The huddle of old biddies outside the village shop went momentarily quiet as usual when Eric Smithson walked towards them.
“Excuse me ladies!” he said, with exaggerated politeness, as he edged past them.
“Bubble, bubble,” he muttered. As the shop bell announced his entrance, they all turned as if pulled by some invisible cord and, as the door closed behind him, he heard the indecipherable chatter start up again. ‘No wonder Margaret avoids coming in here!’ he thought. In Surrey his wife had belonged to everything; tennis club, bridge club, writing group, pottery class.
When they decided to move to Wales she’d been full of plans to join the local W.I. and find an art class where she could learn to paint the breathtaking scenery she’d sketched and photographed on holiday.
The family disapproved of their plans, muttering darkly about unfriendly locals, lack of shops and nightlife; rain! Margaret had countered with her enthusiasm for clean country air, walking the hills and coastal paths, living a simpler life, and the benefit to the family of having free holidays by the sea.
She hadn’t taken note of their hints that they weren’t prepared to haul their nearly-teenage children on a five hundred mile round trip to windsurf on a wet, windy Welsh beach when, in the same time, they could fly to Portugal and drink the local wine in the sunshine while the kids surfed and swam, sans wetsuits, in a sparkling blue sea. Eric though he wouldn’t have minded going with them – there were supposed to be great golf courses there but, having taken early retirement, they had to watch the pennies.
By the time they’d paid off their mortgage and spent out on renovating the ‘traditional’ cottage to the exacting standards of its ‘listed ‘ status – a requirement that had escaped them in the excitement of the auction – along with the need for a new roof, chimneys, damp course....well the retirement pot had become a very small jam jar. Talking of jam jars, they’d also had to spend out on a better car because a reliable vehicle was a necessity here, not just a status symbol, and now it was making a strange burbling noise. The nearest dealership was sixty miles away and the local mechanic, who worked out of a tin shed up a rutted track, seemed only able to fix tractors and vintage Land Rovers.
Eric came out of the shop with the usual impression that Mrs George saved all the most battered fruit and the stalest loaves especially for his visits...and why had he ever thought that living in the country would be cheaper? No street markets or supermarket, in short no competition, meant that daily necessities were far more expensive.
Petrol was dearer too, in spite of the fact that on a clear day from the hill behind the cottage, you could actually see the oil refinery! Now, however, they had a new dilemma. Pat and Alan Howard were thinking of moving here.
Alan, a friend and neighbour from Surrey, had been made redundant. Having spent a week of idyllic weather, practically the only one last summer as far as Eric could remember, staying with the Smithsons, they had decided that moving to Wales was a ‘good idea’. So.....They were adults, capable of making their own decisions....no-one was pushing them into it. The only thing was that Eric and Margaret had never admitted to either family or friends that they could, perhaps, have made a mistake. Their letters home (strange how they still thought of Woking as home) stressed only how happy they were and, when Pat and Alan were staying, they’d made sure that every day was packed with sightseeing and beach picnics. The only night that they’d ‘gone out to dinner’ had been at the one decent eatery in the area. It was aimed at visitors and cost an arm and at least two legs but it kept them out of the ‘local’.
So, what could they say to the Howards now? “Don’t come you’ll hate it?” “The transport’s non-existent, the shops are twenty miles away (decent shops sixty) and the locals resent us?”
‘Why do they resent us?’ Eric wondered yet again as he locked up the Volvo and carried the shopping up the path. Skidding on the moss he made a mental note to phone Dai the gardening man again – he’d promised twice already to come and pressure-wash the slippery bricks. The trouble was that it was what the Smithsons had learned was called a ‘Pembrokeshire Promise’ that is someone would promise, definitely, to come on Thursday. The trouble was they didn’t say which Thursday – or even which month! He’d have tried someone else by now, except that they would only turn out to be Dai’s cousin or brother in law and then neither of them would come.