Nothing Happens Up There

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1

December 30th 2019, Lincolnshire

They saw the car go past and pulled out of the layby to follow. There were still nearly two miles of the straight road until it turned left abruptly towards Otherby. It had been dark for some time and the heavy rain was flecked with snow. The wipers on the big Land Rover groaned as they swung back and forth clearing the windscreen.

The driver accelerated to catch the small car and soon was right up to it. He edged the Land Rover closer, and closer. Now they were just inches behind and he smiled as the small car started to accelerate. He followed, still inches from the other car’s bumper.

We’re getting close, maybe 400 metres, said his companion in Albanian

He nodded and flicked the switch to illuminate the two spotlights mounted on the bonnet. They lit up the inside of the car ahead and silhouetted the driver whose hand rose to adjust the mirror. He pushed the accelerator pedal down and the jeep nudged against the car’s bumper and started to propel the car even faster. He accelerated harder, then hit the brakes. The car ahead shot away brightly lit by the Land Rover’s spotlights. They saw the brake lights illuminate and the car slide as the driver desperately tried to negotiate the tight bend. Then the car was rolling over and over before disappearing down the bank of the deep water-filled ditch.

The jeep drew up close to the ditch. The car was upside down in the water, just one wheel protruding above the surface. There was no movement. The man grunted and put the jeep in gear and carried on. Job done.

2

January 2020, Lincolnshire

Andrew Eastwood was a worried man. This weekend he would make the biggest decision of his life. A decision that could make or break his career, and his marriage. He glanced at the man sitting next to him, silent for the past hour. In the back of the car the man’s wife sat, stoically mute.

The Murco sign was illuminated and appeared ahead out of the mist rather as a runway landing light does at Heathrow. Andrew lifted his foot off the accelerator and the car slowed as it approached the light. It was only three in the afternoon but the January days were short here with the mist suspended in the cold air.

The garage was still open which was important. Andrew had been running on the reserve tank since turning off the A1. Thirty miles of twisting, snow-flanked road and deep dykes lay behind him. He hadn’t passed a petrol station. He was used to that by now; the relative isolation of his constituency. The lack of traffic, of shopping malls, of industry.

When he had first moved here, not long after winning the by-election, he had gazed for a long time at the flat landscape, the wide skies, the vast green fields with their Charolais cattle, the other fields already turning a creamy caramel colour as the wheat and barley rocked and rolled in the breeze.

He had marvelled at the emptiness of the landscape set out before him; such a contrast to the busy streets of Wandsworth where he lived with his family. There it was often difficult to see much sky for all the high-rise buildings that crowded around you. Here, on a fine day, with the sky a clear blue with just the odd cotton wool of cumulus, there seemed space to breathe, and time to appreciate the richness of nature.

It had been Spring and Andrew had arrived with Stan, his agent, for the candidate selection meeting. The sunshine had, of course, made everything seem better, brighter and more welcoming. Since then, Andrew had come to know that such days were rare. He’d become accustomed to the cold easterly winds blowing in from Scandinavia.

Now, as he eased the car up to the pump, the landscape was a dirty grey, mist-laden and cold. The sort of winter’s evening when you wanted to shut out the world and sit inside, warmed with a good fire and a glass of single malt.

But Andrew had come to love the place, its serenity, the feeling that the rest of the world was bustling by leaving Otherby to muddle along by itself.

Nothing important seemed to happen here. Well not until now. Depending on his decision all that would change on Monday.

3

May 2018, London

Is that really what you want to do? Claire looked at Andrew as they sat opposite each other in the Côte Brasserie in Wandsworth. I mean wouldn’t you have to spend some time up there with your constituents?

Quite a lot of time, I expect. Especially at first. But most of the week I’d be in Westminster.

Only when Parliament is sitting. They have a lot of long breaks.

Anyway I’m not elected yet, not even selected as the candidate so it might never happen.

But leaving Templeton. You’ve done so well there.

