Borley does not have a pub of its own. There was once an off-license in Borley Green, though, which was a sort of part-time parlour where drinks could be served. It closed a long time ago. Anybody wanting to socialise had to walk across the river to Rodbridge corner, or the southern part of Long Melford.
Pubs were an essential part of the community. Houses were small, cramped and insanitary. The Lounge or Public Bar in an Inn (the word 'Pub' is short for 'Public Bar') was more like a communal living room, almost exclusively for men. I can remember village pubs where everyone had their own chairs and mugs: One's own pipe hang on the wall. Walking into a different pub was like intruding into someone else's house. Poor farmworkers would never entertain at home, they used the Pub. So it was that, every night after closing-time in the evening, there would be quite a trail of walkers and cyclists up the lane that runs from Rodbridge to Borley Church.
Anyone standing in the churchyard, or the garden of Borley Rectory would see the lanterns of the villagers in the darkness, as they returned to their homes, some on pushbikes, and some on foot. I would like to pretend that all these good country lads were sober. This was not always the case. There was quite a lot of meandering, falling into the ditch, and larking about, particularly as they reached the Rectory. This often provided an irrisistable temptation, particularly when the 'men from Lunnon' were around, or if a ghost-hunter was around. The most common prank was to leap out into the road with ones jacket over ones' head, pretending to be the nun. One local man went so far as to dress up in a full nun's costume in the darkness of the end of the drive, though the prank went horribly wrong when he was shot at by an over-eager American reporter.
Anyone peddling a bike up the hill at night would trace a weaving pattern of light from his lamp. If a group of men cycled up the hill together, they looked for all the world like a phantom coach, and Mrs. Smiths famous sighting, as reported by the redoubtable Mary Pearson, was almost certainly due to the habit of the late revellers cycling in close formation. (Some of the men worked at the Rectory and the lads would cycle up the drive together to see them home).
Sometimes, those who had over-indulged in the local brew, (Ward's, a potent beer from the next parish, Foxearth), had to disappear into the hedge that bordered the long garden of the rectory beside the road, in order to answer a sudden call of nature. Occasionally they intruded into the garden itself, much to the excitement of the eccentric vicar who had convinced himself that ghosts walked the garden, and would lurk in a summerhouse to see them.
It was one of these chaps, a member of the choir of the church for many years, who related to me a curious story that happened to him in the 1930s. He had disappeared off the road into the hedge just below the 'Postern Gate', and had relieved himself. He was just about to re-adjust his clothing when his exposed anatomy was suddenly gripped by an icy hand. He gave out a yell of terror. It was pitch dark and he could not see his assailant, who let go. He leapt back into the road in a state of dishevelment.
When I was listening to the old chap telling me this, I threw myself back in my chair laughing at this point. To my surprise, when I calmed down, I noticed that he was white as a sheet, and trembling; not at all happy at my making light of his story. 'It was the Nun!' he whispered.
It was certainly the strangest ghost story I've ever heard.