You know I'm not the most religious woman in the world, but I'd planned a few things: we'd saved up the meat ration for a local turkey, we put fir garlands on the top of the bookcase and a wreath above the door in the sun-space, and there was going to be a trip to the brewery for a couple of bottles of the seasonal offering. I'd found a few things scouring charity shops, but they're looking very picked over of late (at least I didn't have to worry about wrapping anything; all those little scraps of silk Scott's mom squirreled away have been put to good use).

Last Saturday everyone in the development was at the far end of the site and up to our boot-tops in mud, digging over the areas for the hedgerows in a rare break from the rain. I'd spent the week arguing with the office manager about my charting, I'd fallen flat on my can while pushing a wheelbarrow full of compost, my trousers were soaked through, and I was tired and working up to a spectacular sulk and "not fit for company", as Grammie would say.

So of course two men walked up to me from the direction of the parking lot on the edge of the property and said "You Missus Stewart?"

Can I say 'no'? I don't want to be me just now. "Yes, I'm Lucy Stewart; can I help you?" I could hear Scott and David coming up behind me; further down the line, the sound of digging stilled. When did we all become so alert around unfamiliar people?

The balding man looked at us oddly. "Um, your boxes are on the truck; could you show us where you'd like them, please? We're headed for a drop-off at Daws Hill next."

Luce, you would have howled. I had a complete Quiet Man moment, kissed both of them, and ran for the front door. (Whatever Scott says, I did not actually cry "My things! My furniture!" on my way back to the house.)

23 boxes. It doesn't sound like much, does it? Not quite five each, to encapsulate the lives of three people (Emily's father had included her things as part of his own allowance; I can't believe no one at Lakenheath raised a fuss -- I'll have to call and ask).

But, oh! Such treasures were in them! There were the quilts that Scott's mother and I had made; there were our plates and mugs and spoons -- yes, you can get Picardie tumblers in England; you can't get Fiestaware -- there were my books!

Our beds were in the big, flat boxes -- oh, no. We didn't pack the toolboxes! Something must have shown on my face; one of our new neighbors said "I've got a cordless drill; I'll bring it right over, shall I?" and headed off before I could protest. Emily grinned at me and grabbed the vacuum-packed bedding. "I'm going to air this, Mum," she said, and she kissed me on the cheek and ran for the sun-space. David took the quilts and headed upstairs; a couple of minutes later I could hear him shaking them out and hanging them over the balcony railing.

Scott must have called Jayne and Bryan; they came in through the kitchen and found me sitting at the dining room table cradling my red tea mug, trying not to cry. Bryan shook his head, walked over and kissed me on top of the head. "Silly cow," he murmured, smiling. "All right, where's this going?" he said, picking up one end of the box with our bed in it; David grabbed the other end without being asked, and they and Scott and our neighbor all headed for the stairs.

"It's a mug," I said to Jayne. "It's one of millions."

"It's your mug." And before I could think of anything to say, she put a box on the table. "You'll need a kettle to go with it."

I stared at her.

"I bought it when you first started talking about the move. You seemed so fearless --"

"I am not fearless. I am scared half out of my mind, all the time!" I was starting to cry, now. "I packed up my family and moved to another country! What if I was wrong? What if I lose my job? What if --"

She was smiling at me. Smiling? What?

"What do you say to your mothers, when they go off like this?"

"Oh, don't quote me back to myself right now, I can't bear it."

Jayne ignored me. "You say 'If you wanted a guarantee, love, you've come to the wrong shop.' And then you tell them the odds and you give them the facts, and you trust them to be adults and make up their own minds, what they're willing to risk. Are they --" she nodded towards the sun-space, where the noise of five people trying to put together a bed frame floated down, complete with cat-calls and inventive swearing and laughter. " -- more stupid than some of your mothers?"

"They trust me," I whispered. "I don't want them to be hurt."

"You don't control the Universe, darling, and they're all adults. What you can do, you've done. Let go of the outcome and keep going. And talking of going, go find something dry and we'll walk down for some tea to go with this shiny new kettle -- you could use a break, and no one's going to think less of you for it." She grinned. "Or I'll box their ears."

Jayne is half a foot shorter than me; I've no doubt she'd do it.

I changed, and took my coat and umbrella from the stand near the door, and checked my satchel for my shopping bags. Scott came down the stairs and kissed me. "Feeling better?"

"I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm set for Christmas."

He beamed at me. "Then your generous spirit won't mind screechy noises!"

"Oh, no . . . ."

"Jeremy plays the drum."

"We are not going to be the new band house!"

I heard David, quite clearly, on the balcony: "Yeah, I have some Irish flute pieces; Dad's always wanted to switch from violin to fiddle --"

"I like our neighbors," Scott chirped, batting his eyelashes and grinning like a loon.

I grabbed Jayne's hand and ran.

_______________________________________

It's late, now. They did, in fact, practice in the sitting room: I fled up here to the office with my tea -- oh, blessed tea! -- and my iPod, and am thinking of bed. I can see into my bedroom from the doorway: the bed's up, with a couple of folding butler's trays for nightstands and two clip-on LED barbecue lights for bedside lamps. Our clothes are out of the suitcases and back in the built-in drawers, with the suitcases in the storage cupboard downstairs. No other furniture; there isn't room for it. I can see the colors of my quilt in the dim light coming through the French doors; two of the cats are curled up on it, doing their best to keep the bed from running off for warmer climes.

It's so still at night, now, so dark. When I came down to tell neighbor Jeremy good-night (and meet his husband, Matthew, who'd come to drag him home), I stepped out onto the front steps and there were so many stars, Lucie -- I haven't seen so many since I was a kid in Pennsylvania, back before our road had street lighting.

There are no guarantees, not ever. There are whispers that the prices are heading up, again. Things run out, things break down, people get scared and do stupid things. Community cohesiveness can turn into fear of the Other, and that's not a reaction we had any scarcity of, before . . . .