The Youth of Today

Now that the longer evenings are well and truly with us, Tramp and I generally set off for our main walk of the day at around 6.00 p.m. Last night we came back past the Church Hall where young teenagers were lining up for Youth Club in a rather disorderly fashion.

The noise of course was astonishing, but it was driven by excitement and anticipation I believe, rather than any desire to misbehave. Two or three of the girls at the end of the queue spotted Tramp and two came over to stroke him, overpowering us both in their effusiveness.

          ‘Oh, he’s so lovely… so cute!’

          ‘Isn’t his fur soft! I just sooooo  love dogs!’

          They were playing to the gallery, of course. They were full-on, but hardly threatening. Eventually I managed to peel their arms from around his neck, and Tramp and I carried on our way.

          There is a lot of grumbling about young people in our village, as I’m sure there is in many others. At the last Church Hall meeting, scuffed paintwork looked like it might become a major issue, but Youth Club members had already volunteered to organise a working-bee to clean all the paintwork, which of course batted away any further objections.

Another recent complaints non-runner was the matter of the lad who had managed to break a window pane at the hall during a rather too boisterous game of table tennis. His father made him buy a new pane of glass from his pocket money, ready-cut to size, then he had to fit it. Finally he had to come back again and touch up the surrounding paintwork. He made an awful mess of it, and neither glazing nor interior design should probably feature in his career development plan, but that wasn’t the point.

This is really our village’s pathetic level of vandalism, if you can even call it that. Personally, I'd like to see a little more rebellion. Sam, the Youth Club worker employed by our Parish Council, often says that the worst he has to contend with is getting the kids to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ And then only sometimes.

He adds, “Yet parents are always saying they won’t send their children to Youth Club because it’s too rough. Here, in this village! Too rough!!” Sam has worked in much harsher environments.

We did have a case of outright theft in the village, though, last year. The shop often sells the tickets for local fund-raisers – this time it was for a quiz night and fish and chip supper (from the mobile van that was booked especially – normally it parks up in the village every week, much like the mobile library). Walking home from the shop one night, Mrs Purton noticed a plastic container and a number of ‘Quiz Nite + Fish ‘n’ chip Supper’ tickets strewn in the ditch near her house. She immediately turned around and took them back to the shop – but the money for the tickets sold, of course, was not there.

I was in the shop myself at the time and it was easy to narrow-down the list of suspects - given Mrs Purton had not spotted the discarded tickets when she left home, and that there had only been one other customer in the shop within the critical time-frame.

“I bet you it was that young Douglas from up the lane,” pronounced June at the shop. “He’s been skulking around the shelves a lot lately, and today he had me go out the back for a packet of Cheese and Onion, which somehow we’d run out of. He must have taken the ticket box then.”

“He would have been casing the joint,” said Mrs Purton, obviously affected by an over-indulgence in crime thrillers since her retirement.

But the matter was easily resolved. June rang Douglas’ father then and there, and within twenty minutes he had extracted a confession and dragged him down to the shop to apologise. He still had the money, and he handed it over, right down to the last penny. Furthermore, he agreed to help clear tables at the Church Hall after the fish ‘n’ chip supper.

No more was said, but I suspect that a life of crime will not feature too prominently on Douglas’ future career path.

Missing Home

This week as I write, I am away from my village – and away from Tramp, while I stay with friends in a big city. I’ve savoured the sights, and the cuisine. I’ve worked diligently through the guidebook to leave no corner unexplored, no historical fact unacknowledged. I’ve felt the pace, loaded with anticipation. Now I’m ready to return home.

          I’ve walked along hard streets and now find I miss soft clay beneath my feet (even where it means dodging the quagmire churned by horses’ hooves). I’ve felt the texture of smooth granite and polished brass handles and I miss the roughness of a splintering fencepost and the cold, wet rust of a gate’s chain. I’ve wandered through department stores and clothes’ rails, and now I miss the brush of a stray leafy branch against my face.

          I miss the hammering of woodpeckers that you never see, the hedgerows alive with chirruping birdsong and the pad of Tramp’s soft footfall at my side. I miss the blanket of silence as night falls, broken by an owl’s cry or the impossible trill of a nightingale. Instead I’ve settled into the continuous growl and rumble of traffic, mingled with a screech of brakes or a distant call of car horns.

          And the bitter odour of engines rising from the street is no substitute for the freshness of clean Spring leaves after rain, its sharp greenness lingering above where the air is earthy and still, deep in the woods.

