A Twist of Lyme

by David Ruffle

  “Do you?”

  “Well, no, not really. But we were here first; I think that should count for something don’t you?”

  The Reverend Timothy Norfolk was unsure how to proceed, exorcisms in the Church of England were as rare as hen’s teeth and he knew little about the procedures to be followed. He stepped forward, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely heard.

  “...be our safeguard and protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil...”

  “Sorry, Tim, old boy. The old God stuff won’t work. Look, I have to go now, fatigue catches up with you very quickly after nigh on four hundred years. Judy and Michael, put the girls to bed again, look, they are done in. We’ll talk soon, tomorrow maybe, but without the righteous one, the blushing assistant, the ghost-hunter and his huge contraption.”

  Sally blushed. The garden fell quiet. The righteous, the blushing assistant, the ghost-hunter and his huge contraption all left.

  “Quapla’!,” called Judy to Chris, in a last throw of the Klingon dice.

  “Tell me, Tim, do you have you a brother?” asked Michael.

  “Yes, Jonathan, a footballer, why do you ask?”

  “It’s nothing. Good night.”

  Weird. But then the whole evening had been weird. His whole life was becoming weird.

  Michael and Judy put the girls to bed once more.

  “What price on Sally being a blushing bride before too long, with the emphasis on the blushing, Jude?”

  “You could be right.”

  “You know what I’m thinking now?”

  “Oh Mike, you are insatiable.”

  “Hah! I just would like to know what is going to happen next.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see on the basis there is nothing else we can do.”

  “There is something we can do,” said Michael, who mimed exactly what he thought they should be doing.

  She kissed him. It seemed the appropriate response.

  36 Heath Robinson was an English cartoonist and illustrator, best known for drawings of ridiculously complicated machines for achieving simple objectives.

  37 The most famous of all Doctor Who’s adversaries. If you don’t know who Doctor Who and the Daleks are...where have you been for the last 50 years?

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Dark Days

  There must be worse places to die thought Margaret Hamilton. Well, of course there must be and worse ways too. The room was impersonal as all such rooms must be. The décor neutral and neither pleasing or displeasing to the eye. The sink with its glistening sterile taps and remorselessly scrubbed porcelain. The keyword for the room was sterility. Everything about the room was inoffensive, apart from her. Did she offend her family and friends by dying here in this alien environment? Would they rather she was at home in her own bed, doing her duty as wife, mother and grandmother to the last?

  There was the inevitable futility in such thoughts for they could not be remembered once the end came. When her life was extinguished with it would go all fear, suffering and hope. Why does the word hospice contain within it the word hope? Did no-one see the incongruity of it? She shifted uneasily in her bed. She had always hated February. The nurses had seen to her, the injections made, the platitudes uttered and her family were out there drinking coffee consoling themselves. Her eyes focused on each corner of the room. She did not think of it as her room. It was a transient thing, designed to be passed through and she the latest in a long line of such transient one-way travellers. Why oh why had Michael thought it a good idea to allow Katy and Annabelle to see her she did not know. Did he want them to remember her as this wizened thing shrunken and hollow? It was of course good to see them, it gave her some little comfort and even joy. But all too soon those thoughts and memories would die along with the rest of her. There was no afterlife, she had never believed it. Life like death was simple, one moment you were here, the next you had gone. A sound suddenly disturbed her thoughts which were even now escaping and fleeing from her. The sound of feet. She tried to focus on the shapes and hushed voices which barely reached her.

  Was that Geoffrey? Sweet Geoffrey. She wished she could find the words to comfort him, she tried. She made an almighty effort, but her tongue remained obstinately curled up in her mouth like a mollusc in its shell. A silent scream was all she could manage. A silent despairing cry. Geoffrey was whispering now; he was always self-conscious about declarations of love and he would be so especially now with nursing staff and family hovering in the background. How did she know it was a declaration of love? She had been married to the man for fifty-two years. She knew.

  She knew and she also knew what she wanted to say to him, what she needed to say, but even as she thought it, it had flown away from her. There were no more thoughts left. There was nothing.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  More Pre-Lyme Days

  “It’s now or never, Mike.”

  “Or somewhere in between,” said Mike, always looking for the compromise in everything.

  They were not long back from the Cotswolds where Margaret Hamilton had been laid to rest in the peaceful graveyard of St Andrew’s Church[38] in Great Rollright. It was a quiet ceremony attended by a few distant (very) members of the family and a representative of the fearsome magistrates past and present of Chipping Norton. Only two of the nine owners of its antique shops put in an appearance and twelve of Margaret’s cheese and wine party set who were pleased to find that cheese and wine were amply provided for at the Hamilton family home and stables in Adlestrop.

  “You want to make a move as much as I do.”

  “I won’t argue the point, but the girls are settled in school, they have their little friends.”

  “They will make new friends wherever we go; they are children, they are adaptable. Even you can make new friends to go with the old ones you haven’t got.”

  “Let’s say then that we go for it. Where shall we go to go for it? Do you want the country? The coast?”

  “I rather like the idea of living by the sea and the girls would love it.”

