A Twist of Lyme

by David Ruffle

  Deep breath. Deep breath. Keep calm. Keep calm. Sit down. No, stand up. Breathe. Here goes.

  “Judy, I love you. Judy, I want to spend the rest of my days with you. Judy, will you marry me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she squealed like a loved-up teenager. Which palpably, she wasn’t.

  In fact the last time she had squealed like that was when Matt Goss kissed her cheek after a Bros[2]concert; it was not so much the kiss that made her squeal as Matt’s boot on her foot. Wonder what he’s doing now she idly thought. An even more pressing thought was how good her first-aid skills were because Michael had fainted clean away, narrowly avoiding the low load-bearing coffee table. It was no doubt far removed from the correct procedure, but a sizeable splash of the aforementioned Pinot Grigio in Michael’s face had the desired effect.[3] It was not the first time that he had wine he had thrown in his face, but it was by far the most satisfying occasion.

  They celebrated their engagement in the time-honoured way. It was neither God nor Coldplay who put a smile on his face that night, but Judy. Several times in fact. Even with his dodgy knees.

  When their emotions had calmed the following morning they realised (for they were a methodical couple) that another item on the list of their life had been ticked off. Even before Coldplay had faded away for the last time that evening they had decided on how their life was going to be (roses all the way). Now all they had to do was sort out where this new life would be centred. Did they stay in Clapham, more or less equidistant from ‘The Big Brash Guide to London’ offices and St Botolph’s School Chessington and if so did they keep one flat? Michael sell up? Buy somewhere new? They both loved their jobs in spite of the occasional (perhaps more than occasional) grumbles that could be heard to the contrary, that part of their life would be staying the same at least.

  Michael was adept at every kind of review, anything from the debatable merits of Bulgarian cinema (very debatable),the peculiarities of Vietnamese wine (very peculiar), the interminable length of Bolivian poetry recitals (very long) and anything else which happened to come up. He was in truth, very good at what he did although his employers were often heard to describe him as Jack-of-all-reviews, master of none. An unnecessary slight on their part, but as with all these things, shot through with just a kernel of truth. Even Michael would have acknowledged that the reviews he came up with tended to merge together, originality had started to defeat him; the same old hackneyed (very) phrases came up more and more. What can you say about a Lebanese breakfast that has not been said before? It was not the first time that he had harboured doubts about his job, but it was the first time he felt empowered to act on those doubts.

  Let no one say that Judy did not enjoy her job. She was an excellent communicator, passionate about the pupils that she tried to help, always willing to go the extra mile in extra-curricular activities. The pupils mostly liked and respected her, rather less so some members of staff who felt threatened by her intelligence and drive. Miss Roseberry, the head-teacher who must have qualified from the Lucrezia Borgia[4] charm school, was a constant thorn in her side. ‘HLTA?[5] Oh no, Judy I don’t think you are quite there yet dear.’ Give it another six months, give it another year...god, that woman needed slapping.

  The impending marriage could be looked on as either a crossroads or a Halt at Major Junction event. Left or right? Reverse? Stay where you are with a queue of traffic behind you? Cover your eyes and pull out, wheels spinning and hope for the best?

  Michael had yet to meet Judy’s parents, who often asked their daughter if she was still seeing that man. Judy had yet to meet Michael’s parents, who never asked who he was seeing. Michael knew that Judy’s father was something big in the city although completely oblivious as to what this something might be and whether the big referred to status or corpulence. Judy knew that Michael’s father was a horsey type in the Cotswolds[6] although oblivious to how he was horsey; she hoped that it wasn’t in looks or an inordinate liking for sugar cubes. Michael knew that Judy’s mother was something big in the local Womens’ Institute, but being unfamiliar with the hierarchy of that body had no idea what that something may be unless it was vetoing certain jams or advising on alternative lyrics to ‘Jerusalem’. Judy knew that Michael’s mother had a fondness for holding cheese and wine parties with the emphasis on the wine and was also a magistrate of fearsome reputation. She also knew that both of his parents considered Chipping Norton[7] to be the centre of the universe. It should all make for an interesting wedding.

  1 Black and white, silent, lots of running about. You get the idea.

  2 A British pop band of the late 80’s and early 90’s.

  3 This is not the recommended usage for Pinot Grigio; try Sauvignon Blanc.

  4 A 14thc/15thc femme fatale of Renaissance Italy. Fabled as the Amanda Roseberry of her day.

  5 Higher Level Teaching Assistant.

  6 An area of England full of babbling brooks, horses and Land-Rovers

  7 Modern scientific thinking now places Droitwich at the centre of the universe.

  Chapter Three

  Present Day

  The weak autumn sun filtered down through the trees and gave the river a sparkling quality all too often missing at that time of year. It trickled, it gurgled away gently and innocuously as a river could. A few hours’ worth of rain in the Dorset hills above Lyme however could turn this gently meandering stream into a raging torrent which threatened everything in its path. The previous summer had seen bridges and roads closed as the river rampaged towards the town carrying trees and other debris with it. Pedestrians were met by the slightly worrying sight of lifeboat men patrolling the streets.

