a year in the provinces

It's been a year since my family downshifted to the North and I was just wondering whether Strife in the North would ever be as successful as the Mayles and the O'Reillys had been before me when Milly ran into the kitchen. ‘Mummy’ she cried, ‘The vicar just parachuted in to the back garden!’ This was no surprise of course. It’s a large parish here in The North and the last incumbent had made it quite clear he was taking his bicycle with him when he retired. I followed my daughter outside where a large familiar grin appeared from under a billowing pile of red silk. ‘Oh bloody hell!’ he said, ‘where the fuck am I?’ I had rather hoped that after falling ten thousand feet from a plane and my face being the first thing he saw then some witty comment about seeing angels might have been the least I could have expected. Obviously a protestant, I thought. I didn’t hear that kind of language from Cormac Murphy O'Connor when he dropped in, and he went right through the roof of the greenhouse after his reserve failed.

‘I was sure this was the airfield!’ He said, ‘I saw the runway!’. ‘That was my drive dear’, I explained. ‘But what about that great big fucking cross on the grass?!’ he added. Well, I make no apologies for my herbaceous borders being arranged to show The Almighty where to concentrate the little amount of sunshine he saves for The North. My Church of England suspicions were confirmed when I saw that he was jumping with an organisation called the Red Devils. It was all for charity, it was explained to me. I just hope this doesn’t make people think only Anglicans are concerned about others. The Archbishop of York may have joined up with the Paras to raise money for charity but our very own pope already joined the Hitler Youth for their humanitarian work years before.

'This is all very embarassing', confessed the bishop, 'You won't tell anyone about this will you?' he asked. I smiled reassuringly. I thought I might mention it on my blog but that was the next best thing to keeping it a secret. The parachtists began arguing amongst themselves (yes, definitely Church of England) so I decided to leave them to it and quietly returned to pondering how I could break with the legacy of the downshifting memoir and reassure readers I wasn't just making it all up, sigh...

angels of the north

Milly came home from school slightly perturbed by her school craft project. ‘Mummy’, she asked, ‘how do you make a Northumbrian cross?’ I had to confess I didn’t know so I asked my neighbour. He told me you make a Northumbrian cross by telling him Middlesbrough are a point above Newcastle in the league and just laughed, and he usually is so very helpful, sigh. I decided we should have to go to Northumberland to find a cross in situ so the girls and I jumped in the car and headed North. Soon a large figure loomed high above the road. ‘what’s that big statue of Mummy?’ asked Tilly. I looked up at the imposing sculpture which had stood on a hill and wistfully looked south down the A1 for ten years now. ‘I think she’s a London downshifter dear’, I explained, and drove some more.

Soon the A1 turned muddy as the tarmac ran out and the car got stuck in a tractor rut so we pulled off and found ourselves by the sea. This was the very coast where Christianity first arrived in this country of course, and without Aiden braving the Vikings, the scots and the tourists all those years ago we wouldn’t have anyone to chain themselves to railings outside Jerry Springer the Opera today. Pilgrims still come to this spiritual stretch of coast to this day to drive out onto the Holy Island Causeway as the tide is coming in to be baptised by the North Sea in the comfort of their own car.

There, amongst the dunes we came across the object of our quest, the ancient cross of Saint Cuthbert, leaning over with the very weight of it's antiquity but still reaching towards the heavens after all these centuries. I thought of all the weary travellers who had stood at this sacred spot and thought their holy thoughts, thought ‘I wish it wasn’t the eighth century and blogs haven’t been invented yet so I could share these profound insights I’m having right now because if I write it them a book they'll only end up in a vault in London where nobody can see them’, perhaps listened to the eerie voices of wind and the waves, then looked at their watch and wondered if they were going to miss the rush hour, then thought it’s a pity that great big castle spoils the view, damn developers, then turned their tired and sandaled toes south and bid farewell to the angels.

