Smuggler and a Monk?

They pulled up outside the cottage; it had been a long journey. The boot of the car was filled with their cases, and a box of provisions to tide them over until Monday. They had set off at 6.00 am to avoid the holiday traffic, but nonetheless had been frustratingly caught behind caravans, and delayed by the hippies congregating at Stonehenge. Eric’s eyes were sore from driving in the glare of the bright sun. He pulled the handbrake on as hard as he could, got out of the car and quickly picked up a large stone by the holiday home’s front door. He placed it under his front wheel. He didn’t trust the Morris Minor’s brakes on such a steep hill. Rose and their daughter Sandra also got out of the car, and the trio stretched their backs, and turned their faces to the sun, squinting into its warmth.

           Eric had found Tinkers in a magazine, ‘Cornish Holiday Homes’ and the cottage was undoubtedly as quaint as it had looked in its picture. It was tightly wedged between two other cottages, and had a grey slate roof, the walls were rough and white washed, the woodwork of the small square windows and the front door painted bright blue. There was no front garden, merely a border of stones and shingle, marking the boundary between the house and the tarmacadam of the road. Either side of the door were royal blue glazed pots holding brilliant scarlet geraniums.

           Eric unlocked the front door and threw it open. The interior was dark, and it took a few seconds before the family’s eyes adjusted enough to allow them to enter. In that pause, they became aware of the steady tock, tock of a large clock, its steady sound resembling a relaxed heartbeat. They peered in, and directly opposite the doorway was a narrow staircase, beside it, the source of the rhythmic ticking, a large grandfather clock. A short expanse of wall ran at right angles from the front door, and held an interior door. Beside this second doorway was a small bookcase holding a selection of ragged paper back novels, probably bequests from previous holiday makers. On top of the bookcase lay worn, brown leather ‘Visitors Book’.

Six year old Sandra was the first to enter the gloomy cottage, her small legs propelling her excitedly up the steep stairs. As her parents began to unload the car, they heard her shout.

‘Mum, Dad. There’s bunk beds. Can I sleep on the top one?’ Rose dropped the bag she was carrying, and followed her daughter’s voice upwards. It was much cooler inside than it was outside. The small windows allowed only a little light to permeate the darkness, and the thick stone walls insulated the building against the outside temperature. She moved between the two bedrooms, opening the windows and noting that, although Tinker’s facilities were basic it was clean enough. Gradually, she became aware of the distant sound of music, and as she listened it appeared to be coming closer. She leaned out of one of the opened windows, and in the distance could discern the sun glinting on metal. Closer still the sound came, and Rose realised that, a band was coming up the road towards them.

‘Eric, Sandra! Quick there’s a band coming.’ The small family quickly gathered and assembled outside the front door. They stood in the shimmering heat as a brass band playing the Floral Dance, approached and then passed them. In its wake, people skipped and danced, following the band’s progress up the hill. The three watched until the last dancer disappeared from sight, and then turned and re-entered the cottage’s cool, shady hall. Nodding towards the clock, Rose said.

‘Can we do something about that? Its ticking will drive me mad during the night.’

‘No problem.’ As he spoke, Eric opened the front cabinet of the clock’s casing, reached inside, and unhooked the pendulum, efficiently silencing it. He placed the solid weight, beside the Visitors Book on top of the bookcase.

The following day dawned as bright and warm as the day of their arrival. Eric wanted a break from driving after yesterday’s long journey, so the family decided to explore Boscastle. As they stepped out of the cottage, the family marvelled at how warm and bright it felt outside compared to Tinker’s dim, cold rooms. They walked down the steep road towards the town’s picturesque harbour, and spent an enjoyable day watching the boats, wandering around narrow lanes, gazing at the higgledy-piggledy houses and licking ice creams, beating the drips as they melted in the heat.

In the evening, Eric and Rose sat in the cottage’s shadowy sitting room drinking tea. Sandra was out in the rear garden, looking for adventure. In truth, there was little to entertain a young child, as the garden consisted of a small patch of rough grass, with a deep ditch running along its rear boundary. By a stretch of the imagination, the trench and the strip of water, which it contained could have been described as a brook, but it was by no means the babbling variety. Enjoying a moment of peace, Rose nodded towards the painting, which hung on the chimney breast, above the empty grate.

‘That picture….’

‘No, please Rose, don’t tell me that, its eyes follow you round the room.’

‘Well, they do, but that’s not what I was going to say. Sitting here, it looks like it’s of a pirate holding a tankard, but as you walk in from the kitchen it’s a monk holding a lamp.’ Eric stood, crossed the room to the kitchen doorway and looked at the picture from that angle.

‘You’re right, it does. Clever isn’t it?’

‘Spooky more like.’ 

