"Well, me lovelies, we'll begin nearby I reckon, at a place I know right well. Marragrove Farm, to be precise, above Barbrook on the road to Porlock. Can be a wild place, the moor, 'specially on an autumn night, an' you won't come across many in the village who'd venture up to Marragrove after dark. Not a chance. Not after what folk say they've 'eard there."
The old woman who speaks is a crone in every sense of the word. A cap of flat grey hair adorns a face so weather-beaten, you'd think she was hewn from stone at the famous Valley of the Rocks. She's a hooked nose and two or three whiskers on her chin; her fingers are gnarled with arthritis, the skin thereabouts as cracked as dry leather. But her eyes sparkle with intelligence, warmth too, and you are drawn instinctively to her. She's a friendly old maid, Lorna Davey, kind and likeable. Her soft voice is as Devon as clotted cream. There are worse ways to spend an evening than listening to her share a little local folklore.
Settling by the fire in The Fox and Goose, Lorna relishes having an audience hang upon her every word.
There is mischief in those old green eyes, and you realise that much of what she says is exaggeration. Perhaps there is a kernel of truth, however, for she appears certain in her tale. Confident that it will stand up to scrutiny.
The way the old boys at the bar nod in agreement suggests so, anyway.
"It all started with Maud Harris, 'er what married young Bowser from out Oare way. What she wanted to marry outside of the parish for, I dunno, for 'tisn't like there weren't plenty of men in Parracombe who'd 'ave said yes to Maud, an' God 'Imself knows Bowser weren't no catch. An idiot too, with more teeth in 'is 'ead than brain cells, an' there were few enough of them! Too much cider, I reckon were to blame. Rotted each one out by the time 'e turned twenny."
Maud, you learn, was fetching in a comely wench sort of way. Pretty enough a maid, nicely shaped, but what local men found really appealing was the farm she'd inherited on her parents' death in a shipping tragedy off Lynmouth. Handsome farmhouse and forty acres of pasture, plus grazing rights on the moor. Some said there was silver in the ground thereabouts and sinking a mine might turn a profit. It was no wonder her hand was coveted by all the bachelors around.
Her choice, then, was poor. The marriage was ill-starred, as many in the village thought likely. Bowser proved to be a domestic tyrant, a mean bully, and he treated his bride cruelly. Once he'd his fingers on her land, he was wanton in his violence.
No longer was she seen each Sunday at church, which was strange, her being known as devout in Christian faith. Parish gossip said this was because she wanted to hide the bruises her husband inflicted when in one of his many drunken tempers. Rages that became all the worse when it became clear that his hopes of taking silver from the ground would fail.
"Tisn't no metal in the soil there, of course, never 'as been. But folks'll tell a pack of lies to gullible outsiders. Anythin' to get the greedy devils to open them purses an' spend a little cash on the moor."
An old man at the bar pipes up, his pennyworth shared whether it's wanted or not.
"Speculators, they call 'emselves, down from London to win fortunes from mines. Already rich but always wantin' more, so long as their own 'ands ain't ever dirtied. Mighty easy to trick folk like that, already blinded with 'em own greed. Make a few false promises of copper or tin, a plan drawn up by a bribed surveyor from down Tavistock. They come an' they sink their 'oles in the land, an' eventually they find out 'tis nothin' down there but darkness. Yet the discovery only comes about once they've been milked for every shillin' the crafty can get off 'em."
It was therefore an old trick, one well-practiced by the cunning, but the claims of silver at Marragrove Farm were false. They were the work of Maud's father before his untimely demise.
Yet the shafts sunk into its pastures served a purpose in the end. Young Bowser's labour was rewarded in a way he couldn't have envisaged, his sweat from digging did not go to waste. For when Maud finally had enough of the daily beatings, when she could take no more of the man's cruelty and abuse, a fresh use was found for one of his shafts. It became his grave.
"She couldn't 'ave done it 'erself, though. Maud weren't strong enough for that sort of work, so she got 'er sister involved, a woman of far more vigour an' purpose. Asked for help an' got it, just like it says in the bible. Ask an' it shall be given unto you, seek an' ye shall find."
The old woman laughs at her own joke and the men at the bar join in. Thirsty, you force yourself away for a moment from a story that fascinates you, whose violent outcome you long to hear. Taking your glass to the bar, you ask for another drink.
As you'd probably expect, the landlady is a middle-aged woman of formidable shape. Perhaps barrel-shaped, as befits somebody pouring ale from wooden casks each day.
Pint of ordinary, she asks and you nod, wondering idly at how long it must be since beer was routinely described in such terms. So old-fashioned sounding to your modern ears. Maybe it's because you're so engrossed in her customer's tale that you fail to properly register the landlady's clothes and style of hair, how equally out of sync they are with the times. She mustn't have updated her wardrobe in many years.
And you expected the room to feel cooler away from the fire; even so, it's with a chill that you realise just how cold it is at the bar. You wonder how the men standing there can bear it, yet they don't seem at all bothered. They're dressed as though for summer, in the kind of outfits more suitable for July work outdoors. It's almost freezing now and you notice your breath leave a frosty cloud when you open your mouth to thank her. It's with relief that you rejoin Lorna at the fireplace.
"Drunk 'e were, as always, but this time with a brutal consequence. Maud's sister struck 'im fair, 'ard on 'is 'ead, an' 'e went down as though kicked by an ox. Then they rolled 'im up in the kitchen rug an' carried 'im between them, all the way to the deepest shaft. Dumped Young Bowser in, like so much rubbish. Then toiled until sunrise, makin' sure 'e was covered with enough soil an' rubble to keep 'im quiet. That's right, 'e were buried alive."
Lorna's tale brings murmurs of support and approval from those propping up the bar. The man who spoke earlier pipes up again, his voice granite firm when he says the two women did the right thing.
"A man what beats a lady is no kinda man at all. Deserves everthin' 'e 'as comin', I reckon. Not only that, but 'e'd 'ave killed 'er in the end. If Maud an' 'er sister didn't roll Bowser's stinkin', cider-swollen body into the ground, it'd be 'er lyin' beneath the soil now."
"Tis true enough, but poor Maud 'ad to leave Marragrove shortly after. She got no peace there. Young Bowser could only be dead, yet from the next night on, 'e was 'eard, scrapin' away at the ground above 'im. Scrapin' away, night after night, as though 'is corpse was tryin' to dig itself to freedom."
"An' maybe it were, Lorna, for 'e was close enough to 'Ell underground to fear the Devil catchin' 'im. Lord knows 'e were a terrible sinner. 'E would 'ave done anythin' an' everythin' to escape the eternal justice that were 'is due."
"Amen to that. Anyway, be that as it may, she 'ad no choice but to move away an' find lodgings in the village. Couple of rooms in a larger house. An' nobody will buy Marragrove Farm. Not when folk 'ear Bowser scrapin' away at the earth above 'im. Night after night after night."
How do you people know all this, you suddenly ask. The story Lorna tells must be set many, many years ago, when mining was encouraged on such beautiful spots as Exmoor. Long before it became a national park, before tourists flocked to appreciate its loveliness, the peace and quiet. The tale is from the distant past, yet these folk you share the bar with at The Fox and Goose appear deeply moved, as though it happened only yesterday. Why, you demand, is it so important to them?
But, of course, you already know the answer, don't you? You know who Lorna is; the men at the bar in their farming clothes; the landlady in old-fashioned attire. And as they turn their ancient heads towards you, confused expressions adorning puzzled faces, you realise it is they who do not understand. They've been keen to share a fascinating ghost story, never realising that they are the ghosts themselves.
