When I knew her, my Aunt Beryl lived in rural Suffolk. This was, however, not always the case. She had been rather racy in her youth and when she was 21 she did something it had never occurred to anyone in our clan to do: she moved to Birmingham. Not only did she move to Birmingham but she took up with an Indian waiter newly arrived from Bombay. Despite a complete inability to communicate, love blossomed. Aunt B blossomed, too - which was something, for she was no beauty. She had quite sharp features and ears large enough to give the impression of two small moons setting directly behind her.
Then tragedy struck. One wet Tuesday evening the waiter met an untimely death. I can't really say too much about it because the case at the industrial tribunal was never really settled. Suffice it to say his demise was not entirely painless, involving as it did a newly cleaned linoleum floor, a surprisingly small knob of butter and an automatic chapatti-making machine. Aunt Beryl was devastated and my family united in grief for her. Never again was any one of my kin heard to order chicken tikka masala with anything approaching gusto.
Ladened with woe, Aunt Beryl got in her car and drove away. Mile after misery mile she steered until at last she came to the small town of Wigs-on-Merriemen in the heart of the county of Suffolk. Here she settled, partly because it was beautiful and partly because it was here that the big end of her Vauxhall Viva finally gave out. Her man had died, her car had died and I think something in my aunt's spirit faded to black.
Wigs-on-Merriemen was not so much a sleepy town as mildly catatonic. Despite this the burghers tended their houses carefully and were not shy of colourful facades. Perched on a hill, pink houses lined the high street like firm slices of fresh blancmange. Aunt Beryl's house stood at the foot of the town in a small field by itself. It was painted not pink but brilliant blue. When the sun rose behind the field, the house looked like the realisation of Chicken Lickin's worst fears. A chunk of sky come to rest on earth.
Aunt Beryl thought the house was perfect. Unfortunately so, too, did the fieldmice. For nearly 40 years they invaded her home. Aunt B had no fight left in her. Often she would let the mice have their way and flee to her garden. There she applied herself to raising dahlias and the creation of devotional tapestry kneelers for the church on the hill. The entire town knelt in comfort thanks to sad old Aunt Beryl.
All this went on until her 60th birthday. Then one fine June morning, Aunt B woke up, turned 60 and, for no discernible reason, her heart began to open again. My aunt knew that she would always love her waiter but at last, she was ready once more for romance.
On that day, on the hill above my aunt's mouse-infested house of sorrow, the town was preparing for a great event. The Macclesfield Medieval Marchers were marching in. The troupe consisted of 12 men who took one month each year to tour the country and recreate medieval jousting tournaments. Among these summer knights were a chiropodist, a pig farmer, the wet fish manager from Macclesfield's Tesco and Rodney. As chance would have it, ordinarily Rodney was in pest control. Had been for 30 years. He liked his work. He understood rodents and pests, their likes and dislikes, their attitudes to life. But Rodney had a secret longing for adventure. So he gave up his traps and pellets and powders for one summer to march with the men.
Except Rodney didn't march. He was too new to march. Rodney drove the Ford Transit van. At each fresh engagement, Rodney would park the van on the outskirts and the men would kit themselves up for the entrance march. It was no amateur affair. Much effort had been made in the provision of entirely authentic- looking costumes. Richard the Lionheart led the way in crimson and gold, followed by brocaded Lords of the Court, two pages and, the pièce de résistance, at each date in the tour, the marchers arranged for the loan of four sturdy horses. These hired steeds were bedecked in sumptuous cloth and carried the pride of four fully armoured knights.
The silver suits, although copies, were correct in every detail. Visors, gauntlets, breastplates and chainmail clanked and groaned as the horses bore their charges to battle. The sun sparkled on the highly polished armour and there was not a person in Wigs-on-Merriemen who could resist giving a little cheer at such a sight. Rodney slowly brought up the rear in the van. Not for him the adulation of the crowd.
The day went well. Battles were fought, swords brandished and local damsels rescued. By nightfall, everyone had retired to the Runt and Cockrell for a well-deserved pint. By closing, Rodney was mildly inebriated. He stepped out into the high street and realised with horror that he had forgotten to return the horses. They were still tied to a rail on the pitch.
The fresh air hit him hard and by the time he got to his charges, he was quite drunk indeed. The moon shone upon the steeds and Rodney knew, with the clarity given only by alcohol, that this was his moment. How he got dressed in armour by himself and up on a horse no one will ever know. Patently the effort exhausted him. Instead of a triumphant moonlit perambulation, Sir Rodney fell asleep astride his mount.
He awoke near dawn to find that the visor on his helmet had fallen shut as he slept. Still heavy with the night's activities, he leant forward and tried to unclasp the metal device. The horse mistook this move as an invitation to walk forward. The armour was heavy and Rodney had never been on a horse before. His body swayed violently and the trainee knight dug his heels in to try to gain some balance. The horse mistook this move as an invitation to begin to trot. Before he knew it, Rodney and the horse were coming round the corner at the top of the high street at a remarkably quick pace.
The high street ran in a straight line from the top of the hill all the way down to Aunt B's house. The sun was just starting to rise and perhaps the horse saw, for the first time, the lure of the open road. Perhaps some distant echo of his forefathers' Light Brigade heroics stirred in his fetlocks for he began to gallop. Clinging on for dear life, Rodney hurtled past the pink houses, past the Runt and Cockrell and on down the cobbled hill. Through the narrow slit of his closed visor, Rodney could see little. He could feel the descent of the horse but there appeared to be nothing but blue sky ahead. At last the horse, overwhelmed by burden and speed, tripped and Rodney flew through the air.
The summer knight flew to the heavens and into Aunt B's garden. He came to rest in a bed of dahlias where Aunt Beryl, driven from her house by the mice, sat dreaming of romance. With great presence of mind, she leant over to open Rodney's visor. They stared at each other. She saw in him her knight in shining armour. Perhaps, with her pointy nose and large ears, he saw in her an echo of the rodents who until now had been his life.
By autumn they were married. Rodney rid the house of fieldmice and when he got down on one knee to ask for her hand, Aunt Beryl made sure her knight knelt in great comfort.
This series continues next Monday. Sandi Toksvig's Whistling for the Elephants is published this month by Black Swan at £6.99.
