Writings

It was a mid summer’s eve and I was in Shakespeare’s land, living my dream studying abroad. The day had started innocently enough as did all my days in England. The coach arrived at Stratford-upon-Avon before noon and I had plenty of time to explore this beautiful and historic part of Great Britain. I took off, alone (more or less), wandered the narrow streets, alleys that led nowhere, and peeked into places that perhaps I shouldn’t have.

I was scheduled to meet my peers from Oxford and enjoy an evening performance by the Royal Shakespearean Company of The Comedy of Errors. I had a leisurely day visiting tiny shops then walking along the River Avon, getting to know Shakespeare’s country, intimately. A little too intimately.

This time, I referred to the obscure little booklet that I had found in my favorite used book store at Oxford and carefully mapped out my route. The pages were tattered, handwritten with clever little drawings besides historic sights. Pathways spun webs along modern day structures mingling between vast fields, brooks, ponds and ancient buildings of amazing character. I was lost in another time that reeked of gentleman and women who spoke in musical lyrics. Through the lens of my eyes, this was a medieval landscape, different to Arthur’s, but still alive and teeming with echoes of the past.

I was standing in front of Shakespeare’s home, between scheduled tours, had already spent my budget for souvenirs, and painfully curious as to what lay behind the heavy wood and iron doors. I was not daunted by the sign that read - No Entrance, glanced behind my shoulder to see if anyone was looking, and did not hesitate to push then barged my way inside.

“Madam, where for art thou going?” The masculine voice sounded angry. But the body that went with the voice was overwhelming. Breeches, stockings, pointed shoes, a rotund stomach popping from beneath a striped vest, a slightly balding head with hair that looked like someone had poured a bag of flour over it. (The Brits will go to great lengths to capture a visitor’s attention).

“Umm. . .I’m lost.” Of course I feared that I wasn’t but knew exactly where I was — in another century much like the time I met up with King Arthur. This time though, I was afraid that I was lost in Shakespeare’s real world.

Deep-set eyes scrutinized my clothing. I was wearing a long woven skirt of multi-colored cotton and a skimpy sleeveless beige shirt. My hair, golden, tightly cropped in curls, was still damp from an un-anticipated rainstorm (yes, I know any day in England can be accompanied by rain). I shook my head and sprayed drops of clear water across the man’s chest and into his face. White dust fell as he swept one hand to his brow and I sneezed. He glared.

“Follow me.” His clipped voice commanded.

“As you like it,” I replied, though refrained from doing a curtsey and instead gave him an American ‘thumbs up.’

I forgot to mention that I wasn’t alone. Although it was very inconspicuous, to me at first, I was being followed, by a duck no less. It was a most unusual creature; its feathers spanned shades of black to white, then pink. It also talked. The problem was I talked back. I thought it was quite natural to talk to the duck. I am used to speaking to dogs, cats and genetically confused bunnies. On the other hand, and on occasion, my kids have brought home lizards, toads, and assorted live creatures that I did refuse to speak to. The duck though, reminded me of Honey Bun, the ‘Canadian goose from Hell’ that settled in my tiny American town of Bethania, North Carolina. The goose had been lost in Bethania, found me, and quickly became attached. Unfortunately after several weeks, the goose became cooked

Back to the English duck - like the aforementioned Canadian goose, (in my book ducks and geese are the same) had been following me around for hours. And, just like Honey Bun, the duck would be waiting for me during intermittent times of the day. It always knew my actions. If someone approached me, and just like Honey Bun, the bird would attack first legs, then posteriors. This proved to be Honey Bun’s downfall. It was constantly attacking my husband, or following me across the street to my shop, attacking customers, or stopping traffic while refusing to get out of the way. Twice my girls and I grabbed the goose and took it to a pond a few miles away, but in less then a day or two, the goose would come back. The last I saw it was after it attacked my neighbor, B.A. – in the wrong place. (Ironically, B.A.’s last name happened to be spelled very similar to Bird).

“I’ll take the bird down to the creek,” B.A. said. I watched as green goop oozed from his shoes as he proceeded to march not towards the creek, but towards the butchering shed which happened to stand right next to the smoke house.

Back to the English duck, who reminded me of Shakespeare, and so I named him Bill. The bird was constantly strutting and often fretting. Besides, it seemed that every time it paused, it pooped. This was annoying as were the flying feathers when the duck fretted, becoming obnoxious, (though they helped to defray the underlying damage - bird poop to shoes).

Back to the bald-haired man with the squeaky demanding voice. We had entered a castle, well, not really a castle, but a magnificent stone and wood building that could have been a Disney World attraction. The duck was the last to enter the tall, heavy, iron and wooden double doors. My guide turned his head, must have seen the bird behind me, gave a deep glare and then a snort like wind passing over my shoulders (he did that too – passed wind). He turned, I followed, and we headed down a hallway lit with the glow of candles.

“Umm, sir? Umm, excuse me, but where are we going?” I tugged at his sleeve while the bird tugged at the bottom of my skirt. I lost it. My skirt that is, the elastic waistband gave way because the creature had pulled a string from the hem and it slowly began to disengage from my body.

One by one the threads ripped and I tripped, flew into my guide and knocked him to the ground then landed in what might be considered, a compromising position. I was now clad in thong underwear and a skimpy shirt. My skirt was hanging by threads, dangling from the duck’s beak.

Meanwhile, a short equally rotund woman – same as the man (looked like him too) was storming down the hall. She had white hair piled high in a pompadour (most likely a wig), and brilliant red cheeks. She wasn’t smiling. I jumped up just as the duck began waddling away from the crime scene and down the dimly lit hall, its feathers flailing in mid-air.

Two distinct sounds, no, make that three, echoed off the stonewalls. The sound of an iron candle stand falling to the ground led to horrible squeaking, squawking, obviously painful screaming suffering which, in turn was reminiscent of a hit song from Michael Jackson about something being on fire.

Hmm. There was something on fire. The short rotund woman came to a halt and bent over my guide’s prostrate form. I watched as white hair fell to the ground, burst into flames. It smelt like a cake baking. So they did use real flour.

Fortunately, there was a pail of water (or so I thought – turned out to be a chamber pot) outside a nearby closed door. I grabbed the pail and flung the liquid, noted the distinct smell of ammonia as the flames were doused.

“Oops.” I turned and smiled sweetly at the rotund couple who both looked red beneath dripping yellowed drops of liquid, puffs of smoke exited from all four nostrils. I sensed they were not happy.

It was time for me to leave. A graceful exit was out of the question, and so was a bow, particularly because of the thong underwear. I had to keep my dignity at all costs.

The corridor was imposing, winding and totally bleak. Thankfully I caught a glimpse of a brightly colored thread. I picked up the loose end and began to wind the string into a neat little ball. It quickly grew. My friend, Bill, duck that he was, had saved the day. I was no longer lost and found my way, down a long and now darkened corridor, to see the light of day.

“Thanks Bill.” I bent down and gave the bird, a tweak of the beak.

“You’re welcome Bev. All’s well that ends well.” Then quacked, “ya’ll come back now, ya’ hear?

Bev Hamel is a recovered corporate executive and now owns and operates an antique shop in the tiny Historic and National Landmark town of Bethania, North Carolina. She is a freelance writer and has published short stories, creative nonfiction, essays, poetry, local newspaper articles and was editor for an area women’s magazine. Bev has just completed her MFA at Goddard College and her first fiction novel Daughter of the Seven Fires and is busily working on 2nd, 3rd, and 4th

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