The Perfect Fit

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Absolutely. And Gerry and Sue will be there. Yolanda too.’

  ‘Heh. Yo-yo.’ The image of my old Brownie leader, magenta-haired and larger than life, appeared in my mind. ‘Not seen her for years. She’s a member too, is she?’

  ‘Yep, one of the lifers.’

  I thought about it. The meetings sounded pretty tedious, but Lana was right, it would be a good way to get back into the swing of small community life. And no group that included Yolanda Sommerville could ever be truly boring.

  ‘Ok, go on,’ I said at last. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘So what happens at these things?’ I asked when I’d taken a seat between Lana and Tom in Egglethwaite Temperance Hall’s meeting room. We were the first three there – well, four if you counted Lana’s border collie Flash, an honorary village society member, who was asleep under the table.

  ‘Roger Collingwood witters on for a couple of hours, then we all go for a pint at the Fox to recover,’ Lana said. ‘That’s basically it.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘We keep ourselves amused.’ She leaned round me to talk to her brother. ‘Ok, a Guinness on Rodge to mention his villa in Provence.’

  ‘Do I get innuendo siren then?’

  ‘Yep. Bag of peanuts for one innuendo, beer for two.’

  ‘What are you two going on about?’ I asked.

  Tom grinned. ‘Just a few games.’

  ‘How’d you get roped into this anyway?’

  ‘Our dad was a member. When he died, felt like it was our turn to start putting something back.’ Tom reached over me to prod Lana. ‘Brought the average age of the society down by about 20 years, didn’t we, sis?’

  ‘Yep,’ Lana said proudly. ‘The only members under fifty.’

  ‘When did you join?’ I asked.

  ‘Four years ago, after the Grand Départ came through Egglethwaite. We worked really hard to get our viaduct reopened for that. Felt a bit lost afterwards without something useful to do.’

  ‘I won’t lie, it’s not exactly enthralling. But it is important.’ Tom gestured around the room. ‘Keeps this place standing, for a start.’

  I took in the fading tangerine paint, the worn carpet tiles covered in black blobs of old chewing gum – the same tiles I’d stood on when I’d used this room for junior karate class nearly 25 years ago. It might even have been my gum.

  ‘Looks like it could use some TLC.’

  ‘It is going through a rough patch,’ Lana said, looking glum. ‘The council slashed pretty much all our funding in the last round of cuts.’

  ‘That’s not good –’ I began, but Tom batted a hand to indicate we should shush. I glanced over my shoulder to see more folk filing in.

  First was Roger Collingwood, the stern-looking chair and conductor of Egglethwaite Silver Band. Then came farmers Gerry and Sue Lightowler, Lana and Tom’s surrogate parents, who’d helped their dad bring them up after his wife died young. After them, Yolanda Sommerville, chair of the WI – now rebranded as Ladies Who Lunch – flounced in. She was shrouded in scarves and clinging tightly to her new fiancé Billy, landlord of our local pub the Sooty Fox.

  Gerry and Sue I knew well, but the others… it was strange, seeing them smiling politely with no glimmer of recognition. I remembered them all so clearly from when I was a kid. I felt like I ought to belong, but to the villagers who barely remembered me I was just another outsider.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ Lana whispered. ‘Honestly, everyone’s dead friendly.’

  ‘Well, shall we start with introductions?’ Roger said, beaming at me. ‘I see we have a new face at the table.’

  I smiled nervously. ‘Hi. Becky Finn. I, um, just moved back. I used to live here, a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh, we remember you perfectly, darling,’ Yolanda said with a condescending smile.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course. You were one of those dreadfully sticky children, weren’t you? We always had such a time getting the jam out of your hair on pack holiday when I was your Brown Owl.’ Her gaze flickered up to my short, choppy blonde hair. ‘You did get it all out in the end, didn’t you?’

  I flushed scarlet. ‘Er, yes. I think so.’

  ‘No teasing the poor girl, Yo-yo.’ Sue smiled warmly at me. ‘Glad you decided to come along, pet. Liven us oldies up a bit.’ She held up a hand to Yolanda, who’d opened her mouth to object. ‘Not you. You’re lively enough for three of us.’

