COUNTRY LOVING
In the heady height of summer, Imogen Green wonders whether she’s found the happy ending she’s been longing for
Rural life has become idyllic, especially when it comes to dating…
YESTERDAY EVENING, I SAT TALKING TO STUART, AN ELDERLY NEIGHBOUR, ABOUT GROWING UP IN THE 1930S. Apparently, his father used to make him put Stockholm Tar on the farm carthorses’ moustaches with an old toothbrush every weekend. Both Stuart and the horses objected strongly, but his father was adamant, convinced it was the only way to stop the animals getting a problem called ‘broken wind’.
I was at our village summer party – held every year to raise funds for the church. There’s a bar, a barbecue and a band, and, if it’s fine, everyone comes out of the hall and dances on the playing fields. My boyfriend, Matthew, wasn’t able to attend because he had to be in London for work, but I’d turned up with my family as usual, and was having a great time. It was so hot that we were sitting in the breeze at the top of the church steps, where we could see over into a sty near the allotments. A sow and piglets were inside, one tiny piglet wandering off and exploring on his own, the others all wrestling each other. Whenever the fights got too savage, the sow would lurch wearily to her feet and break them up. The whole scene seemed to be echoed in what was going on in the playing fields: children were chasing each other with waterpistols and having to be grabbed and restrained by their parents.
Pleased by the reaction to his moustache story, Stuart told us about a mare and foal he’d once had. The mare had died suddenly of colic when the foal was barely half-grown, and it had mourned dreadfully: refusing to eat and standing in one place, head lowered, for days on end. As Stuart spoke, I realised that I’d seen the little horse myself. It was years ago, after I married my late husband, and the poor creature had been a picture of grief, waiting by the gate in all weathers, as if certain his mother would return. In the end, it hadn’t been the pony a concerned neighbour lent as a companion, or even the coming of summer, that had eased his pain. It had been a stray ginger cat, which began sleeping in his shelter. “It’s one of those ancient, natural pairings, a horse and a stable cat,” Stuart said. “Like pigs and robins,” the postman said, glancing over the fence. “One turns the ground over, the other eats the worms.”
As I wandered across towards the bar, the sun was setting. Fairy lights sparkled, and the band, whose lead singer was our primary school headmaster, launched into their first number. Couples started dancing barefoot to Every Breath You Take, and the sight made me so wistful I had to turn away. I don’t like being parted from Matthew anymore. It’s because I’ve learned that mid-life romance can be just as sweet as first love. And I also now know, from bitter experience, that nothing lasts, so every moment needs to be cherished. It seemed such a pity to waste this magical evening. And then something caught my eye. Over by the entrance I thought I saw a familiar figure. Surely it couldn’t be? I ran over and, as I got closer, Matthew smiled and held out his arms. “I thought you weren’t going to make it!” I said. “I left early,” he replied. “I missed you too much.” He led me away from the crowds, to a quiet corner. “I love you…” he began, when behind him I saw a pig squeezing itself through a hole in the fence. I resolutely blocked the image from my mind. Matthew pulled a ring box from his pocket. “Dearest, beautiful Imogen,” he said, “will you please, please say you’ll be my wife?”
We will now leave Imogen and Matthew to celebrate their engagement (although we may revisit them to see how they’re getting on further down the line). Keep an eye out for more tales from the countryside in future issues.
‘Merry widow finds her perfect match’
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