by Penny Parkes
‘That Mr French is all full of good ideas and plans, but does he ever think about the parents?’ Cassie cursed to anyone within range, causing a flurry of eyebrows to shoot up at her vehemence. ‘It’s all very well being an idealist, but you have to back it up with your actions, not delegate responsibility.’ Cassie’s habit of speaking in media sound bites and memes could get a little wearing, but Holly had long since decided that her heart was in the right place. Tarquin, of course, was the only one whose white costume hadn’t been hurriedly bought from the internet; instead his was an elderly pair of harem pants cropped at the knee to make breeches and what appeared to be a hand-quilted waistcoat several sizes too large. Poor kid never stood a chance, thought Holly privately.
‘Evening, everybody,’ said Alec French, as he checked his clipboard to see that all his little performers were indeed present and correct, seemingly unaware of the ripples his arrival caused among the female contingent. His Blackadder-esque seventeenth-century ensemble really should have been off-putting, not to mention the accordion casually slung over one shoulder, but somehow nothing seemed to dull his natural charisma. It was actually a little concerning how the crowd of mothers seemed to react to his very presence.
Cassie, on the other hand, was unmoved and merely fixed him with an utterly filthy glare before storming off into the ever-growing crowd. Alec French stared after her for a moment, but made no comment.
‘Hi,’ said Holly simply, feeling as though someone ought to fill the awkward silence that hovered in Cassie’s wake.
‘If you need a hand with the Parsons kids later, just shout,’ he replied easily. ‘I can’t quite believe the turn-out actually, but it’s certainly going to be, err, interesting, corralling all the children into line.’ He gave her a warm, encouraging smile and turned back to the group of children, clapping his hands once and gaining their instant and silent attention. Well, apart from Tarquin, who twirled in circles on the spot. ‘Easy, tiger,’ said Mr French and, impressively, Tarquin too fell silent.
As Mr French continued to give his pre-performance pep talk, Hattie walked over to Holly, waving at her own girls in the huddle as she did so. ‘He’s like the child whisperer, isn’t he? Ellie actually wanted to do her homework last night! Maybe he’s hypnotised them with those stunning blue eyes?’ She grinned at Holly’s shocked expression. ‘Oh, come on, don’t say you haven’t noticed them?’
‘Well, they are very arresting,’ chimed in Elsie, joining them with pink cheeks and a throaty chuckle, seemingly swathed in enough cashmere to single-handedly keep the Mongolian economy afloat. ‘In fact, I cannot understand why that Cassie woman seems to have taken against him so. Surely making a few costumes is a small price to pay for such a feast for the senses?’
You could take Elsie off the stage, Holly realised, but her vocal projection didn’t seem to come with an off-switch. She hurriedly leaned forward to tuck the blankets more tightly around Lottie and Olivia, as Mr French’s gaze turned enquiringly in their direction.
‘Ah, you know Cassie,’ Hattie replied. ‘She doesn’t need a reason to take against someone.’ And Hattie would know – Cassie was barely civil to her since discovering that the chocolate sprinkles used at The Deli weren’t fair trade. The coffee was. The chocolate was. But the sprinkles . . .
Everyone settled quickly as Mr French turned to the microphone provided. ‘Good evening, one and all, and welcome to our Bonfire Night celebrations. We have food, we have a beautifully clear night and we have the children of Larkford Primary School to entertain you. Please do feel free to spend their pocket money and indeed your own, as every penny raised today will go to support the remarkable Young Carers here in our very own community.’ He nodded his head towards Matthew Giles in thanks for his amazing work and the crowd broke into spontaneous applause. ‘So, with a nod to artistic licence, not to mention health and safety, let the Guy Fawkes Gaiety begin!’
