I knew that my adjustment to living here was complete when, this morning, I hit the send button of an email. I had written to the parish council suggesting that the local church change its street signage. This is, of course, the critical moment when the character undergoes a metamorphosis into Flora Robson. ‘The board is in a shade of blue one associates with a major hospital,’ I wrote in mild protest.
I was about to file him away as a bisexual in search of his first same-sex experience
I suggested a smaller sign in heritage-green. The clerk of the parish council obviously runs a tight ship because she responded within the hour. A new sign was being ordered, she said, and thanked me for my interest. Naturally, being English, I replied thanking her for replying to me. She then replied, thanking me for thanking her. I then ended the correspondence because courtesy, unchecked, may continue until one of you dies, or it becomes 84 Charing Cross Road.
Diversity is not really ‘celebrated’ here. Multiculturalism is, in the main, an urban affair; but there exist islands of monoculturalism that do not feel like paupers for a lack of sriracha or a gender-fluid parish council chairman. The demographic here has not shifted in decades. If the ghost of Miss Marple were to cycle through the main street, cape billowing in a Chiltern breeze, pedalling towards her next murder mystery, it would arouse little curiosity.
If I were 28 again, and praise be that I am not because I simply couldn’t afford it, the parochialism and insularity would smother me to death. But, now approaching the age of concessionary travel, it doesn’t disturb me in the least. I find it strangely comforting that, in a world of rapidly advancing technology, I live in a part of it where, essentially, nothing has changed since 1954.
The village noticeboard often reveals the inner character of a place. There were several cards that indicated a worrying au pair shortage. One offered hapless candidates the inducement of ‘your own mini fridge’; probably so as not to contaminate the family refrigerator with a Slavic sausage of uncertain provenance. Another advertised the services of a landscape gardener. It featured a laminated photograph of a man in overalls winking rakishly into camera while wielding a pair of loppers. Underneath it read, confusingly, ‘I Come to You!’
One flyer announced a talk: ‘A Journey Through Dementia’. The font for this evening of jollity was comic sans. At the bottom, it irresistibly promised, ‘Tea & Biscuits Supplied!’ If I were to spend an evening being led through a vale of tears, across the plateau of despair, and pausing for a refreshment at the inn of the last happiness, I think I should prefer a double gin.
There are only four shops here and the community here is an attentive one. It’s not possible for someone to rock up from High Wycombe and open a fast-food takeaway. A kebabcotheque with flashing lights and a rotating carcass in the window is an unlikely prospect; ratepayers in higher council tax bands will not countenance being enveloped by the acrid smoke of chicken goujons while reading their Barbara Pym novels.
The constituency has been Conservative-held since the Triassic Age, but in a rather seismic turn of events went Liberal Democrat at the last election. Some said that it was a mass protest about the state of the roads. Not being a motorist, I’ve never paid much attention to roads, but I doubt this was the reason for the volte-face. The voters here are not eurosceptic conservatives; many are affluent enough to own a second home in the European Union. My theory is that it was a combination of Britain’s secession from the EU disrupting their Dordogne plans, and our member of parliament, Dame Cheryl Gillan, dying with no compelling successor.
For residents, I would say the roll call of significant events is decimalisation; Margaret Rutherford dying; Chesham & Amersham turning Lib Dem, and The Great Au Pair Shortage of 2024. The postmistress is the village telegraph. Supernaturally keen to relay information, she makes fibre optic broadband look sluggish. She runs the Post Office and newsagents. Also, she sells necessities such as milk, fresh rolls, and, dizzyingly, has branched out into cinnamon pastries. When I visited, we had a lengthy conversation in which she learnt of all the key moments of my life while remaining skilfully tight-lipped about hers. Where I was born; where I’ve lived; how I didn’t attend my sister’s funeral because of a 25-year argument over an accidentally spilt cup of black coffee and a white shag pile carpet; how I felt about The Gentle Touch not being commissioned for a sixth series.
She divulged that there has been a good deal of curiosity as to who we are. ‘Well, one of them is an artiste, and the other one used to be in the cinema,’ she had informed them authoritatively. Artiste? Frankly, that could mean anything. I could be an unreliable cabaret entertainer in a toupée, and my partner an irascible wig dresser at Pinewood whose heart isn’t in it anymore. Optimistically, she handed me a map titled, ‘The Chilterns Heritage Trail’, detailing all the walks in the area. She warned that there is snow every winter and it’s not unknown for the village to be inaccessible. ‘Some of us have had eight inches!’ she said, affecting great drama.
Now that I had moved to the Quebec of Buckinghamshire, my mind turned to whether a small grove of Trachycarpus in the garden might be too optimistic. Then, I began to warm to the theme: I like accordion music. I like the strangulated French of a Quebecois accent that causes Parisian waiters to wince. I do have a Russian hat and a peacoat…
There is snow every winter and it’s not unknown for the village to be inaccessible. ‘Some of us have had eight inches!’
She invited me to a garden party celebrating her husband’s 70th birthday. It was an opportunity to showcase her vast, modernised kitchen featuring a central island around which a dozen diners could be comfortably seated. Noting a flicker of hesitation she added, ‘It will be an opportunity for you to meet your neighbours!’
At the party, I was introduced to her husband. He spoke hardly a word but smiled inanely, looking me up and down. I was about to file him away as a bisexual in search of his first same-sex experience, but then he hovered unnecessarily close to a mobile Reiki practitioner in an almost transparent gown, so I revised my assessment.
Some people’s default setting is sunny. If you were a captive of war, kept in a semi-submerged bamboo cage in shark-infested waters, he would make a convivial neighbour. A tonic. I met ‘Giles and Davina’. He wore the county summer uniform of a pink shirt teamed with a Panama hat. Rather baldly, he asked me, ‘And what do you do?’ ‘I’m a writer.’ ‘Oh! Better be careful what we say, then!’ ‘Yes,’ I replied without a tinge of humour, draining my wine glass.
The landscape gardener, the ‘I Come to You!’ of the village noticeboard, was in attendance. He was talking to a circle of guests. I remained on the periphery but within earshot, listening as he peppered almost every sentence with profanity. I’m originally from Bermondsey and didn’t eat my first olive until I was 29, so I’m unshockable. He was a longstanding member of the Territorial Army. He had a Serbian girlfriend stuck in Novi Sad. She was awaiting a fiancée visa but had run up numerous outstanding speeding fines. I was going to ask him about Trachycarpus but drifted away. It was, after all, a lovely midsummer evening, and he was reminding me too much of a depot in Alperton.
Comments