Episode 138: (Oddballs)
Previously in Leeford Village:
The fête passes without incident. Life in Leeford moves on, even though some of its characters have moved away.
~
A small village on the western edge of Banfield, a Midlands town known many years ago for heavy industry and mining. A quiet place, bordering the countryside sweeping west, land that climbs over the Welsh mountains until it reaches the Irish Sea.
The tall man in the long, grey, well-worn Mackintosh cuts an anachronistic figure as he stands in the centre of the precinct, watching the shoppers go in and out of the row of shops, like weathermen on a cuckoo clock. He is delighted to see that the café is still called Billy’s and takes a look through the window. He recognises the smartly dressed man behind the counter.
‘Simon Brown. Well, I never. From little acorns, eh? Good on you lad,’ he says.
The launderette next door is still badly in need of a lick of paint. He recalls watching the TV programme about the rise to fame of Sherry Cross, ‘Dirty rags to riches’, and how he baulked at the title. The woman loading the machines is not Sherry’s sister, Linda. He wonders whether she and Allen Gomez still live in the village.
Behind him, the market is coming to life.
‘Leeford market,’ he says out loud, with an air of reverence. The market has been the centre of village life for as long as he can remember. Of course, it has changed. The stalls are uniform in size, with permanent covers and signage. Traditional wares have largely been replaced by items such as clothes, Fairtrade goods imported from all over the world, and phone cases. Gone is Jack Simmons’ toy stall. Gone is Ken Taylor’s fruit and veg stall. Gone is George Owens’ bikes and wheelchair stall. Gone is Vera Cleeve’s books and ornaments stall and there is not a gnome in sight.
He ponders the fact that younger people who have recently moved into the village in order to commute to their office jobs in Birmingham will never have the dubious pleasure of watching Vera Cleeve in full rant, or George and Jason Owens’ regular brotherly spats.
He turns his back on the market and walks a few metres into Market Street. He considers turning into Green Crescent but decides against it. Instead, he walks past what was Jessica Townley’s hairdresser’s but which is now a tanning and beauty boutique. What used to be Parks Cards and Gifts is now a traditional sweet shop. He looks in the window at the jars of sweets he used to eat in his childhood, now a taste of nostalgia. He wonders how Adam and Meredith are getting on in Spain. He remembers the whole Daniel Windrush / Cody Thornton episode as being particularly traumatic for everyone concerned and felt a great deal of sympathy for Cody and Agnes.
A young couple are coming towards him. The woman is holding hands with a girl of about eight and the man is calling to an older boy who is lagging behind. As they come nearer, he recognises them as Zack and Clare. He stops to greet them, but they move past him. The boy catches up with the rest of the party and then runs on ahead.
Despite the people walking up and down Market Street being dressed for the summer, the man is starting to feel the cold. He pulls his coat tight around him and fastens the belt buckle. He cannot stay for much longer, so he turns and walks on the opposite side of the street, past the doctor’s surgery and the library. The old bank has been converted into a gastro pub, but Leeford Plaice is still in business next door. Surely Cody and Agnes must have retired by now, he thinks. He puts his hand on the door handle. He closes his eyes. A vision of Cody Thornton trying to extricate himself from a lion costume comes into his mind and it makes him smile. He lets go of the door handle. He shivers a little. Time to go, he thinks. He continues to walk up Market Street towards the junction with Spring Hill and East Banfield Road.
When he reaches the traffic lights, he pauses. There it is, right in front of him: The Cross. Despite the sign informing that The Cross is ‘A Rainy Spoon Pub’, the building itself has not changed. Immediately, he is thrown back in time. He can hear Jack Simmons announcing the ‘Pound Challenge’ to the delight of all those gathered around him, attempting to name the originator of whatever quote Jack threw their way. He can hear the sound of the sirens approaching the village on the evening that George Dennis fell in the stream at the rear of the police station. He recalls the many meetings that were held after hours, where the course of village life would be discussed and debated. The Cross had been much more than a pub. It had been a beacon, a confidant, an entertainer, a heartbreaker.
