MS

MS

After Janet’s major MS attack had left her wheelchair bound and both of us somewhat afraid of the future, we moved to Cumbria.

That night we had talked about what the future may hold for us. We had stayed awake until late and after we had finally fallen asleep I had dreamt.

There was a house, double fronted stone with Clematis or climbing rose covering the front of the house. The location was not declared in the dream. I entered the dream house through the open front door and ignoring the doors to the left and right, leading off the hall I climbed the stairs. Half way up on the right hand side before the stairs turned there was a doorway and in the dream I knew that this was a room over the garage.

Next morning when we awoke I turned to Janet and said, everything is going to be OK I have seen our next home in a dream and we will be happy there and you will get better.

This promise was not altogether true.

First, Janet was rushed into the Selly Oak hospital in Birmingham. She had developed a DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) this was a story in itself and comes later but as a result of this she was back in hospital being pumped with bags of Heparin and the specialist warned me that she might not make a full recovery or might die if the clots didn’t break up and entered her lungs or brain.

But she did recover, at least from the DVT and was released. To celebrate we took a drive in the car and she was feeling so much better we stopped for a pub lunch in The Boot, by the canal near Warwick.

Leaving her with our young son William I went to order drinks and food and then decided to telephone the girls to say that we were OK but would be late.

It was then that I heard a terrible screaming coming form the Bar area of the Pub. The terrified voice of a child crying, ‘She’s dead, she’s dead’. It was William, outside I discovered Janet lying where she had fallen from the bench she was sitting on, a young off duty medic was attending her, although he soon gave way when a more experienced, older nurse intervened.

An ambulance was called and Janet was rushed into Warwick Hospital, this first Grand Mal seizure, was followed by two or three Petit Mal seizures in rapid succession.

That night I left her in hospital and drove William home, his sisters gathered round and after he had cried a few more tears and finally gone off to bed and sleep I again shared the distressing news with my daughters.

I went into the kitchen for a drink, maybe a glass of wine I don’t recall, returning to the dining room I bumped against a chair, it was a single, rather fine, carver chair we had bought in a local antique shop and one of which we were rather fond.

In a fit of rage, against the injustice of it all, against the apparent absence of God in all these events and particularly against the chair that had bumped into me, giving me a sharp dig in the ribs, I picked the chair up and smashed it on the table.

I kept smashing and smashing until the chair was reduced to a bundle of kindling, the table top was somewhat battered and dented and I was exhausted.

My daughters stood, opened mouthed and watched in silence. After I had finished I commented, ‘There! A mature and adult response to the days events!’

Over a glass of wine I looked over the post which had arrived, the newspapers and that week’s copy of The Church Times.

I take The Church Times partly out of loyalty, partly out of interest, partly to see what is being said in the Faith section on the lectionary for the week ahead, partly to keep up with names and faces and church gossip and from time to time, the Jobs section. Usually my reading of the paper ends with it being rolled into a ball and tossed into the waste paper basket with an expression of fury or disgust at some particularly inept comment or news of a particular promotion.

On this particular night, in the Jobs section I saw an advert for a colleague, to share pastoral oversight of a small group of four parishes in Cumbria.

At this point in my career, I had been a curate twice, a Vicar, a Cathedral Canon, a Bishop’s Officer and was then Team Leader of the Birmingham Drugs Prevention Initiative ( a Grade Seven Post) so the though of becoming a curate again was to say the least, an anti-career move.

My middle girl Sophie was sharing a glass of wine with me and I asked her what she thought, she immediately focused on the Georgian Rectory standing in the centre of the picture post-card Cumbrian Village, ‘You and Mum deserve some time to get over the last few months’ she said. With that, I picked up the ‘phone and called the number.

It was only after the phone was answered in a soft Northern Irish brogue that I realised that it was 11 30 at night.

Nevertheless I pressed on with the call and to his everlasting credit, and probably now, eternal reward, Neil listened.

Of course I should have been calling the Samaritan’s, but as I talked, Neil kept listening and when finally I finished he simply asked my address and offered to send the details and an application form in the post.

By the time it arrived I had been back to the hospital, Janet had been transferred back to Selly Oak and the Neurologist whom we called ‘Red Braces’ had responded to my anger in a spectacularly defensive manner, and I had been told that he wouldn’t talk to me again, partly we later thought, because of the incompetent manner in which Janet’s spinal tap had been managed, although his boss the professor assured us that the procedure had been undertaken in a perfectly standard manner.

