pipe.

“And put that hairbrush down,” her mum called, as she came through carrying a tin tray bursting with teams of tiny hors d’oeuvres. “Our guests are coming any minute.”

“You mean Aunty Ronnie, Uncle Jim, Aunty Pat and Uncle Mike. Your mates,” said Marianne, “not my mates, John, Paul, Ringo and gorgeous George.”

“Starstruck, you are, lass,” said her Dad, laughing.

The doorbell rang, and Marianne dashed upstairs, to escape the tedium of adults droning for the next few hours.

“They’re playing Sinatra,” she moaned, as she perched on the top step of the staircase out of sight, but not earshot.

A light breeze tickled her neck and lifted her hair.

Odd, there’s no window open, she thought.

She sensed a footstep behind her, turning, she stared down the upstairs hallway, into the dark at the end. Had something moved?

She jumped when a voice spoke right by her ear. “What sort of racket is that and from what device is it coming, young Madam?”

She stared and saw a shadowy figure, gradually growing in substance, sitting beside her. An old man, in a funny patterned waistcoat, with a lavish beard and whiskers, spectacles, and a belly heaving over his waistband.

If she believed in Santa, which she no longer did at the mature age of fifteen, she’d have surmised it was him.

“W- who, what…?” She wriggled away from the apparition, on her bottom till she was against the wall.

“Don’t be scared, young lady, allow me to introduce myself. I am Jericho Adams, Esq. and I am the former owner and resident of this fine mansion.” Tears  glistened in his eyes. “Though that was many years ago now.”

A voice shrieked from downstairs, “Do you want a cheese and onion vol-au-vent, Marianne?” Her mother.

“No! Not right now!” Marianne shrieked back.

“There’s no need to be so rude, darling. I was only asking.”

A door slammed.

“So, you’re a g- ghost?” Marianne whispered, and tried to touch Jericho’s shoulder, but her fingers went through him.

He shivered. “That is somewhat uncomfortable. I must confess I find Christmas rather a mournful time of year. You see, that was when I – er- passed over.”

Marianne digested this. “Hmm, I find it lonely because I’m an only child.”

Jericho pointed at the photo of the Beatles. “Who might those long-haired, very young gentlemen be?”

“My dream boys,” Marianne laughed. Then she jumped up. “C’mon, I’ll play you their latest record, ‘Revolver’.”

* * *

Jericho drifted down the corridor after Marianne, and into her orange wallpapered bedroom filled with hectic pink lamps and cushions, where a brand new Dansette record player took pride of place on the bedside table.

Marianne lovingly placed the black, vinyl disc on the turntable, pinpointed the stylus precisely, saying, “This is my favourite,” as the opening notes to ‘Eleanor Rigby’ blasted out.

Jericho gazed in astonishment and with some concern at the noisy box. Marianne stood up, and began to twirl and bounce around her bedroom.

“Are you quite well?” Jericho asked.

“Yes, of course. I’m dancing.”

Jericho, recalling the dances of his youth, and the one he’d shared with Elspeth, stared in astonishment. But then his own feet in their too-tight, leather, button shoes began to tap, his arms to swing, his head to nod, and like a whirling top, he spun round and round until he was dizzy.

“Dancing like this, I feel so free . . .” Though, he knew, it was just an illusion, for he was still a prisoner of the house.

He wafted his arms around Marianne’s head, creating smoky, wispy patterns, as they bopped away the evening.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Ghost,” said Marianne and blew him a kiss.

 Christmas 2009, 8 Ash Grove

The door slammed behind Jonathan’s ex, and her Louis Vuitton luggage, plus the diamente-studded cat carrier containing Hector, a Siamese, whom Jonathan had always struggled to bond with. Like his owner, Hector was skinny, shrieky, blonde and high-maintenance.

Jonathan sighed, eyed the bare walk-in closets, and poured himself a generous G&T. He kicked off his shoes, unknotted his silk tie and decided to take a shower before ordering a (previously-forbidden by his ex’s diet) curry with all the extras.

“Popadoms, and onion bhajas,” he trilled as he stepped under the power shower. He carried on singing. “Jingle bells, single bells, no one to please, I’m all on my own for Christmas…”

* * *

His voice reached up into the attics, where someone awoke, stirred by the music, memories and mention of ‘Christmas’.

