There's no place like Dibley
The voices in the village hall continued to battle against one another, a cacophony of noise that showed no sign of relenting. The man at the centre of the table stared glumly into space, wishing he could be anywhere else.
"OK, OK, let's settle down before we decide life has never been worth living and we end it all in a mass village suicide," David Horton said wearily, his chin slipping further down the hand that had been supporting it for the past ten minutes. "We've only got one item to get through. I'd like to do it before the next millennium."
"But, Mr Chairman, this is a deadly serious business," Frank said, looking affronted. "We haven't had a more important decision to make since August 1996, and we all remember how that turned out."
"No, no, no, no, no... no," Jim said. "I don't."
"That's because you weren't here," Frank replied patiently. "We were deciding whether we should start without you."
"Where was I, then?" Jim said, scratching at least four afternoons' worth of shadow bristling his chin.
"According to the minutes, you'd chained yourself to the village green bus stop, in a valiant, albeit flawed attempt to draw attention to the plight of regional transport links... I have the notes here somewhere."
"I don't think that will be necessary, Frank," David said quickly. "Let's move things along before the lemming instinct takes hold too strongly. As appealing as hurling myself from the church spire already seems."
"No, no, no, no, no... No, that was the unfortunate result of a saucy escapade with a rather lovely young bus conductress who wanted to see my modesty hidden only by a Bank Holiday timetable," Jim said, ignoring David. "She could punch my ticket again any time," he added with a leer, plucking at a loose thread of his jumper.
Letitia stopped her knitting to cast Jim a sly glance, a smile crossing her face. "I thought you got good use of your bus pass that summer."
"Oh, please! The last thing we need right now is a stuttering, salivating monologue about your virile masculinity, Jim," David said. "Some of us have only just eaten."
"But you haven't, father," Hugo piped up cheerily. "You said we'd have supper after the 'weekly hand-hold on behalf of care in the community'. You said we could use it as an excuse to leave early."
"Yes, well, we needn't get into that now," David said, blushing.
"The 'deranged, the disgusting, the dull and the deadly', you called them, if memory serves."
"What would I be then, David? The diabolical?" Geraldine said, bustling in, her raincoat over one arm and a pile of Manila folders in the other.
"No, Vicar, what you are is just in time to get us back on to the straight and narrow," David said, exasperation mounting. "We were just deciding whether to crack on without you and Mr Newitt."
"And did you?" Jim asked.
"Did we what, Jim?" David said, sighing.
"Did you start without me?"
"But you're here!"
"No, no, no, no, not now. In August 1997."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it does actually," Frank said, licking the tip of his right index finger before proceeding to flip through his notebook. "Here it is! I was right, Jim. It was 1996, not 1997 like you just said."
"What was 1997?" Jim asked, looking puzzled.
"When you weren't tied to the bus stop."
"No, no, no, no, no. That was when I was tied to..."
"STOP!" Geraldine said. "That's enough, boys. I think Mr Horton would like to get the ball rolling without any further distractions. David, over to you."
"Thank you, Vicar. It's lovely to hear the only other sane voice around this table. Now..."
"Sorry I'm late, everyone," Owen said, emerging through the door, rolling down a soiled latex glove from elbow to wrist. "There was a bit of an accident on the farm. Nothing a little persuasive action couldn't rectify. Which is ironic, given it was an issue with my prize cow's rect..."
"YES! Think we've got the picture there, Owen. No need to elaborate," Geraldine said. "David, PLEASE, over to you."
"Quite. Now thankfully we won't be interrupted by any more tales of woe this evening. But that may have to change very soon," David said, replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "The village is expanding, what with city-dwellers snapping up weekend properties, and the new housing development behind Bradley Close."
All around the table murmured their grievances, trying to outdo their neighbour in who could tut and harrumph the loudest.
"This is happening, people. There's little we can do about it," David continued. "I know we all feel like we're losing something in the process."
"Apart from you, father," Hugo said innocently. "You stand to gain, don't you? What did you sell that land for? Five million, wasn't it?"
