Dear future reader, please enjoy a first glance at Ones’ novel here. Ones hope it will enchant you and leave you wishing for more!

~.~.~.~.~

It was a sultry late morning in Upper Mist. 

Sunrise had hinted at the likelihood of a quintessential English morning in Upper Mist, a village set in exquisite, rolling countryside in south west England where nothing much seemed to change and, if it did, it took its time. 

The only sounds that could be heard were the occasional excited tweets from a family of sparrows fussily jumping and chatting along the ridge of St. Bartholomew’s church dating from Saxon times that stood proudly on a slight rise overlooking the village green. Opposite, sat the local hostelry – The Olde Misty, with a squat village shop peeping out from behind a clump of seasoned and gnarled oak trees that housed a medieval set of stocks from times gone by. Apart from some houses dotted aimlessly around, the vast majority with attractive well-tended gardens, nothing seemed to be happening. 

This was normal for Upper Mist. 

The village lay at the end of a winding lane that started five miles back where it joined the main road between Taunton and Exeter. There was no reason to turn off onto this lane unless your destination was Upper Mist and no further. Beyond the village green the lane rose sharply and split into two; one narrow lane took you past the local Prescott farmer’s property and then petered out into a series of meadows surrounded by high thorn hedges. If you chose to take the other direction it took you up to some imposing wrought iron gates – Mist Manor, home to Sir Malory and Lady Messie. 

The creaking sound of the wooden church door being opened disturbed the sparrows who then excitedly flew off and settled on a functional wooden village hall that looked to be rather incongruous against the more traditional stone houses it provided for. A tall, lanky and rather awkward looking vicar, muttering to himself, emerged from below the church porch and paused, as if to check it was safe to venture out. He nodded to himself and walked down the short path, past a variety of chaotically leaning gravestones of indeterminate age and along the path opposite the Olde Misty. One of the net curtains in the downstairs of the pub twitched nervously, a finger and thumb suddenly disappearing. A few seconds later Hilda, the publican, scurried out, humming quietly to herself with a wide smile across her face after hurriedly pulling on a beige cardigan and accompanying down jacket. 

‘What an unexpected surprise Leonard, so nice to catch you, I was just coming out to tend to the flower pots’ – as if to convince Leonard of her intention, she wildly pointed at the line of pots running the length of the pub at street level as well as a liberal number hanging from metal hooks attached to the uneven facade, ‘What a lovely day for a stroll through the village, I’ve been meaning to ask you about next week’s church service.’ 

Leonard looked up and smiled back, causing his usual furrowed brow to extinguish a multiplicity of wrinkles. He liked Hilda and knew she really liked him. But something had always held him back from taking things further – maybe his natural shyness, maybe his wish to remain single with no ‘complications’ or maybe he just didn’t think it was the right thing to do – a rather righteous result of his strict Protestant upbringing instilled in his distant youth by his parents back in his country of origin. 

‘Good morning, Hilda. It’s such a fine day, don’t you think?’ 

These mornings can be so lovely, I hope you don’t mind me tagging along with you for a while,’ she replied with every intention of doing so whatever Leonard said. 

You see, Hilda was the sort of person who tended to do her thing without listening to the opinions of others. Please don’t misinterpret this, she could be rather sensitive and caring but in matters of love and relationships she believed that one had to take the bull by the horns. There had been other men in Hilda’s life but none had lived up to expectations; she had been particularly hurt by a brief dalliance with Burt, the local butcher resident in Lower Mist, some years before. She had met him whilst purchasing six pounds of spiced pork sausages for a barbecue she planned in the Olde Misty garden the following weekend. At first, she had found Burt to be rather an unrefined fellow, constantly making references to the size of his sausages in front of the female customers but despite this awkwardness they’d got chatting over the counter and she found herself returning on an increasing number of occasions on the pretence of purchasing more meat products, but making sure to avoid the sausages to avoid a repeat of his suggestive comments. Hilda was relieved when Burt formally asked her out for a drink one evening, not least because she’d been forced to buy a larger deep freeze to house all the cutlets, chops and joints from the butcher’s shop. Everything seemed to be going quite swimmingly until it transpired that his claim to have been single for many years proved to be somewhat inaccurate – a local in the pub had happened to mention within Hilda’s earshot that he’d heard Burt was still married with three children, all of whom he’d abandoned over a decade earlier. This heralded the end of a potentially loving relationship. After some weeks of readjustment she had refocused her attention and energy on Leonard, someone she was sure had no hidden skeletons in his cupboards, other than perhaps a few in the church crypt! Although she realised that she wasn’t the easiest person to live with, there was something about Leonard that had always intrigued her. And once Hilda set her mind on something she wouldn’t let go. 