  ‘The old girl prefers “of unknown antiquity” these days,’ Billy said, blowing his betrothed a kiss.

  Yolanda flashed him a dirty look. ‘Why I was ever talked into accepting you, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Someone was bound to make an honest woman of you eventually.’ He nudged Gerry. ‘Not quite sure how I ended up drawing the short straw,’ he muttered.

  Lana grinned. ‘How’s it going, Billy? You look a bit tired.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, love. Sexual prowess of a man half my age.’ Billy shot a wary look at Yolanda. ‘Good thing too.’

  ‘Is it always like this?’ I muttered to Tom.

  ‘No, they’re just trying to impress you. This is the softcore banter we save for newbies.’

  Roger cleared his throat in best headmaster style. ‘If you’ve quite finished with the usual pre-meeting japery, perhaps we can get on.’

  He passed me an agenda, and I skimmed down the list of items.

  Lana was right, it was riveting stuff. Village problems to be discussed included the impact of randy bulls on drystone walling, whether Kit Beeton’s new hot tub was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood, and finding a Santa for the Christmas Fair after one too many sherries had sent the previous incumbent off to the great elf workshop in the sky. Fundraising for the temperance hall was the last item on the list.

  By nine, after over an hour of Roger’s monotonous drone, I was half nodding off. Lana kicked me under the table.

  ‘You listening?’ she whispered. ‘This is racy stuff. You’re missing all the action at Kit Beeton’s hot-tub parties.’

  I stifled a yawn. ‘How come Flash is allowed a nap and not me?’

  ‘He’s earned it through years of long service playing Santa’s reindeer at the Christmas Fair.’

  ‘All right, next item,’ Roger said. ‘Father Christmas. Sadly, following the death of Eric Spiggott in January, we now have a full complement of elves, one reindeer –’ he nodded at Flash – ‘but not the old gent himself. So if anyone can recommend a mature male character actor able to provide his own rosy cheeks and belly, I’m sure we can dig up the requisite uniform.’

  ‘Oh! I can help with that,’ I said, pleased to finally have something to contribute. ‘I run a costume hire place. More than happy to supply a Santa Special at no charge.’

  Roger smiled. ‘How kind, my dear.’

  ‘You’ve just said his favourite words,’ Tom whispered. ‘Roger gets the same thrill from “no charge” that most of us get from sex.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Roger said, frowning.

  ‘Why don’t you do it, Rodge?’ Sue demanded. ‘You’re the oldest.’

  ‘He hasn’t got the stomach for it,’ Billy said, glancing down Roger’s skinny frame. ‘Gerry’s our man, if you ask me. Save us a bit on pillows.’

  ‘Oi. Fuel tank for a sex machine, lad.’ Gerry patted his overspilling beer gut proudly, ignoring Sue’s snort.

  ‘Woowoo?’ I heard Tom say under his breath.

  ‘Not an innuendo,’ Lana muttered.

  ‘Aww.’

  ‘As you all know perfectly well, I’ll be unable to attend the fair,’ Roger said with exaggerated self-importance. ‘Irene and I will be in Provence.’

  Lana shot Tom a grin that even I could tell was code for ‘you owe me a pint’.
/>   ‘Well I’m not doing it,’ Gerry said, folding his arms. ‘Red’s not my colour.’

  Sue nodded. ‘Clashes with the blood vessels in his nose.’

  ‘Come on, Gerry, why not?’ Tom said.

  ‘I’ll look daft, that’s why not.’

  Lana snorted. ‘And yet you and the Egglethwaite Morrismen’ll happily attach bells to your arses every first of May.’

  ‘That’s different. We have to do that to summon the summer.’

  ‘This is Yorkshire, Gerry. We don’t get summer.’

  He shrugged. ‘Never said we were any good at it.’

  ‘Go on, Uncle Gerry, do it for Pip,’ Tom said. ‘She’ll be gutted if I tell her Santa’s not coming to the fair.’

