A Twist of Lyme

by David Ruffle

  Meanwhile...

  ...over in Manchuria Road, Judy was also up early and was debating with herself whether to have a third cup of coffee. She did have a routine for breakfast which she had more or less adhered to since renting her flat some three years back. Porridge, two coffees and fruit. Simple yet effective nutritionally. Invariably, she left the flat at exactly the same time each day, leaving ample time for her journey to Chessington. Invariably she was late.

  Meanwhile...

  ...over in Canford Road, Michael was filling his man-bag with the essentials for the day; notebook, pens, pencils and a book for the train. The Laylii Lounge was only five minutes’ walk from Waterloo station and was reported to be doing a roaring trade with early morning commuters, probably none of whom had fortified themselves with toast and jam.

  Meanwhile...

  ...over in Manchuria Road, Judy was gathering her things together; two textbooks, assorted pens, timetables and a wreath of garlic to ward off Miss Roseberry. The bag she normally used (a present from an admirer who picked it up cheap in Huddersfield) was not quite up to it, so it was back to an old favourite with extra capacity, but a dodgy strap (a present from another admirer, the bag not the dodgy strap). She drained the rest of her third coffee and set off for Clapham Junction station.

  Meanwhile...

  ...making his way to Platform 11, Michael paused to buy a take-away coffee. The coffee was in a stay-hot Styrofoam beaker which invariably was far too hot to even attempt to drink it before Waterloo South. He took up his position on the platform, next to the fire extinguisher and...waited.

  Judy, entering the station briefly, wondered whether she had time to reach the toilet before her train was due, that third cup of coffee now seemed not her best idea of the day. The argument was won by the train for now and she made her way to Platform 17 where she took up her usual position, next to the newspaper vendor...and waited.

  Change of platform. Michael now had to make his way to Platform 17. Judy’s train to Chessington was now departing from Platform 10, news her bladder could have done without. Michael hurried to the top of the steps which gave access to Platform 17, or as hurriedly as his dodgy knees allowed, and turning to his left onto the platform he met with someone dashing as hurriedly as he albeit with a different destination. Their bags entwined. They entwined. Their fall was far from graceful.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Michael, whose coffee had now vacated the Styrofoam mug onto his jacket.

  “No, no it was my fault entirely.”

  “Nothing is ever a lady’s fault,” replied Michael, using a line he had heard in a movie he had seen on TV recently which he particularly liked.[31]

  “Let me buy you a coffee at least,” offered Judy.

  The Lebanese breakfast had momentarily been forgotten for Michael had an unaccountable feeling that this coffee could turn out to be the most important one he would ever have. Unfortunately, Judy’s bladder could not be forgotten. He said he would wait in the small coffee shop at the end of the platform. ‘Please come back,’ he thought, ‘please come back. She did.

  He wasn’t really her type. She wasn’t really his type. They had virtually nothing in common. It would be pointless to ask her on a date, what would they talk about for heaven’s sake? A very pleasant interlude, but no point in seeing him again, what did they have in common for heaven’s sake?

  They duly arranged to meet at the Bread and Roses that very evening. Which they did, as we know.

  31 The Go Between.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Post Wedding Days

  “Well, we did it,” said Michael

  “And I have no doubt we’ll do it again,” replied Judy, whose radiance was a left-over from the wedding day (and night).

  “I was talking about getting married, Jude.”

  “Oh.”

  They were at Gatwick airport, awaiting their flight to Venice. Michael, who was an expert worrier where flights or pretty much anything was concerned, had decreed an early start which is why they now found themselves with four hours to kill. A game of I-Spy had taken up the first thirty minutes quite comfortably. Michael unzipped his small rucksack and fumbled around.

  “For crying out loud, Mike, will you stop checking the boarding passes every few minutes? Where do you think they are going to vanish to?”

  “Call it excitement, Jude.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Si.”

  “Ah, the multi-lingual Michael Hamilton speaks. Is your Italian coming along nicely?”

  “Si.”

  “I hope that isn’t the full extent of your Italian linguistic skills.”

  “No.”

  “You’re funny. Have you actually learned anything useful or will I have to take over?”

  “Of course I have. Scusi, dov’è ilgabinetto? Capisco?”

  “Yes, you’re asking where the toilet is.”

  “You have to agree, it’s useful!”

  “With your bladder, it’s bound to be.”

  One airport is pretty much like another, the layouts conform to a blueprint thought up by someone with too much time on their hands, Functional, yes. Soulless, yes. Satan himself has probably had Hell re-designed with the information gained from observing airport layouts. Time crawled slowly. Another game of I-Spy, another bout of people watching. Michael checked the boarding passes a further three times while Judy rolled her eyes in his general direction. Not literally, that would be hideous.

  The best man/woman Fay was keeping an eye on their flat while they were away. The decision had been taken to live in Judy’s Manchuria Road flat and sell Michael’s in Canford Road and save that money for a rainy day which our climate thoughtfully provided often. They had discussed starting a family. Well, half-discussed it. Well, Judy had brought it up and Michael had listened. No decision had been taken.