And now Hilda had decided that she wanted Leonard. 

She knew he was rather an independent man who had arrived from Germany over 30 years before on a training course as part of becoming a member of the clergy and that somehow he had ended up never leaving the village. She also knew he had never married and she knew he liked her. All Hilda had to do was to convince him that he couldn’t live without her. 

The two of them commenced their slow amble through the village, pausing to comment on the state of various gardens and whether or not the village might win the Best Kept Village Award that took place every year in the county and which Upper Mist had never won, although they had once been in seventh place. They both knew that they hadn’t been higher in the rankings due to Douglas Fairweather’s intransigence to remove some suspicious looking plants from his garden and repaint his cottage, which still displayed remnants of his attempt to pebbledash the exterior. 

The two of them halted on the narrow pavement. ‘I was thinking of taking a few days off next week,’ mentioned Hilda in an innocent tone, ‘nothing special, just a couple of nights down on the coast, perhaps to Hope Cove. What do you think, Leonard?’ 

‘Er, excellent idea, Hilda, er, good for you to get away from the pub, have a change of scene and take in a breath of fresh sea air, it will work wonders.’ 

‘I was wondering…’ suggested Hilda…. ‘whether you might have a few days off from church things and perhaps you’d like to come with me? Nothing untoward, of course, two separate rooms. Just as good friends. What do you think?’ 

A rather flustered Leonard hesitated, stepping back onto an uneven kerb stone that temporarily led to him stumbling into the road, Hilda grabbed his arm to steady him. 

‘It’s quite a pleasant thought, Hilda,’ he began. ‘I rather like Hope Cove, as you well know… but I’ve got two funerals coming up and, of course, I can’t say no to that, can I?’ Searching for more words, he went on, ‘If it hadn’t been for Old Prescott passing away… I mean he’s lived here all his life… added to which he made a sizeable contribution to the church roof fund and…’ Hilda gently moved her hand onto his shoulder in a protective and understanding manner. 

‘Don’t worry, dear Leonard. There really is no rush! I know you’ve been to Hope Cove many times. Isn’t that where you once had that slight altercation with a Catholic priest?’ She was blinking at him, ‘Don’t worry, dear, your secret’s safe with me!” They each stood there in the warm sunshine, lost in their own thoughts. Nothing disturbed the moment. 

Hilda tried once more, ‘It would be rather nice for us both to get away from the village for a change of scene, I’m sure you’d agree’. 

‘Yes, you are right of course, maybe a little later in the year?’. 

‘Well, that’s settled then, I’ll check on availability before Christmas and let you know,’ responded Hilda triumphantly. 

Leonard shuffled awkwardly, realising he’d inadvertently given Hilda the green light. As they stood there uncertain as to who should make the next move, they both became aware of a rumbling engine noise that seemed to reverberate around the sedate village scene. Little did they know their day was now about to take an unexpected turn and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that things wouldn’t ever be the same in the village. Their personal tranquillity dramatically came to an end when their world was interrupted by the disturbing sound of a larger than life vehicle that initially swept past, screeched to a halt, followed by an impatient and insistent car horn. 

Together they just stood there, naturally closing ranks for protection, in utter disbelief. An enormous car was reversing into the parking space on which they were standing. The two of them hurriedly leapt onto the pavement. 

