Mary
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tale of an uninvited house guest.
_____________________________________________________________________
I lived with Mary for nearly ten years. Her pale oval face encompassed the most wonderful green eyes that sparkled with life. From her appearance, she acted young at heart but I guessed her age to be late forties. I assumed from her accent she originated from southern Ireland. She was tall, almost my height, and moved with modesty, her long slim arms often straightening out her dress. Her manner was firm but gentle and she spoke with an old-world precision, something of a rarity today. I loved her dearly, but Mary didn’t know she was dead.
I suppose I should start at the beginning for my story to make any sense. My world changed beyond reason with a catastrophic divorce, two children at private school and a bucketful of debt. Worst of all, we, that is, the children and I, had nowhere to live.
My friend and saviour came in the shape of Charles Owen, a Clydesdale Bank manager. He had endured a similar problem so knew all the potholes to avoid. After a short meeting he ordered me to buy a house with little capital, only his promise of help. A slight problem existed, where could I find a suitable house for under £100,000 in Edinburgh?
Scouring lists of properties for sale I found nothing. Through a solicitor’s grimy window in Musselburgh I noticed, Vacant possession: Four bed-roomed Georgian House, extensive gardens on sea front location: £57,000. With nothing to lose I entered. To my surprise, there was no mistake in the price. The salesperson cheekily referred to it as the ‘unwanted house’ as it had been on the market for over a year.
Not discouraged, I arranged an appointment to view for that afternoon. It took me some time to find but I waited eagerly. The solicitor’s clerk arrived, a dour creature, and stated offhandedly, “If you want to look round, here’s the key.”
The front gate hung on one hinge and the garden resembled a wilderness but, armed with my key I climbed the once white steps leading to the peeling, black painted front door. Nothing from the external appearance indicated why it remained unsold. Certain houses, like people, radiate that something. On opening the door I entered a time capsule. There were no signs of improvement. A thick layer of sand from the beach covered the stone floor. To me, I found it welcoming but maybe desperation coloured my thinking. Substantial in its construction, whilst simple in design. The rooms were a good size but high ceilings would make them hard to keep warm. All the antique fireplaces remained, only time would tell if they were functional. I think Edison himself installed the electrics and, apart from a large cast iron range, no hot water supply existed. Gas mantles projected from the walls of every room.
I needed a house and my bank manager said I could afford it. Two months later, with my few possessions, I moved in. With the assistance of friends, we stripped off twenty-five layers of wallpaper, rewired, plastered and painted. In the wilderness outside we found the remains of a lawn. I did find it odd that twelve chimneys extended from the roof but only eight fires existed. After two weeks of hard labour and a housewarming party, I was on my own.
Mary appeared the next morning. On leaving my bedroom a draught of cold air struck me. With it came a damp odour similar to that I remembered from my aunt’s cellar as a child. As I entered the kitchen, she stood to the side of the table. Shocked at her presence and more to the point, she was fully clothed and I was naked.
“What the… Who are you and how did you get in?” I stammered. She smiled, showing her perfect white teeth.
“Thank goodness all those noisy people have gone. They gave me a headache with all that banging and scraping. Now go and put some clothes on and don’t be so silly. I’m Mary, your housekeeper. I’ve looked after this house since old Mrs Henderson took me in - do you know, I can’t remember when that was.”
“You can’t stay here – this is my house. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question, how did you get in?”
“I didn’t get in at all, Sir – I live here. I have my own room in the basement. Snug as a bug I am down there.”
As I walked forward she stepped back. That’s when I noticed her body pass through a chair. “What are you?” I asked.
She looked at me with those green eyes and seemed saddened by my question. She turned away and walked towards the hall cupboard, opened the door, looked back stating very sternly, “I am your housekeeper, Sir.” The door closed.
I ran to the cupboard and wrenched open the door. Apart from some paint tins, it was empty. I reflected on and discarded the thought this woman existed.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me. That evening I cleared out the cupboard and began looking for, I don’t know what. Tapping the plaster at the back I discovered it was hollow. Would I find a skeleton behind it? I think I’d read too many horror stories. Hammer and crowbar at the ready, I smashed my way through. There in front of me leading down, a spiral stone staircase, and every step well worn. With the aid of a torch, I descended. Here a passage opened up, cold, damp sea air wafted along its length. My torch barely illuminated the gloom as I investigated the four rooms that comprised this space. Confused as to its concealment, I walked back towards the stairs. From behind came her melodic voice, “Is there something you want, Sir?”
I turned and there she was, not a hair out of place, perfect in every way. “No, thank you.”
“Well I’ll be going back to my room then. If you need anything, sir, just pull the cord and it’ll ring the bell.” She turned and left, disappearing into the dark. Her retreating footsteps made no sound.
Bewildered, I sat on the stairs staring into obscurity. I believed in ghosts but never thought I’d be living with one.
