Steve points to the space next to him on the bench. ‘Not too close to the water, buddy!’ he yells over to Abel, who is having a long talk with one very nosy duck about his favourite sandwich fillings. ‘Be still. Sit. Deep breath. Firstly, the Bluebells all have real homes and they can do synchronised dances to Katy Perry just about anywhere.’
‘Taylor Swift,’ I correct him, to which he replies with that withering teacher look of exhaustion.
‘Anyway… Nothing’s happened yet. It’s all to play for. A lot can happen in 30 days. You had new visitors last night, right? So that’s something.’
‘But only three. And it’s not enough.’ I pull my long purple jumper over my knees and pick at my cuticles. I can hear Abel clearly stating that you should never try egg salad, even if you’re starving.
Steve’s tufts of ginger curls bounce in the breeze. ‘We worry that you’re doing too much on your own, Connie. Luce and I, that is. You’re trying to save the Hall, you’re looking after your mum. When do you do things, I don’t know, just for fun?’
A prickle of annoyance goes up my neck. I really don’t need this conversation again. I blow out my cheeks. ‘Well, when do you? You work and you have Abel to look after and you and Luce never get to go out, beyond the rare occasion you take me up on babysitting!’
He laces his fingers together. ‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
But I know how. And I know he doesn’t want to say it, because he’s a good friend. It’s different because they have each other. And they have Abel. I try to swallow but my throat has gone tight.
‘I’m not trying to wind you up, Connie.’ He leans his square shoulder against me, almost tipping me over and I can’t help but break into a laugh. ‘I just think you don’t have to go it alone. Not always. It’s totally fine to ask for help. Don’t you always say that’s why you love the Hall? It brings people together.’
To: Susannah; [email protected]; [email protected]
From: Connie Duncan
Hi guys,
So lovely to meet on Friday! I was wondering if anyone could meet on Monday night too?
I have a problem and I would really really love your help. I’ll bring the biscuits if you bring the brainpower.
Connie the Caretaker X
* * *
Mum had a good day today and baked me some flapjacks. They’re sitting proudly in the centre of the table, the centrepiece to a feast of sewing supplies. Last week we actually managed to get the pennants sewn into relatively even triangles, so I suppose this time we should have a go at joining them all up with bias binding. Bias binding always makes me think of one of those ancient rules of law, like habeas corpus, but after a quick Google of my knicker prep I found it actually just means bias as it’s cut at a 45 degree angle, thereby making it nice and flexible. As Steve says when he gets a new teacher in school, fresh faced and armed with binders of lesson plans, ‘All the gear but no idea’ – and if he’s really tired ‘All the kit but most likely shit’. I’m learning all I can about sewing up bunting but it doesn’t mean my top stitching won’t be rubbish. But then again, I now know what top stitching actually is! That’s progress.
As my bunting team file in and arm themselves with hot drinks and buttery snacks, I blurt out the whole shebang: how Hibbs left the Hall to the village for life, unless it wasn’t being used by enough of the population. And now it isn’t, and the estate is onto us. I finish with a bitter reference to Saville Row tailoring and Cold War spies.
Dom holds a finger in the air. ‘Hang on a tic, before we worry. What’s the appeal process?’
‘Huh?’ I wind some purple thread round and round my wrist until it starts to bite.
‘I have a franchise that I bought from a big restaurant chain.’
Polly fake coughs next to him but clearly says between comedy splutters, ‘Chicken shop.’
‘Yes, but… OK! I had to do lots of contract work and reading the fine print. When it comes to properties already in use, there are usually loads of appeal processes, exception clauses, at least processes where you can slow things down a bit while you catch your breath. Do you have any sort of tenancy contract, anything like that?’
‘It might be in with Gran’s stuff about the Hall. I started to go through it when I took on the place, but it got a bit upsetting to rifle through her bits and bobs if I’m honest.’
Polly shuffles her shoes about under the table and blinks her eyes. I might have hit on something too close to home.
Dom lays his arm behind Polly’s chair but she leans forward, away from him. ‘Bring in what you’ve got, for Friday. I can have a look, for what it’s worth.’