The monster came to a halt, its rear wing almost touching Hilda’s and Leonard’s knees. Its polished black lacquer was gleaming so much in the sunshine that Hilda and Leonard could see their horror and confusion reflected in the glass. Through the darkened windows, angry voices from inside the car could be made out. To Hilda and Leonard this didn’t seem quite right in what had begun as a peaceful English summer morning. 

‘I’m fed up with sitting in this car for hours! What is this place? Where are we?!’ screamed a female voice from the back. Lizzy, just be quiet!’ the driver barked. ‘I need to pee, Mum!’ a young boy whined. ‘The last time I went to the loo was on the ferry. It’s really urgent.’ His mother knew he was right. They hadn’t left the car since their arrival in Dover and the customs and passport control on both sides of the Channel had been insufferable for the teenagers and, thanks to their constant moaning, for her, too. 

But this hell of a journey was really worth it she kept reminding herself, everything was going to plan. She was looking forward to settling down in their new English country home, leaving behind the restless city life she’d really had enough of in Frankfurt. She rather had in mind a somewhat more distinguished and serene existence in this remote village in “Merry Olde England” that she knew from the romantic Rosamunde Pilcher films she loved so much. Anyway, England was so much better than Germany, wasn’t it… 

‘Why have we stopped in the middle of the village, darling? Shouldn’t we just drive straight away to our new home, it’s only around the corner you know,’ she enquired, checking the sat nav once more. 

Her husband turned and cast a blank glance at his wife. 

‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m fully aware that we’ve arrived in Upper Mist, our future home! We’re going to need a few things – something to eat and drink, a local newspaper to find out about the place, what’s happening in the area and so on and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re going to need some items, in particular, toilet paper. You left ours at home, I did remind you, but you forgot. And here, my lovely, if you look out through the windscreen, is the village centre with a pub and village shop, according to Google maps, bound to have what we need’. Sophia ignored her husband’s obvious sarcasm, something she’d become rather adept at doing after seventeen years of marriage. She simply returned a forced smile. She was just pleased to finally arrive. 

Outside the car Hilda and Leonard were still transfixed, still struggling with the aftereffects of the unexpected and intrusive arrival and totally unable to comprehend how their day was turning out – it had all started so peacefully…… 

With the engine still running, the driver threw open the Mercedes’ car door and stepped out, slamming the door behind him. Hilda and Leonard still stood side-by-side watching as he swept past them muttering to himself without acknowledging their presence. 

‘Strange man, he doesn’t seem quite right,’ commented Hilda. Leonard hesitated before replying in a quiet somewhat apologetic voice, ‘I believe he is a fellow countryman.’ 

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ was her reply. 

Hilda and Leonard started to walk in single file squeezing through the narrow space left between the parked car and the buildings, passing within a hair’s breadth of this strange interloper who now stood in front of the shop, still muttering. 

Hilda, being the inquisitive soul, peered into the front of the car to see an attractive, middle-aged woman in the passenger seat turning to face her and give a weak but friendly smile before she suddenly turned to speak to one of the children sitting on the back seat. Hilda’s eyes followed to catch a faint outline of a heavily made-up teenage girl, iphone in hand, clearly continuing an argument with her mother – her body language said all that needed to be said. Hidden beyond this girl appeared to be a younger person, a boy sitting quietly and somewhat staring into space. 

The two of them were then past the car and could once more walk alongside each other. 

‘What are these people doing in Upper Mist?’ 

Leonard paused, ‘Perhaps just touring around the area, you know that Germans love coming to these parts – something to do with Rosamunde Pilcher novels that everyone watches in Germany, don’t understand it myself, I prefer a good Miss Marple mystery.’ 

‘Umh, hope they get what they want and disappear soon,’ said Hilda indignantly. 

As the two of them gently continued their walk, each lost in their own thoughts, Jürgen stood glancing around the village. It certainly looked a tranquil place although there wasn’t exactly a lot of life on display, apart from a man and woman who had been in his way when  he had parked.  Fortunately, they appeared to be hurriedly disappearing up the road. ‘Now to the task in hand,’ he pondered. 

