More on Charlotte White (nee Smyth)

Following on from yesterday's post, with a poem I wrote about Charlotte White (nee Smyth), I thought I would share some more aspects of her story. 

Back in August 2012, when I was in the process of researching Charlotte for the story I was writing for the WriteNight anthology, I began by using Google.  In that process, I came across references to Charlotte's pool in some of the historical documents online.  Please click this link for information on her lineage and her father (Sir George Henry Smyth)'s role as MP for Colchester and this link for a reference to her father building her pool, as well as details of the history of the Berechurch area.  

I discovered many references to her ghost.  One was on the paranormal database, where a sighting is listed in the 1930s.  There are numerous references to the 'Lady in White' at Berechurch Hall in books about local ghosts, available in Colchester Library.  I have read accounts of German Prisoners of War in World War II seeing her ghost, when interred at what is now the Military Corrective Training Centre in the grounds of Berechurch Hall. Another account describes a lady called Mrs Chilvers watching a white figure gliding up the drive to the door of Berechurch Hall, as she called in her cat.  She only realised what she was seeing, as Charlotte's apparition came much closer to her and rose into the sky.  I even heard accounts of a 'Lady in White' appearing in one of the modern flats, which are now occupying the space where the original Berechurch Hall once stood.

A link to a poem written by another poet, who describes an encounter with the ghost of Charlotte around 1980 is below. It is a beautiful poem, which is evocative of the remains of Charlotte's gardens, which still remained back then but which are now long gone.  To read the poem, click the link below.

Charlotte's Well (A ghost story) by Wayne Richard Baker

I really like this poem.  For me, it is mystical and beautiful and it shows clearly that there should be nothing to fear from any encounter with Charlotte's ghost.  It is no longer possible to see what is described, such as it was but this poem provides an intriguing snapshot of Berechurch Hall and Charlotte's Pool as it might have been.

My Past Existence - Charlotte White nee Smyth - a poem

As regular readers will know, I did a lot of work last year based around the story of Charlotte White (nee Smyth), daughter of Sir George Henry Smyth of Berechurch Hall in Colchester, whose ghost is said to walk the earth in the grounds of the former Berechurch Hall estate.  I wrote a short story about her, which is soon to be published in the first WriteNight anthology.  I spent time working on some art work, with a view to holding an exhibition about her in the future.  In addition to this, I wrote a poem about her, which explores the feelings she might have experienced as a ghost, haunting her former dwelling.  This poem is laid out below.

Charlotte was a well loved lady and researching her life has certainly had an impact on me.  I hope to produce more work about her in the not too distant future.  In the meantime, here is the poem.

My Past Existence
by Annie Bell

Why do you call me the 'Lady in White'?
Why do you act like I give you a fright?
Why do you only see this satin dress?
Can you not see that I look like a mess?

I'm going to tell you - to try to explain
Quite what my dress means: how it speaks of my pain.
This dress - this white dress of satin so fine,
Trimmed with soft swansdown, destined to be mine,
A gift from my husband to forgive me a wrong
But I felt unforgiven, my life and death long.

When I died, trapped right here, it was all I could wear 
My symbolic shackle, far too much to bear.
A symbol of marriage?  Innocense?  Love?
A symbol of purity?  Peace?  Like a dove?
A symbol of betrayal, of evil, of guilt,
Corroding my soul like an acid soaked quilt.

Forgiven, I died in his choice of fine cloth.
Forever I'd wear it - a strange reverse goth.
My hair loose and wild, I felt like a child;
Afraid and alone, unheard and reviled.

Despite his intentions - so sweet and so kind,
Even after so long, it just serves to remind 
Of that grave mistake - my only misdeed
And his well meaning love meant my fate was decreed

Stuck here, alone for all of these years,
The world deaf to me and bound by my fears.
My silvery voice dumb, I walked through the night
And all you could see, was the 'Lady in White'.

Irony, it seems, was my twisted new friend,
As, after my death, my life didn't end.
Trapped in my invisible prison of love;
No way to escape to my place up above.

Despite my good deeds and my Christian faith,
Despite my fine conduct, I'm stuck as a wraith,
Spooking young children and looking a mess,
Defined by this elegant, lead lined dress.