  ‘Oof!’ Gerry said as Sue dug him in the ribs. ‘All right, all right. If I’m getting a battering off the wife and uncled by the kids, s’pose I’ve got no choice.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Roger ticked the item off his agenda with a satisfied flourish.

  ‘I’d better get free mince pies though,’ Gerry muttered.

  Roger’s face assumed a serious expression. ‘And now, the most important item. The hall’s finances.’ He glanced up from his agenda. ‘It’s not looking good, folks.’

  ‘How serious is it, Roger?’ Yolanda asked quietly, concerned enough even to drop her usual affected ‘darling’. ‘Will we make another year?’

  ‘We… should,’ Roger said cautiously. He passed around a printed spreadsheet. ‘It really depends on how we weather the winter. Flood damage, closure due to snow – one disaster and we could be shutting our doors permanently in the new year.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I muttered, staring at the spreadsheet. The final balance showed a far from healthy £1,500 in the bank, and income from the groups who used the place was barely covering outgoings. ‘I had no idea things were so desperate.’

  Roger flashed me a sad smile. ‘Yes, for some time now. And there’s no hard and fast fix, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Ok, that innuendo you can have,’ Lana whispered to Tom.

  ‘But how did it get like this?’ I asked. ‘The Temp was thriving when I was a kid. Karate, ballet, Scouts, tea dances – there was always something on.’

  ‘And so there is still,’ Roger said. ‘The hall is very much the soul of the village. It would break people’s hearts to see it go.’

  ‘But have you tried everything? What about increasing rents?’

  I flushed when I noticed Billy roll his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m new, what do I know? The Temp meant a lot to me when I was a kid, that’s all.’

  Sue reached across to pat my hand. ‘Pay no attention to them, love. We could use some fresh perspective.’

  ‘Increasing rents was the first thing we did when the place got into difficulties,’ Roger said. ‘People knew we’d lost our funding, and they were understanding for the most part. But it wasn’t enough. This building’s over 170 years old, it costs more every year to keep it in good repair.’

  ‘We couldn’t increase rents that drastically again,’ Yolanda said.

  ‘What she means is, we don’t want to price anyone out,’ Tom said. ‘It’s the people on the lowest incomes who benefit most from the place.’

  ‘That is true.’ I thought back to my family’s early days in the village, when Dad was struggling to make a go of the chippy he ran with his partner Cynthia. Money had been tight, and the Temp had been a lifeline for me and Cam. ‘But raising rents has to be better than shutting the place down so no one can use it.’

  ‘I agree,’ Roger said. ‘However, rent increase does need to be a last resort. People would never forgive us if costs forced their group to close.’

  Sue had been watching me the whole time we’d been talking. I had an odd sensation she was reading my thoughts.

  ‘You said the Temp was important to you,’ she said. ‘Tell us why.’

  ‘I suppose with the village being so tight-knit, it gave me a way in,’ I said. ‘I was seven when we moved here, and the kids at school had their own little cliques already. It was the stuff I did at the Temp that helped me feel I belonged. Youthie – that’s what we called the Youth Club – karate, Brownies…’ I laughed nervously, dropping my gaze in the face of their stares. ‘And here I am again. Hoping the place’ll help me find another way back in.’

  Sue was silent a moment. Then she turned to Roger. ‘So what can we do about it then?’ she demanded. ‘We need to make money, shore up our reserves.’

  ‘Cake sale?’ Yolanda suggested brightly.

  Sue tutted. ‘Not every problem in life can be solved by bloody cake sales, Yolanda Sommerville.’

  ‘That depends very much on who’s baking the cakes.’

  ‘How about another beetle drive?’ Tom said, interrupting before an argument kicked off. Even when I was a kid, Sue and Yolanda’s caking rivalry had been notorious. ‘Those always go down well.’

  Lana shook her head. ‘The last one didn’t, we only made £45. I think we’ve glutted demand.’

  ‘Band concert?’ I suggested.

  ‘Did one last month.’ Lana sighed. ‘It’s the same old things, isn’t it? People want to support the hall, but let’s face it, they’re bored rigid of the band and the morrismen and the Ladies Who Lunch cake sales, and they’ve had it up to their jugulars with bloody beetle drives. We need to think of something new.’

