A Twist of Lyme

by David Ruffle

34 All first-class cricketers, but you knew that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Birth Days and more pre-Lyme Days

  “Don’t ever come near me again,” screamed Judy. “Are you listening, Hamilton? I mean it; keep away from me if you know what’s good for you.” Judy could have said that, but she didn’t. It was much worse. But she meant none of it of course.

  “Bastard. Hear me? Bastard. I’m never going to let you near me again,” screamed Judy. “Don’t even think about it.” Judy could have said that, but she didn’t. It was much worse. But she meant none of it of course.

  In such a way did Katy Louise and Annabelle Emma come into the world, a world that had been awaiting them ever since their parents had first met on that blustery morning at Clapham Junction station. For both of them, one of their first sights in this new, strange world of theirs was identical; their father lying prostrate on the floor.

  Judy was careful, oh so careful when she broke the news of her pregnancy to Michael. She ensured he was nowhere near a low load-bearing coffee table and that she had a glass of Pinot Grigio to hand in case some kind of revival was required. It was just as well. Michael was overjoyed (very) almost to the point of slipping into unconsciousness; his emotions had always had the ability to fell him in a swoop. Michael suddenly became as excitable as a little boy. He also wanted to wrap Judy in cotton wool, something she was never going to stand for.

  One thing was certain, the Manchuria Road flat was ill-suited for the arrival of another human being, groaning as it was under the weight of Michael’s shirts (forty-one) and pairs of jeans (seventeen-only some of which were the terminally out-dated pale blue pairs). A move had to be made. A decision had to be made, rent or buy? There was money in the bank, but there may be rainy days ahead. Frugality and parsimoniousness had been their watchwords, surely that wouldn’t change. Then money that had been sitting in the banks since Michael’s Canford Road flat had been sold was indeed still sitting there. The decision was duly arrived at to keep that fund intact and go for renting again.

  They looked at so many properties in such a condensed period of time that Michael’s knees became even dodgier that usual. Eventually they looked over a Victorian mid-terrace house that had everything they wanted, period features, space and a more than reasonable rent. Okay, so Earlsfield may have been a poor relation of Battersea and Putney,[35] but it had some recommended schools, some glorious parks and equally glorious Victorian pubs. And thirteen minutes from Waterloo or when Michael travelled, twenty-four minutes. Vanderbilt Road was a quiet enough road even allowing for its proximity to Earlsfield station and Garratt Lane (the A217 indeed).

  Judy took a six month sabbatical from work. Michael didn’t. Judy was in the fortunate position of having her mother volunteering for baby-sitting duties. Elspeth spent only one day a week in the antique shop and her W.I. involvement was minimal after the committee’s less than whole-hearted support for Tom in his hour of need. As for Tom, he was positively blossoming as a florist, his budding skills coming along nicely. His bouquets were a thing of beauty. Everything for Tom was coming up roses. In short, he was blooming. Everyone said so.

  Michael was still covering the whole of London for ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’ with his own brand of pithy reviewing which seemed to (still) strike a chord with the public. Judy was still battling Miss Roseberry on a daily basis with the odd battle won, but the majority lost. In the meantime, Katy grew. And then, Judy began to grow too.

  Overjoyed as they were (and they were) to learn of another mouth to feed and nurture, they knew there were more changes to ring. The house in Vanderbilt Road could have been designed for a family of four and perhaps it was. There would be the minimum of changes there for which Michael breathed a sigh of relief; his DIY skills were limited to the point of non-existence. Judy was adamant that this time around she would stop work altogether with the proviso that she would return to employment when both girls were at school full-time. If Michael wasn’t happy about this he did not show it in word or deed. Besides , Stephen ‘call me Jim’ Bailey was talking of retirement and further talking of Michael being his successor. It was only a projected retirement at some projected, but unspecified date in the future. A possibility, no more than that.

