Moveable Assets

England is a good place to retire. The countryside lifestyle is designed for it. There are a lot of retired or mostly retired people. It seemed to me that anyone over fifty is likely to be retired and in the town I drifted to I found easily a community where pensions, accumulated wealth, other bequests sustained them. The walled gardens, backyards, well-appointed clutter, carpeted toilets, discretely provided me a new ground to be. And a place to disappear and make a new story of the life I had led.

These retirees welcomed a new participant. The various book clubs, the committees, the golf days, the bridge, both day time activities are keen enough to have a new chap as long as the play is respectable. I fitted in, I read the books, suggested new ones, bid and played out my hands without disgrace, boffed my tee shots a reasonable way down the fairway, had a swing that that showed some previous pedigree. I met and was seen with the respectable ladies, was easily persuaded to be seen by one as a regular companion at large and at home. I created a story and stress tested it over dinner. In my rooms above I thought of answers.

In these communities there are questions, there is curiosity but it is not socially acceptable to probe. It is a place where privacy trumps curiosity, where mystery is more respectable and interesting then honesty. I am English they are English though the tension brought out a childhood speech impediment that makes me sound Boer when I try to correct it.

I have met more accomplished deflectors; I have known both diplomats and diplomatic people. But the pub questions are gentle, the answers accepted: I stayed in Africa for some time. I first went there working for a now defunct part of the colonial office. I have helped managed a few small companies, not always or even often successfully, ho hum.

I buy some pints, have the occasional expensive dinner in the chosen pub, demonstrate that my expansive fan of new plastic works. I added some eccentricity, an unexplained dislike of Wales became a tag.

Some questions I resisted.

“No, I have never married, no children.

“That you know of”.

“No, none” Look hard and straight, unblinking as I had rehearsed until the fool lowers his gaze. Wait silent for the surge of anger to subside. The subject is dropped made a matter of mumbles but not one to raise with me. “He can be prickly about certain things!” “He has his right to a bit of privacy.”

There are scores to settle but not here. Here is the place of refuge, retreat and schemes.