COUNTRY LOVING

As the village is thrown into a frenzy over the annual bulb and produce show, Imogen Green makes a surprising discovery

Rural life isn’t always idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…

I MISS MY LATE HUSBAND MOST for the small things he did, like making me a beautiful blue postbox. Soon after it went up, a robin took possession of it and all that spring, while we waited for the chicks to fledge, we had to use a length of pipe to collect our letters instead. Now the postbox is rusted shut, and the pipe has been in use for years. This morning I pulled two damp letters out of it – both final demands – and wandered into the kitchen, where I bumped into my brother-in-law Andrew. I rarely see him, because he constantly travels as a rep for a feed company, so it was a surprise. Especially since he was wearing an apron. When I asked him what he was up to, he said crossly, “What does it look like? I’m making shortbread.” “Why?” “Because your oven’s better than ours,” he snapped. And then I remembered. On the second Saturday in March, our village always hosts a bulb and produce show and for a brief time all normal behaviour is suspended. Strong, silent men suddenly yearn to beat all their mates in the fairy cake section and gardeners sabotage each other’s rhubarb in the dark.

At midday we joined a long line of anxious villagers taking their entries into the hall. The judges are terrifying: sharp-eyed countrywomen, mostly in their seventies, who travel the southern counties ruthlessly applying the harshest criteria. My abrasive sister-in-law, Susie, once applied to join the committee and was dismissed for being too soft when judging her friends. “What do you want?” she was asked. “To be liked? Or to run a good show?”

The grand opening was at eight the next morning, and we hurried there after milking. By then, it was thundery, and everyone dripped and steamed as they poured into the hall, crammed to the rafters with spring flowers, vegetables and children’s paintings, and filled with the perfume of hyacinths and freshly baked cake.

I was just puzzling over the comment on my daffodils – “What a pity one trumpet is too short!” – when I noticed Matthew Antiza carrying chairs into the tearoom. Even drenched with rain, he stood out, with his wiry frame, olive skin and dark eyes. Back at Christmas, we’d had a successful date and I’d really liked him, but hadn’t heard from him since. He must have seen me as I was only a few feet away, but I wasn’t able to use the greeting on the tip of my tongue because he bustled past without stopping. I thought I saw a scowl on his face but told myself I was overreacting. Matthew was probably upset because his pork pie (small and beautifully glazed) had been awarded third place. Out of only two entries.

As I reached the door to the tearoom, I heard him discussing setting up a village pig cooperative. “If you need a place to keep them, we have a sty on the farm,” I offered. There was no response. I tried to hide my own hurt and slunk home soon afterwards, feeling crushed.

While I’d been gone, someone had jammed a Yellow Pages into the broken blue letterbox. As I struggled to free it, the box fell to pieces, releasing the directory plus a ball of dried grass and paper, and two furious house mice. When I picked up their nest, I noticed that some of it was made out of a letter. Turning the envelope over in my hands, I saw it was addressed to me and dated 15 February 2017. Most of the contents had been eaten, but I made out the words ‘theatre ’, ‘will wait for’ and ‘forgive’. After searching frantically through the torn paper scattered across the drive, I found one final scrap, signed ‘Antiza’ with a flourish. Now what am I to do?

‘Short-trumpeted woman seeks man who sends clear messages’