town and country

The thing that drove me to the country was the man with the big shiny sword on the other side of Stoke Newington Church Street – the park side. He was waving it around and shouting something. It was fairly theatrical. The sword was curved – oriental looking, like the ones in the illustrations of the C. S. Lewis Narnia books.

That was the first thing that went through my sleep-deprived brain when I saw him. I tried to remember what they were called – they were in the final book - “The Last Battle” – the baddies – the infidel – they all had swords like that. If only I could remember what their name…suddenly I came down to earth.

Fuck! There is a man only about ten feet from me. He is mad. He has a sword. He is waving it around and shouting and he is heading in my direction. If I run he might decide I’m worth picking on. I mustn’t draw attention to myself. I quickened my pace. Don’t look, don’t run. My baby was heavy. He was nine months old. It’s impossible to run with a baby in a sling – even walking fast they jiggle up and down uncomfortably.

I reached the house, climbed down the steep stairs to the basement flat, and tried to fit the key in the lock. It wasn’t until then that I realised I was shaking. I could still hear him, above the traffic noises, ranting. As I shut the door behind me, I let out a sigh of relief.

Where we lived was nice –opposite the park, beautiful big houses, restored to their former glory by people looking for somewhere cheaper than Islington to put their skips outside. It was up and coming. It hadn’t quite got there yet, but it was well on the way. I remember the advertisement in the Evening Standard. It began with “1000 sq. ft. of space”.

The owners lived above us in the rest of the house. He was a civil servant and she was something big in the Liberal party. She was awful – one of those people who just never leave you alone. Everything was her business. If you could avoid her though; the polished wood floors, the big kitchen, the huge bedroom – it was all ok. Not bad for a rented flat.

Further down the road it wasn’t up and coming at all – it was deeply dodgy. I didn’t want to live somewhere with mad people anymore. Not while I couldn’t run. The only other person I knew with a child was Zachary and it was ok for him. When his baby was born, he just moved into his partner’s huge house in Crouch End.

She’d had it since she ran away with our art teacher in 1979 when houses cost about five pounds. We couldn’t afford anything – it was the height of the property boom - 1987. We looked half-heartedly around London but there was nothing remotely nice in our price range.

It’s odd that I can remember exactly which week I saw the cottage details. It was the first Sunday after Christmas. I must have had time on my hands because I was idly looking through the “country property rentals” section in the Sunday Times. It was always good for a daydream – “Small castle in Scotland with five acres: 350 pounds a month” - lovely idea, but wrong place.

This time however, there was one that sounded interestingly near enough to London to work. I don’t recall the wording now. It mentioned a small village in Essex, three bedrooms, and half the rent we were paying at the time. It said “Telephone Lady Beecham for further details” so I did.

We went the following weekend. I only knew the parts of Essex near London – the ugliness of the city without any of the added excitement. It was astonishing looking out of the car window, seeing beautiful countryside only a few miles past Hackney. Proper little villages and farms - unbelievable!

I had no idea any of it existed. At the time, I was more familiar with the other sides of London, where the city didn’t just stop like that – it stretched endlessly along the Metropolitan Line, or going south from Victoria Station. It got leafier of course, but it was still commuter land.

I tried to keep my expectations down – Hatfield Broad Oak was bound to be some shitty hole. It wasn’t. As we passed the village sign and rounded the slight bend, we saw the wide main street unfold ahead of us – lovely houses, all different sizes, a little post office/general stores, two pubs, a church, a primary school, a butcher’s shop – god they even had a library. “Ok, well the cottage isn’t on this street – we have to turn off. It’s going to be in a grim part or something”.

It wasn’t. As we turned, it was even prettier. Most of the houses were white clapboard. Even the name of the street - “Cage End” - sounded like something out of a fairy tale or a Monty Python sketch. We couldn’t go in that day - we only peered though the window with its little panes of glass set in lead. We stood on tiptoes to look over the garden gate. It was enough. The first thing we did when we got home was to phone Lady Beecham to tell her we wanted it.

She was in another part of the country – at their constituency home. John had to go and meet Sir Stephen at the House of Commons to sign the contract. I had never heard of these people so I looked them up and discovered that our potential future landlord was one of the most right-wing Tory MPs going. Damn!

I was torn between my prejudice and that lovely cottage for about five minutes – and then I thought sod it. It’s not like they live there now. They had several houses in the road. One was their weekend place, currently being restored, and then there were another three smaller cottages that they rented out cheaply, if they liked you. “Smile. Shake his hand. Anything. I want that house” I hissed at John before he left.