FINDING THE RIGHT COMMUNITY

Lynne Alderton supposed there might have been phrases that made her even more convinced that moving into Mossy Hill Close was an even worse idea.  Phrases along the lines of, “Oh you know John at Number 26 – released on license after 20 years for murder, though of course we’re not supposed to know about it”, or “I can’t prove anything of course, but some very odd things happen here at Halloween”, or “We’re very popular with the local Jehovah’s Witnesses, they’re always coming round!” 

     But “We’re VERY community-minded here,” was up there with them. Because Lynne was not very community-minded. And that, it seemed, was enough to render you beyond the pale – more or less everywhere, she thought with a sigh, but there were such things as extremes. The thing is, Lynne was not mean. She wasn’t the kind of person who said, “I’m not a mean woman” and proceeded to prove that she was. She had helped her nephew Mike and his wife Carmel set up their first house, and she had her own favourite charities. She wasn’t a curmudgeon who thought that the youth of today were bothersome snowflakes. But she had always (so far as she could remember, since she was a child!) thought that such matters as garden fetes, walking clubs, and the vast majority of parties were a tedious nuisance that had to be endured. Or NOT endured. At some point she had decided to put her foot down and make polite excuses. 

     She’d hated “downsizing” – she even hated the word, though she had to admit it was useful – but, having a pragmatic streak, had accepted that especially since her fall, she probably was better moving to a nice bungalow. Why did they always feel constrained to put the word “nice” in front of “bungalow” – often with “little”, too? 

    And the truth was, she was by no means as attached to The Gables as people automatically assumed she was. That was another thing you weren’t supposed to admit to, not being passionate about a long-term home and stricken at the thought of leaving it. But it was too big for one person, and an impossible house to heat (and Lynne didn’t like rooms over-hot) without paying a fortune. 

     Whilst not, usually, a woman given to violent thoughts, she decided she would not necessarily be answerable for herself if anyone suggested sheltered housing. That pragmatic streak told her it would probably be necessary one day, but that day was a long time off. Mossy Hill Close (which was not remotely near a hill, mossy or otherwise) seemed a good solution. It was handy for the shops, and generally regarded as a “quiet” road. 

     She was settling in quite nicely, enjoying a cup of tea when there was a knock at the door. She sighed but supposed she ought to answer it. A couple stood there, a little younger than herself, and with beams on their faces that made her wonder in passing if they had some kind of facial deformity. They introduced themselves as Dawn and Shaun (they must have loved each other, she thought, wryly, determinedly not chuckling at the name combination) from next door but one. Something about the “but one” seemed both pedantic and troubling. Being introduced to your neighbour was something that probably had to be endured, one of the necessary social rituals, but “but one” was another matter. “I’m Lynne Alderton,” she said, holding out her hand. She had resigned herself to the fact that Mr and Mrs and Miss now only seemed to exist in the classroom and on official forms, and didn’t really mind, but still thought it was the right and proper thing to offer your surname too, no matter what Dawn and Shaun thought, unless, of course, their surname was Bourne (she later discovered it was Ashworth). 

     “So pleased to meet you, Lynne,” said Shaun who, somewhat contradictorily, was wearing a woollen hoodie (although the day was not that cold) and shorts (although the day was not that warm). Lynne told herself that it was mere snobbishness to think that “how do you do” was the more appropriate greeting. 

     “We’re very community-minded here,” said Dawn. “Such a friendly little road. More of a little village, really!” she laughed. Lynne realised right at that very moment that though, to be fair, Lynne’s laugh was not in itself that annoying – she’d heard plenty worse – her tendency to use it on every inappropriate and inappropriate occasion might become exceedingly annoying. Or was it just because she was the bringer of bad tidings?

     Dawn handed her a flyer – the kind where the person who created it seems determined to use every font and every colour on offer but is not concerned for such matters as spacing and punctuation – “There you are, dear, you have a look at that! Looking forward to seeing you!”