‘Oh Dom, you beauty!’ If he didn’t look so much like my old French teacher, I would kiss him. This feels like the first glimmer of sunshine that’s made it through the Bluebell Hall patchy roof in ages. Maybe we could find just a few more months, just a bit more time.
Flip blows on her tea with such force I’m worried most of it will end up on Susannah’s suede loafers. ‘Obvs you can count on the WI joining our group, as of this Friday.’
‘Really!? All of them?’
‘Yup, all 15 local members. Which means we’ll need more sewing machines. I could bring my spare, see if the ladies could bring theirs? Can’t hurt.’
Before I can thank her, she’s taken a big breath and she’s off again. ‘We need to get the story out there. In my London life, I was a PR for digital start-ups but PR is PR. It’s about saying the right things at the right time, usually while you plaster everyone with booze. And who has the ear of everyone in the village?’
I shrug stupidly. ‘Mr Singh the pharmacist?’
‘No!’ I get a 100 miles per hour eye roll from Flip. ‘The Village Committee! They organise the May Day fete, the Easter parade, village of the year competitions, the open garden days. They can literally get the whole of Hazlehurst in one place with a click of their fingers and a dozen free scones. At least, that’s what I hear via my WI spies.’
I think I’d rather ask Mr Singh for help, even if it’s just for a good migraine tablet. ‘But they gave up on the Hall as an eyesore years ago. They just ignore my emails for help, every time.’
Susannah readjusts her long jade necklace. ‘Then we won’t ask for something. We’ll offer something.’
My clueless mug is all Susannah needs to go on. ‘It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, dear. I say we make enough bunting for the Village fete, metres of the stuff, and we present it to them without asking whether they need it or not. I’ve lived in this village for decades and the one thing locals hate is an awkward situation. So they’ll say thank you very much and they’ll have to start paying attention to the Hall again.’
I nod furiously. ‘Yes – I remember that year we had two cake tents at the fete because the mayor at the time was too embarrassed to tell Gran she should leave the WI to it. That was the start of the beef between them, really. You and I are like Hazlehurst’s very own Romeo and Juliet, born to warring families.’ I nod at Flip.
Her laugh erupts loudly. ‘I hope we come to better ends! I’m all for hundreds of metres of bunting – you could wrap me in the stuff as far as I’m concerned – but my fabric haul won’t cover all that. Where will we get the resources?’
Resources are something I’m short on – Gran’s leftover ribbony bits won’t stretch around the park. They probably wouldn’t stretch around the goal posts.
Susannah wrinkles her neat lips. ‘I can raid the rag bag at the hospice shop, when I do my shifts. You get some lovely cotton shirts and such in there, which we can’t sell because of iron burns or stains. I’m sure my neighbours have old haberdashery supplies they could part with. Most of the old dears there don’t have the eyesight to sew these days.’ She says ‘old dears’ like she’s there to serve them tea, whereas really she’s now one of the oldest residents at the retirement home. ‘And we could go out, asking for donations.’ Her eyes sparkle for a brief moment. �
��Maybe we make it in the village colours, if we can swing it. And then once the committee are feeling gracious and touched, we offer them a plan of how they’ll be our knights in shining armour. Once they’re buttered up.’
‘Bunting-ed up!’ Polly forgets her teenage snarl for a moment in the face of a good pun.
Dom laughs that bit too loud in support and immediately kills the mood, bringing back her snarl with a vengeance. Poor Dom.
A sudden burst of energy has me pacing back and forth, my sparkly trainers squeaking on the parquet. ‘Guys, let’s do this. First up: I’ll get the paperwork to Dom. Susannah and Flip can start selecting fabrics and cutting them down. We’ll soon be joined by the WI army and all the Singers they can muster. And Polly—’ The reedy girl flinches as I say her name, like she’s been busted on her phone in third period Physics. ‘Polly, I would really like you to be my design consultant on this. Once we have the pennants ready, will you arrange them in the best pattern you can come up with? I can tell you’ve got an eye for style, your clothes are always cool.’ I hope young people are still saying cool. I hope she doesn’t look at my Sainsbury’s leggings and long flannel shirt and decide I am no way eligible to even use the word ‘cool’.