Holly grinned widely as Matthew made his way through the crowds to say hello, her earlier mood eclipsed by the groundswell of good-feeling, and the company of friends. She clasped the lanky young man into an embarrassingly maternal hug. ‘I’m so bloody proud of you!’ she exclaimed. It had been such a leap of faith for Matthew to abandon his degree last year and come home to care for his mother, Molly. To be afflicted with young-onset Parkinson’s had been an ongoing battle for her for years now, and having Matthew at home had been both a blessing and a worry for Molly. But now he had found his niche, and his enthusiasm and commitment to helping other Young Carers had started a dialogue in the town that helped everyone. More than that, he was putting plans into action that the GPs could only have dreamed of – ongoing, face-to-face support for some of their most vulnerable youngsters. Being a child was hard enough in this day and age, without taking responsibility for an ailing parent as well.
Matthew grinned, embarrassed of course, but also clearly touched by Holly’s words. ‘I can’t get over how much your babies have grown!’ he said, peering into the pram.
‘Well, it does happen,’ laughed Holly. She pointed across the Market Place to where Ben and Tom were dutifully awaiting their turn in the circle of bunting that marked out their performance space, looking utterly adorable in their historically questionable costumes and taking it all very seriously. ‘And before you know it, they’re off to school and plotting to blow up parliament. Or, you know, setting up a charity and changing people’s lives.’ She gave him a nudge. ‘Your mum’s so proud of you too, you know.’
Matthew nodded, secure in Molly’s love and estimation. ‘I know. She’s even more chuffed since Bath Rugby came on board as a sponsor. Reckons she’ll get try-line tickets for all the big matches.’ He grinned. ‘She’s probably right – she can still charm anyone with a smile, my mum, even from her wheelchair.’
Holly agreed; Molly was a delight to work with – one of her most afflicted patients, yet easily one of the loveliest. ‘Well, maybe don’t tell Taffy and Dan that’s even an option, or we won’t see them until spring!’
Holly tried not to stare as Tilly wove her way towards them through the crowd, only to seemingly spot Matthew and do an abrupt U-turn. Obviously married life wasn’t the only option that came with a few hurdles; being footloose and fancy-free on the dating front was clearly no walk in the park either. Thankfully Matthew’s attention was focused elsewhere and he missed the knowing look between Alice and Holly. For all his maturity in setting up the charity and caring for his mum, Matthew had clearly missed the lecture at university about Playing It Cool 101.
Alice made her excuses and followed Tilly through the crowd and, again, Holly felt the slight give in her shoulders from the reassurance that Larkford was the kind of town that never left a man, or woman, down. It was The Larkford Way.
As the older children finished their song about gunpowder, treason and plot and the crowd clapped enthusiastically, Holly stood on tiptoes and managed to capture the perfect image of Lizzie’s two boys beaming with pride – it was all the more appealing for the way that Gerald the goose had been weaving his way around the children as though guarding his territory, yet somehow in time with the music. She pinged it over to Lizzie as a text, knowing how much she resented missing out.
Matthew waved in the air, almost jolting Holly’s phone from her hands with his gangly enthusiasm. ‘Holly, Holly, wait here. I want you to meet someone. He’s a huge fan of yours,’ said Matthew over the opening strains of the next song, as he plunged into the crowd and ushered a man towards them, a man whose shoulders were so wide he had to slide sideways through the cheering parents.
‘The Dr Graham?’ he said. ‘I’m Mike Urquhart from the Rugby Club in Bath. We’re the ones sponsoring young Matthew’s group? But actually, I just really wanted to say how impressive you were on the radio the other day. We were all listening in the gym and the boys let out quite the cheer when you saved the day, I can tell you. And when Matthew here said he knew you . . . Well, I wanted to pass on our regards. Impressive work indeed. Your
patients are very lucky to have you.’
Dear God, thought Holly for a moment, as she felt her neck begin to warm unattractively, she was clearly having some kind of midlife crisis. First, there’d been amorous thoughts about the boys’ head teacher, despite his obvious fondness for an accordion, and now she was involuntarily having blue thoughts about some random rugby player she’d only just met! This latest development tossed Taffy’s habitual but harmless flirting with the lass in the fish’n’chip shop into a cocked hat.