          Of course I’ve met some friendly people here, but I miss those I know in my village, and the time they take to greet and to talk about nothing of consequence, when considered at a city level. I’m looking forward to being among them with Tramp, enjoying the familiarity of home – something I could not feel it so intensely had I not been away.

Harmonious Diversity

I suppose our village is little different from any other in the ultra conservative South East when it comes to what I call ‘tributary racism.’

          By this I mean the kind of racism that trickles often unnoticeably, yet persistently, as an undercurrent to social exchange. It can take you unaware, though, shifting what you assumed was solid ground under your feet, as it surfaces to join the mainstream.

Most often, tributary racism is manifested through the odd, passing remark.

          ‘And then, I was put through to somewhere in India and of course I couldn’t understand a word they said!’ – this from peg-toothed Jill in the pub the other night, as she built to a crescendo in an account of her recent foray into telephone banking. She splutters as the ice from her G&T hits her gums.

          ‘Then, when I telephoned my mum, she’d got some dodgy Poles there that she’d let in the house to fit insulation in the loft!’ – this I overheard in the shop, yesterday.

          Quite apart from the assumptions held here – that Indians and Poles by turns are incomprehensible in their speech and a race prone to illegal working practices – this tributary racism gathers pace by resting on the belief that I am of the same mind as the speaker. This was all too evident in the pub last Friday night, when Janet and Brian called in for a drink. They had recently been up to London to the theatre, and witnessed a knife fight between two youths, right in front of them, there in Leicester Square.

          ‘They would have been black, I suppose,’ interrupted Old Norm.

          ‘Of course,’ acknowledged Brian, with scarcely a pause in the story.

          It is often difficult to perceive tributary racism before it surfaces. Lawrence caught me as Tramp and I walked past the end of his drive today, as he was wheeling one of his bins around. He has recently started using the internet and receives circular emails of jokes from his friends at the golf club; he was keen to tell me one that he’d read that day. The gist of it was, a teacher is reading the class register that comprises Indian and Asian sounding names – all pronounced with gusto by Lawrence as he adopts what he considers to be the appropriate accent each time, to hilarious effect, in his mind. The punch line comes when the teacher gets to the English name, ‘Alison’ but pronounces it as if it were Indian. I didn’t laugh; but I found myself consoling Lawrence for this, saying how it probably needed to be read to get the impact of the spellings. By saying nothing I felt complicit, but Lawrence is my neighbour and I didn’t want to offend him by taking the moral high ground.

          One of the Doctors at the local GPs’ surgery in the next village is Black, and of course Lawrence had no hesitation in calling her out to Geraldine when she was ill, just before Christmas. But he would not see any trace of hypocrisy in this. Still, to be fair, a lot of older folk find it difficult to know when they are being racist, especially when it comes to tributary racism. Lawrence, for instance, cannot bring himself to describe the Doctor as Black, and might describe everything else about her to identify her to you, to avoid mentioning the most obvious distinguishing feature.

‘It was the lady doctor that came. You know the one: she is tall, dark haired. Very friendly. Smiles a lot; quite outgoing. Wears smart suits…’

Only if pushed does Lawrence mention the fact that the Doctor is Black, and even then he uses the outmoded term, ‘coloured.’ Maybe this is because ‘coloured’ is less definite and so carries less certainty. Or maybe he cannot bring himself to acknowledge that Black people might have the right to decide on their own descriptor, themselves.

After the exchange with Lawrence, Tramp and I continued up the lane and into the woods on our walk. The ground was firm underfoot; no sloshing through mud today! Once in the trees, the intensity of blue from the soaring haze of bluebells made me catch my breath. They are now in full flower, nodding above a leaf mat of uninterrupted dark green glossiness that covers all remnants of brown, winter earth below. I wonder if the impact would be so strong, though, without the frail white anemones scattered though, the whole forming a vision of harmonious diversity.

Village Shopping

I needed to buy a loaf of bread today, so Tramp and I called at the village shop on the way back from our walk – one that took us through glorious sun-filled woods and fields.

The shop has recently started selling a range of breads supplied by a local bakery, branching out from the previous stock of white sliced, brown sliced and, on a good day, Hovis. And the new breads are a veritable feast for the eyes, ranging through rosemary and sundried tomato ciabattas and paninis, to walnut wholemeals, seeded granaries and dusty white bloomers – all displayed on rough wooden shelves covered in gingham-checked paper.

