fire and frying pan

Spooky story

two character decide to spend night in graveyard.

based on a true story

It all came undone at 3:00 am. My daughter heard our hostess screeching incantations outside our door! Thankfully, my sleeping pill made me blissfully unaware, other than there was a commotion, but my frightened child is someone I do wake up to when in distress. We thought they were gone...they had strangely decided yesterday to drive to Wales; the trip they promised us to see castles on, from their modest Council house in Yorkshire. We had a day of quiet, so I wasn't expecting this, although clearly everything unraveled in a matter of weeks. We came here for safety...I had no idea what a whack doodle my overseas business client was. That was to be seen, because I wouldn't believe it if anyone had told me. Right now, with no money, nowhere to go, in a tiny village near where the Bronte's hailed, I had no idea what to do. Through the doors, they told us they wanted us out now! 

I am American, I have had business and personal ties in England for many years. My daughter had spent half her education here. We love England, and when another relationship became abusive, we wanted to go somewhere safe. This woman made beautiful, unique tiaras for my wedding line. She also made Medieval clothes, hand sewn with an eerie accuracy. I assume she made them to sell, as they were listed online, but later found it was a two-fold pleasure. One, she liked to wear them, they gave her power and a sense of purpose. The other, they had found out how to use the UK government system to their benefit. None of the family worked, they had hobbies, and found ways to be on the dole and actually make a good living. I didn't know that the wife was nuts; she seemed so nice all these years online. Her husband, with his undiscernible accent, was nice enough, although I never could understand a word. He was a Vicar of sorts, at churches that had no permanent Chaplain, and took no money from the collection plate of the empty congregation...the government dole was enough. I trusted these people! They picked us up from the train in York, after spending a day in London with our luggage lost. They seemed fine! I had come back to flee one life, to try to resurrect another. I was trying to reconcile with my British husband, but we had to see if it would work. He was living in the equivalent of a boarding house; hardly family quarters in a tiny room [although we later ended up staying months sleeping on the floor there, and darn grateful for it]. Originally, they had put us up in her grand room; the husband made her a Tudor four poster bed, worthy of Henry VIII. The husband slept on a single bed across the hall. 

Within a week or so, we went from opulence to slave. They did go away for a bit, some creepy convention of some kind. I didn't ask questions. She asked me to do her make-up all Goth...perhaps giant flags I should have heeded. Deathly afraid of garlic, she admitted to being a card-carrying witch, although she buried all her witchy things when she married the Vicar [what, eye of Newt? Spell books? I didn't ask], and by all accounts appeared to be a Christian wife. We welcomed the break, and my estranged British husband came up from Ipswich to visit, to see if there was any spark. At that point, we even considered settling up there; it was a lovely area. We took there sweet German Shepard, Ethyl, through hills and pastures to a short-cut to Haworth, the village of the doomed Bronte's family. I don't know what is considered so romantic about hills and dales...the wind was so bad I had wind burns from being out all day on my face! It took a crack team of experts years to return to my normal fair, lightly tanned complexion. But I digress...Haworth was Hollywood quintessential England. I got good and cutting through the fields with my teenage daughter, going to the Seuk with my designer Saks 5th Ave clothes to sell for food money. I assumed we would be looked after, but the hosts rarely had any food in the house. As time grew, the hostess took to wearing long white Rennaissance nightgowns and wandering around the house, doing her Camille interpretation. The slept til 1:00 pm and was awake all night, and didn't do a bit of work, so I cooked and cleaned. Most days, the best I could do was create a pot of soup for everyone, feeding Ethyl spare carrots. Then I was required to leave, for hours, as she wouldn't speak or even look at me! I was getting frantic, the only person I knew in England was my estranged husband. We were in phone contact, then they removed all the phones! They cut off the WiFi access for my daughter's laptop, so we would hike to the nearest pay phone and call collect...an expensive way to be in touch, to say the least. I was getting worried....

I come from an old English Dynasty, so I do a lot of business here because the name opens doors. In this case, it was the door that was ajar that would save us. One of the great Lady ancestors had first married a Lord that was a great spend thrift, and when he died penniless she married another, but finally ran off with the stable boy and lived happily ever after. Her privelage and fall from Aristocratic grace made this move for her final resting place, away from my family tree in a different part of Yorkshire. It seems her maternal protection was to be our sanctuary. I carry this enormous garment roller suitcase, because I tended to pack suits for business, and my daughter, since she has been traveling since she was young and spend much of her childhood here, carries a duffle of lovies; stuffed animals. My weight loss from the diet of soup and bread allowed my fat ass to squeeze thru the doorway, and my daughter easily fit in. With my night blindness and no flashlight, we had to feel around. Surely, the cript with some brass inscription was on the wall opposite, and leaves lined the floor; they would make good bedding. I unzipped my enormous garment bag, and grabbed whatever clothes we could to wrap on us and took the hook to latch above the door and jammed it best I could in the cracked doorway to keep the wind out. I would love to say it was Halloween, but nee', it was Spring, and the daffodils had bloomed when we had arrived earlier in March, so still quite cold out at night. My daughter had a blanket with her lovies, and I had a penchant for getting long, dramatic coats in London when I was on business trips, plus all the scarves that had been protecting my wind-weary face. I padded the floor best I could, and my daughter, who was now an aloof teenager, reverted to her younger self when she loved to cuddle me and stay up and watch movies on our pull out sofa. Maternal love as I protected her with my warmth, and she fell blissfully asleep.

