The Bluebell Bunting Society

by The Bluebell Bunting Society (retail) (epub)

  His shoes click clack on the parquet as he leaves. ‘Nice paint job,’ echoes back from the front door. But with the echo, I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

  Chapter 9

  Even in the tranquil setting of Crusty’s, with teacups gently chinking in the background and a bready steam buffeting the shop window, I am still roaring with rage inside my head. There are only three little tables in the front of the bakery, I think more for a cosy effect than to house lots of customers, but we’ve pulled them all together for an emergency Bunting Society summit. Gran’s sewing basket is in the middle of the table, as inspiration, with a length of our new bunting tying the lid down. Still, a few odds and ends are threatening to burst out.

  Pausing only to lick scone crumbs from my lips, I’ve painted the full picture of my run-in with Alex. Who I call The Suit, in my best withering voice.

  ‘And then he just ran away! With some nasty little comment about my painting skills.’

  Susannah gasps.

  ‘I mean, it sounded nasty. What he said. The way he said it was unpleasant. I’m pretty sure. But the long and short of it is: no extension, guys. Just 15 days until we have to submit our records to save Bluebell Hall – and although we’ve been pulling out the stops to get those numbers up, we’re still a way off. We need to pull the stops out of the stops now. We need to be utterly stop-less. No idea is too mad for me. I’ll try anything!’ I cram another half of scone into my mouth, realising too late it was Lucy’s. She kicks me under the table.

  ‘We need more people to know just how serious the situation is. We need our message out there, with the media. Local for starters.’ Flip waves her hand at the high street through the shop window, her royal blue nails flashing in the spring sunlight.

  ‘So, in your expert opinion, Flip, how do we do that? How do we get the media to sit up and take notice?’

  She drums her fingers against her chin, dislodging a few bun crumbs at the same time. ‘Pictures speak a thousand words. It’s a cliche but for a reason. If you can give them an eye-catching photo op that will make a blinding first page, then the hard work is all done for them. Bish bash bosh.’

  Luce looks mournfully at her empty plate. ‘Shame the damp patches at Bluebell Hall aren’t more attractive. Maybe one has the image of Ant and Dec in it, and we could sell tickets to the miracle?’

  I pat her hand. ‘Let’s keep praying for that to happen. But in the meantime, I think we probably need a photo op to happen away from the Hall for now, somewhere else in the village that reflects the heart of the community.’

  Susannah points her teaspoon in my direction. ‘The bunting all strung up at the fete would be stunning, and absolutely the heart of the village.’

  ‘But too late – that’s only a few days before the deadline and we need wheels in motion before then.’ Flip turns out her bottom lip. ‘We need something that gets people out of their seats, a water cooler moment. And soon.’

  A flashback comes to me: temping in Manchester and Svetlana from accounts pulling me to the window because there was a flash mob dancing about in the street below. We’d abandoned our spreadsheets and joined the crowd gawping and clapping to the beat. That had been about toilet cleaner, it turned out (playing ‘Flash’ by Queen should have been our first clue) but the fact is, it’s stuck in my mind all this time. Effective.

  Shame that my track record of organising public dance routines is not exactly flawless. And how would you dance about bunting? That feels a bit too bonkers, even for us. No, the bunting has to show itself off. It has to be the star of the show.

  ‘Guys, I might have an idea. It could work, or it could be OTT, that’s the thing.’

  Flip beams. ‘In PR, OTT is our blood type. Go Las Vegas OTT. Go Elton at Vegas OTT. With bells on, feather boas if you can.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief because that’s pretty much what I’m thinking. I will need a bit of time to flesh it out, then I’ll spill.’

  She fist bumps me. ‘Brill! I’ll be on email tonight when the kids are in bed.’

  ‘Kids should be one of our angles, you know,’ Susannah muses. ‘To pull the local heartstrings. I doubt most of the parents at the school know that if the Hall goes, so do the Bluebells and an important social and educational activity for their girls.’ She takes a decisive gulp of her Earl Grey.

  I’m not sure spending 90 minutes with me a week can be described as socially or educationally stimulating, but I do let the girls debate their own cultural issues (Beyoncé: better with or without Jay Z?) and answer their questions about the world truthfully and openly (But why are boys SO awful?).