Monday was as bright as the previous two days, and the family decided that they should not tempt their luck any further. Today, they would study Sandra, and give her a day at the beach. Before they left, Rose said that she would quickly pop across to the butcher’s opposite the cottage and buy some meat for the next few days’ dinners. The shop was small and traditional, sawdust on the floor, nothing on display and a slight, sandy haired man, wearing a black and white apron over a white, cotton jacket, smeared liberally with blood standing behind a wooden chopping block. As he reached into the large fridge behind him, to bring out Rose’s requested lamb chops, he asked.

‘On holiday are you?’

‘Yes, we’re staying across the road, at Tinker’s.’ A shadow crossed his face; it was the slightest hint of an expression too quick for Rose to accurately identify. Was it fear, apprehension, concern or something else? Whatever it was, Sandra’s excited anticipation of a day at the sea, soon banished the disquieting memory of the butcher’s look from Rose’s mind.

It was an unprecedented run of good weather for an English summer holiday. The third day and the sun was shining again. Sandra and Eric waited whilst Rose quickly did some hand washing. Just a few bits and pieces to get see them through the week.  As soon as she was finished, they were heading off for a day on Bodmin Moor. Sandra mooched restlessly around the cottage, searching for amusement. Her eyes alighted on the Visitor’s Book and she picked it up, and began flicking through the pages. Most of the writing was too squiggly for her to decipher, and, in any case, she was just beginning to read. Her eyes alighted on one message. ‘Liked the things that go bump in the night.’ Showing the page to her father, she asked him what it meant. Eric thought quickly.

‘It’ll be that clock. Remember how noisy it was before I took the pendulum out?’

On Wednesday, the family spent the day at Tintagel. Sandra was enchanted by the sight of the ancient castle, set against its back drop of velvety, rolling green pasture and sea glistening, as though diamonds were floating just below its surface. When they returned to the grey atmosphere of Tinkers, she rapidly escaped outside the back door into the garden. It was as if she no longer wished to be in the oppressive atmosphere of the cottage’s rooms. She wandered listlessly around, finally flopping down beside the stream. She poked the turf randomly with a stick, until it hit something solid. She began digging more determinedly, it was hard going, the sun had baked the ground solid. She glimpsed something shiny, and began scrambling with her fingers, until she pulled out a large, heavy button. In the kitchen, Rose rinsed the remaining soil from Sandra’s find. It was metal and embossed with an anchor, the sort which sea farers fasten their jackets with. It looked old, and was possibly silver. She told Sandra to keep it safe, and when they got home, they would take it to the local museum.

The week was passing quickly, and still the fine weather continued. Eric wanted to visit Delabole Quarry. Rose had no interest in this, but she contentedly sat beside the car, feeling the sun’s warm caress on her skin. As father and daughter peered in awe, down into the quarry’s vast, grey maw, a passing local commented.

‘Big ‘ole, b’aint it?’ This seemed to them to be a huge understatement.

Sandra had slept well on her top bunk throughout the week. Rose on the other hand was always a restless sleeper, and this holiday had been no different for her. That night, she tossed and turned as usual. The darkness in the room felt as if it was solid. The cottage was dark inside during the day anyway, but now, with no street lights outside and no moon, Rose felt disorientated. If she opened her eyes, all she could see was an almost textured blackness. Instead, she lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sound of Eric’s regular breathing beside her, and trying to will sleep to come. Until suddenly, there was a noise. What was it? She strained her ears to listen; frightened to move in case she missed it if it came again. A few long seconds, and there it was again. A rustle and a scuff, then something more definite. It was the sound of a heavy tread on the stairs, she was sure of it. She urgently shook Eric’s arm, whispering.

‘There’s someone in here.’

‘These old buildings always creak and groan. Go back to sleep.’ In truth, he had also heard something, but was happy to dismiss it as the usual settlings of a building after a day’s heat. But then, they both heard the sound of a man’s voice, mumbling unintelligible words. It came from Sandra’s bedroom. Quick as a flash, Eric was up and into his small daughter’s room. She was sitting upright, on her top bunk, eyes wide and staring.

‘Daddy, there was a man in my room!’ Eric reached up and lifted his daughter down from the bunk, saying.

‘Hush, hush. It was only a bad dream. Do you want to come and sleep in Mummy and Daddy’s bed?’ In truth, he wanted her safely in there with them.                       

The final day of the holiday dawned and the sun again shone, bright as a highly polished topaz in a sky of azure silk. Rose wanted to do some souvenir shopping. She ‘needed’ to buy a gift for the neighbour who fed their cat whilst they were away, and something to take back for her parents. Sandra pulled a face; she didn’t want to waste the last day of her holiday being dragged around shops. Eric suggested a compromise: head into Bude, spend a couple of hours shopping, buy a picnic lunch and then spend the rest of the day on the beach. Mother and daughter willingly accepted his idea.

