Remembering the bus journey of more than fifty years past, he smiled. February 14^th 1958: Valentine’s Day, the day following their wedding, and the first day of their honeymoon.

His mother was unhappy with their wedding date. “Thirteenth,” she had sniffed, shaking her head, as he stood before her, two months earlier, delivering a reassuring squeeze to the hand of his bride to be, who squirmed uncomfortably under the weight of his mothers frown. “Unlucky date,” and then, with an uncommon display of optimism, “could be worse, I suppose. At least it’s not a Friday.”

The feelings of excitement and anticipation, of their first journey together as man and wife, had been viciously crushed on arrival. Humpbuckle-on-sea was an old fashioned place, even then. Grey and listless: even the sea crawled up the pebbled beach, reluctant, bored, until it could bear it no longer and ran back down the shore laughing and free.

Mrs B’s B&B was one of many drab sea-front guesthouses. From the outside it appeared merely neglected and uncared for, while internal inspection revealed years of systematic abuse. It smelt of boiled cabbage, damp towels and cheap aftershave. The latter – they discovered at breakfast the next morning – radiated from Mrs B’s twenty year old son, a pimply but likable youth, who flaunted a ready wit and an Elvis-style quiff, greased with oil liberated from the deep-fat fryer in Chippy’s Chip Shop on the pier, where he could be found serving up one-liners and fish suppers, every Friday and alternate Wednesdays.

Mrs B had greeted the newly-weds with a brisk nod of her head and a meagre smile. She resembled a particularly unhappy bulldog.  Their wedding certificate was examined with a suspicious eye, while she barked the rules of the house at them.

She led them up two flights of creaking stairs, only to abandon them in a ghastly twin room, decorated with a fading painting depicting the crucifixion of Christ, two moth-eaten bedspreads (chosen with an expert eye, so as to clash spectacularly with the peeling floral wallpaper), and a spider called Boris, who lived adjacent to the damp patch in the shadowy corner above the cracked sink. The plumbing hummed when the sink was in use, and thumped alarmingly whenever the toilet – a long, cold walk to the far end of the corridor – was flushed.

Lowering their suitcase onto the threadbare carpet, he joined his wife, where she sat on the bed nearest the window, and took her hand. When she turned to him, he looked deep into her eyes, and was surprised to see laughter, where he had expected to see tears.

The ability to find amusement in that which would make others cry characterised their relationship, setting the tone of the marriage. It was what he loved about her most.

The bus pulled in to the bus station, and he waited patiently for the few remaining passengers to get off; the young mother, her son asleep in her arms; a young girl, no more than eight, mobile phone clamped to her ear, gum chewed loudly; a serious looking young man, bag clutched to his chest. He watched them all file off the bus, before rising unsteadily, painfully, to his feet.

They returned to this seaside resort every year, grumbling whenever it threatened to succumb to the pressure of modernisation, although it never yielded. They would sit on the same bench at the end of the pier. They could still just make out their initials, carved on that initial trip and now worn by weather, time and the friction of other people’s buttocks. Sometimes they would throw chips to the gulls that swooped around them, shouting their insults into the wind. But mostly they would sit, and find humour in each other and the world around them.

A smile on his lips, he gently lifted the urn from the seat beside him. He nodded a thank you to the bus driver as he climbed down the steps. He let his tired feet take them both to the pier for their final journey together.

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The official story, as told by the Humpbuckle-On-Sea Museum (open 7 days a week, 9.30am-4.30pm, except Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays,9.30am-12pm and Sundays and Mondays when it is closed), is as follows:

“Queen Victoria loved the town and spent many a summer of her childhood playing on the renowned golden beaches of Humpbuckle Sands, using a specially made Jewel-encrusted bucket and spade to help her build and craft replicas of the various royal palaces she lived in”. Indeed the museum has, on display, a copy of the certificate, dated 11th June 1829, awarding the young queen-to-be 3rd prize and commending her “for effort, and fine detail. We especially liked the one with the little turrets”.

This official history, according to one local “historian”, Michael Spatberry (writing in the book Humpbuckle-On-Sea: the dark truth uncovered), is “absolute hogwash, and downright ridiculous”. According to Spatberry “Victoria did not so much as dip a toe in the sea on Humpbuckle Sands, let alone set foot in the town. Furthermore there is no evidence that she ever won, or even entered, a sandcastle building competition anywhere in Britain, either as a child or indeed, later, as a reigning monarch”.

Indeed Spatberry claims that the whole Victoria connection was made up by a con artist (identified only as R Butler, in council records – presumably the “R” stood for Royal) who claimed to be Victoria’s number one valet, and subsequently ripped off the town by several thousand pounds (which, to quote Spatberry, was “a lot of money in those days”).  Spatberry claims that the man appeared in 1879, just months before the new railway was due to be completed and persuaded the council (led by mayor Sebastian Preston – great-grandfather of our current esteemed mayor) to give him large sums of money in order to help organise the day. Unfortunately, the Queen failed to attend the opening, and the mysterious R Butler was also absent; vanished from Humpbuckle-On-Sea and never to be seen again.

Many people believe the above is the deluded rantings of a paranoid and jealous man. He once worked in the very museum he now ridicules with relish. Indeed he applied for the post of Head Curator, but left the museum shortly after the job was awarded to his childhood friend Argil Wilchipper. Sadly, Spatberry and Wilchipper have exchanged but three words, since the day of the interview (those words being “liar”, “mad” and “idiot”). However, Spatberry claims, there is a growing number of people who are willing to support him publicly. It may be true that, after a few pints down the Kings Shilling, there are people to be found who may reluctantly concede that in all the many biographies of the Queen Victoria there is not a single mention of Humpbuckle-On-Sea, but it is hard to find anyone who has anything good to say about the failed museum worker.