  Lucy taps her fingers against her glass. ‘We have our redheaded Adonis in the system.’

  I shake my head, confused.

  ‘Steve!’

  ‘Oh god, Luce, please.’

  ‘Horses for courses. But maybe there’s a way we could get some bunting into the school. If Steve could use it for a class project, that would be a way of getting parents more informed.’ She grabs Gran’s sewing bits with both hands in a snap move. ‘Yes! Fantastic Mr Fox!’ She pulls out a strip of leftover fake fur. ‘The kids could make Fox bunting for the play! Steve would love it. The fur could be little dangling tails.’

  I tick off on my fingers. ‘So, media. Parents. Who else?’

  ‘I’m going to butter up Malcolm at the library. As a fellow threatened building, he should get behind us more. Maybe a history night there next week, talking through the village’s long record of charitable patrons, and we could end with a walk up to the Hall and examining Hibbert’s memorial.’

  ‘Brill! I am loving these ideas, guys. Just kicking myself I didn’t hit on them earlier.’

  ‘You weren’t faced with closure in two weeks’ time, earlier.’ Flip pats my shoulder. ‘There’s nothing like a deadline to really spur on creativity.’

  We’ve been jabbering back and forth since we got here, but so far Dom and Polly have kept to their Chelsea buns and not much else.

  Polly lets out a tiny ‘Um?’

  ‘Yes, Pol?’

  ‘I don’t know if this is what you’re after… Or if it will make that much difference…’

  ‘All ideas are good ideas!’ Flip flashes her a double thumbs up.

  Polly fiddles with a length of her dark red hair. ‘I’ve kind of used bunting in this art project, about family trees. Connie helped me, actually. And I liked… It was good for me to use the sewing and stuff to put some feelings out there. Into the world. So I wondered if it might help others too?’ She’s now fully pink after speaking so long with all eyes on her and if it wasn’t crushingly uncool, I’d hug this gorgeous, nervous teen, right down to her marrow.

  ‘Like an art therapy group?’ Susannah asks.

  ‘Suppose.’ Polly’s most likely used her quota of words for the month so we might not get more out of her. I wonder if visual aids might help.

  ‘Did you bring it with you, your project?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She scrabbles in a micro backpack stuffed with tissues and lip balms and slowly pulls out a jumble of bunting triangles. When she holds them up properly and the design unfurls down into an upside-down triangle, I can see just what a beautiful thing she’s made.

  It’s darker triangles of denim and green cord making the top row of five pennants – and on four of them, with a plain one in the middle, she’s embroidered the names of her grandparents. Then the three pennants sewn below those have her parents’ names and an ampersand sewn on artfully against fabrics of floral prints and a golden yellow velvet. And the bottom, a single triangle is a full-bodied purple with Polly Dexter sewn onto it in an old style tattoo font. Her choices of materials and lettering reflect the generations of people she is capturing in her very unique family tree. If Miss Ingram doesn’t give her an A and five gold stars, I’ll be having words.

  ‘You can use things that mean something. To, like, preserve them forever but in a way that makes you feel OK about it. So this is…’

 
; Her finger wobbles at the floral material and her voice peters out.

  ‘Your mum’s bedspread.’ Dom finishes for her. ‘I wondered where that had gone. And her velvet jacket for best. Well.’ He thickly swallows a mouthful of bun and washes it down with tea.

  There is a long silence. Polly’s eyes are glued to Dom like a car accident – she’s scared but she’s can’t help wanting to see how he’s going to react.

  React, Dom, react! You daft man! I’m screaming at him in my head. Show this girl she’s brave and talented, even if it’s hard!

  I see Lucy’s hands grip the arms of her seat. She must be bursting to yell the same.

  ‘Well,’ he rubs a hand over his stubble, ‘well, funny kind of family tree, eh?’ His light laugh, maybe an attempt to be jovial, lands very heavily. Polly shuts her eyes, hard, for a beat.

  ‘Thanks.’ She stuffs the artwork back in her bag in brutal shoves.

