Hiccups (4) - Sypmtom 4 - extra time

By the second night I’d accustomed myself to not sleeping. I lay in the spare bed in my room, headboard banging as I sang my hiccupy tune to myself. I was aware of the irony that the only banging headboard that night was as a result of my hiccups.

I sat up reading, Terry Pratchett novels are addictive and it’s easy to sit up all night finishing one on any night, so I had no problem polishing off the novel, by which time it was 4.00 a.m. I still couldn’t sleep. Tired though I was, I realised that I’d gained an extra eight hours per day for the period of my hiccups. As long as I stayed sane enough to take advantage of them!

I decided to go for a walk on the beach. We lived in a flat in Brynmill, just two minutes from the sea. There’s nothing better to clear your head, breathing in the fresh sea air. On a beautiful starry night at that! OK granted that the sea on that particular patch of beach is polluted, but it’s still the sea, and the air is still fresh, salty and somehow more real than other air. Who knows, it might even cure hiccups, though of course it didn’t.

It was a cool night, though it had been a hot day. The breeze was refreshing and gave my tired limbs a much-needed boost. Obviously I was still hiccupping loudly as I walked along, but at least there was no-one to hear. I was alone, there was just me, the sea, beach and the sky. And the stars. It was a clear night and I could see all the stars in the heavens. I’d just got new glasses so I’d actually gained a few stars that I hadn’t seen for years, so I walked with my head tilted back, in awe of the full beauty of the universe, which had grown by about 15% since I’d last looked at it.

After walking along the beach for about a mile I turned back onto the path and popped into the 24 hour garage for a pint of milk, much needed nourishment. Nina and me often used to call in at the same garage when we went for our night walks. I always drink milk, which is why I have such strong bones. I continued my walk, behind the Guildhall, past the ‘stage’ where Nina and I used to stop to play.

It wasn’t a real stage of course, but a stage-shaped and sized slab of concrete that jiggered out from the sea wall. We used to climb down to it on late nights and early mornings, and improvise stuff, like they did on Whose Line is it Anyway. I used to do my Patrick Barlow impression, I used to do a good Patrick Barlow impression. I remember once we’d passed the stage on a balmy summer’s night and there were a couple making love on it. “Why didn’t we think of that I said”.

We stopped going for night walks shortly afterwards, as I’d started work and Nina had started her final year, so we had to keep more sensible hours, so our improvisation never did stretch to love making.

This was what I was thinking as I clambered down from footpath onto the stage, which was empty. No young lovers, no would be actors. No Nina. I improvised a short song about trying to sing when you have hiccups, but it wasn’t the same on my own. I clambered down onto the beach and started walking back towards home. I removed my shoes this time, to enjoy the feel of the sand on my feet, the pleasure of unexpected late night exposure to the elements.

As I was walking a dot appeared on the horizon in front of me. This was just after 4.30 in the morning remember, so I hadn’t really expected to meet anyone else. The first early morning dog walkers wouldn’t appear for at least another hour, and the fat German aerobics man usually surfaced at about 5.15. But as I walked on there was undisputedly a figure emerging in front of me. I veered out of the figure’s path, choosing to tread on the outskirts of the sea itself. I enjoyed the cool splashes of the ocean on my newly exposed feet, as they sank into the semi firm comforting sand, each footstep involving a slurp of water and air and a rush of sand and tide, competing over the newly vacated foot-sized space, a hidden trail of inanimate activity behind me. Nature deplores a vacuum.

But the figure also veered, and continued to walk towards me. It was close enough now for me to establish that it was a man, a getting-ever-closer man. I wasn’t too worried, the beach isn’t exactly the place where mindless thugs go to pick a fight. The man was taller than me, dark-clad and moody-looking. He was bigger than me too, quite muscular, but I wasn’t worried, he was in his late 40s and I was sure I could get away from him if he did want to start trouble. He continued his trudge down the beach, and though he kept his boots on he also edged into the last laps of the tide. He was now directly in front of me walking straight at me. About three feet away he finally stopped, stared directly into my eyes and spoke. His voice was rough and strong, ageless almost, though it would not have been out of place on an elderly man.

“I wanna tell you a story,” he said. I didn’t respond, other than the obligatory hiccup. I looked at him and slowed to a non-moving pace, as if inviting him to continue. It’s not that I didn’t want to hear his story, but that I couldn’t really believe that that was what he’d said.

Obviously I should have spoken though, as his expression turned aggressive and his fists started to clench. “Don’t you want to hear my story then?” I nodded and hiccupped my assent, and he gestured for me to sit with him.

We moved up slightly to drier sand and sat down side-by-side staring out to sea. In the distance to our right I could just make out the dark outline of the Mumbles, as it curved elegantly away into the deep of the sea. At the tip of the Mumbles’ curve there were the occasional flashes from the lighthouse. Directly in front of me lay the Devon coastline, where on a clear night such as this I could make out up to a dozen different lighthouses twinkling in the distance, maybe more with my new glasses. And above us shone the stars, with barely a cloud inbetween, as if to remind us that we were all part of one big, complex, inter-connected universe.

