The oiling of the wheels

"Oooooh", my urban friends winked, when they heard I was moving to a village. "Everyone'll know all your business, you know." They shuddered at my prospect and wandered away.

Well, it is true that as I waved cheery hellos to my new neighbours, three and a half seconds after the arrival of the removals truck, they did show a mildly alarming enthusiasm, and yes, they did already know my age, occupation, and where I had moved from. Which was all the more surprising given that no-one in the street had any conversational truck with the previous owners of my house. As I dropped little tidbits of information into doorstep chat, I wondered by what mechanism it was transmitted. Okay, I live on a lane, and lanes are narrow by definition, but were the others really texting each other live updates?

I was standing at the kitchen sink the following Saturday morning, washing up in a vague singalonga Radio Two kind of way, and idly gazing into the street. Very idly, because I didn't see anyone coming up to the side of the house, and then, always a bizarre phenomenon in my household, the doorbell rang. As I wrenched open the sticking door, a hand was immediately thrust forward to shake mine warmly.
"Hello", said a wiry man in cycle clips and a shiny red skid lid. "I'm John."
"Erm, hello", I muttered, not entirely sure whether the rules about talking to strangers apply in a village, and wondering what what real villagers might say in this situation. Come on in, I've just made a pot of tea?....
Then he delved into the satchel over his shoulder.
"I'm the postman", he beamed, as he handed me two bills.
That's the postman. Not your postman. Though I have since seen a smiling woman cycling round the village, a very nifty red Post Office bike-trailer behind her, so maybe there's two of them. Maybe she does the parcels. Maybe they're a couple?...
I took the bills and smiled a still stunned thankyou. I've never known my postman's name before.
"Righto", he said, throwing a leg over his crossbar. "If there's anything you need, just let me know."
And off he went, really actually honestly whistling a merry tune, while I gaped after him, thoughts of village drug rings and Postman Pat competing wildly in my brain.

But I've figured it out now. It took me a while but the lynchpin in the communications network is the lollipop lady. And she lives next door. Hardly the lollipop lady of your imagination, this is your twenty-first century version, with two little kids of her own, a fluorescent yellow jacket that makes her look like a cop, and her own small business as a male grooming beautician. Male grooming beautician? In a village in the English countryside?! Now, I had a friend in Brighton who was a beautician, and I consequently know far more about the gay clientele's penchant for the back and crack wax than I ever needed to know, but that was Brighton and this is here. Once again, my mind is leaping conversational somersaults that leave me incapable of anything but gawping and letting my interlocutor continue.
"A lot of men want to look good", she proffered, sensing my brain frenzy. "You know, groomed. Like footballers and Jude Law."
"Oh", I said. "I see."
Who's urban now, eh?!

The lollipop lady who looks like a cop in her standard issue waterproof is married to a cop. He doesn't look like a cop, though. That may be because I haven't yet seen him in uniform, but it may also have something to do with the fact that on bank holidays and any weekend involving a birthday, he lets loose his inner karaoke king. Who needs the crazy streets of downtown Tokyo when you've got a big screen TV and a backing track CD? But here's the thing: he's good, he's got guy friends he duets with, and the bizarre fact is that they're all as straight as a die! As I marvel at the socio-sexual revolution that is SO not how I expected things to be, I can't help feeling that once again it's me who's the hick from the sticks...

And what's this with all the cops? I'm not so urban that I think everyone who lives in the country is a farmer, a vicar, or a teashop owner, but this village is like some nerve centre for the security services! The cop next door. Over the road, she's ex Foreign Office and he makes maps for The Government. And then there's Bob.

In my new job I sit at a desk all day, most days. Being blessed with more physical energy than I generally know what to do with, but no gym in the village, I've taken to going for a four mile walk when I come in from work. Sometimes I run, but hey, why bother when there's sky to look at, and squawking geese-fights, and Turneresque cows drinking at the water's edge? Beats MTV.

So, I'm out on my usual circuit one fine evening, over the road, down past the immaculate village allotments, and the windmill that's now a kennels (with a sign on the door that says "please don't ring our doorbell to tell us we're closed"). Then up past the groaning blackberry bushes and the sloes and the rosehips, and all the other ingredients of the Women's Institute hedgerow jam. Oh, yes, hmm, I'd better come clean now. I've bought the WI jam making handbook... When in Rome do as the Romans?.... And so, on past the lakes, turn right, gaze forlornly at the pub on the opposite bank of the Great River Ouse, wondering why, oh why, it is so tantalisingly close and yet no bridge for four miles in either direction, and then back towards the village along the old fenland drainage channel.

And there I am, yomping breezily along in a world of my own, when up pops Bob. He's standing at the stile I need to cross. I slow down to give him a chance to come over, but he's looking puzzled and not moving.
"Hello", he smiles. "I'm Bob."
I'm starting to wonder about this village, really I am.
"I'm lost."
"Hmm", I mutter, once more reduced by a surprise introduction to the conversational grace of a moody teenager. "Where are you trying to get to?"
And that's it, Bob's off. He needs no help in this conversation. All I have to do is show him the way back to the village and everything I need to know about high security policing is mine.

Because Bob's a copper! Not just any old copper, oh no! Having had a stint teaching the Bosnians how to investigate murder, Bob's back in Britain guarding foreign emissaries - young people of extraordinarily high diplomatic importance who are pursuing their studies at Cambridge University.
"Cool", I nod appreciatively. "Like in the West Wing when Zoe and Charlie..."
And I stop short there, because I've only just met this guy, he's already given me the full details of his divorce, asked me outright about my marital status, and moving into territory that involves Zoe and Charlie's sex life is not where I want to go. He nods vaguely, obviously not an Aaaron Sorkin addict, and tells me all about his bodyguard duties.
"I'm trying to lose weight", he puffs as we reach the edge of the village. "You wouldn't like to do this again tomorrow, would you? I hate walking on my own."
I don't, though Bob's a friendly guy and he's not hitting on me really, he just wants someone to talk to because he's new in the village too and meeting people is hard. But out in the country, I'm a solitary walker, and that's the way I like it.

But it's because of Bob that I finally solve the communication network conundrum. He made me think about how people over the age of 35 get to know other people, especially when you live in a village and the statistical odds are stacked against you. The ex Foreign Office neighbour, pregnant with her second, had already given me a clue. It's about kids and the immediate network that provides of parents, and teachers, and, especially, lollipop ladies. She stands by the side of the road, keeping a weather eye on the morning whip-through to the main traffic artery, as the other neighbours come and go, dropping off their kids, pausing for a brief moment to pass the time of day, and swapping what information there is to be had. It's not nosy, it's not gossiping, just factual oiling of the village wheels, and strangely, I'm glad these people know my business.

What little business there is to know…