The Bluebell Bunting Society

by The Bluebell Bunting Society (retail) (epub)

  Speaking of YouTube, or a few days now I’ve been watching video clips back to back like an tween obsessive – I’ve found loads of helpful sewing tutorials. Searching for ‘knickers at home’ on my first go was a monumental mistake, and I needed a stiff drink and to scrub my eyeballs after those results popped up. But I had a go at a pair myself and they didn’t come out half bad: black and white polka dot cotton with a turquoise trim. They were probably an excellent fit for a 14-year-old, once I’d trimmed off the wonky bits for the fifth time. But they were knickers. And quite cute if I say so myself. It brought back some of my Textiles GCSE lessons, though thankfully not that dream again. That said, I’m not sure a pair of thin knickers with a ribbon tie at the side would have got me better than my own C grade. It probably would have got me a letter home and a visit from a social worker.

  We’ll have to share a few machines for our first session – I’m going to charm the college for more when we have one good class under our belts. Or under our knicker elastic, I should say. But Stevie has come up trumps in the back of his school’s old Home Ec room (now an IT lab, of course) and found three pairs of dressmaking scissors, still crazy sharp from underuse, a few tape measures and a box of old pins. This, together with the bits Flip is bringing, a few trestle tables, some jaunty tablecloths, a punch bowl of kettle chips and all the will in my world, would make our first Sew Your Own Knickers night. Bring it on, Mr Snoopy Suit. I’m not taking this lying down.

  A familiar face gives me a big shock as I’m waiting for the class to show up. ‘Susannah! You’re here!’

  ‘Of course I am, dear.’ She smooths her charcoal grey pencil skirt underneath her and sits on a plastic stacking chair. ‘I’ve brought my own sewing kit, to boot.’

  ‘But you said hells bells to it!’

  She blinks coolly at me. ‘No, Constance. You asked me what Rosemarie would have said, and I told you. But I will support whatever you do to meet new people, and try new things.’

  ‘For the good of the Hall.’

  ‘Yes, that too. Besides, I remember your GCSEs, and that apron. I thought you might need some help.’

  Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Susannah was a card-carrying old lady with all the handicraft skill that went with it – she’d be a whiz on Gran’s machines and could make sure I wasn’t using bias binding instead of elastic, as I had in my first abysmal attempt.

  ‘Well, I’m very happy to have you here. Can I get you tea while we wait for the others? I have five definites and I hope some drop-ins. More next week if it all goes to plan and Flip can help spread the word.’

  As I’m boiling the kettle for two teas, I hear our PR guru clatter in lightly on heels, put down something with a clunk (I’m guessing her sewing machine) and launch into a conversation with Susannah about how she started sewing. She’s running through the courses she’s taken, from adult evening classes to an intensive week at the WI college, as I come back in with the drinks. I had no idea such a place existed but it sounds pretty cool. ‘My mum absolutely hated anything close to a domestic science!’ she hoots. ‘But in her defence, she was a radical. It just screamed oppression and stupefaction to her. To me, it just means half an hour of headspace and clothes that actually fit my breasts!’

  Neither of us can now help but look at Flip’s impressive bosoms, clad in what must be a hand-knitted pea-green cardigan.

  She’s thundering on, really enjoying her subject. I just get the impression Flip enjoys everything to the maximum, and I love that about a person. Gran used to say ‘some people are drains and some people are radiators. The drains just suck up everything good that comes their way and all they do is give back a bad feeling in return. But radiators make a place more comforting, they make people feel warm and welcome. Some people can’t help being drains but it doesn’t mean you have to fill your house with them.’

  I tune back into Flip’s chatter. ‘But any skills women can teach women are a joy, and an essential part of how we shore up the generational relationships, stay strong as a community, share our strengths and cover our weaknesses. That’s why I was so keen to join the WI when I moved here. And when it comes to sewing, well, my daughter Melody and I might row about the Wi-Fi code – I reset every day at 10 p.m.,’ she nods conspiratorially, ‘but we can come together over making her a prom dress from scratch. And it’s much cheaper to boot!’ Cackle cackle.