     She supposed she muttered thank you – and returned to the kitchen to find that her tea had gone cold. But that was the least of her troubles. 

     Trying to take herself in hand, she accepted that living out at The Gables she had probably taken things to extremes. Nobody, she could recall, had even asked her to take part in any social activity (though the vicar continued to send out flyers about the Harvest Festival). The full horror dawned on her as she realised that this was not a list of activities for the year, but for the next two weeks. It was issued by the Residents’ Association. Without needing to be told, she just knew that Dawn and Shaun would be prominent members of it. Their own meetings (which took place every week) were listed, of course, and it did not escape Lynne’s attention that the next one was at Number 30 and the one after that at Number 32. Not at some kind of community hall or the like. She tried to console herself that as the numbers went up to 116, it would be some time before it need concern her. But the second after she thought, well, I am not going to join their residents’ association, let alone house its meetings. I will say so perfectly politely but I will stick to my guns!

     There were car-boot sales, and cake sales, and communal outings and a craft group – and even a mysterious (or, sadly, not so mysterious) event called Togetherness Tuesday. Lynne gave a mirthless laugh. Pathetic, really, to remember things many decades ago, but when she’d been at school she’d have said Tuesday was her least favourite day of the week because there was double maths. Suddenly, algebra and long division seemed positively alluring in comparison. 

     The next day was a Friday. In the evening there was a communal outing organised by the residents’ association and billed as a mystery tour. Well, at least I’m too late for that this week, thought Lynne, clutching at straws.  They won’t pester me about it. She was not fond of coach trips anyway, though occasionally she had taken a coach holiday, giving her custom to firms that did not operate the pernicious single room supplement. But she had a particular aversion to mystery tours. She had gleaned the information from those who had been on them that often they went to a pub or to a DIY centre whose only appeal was that they were in another town. But she was “caught” as she made her way to the little block of shops within walking distance to get her paper. An energetic young woman in an electric blue top (and Lynne didn’t want to be unkind, but there really were people – herself included – who shouldn’t wear sleeveless tops) caught up on her with a theatrical show of catching her breath. “Lynne? Hello, Lynne! I’m Carla from Number 40 – we have a spare seat on the outing!  I just HAD to let you know!”

     “Thank you for letting me know,” Lynne said.

     “So we can look forward to seeing you?”

     Lynne drew a deep breath and decided that she must start as she needed to go on. “I’m afraid not. I’ve still not finished my unpacking.”

     Carla looked like a child who hasn’t received expected praise But as if hurriedly remembering that her mother had told her no-one likes a sulker, she hurriedly rearranged her face into a smile that might not be of Dawn proportions, but did its best.  Lynne realised that she had given the impression that once all that was finished she would be delighted to go on the next coach trip. 

     They parted on perfectly amiable terms. 

     The coach turned up and after a couple of seconds, Lynne determinedly didn’t watch the inhabitants of Mossy Hill Close depart on their mystery tour. So as not to make herself a liar, she took a couple of things out of a couple of bags, though she had completed most of her unpacking the day before. She settled down with a good book and “wallpaper” radio, though in truth she didn’t really settle at all. As dusk fell, she noted that there were other lights on on the close, but not that many, and there could always be people who were ill, or whose babysitter (not that many children lived on the close) had phoned to say they couldn’t make it, or who had just left them on because their pets didn’t like to be in the dark. 

     The coach returned three hours later and the mystery excursion trippers poured out. Too late, Lynne realised she hadn’t closed her lounge window, and she heard Dawn’s voice extolling the delights of a trip to a big DIY store (so she’d been right about that) and one with a CAFÉ, too, and a voice she didn’t recognise saying, “It’s a shame that new lady at Number 26 didn’t want to come.”

     “I fancy she’ll need some working on,” Dawn said, “Bit stuck in her ways, I suppose. We have another Constance on our hands!”

     Lynne was not a short-tempered woman, generally. At times she barely even knew she had heckles. But now she felt them rising. She resisted the temptation to storm out and tell Dawn and her cohorts that she had no intention of being worked on and that it was bad manners to talk about people when they weren’t there (even though everyone did it!). 