It was true. Leaving university with a degree in Industrial Economics, Andrew had found himself a job at RBS in Edinburgh. Two years later the Bank having collapsed due to the antics of its CEO, Fred the Shred, he was headhunted by a leading fund management company in London where he met and married Claire. That was one decision that wasn’t the result of careful analysis. He had been infatuated with Claire. She seemed to breeze through life with a casualness that he envied. She was sociable, got on well with everyone and clearly liked the attention she received. That made it all the more surprising that she had agreed to go out with him. It wasn’t that Andrew was unattractive. He was tall, well-built with the eyes that a previous girlfriend had described as ‘kind’. But he wasn’t the fast-talking, jocular type that typified many of his fellow traders.

Initially he had put his degree to good use as he researched various companies in which the Fund was invested. Later he became a fund manager of a new ‘green’ fund that Templeton had launched. He had been successful at picking a number of winners. Andrew liked facts. He liked to have all the facts. Only then did he feel confident to make a decision. So he researched the companies extensively. He looked at the management team, the market, the likely ramifications of government policy.

Recently, however, the Fund had performed badly, largely due to the uncertainty of Brexit and the anti-green agenda of President Trump. Andrew hadn’t foreseen the success of the Brexiteers. In this he was not alone but the fact that he had failed to offset the risk of a leave vote still irked him. Andrew was both a firm ‘Remainer’ and an advocate of taking measures to prevent global warming. Andrew took life seriously. Someone who liked certainty, predictability. That didn’t make him the typical fund manager who enjoyed the frequent and often unpredictable ups and downs of the market. He lacked the gambler’s excitement of betting on an uncertain outcome.

Brought up in County Durham, he was not a ‘townie’ like Claire. The metropolis had been an eye opener to him. Edinburgh had been fine, small enough to relate to. But London had seemed just so big. He didn’t know where London ended. Was it Surbiton or Watford or did it just keep spreading out like some enormous inkblot? London and his job at Templeton had been undeniably exciting and challenging. He had risen to the challenge. He had a good brain. He was organised and analytical. He had a strong work ethic and he was young.

Life had changed since he came down to London. Now he was married, relatively rich and father to twin boys. But something was lacking. He no longer felt he was achieving. To date achievement had been measured in money, the bonuses he had earned and the assets he had been able to acquire as a result. A happy marriage and two healthy children were other achievements. But what next? He had a responsibility to Claire and the boys. But it was more than just earning enough money. What sort of future could he build for them? His analytical research had led him to the conclusion that the economy couldn’t keep growing. The planet had only finite resources and these were rapidly being used up. Nine billion people on a single planet. They couldn’t all live in a big house, drive a couple of cars and jet round the world looking for a sandy beach. Things would have to change. This was what was driving him now to seek a different career.

Templeton is going through a difficult time right now. Until Brexit is decided I think the glory days are over.

I thought that all those Tory voters in East Anglia voted to leave. They won’t want their MP banging on about the benefits of staying in Europe.

The couple on the next table looked across. Claire lowered her voice. The problem with London was space. Never enough of it. The tables crammed together afforded little privacy. On the other hand that was what made London so exciting. The constant rush and hurdy-gurdy made one feel alive. It made her feel like she was in a living history book. The people around her were important. They influenced the way the country ran, the way business developed. London was a melting pot of ideas. A melange of different races and cultures. Here people jumped on aeroplanes in the morning and attended conferences in other capital cities, flying back the next day. Here was where the dinner parties were fuelled by informed conversation, where the woman’s voice was just as important as the man’s next to her. London was a place of equal opportunity (well for the educated it was) where women juggled home duties with stellar careers and men shopped for Pampers on Saturday.

She glanced at her watch. Half-past two. Another hour and they’d have to pick the boys up from their prep school. A short cab ride and then home. Home to a large Edwardian house facing the common. Their 4 x 4 would be gathering dust pollen from the trees as it sat in the road outside. A car was more of a liability than an asset in Wandsworth. There was nowhere to park and if one wanted to take advantage of the wine bars and brasseries then a taxi was the safer bet.

Her opposition to Andrew’s desire to become an MP was fuelled by her concern about money. They were doing well, very well. Andrew’s bonuses had been more than enough to put down a substantial deposit on the house and pay the nursery fees. Now she had landed the job with a City PR firm there would be even more coming in. So they would be able to enjoy the skiing, the Caribbean summer holiday and the babysitters to enable them to go to the theatre and gallery events. An MP’s pay was not a fortune by comparison. In fact it was very little, she thought. But Andrew had been looking stressed recently with work and she too was worried about how business would survive a hard Brexit. Maybe it would be good for him to become an MP. It would give him the opportunity to find out what was really happening in Mrs May’s government. And, she had to admit, the social benefits of being an MP’s wife were not inconsiderable. It could open doors for her.