Time went on and I became used to Mary flitting about and, often, scolding me for being untidy or letting the washing build up. My life became well-organized and she meant no harm.
What did cause me concern was that I’d wake up in the night and find her sat on the edge of my bed. Once fully awake she would look at me and say “Don’t worry yourself, Sir, everything will be all right,” then she’d leave. She had become my surrogate mother and guardian angel.
The problems started when I invited my lady-friends back for coffee. I never mentioned Mary. Let’s be fair, it’s not the best of chat up lines. “Oh, by the way, don’t worry if you see the ghost of a woman.” Apart from coffee, I did have other motives. My involvement with the opposite sex did not go down well with Mary. It did nothing for my libido either as I was convinced she stood at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed when I had a guest.
Furthermore, Mary preached that one was a hussy, one a tart, a no-good or not good enough for me. I tried to reason but her upbringing was such that she told me quiet bluntly that it was her God-given duty to keep me on the straight and narrow until the right lady came along. My social life became a disaster. Mary even gave me hassle when the lads came round for a few beers or I came home late.
I’d had enough, as much as I loved her dearly she would have to go. Exorcism was the answer. Well I didn’t feel quite right about it and abandoned the idea. The decision made, I could only look forward to being celibate and if Mary had her way, virtuous.
My life continued with Mary ensuring I behaved myself. I met Sheila and for months took her out, but at the end of the evening she would go to her home and I to mine. One evening, she asked why I never invited her to my home. What could I say? “Mary might not like it. Oh, and by the way, Mary’s been dead for about a hundred years.” I must have had a mad moment for I asked Sheila back and she accepted.
Sheila loved the house, stayed the night and we were married in six months. During this time I’d neither seen nor heard Mary. One morning I opened the hall cupboard and went down the steps calling her name. Nothing happened but I knew she was behind me as I climbed back up.
She was crying. “What's the matter?” I asked.
“I know you’ve found a good lady and that means I’ll have to go. Two women in the same kitchen never works. Would you accept a week’s notice?” she asked politely.
“Mary,” I said, “no one wants you to leave. You can stay here for as long as you wish. This is your home.”
“Oh, thank you, Sir. Mother of Mary, may the saints bless you. I promise I won’t be any bother.”
Mary returned to her room below stairs and I never saw her again. I know she’s still around. Sometimes when we’re away from the house she comes upstairs and opens drawers and moves things around. We leave these items where they are, after all, Mary knows best.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tale of an uninvited house guest.
_____________________________________________________________________
I lived with Mary for nearly ten years. Her pale oval face encompassed the most wonderful green eyes that sparkled with life. From her appearance, she acted young at heart but I guessed her age to be late forties. I assumed from her accent she originated from southern Ireland. She was tall, almost my height, and moved with modesty, her long slim arms often straightening out her dress. Her manner was firm but gentle and she spoke with an old-world precision, something of a rarity today. I loved her dearly, but Mary didn’t know she was dead.
I suppose I should start at the beginning for my story to make any sense. My world changed beyond reason with a catastrophic divorce, two children at private school and a bucketful of debt. Worst of all, we, that is, the children and I, had nowhere to live.
My friend and saviour came in the shape of Charles Owen, a Clydesdale Bank manager. He had endured a similar problem so knew all the potholes to avoid. After a short meeting he ordered me to buy a house with little capital, only his promise of help. A slight problem existed, where could I find a suitable house for under £100,000 in Edinburgh?
Scouring lists of properties for sale I found nothing. Through a solicitor’s grimy window in Musselburgh I noticed, Vacant possession: Four bed-roomed Georgian House, extensive gardens on sea front location: £57,000. With nothing to lose I entered. To my surprise, there was no mistake in the price. The salesperson cheekily referred to it as the ‘unwanted house’ as it had been on the market for over a year.
Not discouraged, I arranged an appointment to view for that afternoon. It took me some time to find but I waited eagerly. The solicitor’s clerk arrived, a dour creature, and stated offhandedly, “If you want to look round, here’s the key.”
The front gate hung on one hinge and the garden resembled a wilderness but, armed with my key I climbed the once white steps leading to the peeling, black painted front door. Nothing from the external appearance indicated why it remained unsold. Certain houses, like people, radiate that something. On opening the door I entered a time capsule. There were no signs of improvement. A thick layer of sand from the beach covered the stone floor. To me, I found it welcoming but maybe desperation coloured my thinking. Substantial in its construction, whilst simple in design. The rooms were a good size but high ceilings would make them hard to keep warm. All the antique fireplaces remained, only time would tell if they were functional. I think Edison himself installed the electrics and, apart from a large cast iron range, no hot water supply existed. Gas mantles projected from the walls of every room.