  But fate, as it often does, took a hand in the proceedings. Fate and the No.58 bus. Stephen liked buses. Everyone said so. Even so, one can’t help feeling it’s not quite the way he would have wanted to go.

  Michael Hamilton, editor in chief of ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’. Now, how could he make it even bigger and brasher? How was he going to justify the salary hike? How would they spend the extra eight-thousand? (easily)How was he going to put up with the daily commute to Waterloo and the near certainty of being eleven minutes late every day? Would he have to give up some of his wardrobe space to accommodate his daughter’s clothes? Would he become the father he wanted to be? Would things change between him and Judy? Would his dodgy knees play a part? (probably).

  Judy Hamilton, erstwhile teaching assistant, mother of one and shortly to be mother of two. How could life get any better? But then again how would Michael fare with his new found responsibility as father and editor? How would they spend the extra eight-thousand? (easily) How was she going to cope with being at home all day when their next child came along? Could Michael be persuaded to give up some of his wardrobe space? Would he become the father she knew he wanted to be? (of course) Would things change between her and Michael?

  Katy Hamilton, single child. What did they mean, another baby? Would she have to share her toys? Would she have to share her kisses? Would she have to eat less? Would she have to share her bed and her teddy? Even worse, would she have to share Mummy and Daddy?

  On the basis there is a downside to everything, then the downside for Michael in becoming editor was the fact he would no longer be out there reviewing. No more Mongolian burgers, Angolan breakfasts, Venezuelan street entertainers, Chilean chillies, alternative alternative theatre, micro-breweries and all manner of weird and wonderful things. He settled into the daily haul to Waterloo, but hated every moment of the time spent on the over-crowded permanently late trains. He kept a look-out for any journalistic vacancies that would pay the same money. None came up. He knew, however that something would come up very soon. He was not to know it would not be for another five years.

  On the basis there is an upside to an upside, then the bonus for Judy when Annabelle came along was that she could say goodbye to Miss Roseberry at long last. The downside was having to say goodbye to the students she had helped nurture. The daily haul (not) of being a full-time stay-at-home mother was one she settled into joyfully and it was a joy she would never relinquish. She often thought that it would be nice to escape the city and suburbs; she hoped it would be sooner rather than later. She was not to know it would not happen for another five years.

  35 No longer the poor relation, it has become a very desirable area. So there.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Present Day

  Monday evening. A full set of expectant Hamiltons. What would the wonders of science and Chris...er...somebody tell them? How could they be helped? Would they be helped? What would the men in the garden think? Do they think? So many questions with no answers...yet.

  At 6pm, a car came down the soon to be re-surfaced drive. Three heads craned out of the window. Annabelle was otherwise engaged, dolls take precedence over ghost-hunters. Michael had been busy once more in the spacious, but fully modernised kitchen preparing some snacks, all made by his own fair hands. Do you see how far he has come since the days of crisps and pork scratchings? The table was adorned with freshly baked bread, hot out the oven bagels, a treacle tart and ginger shortbread.

  “I’ll get the door, Jude.”

  “Why you, why not me? Or both of us?”

  “Come on then.”

  The vicar w
as giving, presumably the ghost-hunter a hand with a contraption which even at one glance had a touch of Heath Robinson[36] about it. Irregularly shaped with lenses, dials, wires and cables that who knows, may serve a useful purpose. Heavy too, judging by the difficulty that the vicar and...er...Chris...somebody were having in carrying it.

  “Hello Michael,” said Timothy Norfolk, stretching out his hand in greeting, not a good idea when supporting huge contraptions. “And this must be Judy, good evening. May I introduce...”

  “NuneqH, Chris, blplv’a’?” queried Judy, astonishing everyone present and scarily proving to herself just how much Klingon she had taken in all those years ago.

  “Hello Judy,” replied the still nerdy Christopher Drummond. “I’m afraid my Klingon is a little rusty, but here goes, jlplv.”

  ‘God,’ Judy thought, ‘I remember more Klingon than he does. Help me somebody.’