  “If I can find work I’d be happy to be on the coast.”

  The initial thrill if that is indeed what it was, of taking over the editorship of ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’ had long gone, even the extra eight-thousand (recently swollen to twelve-thousand) had done nothing to revive Michael’s flagging drive and ambition (long gone, like the thrill).

  “There won’t be any urgency for you if I can find work. You have your mother’s money coming to you and we still have our savings more or less intact. I’ll get a job as a teaching assistant easily and there can only be one Miss Roseberry,” said Judy, who appeared to have forgotten Mrs Danvers who gave Miss Roseberry a good run for her money in the dictatorship stakes.

  “Does that mean I get to be a house husband father?”

  “Oh yes, Mike. Very much so if your dodgy knees can cope.”

  “Hey Jude (could be a song that), you leave my dodgy knees out of it.”

  “I only wish I could. The latest Sealed Knot[39] news-letter had some info on sieges and battles around the coast so perhaps we could go somewhere with a bit of history attached to it.”

  “I read it. Our choices are very limited. It’s Bristol, Chichester, Portsmouth or Lyme Regis.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “You read it too?”

  “Don’t be silly. Look at the book I picked up from the charity shop today.”

  Michael duly looked. He was good like that. It was something he could never be faulted for. If someone said ‘look’ he looked. Everyone said so.

  “Ah yes, ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman’[40]. It’s an omen isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s a book.”

  “Now who’s being silly?”

  “
Let’s book up for a weekend down there, if we don’t like it, we don’t like it.”

  “You’re on. Devon here we come!”

  “Dorset actually, Mike.”

  Infuriatingly, they were both right. Dorset was indeed their destination, but the only bed and breakfast with rooms to suit the needs of the recently expanded family was in Uplyme, over the county border. Michael studied his old atlas (so old that the M25 was just a dotted line, a proposed motorway that surely would never be needed) and opted for the M3, the A303 and then make it up as they went along. It had always worked for him before; he was a natural when it came to navigating his way around the country. Everyone said so.

  March. The day of departure dawned bright and clear. The forecast hinted at drizzle which may or may not turn to rain which may or not be heavy or prolonged. The forecast came from the Daily Express so they placed little reliance on it. Instead, the sun was smiling down on their venture (trip to you and me). Destination: The Lemon Tree Guest House (You’ve tried the rest, now try the zest) Uplyme. The bags packed and loaded. The girls packed and loaded. The M3 was trouble-free and relatively traffic-free. The A303 matched the M3 for peace and calm, even allowing for the obligatory slow moving traffic as various heads were craned for a view of Stonehenge through the newly arrived drizzle which was indeed threatening to turn into heavy and prolonged rain. The problems started after leaving the much-maligned A303.

  Michael to be fair did have two routes in mind for the remainder of the journey, but unaccountably proceeded with a third option. It was not the first time he had got lost in Somerset, but it was the first occasion anyone else had noticed.

  “That is one very weird looking tree, Mike.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice it.”

  “I noticed it especially as it’s the second time I have seen it in the last twenty minutes. The atlas is in the back, do you want to stop the car so I can get it?”

  “No need. I know where I’m going.”

  “Apparently in ever decreasing circles.”

  An all too familiar cry came from the back seat.

  “Are we there yet?”

  “Not yet, Katy, but I’m sure Daddy will get us there before night-time.”

  “My family, the cynics,” sneered Michael, but not unkindly.

  Civilisation. A town. Now bearings could be taken, routes re-assessed.

  “What town is this, Mike?”

  “It’s Chard, which means we are nearly there, oh ye of little faith.”

  “Chard?”

  “Yes, Jude...Chard.”

  “That sign over there says ‘this way to Crewkerne’s finest bookshop’. It would seem Chard is having some kind of identity crisis...”

  “But it can’t be Crewkerne...”

  “Obviously it is. For God’s sake, Mike, pull over and let me get the atlas.”

  “We’ll come across a sign for Lyme in a moment...”

  “A burning bush? A portent from the heavens?”

  “Daddy!” called Katy.

  “Shush, not now Katy.”

  “But, Daddy, I have seen a pointy sign for Lyme Regis,” continued an exasperated Katy.

  “This is grown-up stuff and I really don’t think you know how to read the words, Lyme Regis.”

  “She does, Mike, I showed her.”

  “Look, there it is again,” said a now triumphant Katy.

  And she was right. There it indeed was.

  “Thank you, darling, but why didn’t you say so before?”

  “But I thought you knew where you were going.”

  Judy twisted and leaned back in her seat and kissed her daughter. It seemed the appropriate response.

  After only a few isolated cries of ‘are we there yet’, not just from Katy and Annabelle and one of “I need the toilet”, Crewkerne gave way to Axminster (home of fine carpets since a long time ago). Axminster after a small skirmish with the A35 soon gave way to Uplyme and the Lemon Tree Guest House. The proprietors, Bill and Kath Lemon were effusive (very) in their greeting, fussing around their guests in a manner that were you of the suspicious type would make you very suspicious. What were they hiding? Did their enthusiasm cover up a world of chintz? Were even now, lace doilies sitting on top of milk jugs? Were the Hamiltons about to be transported back to a bygone age? The seventies?