Oh peopleo seek me, who see me, please know;
I'm not what I seem in this ghastly old show.
I am not a scary, wood haunting spook.
I'll never hurt you; if you see me, just look.

You'll just see a lady - a lady who died.
Look closer, you'll see the sadness in my eyes;
The tears held inside me in a chest that can't rise.
Say my name, ask a question and you'll be surprised.

I need you to listen.  I need you to hear.
I need you to help me escape from my fear.
Don't call me that name - the Lady in White.
I'm Charlotte.  I'm Charlotte.  I'm Charlotte White.t

© Annie Bell 2013

For more information on Charlotte, please see my other blog posts about her (below)

Charlotte's Pool 20/09/2012
Charlotte's Pool - Charlotte's Family 19/09/2012
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation - Part 2 29/08/2012
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation - Part 1 16/08/2012
Charlotte's Pool, Colchester 07/08/2012

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

 

Smoky Depths - a poem

Here is a poem I wrote on Monday night.  It's a bit doom and gloom but life can be like that sometimes.   

Smoky Depths

by Annie Bell

The smoky depths of my soul billow through my mind,
Swirling, enticing, depressing.
I used to be so cheery;
My disco interior buoyant like Billy Ocean's music,
Belying my gothic exterior show.
Leather and lace danced to Abba and ABC.
Now?
Such as things are?
My disco facade buoys others along.
My hollow laughter belies my sadness.
My gothic insides as black as the grave.
Grey sunlight beams shards of asphalt joy.
They did this to me.
Black shadows swallow all hope.
Hope.
I remember thoughts of hope.
Stupid, futile hope.
The world is a pit - a well - full of concealed snakes.
Their venomous teeth pierced my armour a while back.
Their poison is slowly strangling, destroying and killing me.
Their ice has frozen my life blood; curdling it into slow moving slush.
My dreams are lost in a perpetual crush.

© Annie Bell 2013

The Town Hall Crier - a WriteNight story

Last night, I attended the latest meeting of Colchester WriteNight.

Emma Kittle had come up with an interesting writing task for us all to complete.  It involved comparing notes on our working environments.  Once we had a clear setting in mind, we had to create a story based on a disgruntled employee working in one of those locations.

As always, I was quite inspired by the theme and produced a story, which I will share below.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I am already looking forward to the next meeting.

Here is my story.  I must warn you that it is mildly sweary!

The Town Hall Crier

by Annie Bell

“I can't! I just can't!” I bellowed at my poor, long suffering wife.

“What is it now, love?” she asked.

“Bloody work. I'm not going in.”

Her face stared through me. Bloody stupid cow. She had no idea what I was going through. She could never, ever, not in a million years imagine my pain. All she cared about was money – cold, hard cash, strewn into our joint bank account for her own frivolous bloody use.

I gulped down the anaemic, vomit inducing cup of tea she had slopped down in front of me, scowled at her miserable, unsatisfied, indeed unsatisfiable face and marched – well – sloped off to the front door, briefcase in hand and left.

As the door clunked behind me, I blinked back rays of depressing monochrome sunlight, blinding my tired eyes – bastards. Where were the grey clouds when you needed them? As I wandered down the road towards the grotty bus stop, millions of daffodils danced happily in the breeze. Bastards. Bloody piercing cheery yellow breaking my black mood, rubbing it in my face that their happy-go-lucky world was so much richer than my own. Bloody bastards. I kicked one of them over, apologising immediately for my display of gratuitous violence and tried to straighten its bruised and broken stem – like my soul. Battered. Destroyed.

On I marched to catch the bus. A few moments later, I climbed onto the lowered step of false security. I flashed my bus pass at the driver, who growled a vague greeting. My usual seat was free but Mrs Parsley – bloody busybody moved from her seat and sat behind me, breathing down my neck from the moment I sat down. I could feel the warm dampness of her breath chilling my neck, as the draught from the window was cooled by the microscopic droplets of saliva beading in the hairs on the back of my neck. I shivered, pulling my collar up, hoping against unrealistic hope that she had not spotted me.