The thought pleased her and she motioned to a passing waiter for another bottle of St Veran.

It was a long time since she and Andrew had lunched together on a weekday. A combination of a week’s holiday to prepare for his selection board and the boys’ presence at full time school had enabled it. Claire loved London. It was exciting, busy, a happening place. Claire loved entertaining and being entertained. She loved the dinner conversations with friends who were in the know, who were in the places where it all happened. Maybe she would get to know all the gossip from the corridors of power if and when Andrew was elected.

Andrew glanced at her as the waiter poured from the new bottle of wine. I’ve got a lot of reading to do when we get back. I don’t want to be falling asleep.

Don’t be such a spoilsport. How often do we lunch together like this? Anyway there’s not much to mug up on in Lincolnshire. Just farming and fish!

Not much fish now and Grimsby’s up in North Lincs.

"So, all you’ve got to do is watch a couple of episodes of Countryfile and you’ll be fine. Just don’t mention Brexit!"

Later that evening with the boys in bed, Andrew settled down to read up on the economics of East Anglia. Claire had gone out with friends to a reception at a new art gallery in Sloane Street. Just the sort of evening she loved.

Three pages into the forecasts of wheat yields his eyes closed as the effects of the heavy lunch took their toll.

4

June 30th 2018, Lincolnshire

Winning the safe Tory seat had never been in doubt. Tories had held the seat since the war. In the past 20 years support for the Tories had risen from 42% to over 60%. It was getting selected that was hard.

Andrew had been the youngest candidate at 32. He was up against two women one of whom had lost her Midlands seat in the disastrous 2017 election. The other was a former teacher who was now an important county councillor and well known in the area. Both had played to the local conservative association’s historic support of Brexit and talked of the dangers of immigration and the necessity to protect Lincolnshire’s white population.

Andrew had talked about prosperity. He talked about opportunity for more jobs for their constituents, of support for farmers and the need to get more inward investment. He impressed the panel with his grasp of statistics, his knowledge of the finances of farming and his positive thinking. There were some members who worried about his ‘remainer’ leanings but the difficulties the government were experiencing in getting a suitable deal had softened their resolve to leave. With the support for each of the two women cancelling each other out, Andrew, the tall blonde man from Durham, was the narrow winner.

He was appointed MP for West Lincs a month before the summer recess on July 24th.

He resigned from Templeton without regret. The firm was awash with news about a takeover and redundancies so his departure was swift and cordial. His task for the summer was to find a house to rent within his constituency.

He left Claire in London with the boys. Claire was enjoying working again and looking forward to starting the new job she’d taken in the City. It meant making arrangements for the boys to be picked up by a child-minder but as that removed the necessity for Claire to make tea for them, she was not unhappy.

On Monday morning, Andrew drove the Nissan up to Holbeach where he had arranged to meet his agent. Stan would be invaluable for advising him on suitable areas to find a property as well as introducing him to many of the more-important locals. Holbeach was in easy driving distance of Andrew’s constituency.

It took Andrew more than an hour to get through the rush hour traffic in south London and onto the bottom of the A1, the road to the North. With stop-start traffic he crawled through Battersea and across the river before heading East. The congestion charge introduced years ago by Ken Livingstone had been a great success in getting traffic off London’s roads but still the going was slow and painful.

He was glad when he reached a spot north of the M25 when he could open up the car. He wondered how many times he would have to do this journey and whether he would ever get used to it. He had looked at taking the train up. Then he discovered there was no railway station at Holbeach or rather there was but it had been shut down in 1959. The only way was to take a train from Clapham Junction to Waterloo, an underground to Kings Cross and a train to Peterborough. Changing trains at Peterborough he could get to Spalding from where he could take a bus to Holbeach. He began to realise why people had referred to his new constituency as ‘in the wilds of nowhere’.

It was nearly two o’clock before he finally arrived in Holbeach at the Horse and Groom where he had arranged to meet Stan. The cream-painted façade of the old pub gave right onto a narrow pavement. On the right an archway led through to a small car park and the few buildings that had been converted into guest rooms.

