by Adam Colton
Vision Of A Village At Dawn
I saw a vision of a village at sunrise, as though viewed in a black and white dream, with the bright orange sun providing the only colour, half obscured by the horizon.
And I could see the silhouette of a valley with the village in the middle and the spire of the parish church appearing to pierce the sky. A few buildings cast black outlines against the sky, which was light at the horizon but dark enough to see stars directly above.
And as the sun rose I could hear the morning sounds of birds calling, and I realised that this place, which after all could be almost anywhere, had a story to tell. So the scene that I witnessed was like the opening of a film, which was about to take me down into the narrow streets to witness how the place had been changing.
Once upon a time the village, which we shall call Anyplace, had a pub, a café, a greengrocer, a bakery, a butcher’s shop and a general store.
Times had been getting very difficult for the café owner, and the lady in charge was forced to close this once busy haunt due to excessive taxes. This puzzled her greatly, as the previous year the police station in the village had been closed because there was no longer enough cash in the pot to pay for it. Just where was all this tax going? She had visions of councillors bathing in asses’ milk and drinking from gold chalices at huge banquets; this being a far more necessary use of the money than the village bobby could ever be.
With the café now standing empty, it was understood that a candlestick maker had decided to take on the premises. However, the people that lived nearby did not like the idea of this and swiftly complained to the local authority; “If this goes ahead there is going to be wax oozing out of the door and all across the pavement. Our whole High Street is going to be like a river of tallow and people are going to be slipping on the pavement. It is only a matter of time before somebody gets killed!” Such complaints were always escalated to the power of ten and bordered on hysteria.
Conversely, some local people thought that it would be nice to have a candlestick maker in the village, and a young woman called Ellen wrote earnestly to the local authority, imploring them to go and visit other villages that had candlestick shops. Then they could see that there was no risk to public safety. Yet, this young lady’s pleas fell on deaf ears, and the café remained boarded up with no permission for a change of use granted. The public were disappointed, as even a candlestick maker was more use than an empty building, but the dignified members of the authority were happy to have maintained the status quo with none of their perceived power eroded.
Times were very hard at the bakery too. The head baker realised that he could do more trade if he opened before 9am, enabling him to cater for people seeking a hot pastry of some sort on the way to work. This was so he could pick up some of the breakfast trade that the lady in the café used to cater for. The only problem was that local bylaws stated that no shop in Anyplace could open its doors before 9am.
Ignoring such pedantry, the baker went ahead anyway, but the local authority noticed straight away that he had changed his opening hours. “If we let him get away with this, all the shops will be wanting to open early and we will look like a toothless body,” they declared. Ellen, who had lived in the village her whole life, wrote another letter, this time urging them to weigh up the pros and cons of keeping a useful amenity or enforcing their arbitrary rules. With the letter safely filed, proceedings were undertaken to force the baker to revert to a 9am start.
The villagers who had now got used to grabbing a tasty snack on the way to work remained strangely silent about this, just as they did about pretty much everything. Therefore, there were no further letters of support for the baker, and the archaic ‘9am law’ was upheld and it was decided to fine the baker. This penalty became the final nail in the bakery’s coffin and soon this village stalwart was humbly taking his place in the dole queue.
A dispute then broke out between the other two shops. The greengrocer had recently bought his premises from the owner of the general store. He had just finished paying off 15 years of very affordable instalments and now wanted to improve the site by fixing an awning to the front and erecting some fixed racking outside his store.
The general store owner was livid because the awning would partially block the view of his shop from the road and he felt that this might be detrimental to business, especially when the new supermarket in a nearby town seemed to be drawing his trade away. He imagined deranged villagers wandering zombie-like into the superstore with arms outstretched in front of them, seemingly hypnotised by the ‘bargains’ and ‘deals.’ Yes, it was ‘dog eat dog’ out there, so he put in a formal complaint about the greengrocer.
Some residents had begun to notice the effect these complaints were having on the community and tried to tell him that his fears were unfounded, but he was having none of this – the cheek of it – after he had allowed the greengrocer to buy the site for peanuts! As ever, the aggrieved individual was the only member of the public at the next meeting, so the complaint was upheld and the awning and racking had to be taken down.
However, the greengrocer was a good businessman and simply sold the shop and moved his business to the nearby town. Anyplace was but a shadow of its former self and people like Ellen were angry at what local politics and fear of change were doing to the place she once loved. The local authority thought that the people would at least respect their ability to make tough decisions, but all the people could see were the boarded up buildings that once breathed life into the village’s main street.
The former bakery was eventually purchased by a wealthy solicitor who found a loophole in the law allowing him to convert the site into a luxurious dwelling. The pub was located next door, and he often found himself laying in bed, fuming that he could hear voices and music on Friday and Saturday nights. Such an outbreak of ‘fun’ was not their idea of village life and by now, it should be pretty obvious where things were leading.
Thanks to the solicitor and his wife, the pub was next on the hit list. The local authority felt obliged to forward the complaint and the villagers remained silent, even though it threatened their sociable way of life.
But Ellen was seething with rage; “These people say they want more opinions but when you give them they ignore them!” Indeed, the young lady had even attended a few meetings where her suggestions were treated with the same derision as a child in a school playground having everything they say repeated back in a silly voice.
Ellen felt that it was useless to try to communicate via the accepted channels, as the accepted channels were set up purely to enforce the law and galvanise the power of those who enjoyed enforcing it. And so, it became a mission to find out just what made these people tick and this is where her sister came in.