Polly wraps her hands around the base of her neck, as if to hide the blush starting there, or – hopefully not – the beginning of a gag mime. ‘Me?’ she half-whispers.
‘Of course. If this bunting is going to hang around the village, it’s got to look… on fleek.’
‘Um, sure. Yup. OK.’ I think in teen lingo that passes for excitement.
Dom beams beside her like a torch suddenly switched on.
I fold my arms. ‘Then we’re set. Bluebell bunting is go!’
Chapter 5
There’s not a cloud in sight for the Easter parade, which is a godsend because last year we had the wettest egg hunt on record and little Bryan Malone accidentally bit into a muddy pine cone, thinking it was a really soggy chocolate egg.
Mum didn’t really feel energetic enough to face the crowds today, so it’s just me keeping up a ‘Shake It Off’ beat as the girls limber up behind the starting line. Some rogue red nail varnish has been sneakily applied but it’s too bright and sunny for me to tell anyone off today. And those Bluebells rules about no cosmetics were written in 1953 so I’m going to postdate with a bit of feminism and say: it’s your body. Paint it how you like.
Mum has set herself the task of washing and sorting our walk-in linen cupboard, though, while I’m out. It used to be called the lounge but now we’re taking in rag bag donations from Susannah and stacks of old tablecloths and fine lawn shirts and linen napkins from across the village, there’s barely room for a scatter cushion, let alone any actual lounging by humans. I’ve heard her make the odd grumble about ‘not being a laundry, thank you very much’ but we’ve also loved a wee bit of snooping into what people pass on. It seems Mr Aldridge has one sharp elbow, because he donated a bin bag full of work shirts all sporting the same hole in the left sleeve. Does he sharpen it or something? And Mrs Alridge followed him up the drive with another bin liner, this time ‘full of things his mother gave me.’ By the look of the antimacassars embroidered with woodland sprite scenes therein, they don’t seem to share the same tastes.
Chopping up pixies on cloth is for tomorrow. Today is for choppy pixie bobs, in honour of T Swift. I have tried to give my own bob a bit of attitude with a squeeze of mousse but it’s still doing its Wednesday Addams thing. Nevermind, I’m just the ringmaster in this whole affair – the girls are the real show. And their blue shorts are a vision of matching loveliness, even if the Bluebell badges are all sewn in slightly different degrees of neatness. These girls are what this village is all about.
‘Bluebells, are you ready?’
‘Yes, Mistress Bloom!’
‘I can’t hear you. Are you ready?’
‘YES!’
‘Nope, can’t hear that. Are you READY?!’
Just as the girls are shrieking at their loudest, Veronica steps forward. ‘Miss, have you had your hearing looked at? Because we really are being very loud. Or is this a motivational thing?’
‘Motivation. All done now, thanks Veronica. Let’s get dancing!’ I yell.
There’s a ringing of an old-fashioned clapper bell, and off we go. Just half a mile of coordinated dance moves with the full village watching. Piece of cake.
* * *
I should have known it would be Bethany Stevens. Instead of pivot, grapevine, double clap and back again, she didn’t go back again but instead waved madly at her mum, allowing Gurpreet to grapevine into her and Veronica to high kick into Gurpreet. And instead of a fluid, choreographed number taking us past the bakery and the stationer’s and along to the church where we could be rewarded with lukewarm squash, I ended up detangling limbs and being rewarded with red-hot public shame.
‘Ow! Miss! My arm!’
‘My ankle!’
‘My eyebrows!’
I clamp my hands by my sides, wobbling a bit with fury. ‘Bethany, how have I hurt your eyebrows?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘You reached past me to get Gurpreet’s leg off of Charlene’s plait and you smudged my brow line.’
The local am dram float is overtaking us, even in their bulky Shakespearian neck ruffs, seeing as we’ve caused a backlog in the procession. We are to this parade what a lorryload of spilled marbles would be to the M25.
