COUNTRY LOVING
When joining the local choir, Imogen Green hopes music really is the food of love
Rural life isn’t always idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…
THE STRANGEST LOVE AFFAIRS SEEM TO HAPPEN ON FARMS. A neighbour, Annie, who runs a ramshackle holding up the road, has discovered that her elderly Shetland pony, Kitkat, has fallen for a Simmental bullock. They met when Kitkat arrived as a companion for a thoroughbred, and the contrary little pony immediately fought through a hedge and two gates to be with the cows instead.
Once there, she swiftly attached herself to the two-year-old Simmental. They look ridiculous together, because he is so enormous – weighing over half a tonne, with feet like dinner plates – but he appears equally besotted. Especially since Kitkat learnt a new trick. Realising that her squeeze liked silage, but couldn’t eat as much as he wanted because the clamp was protected by an electric fence, she now creeps under the wire and scrapes little bits of food towards him with her hooves.
“Typical older woman,” Annie said, introducing me to the couple. “Knows exactly what she wants and goes for it.” Annie is a wiry, no-nonsense countrywoman I made friends with after giving her a kitten. She has tried numerous dating agencies but never found a keeper. She says it’s because men are ‘nish’ (a West Country word meaning ‘fussy and dainty’) and can’t get on with her animals.
As she made me a coffee – a complicated process because her fridge has a loop of wire around it, to stop pet goats from eating its contents – she asked how my romance was going with another neighbour, Matthew Antiza. I explained that matters had progressed: he actually apologised nicely for assuming that I was a hardened flirt. “A man has to be able to say sorry,” Annie agreed.
Since then, though, I haven’t seen him at all, because now he no longer keeps pigs on my farm there’s no reason for us to meet up regularly. And I don’t like to drop in uninvited. “You can’t do that,” Annie said, patting one of the seven dogs amassing round her legs. “I’m not sure what to do next,” I said. “Why not join the choir?” Annie suggested, lifting the kitten off her shoulder. “I’m leaving now. Practice starts in ten minutes.” When I asked why I’d ever consider such a thing, with so much work at home, Annie answered, “Because Matthew’s there?” with a quizzical look.
As we drove through dark, waterlogged lanes, she explained that he’d joined two weeks earlier, and had a pleasant baritone, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been tone deaf, because the choirmaster never turned anyone away. The hall was crammed with people, many from far-flung parishes, and it wasn’t long before the choirmaster tapped his baton to begin. After we intoned, ‘Ba, ba, ba,’ as instructed, he laughed and said we sounded like educated sheep. He was really more of an all-round entertainer, although the singing was astonishingly good. Once it began, it felt wonderful being surrounded by a wall of sound. Each time I glanced round, vaguely familiar, weatherbeaten faces beamed at me, and between songs I’d be offered advice. I learnt that countless couples had ended up together because of the choir – and that it was also the best place to find a local tradesman.
And then, through the crowd, I saw Matthew. He smiled and my heart fluttered. Later, outside, I lied and told him I was amazed to see him there. Behind his back, Annie winked. And all the way home, as distant fireworks twinkled on the horizon, I felt annoyed I’d had to behave like a Shetland pony to get what I wanted.
‘Aspiring soprano seeks male willing to be hunted down remorselessly’