the idea of decent

‘Let’s face it,’ he said, dropping into a whisper which he complemented with a broad smile, as if to flatter me, ‘someone needs to drag this place up a bit, and she does an awfully good job at it.’ Seconds earlier, in a voice loud enough to include the woman on the check-out and the three other women in the queue, he’d insisted we’d already met. ‘I think I know you,’ he said, and that smile swept over his white teeth, ‘in fact I’m sure I do.’ He mentioned someone whose name I didn’t get, who he thought we had in common. I shook my head: ‘Definitely not.’ He kept smiling, despite his irritation at my refusal to play the game. ‘Which street are you on?’ I asked, relenting a wee bit. He replied, but I missed that too — by now I was packing my bags while he stood watching me, his own already done, his bagpack packed with ciabatta and wine and Alpen and kitchen roll — so I asked another question: ‘I don’t think I know it. Which end are you?’ ‘Village borders,’ came his reply, twinned with the ghastly smile. He added, ‘But perhaps we met on the art trail?’ No, I thought to myself: ‘You are almost certainly thinking of someone else.’ But again, I felt I was being a bit too abrupt, so I gave in and talked about the art trail for a bit. Gradually, I began to understand his view — that without people like us (PLUS), this little neighbourhood would be done for. ‘There was nothing here before Penny Fielding,’ he said, a look of alarm in his eyes at the horror of it all. When I began to laugh, he looked a little hurt. It occurred to me that before and after Penny Fielding arrived might be added to the local lexicon as a way of understanding the changing demographic. BPF and APF. ‘That’s not my impression,’ I said, stretching the boundaries of politeness. I added: ‘I can’t stand this idea that there was nothing here until the professional middle classes turned up and began buying properties for half a million.’ It’s like colonialism, I thought but didn’t say. All those tedious narratives about the emptiness of the land until PLUS turned up and put things in it that we recognised and understood to be something. My temper discomforted him. His smile melted away and he said he had to go now. As I ran my nectar card along the side of the card machine and paid up, the woman working the till started laughing. A deep and dirty laugh it was. ‘Good for you,’ she said, ‘good for you.’

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