Chasing Unicorns

by Maggie Kay

  Chasing Unicorns

  SWANWICK WRITERS

  Copyright © 2017 Individual Contributors

  Maggie Kay (Celebrating Sisterhood)

  Elizabeth Hopkinson (Chasing Unicorns)

  Fay Wentworth (Whisper in the Wind)

  Brian Lockett (Sir Humphrey Appleby Meets William Shakespeare)

  Elizabeth Ducie (The Pop Star and the Businessman)

  Val Williamson (At the Eleventh Hour)

  Julia Pattison (Zoe’s Birthday Treat)

  Pat Belford (A Surprise in the Jungle)

  Helen Ellwood (Spreading Magic)

  Julia Pattison (Bramwell and the Spider)

  Katy Clarke (A Sign of Peace)

  Karen Rogerson (Cover illustration)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Edited by Elizabeth Ducie, Diana Wimbs and Andrew Marsh

  Published in 2017 by Chudleigh Phoenix Publications

  To our friend, Katy Clarke; taken from us far too soon, but never forgotten

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  CELEBRATING SISTERHOOD

  CHASING UNICORNS

  WHISPER IN THE WIND

  SIR HUMPHREY APPLEBY MEETS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  THE POP STAR AND THE BUSINESS MAN

  AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

  ZOE’S BIRTHDAY TREAT

  A SURPRISE IN THE JUNGLE

  SPREADING MAGIC

  BRAMWELL AND THE SPIDER

  A SIGN OF PEACE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  THE MAGIC OF SWANWICK

  FOREWORD

  Katy Clarke was a brave, funny and inspiring lady who loved family and friends, words and writing, Scotland, history, music and spirituality. A lot of her own writing was historical human interest, like the piece about her great grandfather reproduced at the end of this book. As well as being a wonderful mum, writer and writing tutor, wherever Katy went she made friends and changed people's lives for the better. Latterly, she was a founder member of discussion group Conscious Evolution and Ipplepen local history group in Devon. When living in Dorset, she led the campaign to save Highcliffe Castle. In Ayr, Scotland, where Katy brought up her family, she was an active member of the Robert Burns Society and became the first ever woman President. She also supported and advocated for health and well-being organisations throughout her life.

  After Katy died, I signed up for a charity walk in aid of Rowcroft Hospice and collected some very generous sponsorship from Katy’s friends and family. But then the walk was cancelled! I wanted to do something in Katy’s memory and in acknowledgement of both the sponsorship and the wonderful support that this part of Devon receives from the staff at Rowcroft. Chatting with my husband in the taxi from the airport to our holiday villa in Portugal, the idea Chasing Unicorns was born.

  It was Katy who introduced me to the Writers’ Summer School and therefore it seemed obvious to involve other Swanwickers in the project, both as writers and editors. The brief was for stories and other pieces of writing that reflect some of the things that meant so much to Katy.

  Katy’s daughter, Karen, designed the cover. Katy’s sister, Maggie Kay, wrote the moving opening letter and also provided the wonderful article from Katy herself that closes the book.

  Thank you for buying this book and supporting the cause.

  Elizabeth Ducie

  October 2017

  CELEBRATING SISTERHOOD

  Maggie Kay (Srimati)

  Dearest Sis

  At my birthday parties, you always tell the tale of how, as an eight year old girl, Mum tied a ribbon in your hair one morning between contractions. Later, newborn sister arrived, you walked to the local shop and bought me a soother in the shape of a teddy bear with your own pocket money.

  And of how, a few months after that, on summer holiday, the baby sitter said “You may hold your sister if she wakes.” So you pinched me. And I woke. And cried. And you felt terrible about it. The baby sitter didn’t understand why you were crying too as you held me.

  Back home we shared a bedroom in the attic. Twin beds in ‘non-identical twin’ halves. Mine, so neat—teddies in a row. Yours, alive with teenage shape and colour—make up, guitar, clothes. “Angie Baby” and Barry White woke us on cold winter mornings, recorded from radio onto cassette. You loved the music charts and always remembered who sang what and when—forever our pop music expert.

