The Village Message Board

I took this photo in south Gloucestershire, a couple of hours’ north of the landscape which predominantly inspired the one in Villager, but I always associate it a little with the psychedelic magic of Underhill, especially as I was still in the immediate giddy aftermath of finishing the book when I looked out upon this beautiful scene.

I posted the excerpt below from Villager on this page once before but, as my subscriber list has grown significantly since then, most of you won’t have seen it. I’m reposting it because of that and because, with 1983 only a couple of weeks from publication, I thought a few of you might like to get your hands on Villager while it still holds the official status of being my latest book - either by ordering through Blackwells (with free delivery), or by taking out a full annual subscription to this page and getting a free signed hardback (I’ll send you a signed hardback of Notebook, too). One of the most gratifying things about writing Villager has been hearing from people who’ve read it twice - or sometimes even three times - due to being compelled to re-examine the little connections they missed between characters and the scrambled timeline of intertwined narratives. In all honesty, I deviously wrote the book hoping exactly such a thing would happen, and enjoyed laying small biscuit crumbs to be picked up later, but also leaving little gaps for readers to fill in themselves. This chapter, told through the gossiping, sometimes fractious and sometimes downright bonkers voices on a village message board is another example of me doing that, and was one of the quickest and most hedonistic parts of the book to write. As soon as I began it, I saw each character’s life in great detail and colour, despite only hinting at those lives in these few pages. I have been told by several people that one of the characters - however brief her appearance - is their favourite in the entire novel. I won’t say which, though, as it’s probably best I encourage you to go in with an open mind before deciding on your own favourite…

Judith Sparrow: Has anyone spotted a horse rug on their travels? Purple, with red stripes. Last seen up near Hood Gate. Any information appreciated. My Thomas is getting cold.

Terence Black: Fantastic fish and chips tonight at the Stonemason’s Arms. Just right. Mushy peas.

Diana Wilson: I had some last week. Overcooked.

Gary Oliver: Everyone keep their eye out there’s a drone around in the night sky been seen looking for something worth pinching.

Gary Oliver: Don’t suppose anybody has two concrete slabs they don’t need any more?

Terence Black: Be vigilant about scam phone calls. A number has been calling me. International. Says I have been in a car crash nonsense I haven’t.

Jennifer Cocker: Are Roger and Sheila OK? Haven’t seen them for a while. They’re very old and having trouble getting around now.

Sheila Winfarthing: We are fine. Thank you, Jennifer.

Jennifer Cocker: Someone should go round and check on them. I can’t. I have the kids.

Sheila Winfarthing: I’m right here.

Gary Oliver: Anyone who has any engine oil they don’t need please let me know. It shouldn’t go to waste and can be used for heating my stone sheds.

Alan Rockwell: TALK ON OLD WOODCRAFT. WHAT HAVE WE LOST? UNDERHILL VILLAGE HALL. September 8th. 7 p.m. Alan Rockwell discusses woodland arts. SAMPLES FROM TALK: Sawn elm is often used for the partitions in cowsheds and other places where animals live, as it can cope with the kick of any beast. Cleft oak is often used for the rungs of ladders and can be trusted for its resilience. What does trimming a cleft with a froe mean? Find out. Snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. Entry £3.50.

Penelope Ralph: We have some oil you can have, Gary. But please can you return the drum afterwards.

Judith Sparrow: Congratulations to everyone on last week’s cakes and plants at the Old Chapel. Over £300 raised for RNLI. A splendid effort for all concerned. Any village would be proud to raise half as much.

Diana Wilson: Well done but lemon drizzle cake was dry.

Mark Laggs: Heard a wheelie bin is on fire down near the Molesting Station. Think it belongs to the Cooks. They’re not on here. I’m told they know.

Diana Wilson: So why did you write it on here?

Mark Laggs: Wanted people to know. In case it happens again. Could be kids. Only trying to help.

Judith Sparrow: Molesting Station??

Mark Laggs: The MOT Testing Station. Looks like it says Molesting Station. Because of the tree.

Judith Sparrow: You have an overactive imagination, I think, perhaps, Mark?

Jennifer Cocker: From a news report last year: ‘RESURGENCE OF BURNING BIN CRAZE AMONGST TEENS. Wheelie bins are constructed from high density polyethylene, which when set alight releases carbon monoxide and dioxide. Such gases starve the brain of oxygen, and can be misinterpreted as a high, when in fact the burner of the bin is quickly and irrevocably destroying their own mind and body. Different coloured bins give off different fumes. Brown bins are believed to give off the most potent false high.’ Useful?