I needed a house and my bank manager said I could afford it. Two months later, with my few possessions, I moved in. With the assistance of friends, we stripped off twenty-five layers of wallpaper, rewired, plastered and painted. In the wilderness outside we found the remains of a lawn. I did find it odd that twelve chimneys extended from the roof but only eight fires existed. After two weeks of hard labour and a housewarming party, I was on my own.
Mary appeared the next morning. On leaving my bedroom a draught of cold air struck me. With it came a damp odour similar to that I remembered from my aunt’s cellar as a child. As I entered the kitchen, she stood to the side of the table. Shocked at her presence and more to the point, she was fully clothed and I was naked.
“What the… Who are you and how did you get in?” I stammered. She smiled, showing her perfect white teeth.
“Thank goodness all those noisy people have gone. They gave me a headache with all that banging and scraping. Now go and put some clothes on and don’t be so silly. I’m Mary, your housekeeper. I’ve looked after this house since old Mrs Henderson took me in - do you know, I can’t remember when that was.”
“You can’t stay here – this is my house. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question, how did you get in?”
“I didn’t get in at all, Sir – I live here. I have my own room in the basement. Snug as a bug I am down there.”
As I walked forward she stepped back. That’s when I noticed her body pass through a chair. “What are you?” I asked.
She looked at me with those green eyes and seemed saddened by my question. She turned away and walked towards the hall cupboard, opened the door, looked back stating very sternly, “I am your housekeeper, Sir.” The door closed.
I ran to the cupboard and wrenched open the door. Apart from some paint tins, it was empty. I reflected on and discarded the thought this woman existed.
Curiosity eventually got the better of me. That evening I cleared out the cupboard and began looking for, I don’t know what. Tapping the plaster at the back I discovered it was hollow. Would I find a skeleton behind it? I think I’d read too many horror stories. Hammer and crowbar at the ready, I smashed my way through. There in front of me leading down, a spiral stone staircase, and every step well worn. With the aid of a torch, I descended. Here a passage opened up, cold, damp sea air wafted along its length. My torch barely illuminated the gloom as I investigated the four rooms that comprised this space. Confused as to its concealment, I walked back towards the stairs. From behind came her melodic voice, “Is there something you want, Sir?”
I turned and there she was, not a hair out of place, perfect in every way. “No, thank you.”
“Well I’ll be going back to my room then. If you need anything, sir, just pull the cord and it’ll ring the bell.” She turned and left, disappearing into the dark. Her retreating footsteps made no sound.
Bewildered, I sat on the stairs staring into obscurity. I believed in ghosts but never thought I’d be living with one.
Time went on and I became used to Mary flitting about and, often, scolding me for being untidy or letting the washing build up. My life became well-organized and she meant no harm.
What did cause me concern was that I’d wake up in the night and find her sat on the edge of my bed. Once fully awake she would look at me and say “Don’t worry yourself, Sir, everything will be all right,” then she’d leave. She had become my surrogate mother and guardian angel.
The problems started when I invited my lady-friends back for coffee. I never mentioned Mary. Let’s be fair, it’s not the best of chat up lines. “Oh, by the way, don’t worry if you see the ghost of a woman.” Apart from coffee, I did have other motives. My involvement with the opposite sex did not go down well with Mary. It did nothing for my libido either as I was convinced she stood at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed when I had a guest.
Furthermore, Mary preached that one was a hussy, one a tart, a no-good or not good enough for me. I tried to reason but her upbringing was such that she told me quiet bluntly that it was her God-given duty to keep me on the straight and narrow until the right lady came along. My social life became a disaster. Mary even gave me hassle when the lads came round for a few beers or I came home late.
I’d had enough, as much as I loved her dearly she would have to go. Exorcism was the answer. Well I didn’t feel quite right about it and abandoned the idea. The decision made, I could only look forward to being celibate and if Mary had her way, virtuous.
My life continued with Mary ensuring I behaved myself. I met Sheila and for months took her out, but at the end of the evening she would go to her home and I to mine. One evening, she asked why I never invited her to my home. What could I say? “Mary might not like it. Oh, and by the way, Mary’s been dead for about a hundred years.” I must have had a mad moment for I asked Sheila back and she accepted.
Sheila loved the house, stayed the night and we were married in six months. During this time I’d neither seen nor heard Mary. One morning I opened the hall cupboard and went down the steps calling her name. Nothing happened but I knew she was behind me as I climbed back up.
She was crying. “What's the matter?” I asked.
“I know you’ve found a good lady and that means I’ll have to go. Two women in the same kitchen never works. Would you accept a week’s notice?” she asked politely.
“Mary,” I said, “no one wants you to leave. You can stay here for as long as you wish. This is your home.”
“Oh, thank you, Sir. Mother of Mary, may the saints bless you. I promise I won’t be any bother.”
Mary returned to her room below stairs and I never saw her again. I know she’s still around. Sometimes when we’re away from the house she comes upstairs and opens drawers and moves things around. We leave these items where they are, after all, Mary knows best.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.