Right, so get this – never understood why Emily’s luck with fellas was so rubbish. Absolute diamond, that girl! Smart, gorgeous, doing well as the vet at this huge farm estate over in Essex. Thing is, Em’s not from round here originally. And, let’s be honest, she stood out a bit from the other women in the village.
“If she’d just stop putting on airs, she’d probably have found some bloke by now,” Wendy piped up one evening, kicking off the usual gossip amongst the gran’s knitting circle by the churchyard. “Course, the good ones are scarce as hen’s teeth, but still… be nice to have a bit of male company in the house.” Wendy always got the gossip going about the villagers. Knew the news here before it even happened!
But she always had her sparring partner – Edna. Friends since they were lasses, but they’d argue about anything. If Edna said black, Wendy would fight tooth and nail it was white.
All the ladies turned to Edna, waiting for the show. She didn’t disappoint.
“Listen to that nonsense! Are you saying she should lower herself so her house smells of manky socks? Nah, love! What, exactly, do we need a man for? To mother him?!”
Wendy went bright pink.
“Don’t be daft, Edna! What about having a baby?!”
“You *are* daft! So you have a baby and spend your life dragging that useless lump around? Wouldn’t it be easier to pop into London, find a decent, handsome chap, and just *have* the baby? Then enjoy your life instead of feeding some drunken layabout?”
Gasps all round. Wendy and Edna’s fiercest rows were always about morals. Once they’d not spoken for a month! Didn’t even come out for the knitting circle. Dead boring it was. Thing is, Wendy had one husband, buried twenty years back. Edna? Three, and now this Vic the roofer kept dropping by, hinting about ‘joining households’. Edna was well past seventy, Vic pushing eighty, just fine and dandy!
So their views on this were miles apart.
It would’ve kicked off proper that night if their topic hadn’t suddenly appeared.
“Evening ladies!”
Emily stopped by the church gate, smiling.
“Emily, love! You’ve been into town?” asked Edna.
“Just back, Edna. Brought some new flea drops, actually. Tell me if any cats are scratching, I’ll pop round and dose ’em.”
“Ooh, Emily,” tutted Wendy, “Cats *should* have a few fleas!”
“Honestly, Wendy! These drops? One little squeeze and your fluffy pal’s good on the bed for six months.”
Edna jumped back in, giving Wendy a withering look.
“Thank you, love. Pop round to mine. Unlike *some* people stuck in the dark ages, I appreciate modern miracles. Don’t you mind her; wouldn’t surprise me if they still wash with goose grease.” Edna shook with laughter. Wendy went crimson.
Emily just smiled. After six years in the village, she knew personal life here *was* public life. At first, it stung, but then she got it – this was just how things worked. You worried when they *stopped* talking about you – that meant you didn’t even register.
***
Emily came here following her heart. Proper city girl, but dreamed of the country life since childhood – treating horses, cows, all creatures. Always said animals were the most loyal. Just couldn’t tell you where it hurt.
Saw an ad for a vet at a new farm estate over near Cottingham village, with a cottage thrown in? Didn’t think twice. Called, came, stayed. Got the cottage shipshape in two months. Had to borrow a bit from her folks, mind, but paid them back sharpish – the pay was good.
Parents visited a few times. Said it was lovely, then tried to talk her back.
“Sweetheart, what’s really here?” her mum fretted. “No proper fun, no culture. Nothing! Only one streetlamp at night!”
Dad looked grumpy too. Though if Mum said it was heaven, he’d have backed her just the same.
Emily just laughed.
“Just you wait! I’ll get a pig! Supply you with fresh bacon!” They just shook their heads, baffled.
***
Emily kept her word. Now she had a piglet, chickens, even turkeys. When her folks realised arguing was pointless, they gave up and just enjoyed their country visits.
But one thing did bother Emily. Like most women, she fancied getting married. Though later she realised she didn’t *really* want marriage, just felt expected. But a baby at thirty-two? That she wanted. Mum kept on about it too.
“Living in the city, you’d be married by now!”
So Emily decided to get married. Little matter of finding a husband.
Tried locals first. Pete the tractor driver, for instance – always giving her the eye. Good looking, strong lad. Gave him a smile back once, and he was at her door that night. Emily wasn’t a shy teen. Laid the table, they sat, had some strawberry gin he’d brought. When the bottle was done, Em started clearing up. Pete looked stunned.
“Eh? Hang on. We’ve barely talked. Ain’t there more gin?”
“Nope. Why didn’t you grab something from the shop? Bit posh, bottle of bubbly, maybe?”
” girls to pubs? Ma wouldn’t lend the cash. Said it was wasted.”
Emily burst out laughing like never before. Pete shot out the door, never came back. Village talked about the failed wooing for a week, then moved on.
Then there was George, the farm’s soil guy. He walked round her cottage with a tape measure, figuring what they’d get for the place she bought outright last year, and how much they’d need in London.
After that second attempt, Em nearly gave up, didn’t want to disappoint her folks. Then, completely by chance in York, she met Oliver. Nice looking, clever, mainly… single. Very tidy, pressed trousers. Said he was a manager at some firm, lived with his mum…
Anyway, Emily liked him, he liked her even more. Somehow, they just started seeing each other. Loads to talk about. On their third date, he blushed and invited her over.
“Mum’s down at Bournemouth… Don’t know the smooth way, so I’ll just say… I want you to stay tonight.”
And Emily agreed.
***
That day she bumped into the old dears, she was just back from York, Oliver’s place. They’d had such a lovely weekend, Em was sure he wouldn’t let her just vanish. He didn’t. Invited himself down.
“Oliver, not sure you’ll like my place. It’s proper countryside… You’re all city.”
“So? You were city too. Fancied the country. Might suit me.”
“Alright then. Come down. We’ll see if you like it or not.”
Walking home, Emily smiled. Oliver was coming tonight! If the grans spotted him… chatting and arguing sorted for a week! By morning, they’d all need flea drops and be snooping for every detail.
That’s exactly what happened. Oliver came, stayed over, and the next morning stared, horrified, at the endless queue of grans clutching yowling cats. The cats hissed, wriggled, but the women just craned their necks, ignoring them.
Anyway, Oliver *loved* the village.
Emily watched the sunset paint the sky, chuckling softly as she decided some things—like dodgy blokes and pushy mothers—were best left at the garden gate, and turned towards her cozy cottage, more content with her piglet, chickens, and the promise of dawn over the farm than she’d ever been chasing a wedding ring.