           As they drove along the winding Cornish roads, lined with overhanging fuchsia bushes, their blooms resembling miniature ballerinas, Eric whistled and concentrated on the road ahead. However, he was also thinking. He didn’t particularly want to spend the next few hours trailing behind Rose, as she went from shop to shop, examining cheap trinkets. Finally, he spoke.

‘Would you mind if I visited the local library whilst you do your shopping?’ Rose welcomed this suggestion; she had vivid recollections of Eric’s miserable face as he accompanied her on past shopping expeditions. Sandra was torn between going with her mother or father. Eventually, the pull of a possible ice cream, and choosing what they bought for lunch won, and she chose to go with Rose. They parked in the town’s public car park, and agreed to meet back there in two hours. Eric paid at the machine, and then studied the map of the town, displayed beside it. He found what he was looking for; the library was just around the corner.

It appeared to be a relatively new building, constructed of the indigenous slate to remain in keeping with the local architecture. It was quiet inside, only a few people studying the packed shelves of books, and two librarians, sitting behind a desk, poised to help their customers. Eric approached the work station; both librarians were bespectacled, middle aged women, who wore thin cardigans over their summer dresses.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Thank you, yes. I’m on holiday in Boscastle and I’m looking for information about the place where we’re staying.’

‘You mean like places to visit?’

‘No. Information about the building where we’re actually staying. It’s very old, and I’m wondering about its history.’ The librarian turned to a set of small drawers behind her, pulled one out, flicked through the cards within, and selected one.

‘Follow me, please.’ With that she appeared round the side of the desk, and led Eric to a shelf towards the rear of the library. Head on one side, she examined the spines of the books, and then extricated the one that she was looking for: Historic Buildings of Boscastle. She handed it to Eric, who took it to a nearby table and searched the index. There it was, Tinkers, plate no.33, page 137. He turned to the relevant page, there was a black and white photo of the cottage, a brief description of its architecture, saying that it was built late sixteenth or early seventeenth century and originally believed to be a fisherman’s cottage.

Eric returned to the librarians, book in hand.

‘Thank you. This is helpful, but it’s not quite what I’m looking for.’ He was embarrassed to say it, but continued. ‘I was wondering if the building is haunted.’ This animated the librarian, perhaps it was something that she was interested in. Without needing to consult the card index, she led the way to another area of the library.

‘You might find what you are looking for there. If not come back and I’ll see what else we can find.’

There was a complete shelf of books relating to spiritual apparitions. Eric chose one titled ‘Cornwall’s Most Haunted Places.’ A quick scan of the index revealed nothing of interest. He was luckier with his next choice ‘Cornish Ghosts’, there was a chapter dedicated to Boscastle. Reading rapidly he found a relevant paragraph:

‘The spirit of a local fisherman, Elias Treddinick k/a Tinker is believed to haunt his former home. He was sentenced to death and hung in 1712, following charges relating to smuggling. Treddinick attempted to avoid arrest by the local excise men, fleeing from his cottage, using a blanket to disguise himself as a monk. As he was dragged to the gallows, he vowed that he would not rest until he had wrought vengeance on the person who had informed on him.’  

           The family spent an enjoyable afternoon on the beach, Rose lying on a blanket desultorily flicking through a magazine, Eric and Sandra splashing in the sparkling sea, clambering on the rocks and peering into pools, and searching the shore line for unusual shells. Eventually, the sun began to sink, bathing the beach in a golden glow, and they reluctantly realised that, their holiday was coming to an end. They collected their belongings; half- heartedly rubbed the sand from between their toes and left the beach. The salt on their skin left it feeling rough, but they also felt sun kissed and happy. They decided on one last treat, fish and chips eaten straight out of the paper!

           By the time, they returned to Boscastle, the sun was disappearing, casting long shadows as it went. Rose unlocked the door of Tinkers, and walked into the sitting room. As usual the cottage was darker than outside, but this evening there was something else different about it. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

           ‘Can you smell that, like a cigar smell?’ Eric following her in inhaled deeply.

           ‘Could be smoke from someone having a bonfire.’

‘No, it’s like Uncle George’s pipe used to smell.’ Eric stood behind her, breathing through his nose, trying to identify the aroma.

           ‘There’s something else with it, a stale pub smell, like the night after a party.’ He knew what Rose meant. It was the smell of flat alcohol. ‘Never mind love, we’re leaving in the morning.

           They set off early, their sack of dirty laundry on the back seat beside Sandra. Rose in the front passenger seat, feeling grubby after having cleaned the cottage from top to bottom. Eric removed the stone from under his car’s wheel, and replaced it beside the cottage’s door. As he straightened up, he took one last look at their holiday home. He saw something – movement – at the window of their bedroom! A man’s face, definitely a bearded man peering out, and then he was gone.