“My Smith,” her whiny voice scratched at my eardrums, a cloud of parma violet horror clawing at my stomach lining. “What's happening about those 'orrible teenagers who keep frightening Mitzy?” Bloody Mrs Parsley. She could bugger off as well. Seemed to think I was hers to pester 24/7. Can't even catch a sodding bus without them moaning at me about their petty complaints. She made me sick. As if I cared about her stupid chihuahua Mitzy and her ridiculous issues with the youth of her estate. I reckoned the dog wanted skinning and chucking in a lake, if I was honest but apparently, that sort of attitude just doesn't win votes.

Grimacing, I turned around and smiled into her leathery face.

“Mrs Parsley. How delightful of you to distract me from my ruminations. Now I have raised the issue with the council and it will be addressed at today's meeting. Beyond that, there is precious little I can do, beyond offering my sincerest and most profound apologies for any inconvenience caused.” As I heard the insipid, saccharin response fly from my tongue, I snarled at myself.

“Tell her to leave you alone!” my subconscious screamed. “Tell her she's ridiculous. Tell her to get a blinkin' life.”

I shut her profane wittering out, as the bus ground to a shuddering halt in the High Street. I dragged my carcass from the seat tugging my trousers from the chewing gum, which had held me an unwilling captive.

Escaping one Hell, I marched into another. The Town Hall loomed – a deathly mausoleum – scowling at me. I shrugged my coat closer and walked in through the front door.

To my left hung the roll of honour – all the victims of the World Wars. I could no longer look at it. The freedoms those men died for had vanished a long time ago. Only our facade of smoke and mirrors now convinced the people of their false freedoms.

I no longer knew why I was doing this job. My ideals had been lost in a sea of muddy political rubbish, which no longer resembled the original purpose of democracy, which had driven me into this charade.

I would walk, as I did every day, through the corridors, into the chamber. I would take my place, as I did every day, in the leather horseshoe and I would gaze sleepily at the semi clothed ladies painted into the ceiling. They would stare at me, as they did every day – judgement marring their superficial perfection and inside, I would die a little, as I did every day.

© Annie Bell 2013

Winter's Fist - a poem.

A few weeks ago, I was pondering the way Winter was dragging on and on relentlessly.  Like most people, I was really beginning to feel depressed about it all.  That dark moood inspired this poem.

Winter's Fist

by Annie Bell

When will Spring arrive?
Why does it tease so?
Tantalising, tender stalks of green.
Shimmering, fleeting slivers of sun
Break the grey facade of Winter's icy grip.

When will Life return?
Why does it tease so?
Short lived glimpses fool me that I'm free.
False hope tempts me to believe I've won,
Misleading my mind
Into Falsehood's dark cloak.

When will Winter cease?
Why does it endure so?
Icy snow has killed the daffodils.
Their deeds have killed my optimism.
My broken being
Like their browning husks.

When will Spring arrive?
Why does it tease so?
Tantalising, tender stalks of green.
Shimmering, fleeting slivers of sun
Break the grey facade of Winter's icy grip.
 

© Annie Bell 2013

'Midnight' and Memories of Uncle Cecil

Sadly, on March 11th 2013, my beloved Uncle Cecil passed away.

I would like to share some of the things that made him so great. 

Aged 83, he was a real character.  A keen motorcyclist and fan of motorsport.  We enjoyed numerous Formula One races together, cheering on the 'good guys' and trying to work out ways to stop those Ferraris from winning again!  

Uncle Cecil was a true eccentric artist.  He created numerous beautiful pictures, the most famous of which is still painted on his garage door.   

The seventh child of 8, my Grandad's little brother, Uncle Cecil was a mischievous child, who got into plenty of scrapes along with his brothers and who loved his sister Joan to pieces, often referring to her as his 'Second Mum'.  The novel I am working on 'Midnight' will tell the story of the effect World War II had on their lives.  The stories he and his siblings shared with me, of those times are unbelievable.  When I decided to write the novel, his enthusiasm for sharing his stories of life during that time was obvious and he seemed to enjoy the extracts I was able to share with him.

Uncle Cecil was a wonderful, if complex man, who meant the world to me.  I feel absolutely lost without him.  In his memory, I have included (below) an abridged version of an extract from 'Midnight', which is completely based in fact - you couldn't make it up!  I hope you enjoy it.