It was in that rather inappropriate atmosphere that the man, staring out to sea now and not looking at me at all, started to speak.

“I’ve not always lived in Swansea,” he began gruffly. “I was born in Cardiff, and lived in England for several years. “My dad went there for work,” he added, furtively, as if in justification. “When I came back to Wales I veered from job to job. From place to place.” He was starting to sound almost wistful, and I hiccupped sympathetically.

“I used to live with a girl in Monmouthshire. For a few years. But it didn’t work, and I had to leave. I moved to Port Meirion. You know Port Meirion?” I shook my head. “It’s where they filmed the Prisoner. Y’know, the TV show. Well I lived there for two years or more. I lived in a church, can you believe it?” I shook my head again, this time hiccupping as I did so. “Not that I was religious or anything, it’s just that there wasn’t anywhere else to live.”

The man stretched back onto the sand, as if sunbathing, or starbathing. The stars shone benignly down upon him, a soft wind and the distant echo of occasional traffic prevented total silence interrupting his words. Again the mood was disturbed by one of my hiccups, but the man didn’t care. From his new position gazing up at the stars he continued his story.

“The church I lived in was made of wood. It was a wooden church, a small wooden church on a hill. Overlooking the beach. I had no other job so I took a job there as Fire Officer. You have to be careful in a wooden church.

Port Meirion is a popular place for tourists. Particularly,” and he sat up to emphasise this point “particularly with Prisoner fans. Prisoner fans come from all over to see Port Meirion. There was someone there from New Zealand once I recall. Other side of the world that is! They came from the other side of the world to see Port Meirion.

"It was where it was filmed you see. The Prisoner. The Prisoner was filmed at Port Meirion. That’s why the fans go there. To see the place it was filmed, the buildings and what not. Of course the church wasn’t there then. Not in the TV series. It was a very small village. And they didn’t need a church. Then the village grew and suddenly they realised they needed a church. It wasn’t a religious church. Just an official church.

"But the Prisoner fans loved the church. Even though it wasn’t in the series. It was very appropriate they used to say. Very fitting. A couple of years after the church was built the President of The Prisoner fan club got married there. He’d met his wife at a Prisoner convention. As you’d imagine the wedding was a huge Prisoner-themed affair. Everyone in costume! Everyone in a number!

"By the time I started working there every Prisoner fan went there to get married. Went to my little wooden church to get married. Some were like the President’s wedding, huge affairs, everyone in costume. But others were just the couple. Two young, innocent Prisoner fans who’d escaped from their parents and their histories to get married in The Village. And I was often asked to act as a witness for these weddings. The husband was usually number 6, the bride was usually number 2, or occasionally number 1. I thought number 1 was clever actually, if you’ve seen the last episode you might understand. I’d get £20 for less than an hour’s work, £25 the latter year. I was there two years. It was a happy time. The husband would joke that he was no longer a free man. And they’d leave, set up a family. Have a dog called Rover, or a child.

"One time that there was a really big wedding. It was the Secretary of Belgium’s fan club, marrying the Press Officer of the German group. There were hundreds there. It was themed on Episode 11. The guests were all dressed as chess pieces. The groom, Mr Fenchurch, was number 6, his bride, Laura Numbaum, was number 14, based on the character Rosalie Crutchley played in that episode.

"Unfortunately the church was double booked. The only time it happened the two years I was there. The wedding was booked for 2.30, and there was another wedding booked for 2.45. And this was another big wedding, an odd couple wouldn’t have mattered, but this was Laura Freeman, who wrote the biography of the guy who played the butler. What was his name?” I hiccupped ignorance. “Anyway another huge wedding party. And to make things worse they’d both chosen the same costumes. Even the bride wore the same 14 badge and identical queen’s outfit. So there were about 600 guests piling in or around my little wooden church. All dressed to the nines, as pawns, as knights, as numbers, with bridesmaids as rooks. And all of them speaking different languages; French, German, English, there was even someone there from New Zealand. Chaos.

"Eventually we sorted chaos into some sort of order. We made the latter wedding party carry the little plastic penny-farthings they sold at the guest shop, and separated the two groups. The guests thus divided we proceeded with the first wedding. The second wedding would start late, but it would go ahead.

"The wedding started, the priest began to read the bands. He said “Do you Lara Numbaum take Simon Acton Fenchurch to be your lawful wedded husband?” And the bride screamed. The church slowed to a complete hush, all ears intent in disbelief. The bride screamed. At the top of her voice she screamed at the priest. 'I am not a Numbaum. I am a Freeman'.”

I left the man laughing hysterically in a ball on the beach, his hoary chestnut of a tale completed. You never know, it might actually be funny if you’ve seen the Prisoner. But to me it was the last thing I needed when I was miserable with hiccups.