Soon that time came for me too. I turned to the children and smiled. I had my own angels, I thought, I didn’t need any one else’s. ‘Mummy’, said Tilly. ‘I love you too’, I said, knowing instinctively what she was going to say. ‘I need a poo’, she said. ‘Come on then’, I told them, sawing off the cross and putting it in the boot. We got in the car and shut out the wind, I typed ‘the north’, into the Satnav, and in the back of the car an angel passed.

miracle on sauchiehall street

I was still in standard class and rather hoping for one of the poor people to do something faintly amusing for the blog when the announcement came that the train was arriving in Glasgow so I rushed back to my husband in proper civilised people’s class. My husband was busy asking the guard where the train company got the doilies they put on the backs of the seats when I found him and we both peered reluctantly out of the window. I glanced down to the reviews on the back of my so called ‘classic’ guidebook to Scotland and compared my recollection of its descriptions to the view outside the window. As soon as I got back these Boswell and Johnson chaps were going to be hearing from my solicitor demanding my £7.99 back, that was for certain. My husband looked at his watch. ‘We’ll have to go straight to the concert darling’, he frowned, ‘Oh don’t be silly’ I said, ‘he’s bound to start late’. My husband looked up towards the sky. ‘Forgive her; she knows not what she says’ he said, to a suitcase. ‘Mere mortal men may be not always on time’ he explained. ‘But Van Morrison doesn't do late’.

The lights dimmed, the music began. The audience it seemed had apparently stayed on from some kind of white revivalist church meeting that preceded it. ‘I wish I was black’, sighed my husband, as that Belfast soul wafted across the auditorium. ‘I wish you were black too darling’, I said, by way of reassuring him and sharing the experience. The band eventually began on a song that seemed to involve spelling a woman's name. The religious fervour finally became overwhelming for some people in the audience. ‘I can walk! I am saved!’ cryed a man, leaping from his seat and throwing down his zimmer frame. ‘I can see!’ hallelujah!’, cried my husband, jumping to his feet and taking out his contacts. I felt a little uneasy but as I didn’t want to draw attention to myself I too leapt up. ‘I can hear!’ I called out, taking the cotton wool out of my ears. ‘It’s a miracle!’

Well, soon after that it came to the part of the evening when my husband and I found ourselves back out in the street, the warm evening air disappointingly providing no stereotypical Scottish weather to write about at all. ‘It was awfully nice of those two burly chaps in tuxedos to show us out by the fire exit’, I said. ‘Isn’t it great to miss the crowds’? My husband looked at me. ‘Yes dear’ he said. ‘And leaving half an hour before the end also helps with that of course’, he sighed. ‘I think I need a drink’, I said and we found an Irish theme pub so the evening wouldn’t be a complete wash out. We both looked sullenly into our guinness as the chap on the stool in the corner with the guitar playing covers launched into an oh so familiar number. ‘Sha la la la la la la’ said my husband by way of accompaniement. I gave him a long hard stare and we walked back to the hotel without speaking

Saturday morning arrived. It was my husband that suggested we took the metro back to the station. ‘The metro?’ I queried, ‘so you mean....?’ my husband looked puzzled. ‘Yes, like the tube’, He clarified. It would be like going home. Now I did believe in miracles. It was a little later when my husband tentatively said to me, ‘darling?’ I looked up at him innocently. ‘Do you think you might let go of the seat now, we really need to get off you know.’ ‘Why need to get off?’ I asked. ‘because we’ve been through the last station twelve times and one more might be unlucky’, he explained. I shook my head. ‘But it's like back home’, I said, clinging to the seat. ‘But darling’, said my husband, ‘you’re not in London!’ I shook my head. ‘Underground train’ I said pointing to carriage around me, ‘London!’. My husband sighed. ‘big muddy old river; London!’ I continued, and, indicating the other passengers, ‘loads of Scottish people; London!’. ‘But darling’, argued my husband, ‘we really do have to get off!’ ‘why get off?!’ I snapped. ‘because Rangers are at home today and you’re wearing your my friend went to Lourdes and all I got was this lousy t-shirt t-shirt dear’, he explained. ‘why get off?!’ I said. ‘Because we need to go back down south to the north darling’ explained my husband. I shook my head. ‘But its grim down south up north!’ I protested. ‘Won’t even a large G&T pursuade you dear?’ asked my husband. I stood up. ‘make that two'. My husband smiled, straightening his new Charles Rennie mackintosh cravat and we set off south for the north.