In addition to, what has become known locally as, Vicky-gate, Spatberry has some interesting, if not libellous, things to say about the origin of the name Humpbuckle-On-Sea. He states that Humpbuckle derives from the middle-ages when the region was renowned for the growing of hemp and the manufacture of belts which, Spatberry writes “were sought after by well-to-do people – from places like London – not locals, obviously.” He goes on to say that the town was known as Hempbuckle, but the name gradually changed to Humpbuckle, due to local pronunciation, or – to quote Spatberry, again – “the bastardisation of the Queen’s English by ignorant yokels”. Spatberry make yet further claims: firstly, that “the difficulties in pronunciation in this area, and the decline of the traditional hemp belt-making business, was due, in no small measure, to the vast quantities of the product being smoked recreationally”; secondly he alleges the reason that so many “errors, mistakes and utter nonsense is spread by this noxious and evil organisation [the Humpbuckle-On-Sea Museum] is due to the continued consumption of so-called ‘medicinal herbs’, by the bucket-load”.

These claims are vigorously denied by the Head Curator, Argil Wilchipper, who states “the man has set out to make a complete fool out of Humpbuckle-On-Sea, and himself. Whilst there is no doubt he has been successful in achieving his second goal, I trust Humpbucklians will not help him in succeeding in the first: don’t buy his books.” As to the claims about cannabis? “If there was ever a case of the pot-head calling the kettle black, it is this,” Wilchipper asserts. “Who was caught, as an adolescent boy, growing cannabis in his mother’s greenhouse? If anyone should be accused of consuming bucket-loads of the stuff it is him.  And he can put that in his pipe and smoke it.”

Needless to say, Spatberry’s book is not easily obtainable in Humpbuckle-On-Sea. In fact it is only available in one bookshop (the one owned by Spatberry, himself).

Spatberry's deserted shop, yesterday

But Humpbuckle-On-Sea is a strange place, and August the strangest month in a very strange year.

The man who currently stood in her doorway, rubbing his posterior, wore strange like a fine suit:  tailor-made for him.

“Your wasps have gone and stung me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emily, hand on door, couldn’t understand what the poor man was talking about.

“Your wasps have gone and stung me,” the man repeated. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not convinced I follow you, Mr…?” Emily was not entirely certain she liked the look of the fellow, and was utterly positive she didn’t approve of his tone.

“Look,” the man said, his small eyes narrowing, so much that Emily thought they may disappear into his forehead. “Are you simple? Your… wasps… stung… me.” The finger, of the hand previously used for backside excoriation, now prodded Emily’s shoulder – quite rudely, she thought – emphasising each word. “You have a wasps nest in your garage, and one of the little blighters has gone and stung me. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

Emily took a deep breath and counted to three, in her head.

No, that didn’t help: not at all. If anything she was more furious, and the obnoxious little man was not only still there, but he continued to poke her.

“I’ll tell you what I will do about it,” she said, firmly taking hold of his finger and removing it from her shoulder. “I shall find out which wasp slipped it’s leash during this morning’s obedience class, and give it a right telling off. I have warned them not to go near anything lower on the evolutionary ladder than themselves, but you know how wasps are: wilful little ‘blighters’.”

The man pulled his finger, from her grip and took a step backward. It was his turn to look confused, anxious even.

“Then,” said Emily, starting to warm to her subject. “I will pin a little medal on its chest – do wasps have chests, I wonder – and give it the rest of the day off. I shall petition the Government to make this day a new National Bank Holiday in the name of said wasp – let’s call him Jasper – and will organise the first Wasp Parade, culminating in Jasper being crowned “King Wasp 2009.” The man stumbled on the uneven steps as he took a further step back. Emily followed, her finger now pointing at him.

“In the meantime,” she said. “I advise you to stay away from my garage and stop bothering my wasps. They find it difficult enough to concentrate on their work, as it is. Furthermore, please avoid my front door; I am currently training an army of ants in the ancient art of Jujitsu. Each is issued with a photograph of you, and instructions to bite on sight.”

Emily strode up to her front door, turning back towards the man, a sweet smile on her lips.

“Do have a lovely day,” she said. The man stood blinking in the afternoon sun, as the door swung closed.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Taking a deep breath, to help mask her anxiety, she strode to the door and flung it wide open.

“Now look here…” the words died: she was staring into the frowning face of a policeman.

“Do you mind if I come in,” he said, removing his helmet. “I’m afraid there has been a complaint.

Over a cup of tea, and a plate of homemade biscuits, Emily told the policeman (“Simon, call me Simon”) everything. When he stopped laughing, Simon told her he didn’t think any actual crime had been committed as it was not illegal to threaten someone with an imagined army of ninja ants.

“I shouldn’t really say this,” Simon said, dipping his third ginger nut into his tea. “But anyone making Darren Creaply back off deserves a bloody medal. He’s the head of the local Neighbourhood Watch Scheme, so we know him very well.”

Later, at the door, Simon paused. His blue eyes avoided contact with hers. “Look, I don’t know if you are seeing anyone,” he said. “And I am not allowed to ask people out when working. But if you were in the Kings Shilling, on Saturday night, it would be nice to buy you a drink.”

Another strange day, Emily thought.

But in a good way.

Why don’t you come and visit us – you will always be sure of a warm welcome!