As he walked around the car, his wife lowered the window and shouting, ‘Will you hurry up Jürgen we should have stopped earlier, sometimes you’re unbearable!’ 

‘That’s gratitude for you! Who wanted to move to this god forsaken country, not me!’ 

The window closed. 

Taking a deep breath he turned and stood in front of the village shop. It was rather a strange building, built of a not unpleasant deep yellow sandstone with an uneven slate roof and chimney, but what was slightly unusual and disconcerting was that it sat lower than the narrow pavement and road; in fact there were four uneven steps down to the front door. From where Jürgen stood he was almost level with the shop sign that simply read ‘Village Shop’ in a faded hand-written script, followed underneath with the words ‘Proprietor – Douglas Fairweather Esq.’ To both left and right was a wooden bay window which had accumulated over some months, maybe years, the effects of demanding English weather but despite this, it was just possible to pick out a veritable potpourri of items that made up the window displays – books, toys, items of food, pens, some leftover Christmas decorations – the list was endless. Jürgen gingerly descended the steps and halted at a door covered in various colourful stickers also of considerable age such as: ‘Buy your stamps here’; Member of Neighbourhood Watch – Devon Constabulary’; ‘No credit cards accepted’ ‘This shop is OPEN, please come in’. He glanced at a hand-written notice near the door handle that announced the opening times. After quickly consulting his watch he realised that it closed for lunch at 12.30 on a Saturday – he had only four minutes. 

With a hurried movement he grabbed the door handle and gave it a shove. The door disapproved of his attempt and only succumbed with an extra burst of aggression; it swung open, flying out of his hand, hitting the wall behind with a crash, bouncing back towards Jürgen at the same time as an old-fashioned bell above the door activated and began ringing urgently and impatiently; Jürgen managed to grab the handle once more before it was destined to hit him in the face. 

He entered the shop, trying to appear calm and in control, with limited success. 

He hesitated. Which way to proceed? He was confronted with an apparent maze of aisles leading off in a variety of directions with no clear destinations in sight. He saw revolving racks of postcards; shelves stocked with cans and packets of food items, books, stationery; it all rather reflected the confused state of the window display. He wryly thought to himself that perhaps he should tie the end of a piece of string to the door handle so he could find the way out again – this thought caused him to chuckle to himself. 

There was no sign of the proprietor Douglas Fairweather or even any form of a counter so he headed down one aisle that culminated in the thunderous pumping and groaning of a fluorescent-lit fridge that increased alarmingly in both volume and intensity as he approached. On inspection he noted it housed a selection of canned drinks, cheeses, meat and, surprisingly, packets of washing powder. 

Jürgen decided that some cans of drink for everyone would be a good idea. Along with the ubiquitous cokes, he chose an unfamiliar and garishly decorated offering with the name, ‘Slurp!’ prominently displayed. 

Aware of the approaching of closing time he increased his pace, grabbing a variety of food items on his journey – bread, marmalade, potatoes, cheese, chocolate, pasta -turned a sharp left and then right and suddenly found himself abreast of the counter and cash register and, sitting behind both, was an elderly gentleman sucking on an empty pipe quietly reading a newspaper and totally oblivious to anything or anyone around him. ‘Success,’ thought Jürgen, rather dumping his planned purchases on the counter. 

‘I’d like these things and some toilet paper and a local newspaper,’ demanded Jürgen in a theatrically dramatic voice. 

Nothing happened for what seemed a long time, but was probably only a second or two. But it was a sufficient lapse of time for Jürgen to feel he had to repeat his demand. 

‘I would also like to have some toilet paper and a local newspaper,’ 

The assistant looked up, ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ 

Jürgen hesitated. A change of tactics was clearly required. For a third time the sentence was repeated, but with additional words that he knew the English appreciated. 

‘I would also like some toilet paper and a local newspaper. Please!’ And then more to himself, ‘God, the man is stick-deaf!’ 