  ‘I, for one, love your piece. And I am all for an art therapy group,’ Susannah finally says, breaking the awkward tension. ‘I think it would help so many of my neighbours, who have lost loved ones. Or are losing their memories. We just won’t tell the care workers exactly where the class is. It won’t hurt this one time to flaunt a little health and safety.’

  ‘Susannah, you minx!’ I laugh, just as Flip gives a little cackle, and the tension is gone. ‘Is this how you do it?’ Susannah holds up her knuckles and I realise she’s waiting for a fist bump.

  ‘Sounds like we’ve all got lots to do. Pol, I love the art therapy idea. It’s a total winner and your family tree will be the perfect example of sewing something that has real meaning. You know, when I was reading up on craft blogs I came across this study that says using your fingers for fine sewing work actually helps maintain a healthy, working brain? So you would be doing a world of good for the village, Polly. We’ll get some fliers going, pick a date for the first class very soon. OK? Let’s finish our scones, and get cracking. You know where I’ll be if you need me!’

  * * *

  Kidnapping is a strong word. I mean, it’s a proper crime, I get that, but sometimes a bit of light kidnapping for a good cause isn’t so bad. That’s what I’ll tell my priest. Or possibly my barrister.

  It was easy enough to crash the Village Committee meeting – they are open to locals, so we can all vote on the theme of this year’s Christmas lights and the May Day Queen election and such. What was trickier was politely cornering the chairman Brian Hicks and persuading him there was some appalling local graffiti that needed his attention, and to follow me straight away.

  ‘At the Hall?’ he’d spluttered. ‘That’s appalling! I mean, it’s not really my remit, but it says ‘Hazlehurst Sucks’ you say? It must be those Latimer scoundrels. Just because they had their village of the year 2009 rosette overturned by an anonymous source exposing their use of fake flowers!’ He pulled at his collar with one finger. Brian, I thought, you’re no stranger to an underhand tactic yourself.

  I frog-marched him towards the Hall from the church, wringing my hands at what a tragedy it was, and whatever was I to do. If this caretaking lark did fall through, I could always take a run at Hollyoaks.

  But Brian isn’t met by a wall of acid green scrawl and neighbourhood hate speech. When he pokes his red face into the Hall he sees a glorious web of freshly made bunting, strung back and forth from the rafters. Greens and yellows, soft purples and punchy reds. The crisp zigzag of the sheared fabric looks neat and precise, the playful, artful use of patterns and tones brings in energy and fun on top. If I didn’t know better I would have said it was a beautiful Liberty’s display or the launch of a new yacht. But I do know better: it’s Bluebell Hall in a whole new light.

  ‘Good gracious!’

  ‘Mr Hicks, do forgive my little pantomime there, but on behalf of the Bluebell Bunting Society, may I gift to your committee almost 550 metres of bespoke bunting for the May Day fete.’ At the last minute I pull myself back from a full on curtesy.

  He lets out a wheeze of a breath. I’m not sure if he’s dead impressed or just nearly dead from the speed walking here. ‘Really? Is that a real thing, then? A bunting society.’

  ‘It is now!’ I breeze on. ‘Formed out of necessity – because Bluebell Hall is under threat from corporate development. I’m not sure what your stance is on big businesses coming into the village, erasing our history, Mr Hicks?’

  ‘Oof, yes, no. Awful. Worse than graffiti!’

  ‘Well, let me fill you in on the full story. Perhaps over a cup of tea and custard cream?’

  * * *

  After my success at swamping the Committee chairman with coordinated fabrics and impassioned pleas for help, I slept like a baby. A big, drooling baby who lurches awake when the alarm goes off at 6 a.m. Yes, I could do with a lot more sleep. But Flip and I are on a dawn mission.

  I pull on jeans and my Stone Roses t-shirt, the first thing to hand but sadly also the first thing on top of some mouldy smelling washing, run a hand through my lanky bob and bolt. Luckily no one will see but Flip. Secrecy is key.

  When I reach the top of the high street after a stomach-churning jog, I take one long gulp of air. Not just because of the strain of the jog on my out-of-shape body, but because the village I knew is unrecognisable for the first time in my life.