  Unfounded fears as it turned out. The Lemon Tree Guest House was bright, breezy and contemporary even if its owners were not (contemporary that is, they were certainly bright and breezy). The two rooms they had taken were spacious and tastefully decorated in pastel colours which served to emphasise the space. The furniture was distressed, Michael and Judy weren’t. They had chosen well. Judy, in fact, had chosen well.

  A plan of action was formed when a small folded map was found in the room which described a picturesque walk along the River Lym down into Lyme itself. The walk duly lived up to this description. Katy and Annabelle kept a count of the wildlife they encountered; such was the rarity of excursions into the countryside. The final tally on the downstream stroll was fifteen birds (species unknown), eight ducks, two horses, four dogs, two rats, three sheep and one wallaby.

  “Look, Daddy, it’s a kangaroo.”

  “Don’t be silly, Katy, there are no kangaroos here in Devon.”

  “I think we’re in Dorset now, Mike.”

  “Dorset or Devon makes no difference, neither county is known for its indigenous marsupials.”

  “Again, again,” shouted Annabelle, pointing and waving.

  “I don’t believe it,” exclaimed Michael who had always been slightly wary of marsupials along with horses and bicycles.

  “You are right girls, though it’s not a kangaroo, it’s a wallaby.”

  “But what is it doing here?” asked Michael.

  “Having a good time by the look of it,” answered Judy as the wallaby bounded and hopped over the field ahead of them, followed by a small stream of people who were decidedly not bounding and hopping.

  “There are wallabies living wild in...er....in...”

  “Australia?”

  “Hah! Very funny. No, well yes of course, but I was thinking of Derbyshire.”

  Michael and Judy did not know it, less still the wallaby, but its days of freedom were fast coming to an end; after yet more hopping and bounding through the town and along the beach it was to meet its match when it came up against the local fire chief. The wallaby excitement was over.

  The rest of the walk was uneventful by comparison, how could it not be? Their first sight of Lyme was the narrow street of Mill Green which led into the equally narrow Coombe Street. Narrow streets are common in Lyme, even Broad Street is narrow. They could hear the faint murmur of the sea, they could taste the salt on the wind’s breath. The tide was gently, yet determinedly rumbling, the pebbles washed clean with every retreat.

  Judy’s considered response to the first sight of the sea at Lyme was a simple one. It was, “Wow.”

  Katy and Annabelle made do with shrieks. They had encountered the sea only once before in their young lives (conversely, they knew Chipping Norton very well); at Brighton where there was an unfortunate incident involving their father and the picnicking Stevens (no relation) family. Families can be so territorial on beaches as Michael found out at some cost; goading turned to harsh words, harsh words to arguments and arguments to blows. In the ensuing fracas Michael lost a tooth and his pride. It was a salutary lesson for the girls on the perils of seaside holidays. It’s entirely possible Judy may have learned something too. Possibly Michael.

  Breakfast was just a distant memory and the fish and chip kiosk seemed to be the answer to all the questions that could have been posed. And so it proved. The one thing you could say about Lyme was in fact the one thing that Michael did in fact say to Judy.

 
“This is definitely not Earlsfield.”

  He was quick like that. Always had been. Everyone said so.

  “Well deduced, Sherlock Holmes[41]!”

  The fish and chip kiosk was providently next door to the ice-cream kiosk. The ice-cream kiosk proved equally adept at answering any number of posed questions. The Cobb was visited, the museum was visited; the Civil War connection partially explored as befits members of the Sealed Knot society.[42] The last port of call was a local estate-agent. Could they answer questions that would be posed? Yes they could.

  They had a house available for viewing which had come onto the market unexpectedly again. Although the again was only hinted at. Fairly isolated, but only a ten minute walk along the river to the town and beach. Could do with some modernisation although the kitchen had been recently modernised and was surprisingly spacious. If they liked the sound of it (and they did) then a viewing could be arranged immediately. It was.

  They liked it from the moment they saw it. Yes, it was odd looking. Yes, it was a mish-mash of styles. Yes, the garden sloped alarmingly. Yes, there was work to be done, (Michael gulped, DIY was not his strong point as indeed were so many things) but there would be no urgency, everything could happen in its own time. The price was not a sticking-point for it was manifestly competitively priced. No doubt due to the alterations and modernising that needed doing.

  Michael and Judy were sure of one thing. This was going to be home no matter what. Wheels were put in motion. An offer made. An offer accepted. It was the finest afternoon’s work of their lives. Plans could now be made. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ thought Michael.

  They re-joined the river walk. Elated and overjoyed. The late March sun had died in a flash of orange which had burst through the still skeletal trees. The still, clear light that was left behind did battle with the dusk manfully. The dusk won; it has a tendency to.

  There were two more visits to the house while they were ensconced at the Lemon Tree Guest House (try us...we’re no lemon). They wandered over the house, allocating rooms. The girls wandered all over the garden, allocating play areas. Local tradesmen were consulted. Local pubs were consulted. They met old Mr Williams.