  When the call came for their flight, they were both asleep, but fortunately a fellow traveller (David Hamilton-no relation) nudged them forcefully which had the desired effect. Hands linked, they marched off. Venice next stop, oh my.

  Neither were seasoned fliers. Each pretended to the other they were not nervous. Each had sweaty palms. Each had limited leg-room which Michael decreed would play havoc with his dodgy knees. Each rejected the offers of teas, coffees, newspapers, cigarettes, jewellery, confectionery, pastries. Each assured the other they were absolutely loving the flight. Each turned chalky white at the merest hint of turbulence. Each said, ‘don’t worry’ at the same time.

  “Look,” said Michael excitedly, “Venice.” He was right; he often was about these things. The course he once took on recognising famous cities from the air proving useful at last.

  Judy considered her response. It was simple when it came, “Wow.”

  Eternal Venice, sinking by degrees into the water that she lights, briefly illuminated in all her glory by the late afternoon sun which had chosen an opportune moment to peep out from behind the clouds. Not only would their first sight of Venice never leave them, but the city itself would never leave them, wherever they went in life, whatever they did they would feel its shimmering presence. The flattering yet suspect beauty haunted all those who came here.

  Passport control negotiated. Baggage carousel negotiated. A ten minute walk and they found themselves boarding the alilaguna bound for the beckoning city.

  “So, this so-called ear thing of yours stops you riding a horse, a bike and a water-bus?”

  “So it seems,” replied a distinctly green-faced Michael. “Be fair though, Jude, it is a bit rough.”

  “Yes I agree, but you are still a big girl’s blouse about the whole thing. Just calm down and enjoy the ride, which funnily enough is what you said to me at your place after our third date.”

  Michael calmed down, but did not enjoy t
he ride.

  “Perhaps you should ask for the gabinetto,” laughed a largely unsympathetic Judy.

  Approximately thirty-seven heads were turned towards the starboard windows as the water-bus edged closer to the city. There was a thirty-eighth head, but that was situated between Michael’s dodgy knees. (To clarify, it was Michael’s own head).

  “Nearly there,” said Judy, addressing the back of Michael’s head. “Arsenale next stop.”

  Fabio Ballotelli, the apartment owner was there on the quayside to greet them. He was tall and Italian looking as befits an Italian. He was holding up a sign saying, ‘Hamiltons’ on it in such a way as to make one believe he had no interest in greeting anyone. Nevertheless, charm oozed out of him. Chipping Norton would hold no fears for him. The apartment off Via Garibaldi was only a few minutes’ walk away, situated in a small campo. Small, but striking.

  The first night of their honeymoon passed off without incident, any kind of incident. Judy blamed Michael’s insistence on getting up early. Michael, as usual, blamed his dodgy knees. Fortunately, in the morning his knees were very much up to it and Judy was refreshed and suitably eager. They made love to the pitter-patter of rain drops splashing onto the campo. They didn’t notice, nor did they care.

  They by-passed breakfast and wandered off to play at being tourists. Michael had thoughtfully provided a detailed itinerary of where to go, when, at what time and which day. His timings even allowed for the odd excursion not covered by his programme of events. The whole itinerary covered ten pages of foolscap with several sections highlighted in different colours. Yellow for churches, pink for museums, green for galleries, blue for scenic viewpoints. It would be no surprise if he had called it the Rainbow Itinerary, which he hadn’t. Judy, in the spirit of spontaneity, had consigned Michael’s timetable to the bin before she did the final pack the previous morning. She left him to rummage in the baggage for fifteen minutes before she illuminated him and caused his crest to fall.

  “We’re in this together, Mike, so we do it together. But you can decide where we go first.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Michael, his crest now rising a little. “Right, let’s go and look at the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo[32].”

  “Which is?”

  “A fifteenth century palace with an external spiral staircase. I showed you a photo, remember?”

  Judy didn’t. They strolled through St Mark’s Square, their stroll marked by swivelling heads as they attempted to take in everything. Only a few yards away now, said Michael. As indeed they still were ten minutes later and then twenty minutes later. Forty minutes later Michael assured Judy they must be almost on top of it.

  “For God’s sake, Mike, ask somebody. And not for the bloody gabinetto either!”

  “I read somewhere that getting lost in Venice is one of the great pleasures of the world.”

  Michael looked at Judy’s face and instantly realised that this was not a pleasure, great or otherwise for his new wife. It was not the first time he had said something stupid to Judy, but it was the first time he had done so in such beautiful surroundings.

  And suddenly, as if by magic there is was, the Palazzo Contarini delBovolo, looking as magical as its sudden appearance.

  Judy considered her response to this sight. It was simple when it came, “Wow.”

  There were to be a lot of ‘wows’ that week for reasons not just pertaining to architecture and history.

  They were overwhelmed by the buildings. They were underwhelmed by the food. They were overwhelmed by the history. They were underwhelmed by the smell. They were overwhelmed by the art. They were underwhelmed by the cost of everything. They gave the language their best shot; spoke Italian with all the right flourish and flamboyance they could muster. Pronounced words with an accent so truly authentic that even their own parents would have been convinced they were Veneta born. To no avail. They were answered in English each and every time. They were perceived as being English everywhere they went apart from one occasion where Michael was asked in hesitant Italian, “Scusi,..er....dov’è...um..ilgabinetto?” He didn’t know.