But it’s not just the dedicated bakery section that’s undergone the rustic revamp – if that’s not a contradiction in terms. June and George, who own and run the shop, have recently gone for the whole Mary Portas ‘country shopping’ experience – it’s not quite as ‘bleached pine’ as the new ‘farm shops’ that are springing up everywhere, but it’s getting that way. So a delicatessen counter now runs along one side of the shop, serving sliced meats and cheeses, along with mysterious marinating delicacies featuring goats cheese and various oils. Sandwiches and rolls can now be made to order from this counter. Meanwhile, home-baked -looking cakes and luxury pates and olives, oils, jams (sorry: conserves) and continental-looking thin biscuits, are all attractively presented in select groupings on little tables to rummage through around the rest of the shop. Fake straw and baskets feature a lot. The effect is not one of a bring-and-buy stall at a fete, I hasn’t to add; but a tasteful discovery experience.

Apparently there was a touch of ‘panic buying’ at our village shop when the snow first fell and people were reluctant to use their four-wheel-drive vehicles in the inclement weather. The artistically arranged displays were forgotten for a while and we were back to normal as far as layout was concerned, as June and George couldn’t keep up with demand. I couldn’t help laughing when I mentioned this panic shopping to my neighbour, Lawrence, as he cleared a track down his drive for his bins.

‘I can’t understand why people have to buy so much just as soon as the weather turns,’ he said. ‘I don’t panic-buy. I just bought extra bread today, and a couple of spare pints of milk, in case the milkman can’t get through. That’s all.’

June’s father was enlisted to help with the rush at the time.

‘I expect you’ve found things you didn’t know you had,’ I joked with him, as I looked round at the shelves almost stripped bare of goods.

‘Don’t know what we’ll do if we don’t get a veg. delivery this week, though,’ he glowered pessimistically, and characteristically, despite the evidence before us of a remarkable set of monthly turnover figures building up.

At this time of year, though, the main rush is after school, when there is almost gridlock in the village centre from 4x4s parked up, while mothers take their offspring into the shop for treats, and maybe a bottle of wine for themselves for later, as they consider the prospect of tackling Miss Craig’s Maths homework.

Anyone who knows the workings of the shop will be aware of how slow it can be to get served at this time of day, as the children try to decide on their sweets, and the hubbub grows as mothers are diverted into chatting. Certainly no-one would attempt to order from the delicatessen section any ham that needs to be sliced, or cheese that needs to be unwrapped, unless one has time on one’s hands. An egg salad roll is out of the question.

But people don’t visit the village shop only for what they can buy. In amongst the throngs of mothers and children there is always a Mrs Purton, or someone like my friend Marianne – people who live alone and who occasionally come into the shop for something other than a painstakingly-made cheese panini or a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and which you can’t arrange in a display or account for in turnover figures. I’m sure though, I don’t have to tell you what that something is.

Signs of Spring

Despite the warmer temperatures, and less bite to the wind, I’m not sure anyone yet truly believes that Spring has secured a firm foothold – but the signs are there.

As Tramp and I slid along the muddy footpaths through the woods off the lane on our walk today, I took heart that Spring might be upon us, though, since the anemones were well and truly in command of their ground. Their white flower heads nodded confidently above the thickening bluebell leaves, while I saw primroses were but scattered indiscriminately among it all, wherever they could find a space. With such a blanket of wild flowers and foliage, the woodland floor certainly looks at its tidiest at this time of year, I thought.

In the lane itself, buds were about to burst in the hedgerows, and some had sneaked open already. Birds flitted everywhere, wearing themselves out with nest building, and all the while setting up a cacophony of song to mingle with the sound of distant lawn mowers and DIY-Jim’s electric sander. I made a mental note to put out more wild birdseed when I got home – I find this is enough to sustain the feathered visitors to my garden, rather than the extensive smorgasbord of nuts, seeds and fruits available in garden centres now, and all manner of specialised containers to hold them.

Because of the birds nesting, all woodland clearing work has been suspended, and I had heard dreadlock-James has moved on, proving that his horsebox home did have an engine in it after all. Similarly, someone announced on the facebook page that they had spotted a moorhen’s nest under construction on the village pond, so the annual pond-clearing work scheduled for last weekend was postponed. It also meant we were deprived of the sight of lead volunteer, Old Norm, striving to tackle overgrown reeds, leaf litter and fallen branches, while stirring-up abandoned pet goldfish and terrapins in his armpit-high waders.