  The shops here have sustained me through all the funny little stages of my development – wasting pocket money on notepads and stickers in the stationer’s as a primary school kid, moving on to nail varnishes in Mr Singh’s pharmacy when hormones finally hit. The pond tucked behind the shops, where we’d go as fifteen-year-olds with our first boyfriends, to hold hands and talk about nothing and do nothing, then endlessly analyse the nothing with our mates later. The ancient church with its toffee-box-perfect arch of roses is where I was christened and where my mum hopes (and hopes and hopes) I’ll get married one day. I’ll give it to her: the mossy stones and well-kept gardens would make for great photos. But our vicar – so ancient he might as well be moss-covered too – once caught me in my first ‘over-the-shirt fumble’ moment in the bushes by the pond, so I’m not sure I could look him in the eye and promise to honour anything with my body, to be honest.

  It’s a great village. It has pretty much everything you need, if your needs aren’t too extravagant. No holding your breath for a sushi bar, OK? It’s always given me the things I need anyway. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

  Except to make one addition, maybe. One not so small, glorious, unmissable addition. The one that makes me take that big gulp of air because looking down at our high street, I can see Flip has got a head start on me.

  I’ve gone through the cupboard, into Narnia. Bunting Narnia. From the top of the hill, all I can see is bunting. Black and white bunting from lamppost to lamppost. Round litter bins and post boxes and traffic cones. Wrapped around and around and around again the oak trees by the pub. Wound through the railings by the pedestrian crossing. Across the Budgens awning. I can see Doreen trying to bring the shutter up but it’s jammed. With bunting. It’s like the bunting version of ivy, and someone’s used an awful lot of fertiliser. Now this is a water cooler moment!

  I stride to the first length of it, around the railings by the dog groomer’s, Pet Power, and reach out my hand. It’s a new form of bunting for us, not exactly durable but quick and cheap – both high priorities in our situation. Paper. So it hasn’t been sewn, but stapled. And the paper it’s been cut from says SAVE BLUEBELL HALL! over and over in big bold type, its message clear and unapologetic. Flip and I had thrashed the idea out over email when I’d shared that I wanted to take over the village with bunting in the way a flash mob takes over a train station. She instantly sent me a million images of yarn bombs and from there our bonkers but unmissable takeover began.

  Flip said she’d produce all the bunting with her kids. A perfect rainy day project, plus teaching them all about the importance and power of community activism. I was imagining crayon-coloured triangles, roughly cut fro
m newspaper and cereal boxes, but this is actually a beautiful art installation.

  I leg it down to the library, where we had planned to meet. Flip is sitting on top of a litter bin, swinging her legs. The picture of innocence, bar the stapler and Sellotape in her hands. ‘Don’t be cross,’ she grins sheepishly, ‘but I just couldn’t sleep, so I dragged Him Indoors out of bed at 4 a.m, left a note for the teen that she was in charge when they woke up, and we got a head start.’

  I squeeze her in a death-grip hug. ‘You are a Wonder Woman! Anything left to do, at all?!’

  She surveys the street. ‘Um, not really. Hubby’s gone to get coffee from the garage, if you want one?’

  I shake my head. ‘This is… This is SO amazing. Better than I could have ever imagined. You’re a legend!’

  ‘You lay it out for me to play it out, boss lady.’ She shrugs her shoulders happily. ‘We PRs can spread the message, all right, but we don’t make it. This was your baby. I just delivered it!’ She instantly shivers. ‘Urgh, I regret that metaphor.’

  ‘Me too. But anyway, let’s start spreading this particular message, shall we? I know a few peeps who will go especially bananas.’

  I dig my phone out of my back pocket and send a message to the WhatsApp group: If you go down to the shops today, you’re sure of a big surprise…

  What?! Luce pings back.

  I passed it on my way to work! Thumbs up, replies Dom.

  Flip has Bunting Bombed the village! Come see! Xxx

  ‘I want you to mention in the interview that they should trademark that phrase to me, by the way,’ Flip says, after reading over my shoulder.

  I frown. ‘Interview?’

  ‘I just sent a picture over to the local press. They’ll be here at 8 a.m.!’

  ‘Oh my god, really?! You beauty!’ Our joint squeals must have woken up half of Hazlehurst. A thought makes me pull back.

  ‘Christ, better wash my hair and put some non-smelly clothes on.’