Extract from 'Midnight'

by Annie Bell

The sun beamed into the kitchen, as Cecil and Ivan gulped down their porridge (Cecil 'Hollow Legs' was already on his second bowl). I spotted them nudging each other, seeming a bit too quiet.

“What are you two up to?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Cecil beamed.

“Can we go out for the day?” Ivan blurted out. “We want to go to Brightlingsea.” 

 

Cecil scowled at him, adding “We haven't been there for ages.”

“I've told you before,” I scolded. “The coast is off limits, cause of the war.” I felt bad. They had been pestering for ages about the beach but what could I do?

“Mum...” they whined, smiling innocently, as though butter would never soften in their mouths, let alone melt. 

 

“No.” I insisted. “Mention it again, you'll have your father to answer to.”

“Humph. Ok … Can we play with Dennis instead?” asked Cecil.

“Yeah. That'd be fun,” nodded Ivan. “We're not stupid enough to go to the beach after what you just said, Mum.” 

 

I waved them off, despite my better judgement, and carried on peeling potatoes.

I later discovered that, within an hour of leaving, the boys scampered along the train tracks to Brightlingsea. As their naughty plan drew to its climax, they raced onto a swing bridge behind a train, risking being tipped headfirst into the estuary mud. How they weren't caught sooner, I will never know.

Reaching their destination, they ran to the now heavily altered beach. Dense structures of scaffolding, barbed wire and other unfriendly objects scarred the waterline. Our disobedient heroes ignored the warnings and raced off, dodging between the defences as if they were driftwood.

“Let's go crabbing!” cried Cecil joyfully, tramping through the sand. “We can practise forts too. Then we can beat the others, when the war is over!” As Cecil sped off, Ivan hesitated, my warnings ringing in his ears. “Come on Ivan!” yelled Cecil. “I want to catch a massive crab.” At that, Ivan forgot his concerns and followed, giggling, as Cecil's voice was drowned out by the roar of a Wellington bomber. They both stared skywards, their mouths hanging open as it flew over. Unfortunately, the Merlin engines stifled the frantic warnings from a soldier, who had just spotted them from a bunker. Too late, they heard him.

“STOP!” he yelled. “Minefield! Don't move!”

Both boys froze. My words echoed in their ears louder than ever but it was too late. Horrified, Ivan glanced at Cecil. Cecil stared back, lip quivering; tears welling up in his eyes. How would they get out of this scrape?

“Grab that stick!” the soldier barked at Ivan. “Prod the ground at an angle and move slowly towards him. When you're together, come to me.” Ivan nodded and tentatively inched forward. Cecil flinched each time the stick pierced the sand.

After several painful minutes, Ivan reached Cecil. 

 

“Walk in his footsteps,” the soldier told Cecil, as Ivan continued prodding the ground. Both were scarcely breathing as they crept back towards safety. 

 

Ten feet from the soldier, “Oh my God!” Ivan shrank backwards, knocking Cecil off balance.

“What? What?” Cecil steadied himself.

“Mine!”

“Oh my God, Ivan! What do we do?”

“Look behind you. See the footprints?” the soldier advised. “Step back carefully and go round it.” Cecil stepped exactly into the marks in the sand. Ivan followed carefully. He prodded the ground a foot to the right of the mine. The coast was clear. A few breathless minutes later, they reached the sea wall.

The soldier, now purple with rage, grabbed the boys' ears and dragged them kicking and screaming to the police station, depositing them with the constable.

“Found these two playing in the minefield,” he scowled at the two miscreants. “Lock 'em up and throw away the key!” Ivan and Cecil, terrified at the thought of rotting in jail, both burst into tears.

“I'm so sorry,” Cecil sobbed. “Please don't put us in prison. Please.”

“No, please don't,” Ivan wailed. “We didn't know. Sorry.”

“Hmm …” the constable pondered. “Get in the car, before I change my mind.” He followed them out to his police car and drove them home, to tell me what they had done; none the worse for their ordeal but eating humble pie like there was no tomorrow. 

 

© Annie Bell 2013