Claws

Curtains twitched in the quiet and quaint English village of Nimby. A removal lorry had pulled up outside the house recently acquired by a stranger.  Curious neighbours stretched sinews to get their first glimpse of the interloper. Janet and Edward Booth were horrified when they saw who was moving in next door.

            “Oh my god”, Janet shrieked, “she’s a dragon”.

            Prejudice against such creatures was not uncommon in England. It was widely discussed in social media groups that such individuals had a completely different culture. Cooking their food with hot flames was uncivilised but also created a pungent odour that hung around for days. They were known to be obsessive about gold and jewels, deceitful, domineering, and untrusting. They behaved and smelled differently and appeared in vulgar, bright colours. Such exiles do not fit in.

            Letters were written to a local member of Parliament, Sir George Lyons, demanding that he rid Nimby of this invader to preserve the village's way of life and restore the status quo. Sir George had represented the area since yore, defending the hamlet from the by-passers, retail parkers, travellers, modernisers, yuppies, and hipsters.

            Sir,

            I write in outrage at the arrival in our sacred village of Nimby, at 5 Bluebell Crescent, of an elderly female that will not be able to integrate into our well-established community. I am no bigot; some of my best friends are from Europe, but this lady is a dragon. A dragon lady!

            There is great concern among the residents that this intruder will severely disrupt local harmony and cause considerable upset. Furthermore, that will undoubtedly impact local property value and, thus, voting intentions.

            Please give this matter your earnest attention.

            Yours faithfully

            Major Ian Cuthbert Carmine DCM, DSC.

            George read the correspondence with despair. Another day, another fear, he thought.  The residents of Nimby could not handle change. Stuck in a post-war exceptionalism mindset of idyllic island existence, proud of an empire (long since lost or sold), defenders of land and sea (with neither a reputable army nor navy) and easily persuaded that outsiders are the cause of all their problems and not the modernisation of living standards, commerce, gastronomy, technology, and civilisation. Still, they effectively paid his wages, so he must be seen to do their bidding and assess the situation in Bluebell Crescent to ease the community's concerns.

            The knight approached the alleged dragon’s lair. He walked through the immaculately maintained front garden of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and blue delphiniums before reaching the oak door and pressing the doorbell. Greensleeves played melodically inside the small, detached house as he stepped back in deference to his new constituent. The new owner opened the door and examined the visitor with bright eyes through horn-rimmed glasses.

            “Hello there”, she smiled at the blue pin-stripe-suited visitor, immediately disarming him. She was charming, polite and spoke fluent English.

            “Oh, good day to you, madam. My name is George Lyon, Sir George Lyon. I am the MP for this district and a resident in the village, so I thought it would be appropriate to welcome you in person to our charming, much-loved village of Nimby,” he said.

            “Gosh, that is very kind of you. My name is Aamira. Would you care to come in for some tea?”

Lyons entered the lair. He admired the large hall mirror, inlaid with various stones, mounted on golden wallpaper. The house was clean and uncluttered, with good quality furniture. There was an unfamiliar but not unpleasant smell emanating from the kitchen. 

            “That smells very aromatic. Am I disturbing your cooking, good lady?”

            “Oh no, that’s my homemade Korma simmering on the stove. Would you like a taste? It’s courgette and lentil. Not very spicy – I don’t like a fiery curry.” She spoke.

            “No, thank you. But I like that kind of dish. Sometimes, on a Friday evening, I take Mrs. Lyons for a Lamb Biryani at the Bombay Brasserie in the High Street. Delicious food and quite reasonable prices”.

            “I may try it, although I rarely eat meat and if I do, only chicken.” 

            “And do you cook chicken by flame?” The defender of Nimby asked.

            “Flame? Ah! No, I do not own a barbecue—just the oven and hob. And I recently bought an air fryer but haven’t used it yet. I mostly cook with one pot these days. I tend to prepare simple dishes. I do not own any recipe books or scales, so just wing it, but most of my attempts seem edible!”

The conversation continued with mutual respect, clarity, and good nature. Lyons commented on the long, tapered, and painted nails on Aamira’s bejewelled gold ringed fingers, or ‘claws’, as she referred to them with a giggle, explaining her late husband’s love of her bright paintwork, which she often matched with her chosen sari. Aamira invited Mr and Mrs Lyons to visit for lunch one weekend before the summer ended, requesting their advice on the best local crops to grow next year in her planned vegetable garden. Lyons accepted the offer, finished a delightful cup of Darjeeling tea and thanked Aamira for her warm hospitality. The exchange had not gone the way expected at all. This lady was utterly lovely.

            And so, over the coming weeks, at the golf club, in the pub, in the village shop and his constituency surgeries, Sir George embarked on a diplomacy quest. He spoke to the villagers, explaining Aamira’s evident desire to integrate and highlighting her wish for a quiet, comfortable retirement but to be a part of the thriving community. He even arranged a cultural exchange between Aamira and the established villagers, where they shared stories, food, and music.

As the months passed, the people of Nimby began to see Aamira in a new light. They realised that what they saw as fieriness was just confidence and a sharp mind. They accepted her bright colours and sharpened ‘claws’ honoured her family and cultural traditions. Slowly but surely, Aamira began to gain approval in Nimby. She, too, felt at ease. Moving to a different part of the country, with no family, she realised she had luckily found a place to call home.

One day, Edward Booth approached Lyons and said, "You were right, Sir George. Aamira isn't someone we should fear. She's different, but, I think, also the same as us in most ways. Maybe we should be a little more welcoming." George smiled, knowing that his mission was a success. Hopefully, the villagers had learned an important lesson about acceptance and understanding.

And so, the dragon in the Nimby coat of arms became a symbol of unity and acceptance, proving that sometimes, the mightiest weapon is not a pen or a sword but an open heart and a willingness to embrace the differences that make our shared world a rich and diverse place.