An Affair to Remember

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Authors: Virginia Budd
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to be seen and yet another hill, but the sign held out some hope. However, she’s not out of the woods yet. On reaching the top of the hill, she’s compelled to force a reluctant Mini up the bank in order to avoid head-on collision with some idiot driving much too fast in a green Volvo. She can hear by the noise the engine’s making that this manoeuvre isn’t doing the aging Mini any good, and cursing all men, especially men in green Volvos, she pulls up in a layby at the brow of the hill to check everything’s OK, not that she knows anything about car engines and wouldn’t know what to do if there was any damage, but it might be a good idea to give the wretched thing a rest; by the smell of burning rubber emanating from the bonnet it was getting a bit on the overheated side.
    All seems well, however, and she’s just about to climb back into the Mini and get going again, when all at once she’s struck by the silence and beauty of the place. Worried about finding the way, then about the car, she hadn’t had time to notice her surroundings. Until now, that is. Slowly, as though impelled by a force outside herself, she closes the car door behind her; stands quite still beside it listening, for what she’s no idea, and whatever it is she doesn’t hear it. All she hears are the normal sounds of a summer’s day in the deep countryside: the chirp chirp of a bird in the hedge behind her, the distant drone of a plane, a bee busily buzzing away in one of the tall purple foxgloves lining the bank; that’s all. What did she expect, for God’s sake? Her smart, London shoes are already soaked from the long grass, but she notices that only a few yards away from where she’s standing the road begins its descent into the next valley. She might as well have a quick look at the view before getting back in the car: Sel was expecting her at Brown End in time for lunch, and it is only 11.30. Beside the road, just as it begins its descent, there’s a heap of gravel, no doubt left from last winter, it must be awful driving round here in bad weather. Will she have to? she wonders, as she scrambles up the heap, doing even more damage to her shoes. Probably, if she stays, that is. But… who cares… because there it is, far below, straggling along the valley bottom beside the river, the village of Kimbleton, and like Sam before her, she experiences this strange, inexplicable feeling that she’s returning home. Unlike Sam, however, she also experiences a spasm of annoyance. Fleas on a dog ’ s back , that ’ s what Father said of the village ’ s inhabitants – too many and too lazy ; refused to learn and only interested in sitting on their backsides or breeding .
    “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” She hears her own voice shouting into thin air. What in heaven’s name’s going on? She hasn’t a clue about the inhabitants of Kimbleford, how could she? Despite the warmth of the July sun on her back Beatrice shivers; finds herself, of all things – she hasn’t smoked in years – wanting a cigarette. Don’t be daft, she tells herself, a little frightened now, as slipping and sliding down the gravel heap, she hurries back to the safety of the car: first voices, then this. Back in the Mini things return to normality and, taking a deep breath, she lets out the clutch. Sounding its – it has to be said, pretty inadequate – horn at each and every twist and bend in the road; there are many and she can’t cope meeting another idiot head-on; she slowly descends towards the village.
    First signs of habitation: a line of council houses, followed by a dilapidated looking building with a corrugated iron roof, which turns out to be the village hall; a garage-come-work shop – Bogg ’ s Repairs , states a bold, but rusty sign over the door – equally dilapidated, its forecourt jammed with broken cars; a row of what looked like alms houses and at long last, round a right-angle bend, the main street. This is more like it! This is how a

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