13 Incomers

When a new family moved into Whimsey, we hoped they would take to village life. No such luck. Having made his money in the city - something to do with 'business to business IT solutions', apparently, whatever that might be - Montgomery Blythe decided to uproot his family and move to the country. He wanted his kids to have ponies and breathe clean country air, rather than choke on exhaust fumes in town. His wife, Pristine, imagined herself floating around the village in a floral print dress, buying home-made bread from a real village shop and bringing her organisational skills to a handful of local charities. Mr Blythe himself imagined entertaining business clients in style, and joining the 'hunting set’: sending small game-birds to meet their maker with a pair of Purdy shotguns, in the company of other men of standing in the local community. He'd bought the guns already, even before he saw that the Old Manor House in Whimsey was up for sale.

The family had hardly moved in before the trouble started. They complained about the church bells which were "intrusive" and "spoiled the peace and quiet of village life". They weren't keen, either, on the pungent rural aromas, which made the children’s eyes water. They said the locals were surly, "didn't know their place" and failed to doff their caps in a deferential manner. Having accepted an invitation to join a hunting party, the newcomer shot two sheep and a beater. It was a mistake anyone could have made, though the injured man kicked up quite a fuss, long after the last of the pellets had been removed. Dr Fallowfield was sure the man would be able to sit down again before too long.

To give the family more privacy from prying eyes, Mr Blythe planted a leylandii hedge. It seemed to grow about six inches every night until an unknown assailant attacked it with a chainsaw. Mr Blythe tried to ingratiate himself with the locals by shouting "drinks all round" on a quiet night in the Farrier’s Arms, but the damage had already been done. Brian, the landlord, put him straight. “You may be a big cheese in the city”, he said, “but you don't mean anything round here”. Except he wasn't so polite.

Matters came to a head when Les 'accidentally' dumped a pile of slurry on top of Mr Blythe’s BMW. When the police failed to make an immediate arrest, the local estate agent took a phone-call from a distraught Mrs Blythe of the Old Manor House in Whimsey. The 'For Sale' sign went up the same day, and a removal van came. The Blythes left as quickly as they'd arrived. No doubt they're regaling friends in the city with tales of how their dreams of country life turned sour. Moving to the flatlands proved to be a folly too far. And we still have to find homes for two ponies.