Tramp and I walked on to the fields beyond the stream, where a smattering of ‘hobby sheep’ moved away from the fence alongside the footpath. Their lambs are growing fast; still long-legged, long-tailed, and curious, but now sure-footed as they came to greet us, ignoring the bleated warnings of their mothers.

We skirted around behind Miss Purton’s cottage, with Charles, her cat, in his usual position on the window sill. As we then walked back into the centre of the village, I finally encountered the confirmation I sought that Spring is really upon us, and from what will be the subject of many a conversation in the village pub over coming weeks and months: along the roadside not one, but a crop of three, new, ‘Property For Sale’ signs had sprouted from posts rising from the ground.

Joiners-in

People in our village tend to be of two distinct types: the joiners-in and those who stand aside. I choose my words carefully, here, since members of the ‘standing aside’ group are not, as is often claimed, necessarily apathetic. On the contrary, very often they are among the most vociferous in favour of village life. They just don’t actually do anything to promote it or support it, except live here and talk about it. The joiners-in, on the other hand, do just that. They join every committee that’s going, start up any that aren’t, and support the activities of any others they’ve missed.

While I try to do my fair share of committee work, I can’t profess to be the most dedicated joiner-in. That dubious honour must go to Janet and Brian, aka ‘Mr and Mrs Committee’. Between them they chair various Parish Council committees, along with being Brown Owl and Akela (respectively). They both belong to the Church Hall committee, where Brian is treasurer. They each head up the village pond committee and the gardening club committee, while participating actively as members of the cricket club committee (in summer) and the football club committee (in winter). In their spare time they throw in a spot of handbell ringing.

I joined the gardening club myself when I moved to the village. They are dog friendly, and so Tramp and I trot along to each meeting in the Church Hall on the first Thursday of every month, at 7.30 pm sharp. Speakers are advised not to dim the lights too far during their slide shows, or they will face strong competition from snoring from the audience. The talks are well attended on the whole – especially on the tried and tested topics of pests and diseases in the garden, or pruning of any kind. None of us, it seems, has succeeded in conquering the demands of either.

Janet times her announcements for just before the inevitable raffle, for no-one leaves until it is drawn. When it comes time for the raffle, you could cut the tension in the room with a sharp spade, with prizes like packets of seeds, donated tomato plants or a box of Milk Tray up for grabs. You have to buy five tickets at a time, as each strip of five is laminated for re-use next time, saving costs of course. Woe betide anyone who fails to return their strips at the end of the evening – as it is, we are missing several runs of numbers from the draw.

When Janet took to the floor last Thursday, clutching her handwritten list of announcements, I could see she was more than usually determined in what she had to say. Brian moved to stand beside her. Even Tramp stood up and gave a little wag of his tail, by way of encouragement.

Janet ran through the arrangements for the forthcoming Spring show, emphasising that entries for all classes had to be submitted by 12.35 p.m. as judging would commence at 12.40. She explained in vivid detail the difference between a daffodil and a narcissus, and gave us the acceptable dimensions for the round bowl and the tall vase arrangements, respectively.

All this was well and good. But when it came to the final announcement about the regular, annual fundraiser for the club, reading between the lines I could see Janet and the committee had not finished up fully in accord at their last meeting.

Every year, the club holds a summer BBQ, and this year is to be no exception. Club members usually pitch in with providing sausages and home-made burgers, along with salads, coleslaw, jellies and trifles. They are dished up, school dinner fashion, by the committee behind long trestle tables, as everyone passes along the line. We all bring along our own drink. Janet and Brian organise quizzes and games to while away the afternoon, many of which former cubs and brownies have played before. But, given fine weather, it is a friendly, sociable event and usually well attended.

But there has been an influx of new joiners-in to the committee this year. They are hell-bent on making this a village-wide event, and on raising real money for the club through ticket sales and takings from a cash bar. Through visibly clenched teeth, Janet announced that “the committee had decided” we are to have a hog roast, provided at cost by a local caterer known to one of the new committee members. There will be no quizzes or obstacle races; instead a live band will play throughout the afternoon and evening.

“It could be a rather loud affair,” she added, her sole diversion from the party line.

“Will there still be a raffle?” someone asked, behind me.

“Yes,” Janet said, “but I expect that will change, as well”.

