Jimmy Whiting was one of those kids who when you get older you meet them again, in another form, they are the same at whatever age they are or whatever stage of your life you meet them. Tale tellers, truth twister, life fabricators, story weavers or in many cultures quite simply referred to as liars. I don't like liars as much as the next guy but liars have to be put into category’s. Liars that lie to cover falsehoods their ashamed of, liars that lie to cover up things that may harm yourself, liars that lie to get themselves ahead in the game, liars that lie about everything, or my favourite liars, the ones that lie for the benefit of the story, entertainers as it were. Jimmy fell in to the latter, a harmless liar, he did it not maliciously, only to enhance the enjoyment of the story to the audience.
One such lie I can recall specifically and let it be known the lie wasn't entirely a falsehood and may well have not been entirely made up independently. One can only assume perhaps his mum or dad may have weaved this one into his head not realising he would pass it round the playground like cheap heroin – creating story addicts and leading others to push his story on to other kids. Besides I liked it, I was hooked and that tale he sold me has stayed in my bloodstream ever since.
I had since moved out of Bollingbrooke close to 23 Audley Road and dear Jimmy who was one year my junior had moved into my old house. I was climbing the social ladder, moving up the class system. Dad had got a job with the council and his and my mums hard work went into a nice four bedroom place on the bottom of a slopey little cul-der-sac which was brilliant for kettle car racing. This exchange of abodes between me and Jimmy, (we imagined it was us that did the buying and selling of houses, fuck the estate agents, fuck Wimpy homes, me and Jimmy ruled the property market!) cumulated in a strong friendship. We stalked the playground together on sunny June days pretending we were the Rays, ratatatattingting our school mates with our invisible Tommy guns, ratatat ratatat ratatatatatatatatatatatatatratatatatatatat. We weren't the strongest of lads so when we weren't mowing down fat Mrs Tiller the dinner lady from behind trees, we sat on the tyres by the climbing frame, which we couldn't use because our arms were too small, and filled each others minds with stories. Mine on the most part were true, but Jimmy's, Jimmy’s were long tall tales that excited me and kept me up for nights on end.
The story I remember the most came when the village had been flooded with press, The Essex Chronicle, The Braintree and Witham and even a national magazine all came down to visit St Annes Castle were a spat of hauntings had been reported. A series of witch hangings had apparently occurred several hundred years ago and then during WW2 some bumbling American soldiers from a nearby base came out of the pub and moved a large stone that was said to cover the ashes of murdered witches of the village. Ever since St Annes has exchanged hands every couple of years without a word.
Jimmy's dad Graham frequented St Annes castle pretty regularly and it was during one of his visits that Jimmy told me that his dad and his mates witnessed a haunting –one quiet thursday night a glass fell from a hook and flung itself across the bar- smashing against the wall. Then a bang was heard from outside, the punters were alarmed to say the least and drunkenly stumbled outside to investigate.
Let it be known, these are not hard men, these are Great Leighs men they live in a village, they are not like the surrounding farm workers, tough from the land or the nearby town geezers of Braintree or Chelmsford, they are run of the mill 2 point 4 children dads with a cat and a Fiesta. Graham, being a regular and all, decided he would have a look in the shed at the side of the car park whilst the others who weren't really bothered any more went back inside. As Jimmy approached the old wooded shed he could definitely clarify the banging was coming from the shed. Granted he hesitated, who wouldn't? But Jimmy's dad was pretty brave (Jimmy's words not mine) so he approached the shed. Undeterred he unbolted the door and looked inside, the banging stopped. Graham went inside just to have a quick look, it could have been a dog or something you know – nothing scary. As he reached the back of the shed, which wasn't very long after he had entered it, because, well, its a shed, the door suddenly slammed behind him – shut. He ran to the door and tried to open it but it was locked from the outside, he began to bang on the door, screaming shouting for help.
Then the most wretched sounds erupted from inside, as if his intestines were being dragged from inside of him and made into an 1004 mile length of sloppy bunting. Upon hearing the shouts his mates ran out from the pub across the gravel car park and kicked open the door. The door was kicked down by one of the burlier fellows and he was sitting in the corner of the shed covered in sick. “It's not mine, he proclaimed, it's it's hers” Graham sat forlorn covered in an unexplicable amount of Lentil soup shaded vomit pointing with a limp wristed shakey hand to the opposite corner of the shed.
Jimmy claimed this was the ghost of St Annes Castle, the legendary witch. Jimmy also claimed, and this was the shitter, this was the deal sealer, that the ghost wasn't just content with haunting the pub, she also wanted to have a pop at the whole of the village and make kids everywhere puke all over themselves. It was that little piece of information that kept me awake for weeks.
Poor Jimmy probably didn't realise that his dad was actually locked in the shed by his mates then proceeded to puke up his mums Shepherds pie all over him and that this tale was woven to somehow save his integrity, his honour, and his manhood.
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