Phoebe was three years younger than Ellen and was much less interested in saving the village, but she did claim to have a mysterious gift. The pair of them lived together in a small bungalow looking out onto rolling countryside. Phoebe believed that by simply holding the hand of a person, she could view flashbacks from their past.
And so, the next day, the pair of them headed for the primary school in the nearest town (for the school in Anyplace had closed before they were born) and waited for Mrs Knottisfield to drop her six-year-old son off at the gates.
Phoebe knew what she had to do, for Ellen had been tracking the movements of Mrs K for a while. As soon as the black '4 by 4' pulled up at the gate, the younger sister rushed over and grabbed Mrs Knottisfield by the hand; “Hello. I just wanted to congratulate you for your hard work on the local authority. I have lived in the village for some time and…”
Just then her flow was interrupted; the image that came to mind was not pleasant. It was of a younger version Mrs K being violently hit by her brutish husband. Phoebe let go, and her target walked away with a look of disbelief at what had just happened.
The next target was Mr Downey. Ellen knew that he would be at the town’s supermarket some time during Saturday mor
ning. She found it hypocritical that somebody who claimed to support the village would do all his shopping elsewhere. The sisters waited in the car park for what seemed like hours, and sure enough, the red hatchback pulled into view and Phoebe pounced.
“Morning Mr Downey. I just wanted to express my thanks for all your hard work,” she said, taking him by the hand, “Voluntary work of this kind so often goes un…”
Another startling image invaded the young woman’s mind. A grey-haired man (presumably Mr Downey’s father) was caning a teenage incarnation of Mr D in front of a large, living room window, in full view of the passing public. This kind of ritual humiliation for minor altercations was clearly a regular thing judging from the resigned expression on the adolescent’s face.
Next up was Mr Buttsford. The image was a young man with a circle of teenage bullies standing around him in a circle, taunting him and one by one running into the circle and hitting him.
Then came Mr Ypres. The view was of his wife lying in a hospital bed, with her life draining out of her at barely forty years old.
And then there was old Miss Walsham. The view was of a sad, grey-haired lady sitting alone in a dark, dingy room – she had lived on her own for her whole life.
Ellen had a quandary. She actually felt quite sorry for the members of the local authority – the people she had blamed for the decline of Anyplace. She wanted to do something to save her village but would actually feel quite bad depriving these people of the only bit of control and power they had in their lives. But still, she had to do something, because if she didn’t, things would continue just as they had before and the village she loved would eventually be nothing more than a collection of dwellings.
So Ellen penned one last letter, and addressed it to the mayor of the nearby town, stating that she was concerned about the state of mind of her local representatives. She mentioned nothing of her sister’s supernatural ability, but merely stated that she had researched the past of each of the members.
Amazingly, the mayor replied; he would meet her in the village pub at high noon next Saturday.
Ellen felt honoured that the mayor was making the effort to speak to her in person. He must have been impressed with her letter after all. And so, there he was, wearing his mayoral chains and seated upon a black, leather sofa in the corner of the pub that fateful Saturday lunchtime.
The dignified visitor stood up to meet Ellen as she strolled across from the bar, and in his baritone voice he greeted her, “Good afternoon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The young lady, who had clearly made an effort in wearing a stately looking, green dress for the occasion, sat down and the deliberations began.
Clutching a sheet of paper on which she had scribbled down some notes, she nervously expounded her thoughts that the members of the local authority all had personal issues which were clouding their judgement of the true wishes of the village; “In fact, I have found generally that authority figures are driven by their own shortcomings.”
Not realising that this was not the best thing to say to a mayor, he too forgot himself for a moment, and with an expression of wounded horror, he snatched the sheet of paper from her hand, crumpling it in the process.
“I’m sorry,” he said, regaining his composure, “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The mayor leaned back against the seat making the leather creak, and he glanced down at the columns of writing, which comprised of a list of names on the left side and a list of traumatic events and possible psychological outcomes on the right.
Scratching his head, the mayor asked, “Do you not think that if you probed the private life of anybody that you could label them with some kind of disorder?”
Ellen admitted that he did have a point, but she felt that time was running out for her explain her reasoning; “What I am trying to show is that the people on the committee are not acting out of a wish for the greater good of the village but from a personal need to control their surroundings. Because rural decline is something that has been going on for years, this is accepted, because it is a controlled form of change, whereas anything new is greeted with fear. It challenges their notion of being in control because it makes the future of Anyplace an unknown possibility.”
The mayor had not expected such a detailed reply and tried to recall just what it was that had first prompted him to stand for office.
“This is very interesting,” he said, handing back the crumpled sheet of paper. Glancing at his watch, his tone then changed; “I really must go now. I have a meeting in half an hour, but if there is anything else you wish to contact me about, my doors are always open.” And with that, he left the pub and disappeared once more behind the cloak of consultation.
The pub closed later that year.
The authority said that this was ‘sad, but not surprising.’
The general store managed to hang on for another three years.
Upon its demise the authority said that it was ‘a grim day for Anyplace’ and ‘a reflection of the dominance of urban superstores.’ The last of Anyplace’s services had been erased, yet nobody could see their own complicity in what had happened.
Ellen moved house on her thirtieth birthday, taking Phoebe with her. The future looked brighter eight miles away, although she thought of the town where she now dwelled as just ‘somewhere to live.’ Sentiment had been beaten out of her at last.
I saw that silhouette of the village again.
The view was just the same; a red sun low in the sky, the hills rising on either side and the outline of the parish church’s steeple, with a cluster of buildings nestled at its feet. But this time, I knew that it was sunset, and it wouldn’t be long before the last bird called and then all would be darkness.