Judith Sparrow: Does anyone have a horse rug for sale? Second- hand? Still haven’t found the one belonging to my Thomas and the nights are drawing in.

Alan Rockwell: Thank you to all who came to the talk on old woodcraft last night. The total attendance was nine but I believe it was a case of quality over quantity.

Gary Oliver: There’s a white goose on the grass at Riddle Bridge. If it belongs to anyone. It’s OK it’s just sitting there.

Megan Beaker: When I was a child my mother and father had many geese. As well as being eventually good for the pot, they provided a guard for the house and a deterrent when thieves were abroad. We did not lock our doors back then, of course.

Gary Oliver: Those were the days. My mate Rob in Stepsford never locked his door. Last August couple of junkies from Plymouth came up and cleaned him out. Left the whole house bare. Even took the family photos.

Mark Laggs: Old chair up for grabs if anyone wants it. Smells a bit of fags but not much. Will dump if no takers. Don’t call on phone. No reception in the combe.

Diana Wilson: When you say ‘dump’, I do hope you mean at the Household Waste Recycling Centre.

Mark Laggs: FFS

Megan Beaker: I believe chairs do us more harm than good in the modern age. Squatting is excellent for the posture. We have forgotten this, as a race.

Penelope Ralph: Very true, Megan. Indigenous cultures know this.

Gary Oliver: Goose is still down at Riddle Bridge. Seems fine. Wonder if it sleeps there.

Megan Beaker: I named my favourite childhood goose Grunwald. When it came time to cook Grunwald, I was sad, but entirely accepting that this was the way of things. The fire was in the centre of the room which was what you would nowadays call ‘open plan’. My sisters and I sat and watched the flames, with two oxen, who were also in the living room, as it was a very cold night. This was not long after my parents died.

Jennifer Cocker: Anyone getting cloudy water after issues the other day?

Sheila Winfarthing: And here I was thinking Roger and me were the oldest on here, Megan!

Mark Laggs: Keep it running and it will clear.

Penelope Ralph: Not strictly relevant because not quite geese but has anyone seen the door in the house up above Brent Moor, on the lane, which says ‘DUCK’ on it? I always think, ‘That must be a really big duck who lives there.’

Diana Wilson: No.

Terence Black: Terrific steak last night (medium rare) at the Steam Packet in Wiliford.

Alan Rockwell: TALK ON THE HISTORY OF LETTERBOXES. HOW LONG WILL THEY REMAIN? UNDERHILL VILLAGE HALL. October 25th. 7 p.m. Alan Rockwell discusses the evolution of the posted letter in the UK. SAMPLES FROM TALK: Like Santa Claus, the first British post boxes were green, not red, but it was decided they were too camouflaged in their surroundings. The first red post boxes appeared in 1874 but it took another decade before all the green post boxes in the country had been repainted. The first British post box of all appeared in Wakefield in 1809. Snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. Entry £3.25.

Penelope Ralph: I have always admired the small Victorian post box in the wall down near Summersbridge. I recently found out that the reason it has a kind of soft brush in its mouth is to stop snails and slugs getting in and damaging the letters.

Gary Oliver: The way the world is going, some bastard will probably pinch it one day.

Diana Wilson: Post keeps getting later in the day all the time. Nearly 3 p.m. the other day. One day soon it will be so late it will be early again.

Alan Rockwell: In fact, Gary, you might find now is a relatively benign time, in terms of the theft of items in the custody of the post office. Attacks from robbers were so common in the late 1700s that the post office would advise customers sending money to cut all banknotes in half, send them at different times, and only send the second half after receipt of the first half had been acknowledged. I will also be covering this in the talk. Snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. Entry £3.25.

Judith Barrow: The post box in the wall of Linhay Farm also has a soft brush in its mouth. They put it in because some bees nested in there.

Alan Rockwell: The one beneath the Black Tree? Also Victoria- Regina, that one. I believe it’s the oldest on the entire moor.

Diana Wilson: That tree has always been full of slugs and snails.