‘Begging your pardon, sir. Stick-deaf? What the hell’s that? Do you mean stone-deaf? Careful what you say! That’s discrimination! I’m only slightly hard of hearing but I’m not deaf, man!’ He pointed at his ears whilst sliding a pen and paper across the counter towards Jürgen, picked up the pen and indicated he should commence to write, ‘Lost me hearing aids, the wife put them in the wash!’ 

‘Sorry, Sir, but no! I don’t want writing paper, I need some toilet paper and a newspaper.’ 

An exasperated Jürgen glanced to his left and there lay copies of various national and local newspapers. 

‘Ah ha, a newspaper,’ he exclaimed triumphantly as he grabbed what was clearly local – the headline proudly announcing, ‘The Prescott’s take delivery of a new septic tank’ and a photo of a proud individual watching the item being lowered into a large excavated hole. Jürgen wasn’t quite sure what a ‘septic tank’ was but it was clearly important enough to be front page news. He made a mental note to investigate the item at a later date. Jürgen turned back to continue the conversation and it was then he noticed that the shop owner was not sitting on a chair or stool but a precarious pile of the item he sought – toilet paper. ‘Yes, that’s what I need. A packet of toilet paper!’ 

By now, it had slowly slowly dawned on Jürgen that Mr. Douglas Fairweather was hard of hearing, in fact, he was almost stone deaf although he preferred to ignore this fact, so much so that married life for Douglas Fairweather was a sea of tranquillity – much appreciated by Mrs. Fairweather. Despite not properly hearing a word uttered by Jürgen, he was fully aware that Jürgen was not local. Not only that, he could detect a certain arrogance of a person used to getting their own way. Douglas Fairweather was far from keen on such a character trait, possibly due to the attitude of the young nephew up at Mist Manor who sometimes made his presence known in the shop and the local pub – but that is another story. To return to the matter in hand. 

Jürgen looked directly at the man and prepared to return to the matter in hand, in other words – the elusive toilet paper. As he prepared for another difficult and time consuming discussion he noticed that the shop owner was not sitting on a chair or stool but a precarious pile of the item he sought – toilet paper. ‘Yes, that’s what I need. A packet of toilet paper!’ But before he could utter a joyful exclamation the proprietor gleefully announced, 

‘Begging your pardon, sir, we’re closed. Didn’t you see the sign? We close at 12.30, open again after lunch at 3pm.’ 

Jürgen stood for a second not quite comprehending what he had just heard. Surely he wasn’t serious. He glanced again at his watch: technically it was a few minutes after 12.30 but he’d been in the shop for over five minutes. His thoughts were interrupted once more. 

‘Local police. We’ve got a new constable, likes to pop his head in to check every now and then. Wish he would employ his enthusiasm on catching the person who nicked my garden gnome, been in the family for years, my mum bought it for my dad, said it looked like him, sitting doing nothing. Anyway, as I was saying. The police. They often check. Lose my trading license, you know. Goodbye. I’ll see you to the door.’ 

Suddenly producing a set of keys, which he shook vigorously in front of Jürgen to make his point, rising with surprising ease from the aforementioned toilet paper, and making towards the door, glancing back to check that Jürgen was following. Open-mouthed, having had to leave his intended purchases on the counter, he reluctantly followed, empty-handed, and left the shop. The door slammed behind him, the doorbell jangling angrily and a face appeared to check this last customer was on his way. The Open Sign was reversed and now proudly announced: ‘CLOSED Come again soon’. 

Meanwhile Dickie and Ollie, two gentlemen in classy tweed attire and  Financial Times in hand, were sitting by a window in the Olde Misty; Dickie was attempting the crossword. 

’15 across. Daisy woke up, feeling out of sorts, five letters, Ollie.’ 

Pondering slightly, Ollie eventually replied, ‘Umh, Daisy is a somewhat colloquial name for a cow so…maybe, let me think….moody, of course!’ 

‘Er, yes, it fits. Well done, old soldier.’ 