strife of bath

Father Patrick seemed to appear from nowhere and I was unable to make my escape before he caught me. ‘Ah Rilly, my child’ he said ‘I wondered if I could have a word’ I knew what was coming. ‘Look, if it’s about the pew and the confessional door incident, that was Mrs Arkwright, I swear’. ‘It’s about the holy water Rilly’. 'Oh', I sighed. ‘Traditionally, the church’s allocation has always been one immersion per child per lifetime. Is there some kind of problem at home my dear?’ I told the children to hurry up and get dried off. I suppose it was only a matter of time before my use of the font for post-babtismal ablutions was spotted. ‘We haven’t got a bathroom’ I said. 'The builders are four weeks behind.' ‘I’d love to help, really, Rilly’, said the priest, ‘but there’s only so much holy water available, global warming you know, and you're using so much the church is having to tanker it in from Rome’. ‘But how did you know?’ I asked. Father Patrick smiled. ‘The lord moves in mysterious ways my child’, he said. ‘You left this by the way’ he said and handed me a rubber duck. ‘And I believe this is your’s too’. He held out a tube of veet. ‘It’s not mine' he said,' and Father Connor insists he never squeezes his in the middle’. 'Well', I sighed as we left, 'so much for helping the needy!'

A rough looking man in an apron stood behind the counter. ‘I need a baarth’ I told him. The man stared at me blankly. 'You do sell baarths don’t you?’ I was irritated with him already. Northern and trade, the very worst combination. ‘I can do you four candles pet’, he proffered, grinning. I sighed. ‘This a baarthrum shop, is it not?!’ I snapped. ‘That is what its says on the sign’. ‘Hmm, well, we got the work experience lad to do the sign didn’t we. The school's don’t teach ‘em to spell owt anymore', he sighed. Another man appeared behind the counter. Words were exchanged between them. ‘Oohhh, you want a bath, why didn’t you say so pet?' With that he led me towards the display area. ‘Here’s a very popular model love’, he said. ‘Do I look like someone who bathes in fibre glass?' I asked, annoyed. 'We may be a normal struggling family but we're not that poor you know!’ ‘Well’, he said, the next model up is this steel bath, a very good make’. I was now becoming very annoyed indeed. ‘Less poor than that too dear’, I said, motioning him to move along. ‘We have this lovely cast iron model, very exclusive’. ‘What about that one over there?’ I said pointing to a large roll top resting on feet shaped like swans and adorned by gold taps’ ‘Ah, yes, The Cherie, a very good choice, our most expensive bath.’ 'I’ll take three’, I said. ‘Pay the man dear’, I told my husband. 'And I do hope you won’t even think about delivering the showroom model by the way, young man!’ I explained. ‘I distinctly saw some northern children sitting in it earlier!’ and the very thought made me shiver. I would have to go home and summon up all my strength before we even started looking into toilets.

the long bad thursday

I don't talk about politics as you know because I always find that whenever I take an interest in anything other than myself I have to go and lay down in a darkened room for several days to recover but last Thursday were the local elections and my agent told me to show that my very expensive education hadn't been totally wasted so I thought a little bit of politics would be just the ticket to show I still had my finger on the pulse. I didn’t know who to vote for so I studied the newspapers and the different party leaflets to see who was the most good looking. I decided I wanted to vote for Ségolène Royal because she was lovely but someone told me you had to be French to vote for her, and a socialist. When the book royalties come rolling in then I will be a socialist too, and I will be able to move to the south of France, so maybe next time, Ségolène. In the end I voted for the Green Party. I don’t know what their policies are but they had the candidate with the healthiest diet judging by the election poster. Nobody ever regreted voting for a vegetarian.