Megan Beaker: The Black Tree has always been what everyone in the village has called it. Nobody alive remembers a time when it wasn’t there and wasn’t black. A perplexing runt amongst its tall confident siblings, it never gets bigger, never dies, never withers. It is a tree of perpetual winter, a tree devoid of the relief of seasonal change. When people walk past it they often find their electronic devices misbehaving. Watches stop. Torches catch fire. Phones zap embarrassing photos to half-acquaintances, unbidden. It is said that many centuries ago a robber of the road – possibly one of the gang they called the Gribblins – was left to die in an iron cage attached to an earlier, blacker tree on the same spot, his last meal being three candles fed to him by a local resident, but that is just a story, teased and tickled by time. What is known for certain is that sheep have often been found dead on the boulder beneath the tree, rivulets of blood spilling from one eye. When lightning hit the tree during the early 1960s, a disgraced limping clergyman in his final half-decade of life, who’d settled here from up country, saw the entire trunk change to white and a face wag its wet tongue at him from the bark, but when he recounted the tale in the Stonemason’s Arms later that evening, its authenticity was discredited because of his reputation, but also because he was quick with gin at the time and wearing an item of knitwear back to front.

Alan Rockwell: Thank you for this, Megan. Most edifying, and largely new to me. I have made a note in my journal.

Sheila Winfarthing: I remember that lightning strike well. 1962. Or maybe ’63. I wasn’t aware you were here as well back then, Megan.

Megan Beaker: I had already been here a long time by then.

Ted Wentworth: Sheep know 99 easy ways to die but are always searching hard for the 100th.

Gary Oliver: Stone sheds now toasty on these chillier nights. Thanks again to Penelope for the oil.

Mark Laggs: Ted some of your wall has come down up by Nettle Field. I saw a ewe on the road. Could be yours too?

Ted Wentworth: Thanks, I’ll check. Could be Cavendish’s.

Megan Beaker: A drystone wall should not have too much weight low down. The weight of the stones creates the adhesion that makes it trustworthy. Ventilation is important, especially in areas frequently subject to frost. The foundation of the wall is extremely important. Many walls are of double thickness. There is often a gap in the middle for what is called ‘hearting’: the placing of smaller stones, as a sort of filling. Even so, no mortar is used. This double thickness was echoed in many walls of actual dwellings on the moor, giving ample room for the interment of totemic objects and charms. Common plants that grow on drystone walls in the area include stonecrop, maidenhair spleenwort, wall rue, leafy dog lichen and – less often – the rare lanceolate spleenwort and parsley fern. Sheep – particularly the Blackface – will often seek out a weak spot in the walls, although a sheep that sees a hole in a wall will leave the wall well alone, for she senses it is in danger of collapsing on her.

Penelope Ralph: Whereabouts are you based, Megan? I don’t believe we have met. Are you anywhere near Riddlefoot Lane?

Megan Beaker: Not far from there.

Gary Oliver: He’s not on here so I’m posting for him but Steve Clayton’s whippet Len had a seizure yesterday and ran off. Was seen by Cavendish’s farm this morning at 7am but not since. Can everyone keep a look out.

Terence Black: Does anybody know if the Stonemason’s Arms are still serving food in the afternoons? Can’t seem to find it on their wwwbsite.

Jennifer Cocker: I spoke to Jim at the post office who saw a whippet running alongside the dual carriageway today. He said he stopped on the hard shoulder and ran after it to try and catch it and steer it away from the traffic but it ran off into Parker’s Woods.

William Williams: I have some old sheet music here. Classical, but also some old broadsides and ballads. I keep holding onto it but it’s just taking up space so if anyone would like to have a look and make me an offer, let me know.

Megan Beaker: The lyrics are mostly wrong.

Gary Oliver: Steve Clayton’s whippet Len now been seen by Dimple Bridge, Fox Lane and Stumper’s Cross. Nobody can get near him. Just runs in circles. The cancer has spread to his brain. Steve says best to just leave him now.

Jennifer Cocker: Oh, poor poor dog. Is there nothing that can be done?

Mark Laggs: Gary, do you still have that spare coving from last year?

Penelope Ralph: Funny story for everyone, going back to post boxes. I dropped Mike off at Modbury post office earlier where he was posting Sophie’s birthday present and while I was waiting I drove around the block a few times to kill time. As I was coming back the last time I saw Mike coming out the door and, as he did, an Astra, exactly the same colour and model as ours, driven by an elderly lady, pulled up right outside the door, and Mike opened the passenger door and got in right next to her. She almost had a heart attack. I pulled up a moment later and we both apologised. She was shaken but we all laughed in the end.

