Feature

Of Monks and Airmen

© LUCIA FOSTER-FOUND 2021 WWW.LUCIAFOSTERFOUND.COM

Autumn arrives with a flurry of leaves and the hint of a chill. Done picking the blackberries, we’ll wait for the sloes to be frosted, before we introduce them to the gin that waits for them too. In orchards, apples no longer aloft languish in long grass beneath rapidly balding boughs. On warmer days in slanting sunlight, sleepy wasps buzz about their bruised, browning flesh. The nights draw in, suddenly it seems. We retreat into our home, close the doors and pull together the curtains. We shut out the gathering gloom and allay all thoughts of oncoming winter.

And Halloween comes, when it’s said the veils that separate the world of the living from that of the dead become thin and porous. Traditionally, we’d light candles to guide our departed loved ones back to us and set them a place at the table. Turnips and pumpkins would be carved into grotesque faces to ward off evil - and offerings of food were left on the doorstep to placate malevolent spirits. It was and still is, a time for feasting, dressing up in costumes, games and storytelling.

And these might be my Halloween tales to tell. I last heard this first one many years ago; the teller is no longer with us, so sadly I can’t ask them to tell it to me afresh. I believe it took place in the ’70s and this is how I remember it…

Parked up one night outside Beaulieu Abbey Domus, a woman sits in the car and waits for her husband. He’s there after-hours on some business and she’s come along for the ride. Sat there alone in the darkness, I suspect that time trickles by slowly for her.

By and by her husband returns to the car, together with a staff member who apologises for keeping him so long. She says it’s alright, that she’s been listening to the recording of the monks singing, like they do. Must have been playing from somewhere inside the ruins, for the tourists she supposes..? Excellent, logical explanation in theory, but apparently anything visitor-related had long since been switched off for the day. The chanting of the Monks that she thought she’d heard? Whatever it was, it was no recording. Postscript: And it seems she hasn’t been the only one to hear the chants - others have reported similar experiences. Here is another tale, one such as might be shared of a Halloween night, autumnal gusts rattling the letter box and rain thrashing wetly at the windows. This one is mine.

It was a Saturday morning and I had some tasks to finish off at the office. I didn’t usually work weekends and I wasn’t planning on being there long, so my husband came with me. We were going on from there once I was done – shopping I think. Sat at my desk, I saw a movement to my left at the far end of the open-plan space. We were alone in the building and the doors were locked, so assuming it was my beloved with that promised cup of coffee, I looked up expectantly. A tall, slim figure wearing what I’d describe as a beige boiler suit was just disappearing around the corner and out of my field of vision. He most definitely was not my shorter, stockier, jeans-clad husband. Startled, confused, I sat for a moment then got up from my desk, just as my husband came rushing out of the kitchen towards me.

“I’ve just seen some bloke walk past. I think he’s gone into the loos.” He exclaimed, looking as startled and confused as I felt. “I saw him too. Wearing overalls?” He nodded “Yes, biscuit-coloured.” We both went and searched the toilets, which were located down a dead-end corridor. Although we can’t explain why, neither of us were the least bit surprised that no-one was there. I should mention here that the office was located in a brick-walled Nissen hut. It was situated on the periphery of an airfield; both RAF and USAAF squadrons had used it as a base during WW2. And the beige overalls? Can’t be sure of course, but they looked very much like a flying suit.