"That's neither here nor there. The transaction was all above board, approved by the local councillor's office."
"That would be your office, David, no?" Geraldine said, more knowing than angry.
"What's done is done. I don't recall any objections when the development proposal was raised at the appropriate meeting," David said.
"Actually, I don't recall the motion, Mr Chairman, let me check," Frank said.
"Again, that won't be necessary, Mr Pickle," David replied quickly. "The fact of the matter is Dibley will change, whether we like it or not. We're expecting a veritable influx of one hundred and fifty new residents, and in line with parish procedures, that requires three new members of this council. So... does anyone have any suggestions?"
"Emma Watson! Now there's a very intelligent girl if ever I saw one," Owen said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
"No, no, no, no, no... I agree," Jim said, slowing waving his arms in an hourglass motion. "I was always interested to see how the young Hermione Granger matured from one Harry Potter film to the next."
"Exactly! The most magical thing about that bloody school..." Owen added. "Her command of that wand was second to none. Held lightly between those slender fingers, a subtle flick of the wrist..."
"May I just remind you that you're talking about children here? Fictional children at that," Geraldine pleaded.
"So you're not related?" Hugo said.
"What...? No, Hugo, I can only honestly say Hermione does not feature in the Granger family tree..."
"Ah, shame," Hugo said. "I was hoping you could give us a quick tour of Hogwarts. Friends with benefits, and all that. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge."
Geraldine looked on, bemused.
"But she's a lovely looking woman, Vicar, young Emma," Letitia said. "You can see the resemblance. And I think she'd grace our table."
"That's as may be. But I somehow think it's unlikely Hollywood A-lister Ms Watson will be moving to ZZZ-listed Dibley any time soon... no matter how entertaining she would find the current locals," Geraldine said.
"Indeed," David added. "I'd feared ridiculous ideas like this would emerge so I took the liberty of coming up with a few possibilities beforehand, all in the name of moving the discussion along, you understand."
"Are either of them personal friends of yours who wouldn't think twice about saving our village from the gates of Hell if it meant they could make a quick buck out of its eternal incineration?" Geraldine asked pleasantly.
"I know them from my membership of the local Conservative association, but that doesn't mean they're bad people, Vicar."
"Hmm, maybe not. As long as you didn't meet them at that other ivory tower where you attended university to study how to inherit half of rural Oxfordshire, I think we could consider them."
"... Does anyone else have any names to throw in the hat?" David said sheepishly.
"I think it would be nice to have another representative of the Women's Institute," Letitia said, eyes focused on a tricky section of herringbone stitching. "Someone to add another feminine voice to proceedings."
"That would be lovely, Mrs Cropley. Unfortunately, you're the only member of the Dibley WI, aren't you?" the Vicar said. "The sole survivor, in fact? What caused that spate of food poisoning-related deaths two years ago? Chicken surprise, wasn't it?"
"Oh, scrummy, that does sound good, Mrs C," Hugo said. "What's in it, exactly?"
"Chicken and tarragon terrine, with the tiniest of twists," Letitia said beaming. "The chicken is served slightly under, I admit, to give the dish a different texture."
"The chicken was raw, Mrs Cropley. It basically pecked its way down people's unsuspecting throats," Geraldine said. "And those it didn't kill off on the first passage lost enough fluids in the resultant vomiting to refloat Noah's ark."
"So no-one from the WI, then," David said. "Any other brainwaves, if we dare call them that?"
"How about someone from the Dibley Anglers, or the Allotment Society?" Owen said. "I'm sure they would like their initiatives supported on a more regular basis."
"Praise be!" David said. "A sensible suggestion! Whom would you recommend, Mr Newitt?"
"Well, there's Cliff Simpkins from the fishermen - he can be slightly surly, but his heart's in the right place, now that he's had his triple bypass."
"Isn't he that chap who looks like everyone's favourite great great great-uncle?" Geraldine asked. "Born in the reign of George the Third. Wears that yellowing Aran jersey and fading captain's hat. Never been known to speak, to anyone. Always preceded by a rather strong smell of trout, or maybe it's salmon?"
