I nod gratefully, and look on in amazement as she does about six things at once. She is using an old-fashioned landline, its long red cord wrapping around her as she moves, while she pours me a filter coffee from a huge pot, passes over a small jug of cream, refills the pot, and then wipes over the already spotless surface. I listen to her end of the conversation, and after a few minutes she hangs up.
“Bugger…” she exclaims, realising that she is now completely entangled in the phone wire, twirling around to unwrap herself. “Happens every time. Anyway. Vet says that’s fine, pop over this morning and she’ll give him a check over as well.”
“Is it walking distance?” I ask. “My car should be fine later today, but at the moment I’m stuck.”
She holds up one finger, and picks up the phone again, while at the same time buttering two slices of thick wholemeal toast.
“Sorted. You can take my car. Meet Dan back at the inn, and he’ll give you the keys.”
I am momentarily dumbstruck by this idea. We are basically strangers, and here she is, offering me her vehicle. I mean, I could drive away into the sunset and never be seen again – she doesn’t even know my full name.
She laughs at my expression, and adds: “Don’t worry. I trust you.”
“But why? I could be spearheading an international car theft ring for all you know…”
“Well, if you are, you’d have to be desperate to take a Fiat 500, wouldn’t you? Eat up now. You’re all skin and bones.”
I am not all skin and bones. I am of a perfectly average build, but Connie is clearly one of those women who shows her affection through food. There are worse flaws.
I do as I’m told, say my goodbyes, and head back around the village green. Various people say hello and wave, offer me a cheery good morning, and it all feels surreal after years of living in London and avoiding eye contact with anyone you don’t know personally. Heaven forbid someone might actually try and talk to you.
Dan is already back there when I arrive, slouching against what could only be Connie’s car. It is indeed a Fiat 500, but one that is bright pink, and comes complete with spidery eyelashes over the front lights.
“Suits you,” I say to Dan, who is wearing baggy jeans, a Nirvana hoodie and Doc Marten boots. “Are you old enough to drive?”
He looks slightly offended and tells me he is 17 and three quarters. Nothing screams maturity like adding the ‘three quarters’.
“So, can you give me directions?” I ask, taking the keys and popping Larry on the backseat. He immediately emerges with a half-full packet of Oreos, which I take from him.
“I can come with you, if you like,” he replies. “Sophie – that’s my twin sister – is helping out at the café later, so I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Are you bored?” I ask, remembering vividly being his age, and finding everything in the whole world excruciatingly dull.
“Little bit,” he replies with a cheeky grin. I gesture for him to get in, and we set off. I soon discover that the road on the other side of the hill is just as steep as the one I walked down, but a lot busier. Dan gives me directions, and tells me about the A-levels he’s doing, and I ask him what he wants to be when he’s older. Not when he’s ‘grown up’, because that would be an insult.
“Premier league footballer sounds good,” he says, as we make our way along the A-road.
“Oh. Do you play a lot of football? Are you in a team?”
“Nah. Fall over my own feet. But you asked what I wanted to be, not what I could be…”
“Fair point. So, what else is there, then?”
“Dunno. I like taking pictures, and drawing.”
As he’s just told me he’s studying Maths, Chemistry and Biology, I’d expected a different answer – wondered if he was looking at medical school, even. It seems like a waste of three tough qualifications to just become a photographer.
Even as I think it, I am annoyed with myself – not everybody has to be a brain surgeon. Not everybody has to pursue a profession, or have a high-flying career. Not everybody has to follow the same path, and who am I to judge, or to say what is important?
“Right. Well, if that makes you happy, maybe that’s the way forward…”
“That’s what my mum always says. Other people’s mums are like, ooh, work hard, go to uni, get a job. She’s just all ‘do what makes you happy’ and shit.”
“She sounds truly awful.”
He grins a bit, then clamps down on it. “She has her moments. Anyway, you want to turn right here, then left at the ice cream farm and right at the horse trough.”
These are directions that could only be given in the countryside, but they are also accurate, and we are soon pulling up outside a small business park. There is a garage, the vet’s surgery, and a shop that sells surf boards and flip-flops. The big city.
