“So, what do you think then?’ asked Tom. ‘How’s life? Are you enjoying yourself these days?”

The room was silent for a moment, apart from the crackling of the fire. A few splinters of glowing wood shot out and faded as they hit the stone floor.

Tom had asked three questions. There didn’t seem to be a good answer to any of them.

“Well, y’know how it is,” replied the old man enigmatically.

Clearly Tom didn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked.  What he really wanted was to start a conversation.  When trying to do that people usually found that saying any old rubbish tended to provoke some response. His friend had moved out in to the country to get away from things. To chill. To have a more relaxing life.  Tom hadn’t visited him for over a year and was hoping to find him enjoying himself.

“It’s a lovely little place you’ve got here,” he continued, trying to break the awkward silence.

“Ah yes.  So it is,” said his friend, putting his mug down on the little table beside the sofa.

“But something’s wrong though, isn’t it?” asked Tom, detecting a continued air of dissatisfaction.

“Well, not exactly wrong.  I suppose you could say it’s not what I expected.”

“Ah ok,” replied Tom, thoughtfully. “I think I know what you mean.”

The old man looked across at him with a pained expression. Tom nodded and glanced around.  His friend put his hands on his knees and rose.

“You should have a little tour around,” he said, moving across to the window. “Lovely bit of garden,” he said.  “That keeps me busy a bit, but only really when I want to.”

Tom peered out at the grass and across the landscape of rolling fields.

“Looks nice,” he said.

“Yes,” replied his friend. “It is. Not too tidy. That’s what living on the edge of a farm does for you.  I can basically do as much or as little as I like to it.  Nobody cares if the grass isn’t cut, or if the beds have weeds,” he said.

“Looks nice,” replied Tom.

“So, through here,” said his friend, indicating the way for him to go ahead into the hall. “Nice little bathroom – you found that didn’t you when you came in – and a good-sized kitchen.”  Tom looked at them.

“Very nice,” he remarked, sticking his head around the door.

By this time his friend was off up the hall another few paces.

“Two bedrooms, so there’s room for visitors if I like.”

Tom didn’t really feel the need to look into bedrooms as well.

“Garage for the car,” he continued, motioning to a closed door that presumably led into it.  “So space for a little workshop.”

It sounded to Tom like a script being recited, he couldn’t detect any enthusiasm for any of it.

They went back to the living room and sat down by the fire, in the comfy chairs.

“It seems lovely,” said Tom after an awkward silence.  “A nice place after the turmoil of life in the city and the broken relationships and the nine-to-five suburban job,” he said, trying to sound upbeat about it.  After all, it really was an idyllic life if you wanted to get away from everything.

His friend shuffled awkwardly in the chair.

“A nice place to live,” added Tom, hopefully.

His friend emptied the mug and turned towards him with a sad expression.

“Oh yes,” he said, slowly. “That’s what I thought it would be when I moved here. A place for a bit of downtime. Somewhere to spend a bit of time thinking about life, to forget about everything. A place to come and heal for a while.”

Tom looked at his face but didn’t speak.  It didn’t seem as if an answer was either needed or wanted.

“And it is,” he continued, his face taking on a harder and more determined expression. “It’s quiet, peaceful, trouble-free. Out of the way. Nothing happens here. Four miles from a pint of milk and a loaf of bread. There’s nothing to do, no-one to talk to and nowhere to go unless you get in the car, and the only things to do nearby involve meeting up with other people who have nothing to do and no-one to talk to and spend their time going to church, arranging flowers, painting pictures that no-one wants to buy, buying plants for the garden, knitting or organising committees to preserve the village pond.”

Tom took a big breath.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “I wondered about that when you told me you were going to move up here. I was reading an article the other day by Steve Catto…”

“Who?” interrupted his friend. “Never heard of him.”

“No, neither had I until I read it,” replied Tom, waving his hand dismissively. “It was called ‘A Good Place To Die’, and the character in that was once in a similar situation to you.  Had bad experiences.  The failure of a long-term relationship.  Got hit on a rebound.  Felt he was better off working for himself, so he decided to move away from the suburban rut and find a nice place to live where it was peaceful and quiet where he could do his own thing and not have to worry about anybody else.

“It didn’t work for him either, and I think it’s a common thing.  People want to escape.  They need to run away and spend some time on their own, and those things you were just saying to me are exactly the way he felt too.

“He found it was nice to be alone for a while. A chance to simply do anything he wanted with nobody to disturb him and nothing urgent to be done. But it didn’t work out. The things that made it heaven were the very things that made it hell. He found himself doing nothing, seeing no-one and going nowhere. Because living there was cheap, he didn’t need to make that much money anyway, so he could get away with working for himself whenever he felt like it.” His friend raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly as Tom continued. “And that meant that life had no purpose anymore. So the story was saying that, against all expectations, it wasn’t a good place to go and live after all. It was a good place to go and die.”

His friend looked away and back at the fireplace, where a pair of slippers sat warming on the edge of the hearth.

“That’s right,” he said with a sigh, and gritted his teeth.  “As you’ve said many times, everything here is nice.”

After a moment Tom spoke again.

“A friend came round one day and persuaded him to move back to the city. Rescued him, in a way, and you’re not happy here I can tell. So what will you do?”

His friend thought for a moment and appeared to come to a conclusion.  Tom felt it might well have been a conclusion he’d arrived at quite a while ago, and just needed some validation before admitting it.

“I’m going to sell up,” he said with an air of purpose, propping himself up on the arm of the chair.

“Oh… good,” replied Tom, suddenly realising that his plan was working.  It had been easier than he thought.  “That’s what he did too.  Where’s the closest town with a decent estate agent?  We could go there tomorrow!”.

“No,” replied his friend sadly. “Let’s not.”

Tom set his lips into an expression of frustration.  His friend was always stubborn.

The old man gave him what he thought looked like a faint smile.

“Let’s go right now,” he said, struggling out of the comfy chair and making his way towards the door, where he kept his boots. “We can take my car.”

“Or mine!”.

“No, it’s easier if I drive. I know where I’m going.”

He flung his coat over his arm and disappeared outside.  Tom chased after him and shut the door.

“Aren’t you going to lock up?”

“No, nobody locks up around here.  I don’t even know where the key is.”

“Is it far?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“So, we can grab a coffee somewhere on the way then?”

“That would be nice.”

“Oh no!”, cried Tom in dismay, thumping his friend on the shoulder playfully.  “Not something else that’s nice!”

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