  ‘There is something special about being in the company of women, almost sacred.’ Susannah nods.

  And that’s just when Dominic arrives.

  * * *

  I’m feeling like some sort of Stone Age idiot right now; it’s a wonder I can summon the mental energy to make two more cups of tea in the tiny kitchen. But it’s the perfect place to hide the red shame burning through my cheeks. Can’t hide forever, though. This tea won’t deliver itself.

  When I read Dom’s email last week I just assumed it was short for Dominique, because the email mentioned bringing a daughter and wanting to try out sewing for a while. So my mind went to a woman. Not a man. And, besides, I kind of was unthinkingly advertising the class to women, it being about making undies.

  Blimey, but he can’t have worked that out. I didn’t want to put ‘knickers’ specifically on my flier, having learnt the hard way that you don’t want the more letchy residents involved in something like this, and I didn’t want any sweet old ladies at the library to have a heart attack, either. But clearly I’d been far too subtle. Because here was Dom, in a rugby shirt, his frowns sending thick ripples through his forehead, looking completely out of his depth as it was. I think if I show him the pants pattern he might just wither into a small lump of polyester and chinos. And forget Dom’s discomfort for a minute; how can I happily teach a minor to make frilly undies!?

  His daughter, Polly, has definitely inherited his olive-y complexion but she already stands over him by half a foot, and can only be in her mid-teens. Their body language is eerily in sync, though, twitchy and unsettled, shifting in their seats, toying with cotton reels and bias binding. I think they want to be here but they’re clearly very scared too. Then it hits me – Polly is the teen that called the Sunday Funday lame and stormed out. This is what you call a tough customer.

  So I’m thinking on my feet. What else could we make? It has to be easy. Because my skills are average at best. Not use much fabric. Because we don’t have much, just a handful of decent pieces Flip has magically dug from her supplies. Be altogether PG-rated, teen-level cool AND man-friendly. I flick my eyes around the Hall, desperate for a bit of inspiration. If only we had 4G around here so I could pilfer a craft blog on the sly. I so need everyone to think I’m in charge here…

  The noticeboard isn’t telling me much; the windows are bare but I think curtains are way beyond me; a draft excluder for the door maybe? God, that’s depressing. We need something fun, something cheery. I need a good thought right now. I can’t think about losing the Hall, all Gran’s hard work, another disappointment for Mum…

  I blink a few times and look up at the ceiling, hoping the early tears hanging about will disperse.

  And there it is: two triangles of bunting. In the very far right-hand corner, two triangles of paper bunting with the Union Jack printed on them, left there from – possibly the Jubilee party? We must have ripped it all down the next day but not noticed that last bit. For once, my amateur caretaking has paid off!

  ‘Bunting!’ I clap my hands and yell so brightly that Susannah spills a little of her tea.

  ‘Ooooh lovely!’ Flip pulls her chair into the table, eyeing up my ribbon supplies. She’s looking between Dom, Polly and myself and clearly working out this is something not to question, but just to go with.

  ‘This is a class in how to make bunting!’ I continue cheerily. Can’t be too hard, I think, triangles and a stringy bit. Right sides together. Not hard. Not sexist. That’ll do, Miss Duncan.

  ‘That sounds good, doesn’t it, pet?’ Dom nudges Polly in the ribs with his elbow. She doesn’t reply
.

  I shove the pattern pieces I’d carefully traced way down into my handbag and root about for my Filofax instead. Good old Filofax, you may be mocked, you may well deserve to be left behind in the days of giant mobile phones and shoulder pads, but I love you. And, crucially, you have your little ruler for emergencies like this. ‘I’m just going to… Fetch the triangle templates from… The kitchen, where I’ve been storing them. In the meantime, have a rummage through the fabric to find two pieces you think would make a good triangle bit.’

  ‘A pennant,’ Susannah offers.

  ‘Exactly!’

  When I come back with three triangles – the most I could get from the giant cardboard box of tea under the sink – the classmates are sharing scraps silently. It might not be a riot of conversation and neighbourly bonding just yet, but they are working together, at the very least. And that’s a start.

