Gossip

Now, my dear, I simply must tell you about the boy (dirty boy) in the farm up the lane. Yes, you now, the one that had the party last week. We all went, but did you know the story behind it? I mean, it’s pretty funny to throw a party when there’s news of a famine not so very far away, and it’s bound to affect us sometime. Bound to. Stands to reason, like as makes no never mind. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that. So he fed the whole community and gave away his insurance policy – and mark my words, that’s what that fatted calf was, you know. Oh, yes. I know.

Well, what I heard was that the farmer had lost control of his younger son and sent him away. Oh, yes, some time before. A little while. Not sure. But it happened like that, I have a feeling in my water.

I heard he said ‘I consider that son dead,’ which is rather shocking, don’t you think? Terrible parenting. Terrible. Tut.

Anyway, the boy went off to Dissipation City and spent all the money his father had put in his pockets. Yes, all of it. Every penny. Makes me shudder to try to work out what he could have spent it on. Wine, women – oh, yes, wild women (like that Mrs McMattress at Number Seventeen – what goings-on!) – lavish parties and dinners and all kinds of excess, you know?

I don’t think I could have spent that sort of cash in such a short time – not without some help, anyway – and he’s got nothing to show for it. Nothing. Not a thing. Nothing at all. Diddly. Look at it this way: when he came home, he didn’t even have any sandals on. Can you imagine such a thing? I was shocked. I really was.

Oh, I forgot to say that by the time the money was spent, the famine had started and everyone was suffering. Yes everyone. So the boy (and this bit really is quite, quite dreadful, my dear) took a job on a pig farm. Can you? – well, it’s a shocker. A pig farm. A shocker. Tut.

Sitting there every day next to those dirty, nasty beasts, and him all hungry and everything, I heard he was tempted to try the slops the pigs were eating… I can’t believe that. Too much, too much! The vegetables would have been rotten, so that’s impossible to imagine, although I suppose if you really are that hungry than you might consider it, but it still sounds quite far-fetched – probably but some old wives’ tale or urban myth – these things spring up all the time, you know dear, oh, yes. Where was I? Oh I remember, the boy.

So when he’d been there a while, so I hear, he starts to think and realizes that if he came home, his father might apologise and he’d be able to be stay at his home, where he belongs.

It’s shocking that he got thrown out in the first place. And it’s a happy ending that his father might apologise, which is not less then he owes him.

Still, it takes two to tango, I always say. I said to Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard the other day ‘It takes two to tango,’ and she had to agree. Simply had to. Because it really does.

When the boy got home (no coat on his back, no shoes, hadn’t had a decent wash for quite some time, so I hear), the father felt guilty as predicted (quite right, too!) and made it up to him and threw that party.

Did you try the roast beef, my dear? It was tender, delicious and cooked to perfection. And the boy had new sandals. And a ring. I don’t doubt the boy will soon be selling that, now he’s had the taste of the good life. No, that roast beef was lovely – moist and full of flavour – with lovely potatoes and Yorkshires and gravy and French beans and that poor wife of his must have worked her fingers to the bone – to the very bone, I tell you. Mind you, she’s not quite the driven snow she makes herself out to be.

I know people pretty well and I can read that father like a book. Like a book! I can see it a mile off – that father’s trying to buy his way into the boy’s affections. Hear me out on this, hear me out. I know. I can tell. I can sense these things in the air, smell them in the ether, if you know what I mean. Stands to reason. Bound to be, bound to be, quite honestly. Couldn’t be anything else. Couldn’t be. Terrible parenting. A shocker. I said that to Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard ‘This is a shocker. And that Mrs McMattress is no better.’ And she had to agree. Had to. Because it’s true – or at least, we think it might be. Stands to reason. Men coming in and going out at all hours – they can’t all be painters and decorators and plasterers and gas fitters – Corgi Registered my foot!

Where was I? Oh yes, that boy’s now working long shifts on the farm, and his days of wild living are behind him. Serves him right! I never much liked the look of him.

And I can’t be sure he’s the father’s son, if you know what I mean. The wife gives herself such airs and graces, even if she does work hard in the kitchen. I’m impressed with her roasting skills, but when it comes to buns in the oven – well, that’s another – I heard – well, I can’t tell you who it was for certain, but I can say that Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard has a few views on the matter. A few views. And she’s often right – well, I agree with her at least., which is halfway towards proof in my book. That’s how the rumours start – and there’s no smoke, is there? No smoke without at least a grain of truth, I always say. Well, unless the flue has been fitted by someone who is Corgi Registered. And we all know what I think about that.

Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard thinks her Cyril might have been playing away from home – I know, I know. More than a few shreds of evidence, yes, more than a few. Oh, yes.

Still, I can’t stand here all day listening to your gossip…