Priscilla couldn’t catch a bloke, and nobody in the village quite understood why. She was a capable lass; intelligent, pretty, everything going for her. Had a cracking job as a veterinary surgeon for a big farming outfit. Probably all down to her not being local. Truth be told, Priscilla stood out from the village women.
“If she’d shift that ruddy tiara of hers a bit, might find herself a chap. Mind, you won’t find a decent one without a scrap, but still, a bit of male presence,” chirped Gertrude Clarke, kicking off the nightly chinwag among the old dears perched on the logs. She always started the debates on village merits and faults. Knew the news before it happened.
But she always had an opponent – Maisie Weatherby. They’d been mates since their youth, and argued just as long. If Maisie said white, Gertie argued black ’til she was blue in the face.
All eyes swung to Maisie, ready for the next round. She didn’t keep them waiting.
“What kind of rubbish talk is that? You mean she should step over herself just to have the stink of socks in the house? Honestly, women, listen to her! Needs nothing from a man except his smell? While she does the graft? Ugh, better off with the tiara!”
Gertie flushed crimson.
“What utter tosh are you spouting? Woman needs to live with a man! Needs a man about the place!”
“Oh, do explain why, then? You just said only a few sodden wastrels are left! What’s the point? Wet-nursing a lazy git?”
Gertie snapped, jumping up.
“You daft cow! Needs to have a baby, doesn’t she?”
“You’re the daft cow! Have a baby, then spend her life dragging this so-called man around? Easier to pop to the city, find a proper, handsome lad, get the job done! Instead of feeding some drunken layabout, live a bit?” Maisie retorted.
The women gasped. Their fiercest bust-ups were over morals. Once they hadn’t spoken for a month, even skipped the nightly log perch. Dead boring for the rest. Thing was, Gertie had buried one husband twenty years back, while Maisie’d had three, and now doddering old Basil the builder fancied “merging households.” Maisie was over seventy, the ex-builder pushing eighty. Still, he fancied his chances.
So their views on the subject were chalk and cheese.
Things were steaming towards a proper barney when the topic of discussion appeared.
“Evening, ladies!” Priscilla stopped, smiling at the old dears.
“Evening, love! Back from York?” asked Maisie Weatherby.
“From York, Maisie. Brought flea drops, actually. Anyone’s cats scratching, tell me, I’ll pop round, apply some.”
“Oh, Prissy,” tutted Gertrude Clarke. “Cats are meant to have fleas!”
“Come off it, Gertie. These drops now – one spot and you won’t have to chase your tom off the bed for six months!”
Maisie piped up again. Giving her mate a withering look, she said:
“Priscilla, thanks, pop round to mine. Unlike some backward folk living in the Dark Ages, I appreciate good things. Never mind them, wouldn’t surprise me if they wash behind their ears with coal soap.”
Maisie shook with laughter. Gertie went scarlet with fury.
Priscilla smiled. Six years in the village taught her: private life didn’t exist here, only public life. First, she minded, got upset, then realized – it was perfectly normal. You only worried when they *didn’t* talk – meant you were a nobody.
Priscilla came here following her heart. A city girl through and through, she’d dreamt since childhood of village life, treating horses, cows, and all creatures. She always said animals were the most loyal, kind souls. They just couldn’t say where it hurt.
Seeing the ad for a vet at the new farm, with a house thrown in, she didn’t hesitate. Phoned, arrived, stayed. Took her two months to sort the cottage. Had to borrow a few hundred quid off her parents, paid it back quick – the pay was fair.
Her parents visited a few times, said it was nice, lovely even, then begged her to come back.
“Prissy, what’s good here? It’s a village! No fun, no culture. Nothing, not even a proper street lamp at night,” her mum fretted.
Dad looked grumpy too. Though if Mum said it was perfect, he’d back her to the hilt.
Priscilla just laughed.
“Just you wait! I’ll get a little pig! Supply you with fresh bacon!”
They just shook their heads, baffled.
She kept her word. Had a weaner now, chickens, turkeys. Her parents, seeing they couldn’t shift her, shrugged and started enjoying their village trips.
But one thing did bother Priscilla. Like any girl, she wanted to wed. Truth was, she realized she didn’t really want the marriage part, it was just expected. But a baby at thirty-two? That she fancied. Mum kept banging on about it.
“You’d be married ages ago if you lived in town!”
So Priscilla decided to marry. Only a minor hurdle – finding the groom.
First, tried locals. Take Johnny the tractor driver, for instance. He’d been giving her the eye forever. Good candidate? Strong, handsome. One time she met his gaze – Johnny was at her door that evening. Priscilla was grown up, no sense playing coy. Set the table, sat down, poured some blackberry gin. When it ran out, she started clearing. Johnny gawped.
“Eh, hold up. We barely sat. No more gin?”
“All gone. Why didn’t you nip to the shop? Bought some bubbly, chocolates, like a gent?”
“Me mum wouldn’t give me the money. Said it was a waste.”
Priscilla lost it; proper belly laugh. Johnny shot out the door, never came back. Village gossiped about the failed courtship for a week, then moved on.
Then there was Nigel, the farm manager. He measured her cottage with a tape, calculating what they’d get for it (she’d bought it outright last year) and how much more they’d need for a flat.
After that, she nearly gave up, didn’t want to upset her parents. Then, purely by chance in York, she met Sebastian. Nice-looking, educated, crucially – single. Very neat, pressed. Said he managed at a factory, lived with his mum…
Anyway, she liked him, and he liked her more. Somehow, naturally, they started meeting. Loads to talk about. On the third date, blushing, he invited her home.
“Mum’s gone off to her allotment… Don’t know how to say this properly, so I’ll just say – I want you to stay tonight.”
And Priscilla agreed.
That day near the old dears, she was just back from visiting Sebastian. Such a lovely time, she was sure he wouldn’t just let her leave. He begged an invite back.
“Sebastian, not sure you’ll like it with me. I live in a village… You’re so city.”
“So what? You were city too, chose village? Maybe I’ll like it.”
“Course, drive down. We’ll see.”
Priscilla walked home grinning
She shut her pigpen gate securely as the first stars emerged over the thatched roofs, listening to the comforting sounds of her animals settling for the night and knowing, with a quiet certainty that warmed her more than any man ever could, that this little patch of England – her chickens scratching, her pig content, and even old Mrs. Higgins’ gleeful recounting of the manure debacle already drifting on the evening breeze from the pub – was exactly where she belonged, piglets and all, her happiness complete and utterly her own.
