Books

Convict gravedigger Mark Jeffrey was, and still is, a very unpleasant character though his comments about the worms were 
unintentionally funny. Mark spent most of his days alone among the headstones on the horrific Isle of the Dead off Port Arthur. After claiming he saw the Devil one night, Mark was relieved of his caretaking duties.

So you think my face is grim? So would yours be if you had the life I had. Being the gravedigger on the Isle of Dead was no picnic.

The only thing I ever received for such a rotten job was the odd shot of rum and no-one knew I had an extra bottle hidden amongst the graves.

This I did to keep out the chills as it could be dastardly cold on the isle.

Try digging a grave when the ground is frozen and you will soon see what I mean.

You say I claimed to have seen the Devil. Well, there was no claim about it­—I did see him.There was a time I saw his very likeness staring at me through a window, but that wasn’t the only time I saw him.

One evening I had a grave to dig for a burial next morning, and up and out of the ground rose the Devil himself as I was halfway through digging.

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My new book, Spirits of Tasmania, is coming along well and will be released before Christmas. Here’s another tale to whet your appetite.

The Lisping Colonel

Sitting on a park bench outside Anglesea Barracks one evening, I met a handsome man in an officer’s uniform dating from the late 1800s. Colonel Edward spoke perfectly in a beautiful accent, which proves that physical handicaps disappear in the spirit world.

My name really is Edward but my friends called me Ted. I was sent out in the very first days of establishing an army quarters in Hobart. Which year it was befuddles me and perchance you may be able to check the records; what I do recall is that the town was in its infancy and very small compared to now.

When I arrived from England the amount of organising and work was daunting. The soldiers who were sent out from England were a smart bunch, but the ones recruited here were an unruly mob with no discipline. My job was to whip them into shape and get some organisation into the regiment.

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Here’s another story from my forthcoming book, Spirits of Tasmania, which will soon be going to press. Famous bushranger Martin Cash tells his story.

During a chase through Hobart Town, bushranger Martin Cash mistakenly ran into a dead-end street then shot a policeman near the hotel at the bottom of Brisbane Street. Amazingly, Martin wasn’t hanged and died of old age in his apple orchard in Glenorchy.

I hear you ask about Port Arthur but my memory of that terrible place has dulled, I am pleased to say. You are right, I did escape on a number of occasions and I did swim the dreaded shark-infested waters at Eaglehawk Neck. Only a fool would have believed whole-heartedly the story of the sharks.

Bessie was the love of my life and without her life would have been very empty. I have been with Bessie on the astral planes, but for now she has gone onto a higher learning. I will also reach this point very soon and I strive towards this as I wish to be with my Bessie again.

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Here’s another tale from my book Spirits of Tasmania, which is well on the way to completion ready for a Halloween launch. It’s the story of Minnie, a jovial fat lady.

Opposite Narryna in Battery Point, Hobart, is the old Queen Alexandra Hospital, birthplace of Hollywood film star Errol Flynn on June 20, 1909. My spirit Errol, who has a lot in common with his famous namesake, offered to check out the old hospital before the existing apartments were built. Especially memorable is the image of Minnie stuck in the doorway.

The first story concerns a young lady who was rushed here on a dark wintry night back in the 1930s. The child she produced was a boy but unfortunately he died not long after birth and the young mother died shortly after.

Her name was Anna and she frequents these hallowed halls in search of her dead child. She wanders about sobbing, enough to send a chill down even my spine.

After she wanders about a bit, a guide will come and gently remove her and take her away. They say she does this to herself as a form of self punishment because, rumour has it, she was an unmarried mother and suffered the shame she brought upon herself and family.

This was all very heart-wrenching, so I looked for a happier story and found a rotund cheerful soul called Minnie. She was assistant cook and a funnier soul I have yet to find.

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Work on my next book, Spirits of Tasmania, is going well and I plan to release it in time for Halloween. Meet one of the many ghosts I have contacted and whose stories are told in the book.

Every small town has a busybody like Mrs Buscombe. Since channelling her story, I have learned that her husband owned the Richmond store and post office, plus many other buildings, in the 1830s. Mrs Buscombe has been seen many times at Prospect House, which is now a hotel, and she still travels far and wide in the town listening to gossip.

I like to be called Mrs Buscombe, as I am not a believer in being called by one’s first name. It shows no respect for one’s elders and is not considered to be good manners.

My fondest memories of Prospect House, and Richmond in general, was the mail, with letters and cards of all description arriving from locally and overseas. There would be an air of excitement when the coach pulled into our store with a lovely bag of mail and goods sent from Hobart Town.

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