"That's the one! He puts the sweat in sweater, does Cliff. Though I can't claim to have noticed the smell myself..."
"No, no, no, no, no, he spoke to me once," Jim said. "No, no, no, no, well I say spoke. He sort of grimaced and grunted while he was casting off, you know? But it was an improvement."
"He sounds charming," Geraldine said.
"He sounds perfect, I don't know why I've never considered him before," David said. "He won't keep us from our homes or our supper tables. Perhaps his odour will even mask Owen's own peculiar pungency. All in favour...? Carried, unanimously."
"Carried, unanimously," Frank repeated.
"And then there's Little Willie Walton, Dibley's star vegetable grower," Owen said, getting into his stride. "Longest marrows this side of Banbury!"
"Ah, yes, the black gentleman, cherubic face, candy floss hair, originally from the Caribbean - Jamaica, I seem to remember," the Vicar said. "And I presume they call him 'little' as a playful nod to his control of the courgette, his command of the cucumber, his supremacy of the squash."
"Not entirely," Frank said, sharing a conspiratorial wink with Letitia. "His patch is unparalleled, but the moniker is mainly because of his huge..."
"OK! Wonderful! That's two names, this isn't too hard," the Vicar said.
"That's not what I said when I first saw Little Willie in the noddy," Letitia said, greeted by whooping and table-pounding by Jim and Owen.
"He puts my shire horses to shame," the latter mused.
"Thank you, Owen, Mrs Cropley. As insightful as ever," David said. "One name to go - if we carry on at this pace, we'll be done by ten p.m., a record finish."
"In all seriousness, though, I think Mrs C was right about the council needing some more feminine grace," the Vicar said. "Especially now our ranks are about to be swelled by Cliff the Cloud and Little Willie's little willy."
"He can swell my ranks any day," Letitia said. "But I wouldn't be adverse to some more elegant competition to keep me on my toes."
"The idea is accepted, but the innuendo isn't, thanks all the same, Mrs Cropley," David said. "Are any names forthcoming?"
"No, no, no, no... I thought we'd agreed on Emma Watson!" Jim said. "She had at least three votes."
"He's right, Mr Chairman, it's all here in black and white," Frank said. "Mr Newitt proposed Ms Watson, which was seconded by Mr Trott and Mrs Cropley."
"Sorry, boys, Emma's a no-go. I just remembered that she's already a council member of Turville parish over the way, conflict of interest," said the Vicar, saving David from his fourth potential aneurysm of the evening. "Anyone else?"
"She may not be Emma Watson, but she's just as popular - I'm sure Alice would love to join," Hugo said.
"God above, save us!" David laughed derisively. "You must be joking, Hugo? I mean, I'm willing to put up with her round the house because of the unfortunate legality of your marriage, but here, really? That would be too much. Even for my admittedly extensive patience."
"Ah, fair enough. Thought it was worth a punt," Hugo said. "She always loves hearing about the meetings when we get back on a Thursday evening. She says being a council member would make all her dreams come true... apart from the one about starring in the next series of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?, of course."
"Hang on a second, there, Hero Hugo Horton. Why shouldn't Alice join?" Geraldine said. "I think she'd be an admiral addition, someone on the side of the nursery children. An unflinching representative for Dibley's youngest generation."
"Hear, hear!" Hugo said. "Their squeaky voices have been ignored for far too long."
"Now, come on, Vicar. You can't be serious," David said. "We need someone with gravitas, panache, more than three brain cells. Not a woman with an intellect so stunted she thinks the bean bag is Heinz's greatest invention since cream of tomato soup."
"Well, I for one think Alice has all those qualities, and more to share. Everyone in favour?" the Vicar asked.
"Six for, one against," Frank said, counting the hands as they rose and fell around the table. "Carried, just Mr Horton senior against - the nominee's father-in-law and grandfather to her ten children..."