  They idly wondered how Venetian artists like Titian or Tintoretto, whose works adorned Venice’s churches and galleries ever had time to have a life outside of their art. Coming for a pint Tint? Sorry, got this painting to finish for the Doge, still got another two hundred people to put in it. How about you, Tiziano? No. you’re all right mate, I’ve got to knock off another Assumption.

  They were both of the opinion that Venice must be the most tiring city in the world. Weary, foot-sore after tramping pavements, ascending steps on the innumerable bridges. Ginocchia ingannevoli did not help Michael’s sightseeing of course, how could they? They were both of the opinion that Venice must be unique among cities of the world. Ognuno ha detto così.

  The week flew by in a whirl of art, architecture and living history which could be found on ever corner. They decided against a gondola ride, it wasn’t the cost, although it could have been. It was Michael’s ear thing. Fear not, they still had their ride on the Grand Canal courtesy of the Vaporetto#1. Even then, Judy had one eye on the palazzos which lined the canal and one eye on Michael who was sitting far too close to the rail which formed a barrier between him and certain doom.

  The weather reserved its splendour for their final day. The skies stayed blue, the sun shone and when evening came the city was bathed in an orange glow, like a golden benediction. It was a scene so startling, so beautiful that Ascension painters could only have dreamed of it. Michael and Judy shared a bottle of Prosecco as the sun dipped over the city. As beautiful moments go it could hardly be bettered. And it would go with them, stay with them as would Venice itself.

  32 Built in the mid-fifteenth century. The staircase was added in 1499. Located near the Campo Manin. Don’t get lost!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Present Day

  It was hard to decide what to do. Michael could not really see himself (or anyone else for that matter) marching around the soon (possibly) to be rotovated garden chanting, ‘go towards the light’. Did he look for ‘Exorcists’ in the Yellow pages? Invest in crosses and holy water? Can you get those online? Of course.

  The night had passed quietly enough; no headless corpses or skeletons rattling chains put in an appearance. And today was Saturday. The sun was shining and normality was the keyword. Normality today was the beach, the sea front, fish and chips and a pint or two of cider. It was still early, he had left Judy slumbering and had made himself a coffee. He was sprawling in one of the soon to be replaced garden chairs on the patch of concrete which manfully doubled as a patio. Come on then, show yourselves. Nothing. He said it louder, alarming a blackbird which hurriedly retreated to the soon to be torn out and replaced hedge. Nothing.

  He walked down towards the stream in a nonchalant (not very) manner. See, you can’t harm me, his manner proclaimed, although he was shaking like a leaf. Would Johnny Norfolk have pulled out of a scoring opportunity because he had seen an apparition in the penalty area? Would Johnny Stevens be reduced to a nervous wreck by a phantom at Checkpoint Charlie? Frankly, he didn’t care, he was scared as hell and didn’t care who knew it.

  The blackbird flew by, neither knowing or caring about Michael’s shredded nerves. The birdsong and the screech of gulls abruptly stopped. Normality the keyword he thought, but this is decidedly not normal. Something brushed by him. He felt the touch on his arm, an icy chill enveloped him. He could hardly breathe. He opened his mouth in a silent scream. He turned his head towards the house. Standing by the back door was a man. Tall, distinguished looking he thought incongruously. He was not wearing a uniform as such, but a long coarse looking coat, fastened to the neck. Michael had worn something similar himself when with the Sealed Knot.[33] With a supreme effort Michael escaped his frozen immobility. Still frightened witless, but with a family to protect, he r
an towards this man, if man it be. The figure was unperturbed by the sight of Michael running towards him at the fullest speed he could muster. He remained like a sentinel by the back door. The only move he made was to point at his own knees then with an outstretched arm pointed pointedly at Michael’s knees. Then he simply vanished.

  “Bloody cheek,” shouted Michael, “Does everyone know about my dodgy knees?”

  He started laughing, uproariously. He laughed uncontrollably. He laughed until he cried. What the...

  Judy poked her head out of the window. “What’s so funny, laughing boy?”

  “Come down, I’ll tell you about it over a cup of tea.”

  He did so. Judy wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. A ghost with a sense of humour was one thing, but not one in their garden. No thank you. They had the girls to think of after all.

  “Okay, Mike, we seem to be agreeing we have ghosts in the garden, but we still have to decide what to do about it.”

  “Perhaps they don’t mean any harm.”

  “We can’t take the chance. If there are malevolent sprits, which for all we know there may be, then we must get rid of them for Katy and Annie’s sake. Hell, I can’t even believe we are sitting here having this conversation.”

  “Bizarre isn’t it? I’ll ask around town or go and see the vicar, start the ball rolling.”

  “Any idea how many dead were buried around here?”

  “Anything from a few to a few hundred. The casualty figures seem unfeasibly high even allowing for the fact the siege was several weeks long. I don’t know whether bodies from both camps were buried together. There were several truces during the siege so the dead could be laid to rest, but the information is rather sketchy.”