The main bar was dominated by a long wooden table at which four men in their sixties were drinking coffee having obviously finished their meal.

There were a number of small wooden tables with wheelback wooden chairs. He saw Stan sitting at one, a pint in his hand. He rose to greet Andrew as he strode across.

I’m so sorry …. the traffic.

Don’t say a word. You’re still in time but we need to get the order in quick. Stan pointed to the blackboard screwed to the brick-faced wall listing the daily specials. They stop serving at 2.00. I recommend the chicken and ham pie.

It was obvious to Andrew that Stan was a regular in here and by the size of his stomach indicated he enjoyed not only the family cooking but the local ale. It was a far cry from the CÔte Brasserie in Wandsworth or the Portofino Wine Bar in Clapham. It was a lot quieter for a start.

Andrew nodded approval and Stan called out to the young barman for two pies and two pints of Yorkshire bitter. Great pub. Free House. Always a good choice of beers.

Apart from a quick toilet break on the A1 where he grabbed a Costa coffee, Andrew hadn’t eaten and as he tucked into the pie he realised how hungry he was. Stan explained that they would drive ‘in convoy’ across to Ancaster where there was a house he thought might suit Andrew. It’s actually in your constituency although, as you know, your constituency spreads over a wide area."

Yes, a wide area but not many people live there!

There’s a hotel in Sleaford I’ve managed to book us both in for the night. Then tomorrow we can drive around a few more villages and see what’s available.

I’ve been looking at Rightmove back home but there don’t seem to be many decent properties to rent. Andrew had, as usual, done his research. He had drawn circles on a map, listed the villages and searched Rightmove. He’d found surprisingly little.

That’s because the best ones go by word of mouth up here. Internet is fine but up here it’s more about who you know than getting Google to search for you. People up here don’t move around like they do in London. They stay put. Houses stay in the family. Passed down through the generations. Stan moved the remaining lump of mashed potato around his plate mopping up the last of the gravy. Coffee?

The drive from Holbeach to Ancaster reminded Andrew both that Lincolnshire is a large county and that the different parts of it have their own characteristics. Down in the south of the county it is horticulture rather than agriculture that keeps the economy working. The area is famed for its flower growing and a few months earlier the fields would have been a sea of yellow daffodils. Further north the bright yellow fields were not daffodils but rape seed, while all over the county large flat farms were growing acres and acres of wheat and barley that added a yellow gold to the spectrum.

Not all of Lincolnshire was flat though. The famous Lincolnshire Wolds near Louth were hilly while the west of the county was also more undulating.

Ancaster, as its name suggests, was originally a Roman settlement on Ermine Street the major Roman road from London to the North. It boasts a population of 1317. Andrew was pleased to see it had a working railway station. It’s on the Nottingham to Skegness line, said Stan. Not many trains though.

I’ve heard of Ancaster. said Andrew. There’s a hall of residence named after it at Nottingham University.

Is that where you did your degree Andrew?

Before he attended the selection committee Andrew had researched the whole area of his constituency and reckoned he knew as many historical facts about the places as Stan. What he didn’t know were the people and here he would have to rely on his friend.

As they neared Ancaster, Stan was describing the nearby Cranwell RAF station. Brings in some income, that does, he said. Close to Sleaford too.

Isn’t there a good nature reserve near Ancaster? Andrew delved into his mind for some facts he had read.

Two to be precise – Ancaster Valley and Rauceby Warren, although that’s closer to Sleaford – just by the golf course. You should join Sleaford Golf Club if you get a place around here – lots of good Tory voters there!

There were advantages to Ancaster, thought Andrew. The countryside was not yet bleak like the fens and the A1 was not that far away. Sleaford was a good market town and had a golf club. Finding a suitable house to rent however was impossible. Not wanting a modern semi-detached on an estate there was nothing remotely to interest him, or more importantly, Claire.

The next day they travelled further East. It gets pretty remote out here – especially for a townie like you, said Stan.

But it’s more like where my constituents live. Anyway I wasn’t a Townie. I mean there were a couple of big towns like Sleaford but mostly it was just small villages, almost hamlets.