“I suppose more books will need laminating”, said the voice behind me, in all seriousness.

No more dancing at The Manor

This morning, Tramp and I walked up towards The Manor and into Fiddler’s Copse on our walk. This way we passed probably the most expensive properties in our village, in stark contrast to the ‘affordable housing’ and social housing at The Meadows on the opposite side. But I was surprised to pass an estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ sign at the foot of the drive to The Manor, with a little arrow stapled to the post, no doubt in case you did not notice the vast sprawl of buildings before you, crowning the hill ahead.

As we drew close, I could see the owners, Judith and Donald, were serious about selling. The potholes in the drive had been filled and the surface re-dressed in new shingle that sparkled in the drizzling rain; fences had been repaired and the lawns looked unnaturally groomed.

Judith is a staunch supporter of all things church, from organising the flower roster, to taking bible classes, and from running local coffee mornings to packing parcels for the poor overseas. In our village, she is the visiting vicar’s right-hand person; without her drumming-up business, he probably wouldn’t bother to come at all and the Church would be turned into a country tea room, no doubt.

Although The Manor is rumoured to be owned by Judith, inherited from an old aunt who died many years ago, over the years Donald has assumed the role of ‘Lord of the Manor’ with some dedication. He can be seen most days, strolling through the village wearing heavy green corduroy trousers with a loose silk cravat at the neck, while two floppy brown spaniels meander in his wake. His unkempt, bushy white hair and the ornate walking stick he carries, with its polished brass handle, add the desired air of slight eccentricity.

Donald is not an elected Parish Councillor – he’s about as far as you could get from being ‘a man of the people’; but he can be found at every open village meeting, ready to pass comment in measured tones, weighted with gravitas. He operates as an unelected leader of the wealthy, ‘landed gentry’ types in our village, who speak as one against any suggestions for development in general, and for more social, or ‘affordable’, housing in particular.

‘We must preserve the look and character of the village at all costs, or it will be lost forever to our children!’ so-says Donald regularly, finishing with a tap of his walking stick for emphasis.

Of course, most young people born and raised in the village are forced to move away -- they cannot afford to live here, in the rare event that a property does come on the market.

So I was more than surprised, then, to notice Judith and Donald’s power base was up for sale. I made a slight detour to call on my friend Marianne on the way home. While the kettle struggled to boil on the Aga hotplate, and Tramp settled on the floor to warm by the ovens, Marianne looked up the details on her laptop.

We were astounded to see the asking price: close to £3.5 millions, but it includes several acres of farmland and woods – including Fiddler’s Copse, home to lucrative pheasant shoots. Even more interesting to us were the interior photos, of course, giving glimpses of rooms and a lifestyle that most of us in the village can only wonder about. The webpage showed us room after room with beamed ceilings and lead-light windows, each sumptuously furnished with sofas, rugs and polished antique furniture; polished silver gleamed while an open fire blazed in the inglenook fireplace.

          ‘Sad, really, for them to give up such a lovely old building. It must be 16^th Century in places… as old as the village, almost. And in Judith’s family for years.’

          ‘I heard ages ago they were looking to move,’ said Marianne, ‘but I didn’t quite believe it. They have most of these rooms closed off, though. They just live in a few rooms at the back.’

          ‘Well, who could use - what does it say? - eleven bedrooms?’ Or afford to heat it all!’

I hadn’t realised the main house was quite as large as it was. It even had a ballroom and a library. Then there were all the converted outbuildings – one housed a swimming pool; others accommodated the gardener, the gamekeeper, along with their families. So, although Donald so strongly opposed any housing development, and the ‘drain on resources’ it would bring, it seemed he had quietly developed his own satellite hamlet, looking down on our village below.

‘Do you know where they are moving to?’ I asked.

          ‘Well, I did hear a rumour some time ago that they were buying a barn in a field right up the other end of the lane.’ Marianne finally poured the tea as she spoke. ‘Of course it’ll have planning convert it,’ she added, sarcastically, raising her eyebrows.

          ‘Oh, so they’re down-sizing, then! No room for a ballroom this time!’

          ‘No. Dancing days up there are over, that’s for sure.’ In Judith’s aunt’s time, The Manor had been renowned for the village dances it held, by all accounts. ‘I wonder what will happen to the old place; who will buy it?’

          ‘Maybe it will be turned into flats!’ We laughed at the prospect.

          ‘Luxury apartments, more like,’ added Marianne, knowingly.