This story is reproduced from Romance Around Stony Stratford by R. Ewart Barley (O.C. Barley, 1928), now in the public domain.
Debb’s Barn and the Blue Pump
“Grandfather, just one of your dreamy yarns, please. Uncle George told me one the other day, but his are too historic. I enjoy something with a bit of a thrill: something that sends that tingling creepy sensation down your spine, and makes your hair rise up, if you have any.”
“I know you, my boy; I expect you will worry me till you hear something, so I might as well get to it right away. I have never told you the tale of Debb’s Barn and the Blue Pump.”
“I’ve heard there is a romance, Grand-dad, about that spot, but I have never heard the details.”
“You know the spot, my boy, past the old glebe allotments as you go to Wolverton. It lies on the right-hand side back in the field, near the spinney. It has been altered somewhat the last few years, but the foundations of the place are still there.
The very name of Debb used to put the fear of death into nervous women and young girls in the old days. My own mother never mentioned the place without a quiver in her voice. I have heard her tell how pedestrians have been scared out of their very wits by apparitions flitting fleetly by the blue pump and over to the mill fields. Sometimes they took the form of a big black dog, howling and moaning. At other times a human form with a ghastly pig’s head would run squealing and yelling down the road toward the spinney near Barratt’s farm.
I always used to laugh at my mother when she used to tell us these goblin yarns, but she believed them to be as true as her Bible, I’m sure she did. Now I never did believe in ghosts, although I have seen them with my own eyes.”
“You have, Grand-dad?” I interpolated excitedly.
“Yes, lad, at the Blue Pump, too. I was in old Holloway’s, the barber’s, one day. Also sitting there, getting a shave, was Dad Bishenden, the painter. He was a veritable know-all, and what he didn’t know, well, he imagined. There he was that day coughing his knowledge off his chest like a schoolmaster. Holloway, the barber, sat drinking it all in like an undertaker quaffing whiskey. It seemed the night before some women had been frightened by this apparition we have been mentioning. The topic of the moment was ghosts. I hung up my long-sleeved silk hat on the peg, plumped down on a seat, pricked up my ears like a donkey, and plunged right into the argument. ‘Look here, Bish,’ I said, ‘you see my hat on that peg up there? I will eat that before breakfast if there is any truth in all these sloppy drivelling old wives’ tales about ghosts at the Blue Pump.’
“‘Jack,’ he said, ‘you doubt me, old chap, but look here, old man, are you game enough to come to-night?’
“‘Come to-night, yes, at any old time, but I tell you it’s not worth wearing a fellow’s spring side boots out, for you know I don’t believe in them ghosts.’ I saw him wink at old Holloway as much as to say, ‘We will shake the tar out of this doubting tailor.’
“‘Will you come, too?’ I said to the barber.
He explained it was Friday night, and he would be far too busy, although he would very much like the fun. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘who’s going to be judge of this thing? One man’s word is just as good as another. We want a witness.’ Just at that moment our conversation was drowned by the sound of a bell. It was Master Ashton, the old town crier:
“‘O yes, O yes, this is to give notice,—Lost between Pudding Bag Lane and the old workhouse yard; a purse containing money. Anyone returning the same to Mr. Bell at the post office will be handsomely rewarded.—God save the King and hang the crier and throw his wooden leg behind the fire.’”
“Now I’m sure Ashton would act as a witness. He would come. I knew how he liked midnight adventures. The barber called him in, we told him of our previous conversation, and of the challenge, and he agreed to accompany us as an impartial judge and official witness.
That night Bish, Ashton and I met about 8 o’clock at the Plough Inn. Of course we partook of several lubricants to steel our nerves for a midnight adventure. I shall never forget how at eleven o’clock we sallied forth to make our investigations. The Town Crier was none too good on his one leg, and fell in the open drain which used to run round by where St. Mary’s School is now. We managed to extricate him, though slightly damp, and on we went. Old Bishenden was well sprung, and would insist on reciting Shakespeare’s Macbeth:
‘When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain.’