  ‘OK! So we’ll draw round this template twice, on the wrong side of the fabric. We can use a bog standard biro, it won’t matter as we’re turning it inside out before we fix it all together.’

  Polly’s glossy red lips are puckered together. Oh boy. ‘We don’t have much fabric here, do we? I mean, like, for actual bunting that is supposed to be long and junk?’

  I force out a bubbly laugh. ‘Oh, of course we don’t. We’re just focusing on technique today, and next time we can talk more about complementary colours, forming patterns, that sort of thing. So, Flip, Susannah, once we have drawn our triangles, I wondered if you might show the others how to sew them up on the machine?’

  Flip’s eyes gleam as she eyes up new local friends in the making. Outsourcing rocks. I’m muddling about with an idiot’s level of understanding, when I have two mega sewers right here. Flip is especially quite clearly happy to be the Hermione to my Ron. But without the unresolved romantic tension. Susannah is like a McGonagall in better threads. And I can keep everyone’s drinks and crisp quota full and get the conversation flowing.

  ‘So Polly,’ I lean over her to put down another bowl of sea salt and vinegar, five minutes later. ‘What did you like the look of?’

  ‘Um, these stripes. A thin red one and chunkier blue one. We… I really love Devon so they make me think of beach huts and deck chairs.’

  Susannah points one delicate finger at the two carefully drawn triangles. ‘That is a lovely combination. Very classic, very chic.’

  ‘Um, thank you.’ Polly seems to hide most of her face behind her long burgundy-dyed hair and tries not to let her smile show.

  ‘Being creative is so good for the soul!’ Flip fizzes with energy. She’s like tipping a packet of sherbet into some flat Coke. ‘The only creative outlet I get most days is choosing which dino t-shirt to combine with which pair of brown cords for my son. Which is academic anyway as within two minutes he has grass stains rubbed into at least one of those!’

  The stress creases in Dom’s forehead are thankfully disappearing. He looks like an uncle who’s just been allowed off the dance floor at a family wedding, and has re-joined his quiet pint at the back of the do. He must be in his mid-forties but has the air of someone older, and much more weary than his years. He clears his throat and joins in. ‘My Polly here used to hate any kind of mess – if she was in the garden she wanted to wash her hands every five minutes, if she got so much as a splash of milk on her top we’d have to change into an entirely new outfit. And a matching one, of course.’ Flip and Susannah nod with aplomb so I think I might as well match them. It’s only Polly who remains unmoved.

  ‘That was, like, ages ago, Dad,’ she says in a tiny voice. ‘So embarrassing.’

  He sucks in his cheeks and continues less confidently. ‘Yes, well. You certainly are different about mess now, if your room is anything to go by. Hoards socks like they’re going out of fashion.’

  ‘How can socks be fashionable, Dad? Omigod!’ Polly gets up and storms off, her trainers slapping on the dusty parquet.

  ‘I’ll just give her a minute.’ Dom looks down at his hands, moving his thumbs round and round in fast circles.

  Flip leans forward slightly in her chair. ‘Tough having to be the bad guy, isn’t it? My husband was all for sleep training our daughter, as long as it was me that did the crying bits!’ She smiles kindly at our solo male sewer.

  He draws his hands down his face and lets out a puff of breath. ‘I’m bad guy, I’m good guy, I’m homework guy. I’m… I’m it. It’s just me now. We lost Polly’s mum when she was nine. So, I’m just trying my best.’ He shrugs. ‘The first few years were fine, she only wanted me, we stuck together. But now… Now I’m enemy number one. That’s why I thought this would be good, do something a mum might do, spend time together when I’m not having to shout at her over the ironing pile.’

  ‘You poor soul.’ Susannah puts down her scissors and pats him on the back of the hand.

  ‘Shit,’ Flip mumbles.

  I clear my throat and approach Dom. No wonder he looks so world-weary. ‘You’ve done exactly the right thing coming here – and not just to share an interest with Polly, but because now you’ve found a new support group, new friends.’

  There’s a croak from Dom’s throat; I think maybe he’s bitten back a sob. ‘Sorry, I’ve never said these things before, and now they’ve just come pouring out. What’s in this tea, eh?’ He tries to laugh gruffly.