"Oh, very well! Forgive them, Father, they do not know what they have done," David said. "For some unfathomable reason the deranged, the disgusting, the dull, the deadly and the diabolical have decided that Dibley parish council will benefit from the insights of the dick and the dumb, and thanks to Hugo, the dumber. Meeting dismissed, see you on the fourth. I hope you're looking forward to it." He wrapped his gavel on the tabletop as people began rising to their feet.
"Cheer up, grumpy grandpa," Geraldine said to David once the others had left. "How bad can it be?"
"Vicar, don't get me wrong, I have no issue with Cliff or Willie. In fact, I'll be rather glad of their involvement. But Alice?! Alice 'I thought Queen were better when Her Majesty was on lead guitar' Tinker-Horton! Only ill will come of this, trust me."
"Well, I hope she proves you wrong."
"And I hope we all don't live to regret it. Now, if you'll excuse me, Vicar, I have a pressing appointment with the church spire. Good night."
"Yes, good night, David," the Vicar said to his retreating back, sharing a rueful smile with the empty room.
...
A fortnight later, weak early-morning sunlight was shining through Geraldine's living room window, catching small motes of dust as they slowly sank to the rich maroon carpet. The desk was littered with crumpled Crunchie wrappers and a stack of well-thumbed theological texts.
"Lord, I can't help feeling we may have made some colossal mistake with Alice," Geraldine said, sitting in front of a framed picture of Christ on the cross, a steaming mug of tea clasped between her hands. "Perhaps David's right: she's not what you'd call blessed in the intelligence department - touched, maybe, but not blessed... Oh, well! Come on, Geri, she has the sweetest spirit, keep the faith!"
A knock on the front door and a high-pitched squeal heralded the arrival of Alice Tinker-Horton. "It's open, come in!" the Vicar called, turning to face the room. "It'll be fine, it'll be fine, smile, it'll be fine," she added under her breath. "Please, God, let it be fine..."
"Guess who?!" Alice asked, bounding into the room.
"Ooooh... that's a tricky one, Alice," the Vicar said, despair already setting in. "The tennis whites and racquet don't really narrow it down. And the chicken mask isn't really helping either, I'm afraid. It's definitely a novel outfit, though."
"I'm Tim Henman, silly!" Alice exclaimed, chuckling. "Now I'm a fully fledged member of the parish council, I thought I should channel someone who's good at serving. So I asked myself, who's one of the greatest championship-winning servers of modern Britain? It could only be Tim," she said, looking immensely proud of herself.
"Except that his heyday was about twenty years ago," the Vicar sighed. "And he didn't actually win any Grand Slam championships, did he, Alice, ol' Tim?"
"Don't be mean, Vicar. He donated that lovely hill to Wimbledon, after all," she said, eyes sliding away into the middle distance. "There's little that Tim hasn't done to support the Wombles' cause."
"Let it go," Geraldine said, barely audibly. "I take your point, Alice. But, sorry, one more teensy-weensy minor thing I have to ask: why the mask? Still not entirely clear on that," she said, pointing towards her verger's face and making a circling motion.
"Well, he's a Hen Man, isn't he?" Alice said as if it were painfully obvious. "Part man, part chicken."
"Of course," Geraldine said, taking a sip of tea. "Stupid of me not to have worked it out, really. Although... sorry to labour the point, but isn't a hen a female chicken? And Tim is very definitely male."
"From his mother's side, I expect," Alice said. "And I couldn't put a cock on my face, could I? People would wonder what the red sack dangling under my chin was."
The Vicar spluttered her tea on to the carpet, coughing furiously. "Ahem... yes... see what you mean," she said trying to regain her composure. "Flawless logic as ever, Mrs Tinker-Horton. So you're excited about your star turn on the Dibley parish council, then?"
"Oh, abso-ruddy well-lutely!" Alice said, wrapping her arms around herself and swaying to and fro. "I was so surprised when Hugo told me that a little bit of wee came out... Made a right mess of David's upholstery."
"And you're sure that had nothing to do with your lack of pelvic floor control following the birth of your football team of children?" the Vicar asked, only half-joking.