Diana Wilson: Why did you go all the way to Modbury? It’s miles away. There are at least nine post offices closer than that, all with reasonable opening times.

Mark Laggs: My mate Craig drove all the way from Devon to Robin Hood’s Bay with a loaf of bread on his car roof. That was a Vauxhall Viva, though. They hadn’t started making Astras yet.

Pete Micklewhite: Who does everyone use for logs and who is best (dry)?

Mark Laggs: I use Lloyd Warner down over the back side of the Tor but he’s not the cheapest.

Diana Wilson: Surprising that Lloyd turned out the way he did. When you consider his father.

Jennifer Cocker: Can anyone hear the fireworks this evening? I have a lurcher and two cats, petrified, beside me. How can people be so inconsiderate?

Mark Laggs: Coming from the Rectory, I think. Sounds like war.

Diana Wilson: Call the police.

Judith Sparrow: Yes, I can hear my Thomas outside whimpering. He only neighs like that when he is very scared.

Pete Micklewhite: Thanks Mark. Lloyd is indeed a top lad. Bit different to his old man.

Alan Rockwell: TALK ON THE HISTORY OF VILLAGE NAMES. HOW DID WE GET TO WHERE WE ARE? UNDERHILL VILLAGE HALL. December 1st. 7 p.m. Alan Rockwell discusses the evolution of place names in the UK. SAMPLES FROM TALK: Did you know that Payhembury is called that because it was owned by a Saxon named Paega, and that Hembury once meant ‘high fort’? Who was Totta and what was her ness (Totnes)? Who was Wineca and what was her leigh (Winkleigh)? Why is Underhill (Underhill) called Underhill? PLUS GUEST SPEAKER COLIN STAPLETON FROM BIDEFORD. Snacks and non- alcoholic drinks. Entry £2.75.

Diana Wilson: I’d have thought it was called Underhill because it’s under a hill.

Megan Beaker: I know who Totta was. I met her and she was a supercilious prick.

Sheila Winfarthing: When was this, Megan?

Jennifer Cocker: So pleased to announce that our daughter Melanie has been selected to represent Britain at the Olympics in diving. This is the culmination of years of hard work and dedication for our Mel and we could not be more proud.

Mark Laggs: Well done Mel!

Megan Beaker: I used to dive, on frequent occasions. That was one of the reasons they selected me to take charge of our settlement, after my mum and dad died. I knew where the big sharp rocks in the river were and I knew how to pick my spot. I was able to stay under a long time, and I tickled trout out from under the granite. Within a year I could grab two at a time. Unatha and Joan (she wasn’t called this but that’s what you’d call her) were waiting for me above with my thick warm coat, which only I was allowed to wear. I was not alive much longer and believe my diving would have only improved, perhaps to Olympic standard, if that had been a thing. Later, when I had a different face and body but the same name, I remembered how, even though it was so many years later, and then again, and again. I never took the river for granted, as those who do rarely live to tell the tale. We said it had a voice. We called it Jack. But Jack’s voice was many voices. It was the voice of my mum and my dad and my other mums and dads, and it is my voice too. I hear myself when I get close to it.

Penelope Ralph: Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I am enjoying Megan’s stories a lot. Who was it who invited and confirmed you here on the message board, Megan? I don’t think I have seen you around the village or the combe.

Megan Beaker: It was me. I did it. I invited me. I confirmed me.

Dave Busley: HAPPY DAVE’S GARDENING SERVICES. NO JOB TOO SMALL. COMPETITIVE RATES. CALL 01364 782435. INDOOR JOBS CONSIDERED ALSO. ALWAYS HAPPY TO HELP.

Rebecca Potts-Wellington: Bonfires are fine, but be considerate. Please check with your neighbours before lighting one. And DON’T do it on a windy day. Very antisocial. Naming no names.

Mark Laggs: There’s a black lad running around Cavendish’s top field. Not sure if anyone knows anything about him.

Penelope Ralph: Mark, this seems a bit racist. I don’t see why it’s cause for concern or that the colour of the skin of the running boy is relevant.

Mark Laggs: Typo! Black lab. Saw him on Squeezebelly Lane before that. Maybe was tied up outside Spar and broke his leash.

Mark Laggs: It’s OK, he’s Sue Pearson’s. I just heard. She got him last week from Berry Pomeroy.