  The eight years between us placed us a world apart. Yet when I was eight and you 16, I fell for your first love, Frank, too, snuggling up to him on the sitting room sofa whilst he sang me “Pretty Little Girl in a Blue Dress.”

  Frank was guest of honour at my birthday party (the one where I broke into tears because I wasn’t winning ‘move the pea’—too much emotion on my special day), wearing my best blue dress, of course.

  And when I was 16, I also fell for an attractive, dark haired boy with a motorbike, who looked uncannily like your Frank. Motorbike parked in the same spot Frank’s once occupied, John was my first love.

  You seemed so grown up—working, writing poems, getting serious with a handsome air traffic controller, Pete. Even more so, when, late one Christmas eve, you woke me excitedly as I was going off to sleep, “Pete has proposed!” you told me breathlessly. I wore my first adult underwear with that bridesmaid’s dress, thrilled to be growing up too.

  Happily expanding into our attic bedroom all by myself, I rearranged one bed under the alcove to break the symmetry and painted the woodwork chocolate brown. I loved having my own space.

  But I missed you. And wrote my first ever published article in Jackie Magazine titled TLSAOBSF: The Little Sisters’ Appreciation of Big Sisters Federation, explaining how my new found space came with a loss. I was realising how much you’d been there for me, looking out for me, giving advice.

  Throughout the coming years, you ‘got me’ like no other—understanding and supporting me with such care and wisdom. When we came to stay, you treated my teenage boyfriend, John, and me as adults. It was amazing to feel so respected and trusted.

  I observed you making a wonderful job of creating a home and family. After a difficult start bringing a baby to term, you became a mother. Holding your first born, Karen, in my arms, an explosion of love like I’d never known before washed through me. A tiny taste of my own motherhood to come.

  Sleeping in the alcove bed, staying the night to visit Dad in hospital, you were there the morning Mum called upstairs, “Your dad’s condition is deteriorating.” We saw Dad’s newly vacated body together and felt his spirit liberated. And you were still staying a few nights later, when he came to ‘visit’ from the other side.

  I admired you relishing your beautiful home and family whilst I went off in quite a different direction. And you always honoured my choices, too, the first to gladly call me ‘Srimati’ when I was ordained as a Buddhist, understanding the significance of the spiritual path I was following.

  My visits to you in lovely Ayrshire were havens of love, beauty, welcome and family—listening to Clannad in the car as we sped along the coast road to Culzean Castle, staying up until 3am talking passionately about life beyond death, sharing our lives and our stories. And Love. And Truth.

  When my son Jamie burst into our world unexpected
ly, you said you always knew I’d have my own child. And when I navigated the painful days of separating the family a few years later, you were the first I turned to. Totally non-judgemental, any problem is always safe with you.

  During those first six months in Devon I must have spoken to you every day on my new-fangled mobile phone from my temporary caravan. My heart breaking with a million griefs, disoriented and alone, you SO got me through that time, dear sister.

  Until I met the most amazing man (having moved to the cottage you had foreseen with your inner eye). The week Pat and I truly connected, you were with Gran, sharing her passage to the other side with me daily by phone. You let me hear Gran breathing and told me how utterly beautiful and peaceful she looked when she finally died. I felt like I was there too.

  Gran transitioned the night Pat and I truly connected and said “I see you” to one another. And six weeks later, without hesitation, you offered him some of her ashes to scatter—on a highland glen overlooking Loch Lomond—welcoming him into our clan. You ‘saw’ him too.

  The next year, you helped create our wonderful riverside wedding. Styling my hair and make up, preparing the ritual space, telling stories, singing songs (“God help the Mister that comes between me and my sister”) and reading out a poem you wrote for the occasion, you were the star of the wedding video!