  The fallen leaves were picked up, carried along and deposited haphazardly on the capricious whim of the breeze. Ahead of Michael and Judy, Katy and Annabelle had found twigs which they were brandishing and attacking each other with. This was accomplished with a certain amount of relish, not to mention gusto. Their swordplay whilst not quite approaching the standard or ferocity of a Basil Rathbone or Errol Flynn battle[8]of yesteryear nevertheless displayed some embryonic skills worth noting.

  “Be careful you two, you will only end up hurting each other,” Michael shouted. “I wonder where they picked up that kind of play, Judy.”

  “School, TV, anywhere these days,” replied Judy. “Most likely boys in the playground playing at being pirates.”

  “Good point, I suppose pirates do have swordfights, it can’t be all drinking rum, walking planks, providing perches for parrots and dressing in a suspect fashion.”

  “If you hadn’t walked out of the cinema halfway through Pirates Of The Caribbean you might know!”

  “I had to; I was losing the will to live. Are you being pirates, girls?”

  “No, Daddy. We are being the men in the garden, the men in the garden with swords,” Katy replied, looking exasperated as only children can when asked what appears to them to be a stupid question.

  “What men? What garden?”

  “In our garden. Annie hasn’t seen them, but I told her about them and how to play like them.”

  Michael turned to Judy, shrugging his shoulders in a spirit of surrender. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  “I have no idea, but it’s just a game they have made up. I mean, after all, our garden is not full of men now is it? I think we would have heard the clash of swords. You’re surely not thinking of what old Mr. Williams said again are you?”

  “No of course not!”

  “Yeah, right!”

  Just then a feint to the right from Katy did not fool Annabelle in the slightest and seeing her sister’s defences down, she duly went for it, as younger siblings do, with a killer blow catching Katy on the side of her face with a resounding crack that startled a couple nearby ducks that dived for cover in the reeds. Katy,
being two years older at seven than Annabelle, was not about to stand for that and launched herself at her sister. Had it not been for the intervention of their mother, they may have well been both joining the ducks in the river which would not have done much for the ducks’ already increased heart rate.

  “That’s quite enough thank you, give me the sticks and if you don’t behave we will be going home instead. Do you understand?”

  They did. The twigs were put to good use and the girls were introduced to the delights of pooh-sticks, a favourite pastime of Michael’s as a boy in the Cotswolds. Fortunately in the interests of peace and harmony the race was adjudged to be a draw and with no photo-finish available the judge’s decision was final.

  “Do you think I should try and find out more about these men that Katy mentioned?” Michael asked as they wandered down Mill Green.

  “It’s just a game Mike, something they picked up at school. Maybe a boy told them about playing with toy soldiers in his garden, could be anything like that. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”

  They had arrived in Lyme Regis in July so they had found themselves ample time to acclimatise before work and school disrupted their idyll. The girls were fortunate to get places in Mrs Ethelston’s highly recommended school in Uplyme and they had been busy settling in there for the last three weeks. Judy had started her new teaching assistant job at a school in Bridport where she hoped to eventually forge a career and take the opportunities that she had failed to do so far. London had eventually suffocated her aspirations and this fresh start was what Judy all the family needed.

  Michael was the odd one out, not for the first time I might add. A combination of getting the right price for the old house and the right price for the old house meant there was some money in the coffers now they were in the old house. The former right price for the old house refers to the new old house of course and the latter right price refers to the old old house. Add to that a sum of money that came his way from his mother in her will then it meant that Michael had some time in which he could consider his options carefully (very) before embarking on new employment. No one was quite sure where his mother’s money had come from and how she had acquired it, wine and cheese parties do not usually provide much by the way of income, not even in Chipping Norton. There was talk of...oh well, that’s for another story.

  Annabelle stabbed her finger into Judy’s leg and pointed with self-same finger towards a man poised with a large bell up above Cobb Gate.

  “Why is that man dressed funny?” Annabelle asked.

  “That’s the town crier, Annie,” her mother replied.

  “Is he sad then? Is that why he cries?”

  “It’s not that kind of crying, darling. He rings his bell and gives all the latest news to everyone in town so they all know what’s going on.”

  “Why doesn’t he just email them?” asked Katy.

  Technology and the young. It had taken both Michael and Judy a long, long time as they were growing up to master all the new gadgets as they came along, misfiring as often as they got it right. And just when they thought their mastery was complete, more new systems came along, each one more complicated than the one before. But the children of today use technology as the children of yesteryear would use crayons. They assimilated it, understood it and used it. Give a five year old a smart phone and they can unlock its secrets in seconds. No operating system can withstand their young, but attuned brains.

  The seafront was reasonably busy for an out of season Sunday. A few windbreaks and tents had been erected on the sandy beach. A trip to the seaside these days was quite an undertaking and many car boots groaned under all the weight of the paraphernalia that folks seemed to consider necessary for a day by the sea. For some though, it was still as simple as a patch of sand to sit on and a book to read. Fish and chips were being consumed by the ton, much to the delight of the seagulls who over the years had perfected the art of dive bombing. A dive, a twist, an outstanding feat of aerial gymnastics, an open beak and the piece of cod that was about to enjoyed was gone. All you could do was watch the culprit glide through the skies with twenty other seagulls in hot pursuit. It’s a dog eat dog world as a seagull.

