Simon and the Witch

One evening on tour after a performance, it came to that time of night when the get out begins…once more.  Lugging an iron set into the back of a van that took the best part of two hours.  The show came down at 10pm and we had performed that evening in a church surrounded by a field.  Added to this the monsoon rain that had fallen since our arrival and the fact that the church had no outside lights I am much surprised Michael Burke never made an appearance to voice his concern.  

Set safely in van I was then beckoned to a sweet lady’s house.  This lady like many others over my two years of touring had voluntarily decided to host me: a stranger, feed me wheat free goodies and let me sleep in a bed in her house. 

And so I arrived, with a backdrop of thunder and lightning and a white transit van…it’s all very glamourous…to a huge empty porch.  With a solo light shining down on me, I knocked.  The door opened and there was my host.  A lady in her 70’s who looked exactly like the witch in ‘Simon and the Witch’…kind and wild looking.  I instantly loved her and profusely began to apologise for the wet and dirt I would be bringing in.

“Oh don’t worry about that,” she said, “We don’t worry about dirt in this house.”  

And indeed she did not. 

You see I’d been spoiled.  Housed by about 200 families throughout the UK who had supplied some of the most scrumptious breakfasts and restful times, I’d become very accustomed to royal treatment (always with a genuine thank you I might add!) What a gift these people provided.  

And so too, this woman, providing a bed, breakfast, my own toilet and bathroom.  Her house was 3 storeys 

high, and the “we” she had referred to on arrival was herself and her aged dog.  A mutt who adored her but nipped me at any given opportunity.  Yes yes little doggie, I know where you live!  

The air was thick with dust.  She told me she had food in the fridge for a fry up which was all very kind, until she said that she hadn’t bought it specially, she’d had it there for ages! She gave me tea and a saucer…of someone else’s crumbs.  My bed had moths flying out of it and when I climbed into the bath the next morning, I grabbed a sponge to give it a rinse and brown sludge came out.  A tiny squeal of despair exited my mouth.

Her generosity knew no bounds and she delighted in reporting what birds had visited her bird table so she could inform the RSPB.  I did however inherit a nasty rash but it was not to be with me for life.

Another evening, over dinner at another venue I was told that I was to have an American hostess.  “A model host” was the report across the dining table.   I had visions of waffles for breakfast and coffee machines and stories of her 17 Irish relatives who I must know.  Set back in the van and we pulled up outside her house.  

This time no rain but a solo light…above an empty porch…there is a pattern people there is a pattern.

This time no dust just dolls.  

Everywhere.  

Silently smiling, staring…where? Why there on the stair.  Of course.  

Completely blocking access to the top floor was a frightening display of miniature things…a lot of dolls, a Christmas tree (it was September), tinsel, and unlit candles…a shrine to a jumble sale?  She led me downstairs, where I was brought down an empty corridor past closed doors and a bowl of rat poison.  Which just so happened to be right outside my room for the night.  She opened the door to reveal a mattress on the floor surrounded by huge bookcases.

“ So they said you were pretty self-sufficient so good night!”

“Stop” I involuntarily shout “I mean…excuse me, would it be possible to get a glass of water?”

She offers tea, I accept. What follows is the most uncomfortable 10 minutes I’ve ever had conversing with someone I’ve just met.  As I scratched around for things to say I realized she looked like a doll.  Left hand side beside a vase of dead flowers, third stair…yes.  And she stared quite a lot. 

Then she bid me goodnight and I made my way down the stairs, down the empty corridor to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth wondering if I would survive the night.  Death by book? Rat? Host? The options were endless.

I did sleep.  I slept.  And awoke to silence.  No rats, no stares.  I did not revisit the upper stairs and asked one of the cast to come pick me up as soon as they were ready.

Facts I learnt: Not all Americans cook waffles.  Not all hosts own hoovers.