Anne Cherry: Free pair of Crocs. Size 6.

Jennifer Cocker: Has anyone seen Roger and Sheila recently? It might be worth going over to check on them.

Sheila Winfarthing: We are right here. Still walking and speaking in intelligible sentences without dribbling and making our own meals and everything. Some have described us as a miracle of modern science.

Anne Cherry: High-waisted jeans. Barely worn. Bought in Next sale, 2008/09. £7 ONO.

Megan Beaker: I lost my maidenhead around the back of the tor. It was the day of the fair. A French boy was responsible. He wasn’t the age of a boy and didn’t think he was a boy but he was. There were lots of French on the moor, then. They had been in the prison, then were released, on the condition they stayed within the parish. At the fair there were heads on sticks, carved and painted black, and people threw rotten apples and onions at them and cheered. Mr Oldsworthy, Underhill’s baker, played the fiddle. I could smell the nutty aroma that always lingered on Oldsworthy’s dusty jacket as the French boy led me on past him by the hand and I knew the song from a long time ago and knew it was part of me. After that I could hear them start to play ‘The Bonny Bunch of Roses’. Young dogs were wrestling, looping and twirling on the grass, out of breath. We went to the barn. It’s still there. The cuckoo was crying from the tor top and as I looked into the stone in front of me and the French boy tried to find me and breathed hot breath into my ear I felt like I was the stone and I felt 15,000, not fifteen. The stone was full of stories and there would be more. But about this story I never told a soul. On the way home the words to the song were in my head: the roses one, not the one I felt was part of me. ‘One morning in the month of June. While feather’d warbling songsters. Their charming notes did sweetly tune. I overheard a lady. Lamenting in sad grief and woe.’ I stopped at a fallen tree and collected kindling, looking for the drier bits caught on branches above, like my father had told me. It had rained that morning but it was easy to forget that had ever happened.

Judith Sparrow: Terence Black, in case you are wondering, the Nissan Micra who you didn’t thank when it made quite an elaborate manoeuvre down a farm track to let you pass the other day on the lane up to Hood Gate just beyond the sharp right- hand bend was driven by me.

Anne Cherry: Selection of old board (and other) games. Kerplunk, Downfall, Scrabble, Monopoly, Pictionary, more. All in excellent condition. £20 the lot. Individual prices considered if no takers.

Mark Laggs: When I was playing Downfall as a kid a bee once went in one of the holes on the turny bits, thinking it was a flower. I will always remember that.

Diana Wilson: Turny bits?

Megan Beaker: Someone said I once turned a man to stone. People retold the story, then embellished it. Even the unembellished version is untrue. I could not have done that if I wanted to (and I did want to, at times). But that doesn’t mean the stones don’t have a voice of their own.

Jennifer Cocker: Is Gary OK? I haven’t seen him on here in a while.

Mark Laggs: He’s been having a hectic time I reckon. Sorting the insurance and everything after his stone outbuildings burned down. I think he lost a lot of stuff.

Penelope Ralph: This year’s Ball In The Hall will take place on June 22nd. Outdoor catering will be provided by Miranda’s Kitchen. We are also very pleased to welcome Adverse Camber from Torquay, who will be enlivening proceedings with their mix of sea shanties, rock, ska and what the Plymouth Herald described as ‘solid peninsula reggae pop’ in a glowing 7/10 review. Tickets will be £10 and must be purchased in advance from the Stonemason’s Arms or the community shop.

Mark Laggs: In case anybody is going up by Riddle Bridge, the road is closed. Massive fuck off elm has come down.

Judith Sparrow: Brilliant news! Thomas’s horse rug has been found. Angela Paley from Wentworth Country Cheeses discovered it caught in a tree, a full half a mile from Hood Gate, and handed it in to Jim Swardesley at the post office. Jim called me and I went in and picked it up yesterday. Amazingly, it is only slightly torn. Of course, I’d got my Thomas a new rug in the meantime, because he can’t go cold, so now he has two. He’s an exceedingly happy horse!

Megan Beaker: Do you all sometimes hear me sing to you in your sleep? Do you notice how it intensifies when you are feverish and sick, how it becomes everything? Do you ever realise, as my song scores your dreams, that it has been the soundtrack to so many dreams in the past, too, but you never remember it when you wake up and are back in your surface world, which you laugh and shrug and joke your way through and pretend is the real story?

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