Brenda brought their tea and biscuits. 

‘Thank you, Brenda,’ they answered simultaneously. 

‘Shall one be mum, Ollie?’ 

‘Admirable idea, Dickie.’ 

The two took gentle sips of tea and nibbled a piece of shortbread. 

Ollie’s attention was suddenly drawn to the window. 

‘One won’t believe it. There’s a man leaning into his SVU thing arguing with a woman.’ 

‘Really? What are they saying, Ollie?’ 

 ‘Can’t make head or tail of it. They’re speak… It sounds foreign. Hang on. The number plate looks rather peculiar. I say! It’s German! They must be Germans! 

‘What! What’s happening now?’ 

‘He’s getting in the car now and slamming the door.’ 

‘Yes, there’s no mistaking it. Thank God they’re driving off.’ 

‘Yes, thank the Lord!’ 

Dickie and Ollie had another slurp of tea. Then Ollie peeped out again. 

‘I say, Dickie! They seem to be coming back!’ 

‘What on earth could they want in Upper Mist?’ 

‘One doesn’t have the foggiest. They’re now driving up the hill.’ 

 ‘The hill!? That road leads exclusively to Sir Malory and Lady Messie. Visitors then?’ 

‘Rather doubtful! The Messies haven’t had a great deal of visitors in recent years. Even if they are going to the Messies, they’re certainly not going to get a very warm welcome, Dickie.’ 

‘Perhaps they are related? Some distant aristocrats from the continent?’ 

‘Related? The ghastly way he was shouting at the woman in the car says it all, Dickie. They must be rather common people.’ 

‘One doesn’t imagine there is some sort of secret relationship between the Messies and these Germans, does one?’ 

‘A secret…?’ 

‘Outrageous!’ replied Dickie and Ollie in unison. 

With these unheard thoughts, the two gentlemen in their tweed attire gave each other a questioning look, wrinkled their noses pensively and took another simultaneous sip of their tea before looking into the distance again. Dickie resumed the crossword and Ollie rustled his newspaper and continued reading the obituaries. 

‘Did you have to shout at me like that in the middle of this place where everyone can hear us?’ demanded Sophia while Jürgen was turning the car around, threatening a village cat with an untimely death. ‘We haven’t even arrived yet and you’re already making such a fuss in public. That certainly doesn’t make a good impression on the people in Upper Mist. Didn’t you see a couple of old men looking at us? They were peering out of the pub window in shock! You know how quickly gossip spreads in a small community! Everyone is now going to think we’re crazy.’ 

‘It’s not my fault that the shop closed just when I had entered.’ 

‘Why didn’t you just put some money on the counter and leave? You’re constantly telling me that you are a successful businessman and people do as you say’. 

‘Didn’t you ask him if I could use the toilet, dad? I’m bursting!’ responded Philipp in a rather urgent tone before Jürgen could reply. 

Jürgen had totally forgotten his son’s demand. He hesitated and then said ‘No! It’s not working at the moment, it’s being repaired on Monday.’ 

‘Oh no, I can’t last much longer!’ 

‘Don’t worry, Philipp! We’ll be right there. We’ll just get the key and then you can go to the toilet, promise!’ 

When the German SUV had disappeared up the steep hill and around a bend, all that could be heard was the growling sound of the diesel engine as it receded into the distance. 

‘They’ve probably taken a wrong turning, they’ll be back this way again soon. Anyway, you said you wanted to talk to me about the church service tomorrow, how can I be of assistance?’ 

‘Sorry? What do you mean, there’s nothing I want.’ Hilda suddenly remembered her excuse for joining Leonard on his walk. ‘Oh yes, er, can I help you er with the choice of psalms?’ She asked weakly. 

He replied with a smile on his face ‘It’s alright Hilda, I’ve chosen them already.’ 

‘That’s a relief then. If there’s anything I can do for you anytime, you just have to ask. You know I’m always there to help you. And don’t forget about the trip to the coast, it would be a lovely couple of days I’m sure. I’m already looking forward to it, I’m going to have to buy a new outfit, ooh, how exciting.’ 

