I spent the first eighteen years of my life in an Essex village. Everyone knew everyone. In the graveyard at St Mary’s church on one side of the village green, the same names appeared on the gravestones. On the other side, the Baptist Church (still referred to as the Chapel by many of the older residents) had replaced the original tabernacle in the Sixties, but when I was little, child-related activities were held in what was essentially a hut on stilts.
At primary school, everyone knew everyone. Drifting off to sleep at night, I’d hear the distant rattle of Tube trains leaving our station and the hooting of owls outside. The train took the dads to work in the City or at the Bank of England at Debden, the next station (my father worked there). Mostly mums stayed at home, but not always.
Fast forward twenty-one years and Mr Leigh and I moved to a village in Suffolk with our toddler and newborn. We live in a hamlet, part of the overall village, with four other families and the Hall next door. Wickham Market, a mile away, is the bright lights for us, with a primary school, doctor, dentist, shops and cafes. Everyone knows everyone.
Wickham has an annual Village Show. I was always too busy with little children to take part. Three years ago, I was invited to judge one of the categories. I was ridiculously excited. Apart from being asked to judge some cheese scones once when I was speaking at a WI (#competitiveness #chivesnochives) this kind of thing had never happened to me before. I was familiar with how village shows work from watching “River Cottage” (Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall) and seeing the fierce competition between vegetable growers.
I was asked to judge in one of the open classes, “Preserves, Bakes and Liqueurs.” People expressed envy when I shared the news.
“What, you get to hang out at the village hall for a couple of hours eating cake? Sounds like the perfect job!”
I agreed. Upon arrival, I was greeted by what appeared to be miles of trestle tables groaning with bread, scones, jam, chutney, liqueurs and baked goods stretching out as far as the eye could see. I made the decision to start with the alcohol, a mistake in retrospect. By 12 o’clock, I’d lost my peripheral vision and was seriously bloated. I like cake as much as the next woman, but when you have eight Victoria sandwiches, six gingerbreads, nine lemon drizzles, two showstopper cakes, seven shortbreads and ten chocolate brownies to taste (and that’s before the tracklements, bread and cheese straws), it’s Too Much of a Good Thing.
Last year, I persuaded Mr Leigh (a talented vegetable grower) that it was time to start entering our produce into Open Classes: Vegetables and Flowers. Twitching with excitement, I arranged various legumes in a large cardboard box. On the way to the Village Hall, my partner in life gently took the pee.
“I don’t know why you’re so excited about this. It’s only a few veg.”
Upon arrival at the Village Hall, he changed his tune. Tables groaning with perfect vegetables, bunches of herbs, roses and so on were set out in neat rows. By lunchtime on Saturday, he was just as exhilarated as me to learn that we had placed in eleven of the fifteen classes we’d entered. It’s a fiercely fought contest and it really matters to everyone. It certainly isn’t about the money. I came home with £4.50 and the Liqueurs Challenge Cup (which fitted neatly in my handbag) but I felt on top of the world.
I started off in a village and I’ve ended up in another one where everyone knows everyone. It’s really helped me with creating the world of Isabella M Smugge, a first-time village dweller, and many of my experiences at the Village Show have appeared in the books. With the Deliberations of Isabella M Smugge nearly here, I’ve gone from the Challenge Cup for Liqueurs to the challenges of marketing and distribution.
A village is where I got my start. The rhythm of the seasons and regular events are what keep us all ticking over, in real life and in fiction.
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