The Displaced Nation

The story so far…Libby and Oliver have left three-year-old Jack with Libby’s parents while they take a short recce trip to Massachusetts, to see where they will be spending the next two years.

Dear God, but this isn’t what I was expecting. Although — what was I expecting, exactly, I wonder?

Anyway. We arrived at Boston.

We stood in a long, snaking queue to get our passports stamped, were barked at when we stepped over a painted yellow line before our turn, and were scrutinised with suspicion by a grandfatherly man who finally decided we were here for valid reasons rather than a little light espionage. He gave us a stilted smile and said “Welcome to the United States” with as much sincerity as the disembodied voice that assures you “Your Call Is Important To Us” after you’ve been on hold for ten minutes listening to Beethoven’s 6th.

After that, we walked through a labyrinth of glass corridors to the airport hotel, trundling our cases behind us. By this time our bodies were telling us it was 2am, even though the clock behind the check-in desk said 9pm, and once in our room, I was asleep almost instantly, dreaming of caterpillars and white rabbits and mushrooms. Payback for overindulging on the plane, I suppose.

Next day we had to drive 100 miles or so to see Oliver’s new boss, which meant hiring a car and trying to find our way out of Boston.

Boston is a very confusing city. Our car had a GPS, but because there are so many tunnels to drive through, it kept losing the signal and sending us the wrong way — usually back where we had just come from. It reminded me of Looking-glass land, when Alice tries to go in one direction but always ends up with Looking-glass house in front of her. I was secretly pleased, though, because I got to see more of Boston than I would have done otherwise. Lovely place. Wish we were going to live there, rather than some dozy backwater in the middle of nowhere.

Eventually we arrived at our next hotel (attached to a shopping mall, no less!) and with two hours to kill before Oliver had to be anywhere important, we decided to check out Woodhaven, the town where Helen-in-HR had recommended we look for a house to rent, about ten miles from Oliver’s new office.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Neither did I – sorry, Oliver! – until I set eyes on Woodhaven.

Little white houses, a perfect white church, a village green with maple trees…I really didn’t know places like this existed outside Fodor’s guide books.

Oliver sniffed.

“You said it looked like Stepford on the internet, and you were right,” he said. “Too quiet for me. I think we should look for a place nearer the mall. Cinemas, theatres, lots of shops…that’s more our style, isn’t it?”

I gazed at the maple trees, at the shops with their shuttered  windows and clapboard walls, at the plaques above doors that proudly announced the year the houses were built.

“I don’t need to go with you to this meeting, do I?” I said. “I could stay here, and you could pick me up when you’re done. I’ve got my mobile.”

Oliver shot me a puzzled look.  “Don’t you want to go to the mall, have a coffee and do some shopping?”

“I can do that here. Look, there’s a Starbucks right across the street.”

Oliver might have argued, but time was ticking on. “I should be heading back,” he said. “Are you sure you’ll be OK? What will you do for lunch?”

I gestured behind us. “Italian restaurant, right here. The Maxwell Plum.”

He still looked doubtful, as if I might be setting myself up as a victim of the White Slave Trade in this suburban perfection.

“I’m a big girl, Oliver,” I reminded him.

He shrugged, then got back in the car.

“I’ll be back here around four. Keep your phone switched on, OK?”

I watched him drive away, then turned back to the village green.

“Hello,” I said softly.

A woman with grey hair in a bun came out of the restaurant behind me, pushing a pushchair. I stepped aside and smiled at her, then peeked at the blanketed bundle in the pushchair. I was sorely missing Jack, and starting to understand why some women are driven to steal babies.

The bundle snuffled. The woman clucked, and bent to adjust the blankets, cooing at the baby. She seemed the perfect grandmother, who would never contemplate buying a tarantula for her grandson.

When she straightened up, she saw me still watching, and smiled. “My grandson, Max,” she said. She had a slightly foreign accent – Spanish? Italian? “Do you want to see?”

How friendly the people here were!

“I’d love to,” I said. “My little boy is at home in England. I really miss him.”

She pulled back the blanket a little, and I had to bite my lip to stop the shriek of surprise. The baby was not a human one, but a small, pink pig. It blinked at me and grunted softly.

“Your grandson, you say?” I asked, backing away.

The woman cooed again at the pig. “Yes. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“Adorable,” I said, propping my hand against the wall of the restaurant. “Well, I must…I must…get a drink.”

The woman nodded at the door to the restaurant. “Go there. Best espresso in Woodhaven.”

*

The restaurant was cool and dark, with uneven plastered walls. A tall, Italian-looking man of about forty showed me to a table and asked what I would like to drink.

“Our espresso is very good,” he said. “Especially if you’ve had a shock.”

I looked at him, my eyebrows raised. Was the pig charade just a marketing exercise for espresso?

“I think you just met my mother,” he said. “And the pig. I can always tell. She has that effect on everyone. But she’s harmless.”

Dear God. I was hoping to escape from Sandra’s antics, and my first encounter is with a woman who thinks she’s the grandmother of a pig, and her son who seems to think this is perfectly acceptable behaviour.

“You’re a visitor?” the waiter asked.

“Kind of,” I replied. “We’re going to live here. Well, not here, but near the mall, I think.”

Hell, yes, near the mall. Oliver was right. Shops, cinemas, theatres. Sanity.

“You don’t want to live there,” he said. “There’s no soul. Woodhaven is the best town in New England. Everyone has a story.”  He smiled, and held out his hand. “Frankie Gianni,” he said. “Owner of Maxwell Plum.”

I took his hand. “Libby Patrick. Pleased to meet you.”

“Welcome to Woodhaven, Libby. If you stay here long enough, you’ll find out why my mother keeps a pig in a stroller.” Frankie paused. “Like I said, everyone in Woodhaven has their story.”

.

Next:LIBBY”S LIFE #12: Life and a mystery in a northern town

Previous: LIBBY’S LIFE #10: Down the Rabbit-Hole

Click here to read Libby’s Life from the first episode

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s engagement with the Alice-like Janet Brown, author Tone Deaf in Bangkok, a collection of essays about learning to live in curious, unreal Thailand.

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Image: Travel – Map of the World by Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net