It was as they were leaving yet another estate agent that the agent called out to them. I don’t know if this might be something you’d consider? He was holding the telephone with his hand muting the mouthpiece. It’s not for rent though. Could you consider a purchase? Nice house, old but in good nick. Small village.

Andrew shook his head. No I’m not sure where I’m going to be living but I’ll only be up here for weekends. A rental makes much more sense.

Give us the details anyway, said Stan looking hard at Andrew. What are they asking?

Outside Stan turned to Andrew. Look, I didn’t want to say this before but you need to have something better than what we’ve been looking at. OK if you are just looking for somewhere to lay your head on a Saturday night a rental might do, but that’s hardly going to impress the punters is it? Another absentee MP who knows nothing about the life here and cares even less. We need to feel our MP is dedicated to the place. Remember what Gordon said at the Selection meeting. We deserve more than a poncey city-type looking for a safe seat.

Andrew looked at Stan’s face. The expression was determined, almost truculent. He had never seen him so worked up. He thought of remonstrating but didn’t want to fall out with him. After all he would depend on Stan to watch over the constituency while he was away in London. On the other hand the way Brexit was going Theresa might be forced out by the leave campaigners and that could spark another election. Upsetting the selection board might not be the cleverest thing to do.

So he nodded and followed Stan to his car.

Not for the first time Andrew‘s thoughts turned to his reasons for giving up his job at Templeton. Yes it had provided a very good income. Yes he enjoyed the fast-moving pace in the office, the feeling of being on the inside of big business. But there was also the nagging feeling that all he was doing was making informed bets on companies’ futures, staking other people’s pension money on a bet that the market price would rise. There was something, if not immoral, then certainly ephemeral about his job. He wasn’t actually adding any value. He wasn’t helping to make things, or to create things or help people.

He thought about Claire’s brother. He was an actor/singer. He had enjoyed roles in several large West End shows but now spent most of his time running comedy clubs in and around Manchester. He rented rooms in pubs and put on performances. It was hard, and certainly not financially rewarding but he seemed only too happy to be helping aspiring performers and entertaining people. He talked animatedly about his work when he came to London and stayed with Claire and Andrew. By comparison Andrew had nothing interesting to say about work at Templeton.

As an MP he could help constituents, do something for the area and maybe, just maybe, influence the government in its approach to Brexit and Climate Change. Then he’d have something worthwhile to talk about. Then he would feel he was helping to build a better world for his sons. Growing up in Northumberland with his mother, Andrew had enjoyed being in a small community. A place where you knew most of the people, and they knew you. Somehow places like that, felt more real than Wandsworth. In London you were right in the midst of things, important things happened all around you. Yet you didn’t have that sense of belonging, of being part of your environment. Everything was transient, people and time rushed by. People were so busy living the life that they didn’t realise that life was passing them by.

As soon as Andrew drove into Otherby he knew this was the sort of place he was looking for. Totally different from his home in Wandsworth, rural yet part of a community, albeit a small one. There was even a slight rise in elevation above the low-lying wheat fields and deep dykes. Unusually there were some trees to break up the flat wide landscape.

Entering the village they passed a road to the right. A row of identical bungalows, probably built in the seventies, bordered it on both sides, their gardens neatly tended. Stan drove on into the centre of the village passing a scattering of red-brick Victorian houses, their front doors opening onto the pavement. A church with a square Norman tower lay back from the road. They reached a crossroads where a hanging sign in front of a large white-fronted building with a grey slate roof announced The Barley Mow was a Free House. There was a small SPAR shop opposite which doubled as the sub post office.

Stan turned left and within a few yards they headed towards open fields. After a few hundred yards Andrew saw a hedge and stone wall shielding a building from the road. They had arrived at Limetree House.

The house turned out to be a Grade II listed village house incorporating the former village blacksmith forge. White painted walls with a front door of slatted dark oak. The top of the door was shaped into a pointed arch mirroring the leaded windows. It gave the house an ecclesiastical air. Either side of the door were large pots with some scarlet geraniums. The colour of the geraniums matched the red tiled roof which looked in good repair. The house stood back from the road and had a gravel driveway which led to a garage at the side. Flagstones formed a path directly to the front door.

Large bushes shaded the path and a tall tree stood to the right. Andrew didn’t know much about bushes and trees, but they looked nice. Maybe the big tree was a lime tree.

