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CHAPTER TWELVE
– TO THE MANOR MOVED –
Already Fred was very, very rich.
He had made a massive sum of money from sales of LIT-TISSUE.
Rights from THE LIT-TISSUE CHRONICLE also added to his bank balance on a regular basis.
Even the bad American film made him money, and continued to do so as the appetite of the public for bad films such as “TheGoodReadWipe – The Story of LIT-TISSUE” appeared insatiable.
But money could not buy Fred happiness. To the contrary, it had contributed hugely to his present unhappiness.
He had lost his girlfriend, though that was not so bad because she had, in his opinion, shown herself for what she really was and that was greedy and self centred. The trouble was though that he had been unable to replace her.
He had been forced to leave his flat where he had spent happy years and where everything in a close and not so close radius was familiar. The replacement flat was nice and newer and had everything he needed or wanted. But it was like breaking in a new pair of shoes; it pinched, was not immediately comfortable and felt strange. Of course he knew time would alter those feelings and ultimately the flat and the surrounding locale would mould itself around him.
Yet that too was uncertain. He was safe and secure inside the flat but outside he felt pressed upon, insecure, almost hounded because of the relentless confrontations he had with everyday people he came into contact with.
So unless things changed dramatically all the money in the world was not going to be the answer to his problems. He could see them only getting worse.
“Why not move away,” suggested his public relations man. It was one of the rare occasions when Fred had asked him to join him for dinner at the flat. Not that he had a special liking for the man or because they had become friends. Rather there were times when loneliness surrounded him to such a degree that the company of almost anyone would be welcome.
“Get away from it altogether.”
“Where?” wondered Fred.
“With the money you have you could go anywhere.”
“I don’t want to go just anywhere.”
“Ok, well, France. Why not move to some chateau in the south of France?”
“Be sensible,” said Fred. “There are too many French in France.”
His PR man shook his head. “Italy then. There are fantastic places in Italy where you could relax and settle down.”
“Italy has too many Italians,” Fred countered. “If you’re not Italian they’re simply rude to you. No, not Italy.”
His PR man sipped his red wine and suddenly brightened. “Spain,” he said. “You can’t complain about Spain. The Spanish are very friendly to everyone, especially the British, and the country is tremendous. Been there many times and had a ball each time. Fantastic place.”
Fred did not say anything immediately and the PR man went on: “And there are a lot of Brits living there too so you would be among like-minded people. People of your own kind.”
Fred bristled. “People of my own kind. I hate that expression. Sounds racist no matter how it’s actually intended. And anyway why would I up roots in England to move to Spain and live among expat English people? It’s the last thing I’d want to do if I moved away from the UK.”
His PR man was silent. He could not immediately come up with a foreign suggestion that Fred might be willing to consider. Of course there were far away places including Australia where LIT-TISSUE had had its germination, but on his return and on occasions since, while Fred had sung the praises of the friendliness and openness of the local people, as well as the attraction of the country and its climate, he had not indicated any desire to move there permanently.
Finally, more to break the strained silence that had settled between them than to seriously suggest an alternative, he said: “You could move anywhere in the country.”
Fred frowned: “I don’t think I want to move to any other….oh you mean the country here, in the UK, outside London?”
“Right.” The PR man began to warm to his own idea. “There’s no reason why you have to live in London. You don’t really have to do anything. It’s all happening for you.”
“I suppose that’s right,” Fred agreed slowly.
“I’ve got the PR side of things running like a dream. The marketing side is well under control. Your finances are being looked after very well I understand. And the Japanese will continue to do whatever they can to make sure there are no hiccups from their end because it’s in their interests to maintain the momentum here so they can capitalise on that in their efforts to push LIT-TISSUE around Asia.”
“That’s true.”
“So, you don’t have to stay in London.”
Fred thought about what they had briefly discussed. If the idea of moving away from the excitement of London was not instantly appealing it was not altogether unappealing. And anyway what was the London excitement he was enjoying at the moment?