Also by then I had returned to work, visiting Janet in hospital at lunch times on my own and in the evening with William, the girls, by now all back at University.

Work was interesting and satisfying and I enjoyed the challenge and the chance to turn my mind away from personal matters and onto matters of public policy and in particular UK drugs policy and the approach to the ‘war on drugs’ being waged by the then Conservative Government.

I was part of an interesting team lead by Alan Norwood in the Home Office I enjoyed the support and challenge of my colleagues from around the country and in particular enjoyed working with the small team that I had assembled in Birmingham.

My secretary Claire called my early in the afternoon to say that there was a call for me from a Revd Neil Steadman from Cumbria.

By then I only had a distant memory of the events of a few weeks before and wasn’t at all sure why someone should be ringing me from Cumbria, however as soon as I heard his voice I recalled that late night conversation.

Neil was ringing to ask if I was going to complete and return the application form he had sent me because the closing date was a couple of days away.

I had to admit that I hadn’t really had time but I would look at it again that night. Neil offered me a Fax number, there was no email in those days, at the local school in Brampton and encouraged me to send him something, preferably by the next day.

Even though I was busy that afternoon and I had to collect William from school and we had hospital visiting and he would have homework to finish before bed I looked in my bag and found the application form. I quickly re-read the details of the job which confirmed that it was a relatively junior job, titled as curate and licensed to Neil as Rector designate of the new Benefice, based on Brampton with Castle Carrock, where the house was, Cumrew and Farlam.

I quickly hand wrote the application and faxed it to the number I had been given by Neil little realising the long term implications that this casual application would have for Janet, myself and especially Sophie and Charlotte, our two younger girls.

Janet was discharged, Red Braces still not speaking to me directly, she returned home and for the next months remained dependant on a wheelchair for her mobility and on me for her care as I became Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.

We re-arranged the house so that our sitting room became a bed-sitting room and Janet received her visitors in State sitting in her big brass-bed propped up by cushions.

Then I received a letter post-marked Cumbria inviting me to an interview.

We talked long into the night and eventually decided that there was nothing final about it, after all I might not be offered the job. Janet had been horrified when I described the telephone conversation I had with Neil with its outpouring of personal need laced with anger at what had occurred.

So we planned a trip North using the opportunity to visit Sophie in Newcastle before travelling on to Cumbria where we had been invited to stay with a Mr and Mrs Milburne, in their fell-side farmhouse called Tottergill, just outside Castle Carrock.

As we drove along the A69 from Newcastle we were struck by the sweet smell of just cut pine from the forestry near to Hexham, it was a scent which felt both rural and distant from the Cities where we had lived for past twenty three years and Castle Carrock when we arrived seemed to justify its picture post-card reputation. It was dark as we drove through the village and it was impossible to see the house although its four-squareness and age seemed to identify it as we passed.

Tottergill was simply superb with marvellous views to Carlisle and away across the Solway to the Galloway Hills and the Milburne’s, as might  be expected from a couple who had been farmers and who had offered Bed and Breakfast for years were superb hosts and ensured that we were made welcome and comfortable in our accommodation.

The interview process was well managed, One of the Church Wardens, John Smith was County Librarian and his influence showed in the professionalism with which matters were conducted.

An evening supper party for all the candidates was held in The Vicarage and I was impressed when Neils’ wife, Myrtle asked if I was the same Geoffrey Smith whose poem had been anthologised in A Touch of Flame.

I was.

The process involved a guided tour of the four churches, for much of which we used our own car and Janet had to sit and wait for me to be shown inside churches I had to apologise and reassure our various hosts that she was not being discourteous but walking was still a challenge.

Finally, we arrived at Castle Carrock, the Church was lovely and appeared to be very well cared for, as I made this observation the smile on Winnie Milburn’s face made it clear who did the caring.

As I stood on the grass of the Village Green in Castle Carrock I could feel the roots shooting down from the soles of my shoes and I remember thinking, ‘If Janet could get better anywhere, she could get better here’.

And so to the house, double fronted, stone built as a Rectory in 1726.  The Clematis ran up the north facing wall and along the telephone wire to the boundary hedge. The door was open and we were invited inside by the Church Wardens.

A large living room with a wood burning fire-place to the right, a study to the left, a dining room after that a cellar-head with steps leading down and a staircase leading up.

‘and said Joan Moore, half-way …’

‘up the stairs’, I continued, there is a another room on the right’.

This was the house of the dream and suddenly I wanted to move here, to live here and for Janet to enjoy the peace and quiet that living in rural Cumbria would offer.