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The
Village
By
Neil Wills
Copyright Neil Wills May 2002
Delinquents.
Even where I live, a small village in a quiet
part of the English countryside. It isn’t on
the road to anywhere so the only people who
visit have a reason to come here. Like me. I
moved here after I was invited to leave the
marital home by the pantry dragon, a small and
dark harpy who drugged, bewitched and forced
marriage on me 15 years ago….Sorry, my mind
was wandering. So, my small village, well I call
it my village, it’s not really. In fact I’m
an outsider ….just like all the other people
who live in the big houses here. To be a true
local is a hard won privilege and not to be
taken lightly. The DNA pool is rather restricted
and the cruel rumour held locally is that the
village, when approached by the twinning
association agreed to be twinned. With itself.
Even after 25 years of living here some of my
neighbours are only just being accepted.
In order to meet my neighbours and in an effort
to be chummy soon after arriving, I visited the
village pub. A depressing place even though the
building is large and beautiful. I went there,
once only. In my naivety I had imagined a warm
fire surrounded by rustic comedians and
interesting story-tellers. In reality, there is
a pool table and a juke box sitting on a tiled
floor and a small yapping dog. The landlord’s
eyes were fixed firmly on his newspaper when I
entered and he only reluctantly, limped across
to serve me after a polite cough had been turned
into a hacking, gasp for air when I swallowed my
own phlegm. After this I decided to make my own,
sad, middle-aged entertainment at home. The
telly, pictures of my children and looking out
of the window. This decision has afforded me a
singular and unique view of the comings and
goings in the village.
The village lies quaintly, in a hollow
surrounded by fields, trees, hedgerows, and
things that walk at night. I say things because
I’ve never seen them, only heard them. I had
not realised night could be so dark in the
countryside or noisy. The main source of light
is the telephone box and, like a light bulb
attracts moths, the telephone box attracts the
local youths. Unfortunately it stands across the
road from my front garden. They begin to gather
as dusk falls to plan their evening. At some
point, the effort of planning gets too much for
them and they revert to their proven and regular
entertainment. Small and noisy motorbikes buzz
and rattle up and down, back and forth
throughout the evening. The road has no bend so
it is unlikely my prayers will be answered
although, hope springs eternal.
A frisson of excitement ran through me one
evening recently. The phone box had some early
arrivals. A fat youth and a small youth . The
game, which I have yet to find the name of, went
so. Small boy enters phone box and picks up the
phone. Once he has put the phone back, the fat
youth leans on the door preventing him leaving.
They exchange verbal abuse growing louder with
each delivery. Fat youth opens door and levels
kick at small youth’s groin. While small youth
squeals in pain, fat youth closes door and leans
on it once again. This is repeated three or four
times over a period of about half an hour. Being
keen to do my civic duty and prevent this
brutality I stepped outside into my garden. I
had intended to show fat youth that his violence
was being witnessed and might have to stop. (I
didn’t want to be too vocal in my disapproval
as I have seen his parents, neither of whom look
sympathetic to rational discussion). I have a
suspicion that the mother might also be one of
the things that walk at night.
After examining the plants, the grass and the
flaking paint on the fence, it dawned on me that
he did in fact not give a rat’s arse that I
was there. Indeed, he seemed to think I was an
audience. This egged him on to further
brutality. Steeling myself I stood erect and lit
a cigarette. I stared across the road fixing him
with a steely glare of such intensity it hurt my
eyes and made them water. With stiff legs and
dry mouth I approached my gate and opened it.
This had the intended reaction. Fat youth stood
away from the phone box and faced in my
direction. This allowed the small youth to
egress. Mission accomplished but, now, I was the
focus for the fat youth. He started walking
toward me and, as he approached it was clear he
wasn’t fat. More sort of, really, big-boned.
Well built. Bloody huge. A monster!
Well, I told myself, he could just think again.
A grown man such as I was not going to be phased
by a , …..a youth no matter how huge and,
…..anyway, there was no way he could get me
into the phone box! As he drew closer, I
delivered my masterstroke. Shaking my head
theatrically, I swung the gate closed and
looking straight at him I spoke clearly and
strongly. ‘Tut! Thought so. Bloody hinges are
knackered’! |