I lay there awhile, my mind abuzz, and wanted to be terrified, but a strange warmth came over me. I felt a presence; a love and peace that I could not describe. I looked near the cript, and a warm, golden light eminated from the grave. I thought it was the brass placque, being hit by moonlight, and moved as carefully as I could so as not to disturb my sleeping child, and glanced at my make-shift door on the moonlight. No, blue light, not golden, and not facing that direction; the golden light seemed to come from within, with halos and rays of warmth. I fell into a blissful sleep, unaware or my surroundings...

The next morning we woke around 9:00 am. I realized, since the last few days were a blur, that all the commotion had happened on what would have been a Saturday night. That meant a few things; it was Sunday, so no postal service, as I always intervened the postal drop so as not to disturb Madame's slumber. No, it would have to be another courier, and if not, we were screwed. I had to keep my eyes peeled on their front door at all times. We had a breakfast or sausage rolls, water, bread and some jam I scored from the last decent meal we had at our London hotel,packed in my suitcase. We did the best we could to tidy up, clean up with the last of the water and brush our hair and teeth and knock the leaves off each other. Church service was at 10:00 am. I knew the hosts didn't go...he would do a service in an empty chapel somewhere and she would follow. Plus I got the distinct impression that the hostess wasn't welcome at most social functions in the village or anywhere; many a time she refused to leave the car. Was she jealous that I got on with her husband? Was it that people liked me? Who knows, who cares...never seen a phobio put a mother and child into danger like this! Anyway, the church represented warmth, a spiritual refuge, if only for an hour. My daughter and i would take turns using the facilities and getting refreshments [a much needed cup of coffee was in order!] and sit in a pew near the back that allowed us a good view. We felt more refreshed, and ameably shook hands and fobbed off our accents as tourists...as if there was anything to see in this village! Alas, only a week or so ago, my British husband and I were contemplating moving here, since it was a lovely area...it was. Needless to say, I said many fervent prayers there, and relished the warmth.

Whilst shaking more Christian folk hands on the front steps, I saw it...the bright logo of a delivery courier stop in front of the hosts' house. I bolted there, leaving my daughter to give my excuses for my haste...they probably thought I was mad! I sprinted, and sure enough it was a box sent by my estranged husband...I embraced the courier and ripped the box open with the glee only afforded to 5-year-olds on Christmas. A phone! A moble, a cell phone, let freedom ring! It was already charged and I immediately called by British husband to summise a plan. Since I had no money, he would pay to help us at each interval. He gave me a number for a local taxi, since I would have had no way to look one up in those days. I gave the address of the church, so we could stay sequestered near the mausoleum and out of sight should our hosts wake early. I said my thank yous to the ancestor, and tidied the grave and picked a crude impromptu bouquet as gratitude. The taxi arrived soon, and my British husband said the only train was 1:00pm on a Sunday, but he checked and it was completely booked already. Nevermind...at least we were free. I sorted the cab back to Haworth, since at least we knew the area and felt safe. The first we did was to book a room in a lovely boutique B&B; our was the plum room, with everything the colour and shape of plums. My daughter poured me the most luxurious bath using every concoction and toiletry in the purple claw foot tub, while I ran to the Souk and sold another pair of designer shoes for cash. After my luxurious bath and some time to decompress, I took my daughter to a popular, cheap chain pub for a meal with the cash in hand. I felt hope rising in my heart. 

Still ravenous the next day after a good nights sleep, we tucked into a full English breakfast as if we had never eaten in our lives. Since we were in the habit of starving, I stuffed whatever was left, right down to condiments, in my pocket. I had the front desk arrange a taxi from the night before, so we headed to Leeds for our journey South, to hopeful safety. It may seem like after all this generosity and hope of a reconciliation, that all would be well. What I neglected was to say why we had split so many times, when we loved each other so much. He had a violent temper, and the mood swings were that of a Jekyl and Hyde...completely unpredictable. He was now living in a boarding house that was a former womens shelter, so my daughter and I were to spend months sleeping on the floor, with her naming the rats that lived there like pets. Another thing, for some reason as a man in his 50s, he never seemed to have any money and was always blaming someone else for his lot in life...the generosity of saving us would be overtaken by the generosity of strangers in an organization that had to save us later and fly us back to the US. So, after fleeing one bad situation to promised safety, to reconciling with great love and trepidation, we were once again out of the frying pan and into the fire. Little did I know, the only safe place was to be in a tomb, that protected us like a womb...not exactly the place to raise a child, but it was literally the only moment I felt safe on this journey...I cannot thank that ancestor enough, as I feel her presence was what protected us as my life unravelled further....