Right, so listen to this… nobody in Larkfield village could figure out why Emily Bishop was having such rotten luck finding a bloke. She was a proper catch! Clever, lovely to look at, and had a good job too – she’s the vet for the big Manor Farm estate down the road. Maybe it was ’cause she wasn’t local? And, truth be told, Emily wasn’t quite like the village women.
“If only Emily shifted that queenly air of hers a bit, you watch, some chap would appear in her cottage. Course, decent ones are like hens’ teeth nowadays, but still, a masculine presence!” Ethel piped up, kicking off the debate among the old dears perched on the bench for their evening natter. She always started discussions about folks’ comings and goings. Honestly, in the village, Ethel knew the news before it even happened.
But she always had Mabel to contend with. They’d been thick as thieves since they were girls, and argued just as long. If Mabel said it was raining, Ethel would swear it was sunshine.
All the women turned to Mabel, ready for the next episode of the show. She didn’t disappoint. “What nonsense is that? Overstep yourself just so your house reeks of stinky socks? No, ladies, listen to her! She reckons we want nowt from a man except his smell while the woman does all the graft. Pah! I’d rather keep my dignity!”
Ethel flushed bright pink. “What are you on about? A woman needs a man about the place! It’s only right!”
“No, you explain *why*? You said yourself the only men left aren’t worth having! What’s he *for*? To be waited on hand and foot?” Ethel couldn’t take it, she sprang up. “You daft biddy! What about having children?”
“*You’re* the daft one! Have a kid and then lug that so-called man around for the rest of your days? Why not just pop up to London, find a nice, handsome bloke, and just… you know! Get the child sorted! Then you’re not feeding some lazy drunkard, you can enjoy your life!”
The women gasped. Mabel and Ethel’s fiercest rows were always over morals. Once they fell out so badly they didn’t speak for a month, didn’t even sit on the bench. It was dead boring for everyone. Thing is, Ethel had one husband, long buried these twenty years. Mabel had three, and now Vic the builder, pushing eighty, was always popping round suggesting they ‘combine houses’. Different experiences, see?
This was heading for another massive barney when suddenly, the very subject of their chat appeared. “Afternoon, girls!”
Emily Bishop stopped and smiled at the old dears.
“Emily, love! Back from town?” Mabel asked.
“Just off the train, Ethel. Oh, I brought some flea drops back. Tell me whose cats are scratching, I’ll pop round and dose them.”
“Ooh, Emily,” tutted Ethel, “Cats are *supposed* to have fleas!”
“Don’t be daft! These drops are brilliant – one tiny pipette, sorted for six months. Keeps them off your bed too.”
Mabel jumped in again, shooting Ethel a look. “Thank you, dear, pop round to mine. Unlike some folks stuck in the dark ages, I know a good thing. Pay no mind to them, wouldn’t surprise me if some still wash with soap flakes!” Mabel cackled until she shook. Ethel went crimson.
Emily just smiled. After six years in the village, she was used to it. Privacy didn’t exist; it was all public property. She used to mind, get upset, but understood – this is how it is. You only worry when they *don’t* talk about you; that means you’re nobody here.
Emily had come here basically on a whim. A total city girl, she’d dreamt since childhood of village life, healing horses and cows and all creatures. She always said animals were the most loyal, kind souls; they just couldn’t tell you where it hurt. When she saw an advert for a vet at the new farm, with a cottage thrown in, she didn’t hesitate. Phoned, came, stayed. Took her two months to fix the cottage up. Borrowed a bit from her parents to manage it, but paid them back quick – the farm paid proper money on time.
Her parents visited a few times. Said it was lovely, then begged her to come home. “Emma dear, what’s good about it? It’s a *village*. No fun, no culture. Nothing! There’s only one streetlight!” her mum fretted. Her dad just frowned. Though, if mum said it was perfect, he’d have agreed with her all the same.
Emily just laughed. “Just you wait! I’ll get myself a pig! Supply you with fresh bacon!”
They just shook their heads, bewildered.
Emily kept her word. Now she had Bertie the pig, chickens, and two turkeys. Once her parents realised arguing was pointless, they gave up and started enjoying weekends visiting the country.
But one thing truly bothered Emily. Like most women, she felt she *ought* to marry. Though honestly, she realised she didn’t *want* marriage itself, just felt it expected. But a baby? At thirty-two, maybe? Her mum kept on about it too. “You’d be long married by now if you lived in London!”
So Emily decided to find a husband. Only a tiny hurdle: finding the groom.
She tried locals first. Take Paul the tractor driver. He’d fancied her for ages. Why not? Strong, decent-looking. She gave him a little smile once – he turned up at her door that very night! Emily was grown up, no point playing games. She laid out a spread, they sat, had a nip of her homemade sloe gin. When the bottle was empty, Emily started clearing. Paul looked baffled. “Hang on? We barely sat. Is there really no more?”
“Afraid not. Why didn’t you stop at the shop on the way? Buy some bubbly and chocs, like a proper date?”
“Mum wouldn’t give me the money. Said it was a waste.” Emily cracked up laughing like never before. Paul shot out the door and vanished. Village gossip about the failed wooing lasted a week, then faded.
Then there was Geoff, the farm’s agronomist. He walked around her cottage with a tape measure, calculating how much they’d get for *her* place (she’d bought it outright a year back) and how much extra they’d need for a flat. After that fiasco, Emily was about to quit trying, didn’t want to upset her parents. Then, completely randomly in London, she met Nigel. Smart, tidy, good job. Said he was a business manager, lived with his mum… Long story short, Emily liked him and he liked her more. Things just happened, they started seeing each other. Loads to talk about. On their third date, he went red and invited her back. “Mum’s away at her place in Cornwall… Look, I’m rubbish at this, so straight out – I’d like you to stay tonight.” And Emily said yes.
So, that day Emily stopped by the old dears, she’d just got back from Nigel’s in London. They’d had such a smashing time, Emily felt sure Nigel wouldn’t just let her vanish. Spot on. He invited himself down. “Nigel, I’m not sure you
Emily sighed contentedly as she closed the cottage door that night, Bertie rooting happily outside, knowing she already had all the warmth she needed right here with her animals and the sound of laughter still drifting from the bench outside.