     Her curiosity was piqued though. Who was Constance? 

     Lynne wasn’t one of those people who thought that she, or anyone else, had especial psychic powers. Even when she was a little girl she realised that her mother was (though not always!) deluding herself when she said “I know exactly what you’re thinking!” But she had learnt to trust certain instincts, though it appeared that they’d failed her over Mossy Hill Close. She had no way of actually knowing that the woman tending her hanging basket at Number 11 was Constance. She couldn’t even have sworn that it had been one of the homes with the light on. But it felt right. The woman was intent on her task and not particularly interested in what was going on around her (or giving a good impression of not being!). Lynne had never had any objections to exchanging a few pleasantries, and bade the woman tending the hanging basket a good morning. It would almost have been permissible to comment on the weather, as it had undeniably turned cooler (enough to make Shaun abandon his shorts or Carla put a top with sleeves on? She doubted it!) but she decided against it. She turned away from her hanging basket, and Lynne decided she had one of those faces that some folk call stern and expressionless, but they missed the mischievous little twist to the mouth, or the warmth and interest in the eyes. “I’m Lynne Alderton, I’ve just moved in at Number 26,” she said.

     “I’m Constance Craven.” So her instincts hadn’t let her down. They shook hands. “It’s – not a bad place to live,” Constance said. 

     “Damning with faint praise?” queried Lynne.

     “Well – I suppose I don’t really fit in,” Constance admitted. “I’ve never been much of a joiner and Dawn and Shaun – and they’re decent people, don’t get me wrong – do think it’s their mission in life to organise and arrange things.” She sighed. “Still, most folk seem to enjoy it. I mean – I don’t like to think I’m antisocial …..”

     “I am, sometimes,” Lynne said frankly. Constance laughed. “Fair enough. I suppose I am sometimes, too. I mean – I LIKE a car boot sale now and then, and have been on coach trips of my own volition on occasion, but I object to having it rammed down my throat.”

     “I’ll probably regret asking this question, but I’ll find out soon enough anyway – just what is a Togetherness Tuesday? Is it as dire as it sounds?”

     “It varies,” Constance admitted ruefully. “Sometimes they’re inside at somebody’s house, but sometimes they’re outside, too, on the grass. I don’t for one minute suspect there’s anything sinister about it, but something about presenting the Treasure of the Week Award, and Dawn playing cheerleader in the positive affirmations – it slightly gives me the creeps. Just don’t forget that it’s not compulsory and they’ll give up pestering about it in time if you stand firm!”

     “How on earth did she manage during Lockdown?” Lynne wondered, “I mean, it was bad enough for most of us, even antisocial folk like me, but it must have driven her into a trough of despair!”

     “Don’t bank on it,” Constance said, wryly, “You’d be amazed what can be organised online if you really, really try! True, the outings had to stop, but most other things went on with a vengeance! Listen – do you fancy a trip out to the café on the block? They do a very nice cheese scone – or cherry, if you prefer something sweeter.” Lynne understood. By chatting out in the garden they were attracting attention they might not want, but neither of them intended being a prisoner in her own house. And anyway, they both WERE partial to a scone, whether sweet or savoury!

     The owner, a pleasant lady called Laurel, smiled and said, “So you have a partner in crime, eh, Constance? A fellow escapee from the Mossy Hill Mafia?”

     As they ate their scones and sipped their coffee, Lynne and Constance discovered that they enjoyed many of the same writers and TV shows, and would even quite like a day out together, now and then, but with the destination known, and of their own choice! 

     A couple of weeks later, a couple called the Hendersons; Juliet and Colin, moved onto Mossy Hill Close, and it turned out that they were of a similar mind. 

     Nobody ever spoke about there being two factions, but as Lynne put it to the others, when they were on a trip to a local stately home, there was, in fact, nothing wrong with being community minded. It was just a question of finding the right community!