  Soon, you followed me to Devon, yourself seeking refuge amidst tumultuous changes. You made great friends with my closest friend Susanne and quickly with many more. A few months after you moved, a high street shop vendor said to me (when she heard my Scottish accent) “Oh you must be KATY’S sister!” as though I was the newcomer to town.

  You found you were at home in the Totnes and Newton Abbot cafe scene and we enjoyed many a catch up over coffee. Likewise in charity shops where you exercised your exceptional eye for good looking outfits. It wasn’t long before my ‘Katy Collection’ wardrobe outnumbered my own clothes!

  After a few false starts, you met such a special, special man. I never heard you chuckle like that before. Such deep contentment for the first time. Yet it was to be cruelly plucked away. How amazing that the night before Mike’s sudden passing, we three had talked long and deeply of love and God and life after death.

  The next morning, I was there with you while the ambulance crew did their best to revive Mike. You came back home with Pat and me that night, wracked with shock and grief, sleepless by the open fire. And you were never quite the same happy Katy again.

  Nonetheless, you didn’t give up. Inch by inch, you slowly recovered and rebuilt, your soul matured beyond measure. And settled in your beautiful Thimble Cottage and made your mark in the immediate and wider community and found love again. Wow!

  No matter what is going on for you, you always care, you always have so much to give. And it is always you I turn to. You were there for me during those rocky months when Pat’s health broke down. And it is you I imagine fleeing to if he and I ever have an argument!

  I couldn’t be there enough for you, though. Overwhelmed by the demands of Pat’s poor health, bringing up Jamie, running a business, maintaining a house, making a living, I rarely had time to offer. (You were not the only one—as every friend of mine will tell you!)

  The pain of that was real for us both, but we never quarrelled and only twice had a day or two of tension. And finally (brought to the fore by current challenges), it was completely resolved in recent months. I let go of my defensive armour. And cried. And said sorry. And you understood. And there was nothing to forgive.

  Almost exactly a year ago, on my birthday, we met at the Seven Stars Hotel in Totnes. You were full of fun and had arranged a secret birthday cake and candle to be brought out to me. I loved it! More importantly, we were together again having been kept somewhat apart in recent months by a so called ‘best friend’ (who you foresaw was not as she seemed.) You were glad I had now seen through that.

  It’s nearly my birthday again. What a journey this year has been, a journey you have met with such awesome courage and grace. Who would have guessed what lay ahead as I blew out that birthday candle last year?

  My darling sister, you are leading the way again. (I’m remembering your fortune cookie in the summer which said you would be a leader.) This time, the rite of passage you are leading is not first love or getting married or becoming a mother. This time, you are leading the way into the Beyond.

  Though it utterly breaks my heart, I also know this passage will yield gifts. I will learn something about my own inevitable passing. And as my heart breaks further open, I will bond closer and closer to loved ones (that’s happening already). And I know you and I will always, ALWAYS be in communion - beyond life, death, time and space.

  My spirit guide, Clarion, tells me “There is nothing to do. Carry on meeting each day with integrity and all shall be well.” That is very much how you are meeting this, my precious sis. I am in awe of that. I thank God for you and all we have shared, now and forever more.

  Love is all.

  Maggie Kay.

  [I wrote this before my birthday in early February 2017, just as we were learning not much more could be done to heal my darling sister. She passed away on 23rd April, our beloved late Gran’s birthday, seeming like she'd waited to that special date on purpose. I never did share this letter with Katy as it didn't seem right at the time, so it is lovely to do so now as part of such a meaningful project.]

  CHASING UNICORNS

  Elizabeth Hopkinson

  “It begins with a gap between things. A scarce-felt tearing in the fabric of the cosmos. To the layman, this might seem like little more than a change in the light or a feeling of déjà vu. But once one becomes accustomed to such events, one learns to detect them, almost by instinct, and even to predict them, as one might predict an oncoming storm. For the paranaturalist, there is no greater pleasure than being present at these moments. The seam of reality slowly unpicks itself. You feel a tremor in the electro-magnetic field. And then, they come...”