  I give him the briefest of shoulder squeezes. He has a look in his eye that I’ve seen in my mum before, during her dark days. ‘Better out than in. Do you want to go and see if she’s OK now? And next week, I promise I will think of a way to make it a bit more cool for Polly, make her an integral part of the group. And you too, Dom!’

  I have no idea how I’m going to achieve this but there’s a steely feeling in my chest that tells me I won’t give up till I work it out. Because that’s just what Gran would do.

  Chapter 4

  All good planning needs a bun to kickstart it, and luckily Hazlehurst has the best finger buns known to man, at Crusty’s bakery at the bottom of the high street. So with Dom’s words still echoing round my head and a fresh bun at my side, I’m back at work on a Saturday morning. There was nothing but cobwebs in my social calendar, anyway. After enough lame excuses, my old school friends have stopped inviting me to nights out in protest, and Steve is now more of a seven-letter-word-in-Scrabble guy than a monosyllabic, grunting drunk guy on your average Saturday night. I haven’t been to a real gig in years, or a festival. I can’t even remember where I keep my glitter gel and airbed, to be honest. But now I have my sewing night not just as a way to help bring new visitors to my little shack but also bring some calm to a family in turmoil, it’s my wholehearted focus. Anyway, I’d much rather be thinking about the Hall on a Saturday morning than inspecting the maker’s mark on my toilet bowl.

  I’m humming as I do a quick check on the kitchen at the Hall, and its supplies. It could have waited till Monday morning but I was so buzzing with what our little party of five could turn into that I was too twitchy to stay home and read or get into a Netflix box set. I wanted to be at the place where it all happens, where friends can be made over a box of pins and some home truths. It’s exactly why the Hall has to live on for the village – Dom and Polly were living just a handful of streets away and yet no one knew how hard they were having it. None of us knew that a family was struggling next door, unhappy and unsure how to make things better. But by coming out and meeting us, Dom now has three new people on his side. Three friends that have his corner. And I’m not letting go of this place without a big old fight.

  So we have plenty of tea bags, could do with more sugar. Some of these mugs have brown rings so stubborn it looks like I’ve been serving up hot Ronseal. I could probably chuck them and bring in some from home, it’s not like Mum and I need more than four mugs at any one time anyway. Hands on hips, I do a sweeping stare around the kitchen. It’s small but in relatively good nick, compared to the main hall itself. I could give it a lick of paint, you know. Fill in the cracks, sand them dow
n. Find some sealant stuff for the damp patches, as a temporary fix. There’s a big bucket of brilliant white in the garage. It might not get Sarah Beeny in a lather but it would certainly brighten things up. The last time I painted something was… my first house share in Manchester, post-uni. Years ago now. We’d begged the landlord to let us go over the terracotta orange which somehow managed to be both dull and eye-watering. He was very glad we were doing the graft for him. And though I’m lacking cash right now, I do have endless supplies of graft.

  My DIY skills might be patchy but if YouTube could teach me to make pants it could certainly remind me how to slap some emulsion on. I could dig out some brushes tomorrow, in fact, make a start, be ready for the Bluebells on Tuesday…

  The brass letter box gives a loud metallic clap and I jump out of my skin. Post? We never have post here. I jog round to the front door and scoop up a thin white envelope from the floor. Hibbert Estates is stamped neatly in the top left.

  Oh no.

  I crane my neck to look through the thin window just by the front door. It’s a bit murky (cleaning windows is at the bottom of my list) but I can just see the glint of sunshine bouncing off a pair of classy grey suit trousers as they get into a shiny car, and drive away.

  Oh no, no, no.

  * * *

  At the duck pond I’m flapping more than a Hazlehurst mallard after a dropped panini. But a toasted sarnie can’t help me – I’m in a right tailspin.

  ‘They want to inspect our records in 30 days. 30 days! That’s… in May!’ I shake my wrists frantically like I’ve just put my hand in a spider’s web. ‘They’re going to know and they’ll take the Hall and I’ll be sacked and the Bluebells will be homeless! The OAP choir will have no reason to live, the Carter boys will run wild in the village. It’ll all go tits up!’