The Curmudgeon

Now I must explain for t'editor that I am not going soft again. He has accused me in the past of being maudling (does he mean senile?) but the return of the Doc and his wife Mary was a truly moving event, even for an old cynic like me.

The Doc is threatening to take early retirement, fed up with the NHS and all its red tape. For the past three weeks, he and Mary have been swanning round the Med taking in the wonders of the Ancient World.

In the meantime, we locals have been working flat out on their old smallholding on the brow of Windmill Hill.

The Doc, you see, wants to spend more time with his Jacob sheep and his veg patch. Mary wants more time for her herbs and Alpines.

But with him running a one-man rural practice and Mary, a former distinct nurse, acting as receptionist, bookkeeper, and general soother of fettered brows, they don't have the time.

Which is why their few acres of paddock, garden, rock and gorse wouldn't actually make the front page of Home and Garden.

Until now, that is. For when we invaded the minute their taxi disappeared towards the airport, we made Charlie's TV army look like a retreating rabble. Genghis Khan himself would have been proud of us.

Mary's rockery is now a mini-pyramid festooned with as many tiny plants as your average Alp.

The Jacobs have been sheared and their wool is already spun. The marsh grass and the nettles that disfigured the paddock are gone.

And by a green-fingered miracle, the Doc's veg patch is heavy with courgettes and marrows, autumn cabbage and broccoli, winter kale and Brussels sprouts, radicchio lettuce and Japanese radish and much, much more.

All these were transplanted from Ben the Bucket's allotment in a state of maturity which meant they should have died. They would have done, too, had not Ben watched and fed them day and night: one of the Doc's sickly patients never got better bedside care.

Then the phone rang in the Beggars' last Sunday, a tip from the taxi driver that the plane had landed. We went up Windmill Hill Lane like locusts, hiding our vehicles over the brow and all taking up hiding behind the Doc's old barn.

It seemed an age before the taxi could be heard labouring up the hill, and an aeon or two whilst they unloaded their baggage into the house. Then we heard a little screech as Mary opened her kitchen window. Then a scream.

"Come quick, come quick." We could hear the bang as the Doc dropped a heavy bag and ran into the kitchen. Then, "Oh my God."

We trooped out from behind our barn, treading carefully on the newly-laid paths. We were all there, perhaps 50 of us, and we all shouted, "Welcome home."

Mary burst into tears and buried her face in a tea towel. The Doc's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for perhaps half a minute before he could get out "You silly buggers," the first time anyone of us had ever heard him swear.

It was blackmail, of course. Or should I say whitemail. We still don't know if the Doc will stay. But we've done our best.

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.