His hands are cold and he pulls out a pair of leather gloves from one of the pockets. He turns right into East Banfield Road and in less than a minute he is standing outside the community centre. He looks at the noticeboard and gives a wry smile when he sees that Nick Allthorpe is chair of the parish council. Nick Allthorpe, who could not even serve as a councillor due to him not being a Leeford householder.
‘I’m pleased for you, Nick,’ he says.
He steps into the entrance. There is the smell of fresh paint. He walks through to the main community hall. Still the same tables and chairs stacked against the walls, the same threadbare curtains hanging apologetically from each side of the staging. Those things that shouldn’t change do, and those things that should change never do, he thinks. On the left of the hall is a door which opens to a room, barely the size of a large broom cupboard. The man enters the room and begins to search through the cupboards, sifting through the faded Christmas decorations, pots of crusted paint and a plethora of cleaning materials. He is about to abandon his search when he finds what he has been looking for. A gavel. The gavel that was banged on the table at the beginning of every council meeting. He takes off his gloves so that he can feel the smoothness of the wood. It feels heavy in his hands, as if it contains the weight of the world. Or of Leeford Village, at least. He places the gavel on a shelf below a skylight, where sharp beams of sunlight are streaming through, illuminating the gavel like a holy relic.
The man goes back into the road, He is tired and becoming colder by the minute.
He reaches The Cross and sits down on a bench outside. He does not recall there ever being a bench there before, but he is grateful for its presence. Two young mothers sit down next to the man, parking their prams to one side.
‘What a beautiful day,’ says the first mother.
The second mother agrees. ‘How long have you lived here now?’ she asks.
‘It’ll be three years this October,’ is the reply. ‘And you?’
‘Just coming up to two.’
‘I love it here. It’s such a great place to live.’
The second mother nods her head. ‘I know. And I love the fact that it has such a history.’
The first mother snaps her fingers. ‘I must give you my copy of Longford Village.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a book that a chap who lived here wrote. It’s about Leeford really. I would have loved to have met the people that lived here then – they sounded like a bunch of oddballs, but really interesting.’
‘I’d love to read that,’ says the second mother.
The first mother stands to attend to her child in the pram.
‘I wonder if people will write about us in years to come,’ she says.
The first mother remains standing. ‘I don’t know if we’re odd enough!’ She lets out a laugh.
‘I think we’re going to have to go. This one is about to wake up and the whole village will know about it, soon,’ she says.
The two women walk off in the direction of Market Street.
The man waits until they are out of view. He raises himself slowly. His legs ache and his hands are numb with the cold. In order to raise himself fully, he turns and puts his hands on the back of the bench. And what he sees inscribed on the back of the bench almost makes him collapse to the ground. He steadies himself and reads it aloud:
This bench is dedicated to the memory of Frank Watson Esq. former chair of Leeford Village Parish Council.
Donated by his fellow parishioners in honour of his selfless work in improving the lives of all around him.
May those who sit here be reminded of a great man.
He reads the legend over and over until his tears blur the words. ‘A great man. A GREAT MAN!,’ he repeats, clapping his hands together. ‘They did like me!’ He stands erect and pushes out his chest. With The Cross behind him and the whole village laid out in front of him, he says:
‘Farewell, Leeford. Farewell.’
The two mothers arrive at the first mother’s house in Green Crescent.
‘I’ll get you that book,’ she says.
‘Great. I’m looking forward to reading about these…what did you call them…oddballs,’ says the second mother.
The first mother laughs. ‘Yes, oddballs. That’s the only word that could describe them.’
She puts her key in the door. She pauses.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ she asks, turning to the second mother.
The second mother shakes her head.
‘I thought you said something that sounded like, ‘harrumph.’
The second mother frowns.
‘Harrumph? I don’t even know that word.’
The first mother shrugs.
‘It must have been the wind.’
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