One

Two men, who were brothers, went to Suffolk.
One drove the car, an old Bristol drophead coupé in British
racing green, while the other navigated, using an out-of-date
linen-backed map. That the map was an old one did not matter too
much: the roads they were following had been there for a long time
and were clearly marked on their map --- narrow lanes flanked by
hedgerows following no logic other than ancient farm boundaries.
The road signs --- promising short distances of four miles, two
miles, even half a mile --- were made of heavy cast-iron, forged to
last for generations of travellers. Some conscientious hand had
kept them freshly painted, their black lettering sharp and clear
against chalk-white backgrounds, pointing to villages with names
that meant something a long time ago but which were now detached
from the things to which they referred --- the names of
long-forgotten yeoman families, of mounds, of the crops they grew,
of the wild flora of those parts. Garlic, cress, nettles, crosswort
--- all these featured in the place-names of the farms and villages
that dotted the countryside --- their comfortable names reminders
of a gentle country that once existed in these parts, England. It
still survived, of course, tenacious here and there, revealed in a
glimpse of a languorous cricket match on a green, of a trout pool
under willow branches, of a man in a flat cap digging up potatoes;
a country that still existed but was being driven into redoubts
such as this. The heart might ache for that England, thought one of
the brothers; might ache for what we have lost.

They almost missed the turning to the village, so quickly did it
come upon them. There were oak trees at the edge of a field and
immediately beyond these, meandering off to the left, was the road
leading to the place they wanted. The man with the map shouted out,
“Whoa! Slow down,” and the driver reacted quickly,
stamping on the brakes of the Bristol, bringing it to a halt with a
faint smell of scorched rubber. They looked at the sign, which was
a low one, almost obscured by the topmost leaves of nettles and
clumps of cow parsley. It was the place.

It was a narrow road, barely wide enough for two vehicles. Here
and there informal passing places had been established by local use
--- places where wheels had flattened the grass and pushed the
hedgerows back a few inches. But you only needed these if there
were other road-users, and there were none that Saturday afternoon.
People were sleeping, or tending their gardens in the drowsy heat
of summer, or perhaps just thinking.

“It’s very quiet, isn’t it?” remarked
the driver when they stopped to check their bearings at the road
end.

“That’s what I like about it,” said the other
man. “This quietness. Do you remember that?”

“We would never have noticed it. We would have been too
young.”

They drove on slowly to the edge of the village. The tower of a
Norman church rose above a stand of alders. In some in?explicable
mood of Victorian architectural enthusiasm, a small stone bobble,
rather like a large cannonball, had been added at each corner of
the tower. These additions were too small to ruin the original
proportions, too large to be ignored; Suffolk churches were used to
such spoliation, although in the past it had been carried out in a
harsh mood of Puritan iconoclasm rather than prettification. There
was to be no idolatry here: Marian and other suspect imagery had
been rooted out, gouged from the wood of pew-ends and reredoses,
chipped from stone baptismal fonts; stained glass survived, as it
did here, only because it would be too costly to replace with the
clear glass of Puritanism.

Behind the church, the main street, a winding affair, was lined
mostly by houses, joined to one another in the cheek-by-jowl
democracy of a variegated terrace. Some of these were built of
stone, flinted here and there in patterns --- triangles, wavy
lines; others, of wattle and daub, painted either in cream or in
that soft pink which gives to parts of Suffolk its gentle glow.
There were a couple of shops and an old pub where a blackboard
proclaimed the weekend’s fare: hotpot, fish stew,
toad-in-the-hole; the stubborn cuisine of England.

“That post office,” said the driver.
“What’s happened to it?”

The navigator had folded the map and tucked it away in the
leather pocket in the side of the passenger door. He looked at his
brother, and he nodded.

“Just beyond the end of the village,” said the
driver. “It’s on the right. Just before . .
.”

His brother looked at him. “Just before Ingoldsby’s
Farm. Remember?”

The other man thought. A name came back to him, dredged up from
a part of his memory he did not know he had. “The
Aggs,” he said. “Mrs. Agg.”

She had been waiting for them, they thought, because she opened the
door immediately after they rang the bell. She smiled, and gestured
for them to come in, with the warmth, the eagerness of one who gets
few callers.

“I just remember this house,” the driver said,
looking about him. “Not very well, but just. Because when we
were boys,” and he looked at his brother, “when we were
boys we lived here. Until I was twelve. But you forget.”

His brother nodded in agreement. “Yes. You know how things
look different when you’re young. They look much
bigger.”

She laughed. “Because at that age one is looking at things
from down there. Looking up. I was taken to see the Houses of
Parliament when I was a little girl. I remember thinking that the
tower of Big Ben was quite the biggest thing I had ever seen in my
life --- and it might have been, I suppose. But when I went back
much later on, it seemed so much smaller. Rather disappointing, in
fact.”

She ushered them through the hall into a sanctum beyond, a
drawing room into which French windows let copious amounts of
light. Beyond these windows, an expanse of grass stretched out to a
high yew hedge, a dark-green backdrop for the herb?aceous beds
lining the lawn. There was a hedge of lavender, too, grown woody
through age.

“That was hers,” said the woman, pointing to the
lavender hedge. “It needs cutting back, but I love it so much
I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“La planted that?”

“I believe so,” said the woman.

“We played there,” said one of the brothers, looking
out into the garden. “It’s odd to think that. But we
played there. For hours and hours. Day after day.”

She left them and went to prepare tea. The brothers stood in
front of the window.

“What I said about things looking bigger,” one said.
“One might say the same about a person’s life,
don’t you think? A life may look bigger when you’re a
child, and then later on . . .”

“Narrower? Less impressive?”

“I think so.”

But the other thought that the opposite might be true, at least
on occasion. “A friend told me about a teacher at
school,” he said. “He was a very shy man. Timid.
Ineffectual. And children mocked him --- you know how quick they
are to scent blood in the water. Then, later on, when he met him as
an adult, he found out that this same teacher had been a well-known
mountaineer and a difficult route had been named after
him.”

“And La’s life?”

“I suspect that it was a very big one. A very big life led
here . . .”

“In this out-of-the-way place.”

“Yes, in this sleepy little village.” He paused.
“I suspect that our La was a real heroine.”

Their hostess had come back into the room, carrying a tray. She
put it down on a table and gestured to the circle of chintzy sofa
and chairs. She had heard the last remark, and agreed. “Yes.
La was a heroine. Definitely a heroine.”

She poured the tea. “I assume that you know all about La.
After all . . .” She hesitated. “But then she became
ill, didn’t she, not so long after you all left this place.
You can’t have been all that old when La died.”

Excerpted from LA’S ORCHESTRA SAVES THE WORLD ©
Copyright 2011 by Alexander McCall Smith. Reprinted with permission
by Anchor. All rights reserved.