She seriously needed to get a grip, or possibly get laid – assuming she could somehow engineer for her and her husband to be awake in the same place, at the same time.
‘Well, thank you, but I’m actually on maternity leave at the moment,’ Holly blustered, unused to such effusive praise, or indeed such intense scrutiny from such a bear-like man.
Mike paused, almost as though he had a cartoon thought bubble ballooning above his head. ‘Really?’ he said slowly, appraisingly. ‘Not working at all?’
Holly shrugged, waving a hand at the double pram and the sleeping twins beside her. ‘It’s not exactly a holiday.’
‘But, aren’t you missing it?’ Mike asked, intrigued and not missing for a moment the look of longing on Holly’s face as she began to talk about her patients and her community.
‘So, I’m lucky in many ways – there’s lots of ways to be a doctor,’ she concluded, realising that although he hadn’t asked for her life story, she’d somehow felt the need to make sure that he knew she was a serious professional, not just an exhausted-looking mother. It wasn’t just vanity, so much as professional pride, she told herself.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Come and have a chat with me, Dr Graham. We’ve been talking about having a dedicated GP on staff for the club and, you know, I have a really good feeling about you. Part-time, full-time, we’re open to suggestions at this point, but I really want you to think about how we might fit together.’
‘You mean as a private GP?’ Holly said, completely blindsided by his offer and pushing aside any thoughts whatsoever about anyone fitting together.
Mike nodded. ‘Hell, you can bring the kids if you like. We pride ourselves on being family-oriented. Have a think and then call me . . .’ He paused, as he made to walk away back into the crowd. ‘When you know, you know, right? And I really think you’d be an excellent fit.’ He smiled as he left, Holly mouthing like a goldfish and feeling completely caught off balance.
‘Blimey,’ said Matthew. ‘Mike doesn’t make offers like that every day. He’s normally all about the due diligence and number crunching, not so much the spontaneity. He must really want you on board.’ He laughed delightedly. ‘Just wait until Dan and Taffy hear about this. You just got offered their dream job!’
Holly blinked. The offer sounded genuine enough; it was the circumstances that threw her. She managed a smile, grateful for the fact that Ben, Tom and Lily were now taking their turn to enter the performance circle, getting ready to begin, offering the perfect excuse not to reply. As the music struck up, she watched the younger children step into their much-practised routine, the older pupils now waving glow sticks in generous loops from the front row of the audience, sparklers having been roundly poo-poo’ed by the PTA on health and safety grounds. Seeing the flying ponytails and exuberant gyrations of some of the pupils, Holly was forced to admit that they may have had a valid point, no matter how overly officious it felt.
Somehow, despite all logic, everything fell into place with none of the drama or confusion every parent in the crowd was braced for. Was this some visual metaphor, Holly couldn’t help but wonder, as the chaotic routine ended with everyone exactly where they were supposed to be. Or was she just looking for a little order in her own life and seizing on anything that endorsed the notion?
As she quickly snapped several photos to send to Lizzie and Taffy she couldn’t help considering the serendipity of the offer. Maybe, it might prove just enough to ease her back into her working world? Maybe it was actually exactly what she needed, if only to be needed, professionally speaking?
Holly knew she wasn’t really making sense, even to herself, at this point. She loved her job at The Practice, didn’t she? She just felt so discombobulated by how her evening was unfolding. She seriously needed to get some more sleep, she decided, or they’d be carting her off to the funny farm. Monday’s nanny interviews couldn’t come soon enough.
‘You know,’ said Elsie quietly beside her, almost as though she could read her mind, ‘good things happen to those who show up. And you, my darling, show up and step up every single day. You deserve this opportunity, and don’t let Dan and Taffy tell you otherwise just because they quite fancy it for themselves. They weren’t here today, you were. Just remember that.’
A lone, pre-emptive Roman candle exploded overhead as Holly’s breath misted in the chill evening air and the crackle of opportunity – or was it an illicit sparkler? – sent tingles down her spine.