“Where though?” he asked. “Where would I start looking?”
“Stick a pin in a map,” said the PR man. “You can move anywhere you like. There’s nothing to stop you going anywhere.”
“It would have to be a nice area. I would have to find the right property in the right place.”
“Better still, why not find the location and then build your own place. That way you can’t go wrong. You don’t have to compromise on the property. You design it. It would be your castle, built to your design, in an area of your choosing.”
Fred considered.
“Jesus,” said the PR man. “What’s the down side? It’s all up. Up, up and away.”
“Ok,” said Fred finally. “Let’s just think about it. No commitments obviously. Where should I start?”
“You can start anywhere you like. Stick a pin in a map like I said. The world’s your oyster. Dip in. Have a taste.”
Fred moved over to the table where his computer was. He sat and brought up Google. In the search window he typed in Map of England. One of the maps that appeared on the screen indicated the counties, from Northumberland in the north to Cornwall in the west and East Sussex in the East.
“It should be close enough to London to commute if I want,” he said.
The closest names to London in a clockwise direction were Surrey, Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent.
“I think the eastern side is better,” he said to himself. “Closer to Europe if I want to nip across for a weekend or something.”
His PR man leaned over his shoulder. “He pointed to the two counties on the right side of the screen. “Then Essex or Kent,” he said.
Fred knew that Kent was known as the Garden of England because of its orchards and hop gardens. He also knew that the county and its million and a half permanent residents relied heavily on tourism.
Essex was very largely and an agricultural county. It had a history that dated occupancy back to the Palaeolithic era though that was of no interest really. What did attract was its reputation in a completely different way.
“Essex is home to the Essex girls,” he said.
“That it is,” said the PR man. “On the other hand Kent is not.”
“Which in your view means?”
“Pretty countryside with sensible people. Or pretty countryside with Essex girls.”
“Go on.”
“Sensible living. Or maybe a more challenging but interesting lifestyle.”
“What you’re saying is I might get bored in Kent but not in Essex.”
“Maybe.”
“OK,” said Fred in a rather doubtful tone, “if it was to be Essex where would you choose?”
The PR man stood upright. “It would have to be somewhere interesting. You should steer clear of places like Basildon and Harlow. Too modern.”
Fred waited.
“Colchester and Chelmsford are more rural,” said the PR man and bent down and took the mouse from Fred. He clicked a few times and then went on: “They’re both in the green belt and there are many small towns and villages and hamlets in the area.”
Fred stood up to let the PR man take his seat and continue searching.
In a few minutes the PR man clapped his hands together loudly and turned to face Fred.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “Absolutely perfect.
“What?” asked Fred.
“Incredible. Just eight to ten kilometres from Chelmsford which is a really nice town in itself. Ideal location. Its history goes back to around eighteen forty-eight. It’s a small parish and village with less than a hundred and fifty residents. It’s perfect.”
Fred frowned. “It sounds nice I admit. But what makes it so perfect?”
“Its name.”
“Why? What is it?”
The PR man grinned broadly. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s called Shellow Bowells. Actually it’s often misspelt to read S-H-E-L-L-O-W B-O-W-E-L-S.”
Fred said nothing.
“Get it?” the PR man almost shouted, the grin fixed to his face. “Shellow Bowels. Bowels. What could be more appropriate than for the founder of LIT-TISSUE to be living in Shellow Bowels. It’s made for you.”
Which it was and which led to Fred upping sticks and becoming an Essex man.
Nevertheless, had he and his PR man spent more time in their search they might have selected another location. There was Mousehole in Cornwall, Shitterton in Dorset, and Boghead, Backside and Brokenwind in other counties.
And had he elected to move away from the United Kingdom altogether he might have been tempted by Stinking Bay in Arkansas in the United States or even the wonderfully and hugely appropriately named Dunnydoo in far away Australia.
But it was Shellow Bowels in Essex that ticked the most boxes for Fred.