  I close Hedley’s notebook, swallowing the lump in my throat. Five years on, and I can still hear his voice in those words. Purring like a great cat beside me in our two-man tent. Flank to flank, the warmth of him. Both of us watching through the circles of our binoculars. Observing, recording, measuring, counting.

  “Nothing like the thrill of the chase, Lambie,” he’d always say. And smile in that crooked way that made two wrinkles appear at the side of his mouth.

  The tent feels enormous without him.

  I pitched it where we always said we would. By the lake, half hidden under the trees. Sunset was beautiful, but I can already feel the slight tug of autumn on the late days of summer. Clear skies. Perfect conditions. The moorhens are fussing as they settle down among the reeds. A rabbit bumps around the back of the tent, bumps away again.

  I’m waiting for them to come back.

  “The Swanwick unicorn migration was first recorded by the monks of Beauchief Abbey in 1349. A surviving manuscript describes: a grete herd of unicornes in the starres upon St Lawrence Day. It also features in the diaries of Selina Wright of Butterley, whose entry for 12th August 1849 speaks of: the night of the Perseid meteors. The heavens opened, and unicorns galloped forth, so their hooves seemed to touch the very earth. I was never in my life so transported.”

  Unicorns were Hedley’s passion long before that ghastly dinner dance threw us together. I remember summers at my aunt’s, sitting on the veranda, hours after the others had gone to bed. His tales of student nights on the rooftops of St Andrew’s, where a single unicorn came to graze in the quadrangle by moonlight. Childhood days spent roaming the moors, listening for the thunder of hooves.

  “Come with me, Lambie. Agnes.” His eyes grew soft. One thumb stroked the back of my hand. “What a team we’ll make! We two.”

  We did everything together from the start. Pitching camp soon fell into a natural rhythm. Square lashing, collecting firewood, digging a latrine. Hedley could always pick the best terrain. I became expe
rt at bribing guides.

  The world has changed since the War. So many new countries, new borders, new governments. Boundaries dividing brother from brother. But in those first years, the Empire was open to us. We went everywhere: Rhodesia, Egypt, Malaya, Bengal. Our book was to be called: Unicorns of the World and their Habitats. The most comprehensive study of unicorns undertaken in modern times. Together, we had observed the Alpine unicorn with its goat like features, the lithe Oriental Kirin, the Hispanic unicorn with wings on its feet, and the stocky but swift Steppes variety. Our field journals became full to bursting with sketches, photographs, data, maps.

  “What did I tell you?” Hedley would squeeze my shoulder in that boyish way of his. “Wait until the Natural History Museum see all this. There could be a Nobel Prize in it!” He would wink, with that crinkle-mouthed smile. “Couldn't do it without you, Lambie.”

  Lambie. No one had called me that but Hedley. A play on my Christian name. Agnes. The pure. The innocent.

  “Unicorns can’t resist a pure damsel. You do know that’s why I married you?”

  I would hit him on the head with the billy can. Gently, of course. We both knew the unicorn-and-maiden thing was an old wives’ tale, but the joke never seemed to get old. He relied on me. Always had. We were a team, striving equally towards the same goal.

  I don’t know if I can do this without him.

  He was called up in November 1939. They sent for me three months later. Top secret. Mother kept insisting to the last that they’d made a mistake, that married women didn't get called up. I couldn’t tell her what I was doing. Punching holes and splicing tapes most of the time. And listening. Watching, observing, looking for patterns. They needed girls with languages and a good brain. The others were single, giggling and gossiping in the lodging house at night, fantasising about GIs. I missed the wide open spaces, warm nights sleeping under the stars. I missed Hedley.

  We met in London, one time on leave. Walking around Green Park arm-in-arm, trying to pretend it was the Black Forest or the Amazon. Hedley looked tired; there were black smudges under his eyes. He couldn't speak of his work either, so we didn't try. A squirrel skittered past. The earth smelled of spring, as though it didn't know there was a war on. Hedley squeezed my arm.