As they crunched up the gravel drive the front door was opened by a very old man wearing a checked shirt and a tie under his tweed jacket. He held a cane in his left hand. He looked at the two men.

I thought the agent said it was a couple who were interested? You’re not a couple are you? He looked with distaste at Stan’s ever-increasing stomach.

No we’re not, smiled Stan who was obviously more used to the somewhat non PC views of country folk.

No it’s me who’s interested. For my wife and me. Andrew tried his best vote-winning smile. And our two boys.

You’re not from round here then? Has your firm moved you up here? Are you with Stellagenix?

Andrew was taken aback with the man’s directness. It was not something you came across in SW18. In Wandsworth he would have been shown around by a pretty young girl from the Estate Agency reading off a script and telling him how well the property met his requirements.

Mr Eastwood’s your new MP. Stan waved his hand in Andrew’s direction as if introducing a performer onstage.

The old man looked up at Andrew. He shook his head slightly. Obviously he expected MPs to be older. There was a long silence while he seemed to evaluate the information Stan had given him. Finally with a barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders he spoke. I suppose you’ll be wanting to look around then? He tapped his cane on the tiled doorstep, turned and shuffled back inside. Andrew turned to Stan. Friendly sort!

Oh he’ll be fine once he’s got to know you. Just doesn’t like outsiders. A lot of rural folk don’t.

They stepped inside. The house might be a listed building but had obviously benefitted from a great deal of modernisation. The ground floor rooms were spacious, the kitchen as well equipped as Andrew’s in Wandsworth. Andrew recalled the problems he had encountered from Wandsworth Council when he wanted to put on a conservatory. His wasn’t a listed building, yet the paperwork and appeals had been a minefield to traverse. Here, the occupier seemed to have altered the inside of his house exactly as he wanted with no such restrictions.

Upstairs there were four bedrooms including a large en-suite which Andrew knew Claire would love. There was no sign of anyone else living in the house. There were no flowers in vases or pretty cushions. The house, for all its amenities seemed to lack any feeling of life.

The man showed them round with barely a word. Just an occasional grunt as he opened a door to show them another room. It was only when they went downstairs again and he opened the door to his ‘library’ that he became more than monosyllabic. This is where I work. Or where I used to. I’ve still got all my books but my eyesight’s not as good as it was. This was very much my room. Martha had her kitchen. She only came in here to dust.

The room had one wall painted a dark burgundy red with dark wood shelving housing hundreds of books. On the opposite wall was a very old long-case clock while a French ormolu clock ticked away loudly on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. A Victorian, leather-topped desk sat before the window. It looked out on a Turneresque picture of gently-rolling pastures of waving grasses. Andrew loved it immediately.

The man explained that he was having to move into a sheltered apartment in Peterborough near his daughter. I shall miss the garden and the view. He gestured to the back garden. Can’t manage more than a few potted geraniums now. They were Martha’s favourite. There were raised beds with a few plants and a lot of weeds. Beyond, the ground fell away into an unbroken vista of golden fields of barley.

Those wheat fields certainly are a sight, said Andrew trying to draw attention away from the weed-stricken vegetable plot. That’s barley, not wheat. They sell it for beer-making mainly.

Andrew realised that his knowledge of arable farming had better improve if he were to represent the local farmers in Parliament.

So you’re the new MP? Know much about farming do you? There’s not a lot else around here. Do you plan to live here then?

Well I’m hoping to serve the interests of all my constituents, not just the farmers. Andrew realised that he was sounding as if he were trying to convince the selection panel all over again. He decided to change the subject.

And what business were you in Mr Hetherington?

Me? I used to have Hetherington’s in Sleaford, sold it back in ‘98 and bought this place. Martha loved growing things.

Andrew had no idea what ‘Hetherington’s in Sleaford’ was and turned to Stan for enlightenment.

Big furniture store, whispered Stan.

Andrew looked at the rows of books on the shelves. There were many on clocks and clock-making interspersed with volumes of Miller’s Antiques Handbooks and Price Guides stretching right back to 1964.

Was it mainly antique furniture that Hetherington’s sold? asked Andrew.

"Not at all, we sold lots of contemporary pieces too. It’s just that some of the new people liked antiques –