  “I told you about Christopher, my first boyfriend didn’t I, Mike?”

  “Yes you did, Christopher the n...er...the nice boy. You are very welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said Chris, who not taken his eyes off Judy for an instant. “Judy, you look wonderful, I never would have thought you could look this good.”

  “Thank for that, Chris. I can quite truthfully say I have never had a compliment quite like that before!”

  Christopher was nudged in the back by his assistant who contrary to all expectations (his certainly) had found Chris very interesting in Winterbourne Abbas during the last two days. Not that being interesting depends on geographical location, but it can play a part, even in Chipping Norton.

  “Sorry, folks this is my assistant and friend, Miss Forth, Sally Forth.” (making a surprising and altogether unexpected entrance).

  There will be no more such surprises. You will wait in vain for Jason Wilkins to appear, his part in our tale is over with although you may be pleased to know he is doing rather well for himself, selling vintage clothes in a small, yet profitable shop in The Lanes in Brighton. Yes he works long hours, his wife and children see so little of him, but you can rest assured he is happy with his family, shop and tattoos. Anyway...

  Another round of hellos and handshakes followed. Judy politely declined Chris’s hug, but smiled broadly so as not to hurt his feelings. Michael accepted Sally’s hug so as not to hurt her feelings. The Reverend Timothy Norfolk felt a little left out.

  The machine was carried into the spacious kitchen where Michael’s carefully crafted snacks were swept to one side of the dining-table to make room for this soon to be named thing.

  “What is it, Daddy?” asked Katy, who along with most of those present had never seen anything like it.

  “I don’t know, Katy, but Mr Drummond here is going to tell us what it is and what it does.”

  “Hello, I’m Katy.”

  Another round of hellos, handshakes, but no hugs.

  Christopher Drummond felt that this was his moment. He leaned forward, intent on his captive audience, “Well,..”

  “What is it, Daddy?” asked Annabelle, her dolls temporarily forgotten.

  “I don’t know, Annie, but Mr Drummond is dying to tell us all about it.”

  “Oh, hello. I’m Annabelle.”

  Another round of hellos, handshakes, but no hugs.

  “As I was almost saying,” said Christopher, “Firstly, I assume you know nothing about ghost-hunting...”

  “Why would you assume that?” asked Judy.

  “So you do know something about it then?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “But...”

  Judy smiled sweetly at him. He had only just started and his thread was already unravelling. It had never happened before, not even at Ye Olde Haunted Inne in Lower Piddle when he had partaken too freely of the local ale before beginning his demonstration.

  “So,” he continued, “we have established you know nothing about ghost hunting...at last. I like to use the word communicating rather than hunting. Hunting has overtones which we like to avoid. It’s not about confrontation, it’s about communication and understanding. This is where this beauty comes in.”

  Sally blushed and murmured something.

  “I meant the machine, Sally.”

  Sally blushed and murmured something unprintable and to the girls, not understandable.

  “We embrace modern up to date technology in our quest,” he said, proudly.

  Michael looked quizzically at this ‘thing’ on his dining-table and remained puzzled as to what kind of technology was represented here, Victorian or Edwardian perhaps?

  “I know what you’re thinking, Michael,” said Christopher.

  “I seriously doubt that, Chris, but carry on...”

  “This, ladies and gentlemen...and...er...children is the Wraiths And Spirits Telecommunicator Electronic. W.A.S.T.E as we call it for short.”

  “Ah, now funnily enough that is what I was thinking.”

  “So, you use that to talk to ghosts, like an updated Ouija board?” Judy asked.

  “More or less yes. I’m glad to see you are taking this seriously, unlike some,” replied Christopher, glaring at an unrepentant Michael.

  “Is it like a translator?” asked Judy.

  “And more. It’s a form of Electronic Voice Phenomena. It picks up voices from the spirit world, amplifies them, adjusts the distortion, filters out unwanted noise and enables us to hear spirits in their own voices.”