Leonard said nothing. 

++++ 

  

The narrow, single-track road gently climbed up the hill away from the village. Before long a set of wrought iron gates came into view. At first glance, and from afar, they appeared to announce an imposing country seat of an important family –Churchill, Mountbatten or even possibly the hideaway home of a reclusive entrepreneur. However, as the car drew ever closer it was obvious that not everything was as it first seemed, both gates were now home to a considerable amount of fading ivy and bird deposits and were hanging precariously from two substantial pillars that possessed alarming cracks in the masonry. 

  

Jürgen slowed the car and halted next to the gates. 

  

‘Umh, do you think we need to ring a bell to announce our arrival? It would be polite to do so. Important to make a first good impression. Have a look Philipp, will you,’ Jürgen said. 

Philipp was only too happy to exit the car, he leapt out and disappeared behind a bush only to reappear a few minutes later with a relieved look on his face. He then started looking for something to press, pull or shake. All he found was an ancient and cracked intercom which clearly hadn’t been in working order for many a year. 

‘Umh. Perhaps they’re not used to receiving many visitors; the English aristocracy tend to be rather aloof,’ Jürgen reasoned aloud to his family, ‘Let’s drive up to the house and get the keys to our new house.’ 

  

After a lot of effort, Philipp managed to pull open one of the gates. The family of four looked to both left and right as their car slowly made its way along the uneven drive that was rather overgrown in places, so much so that in parts there was more dandelions, weeds and other greenery than original driveway. 

  

Each of them were lost in their own thoughts: 

  

‘Why did I agree to this, why was his wife so adamant about moving here of all places,’ thought Jürgen. 

  

‘At last, we’ve taken the first step, never imagined we would actually do it,’ thought Sophia. 

  

‘This place is dead, what am I going to do here? Where’s the action?’ thought Elisabeth. 

  

‘It’s certainly different to Germany. Maybe something good will come out of this, maybe not,’ thought Philipp. 

  

The main house came slowly into view. It was a moderately sized but somewhat imposing building that took their breath away. On closer inspection they might have seen it was somewhat ‘weathered and tired’ and perhaps in need of some financial investment but as a first impression it was rather impressive. The Englisch family therefore somewhat failed to notice a hideous twentieth century garage made of corrugated iron that poked around one side of the building and which seemed to house a variety of ancient mechanical contraptions that might have once been a tractor, a selection of trailers and some other objects whose functions were open to interpretation. 

The family’s car slowed with that satisfying crunching sound of gravel as it approached the front of the house. 

‘Mum, dad, just like to let you know there’s someone upstairs pointing what looks like a shotgun at us through a window,’ muttered Elizabeth. 

Sophia half-turned to her daughter, clearly irritated by her ridiculous comment, ‘Don’t be stupid dear, we’re in England, that sort of thing doesn’t happen here.’ 

Elizabeth sighed in a matter-of-fact way. ‘O.K., have it your own way, just wait, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She quickly put her smartphone up to the window and started filming. ‘Got to send this back to Germany,’ she thought, ‘my friends will never believe it, what sort of country are we moving to’. 

Jürgen silently tutted and shook his head at his daughter, wondering what mistakes they’d made in bringing up their daughter, and slowly brought the car to a gentle halt facing the front door. 

Suddenly there was a loud, distinctive bang and something ricocheted off the front wing of their car with a sharp twanging sound. The two front seat occupants instantaneously turned to each other with shocked faces and in unison ducked down below the dashboard. 

‘Good God, what was that!’ shouted a hysterical Sophia. 

‘I did tell you, but no one listened,’ replied Elisabeth in a repeat of her matter-of-fact tone. 

‘Cool, we’re being shot at, always wondered what it felt like to be under fire,’ Philipp calmly replied, ‘now I know.’ 

‘Everyone put their hands up now!’ screamed Jürgen as he agonisingly slowly reappeared from the footwell…………………