"Now, come on, Vickster... we've got important business to discuss ahead of my first meeting tonight," Alice said. "I wanted to run a few things past you. How should I play it? I'd hate to make a fool of myself."
"Ooof, I don't know, Alice," the Vicar said, puffing out her cheeks. "Most professionals opt for a sliced serve and a double-handed backhand nowadays, I believe," she said, sniggering into her mug.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, I thought you meant tennis... erm, look, just be yourself. There's nothing to it, really," Geraldine said, resuming her usual role of consoler-in-chief. "I'm sure you'll be great. Just remember to think before you speak, and if that's too much of a struggle, don't speak."
"You're such a bodilicious babe," Alice said running up to the Vicar and pushing her face between her breasts. "What would I do without you?"
"I'm not sure, Alice. Terrorise some other twenty-first century saint?"
"Yeah, you're probably right," Alice replied, straightening up again. "Well, I can't stand here gossiping all day. I've got essential canvassing to do this afternoon before the meeting."
"Excellent! I'm glad you're already taking your new responsibilities so seriously. We'll make a councillor of you yet, young lady," Geraldine said.
"Oh no, it's not for tonight!" Alice said grinning. "The reception class are doing finger painting in an hour. I told the teacher I'd drop by to give them some of my invaluable experience of the genre. The soft dapple of thumbprint on canvass, the caress of the palm to delineate between areas of light and shade, you know the sort of thing... See you later, alligator!"
The Vicar simply stared after her. "After a while, lunatic," she said turning back to the portrait of Jesus. "Benevolent, eh? Then why do you seem to hate me so much?"
...
Rain lashed against the windows of the parish hall, the high pressure that had been building throughout the day suddenly releasing as an intense storm. The council members took obvious delight in the change of weather, following every peal of thunder and flash of lightning with a well-timed "Ooooh!" or overly dramatic "Aaaah!".
"Thank you, thank you!" David called, gavel in hand, ready to strike against the table. "Thank you... I call to order this, the twenty-seventh meeting of the Dibley parish council, chaired by myself, David Horton. Mr Secretary, all set?"
"'Thank you, thank you,'" Frank replied, fountain pen dashing across paper.
"Good, before we get started, I would like to welcome..."
"'Thank you... I call to order...'" Frank continued unabated.
"What on earth are you wittering on about, man?" David said.
"Apologies, Mr Chairman, I was slightly slow off the mark this evening, on account of the atmospheric commotion outside. Just trying to catch up," Frank said.
"Never mind that now, we need to get going."
"Understood, sir! Carry on," Frank said.
"Thank you...! As I was saying, before we get started with item one, I would like to welcome..."
"Should I minute that?" Frank asked.
"... Minute what?" David said.
"Our little interlude?"
"Of course not, you blithering bore," David said. "Your notes already resemble the mutterings of a madman. Do you really think anyone bothers to peruse them in their own precious time?"
"In that case, would you mind if I read back to you what we have so far? For consistency's sake?"
"If you must..."
"'Thank you, thank you... Thank you. Thank you! Thank you...'" Frank said. "That seems correct to me."
"Fine, whatever," David said. "Now, I would like to welcome..."
"Shouldn't we vote on that?" Frank asked.
"... On what?"
"The minutes."
"What minutes?"
"The minutes I just read back to you. For consistency's sake."
"Very well... All those in favour of Mr Pickle being beaten to death by his own leather-bound minutes raise your hands. You needn't vote, Frank... Carried, unanimously," David said as Frank subsided into silence beside him. "Good, now I would like to take this slightly-later-than-planned opportunity to welcome the three new members of this council: Mr Simpkins, Mr Walton... and Alice." The Vicar led a light round of applause. "I hope they find these evenings beneficial and supportive for their individual causes."
Alice stood unbidden. "Thank you, Mr Chairman. My lords, ladies, gentlemen... and Vicar. For too long this council, nay, this very village has laboured under a yoke of suffering and oppression," she said to a stunned silence. "And that's not a good, gooey Henman yolk," she added as an aside, greeted by general bewilderment and the Vicar's face slowing sinking to the tabletop.
