A Stained Glass Mystery

Whilst writing Agnes of Grimstone Peverell, a festive ghost story with ecclesiastical connections, I was searching around for an authentic late-nineteenth-century stained glass artist whom I could cite as being the creator of a particular window featured in the story. Having carried out a Google image search, I happened upon a picture of window that greatly appealed to me, and so clicked on the link to discover more about it (the image can be accessed at https://www.flickr.com/photos/47859152@N05/5187150203). Before doing so, I had already decided that providing the name of the artist in question could been ascertained, then he or she would be the one that I chose as the creator of my fictional window. The name was provided – Christopher Whall.  

The window, situated in St Oswald’s Parish Church, Ashbourne, Derbyshire, was – like the one in my story – a commemorative piece, but what struck me, given that I had already fixed upon the name of my fictitious minster as ‘Grimstone Peverell,’  was the double-barrelled surname of the family which had donated the window to the church: Peveril Turnbull. A far from common surname. It commemorates the death of their two daughters who died in a fire in 1901.  

I then moved on to reading a little more about Christopher Whall and his works, and discovered that only one commission was listed as having been carried out by him in the county of Dorset. This was a window that he created for the new church in the parish of Bothenhampton, a building constructed in accordance with the principles of the English Arts and Crafts Movement in 1890, although the date of the window itself was 1895. What struck me about the year was that this was the same one that I had designated for the commissioning and installation of my fictitious ‘Beke Window.’ How convenient that my chosen artist should actually have been active in Dorset in that very year!  

It seemed rather appropriate that my research for a ghost story should result in such unusual coincidences. As for the identity of the windows portrayed on the cover of Agnes of Grimstone Peverell, and their artist, I shall leave that for readers to puzzle over.

Review: ‘To Walk Invisible,’ BBC1, 29 December 2016

Being otherwise engaged on the evening of 29 December, I finally got around to watching this BBC drama about the Brontës last night. It made for two hours of engaging viewing, with nineteenth-century Haworth brought to life with the assistance of a little CGI and ample additional muck strewn across its cobbled main street. It was a handsome production that paid a great deal of attention to period detail, so what we saw certainly looked as authentic as is practicable in such pieces. For the greater part of the time, the village and surrounding landscape were enveloped in a characteristic Pennine gloom that appeared to have penetrated to the very heart of the parsonage and the individuals who lived within it.

Although the programme opened with the three Brontë sisters and their brother Branwell as children, it dealt, in the main, with their lives as adults, with Branwell’s failures and mental and physical disintegration providing much of the meat of the drama. The story was strong, as was the cast, and the script was, to the greater part, solid, and yet for me this production seemed not to quite realise its full potential. It seemed to suffer from a phenomenon that has crept into much television drama in recent years: ‘soapification.’

‘“Soapification”? What in the blazes does he mean?’ I hear you ask. Well, it is nothing more than the process of making drama fit increasingly into the mould of soap opera, more specifically, making it conform to those exemplars of the genre that revel in misery, shouting and perpetual ill-temper; it was an approach pioneered and popularised by Brookside, and taken up and further exaggerated by Eastenders. Thus it was that the only laughter that we witnessed during the two hours was in one of Branwell’s nightmares, where his family, acquaintances and former lover were laughing at him in a scene of painful humiliation. Amongst the sisters themselves, there was a veritable surfeit of scowling and furrowed brows, a simmering anger unleavened by lighter moments, an atmosphere and mood so unremittingly gloom laden that it was a wonder that the entire family did not lapse into alcoholism and opiate addiction. Their preferred mode of speaking, even whilst out in the wilds of the moors out of earshot of any sheep, let alone any other human being, was whispering, their grumbling and accusatory susurrations at times beyond the range of the viewer’s ear. These observations tempted me to entertain other potential titles for the drama, such as ‘To Speak Inaudible,’ or ‘To Smile Imperceptible.’

Branwell was portrayed as an unruly and disruptive irritant, which I’m sure he was in real life, but the rages that the character in this production displayed seemed to be more appropriate to an adolescent than to a man who was 31 at the time of his death. I had envisioned him as a more subdued depressive, drinking and doping (speaking of which, there appeared to be no reference to his frequent abuse of opiates in this drama) himself to death, whilst his family helplessly looked on. The way in which his manners and conduct, as well as those of his sisters, were portrayed in this programme, did not seem to ring true for the offspring of a nineteenth-century clergyman; the twenty-first century appeared to have rudely intruded into the world of the 1840s.

There must have been some laughter in the lives of Anne, Charlotte and Emily, besides all of the Sturm und Drang which we encountered in this vision of their lives, or at least some brief moments (other than learning of their commercial literary success) during which they experienced at least a little levity. This drama would have benefitted from injecting a little colour into the all-pervading darkness with which it was enveloped; no set of lives is quite so monochrome.

Book Review: ‘Hauntings: Tales of the Supernatural,’ ed. Henry Mazzeo, 1968

An entertaining collection of supernatural tales, some by authors that I have previously read, and others that I have not. What united them for me personally was the fact that I came to them all as a fresh reader, for I had not thumbed my way through any of the stories in this volume before. Although a number of the authors included will doubtless be familiar to horror aficionados, some of them were new to me, even a figure so apparently well known as August Derleth.  

Personal tastes differ, so it is just as well that I persevered reading beyond the first story in the collection – Derleth’s ‘The Lonesome Place’ – which I found particularly grating, owing to the extreme repetition of the term ‘lonesome place’ which seemed to pop up in every other sentence throughout the text. I would suggest, therefore, that a more befitting title would be ‘The Tiresome Place.’ Perhaps it would be unfair to judge Derleth too harshly upon the basis of having read only one of his tales, but if this is stylistically in keeping with his oeuvre, then I shall be steering well clear of anything else that he penned. There was one other story in the collection that I thought to be dire, once again owing to its exceptional repetitiveness – far too many ‘whistlings’ and ‘hoonings’ for my taste – entitled ‘The Whistling Room,’ by William Hope Hodgson. It was thus with something of a sardonic chuckle, having compelled myself to read the story, that I learned that Derleth had been something of an admirer of Hodgson.  

Having gone on, at some length, about what I did not enjoy in this collection, please do not let this deter you from picking up and enjoying this volume, for it contains much that will reward the reader with an interest in the supernatural with many hours of satisfactory reading. Some of the highlights, for me, included ‘Lot No. 249,’ (the original mummy story, set at Cambridge University during the 1880s) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; ‘The Open Door,’ by Margaret Oliphant; ‘The Ghostly Rental,’ by Henry James; ‘The Face,’ by E.F. Benson, and ‘The Grey Ones,’ by J.B. Priestley. The last of these contained a considerable amount of humour, which raised many a smile during its modest number of pages. I shall be looking out for more by Oliphant, Benson and Priestley, as well as by other familiar names in the traditional horror genre who contributed some enjoyable stories to this book, who include M.R. James, Robert Aickman, and H.P. Lovecraft. If I’d have been in Mazzeo’s seat as editor, I would have dispensed with the contributions by Derleth, Joseph Payne Brennan and Hodgson, substituting instead the ghostly tale shown below, although that may have been rather difficult in 1968, given that the author had yet to learn to speak, let alone write.

Old Crotchet is back, grumpier than ever.