The Ghost in the Machine

Continuing my account of growing up in Rochester cathedral in Kent, England.

The organ blower, in its dim little room in the crypt of Rochester cathedral, was always breaking down.  It was old, temperamental, and had a mind of its own.  That was the rational explanation.  The less rational version of events, which somehow seemed far more likely to those of us who had spent so much time in it, under it and around it, was that it was haunted.  There is a list of the former choir masters and organists of Rochester cathedral on a panel next to the door to the organ loft under the quire screen.  I often looked at that list and wondered which was responsible for what went on with the blower, and indeed, the organ itself.

Area of the crypt where the organ blower 
room was, through arch to the right. 
The wall to the left is a 'false' wall.

The blower's party piece was to shut down during a musical service.  It was a very noisy piece of machinery, even up in the quire you could feel there was a constant rumbling when it was switched on and the sound of air being forced into the wheezing bellows located behind the organ console was always in the background.  So when it was switched off, you knew.  On one occasion when I was sitting out a service in the organ loft, the blower switched itself off.  The choir master rushed down to the blower room to see if there was anything he could do, but had to return to conduct the now a capella version of the anthem as the organ was utterly dead.  Professionals that they were, the choir coped without a raised eyebrow.  Once freed by the sermon, the choir master climbed back up the narrow steps to the organ loft to continue pushing buttons and trying again and again to restart the blower with no success.  Then, with no warning, it burst back into life, all on its own.  Neither the choir nor the congregation were particularly surprised.  They were so used to the blower and its foibles that it was just another day at Rochester cathedral.

There was another incident, recounted to me by one of the organ scholars.  The scholars were generally young musical genii taking a year out of university to study church music in its natural environment.  They were creative and some were more whimsical than others.  This particular one was bright, intelligent and perfectly down to earth.  He headed out quite late one evening, he explained, leaving the house he occupied on Minor Canon Row to walk around the cathedral to the Gundulf tower which was the only out of hours access to the building.  As he walked he heard the unmistakable sound of someone playing the organ.  He wondered who it could be because he was scheduled to practice that night, so no one else should have been there.  He had the choir master's keys himself, so who was it?  He was rather agitated as they were using his time and he hastened around the west front.

Rochester cathedral west front

He unlocked the gate in the outer wall of the little courtyard outside the Gundulf tower, which he thought unusual as it was normally secured by the last person to leave.  He then unlocked the heavy wooden door into the tower itself.  The organ was still playing and the student's feet sped up, anxious now to find out who was in there.  He hurried through the little stone corridor that links the tower to the cathedral proper and opened the door at the end, again, usually left open, and walked around the corner, up the stone steps to the quire screen and to the door of the organ loft.  The organ fell silent.  The door was locked.  The organ loft was empty.  The silence was utter.  Not even the bellows gushed air as they settled, as they should have, had the blower just been switched off.  He left again, he told me, far more rapidly than he had arrived.

Big, old buildings filled with history and dead people should by rights always feel as if they are haunted, especially at night.  The dark should hold menace.  The lamp posts throwing weak light through the stained glass windows should chase shadows across the stone floor.  But the cathedral isn't like that.  Maybe because I knew it so well, maybe because I really did know it with my eyes closed, and in total darkness, I never felt anything sinister there.  If it was truly haunted it was by those who couldn't bear to leave this remarkable foundation.  I was there in the middle of the night on more than one occasion.  My parents were called upon whenever the organ blower gave up, and if that was at midnight, then so be it.  I would be roused from my bed, made to dress and trek down to the cathedral so my parents could fix whatever had gone wrong this time.  The empty, silent church became a playground.  The only lights were those we needed to navigate from the Gundulf tower to the crypt entrance on the other side of the nave.  The rest was left unlit.  No one would hear us, no one would see us, and there was no limit on the places my brother and I could go.   Yes, it was cold more often than not, and going to the loo was a chilly and sometimes chilling experience as the only loos were in an uncovered gap beside the Gundulf tower, effectually outside and filled with spiders.

The organ. The case was designed
by Sir George Gilbert Scott

The organ underwent a major renovation and rebuild in 1989 and part of that was to replace the blower.  I was lucky enough to work on this rebuild, though I suspect that my electrical work behind the console was replaced in 2006 when the electrics were further upgraded.  I, of course, got to scamper up the scaffolding that reached up giving access to both the organ front and the crossing roof so it could also undergo renovation.  The new blower was relocated and the old blower room finally opened back up to the public.  The stonework here still retains its dark, mouldy hue from being enclosed for so long.  I heard no more of the supernatural goings on, so maybe the modern organ is too complex for the ghostly organist to manage.

The cathedral still holds secrets that are thrown up when they are least expected.  There is a chair store that reaches under the cemetery to the north of the cathedral and during work to underpin it several lead coffins were found.  The archaeologists told them to put them right back again and not to attempt to open them.  We always knew the crypt extended further back than the white washed wall to the west.  There is, behind the wall, an enormous pipe that fed air to the organ from the blower, big enough to crawl through.   In this space it is rumoured that a member of the Dracule family was laid to rest, the same family that fed the Dracula legend.  A lottery heritage grant is opening this area up, the wall being knocked through, so maybe we will finally discover if this is true.  Above in the nave is a large, enigmatic stone on which is carved the words 'Entrance to the Vault' but this vault has never been located, even using geophys equipment.  I know what used to be kept behind the high altar!

At the time I saw little strange in my unconventional childhood - it was just how it was.  The cathedral and the community were an integral part of my life.  My headmistress was a steward at the cathedral and had known me since I was a baby.  She requested that I attend her school.  My RE teacher was married to a Canon and had also known me most of my life.  When 'Songs of Praise' came it was natural that we all sat in the front.  I didn't really understand the awe from my fellow students on Diocesan singing courses when I had to reply to the question 'Which church are you from?' with 'The Cathedral.'

I didn't think I'd miss it.  But now when I go back it feels different, like visiting an aged relative you haven't seen for some time who no longer quite remembers you.  The stage is the same but the players are all different and a new story is being acted out.  My small part in the history of this great place has come to an end.  Now I am merely a spectator.  But I have my memories and that won't ever change, rather like the cathedral itself.