  Katy and Annabelle had their eyes peeled for mice and an errant cat for their mother (and father) had been reading The Church Mice Take a Break[9] to them and whilst they, being modern children, knew better than to believe it, all the same they kept a look-out. Just in case. This scanning the horizon for mice and errant cats only lasted as long as the first ice-cream kiosk where their attention began to wander somewhat. All parents very soon realise that the ice-cream section of children’s bellies are never, ever full, much like the vegetable one which is always full very quickly. Someone somewhere is sure to have made a study of the phenomenon at huge expense.

  “Can we walk along the Cobb[10], Mummy?” asked Annabelle whose new striped blue t-shirt was now disfigured by chocolate ice-cream. It was marginal actually whether the t-shirt or her face had attracted the largest amount.

  “Yes, but you must hold my hand all the time.”

  “Are you coming, Daddy?” asked Katy.

  “In a minute or two maybe.”

  “Is it your dodgy knees, Daddy?”

  “No, young lady. Don’t you be so cheeky.”

  Their summer had been spent like this and it was one of the finest summers for a few years. In Lyme it had been a seven year wait for a good summer, far too long. They were fortunate that their arrival in Lyme ushered in this period of fine weather. An omen they took it as of course. The six weeks had been a riot of events of every conceivable kind. Live music, fireworks, parades of every kind. Lyme loved nothing more than dressing up and re-living its past and living its present. Civil War? Let’s have a procession! Rebellion? Let’s have a procession! Carnival? Let’s have a procession! Lifeboat Week? Let’s have a procession! Daylight or torchlight there is no finer sight than Lyme enjoying itself.

  And now Lyme wound down towards the autumn and the long winter. Local residents, made pale by the previous weeks’ isolation (not exactly enforced) now came out to reclaim their town. All would agree that tourists were necessary; some however could be heard describing them as a necessary evil, still others as just plain evil, but theirs was the smallest voice and no one really paid them any heed.

  After Judy and the girls had safely negotiated their descent from the Cobb via Granny’s Teeth[11], one of the most frightening set of steps in the world or so Michael claimed, who for that reason and that reason only (obviously) always remained below to help his family on to terra firma. He was good like that. Everyone said so.

  A vote was taken on whether to have lunch at the Harbour Inn or to cobble something together at home. The girls however did not have a full vote, just one between them, which in this case was just as well for they felt that a roast dinner would not sit well in their tummies with the ice-cream that was still charging around their bodies. They were out-voted of course. They opted to sit inside rather than run the risk of aerial bombardment.

  A wise choice. Outside, at that very moment four dogs, one very large gentleman and one tiny waitress were involved in a heated debate with seventeen seagulls. An honourable draw was recorded for those who need to know these things.

  The roast lamb was everything it should be. The rosemary and onion sauce made for a delightful alternative to mint sauce. The potatoes were crispy and plentiful. Then came a comment Michael and Judy had been dreading.

  “Is this lamb like the baby sheep we see in the fields, Mummy?” asked Katy.

  Honesty is the best policy now. Tell it like it is.

  “Yes, darling. That’s what lamb is.”

  “It’s a pity they taste so nice then.” Katy commented with the broadest of smiles.

  Panic over. Food chain discussion averted. Right. Take the sheep by the horns.

  �
��Do you like your lamb too, Annie?”

  Silence. A long silence. Too long a silence surely.

  Annabelle was unaware of the suspense that was awaiting her answer, probing as she was with her tongue at a stray piece of lamb lodged in her teeth, but in due course she looked up.

  “I like it betterer than beef anyway,” was her considered reply.

  “That’s lovely sweetheart, but I don’t think there is such a word as betterer,” her mother said.

  “Well, Mummy”, said Annie looking puzzled, “there must be mustn’t there because I just said it.”

  There are times when a five year olds logic is irrefutable. Time like these in fact. There was no route that Michael or Judy could take to wrest control back, no arguments they could present that would shake Annabelle’s conviction in her simple equation. They did not try.

  “There’s old Mr Williams,” announced Michael.

  “If you are thinking of asking about this curse, think again Mike,” hissed Judy.

  “I wasn’t Jude, honestly.”

  “On second thoughts let’s ask him where he got all this nonsense from. I don’t see why he feels the need to spook us anyway. Mr Williams...hi...how are you?”

  Mr Williams was an elderly man thereby perfectly fitting his epithet ‘old’. If you think of Private Frazer from Dad’s Army[12] as played by John Laurie, it will give you some idea of the man. His eyes rolled from side to side as if they suffered from a peculiarly specific form of sea-sickness as he bore down on them. He was a man of few words, even fewer on this occasion as he said not a single word, just gripped the table for dear life and nodded curtly and exaggeratedly to each member of the family in turn.

  “I, that is we, wanted to ask you about this curse you have mentioned to my husband. What is this so-called curse?”

  “I have one of those, Mummy,” said Katy, who was always pleased to be able to join in a grown-up’s conversation.