I can see the fire truck not far behind, two of the area’s firemen walking along beside it, shaking buckets of loose change and throwing some loose smiles into the crowds for good measure. If I wasn’t in my dowdy Bloom Mistress gear of blue culottes and polo shirt, I could have had a shot flirting. If I could remember how. Maybe there’s a YouTube video for that too?
‘Hurry up, girls. Back in line. Arm’s length apart, remember? Just think: what would Taylor do?’
At that a few of the girls pull their shoulders back and their necks up with a kind of regal grace. I really should make up a Swifties badge for them; they could shoot their own music videos in the Hall and debate the objectification of women in the media. Or, you know, perfect her iconic red-lipped look. Personally, though, I think Taylor would be all for the debate option.
The fire engine is now gently nudging past and the thump of marching feet fills the air. I perform my own wonky pivot. Oh no. Scouts.
Hibbs didn’t get so far as coming up with a special boys’ group for Hazlehurst (probably because he was satisfied they’d just inherit the earth anyway. And he died at 53 from pneumonia, so I should give the guy some slack). So we have your common or garden Scout – woggles, campfires and really smelly feet.
But, damn it, they are pulling off an amazing march. Neat rows, uniform arm-swinging, fake smiles plastered on them like their Scout Master is holding a puppy to ransom in return for a perfect performance. Though, come to think of it, they’ve been without a Scout Master for a while. Not that we ever crossed paths – my Bluebells would not be seen dead sharing a camp-out with actual Scouts who might pick their nose and change their Instagram filter settings. Surely they’re not going rogue? As the military-straight rows of boys near us, I’m hissing at the girls to get moving, in literally any way possible, but they are mesmerised by the chess board of boyhood stomping our way. There is going to be one epic pile-up now…
‘Boys! To your left! Girls! To the right!’ My Bluebells spring to life and skip to the right-hand side of the road in an instant. They’ve gone from rejects for a girl band audition to some sort of terrifying fascist youth group; matching the boys for pace, getting their arms swinging too, seemingly loving it by the grins they sport.
My own mouth just falls into a slack ‘Eh?!’ as they pass me, slightly dizzy on the kerb by Hazlehurst Suede and Such, our local dusty shoe shop – still proud to never have stocked so much as one pair of ‘training shoes’.
And at the rear, with neatly ironed khaki shorts and grey eyes that could have been made out of flint, comes what must be th
e new Scout Master. He nods and I nod back, changing my dribble-dropping expression to something more coherent. He’s not as old as I thought a Scout Master would be. And he’s a lot hotter.
‘How on Earth do you…?’
But instead of slowing down or stopping or even acknowledging I’ve spoken, he just keeps on going. Right, left, right, left. The rude sod.
Still, the girls are moving again and no bones have been broken, not in my eyeline anyway. That’s a minor success, even if I can’t count it as my own.
I sneak behind the row of shops and through the local graveyard to get to the finishing point without having to lamely walk alongside the Scout Master and his sinister army of children. But I’m not going to save him any embarrassment when I find him. He can’t just nick my troop and then blank me in front of half my neighbourhood. I might be a caretaker, I might own three different mops, but I have my pride.
I’m scanning rear ends around the refreshment table for sharp khaki creases and those steely eyes, but I find Abel’s beaming face instead. ‘Lady!’
‘Hello chappy, give me a cuddle, I really need one.’
Lucy sidles up with two squashes and a frown. ‘For two quid I could have bought my own bottle of squash. What are they fixing the church roof with, gold leaf?’
Abel laughs into his fat little hands. ‘Leaves are green. Silly mummy.’
She sighs. ‘You OK? I lost sight of you after the big girl Jenga you had going on, and then that band of Scout Stormtroopers.’
‘Right? They were weird, weren’t they? Eerily obedient. I don’t trust any child that well behaved.’
Lucy nods as Abel takes a flying leap off a raised gravestone and lands in a bush. ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment. Abel, don’t annoy the dead, please.’
He tears off through the crowd. One which, frustratingly, doesn’t seem to include my Scout Master target or his massive woggle.
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 5