A Summer Talent

            April had just begun, the sweet smell of spring hanging in an unbroken blue sky; without a doubt summer was just about to bloom.  The wild life that surrounded me was breathtaking to behold, with its wondrous purity that had always eluded the comprehension of Man.  A truly wonderful equinox had arrived but, by the time May was upon us, the heat had become almost unbearable.

            Sessile Standmore and his new wife Linda Lillycrap had become the newest additions to the small community we called home.  Set in some of the most beautiful countryside within the county, nestling amongst deep, lush green valleys, slept our small village known as Well-Bottled.  To enter this idyllic village there is only one route available - to take the left hand turning at the crossroads at the top of the third and largest valley that had for so long shrouded the area in secrets never disclosed until now.  The road, aptly named Laid Out Lane, was a long, twisting, narrow path which carried the traveller to the very heart of this most tranquil setting, finally reaching the highly desirable village of Well-Bottled.

            The local Police Constable, a recent newcomer to the location himself, had settled in rather well.  (Unofficial title - christian name “Paul”, surname “Ovary” - thus meaning the new village law enforcer is, in fact, PC Paul Ovary - one of life’s strange ironies, yet many more were to become unravelled as time went by).  Paul was one of the first amongst the villagers to have met Sessile and Linda, only knowing this due to the unavoidable sound of laughter coming from the green located at the centre of the village which I overlooked - as did the Pub, The Pieced and Broke Arms - which in turn I could see clearly from the master bedroom of the property that had been entrusted to me by my parents  following their decision to move some eight years earlier to a village quite some distance away from the unfolding events that you are about to be told. So, the house that I grew up in at long last became mine, being the only child - or so I thought at the time.

            Towards the north end of the green stood Clive the Cobbler, who had lived in the village for as long as I could remember, having had his business passed down to him from his father, and his father before that. The shop was very quaint and had a most charming air about it.  Unfortunately for Clive, owing to the most revolting eating habit imaginable - a strategically placed, heaped spoonful of food would be thrust into the anticipating mouth every fifth second or so, while his head would be poised at a truly remarkable forty five degree angle prior to the eventual demise of the substance yet to be consumed - the most dreadful nickname Gobbler the Cobbler had  crept into use over the years.  Clive had become more or less part of the furniture at The Pieced and Broke Arms, having fallen deeply in love with the landlady, a sprightly young thirty-something blonde, whose partner had run off with the postman seven months after they had taken over as the new landlords. Although this was most unfortunate, if only because of the loyalty shown by Miss Ploughman to Peter the Postie - who had seemed the epitome of a dashing young character of old but had turned out to be nothing more than a scallywag of the highest order - the strong natured and disciplined Miss Ploughman had built a very sturdy rapport with the locals (of which I am now led to believe there were more than seventy) who, I must say, found her company an absolute delight.