Disclaimer: this story is for fan purposes only. The characters and cited text are property of their respective owners (not me!) and are used here without permission. I owe a tremendous debt to Colin Dexter, whom the world lost in 2017. His creations have brought me joy and set my imagination free. I share here with you part of that imagination...
Introduction
It was 1999 in an Irish pub in Oxfordshire...
There were four of them around the table: Detective Inspector Morse, his faithful Sergeant Lewis, the boss Chief Superintendent Strange, and the pathologist Dr. Hobson. They had been investigating the death of Yvonne Harrison- a woman with ties to both Morse and Strange, but now a fresh corpse had turned up. Moments ago, Dr. Hobson had burst into the pub demanding improved conditions at the crime scene where Morse had discovered the body of one Harry Repp. Dr. Hobson knows how to make an entrance, the sergeant might have mused. Strange silenced Hobson by promising he'd take care of the problem and summarily waved her to a chair. Morse, true to form, quoted some poetry and then Morse and Strange retreated to a shared reverie, completely enthralled by the ebullient Irish music.
"And for a while Sergeant Lewis and Dr. Hobson remained silent, as if they knew they should be treading softly; as if they might be treading on other people's dreams." (Colin Dexter, The Remorseful Day, chapter 33, p. 151)
Despite the music, the silence between Lewis and Hobson was palpable. She was fuming about the state of the crime scene and he was awaiting cues from his superiors. After a a few speechless minutes that felt much longer, Lewis nodded towards the senior detectives and said to Hobson, "we might be here a while. I'll get you a drink." Hobson expressed her gratitude, and Lewis didn't mention to her that the drinks were on the house.
Lewis returned and set down a pint in front of Dr. Hobson. "We'll never know, Lewis," she said barely audibly over the music.
"What? Harry Repp's cause of death? Sure, it's mucky out there right now, but once you get him back to your lab for a post-mortem…"
"No, no, Harry Repp was obviously stabbed. I mean, Morse and Strange. We'll never know dream they're lost in right now."
Lewis nodded again.
Hobson leaned in towards Lewis so as not to attract their companion's attention by yelling. "Can you imagine those two, Oxford, in the 60's?"
Lewis chuckled. "You're right on that score; we'll never know the half of it." He sipped his pint. "I think, though, that Strange is for his part reminiscing about his wife. He mentioned a weekend in Cork together just before you'd arrived…"
"Ah," Hobson said somberly, remembering that Strange was recently widowed. "Better days."
Lewis agreed. "If I were in his shoes... well, I don't know what I'd do without Valerie, meself."
Hobson smiled at Lewis' domesticity. "She must miss you as well on nights such as these, when you and Morse have a case."
"Oh, she stays busy. There's her quilting bee, and then the wine shop." That piqued Hobson's attention. "Her extended family is Greek, you see; they have a Greek specialty food and wine shop. She started out just translating to English during special events like Cypress Sherry Week, but she's there pretty regular now that the kids are older. Not that she gets paid, mind you, but she keep us flush with retsina. Which is all well and good, but I'm more of an ale man meself.
"I see," Dr. Hobson said as she nodded towards Lewis' Guinness. "Isn't yours usually an orange juice, though, Sergeant?"
"Haven't you heard? I passed my inspector's course," Lewis said with pride- all the while knowing that he was still responsible for driving Morse's jaguar home.
"Cheers," Hobson answered by raising her glass towards Lewis, then to her lips. "Waiting for the right opportunity to make a move, then?" She nodded towards Morse. As bad luck would have it, the music had abruptly ceased and Lewis could not answer.
But Morse did- and he was a little put out at Hobson's suggestion. "Lewis," Morse bellowed, at the momentary pause between ballads. "Dr. Hobson does not want to hear you prattle on about your family or your banal existence. You'll bore her to death."
Lewis chuckled. "Right you are, sir," he said and lifted his Guinness once again.
The Irish melodies reprised, and raptured Morse away again. Hobson leaned in towards Lewis once more. "I don't mind, Lewis, hearing about your family."
Lewis smiled but hesitated to continue, nevertheless. Usually it was Lewis who could talk to a wall, but silence fell between them once more until Hobson decided to pick up the thread.
"So, Mrs. Lewis is fluent in Greek, then? You must travel."
"Not as much as she'd like, but she's always planning something. Val took a class in Greek, we both did for a while, but truth be told, her Greek was rather rubbish. She actually started picking up much more of the language from the clientele at the shop."
"It's the same for me. My German was always pitiful in the classroom, but when I am with my German friends I find myself picking up all manner of expressions."
"Do you have many German friends?"
"Well." Hobson demurred. "One friend in particular. My significant other, I suppose. He's a businessman who splits his time between Oxford and Germany. It's lovely there as well. I adore going to visit."
Lewis smiled; he was happy that Hobson had apparently given the boot to DCI Martin Johnson, who always called him Bob instead of Robbie. "Sounds exciting," he commented.
"Well, I don't know about that, but a long-distance relationship helps me to compartmentalise. You know, with all the corpses and whatnot in my daily routine."
"I'll drink to that," said Lewis, despite knowing that he belonged firmly in Hobson's 'corpse compartment.'
The music had ended, and Chief Superintendent Strange drained his drink. "Back to work, now, mateys."
Other people's dreams are blissfully simplistic; as Lewis and Hobson so readily imagined Strange reminiscing about his late wife on a weekend in Cork, so too did they imagine each other. Lewis saw Hobson frolicking in a Rhineland vineyard just as Hobson conjured up a cosy tableau of the Lewises and their children. But Morse? He remained a mystery to the sergeant and pathologist, among others. Lewis knew that Morse loved music, but this evening's tunes had made him particularly misty.
Lewis asked him later, "what were you dreaming about, sir, back there at the pub?"
"The case of course," Morse snapped. Maybe once he would have been remembering his tryst with Yvonne Harrison, but now he only dreamed of finding her killer- and Harry Repp's- once and for all. "Dreams change, Lewis; they morph, if you will permit me a reference to Morpheus. One day it hits you and you realise that you're starting a new chapter."
"Morpheus, the God of sleep, sir?"
"Not sleep, Lewis! Dreams! Pay attention." But Morse regretted his harsh tone and gazed benevolently at his sergeant. Morse seemed to know that he was writing his final chapter, but that Lewis would have many more ahead.
Author note: In the 1991 episode Greek Bearing Gifts, Robbie and Val are taking Greek lessons. In the 1992 episode Cherubim and Seraphim, Robbie comes home to ask his son where his mum is. The boy responds that she's down at the wine store translating because it's Cypress Sherry Week. That seemed to be a big leap, so I decided to run with it and give Val a Greek family and a part-time job.