Beryl James Crump (dubbed Berry Jam Crumpet by her associates)
arrived at the IM in a most ingenuous manner. Clothed in a mackintosh
and carrying a large patent leather tote (which contained all of her
essential possessions-a tooth brush, two spare pairs of glasses, and her
cat), she boarded the last ferry from the mainland one day, on an
impulse, and joined a large group of tourists heading for the island.
It was toward the end of the summer season, and Beryl recounts that
there was a strange tug at her heart as she walked past the dock; some
notion that there may not be another chance to make the day trip until
next year, or perhaps ever again. So before she could clarify her
impulse, she was crossing the calm seas, assuring Whittington, her cat,
that all would be well.
Beryl James was a small, mouse
of a lady, about thirty five, with a high pitched voice and large, black
spectacles. Her curly blond, shoulder length hair fanned out from her
face in all directions; she seldom worried about it unless it obstructed
her view, in which case she tied it back in a ponytail, high on her
head. Beryl James was the name given to her by her parents in order to
efficiently cover all bases; they were hurriedly packing for a long
trip to Africa and did not have time to wait for her to be born. So
when she did make her first appearance on the planet, all legal
documents had been filled out, and only the time of her entrance need be
recorded. Male or female, her name was extraordinarily efficient; had
she been a little boy, she would have been called B. James Crump, as
dignified as anything. Unfortunately for Beryl and her very focused
parents, their ship went down in a gale somewhere along the coast of
west Africa, and poor Beryl had been left behind in the care of an
elderly aunt. There had always been rumors in the Crump family as to
their lineage; it was said that Beryl was one of a long line of
descendents of Henry VIII and a certain scullery maid. Although no one
had ever proven it, no one could disprove, either. Given the lusty
monarch's reputation, it was entirely possible.
So on
that brilliant afternoon when Beryl and Whittington eagerly followed the
group up the broad avenue to the IM, fate seemed to step in to change
her life. No one paid much attention to Beryl or her quiet little cat.
They wondered through the halls of plaster casts-the laughing Dionysus,
the solemn Athena, the solid dark cast of the Rosetta Stone. Beryl
felt that she had found her destiny, although she couldn't explain
exactly how or why. The most powerful fascination came in the King's
Chamber. A reconstruction of the bedroom of her (questionable)
ancestor, it was equipped with a dark, palatial fourposter hung with
heavy red velvet curtains. Beryl felt strangely relaxed and
uninhibited as she calmly removed the barrier ropes and climbed upon the
bed, assuring herself that it was for only a moment. Whittington curled
up beside her, and soon she was fast asleep.
No one
noticed the absence of the mousy little lady as they climbed onto the
ferry and headed back to the mainland. She had not come with any friends
and had no living relatives. Just as the group approached the docks, a
storm set in, cutting off the island for several days. All of the
tourists felt fortunate that they had missed the storm and visited the
strangely charming museum on the tiny island. Beryl continued to sleep
in Henry VIII's reproduction chamber for several hours, until Whittington
became tired of chasing out the mice and drinking from the fountain. It
was not until the weekly visit from the maid, whose job it was to dust
the chamber, that anyone knew about Beryl.
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