"For too long this rural idyll has been held captive to the whims and desires of a despicable tyrant. A despot, no less, who rules with a merciless arm, an iron fist and a shiny, baldy head."
"Sweet, sweet Jesus," the Vicar breathed. "Careful now, Alice," she said. "You're on a very slippery slope here."
"For too long a man with a chip on his shoulders and an egg between them has played lord of the manor over our lives, our emotions and our futures," Alice continued undeterred. "No more, I say. We have lived in fear for too long. No more... Thank you."
The council members looked uneasily from one to the other, all subtly gazing past David. "Brava!" Hugo declared. "Cracking job!"
"Yes, that was quite the address, Mrs Tinker-Horton," David said at last, a disconcerting purple tide slowly creeping up from the base of his neck. "May I ask to whom it was directed?" Mrs Cropley put down her knitting, while Owen and Jim tactfully avoided each other's eyes.
"Isn't it obvious?" Alice said. "The bane of many an existence. He Who Must Not Be Named... The darkest wizard of all?"
"Ah..." Geraldine said, light dawning. "You're talking about Lord Voldemort, aren't you, Alice? From the Harry Potter stories?"
"Well, of course!" Alice said. "Who else?"
"Who else, indeed," David said.
"See, I told you Emma Watson was a good choice," Owen said triumphantly. "If we're facing the Dark Lord, we need all the help we can get... plus the chance of a little jiggery-pokery of another sort on the side."
"OK, OK! Earth to the idiots," the Vicar said. "Let's not get too carried away here... I don't think Lord Voldemort has set his sights on Dibley just yet, Alice. Sit down, before I knock you down." The verger did as she was told.
"Thank you, Vicar," David said. "Now that Hugo's marginally worse half has had the first documented say of her council tenure, may I ask Mr Simpkins and Mr Walton to deliver us all by giving their maiden speeches? Cliff, would you care to begin?"
Cliff Simpkins, a ruddy, weather-beaten man dressed in a ragged fisherman's jumper and grubby navy flat cap, unsteadily got to his feet. He turned to each of his colleagues in turn, allowing an almost visible cloud of fish odour to waft under each of their noses.
"Holy moly! Just got a whiff! Know what you mean now, Vicar," Owen said. "That really blows the cobwebs away."
"Thank'ee, Mr Chairman, fellow councillors..." Cliff said in a nasal twang. "'Tis an honour to represent the fishers and anglers of Dibley..."
"Wait a minute!" David said. "You're not meant to speak! Every time I've passed you on the riverbank, you've never uttered a syllable. I only invited you to say a few words because I thought you'd just sit there in gormless silence..."
"Nosir, Mr Horton, sir," Cliff said. "Ah never speak when ahm out and about with rod and tackle. That's a personal rule, mark me. Must have full nous on the fish. Can be slippery little blighters, some of 'em."
"I knew it would be too good to be true..." David said forlornly. "Let me guess. I bet you love a good chinwag any other time?"
"Oh yessir, Mr Horton, sir. Can be a lonely pursuit, can fishing. Will be nice to get the week's ups and downs off me chest and out me hair with you good people before we test our mettle against the other facts of village life."
"I'm sure it will..."
"As ah was saying, thank'ee for this opportunity," Cliff said. "Been living alone since Annie, me wife, died. Been quite lonely, truth to tell. The boys at the club give me time of day, but no more. Will be a breath of fresh air to sit amongst civilised folk now and then. Summat to put a spring back in me step."
"Bless you..." the Vicar said, sniffing into a voluminous hanky that had magically appeared from her cassock. "Not entirely sure about the fresh air part, Cliff, but you're more than welcome all the same. Another elder statesman like yourself will surely help keep our feet grounded. When exactly did she pass, Annie? It must have been before I arrived."
"Aye, 'twas. Still raw as ever, mind. In the May ah lost her... May '65."
"Sorry... May '65... as in 1965?" the Vicar asked, incredulous. "Your wife died over half a century ago?"