One of the major attractions, apart from the prettiness of the countryside and its proximity to London which would allow trips into the city whenever he desired, was the fact that there was some vacant farmland that could be purchased quickly. It was very near a stream, a tributary of the Thames that ambled its way to the River Roding which rose near Stansted airport and crossed Essex, forming part of the boundary between Epping Forest and the borough of Brentwood. And to cap it off the population was just a family or two over a hundred. A perfect retreat with easy access to everywhere else.
From the day when Fred drove out to Shellow Bowels to completing the legal requirements and handing over the cash to the most agreeable farmer took two weeks. A month later building work began on what would become in less than a further six months Fred’s new home. It was a project that when completed would raise more than eyebrows in the sleepy traditional hamlet.
As things stood Shellow Bowels landmarks included Pound House, a late seventeenth century timber framed dwelling that even had a moat. There was Shellow Hall Cottage and Willows Cottage and Shellow Cottages from the same period. Walnut Tree Cottage hailed from the sixteenth century and there was a timber barn dating back to around the same period. The Church of St Peter and St Paul was from the eighteenth century. All in all Shellow Bowels was very much a historic site.
Fred’s new home was very, very different. The only reason he was granted permission to build it was because of its remoteness.
The Outhouse, the name was suggested by Fred’s PR man, rose like a temple of hate.
The original idea was to call it Nurk’s Nest. Then LIT-TISSUE Hall. That was followed by Bog Manor. The Paper Palace even came up.
But in the end The Outhouse seemed most appropriate to Fred who recalled precisely where the concept for LIT-TISSUE was born. He felt he had a duty to show to the world in some way the role the ramshackle dunny at Bundingo had played in the fantastic journey he had embarked upon and which had benefited him so much. So the design of The Outhouse clearly reflected that historical link.
The house itself was constructed of stone from the local area. But the entire outside, front, sides and rear, was then clad in wood panels representing rustic slats as one would find in the slums of third world countries where families lived not in homes as known in the west but in shanties made of whatever material could be found, often planks of old timber.
The Outhouse looked like a huge wooden shack.
That needed painting.
Or bulldozing into the ground.
It was considered by the locals to be more than an eyesore. It was an affront.
Even before it was completed the local people began a petition to have construction stopped. The petition took just two days to draw up and was signed by one hundred and one people. It would have included everyone but there was a football match between Manchester United and Chelsea in London and a group of local lads and their girl friends had gone to the game and then embarked on a pub crawl around the Circle Line which kept them away from Shellow Bowels for a total of five days. Such a drunken adventure in the capital city was an annual highlight of their mundane village life.
Fred had discovered early on during his visits to the village that the local youth were a different variety to those he had come into contact with in other parts of the country.
His PR man had pointed him to an online dating site in the hope that he might find a nice local girl he could build a relationship with. Fred did visit the site but quickly decided it would not be for him. Some of the entries from females in the Shellow Bowels area were not to his liking. For example:
I am gorgeously stunning, extremely funny, sexy, sensual, broad-minded and very rich. I am highly successful and have an abundance of confidence and very high self-esteem. My hobbies include skiing in Aspen, Val d'Isere and the Alps (of course!) I also like watching polo, playing croquet.
And;
What can I say? Good person, have a good life and open to new experiences. Lots of good points but some not so. Honest and genuine. Like to keep fit and travel when I can. Have a good sense of humour and enjoy myself. Don't know why I'm on here. Probably just to make a friend or two.
And;
Watch me and my sweet cherry pie on cam.. u wanna have some fun? contact me and i promise to make it worth your while...muah!
For their part the old time residents of Shellow Bowels decided just as quickly that they did not want Fred Nurk or The Outhouse to be part of their community.
The hate campaign began early on in the construction and continued throughout and after its completion. The builders on site were harassed daily which was one reason why the house was completed in such haste. They could not wait to be away from Shellow Bowels.
But completed it was.
Then the Outhouse really became a target.