Old Ashton beat time with his wooden leg on the ground with great dramatic effect. After somewhat of a struggle we reached the spot that had loomed large in our dreams all day. Debb’s barn lay, like an ugly shadow, back in the field. ‘We will make our stand at the blue pump, that’s the place to get a good view,’ said Bish, ‘that’s where I saw him New Year’s Eve.’ ‘Perhaps he only comes out New Year’s Eve,’ said Ashton. ‘I hope we are not on a wild goose chase.’ ‘No, man, something better—a wild ghost chase,’ said Bish. ‘Well, I have heard he comes to the pump for a drink at midnight, and the road smells strong of sulphur for an hour after. I should say it smells like a pigsty, according to your lurid description of the ghost.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that is just a quarter to twelve. You say he drinks at midnight. Here goes, I am going to have a drink now, for I am as dry as a wooden god.’ I leaned over, put my mouth to the spout, lifted the heavy handle. As I did so I saw the luminous body of some object crouching behind a tree near the pump. I never said a word, though to tell you the truth my nerves were rather shattered.
Perhaps after all there were such things as ghosts and wandering spirits. Perhaps Bishenden was right and I was wrong. I remembered again all the things my mother had told me. I trembled all over and felt giddy and swingy. How I would have loved another drink from the pump to cool my parched tongue, but it was too near to twelve. The ghost would drink very soon now. Bish gave a selection from Hamlet: ‘I could a tale unfold, whose lightest breath would harrow up your soul.’ In one minute the clang of the old cracked bell in Old Wolverton Tower told that the awful time had come. Old Wolverton clock used to strike in those days, and strange to say it never struck again for years after that terrible night. The sound of the bell died into silence. Suddenly the handle of the old pump moved rapidly up and down, squeaking for want of oil as it did so. The water rushed freely into the trough below. There was a gurgling, grunting noise and a smacking of lips.
‘There you are, Jack, what did we tell you? Do you believe in ghosts now. You will witness, you two, Ashton and Bish, that is the ghost of Josiah Debb, taking his midnight drink.’ Ashton coughed, stuck his wooden leg in the long grass. ‘By heaven Bish, you’re right. I witness by the stars above, I also saw the ghost.’
I did not mean to let the challenge pass too lightly. I must confess I had seen no black dog or human form with a pig’s head. I pulled myself together, set my teeth, and went right up to the pump. I could hear the grunting of a pig, there was no doubt about that. By gad, I could see a man’s body, too! It crept nearer to me and made a mighty bound over the fence, just where I stood. In the usual way I should have run, but I felt rooted to the ground. At last I got my Dutch courage up, I made one ugly rush at the horrible monster with that boxthorn stick in the corner there. I also booted it brutally with my heavy boots. There was a shriek like as from the demons of hell. An awful groan that sent my blood cold in that unearthly hour. When I looked round Bish was missing and Ashton hopped off as fast as I have ever heard a wooden-legged man go in my life. Neither of them stopped till they got home. I’ll swear by all the tea in China to my dying day, it was no ghost that I struck at that night. I hardly remember getting home, my nerves were so rocky.
Next day I called in Holloway’s to tell my experience. Strange to say Bish and Ashton were there too. The barber had all his front teeth missing and two of the blackest eyes I have ever seen on a man in my life. ‘By Jove, Holloway,’ I said, ‘pray whatever is the matter with your face?’ ‘Oh, chopping wood, that’s all, Jack. Accidents will happen you know.’ Old Bish would have it, and Ashton corroborated the facts that the ghost did appear and drank long and deep at the cooling waters of the blue pump at midnight. Lad, to this day, listen, to this day, and to my dying day, I shall always suspect that the barber was the ghost I beat and booted at the blue pump. Anyhow, he was always mute on the point ever after. He made no more challenges with me, and never since that day have I heard of Debb’s spirit drinking at midnight.
Some years after a complete skeleton of a man was unearthed in the spinney near by, and rumour always claimed that foul deeds were done at that spot, but I never did believe the stories of Debb’s Barn and the Blue Pump.”
With very grateful thanks to Dr Terrie Howey-Moore for finding this brilliant extract and sending it on to me!