"No, no, no, no... yes, firing squad," Jim said. "I'll never forget the day."
"Dear Lord, that's terrible!" the Vicar exclaimed. "Oh, Cliff, you poor, poor man."
"We'd only been married those eight years past. Ah never saw it coming, like a bolt out the blue."
"I can only imagine..." Geraldine said.
"There was a weight of evidence against her, though, Vicar," Owen said. "She didn't have a leg to stand on, especially after they went for her kneecaps."
"Owen! Some decorum... please!" the Vicar said. "This must be hugely painful for Mr Simpkins."
"I'm only speaking the truth," Owen said. "Young Annie turned out to be Annegret Albrecht von Steinmüller, Nazi spy and good-for-nothing hoodwinker. She'd been passing official secrets across the Channel for almost forty years, under this blind bat's nose," he said, jerking a thumb at Cliff.
"Ah couldn't believe it," Cliff said. "Fell for her hook, line and sinker, ah did. Not a day goes by ah don't think of her and what she did to me."
"I'm sure she loved you in her own way, all the same..." the Vicar said.
"No, no, no, no, no, she didn't," Jim said. "She'd sleep with anyone if she thought she could profit from it."
"I always wondered how my recipe for Black Forest gateau with Sauerkraut icing made it to the Führer's table," Letitia said. "That was a closely guarded family speciality. Turns out nothing was safe after a night of passion with Annie the fanny. I've never baked that cake since."
"She stole all the parish records, too," Frank said. "I remember my father, who served as council secretary at the time, finding it all deeply upsetting. We could have spent many a happy hour poring over the inter-war documents alone."
"Yes, well... I've always said no-one is completely evil. And those two small mercies just go to prove it," the Vicar said looking to David with pleading eyes.
"Indeed, as interesting as your wife's sordid history of betrayal and subterfuge is, Cliff, I'm afraid we're rather pressed for time," he said. "Mr Walton perhaps you could wrap things up so we can move on to item... what was it again? Oh, yes... one."
Willie Walton spread his green-fingered hands out in front of him, a twinkle in his eye and a slow smile crossing his face. Reclining in his rickety wooden chair, he seemed to ooze calm and composure, the very embodiment of a cool customer. His voice was like melted chocolate - part bass rumble, part melodious lilt.
"Mr Chairman, I emigrated to this country on the good ship Empire Windrush," Willie said, taking his time over every word. "As a mere babe in arms, I don't remember much of my first few years on these shores, but what I do recall is a jumbled series of blistered front doors and broken windows. Whispered exchanges and sidelong glances. Nowhere Ma, Pa and I could call home. Nowhere we felt wanted. Nowhere we could be us.
"But that all changed when we moved to a tiny forgotten village, when we moved to the middle of 'Nowhere' itself, when we moved here... to Dibley," he said.
"I remember playing with young Jim, England versus the Windies in street cricket... with young Owen up in the milking parlour, the sheep folds and the abattoir... with young Cliff on the canal locks and his father's narrowboat... and with luscious young Letitia round the back of the bike sheds. You became our family, you became my friends.
"And now, like you, I've become one of this village's guiding lights, one of her tallest crops. From a little seed Dibley nurtured me with warmth and light. You gave me hope; you taught me the power of the British stiff upper lip; you comforted me at home, out and about, on the allotment through thick and brassica thinning... I pray future generations will now find that same peace and shade under my branches," he said, falling back into silence.
The Vicar wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, suddenly prouder than she had been in years. "Sorry, everyone... that was beautiful, Willie," she said. "Where we come from may be vastly different, but what this village means to us now is the same. And that's what unites us. What makes this huddle of ramshackle cottages so special. There's no place like Dibley, and we should do everything in our power to make it home for the new residents of this perfectly imperfect little community."
"Quite right. Well said," David whispered. "Mr Secretary, I think we should take a vote. All those in favour...?" he asked, glancing from left to right around the table. "Carried, unanimously," he said, slightly choked. He cleared his throat, "Item one."