Jericho yawned, stretched and did a little jig. “By George, it’s that time of year again. Time does fly.”

He looked out of the attic window to see a snowy townscape, and rooftops wearing white cloaks. There were so many more houses now than in his earthly lifetime, and so many people scurrying about, all busy with business, hundreds of cars on the roads, aeroplanes stalking the skies. The accumulated hubbub made his old ears ache.

So much change everywhere, yet people remain very much the same, he thought.

He sensed the sadness in the house, the sag in its structure, the emptiness of its rooms. Only one occupant apparently was at home this Christmas.

A man of the world, rather like himself. Jericho decided he would descend, drift and waft down to Jonathan’s bedroom and have a man-to-man chat with him.

When Jonathan came out of the shower, wrapped in a snuggly bathrobe, he screamed his head off at the sight of the elderly, semi-transparent gentleman perched on the duvet. Then he began throwing objects at the intruder, shouting, “I’m a black belt in – in – juiy-jitsuey!”

The objects sailed past or through Jericho and hit the walls and windows, shattering into pieces, leaving a mess on the plush cream carpet.

“Tut tut, my good fellow, someone will have to clean that up. You will have to ring for your wife or maid.”

Jonathan gawped. “No, I bloody won’t. I’ll do it myself. Who the hell are you? How did you get in?”

“Language, young fella, now, now.” Jericho waved an admonitory finger at the younger man. “Why, I live here. I simply came down the stairs. I am Jericho Adams, Esq. A former owner and resident  . . .”

“Oh my god, you’re the ghost!” Jonathan cut him off. “You’re a legend in these parts. They added twenty percent to the asking price because they promised I’d see you.”

“Ah well, that is very flattering.” Jericho smoothed his beard with pride.

“Look, can I film you, take a selfie?” Jonathan reached for his iPhone on the bedside table. “We could go viral, become celebs, make money. OMG you and me could do a podcast. Yes, let’s call it – ‘Day in the Life of a Ghost’ or ‘Top tips on a successful haunting’ or ‘How to while away eternity’.”

Jericho stood up, alarmed at the turn in the conversation and at the frantic clicking of the small hand-held, metal box Jonathan was pointing at him.

“Sir, sir, please, I beg you, desist this instant. What are you blabbering about? I do not wish to be photographed, I wish to remain private.”

Jonathan stared at the iPhone screen with visible disappointment. “You’re not showing up. See -”

He turned the screen towards Jericho and – they both stared at the bedroom walls, and furniture, bereft of any figure.

Jericho breathed a sigh of relief. “I was never photogenic in life, sir, anyways.”

Jonathan slumped onto the bed. “Well, that’s another great money-making scheme turned to dust. So, what use are you then? What can I do with a ghost?”

Jericho sat beside him, appreciating the rich velvet throw. “We can talk, make merry, laugh, play cards, sing, dance. Sadly I cannot partake of a meal, but I can watch you eat. . .” Jonathan shot him a nervous look, so Jericho hurried on, “ . . .or not. But I can offer you convivial, easy company this Christmas. Just two chaps having a merry time of it.”

Jericho’s voice wobbled and Jonathan eyed him, curious.

“Is it easy being a – ghost?” he asked.

There was a silence. “It has its moments. But one is definitely in it for the long haul, with no end in sight. One needs commitment, stamina. It can be – lonely.” Jericho seemed to shrink inside himself.

Jonathan put his arm around the ghost’s shoulders, where it lightly hovered in mid-air, but the gesture seemed to cheer up Jericho.

“Let’s go watch a film, ‘make merry’ and you can teach me some carols,” Jonathan said. “I’ve forgotten all the words.”

Jericho sniffed, holding back tears. “I am, sir, I must tell you, a dab hand at poker.”

“You’re on,” said Jonathan, smiling.

The duo went downstairs. Jonathan tossed some logs on the wood burner and poured himself a whiskey, whilst Jericho snuggled down beside the blaze. He could not feel it, but vaguely remembered the joy of heat on his skin. However he savoured the inner sensation of peace he was feeling with his new-found friend. This was the best Christmas gift of all.