  “Assuming they all speak like Daleks[37] I suppose?” asked Michael. “I have heard similar things on TV and the voices are electronic, digitised and the words spoken are virtually unrecognisable.”

  “Not with W.A.S.T.E. This is a different kettle of voices. Now, tell me where the paranormal activity is most prevalent and we can kick it all off.”

  “And another thing,” said Michael, “these things I have seen on TV are hand-held affairs, nothing like the size of this thing.”

  “Let’s just say, shall we that bigger is better.”

  Sally blushed.

  They decamped to the garden, as its prevalence was undisputed. Each person present was invited to ask a question directly into the machine (the girls being excluded for they had long decided all this was very silly indeed). The W.A.S.T.E was then left outside to do its thing while everyone made a start on Michael’s snacks and the girls were deposited in their beds. Christopher was of the opinion that an hour at most would be enough. Time for a bottle of wine or two. Everyone said so.

  To be on the safe side, they left it two hours and two more bottles before the W.A.S.T.E retrieval commenced. The machine was returned once more to the dining table. Christopher twiddled a knob (Sally blushed, remembering Winterbourne Abbas) and flicked a switch or two. They heard static; they heard rustling noises, but no voices. Christopher made an adjustment or two. They heard nothing. He extended the antenna (Sally blushed, but no one knew why). They heard buzzing; they heard clicks, but no voices.

  “Seems like a W.A.S.T.E of time this,” said Michael, having waited all evening for the chance to say it.

  “You sometimes have to give it time, it can take a while to get going,” said Sally, blushing once more.

  They gave it another hour. Chris had Sally stretched out on the soon to be radically altered lawn, holding the antenna aloft.

  “That reminds me of that thing that Eric Clapton used to play. Oh what was it now?” queried Judy.

  “Guitar?”

  “Very funny, Mike. Got it, it was ‘Lay Down Sally.”

  Sally blushed. Still nothing.

  “I don’t understand, it’s never failed before,” moaned Christopher. “I can only conclude there are no spirits here.”

  “So, our ghosts are to blame are they?”

  “Michael, you have no ghosts, I have been dragged he
re on a wild ghoul chase.”

  Katy and Annabelle wandered into the kitchen, unable to sleep, they had come down to see what the grown-ups were doing.

  “Have you talked to the men in the garden?” asked Katy.

  “Er...yes, darling, but they are not talking to us.”

  “Come on, Annie,” said Katy, pulling her younger sister along.

  Before anyone could stop them they were at the back door and gone. Their voices were plaintive, tinged with tiredness. Their entreaties purely personal and selfish.

  “If you say hello or something to the grown-ups then we can go back to bed. Captain, say hello please.”

  A single, deep masculine voice was clearly heard. No one could say precisely where it came from, but they all heard it.

  “Hello.”

  “Who is there, please?” asked Michael, whose dodgy knees were shaking uncontrollably and going up and down like pistons. Such are the foibles of those less brave.

  “It’s Captain Fox, silly,” stated Katy in pursuit of clarity.

  “Shush, Katy,” said her mother.

  “I’m only saying, Mummy...”

  “It’s Captain Fox at your service, Mr Hamilton. Soldier of the government, defender of Lyme and resident of your garden.”

  Christopher Drummond stood staring, open-mouthed. This sort of thing just did not happen to him. To few people in fact.

  “Close your mouth, Chris, there might be a bus due!” said a no longer blushing Sally.

  “But what about my machine? Why didn’t you use that to contact us?”

  “W.A.S.T.E of time if you ask me, Mr Drummond. We are not performing seals, dear boy.”

  “But I put a lot of time and effort into that,” he protested.

  Sally blushed.

  “Just what are you doing in our garden? What gives you the right?” asked an indignant Judy.

  “We were here before you through no fault of our own and we have been happy right enough before your man there decided to do something with the garden, disturbing our peace. It’s not good enough, people, it’s not good enough. We have rights too you know.”