Chapter 9
It was somewhat of a baptism of fire, Connor decided, to make this bizarre celebration his first foray into the carousel of high days and holidays that seemed to populate the Larkford calendar with almost alarming regularity.
Perhaps it was a sign that he was finally starting to heal – his recovery now a tiny green shoot, able to withstand a little more than a huddle of close friends in The Kingsley Arms, or his almost constant occupation of The Big Chair at the end of Lizzie’s kitchen table.
He couldn’t help feeling a little saddened that she wasn’t here beside him; her reassuring presence and her total lack of respect for his rock-star alter ego had been the one constant that kept him on track, kept it real. He knew, deep down, that he pushed it too far sometimes, irritating Will despite his best intentions – he couldn’t quite put his finger on the date that his allegiance of ‘best friend’ had transferred from husband to wife, but he was still able to take a hint at least.
‘If you want to be useful, mate, go and help Holly with the kids and stop hovering around here,’ Will had declared, as he brought Lizzie back from the hospital just now. It wasn’t really the kind of request that you could argue with, even though seeing Lizzie in a hospital gown brought back more memories than he was really prepared to deal with right now.
Being useful would be a good distraction, he decided. If only he could find Holly and her tribe among the throngs of red trousers, tweed coats and highlighted blonde mummies. He glimpsed Holly in the distance at last, decidedly unglamorous in jeans and a ponytail, outnumbered by children, quashing a moment of panic as her band of happy helpers drifted away to deal with their own families, or simply to grab a hot chocolate and a doughnut to soften the full-on spectacle of Mr French’s Guy Fawkes vision, which was clearly some kind of Hamilton homage if the cringe-worthy attempt at rapping was any kind of guide.
The whispers followed him, as always, as he made his way through the crowd towards her, at the same time keeping an eye peeled for Dan, or Taffy, or another comforting face. Their camaraderie and ridiculous japes had been one of the few things to make him properly, achingly, laugh in the last twelve months and he had to confess that he looked forward to their bets and shenanigans more than anything else these days. It may not be cool, or trendy, but watching them trying to best each other at eating as many chocolate oranges as they could in under five minutes had been the highlight of last weekend at Lizzie’s. Five minutes in, five seconds out. It was a wonder that Lizzie was still speaking to any of them.
He paused for a moment, sheltered from view by a pack of strangely equine-looking women in perfectly tailored jackets, conflicted between helping Holly out and saving her dignity. To be fair to her, she’d probably been coping brilliantly all evening, wrangling seven children into line with good grace, so it was Sod’s Law that Connor should turn up at the very moment she appeared to be on the verge of completely losing her rag.
He hung back a little, hoping that the situation might re
solve itself. The last thing he wanted to do was make Holly feel under scrutiny; he was already kicking himself for not even considering the children as Lizzie was whisked into hospital – his only focus had been on her, on what he could do for her. Turning up at the hospital with Lucozade and magazines and a lovely new robe had been the extent of his consideration. It was not something he was especially proud of now, watching Holly and the extent of her support for her best friend.
Maybe blokes were just wired differently, he thought, before chastising himself – or maybe he really was just as much of a self-serving, egotistic wanker as his bandmates? It made for an uncomfortable train of thought.
Action was required.
As he approached, both Lottie and Olivia had begun to wail from the pram, having been abruptly awakened by the less-than-tuneful Junior Choir Ensemble mangling a madrigal, and Holly was hastily attempting to untangle Ben, Tom, Jack and Archie’s interlocking glow sticks from each other’s, where an impromptu mid-match huddle had ended with a ruinous entwining of neon, hair and buckles.
To be fair, the spectacle of four miniature Guy Fawkes attempting a Haka was one he would never forget, but still . . .
‘Need a hand?’ said Connor, unable to hide the amusement in his voice, or written all over his face, at these lads and their antics and realising too little, too late, that Holly felt he was laughing at her predicament.