Parish Now Ligerian, Villagers Told

When Daisy Innings and Candice Reckonmaster unearthed a docu-trove of old deeds in Neckworth parish archives, the two local history buffs just knew they had stumbled on something unique, but not even people, least of all themselves, could have guessed the far-reaching consequences those scruffy scrolls would have.

“Most contained church accounts from over the centuries,” relates Daisy, “pretty mundane stuff: tithes, exorcisms, fees for christenings and compensation for botched christenings (i.e. ones that didn’t take). When we came to the third scroll though, we just knew we had something hot.”

The third scroll bore a map of parish boundaries as they stood in 1690. At first glance, little seemed to have changed over the years, in keeping with Neckworth’s reputation as a place were time can almost be said to have stood still. But closer inspection shed a shocking truth, as Candice explained: “Something wasn’t quite right. The edge that cuts across the bottom of Anderson’s Field was a good five yards south of its present location.”

The duo were mystified. As far as anyone in Neckworth could tell them, the boundary had stood that way for years, taking the oak tree, Tanner’s Oak, as its corner point. But excavations soon showed that the parish limit was, in fact, a much older tree: Banner’s Oak, little more than a hollow stump these days, overgrown with nettles, cramp-ball fungus and Devil’s boletus, its ancient bark twisted into patterns bearing a chance resemblance to the faces of the unquiet dead, down in the far corner of the meadow.

Worse was to follow, however, when it emerged that this small reappraisal of their frontiers meant that a controlling share of the village now lay not in England, but Ligeria. The villagers, staunchly proud of their country, were alerted at once.

“We’ve always been intensely proud of our country,” reiterated Norman Pucker, retired, who is well-known in the village for his strong views on immigration, “and keen to keep it just the way it is. It’s desperately important that we defend our borders against interlopers, especially now that we are Ligerian and surrounded on all sides by a foreign country!”

“Now more than ever,” booms village post-mistress Jenny Cleavers in alarmed agreement, “our way of life is under threat. Stubborn parochialism is a quintessential Ligerian trait,” she averred, a well-thumbed Lonely Planet Guide to Ligeria clutched to her bosom. “I’ve nothing against the English personally - so long as they stay there! I myself used to be one, and I know many English from Long Goffe, Hamham-cum-Whitstanmanhamham and other nearby villages. But our infrastructure just can’t cope with the influx of Britons. And we need a hell of a lot of privacy out on the Common to practice our traditional Ligerian dances.”

The dances are Ligeria’s way of saying “thank you” to Sobomassonique for the rains.

“It’s also where we celebrate the penile subincision of village youths with a mixture of palm wine enemas, ground ancestor-bone broth and strong emetics. That marks their transition to manhood among our people.”

Pup landlord Brian Pretenderghast is in no doubt about the detrimental effects of foreigners either: “We have just three pubs to serve a community of 50 souls!” (About 100 residents.) “Where are we going to fit these incomers? They don’t want to be assimilated; I mean, how many of them can even be bothered to speak Ligerian?” he said, haltingly, employing an aorist in place of the Ligerian 2nd conjunctive, but otherwise demonstrating remarkable progress in the language. “I have no quarrel with the English per se, but I have heard of a number of cases where locals were actually bummed out by English walkers while insufflating our native ergot snuffs, leading to gastric palpitations and visions of Doomsday. And what they’ll do to house-prices, I dread to think.”

But the historians are unrepentant for looking: “We don’t repent it, no,” admitted Daisy, speaking up over the ubiquitous din of Ligerian nose-horns, “although it’s been no end of bother. I suppose we’re just not very regretful folk, at heart.”