All shall be well

I can't keep kindness out of an otherwise very gothic series, or my equally gothic perspective, with good reason.

Threads of Wyrd has a lot of kindness in it for something that hits like an Islay. Kindnesses have kept me going, so it’s part of the mythology and I’m not stunned at all that every character’s spiritual home is a slightly shabby, well loved pub-turned-inn.

One important instance of crucial kindness involved learning about Julian of Norwich, leaving a modest collection of perfumes with a note that anybody could take what they wanted, and a newfound love of fried bread. Before I ended up living in a haunted house in the Close, I had stayed so long in one cute Victorian-era guest house that the owners wouldn’t charge me their full rate towards the end.

Prior to then, I’d slept on a friend’s couch, stayed in a Travelodge (where a couple of morning staff wanted to know who they needed to talk to for me; they were ominous and lovely), stayed in a Premier Inn (no notes, which is good), stayed in a B&B (where, since I had been carrying all my stuff with me, I killed my darlings and left the perfumes), and slept on the friend’s couch again (not so long after, she had to leave her flat due to damp).

I must have kept a bit of business away from said guest house; it would have come from rabid Canaries fans because the place was near the rail station and stadium. The difference between me and them, apart from our style of tattoos and general life paths: they were visiting. Often pissed. Usually accentuated with lurid green and yellow. And boisterous. On the other hand, I was between abodes through a not-so-great chain of events. Not visiting. Too scared of money to spend it on booze. Usually wearing black. And keeping to myself.

Due to valid concerns mingled with a touch of paranoia, I didn’t tell my PhD supervisors what was going on because I didn’t want my studentship to be at risk. (When it all came out, one of them chided me for not speaking up and said I could’ve had the spare room in his house.) I had to be a fixed resident of somewhere—unsurprisingly, full funding has strict requirements. Permit the humble brag. I earned it twice or thrice over and I’d never wish the chaos of that term on anyone.

Regardless, I was lucky enough to befriend my de facto landlords, the couple who lived on the ground floor. He was jovial and wry, and she was relentlessly optimistic. They ran the place together and it felt like a home. I’d have lodged there permanently if I could, but we would’ve had to talk about proper payment.

By the time I finally found the room in the Close, we all got on. The husband was from Scotland and we often had coffee before I went to campus in the morning. He seemed introverted, so there might’ve been some ancestral memories underfoot. Many of my maternal grandfather’s relatives were Scottish. His wife was from China and did the best fry-ups. She introduced me to fried bread, which I will devour, much to my pal Gaz’s amusement.

Around my birthday, I had the flu so badly that I probably kept them up at night since they lived just below. Every swallow was a stab, and I had to blow my nose on the hour. I told Mary they shouldn’t bother cleaning the ensuite bathroom and I didn’t care, but I always come back to a tidied space and open windows—and extra Biscoffs and packets of Lemsip that weren’t part of the usual hospitality trays. Neither she nor Dan fell ill, so they claimed.

There was a weekend where I did have to stay somewhere else because my room was accidentally double-booked before a match, and Dan said he’d find another place just nearby. He did; it was more of a little boutique hotel than anything. Very chic and modern by comparison, though I didn’t prefer it. I stayed there until the following Monday and Dan kept most of my things in his and Mary’s flat while I was away. (Mysteriously, I didn’t have to pay for that new room, only the breakfasts.)

Just before my now-spouse had concluded a long-distance visit, Dan had told them that they would “take care” of me. As a lifelong horror fan, the phrase should have evoked caution. This chapter of my life could have turned into a Jordan Peele-ish nightmare had anybody been untrustworthy.

Take care of me, they did. Though we’ve fallen out of touch, I frequently wonder how they are. When I left for the last time, instead of accepting the total amount for even just that week, Mary passed me a tiny navy blue parcel with a note attached.

Dan said, sotto voce, “Ah, well, there she goes giving you things again.”

In the parcel was a delicate Swarovski necklace, a small key studded with little crystals. The note told me I had the keys to success. I still have both note and necklace; I need to have part of the latter’s chain refinished, but it’s still wearable. I keep it alongside my great-grandma’s wedding ring if neither is on my person.

These two knew pretty much everything about the weird stranger in their midst’s present situation. I told him in the mornings once I knew he was cool and then she knew too. They understood I was nervous about things not working out, and I can’t think of a sweeter themed gift. It can’t be an accident that I discovered the work of Julian of Norwich as I stayed with them, because I was frequently asking myself how I’d found these people.

It was, in truth, the simplest type of love and hospitality. Nothing untoward, nothing creepy, no catch. Nobody had to leave Lemsip on a nightstand, give me a present, or decide their rates were conveniently stuck in a 1996 paradigm. They simply did so and more. I stopped trying to make sense of things and just accepted it as a gift. 

All shall be well, indeed.