  ‘This place didn’t get council funding back in the eighties, did it?’ Billy said.

  ‘No,’ Gerry said. ‘It was all paid for through rents and fundraising.’

  ‘So how did it make ends meet in those days?’ I asked.

  ‘Same really. Beetle drives and so on. There was less to pay for back then.’

  ‘Still. Must’ve been a lot to raise. What was the biggest earner after rents?’

  Gerry shrugged. ‘I wasn’t in the society then. Couldn’t say.’

  ‘But Yolanda and I were,’ Roger said.

  Yolanda shot him a look. ‘Yes, thank you, Roger Collingwood. I’ll have everyone know I was very much the juvenile member in those days, a mere slip of a girl.’ She turned to me. ‘It was the annual pantomime. The Egglethwaite Players staged it every Christmas, and it raised hundreds.’ She sighed. ‘I always played principal boy, and then fairy godmother when I got too – when it seemed only fair to give somebody else a chance. I do miss it.’

  ‘I remember the pantos,’ I said. ‘They were really good. Whatever happened to the Players?’

  ‘The young ones grew up and moved away, or started families, lost interest. Some of the older ones died.’ She cast her eyes down. ‘Some of the younger ones too.’

  ‘She means our dad,’ Lana told me quietly. ‘He was their star turn in the Simple Simon-type roles. The Slapstick King, they called him. I think once he was gone, no one had the heart to revive it.’

  ‘Couldn’t we though?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ Roger said, ‘but I don’t know anyone in the village who’d have the necessary experience. Yolanda’s the only Players alumnus left.’ He glanced at me. ‘Unless you have a theatre background?’

  I felt almost guilty, he looked so hopeful. ‘No, my background’s in photography. Sorry, Roger.’

  ‘Oh well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘In that case, I suppose another beetle drive is the best we have.’

  Chapter 5

  I was woken next morning by the buzz of my mobile. I blinked myself awake and glanced at the screen.

  It was Cole. I answered, wondering what could be so important that he was calling at 7am.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ I mumbled. ‘It’s first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you? I wanted to catch you before I went to work.’

  ‘Why? What couldn’t wait?’

  ‘My news.’ />
  ‘News?’ I said, curiosity conquering drowsiness. ‘Is it about the exhibition at Ryder’s place?’

  Ryder Sherlock-Steele was an old schoolfriend of his who ran a gallery in East London.

  ‘No.’ I could tell from his tone that he was smiling. ‘I got a job.’

  ‘You’re not serious! A lecturing job?’

  ‘That’s right. I just got the email from the head of the faculty,’ he said, barely suppressed excitement tingling in his voice. ‘It’s in York, Becky. St John’s had a vacancy.’

  ‘Arghh! That’s amazing! You never told me you’d applied for something.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I’d heard, just in case I got your hopes up over nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that was a fib about needing to get back to London last weekend. They wanted an informal meeting before they made the official offer.’

  ‘You sly thing.’ I pushed myself up straight, beaming. ‘This is wonderful, Cole! When do you start?’

  ‘I’m giving my notice today. Just another month of long distance, then we can be together.’

  ***

  ‘So how was the meeting?’ Cynthia asked in her sharp Vermont twang, only slightly mellowed through decades in England, as I sat sipping tea on her and Dad’s sofa. Even after all these years, she still insisted on serving the milk separately and a wedge of lemon on the side. All mine and Cam’s attempts to convince her this was a tragic waste of citrus fruit, which always ended up unsqueezed in the bin, had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘Long. Mostly boring. Still, I’m glad I went,’ I said. ‘Tom’s right, this stuff is important. Not sure I realised when I was little just how much work went into keeping the village running.’

  Cynthia laughed. ‘Kids always think these things just fall out of some grown-up’s rear end.’ She patted my arm. ‘Well, good for you, sweetie, paying it forward. It helps keep it going for Pip. And your own children, when you have them.’

  Ugh. This again. It felt like friends, family and my ovaries were ganging up lately to remind me I was still barren-wombed and hurtling towards my mid-thirties. As if I could bloody forget.