De May

by Pete Smith


Strange things can happen in Norfolk.  Even stranger things can happen on the Broads.

 

Last night I dreamed I went to Geldeston. As I alighted from the train, the dark and sinister towers overlooked Reedham Station, as they had always done, and the chill breeze from the marshes made me shiver. The characters who alighted with me had been jovial enough, looking as if they had travelled from the wild North and balmy South. Now they turned out to be locals after all, seemingly preoccupied with memories.
    The mist rose and flowed over the tree-lined road from ‘The Station’ to the ferry as we followed the familiar route, but now with some difficulty. Then, rounding an abrupt bend we caught our first glimpse of the ruins. At first, lit by stars and accompanied by the clanking of chains, little seemed to have changed. But, as we approached, it became apparent that restoration had been in progress and there would be shelter for the night. The traditional skills of those parts ensured there would be no repetition of the fate we were here to recall.
    The other witnesses to those events of long ago had sought the warmth of a nearby inn. There came the participants in the drama, with many others attracted by the tale. Looking around the many happy faces, I felt chill as a sudden thought occurred.  Which were responsible? I had never known. Would they dare to come?
    Such thoughts did not seem to trouble my companions as they went about familiar journeys. A robust trip to the solitary riverside pub before retracing our steps to the estate of the local gentry. Not at Reedham, but further south.  Here, close by another iron bridge, one of many local legends claims, it is traditional for boats to pass through backwards. Several of those present verified the tale during the evening, when all had put on their costumes for a great Ball to brighten the weekend.
    For that whole weekend we were driven-on by some mad urge. Everything was as it had always been. Many activities were ruled by the clock and time was of the essence. Sunday saw us forcing our way, with great skill and perseverance through ever narrowing paths, with trees and weeds gathering closer to grasp and choke our progress. But we followed these peaceful streams as far as we were able, honour and memory would accept no less. Then, distended by our efforts, we returned to the hotel by the river for rest.
    It was here, late at night and warned that dinner for 50 would soon be served, that I stepped outside for some fresh air. There, as the mists slowly began to build up once more, I saw a figure passing silently from boat to boat. At each it stopped to check the pillows and linen. Was this, I wondered, a seaman looking for a berth? Then I realised, with a sharp intake of breath, this person had been with us all weekend and now was checking the initials embroidered on each pillowcase. So, I thought, that is Mrs.Danvers.

PS
1992

Hope the 'Hell ship' in the New Cut c1953