Well, the electricity has been restored to the village after the weekend, even if several days with my husband hasn’t restored it to my marriage, sigh. My husband doesn't like politics either. He's always had trouble with his elections. I was so depressed already by only Thursday afternoon in fact that I went to see the priest. I’m not terribly religious but there aren’t many people in the village who’ll talk to me. I wedged a chair against the door on his side of the confessional before I went in, just in case. ‘Father, forgive me, it has been several weeks since my last confession', I confessed. 'Don’t worry my child’, said Father Patrick. 'I’ve been reading your blog so there was no need for you to come to confession. I know everything already’. There was a pause. 'In fact, your blog saves half the village the bother of coming to see me too. Is there anything else my child?' he asked. ‘I was late returning The Da Vinci Code DVD to the video shop, Father’ . ‘Ah, so that was you was it? They said it hadn’t come back yet when I tried to borrow it. Is there anything else to declare?’ ‘Well, I told my neighbour I was going to call her a terrible mother on my blog, although I was provoked Father.’ ‘Whatever did she say to you Rilly?’ he asked. ‘She said I should visit the Angel of the North.' I replied. ‘That’s not so bad is it? He suggested. ‘She said I should go and stand next to it to prove that there really was nothing else in the North East bigger than my self-pity’. 'Well, I can give you a penance or I’ll let you off if you get me Wife in the North's autograph’ said the priest. I sighed. 'And light a votive candle on your way out'. 'Oh Jesus, I came here to get away from elections!' I sighed my most exasperated sigh, and with that I left, pushing an entire pew against the confessional door on my way out. The lady who was sitting on the pew mumbled something but I told her she should jolly well stop complaining and stop thinking just about herself for once.

not a good friday

Oh Gosh Rilly, what’s happened?’ asked my neighbour yesterday, sensing my alarm. I could hardly bring myself to recount the trauma that had befallen me. ‘I’ve..I've..I've lost the carkeys.’ The words stumbled from my trembling lips. ‘Oh, don't worry Rilly, it could happen to anyone, just ask young Tilly to look for them, they’ll turn up in no time’, she suggested. ‘Just one small snag’, I said, ‘Tilly’s in the car, and I fear she’ll be in there all weekend.’ 'But haven’t you a spare?’ asked my neighbour. ‘Well of course, I have Milly so it’s not a complete loss’. ‘I meant a spare key dear, not a spare daughter’. ‘Oh, I see’, I said, ‘afraid not, and the thing is, it’s such an expensive top of the range car you see, much nicer than anything you could afford, that you can’t just get a new key cut, you have to get someone over from Sweden to sort it out’. ‘Oh gosh’, she said, and as I reflected that perhaps that last bit of information had undermined the effect of the sympathy seeking vulnerability I was trying to convey she continued ‘and how is your husband taking it?’ 'Terribly, as you can imagine’, I said, ‘All his Judy Garland CDs are in the car, I don’t think he can make it through the weekend without them, and if Tilly plays them all while she’s locked in there then the battery will be as flat as pancake by Tuesday. I'm going to get absolutely crucified if he misses his appointment with the interior designer next week because of this.’ ‘Oh golly, poor you’, said my neighbour. 'At least you picked the right weekend for it, ha ha, however are you going to sleep tonight?’ ‘Don’t worry’, I reassured her, ‘The car’s got really good soundproofing so Tilly’s shouting and banging on the windows all night shouldn’t keep us awake.’ 'Thank heavens for small mercies’, she said. ‘See you in church Sunday then Rilly, hmm, I suppose you'll be needing a lift...’

gregorian calender girls

This morning the ecclesiastical calendar calculator website confirmed my suspicions that this weekend is actually Easter. Damn, I’m sure this means I should have collected Milly and Tilly from school by now this week. I shall have to send Natalia round to see what has happened to them. Easter is quite a major occasion in our village. The vicar, recognizing more than anyone the importance of this festival in a small community organizes an easter egg hunt in the village and enlists the help of the verger and local W.I. to ensure it’s smooth running. Things can get quite competitive amongst these ladies, especially on the baking side of things. I was asked to help when a representative from the organising committee came round and noticed the aga. ‘Oh, you’ve got an aga dear, that’s marvelous’, she said ‘You must help us with the baking!’ ‘You mean you can cook stuff in these as well?’ I replied. ‘Crikey!’ I did my best of course, but village life being what it is the only observation I received on my efforts was ‘we’re going to need considerably bigger hot cross buns’. Anyway, my husband will soon arrive from London and with him to myself at least some of the weekend and several days' production from Green and Blacks entire orgasmic chocolate factory in the pantry, I very much hope, given the abundance of bunnies abroad in the village, that there will be at least one rabbit which doesn’t need to see the light of day this weekend, sigh. Should anyone out there run out of men or chocolate before Tuesday, I jolly well wish them good vibrations this weekend. See you soon, hug...