Flip pinches her nose. ‘Um, yes please. This is our media moment, dahling. You want to look wholesome, gorgeous, small-town but not uncivilised. That kind of a look.’
Flip obviously thinks way too much of my wardrobe. I will probably settle for my best cashmere jumper, the one without the moth hole. ‘Right. See you later then, hun? And in case I didn’t make it clear, you are THE best!’
As I race back home for a wash up and a rehearsal of some good sound bites, I pass – of all people – arsing Alex Granger, out for a run in his tech stretchy gear. Annoyingly, he doesn’t look a complete berk in it like most of the male joggers around here – it’s showing off his toned legs and his muscly arms. But even The Suit can’t kill my buzz.
His eyes flick down to my t-shirt as he jogs past and his pace slows, but he’s not having a minute of this day.
‘Do head down to the village,’ I say airily, ‘for some real community spirit.’
Flip’s right. This is our moment. And it feels great.
Chapter 10
There’s nothing so humbling as squeezing your adult-sized, biscuit-padded bum onto a child’s chair, no matter if days before you were part of a local media coup. I’m smooshing my way along the row, my hand-coloured programme clutched in front of me, to the seat Luce has saved.
‘Just in time!’ she whispers. ‘Steve would never have forgiven you if you’d missed his revolving carrot crops. They’re old loo roll tubes that we spent a night paper-maché-ing.’
‘Remind me again why it’s so bad to be single? I just watch box sets and drink wine for kicks, poor old single me.’
‘Ha ha. But you’re not sorry we spent one of our lust-filled nights of frenzy making this lot?’ She points at the red and brown bunting tacked up along the front of the school hall stage. I know just how it’s been created, as Steve talked me through it at great length, with a weird amount of pride. He had pinched some felt from his school stores, a glue gun and garden twine, so that made the ballast of his bunting. Then tails of fake fur were glue-gunned onto the point of each triangle. It was really effective, if a bit cheaty. When I teased him for skipping out on any sewing he merely stated: those who can, do. Those who can’t, glue gun. Fair enough. It looks brilliant and fits right in with the rest of the Fantastic Mr Fox decor around the hall. Masks and signs and sketches, all made by the class.
The audience of parents and children do a collective sssshhhh and shuffle in their seats, as Steve appears from between the thick stage curtains.
I bite my lip, as hard as I can bear, to stop myself from laughing. This is the guy I once memorised ‘Slam Dunk Da Funk’ with, pausing and rewinding a VHSed episode of Top of the Pops until we had the lyrics and dance moves sadly perfect. And now he’s an educator. It’s all a bit ridiculous.
But Luce’s eyes are shining with pride as Steve addresses the tightly packed space and so I do my best to find some awe.
‘Ladies and gentlemen and pupils!’ He claps his hands and then rubs them together, in the way all male teachers mysteriously do. ‘Welcome to Year Five’s production of Fantastic Mr Fox. I hope none of you have food in your pockets because our foxes have incredible noses for sniffing things out.’
And all of a sudden a handful of small children in brown leotards and painted fox masks come slinking down the aisle, sniffing at people’s jackets and eliciting tiny, happy shrieks from little pupils on the way.
‘Before we start the show, I hope you’ve been admiring my lovely fox bunting here.’ He takes a step back. ‘It was made by the Bluebell Bunting Society, who no doubt you’ve all been reading about in the paper today.’ There was a ripple of murmurs around me and a tingle of excitement shot up my spine. ‘If you want to find out more about them, and the great Sunday Fundays at the Hall, where you can do lots of crafty projects like this bunting, come and see me afterwards for a flier.’
Another hand rub, and Steve winked in our direction. ‘Lights please!’
The one spotlight dimmed and a lot of badly concealed whispering could be heard behind the wings. ‘Clara. Clara! First line! Where’s your blummin’ tail?’
* * *
‘It’s at times like these that I remember I should never complain about my job.’ Lucy pulls her loose cardi tightly around her middle, as we huddle by the school’s gates and wait for Steve to come out. If I hadn’t just seen him chase a maverick, bum-wiggling farmer across the stage for ten minutes, I could fool myself that we were 15 and about to go and hang at the park. But we’re 29 and we’re going for a Harvester. Which my 15-year-old self would have been super impressed with and thought pretty posh. Who am I kidding, the current me is salivating at the thought of a mountain of ribs.
It wasn’t a bad show, per se. You’re never going to get a West End chorus at these things, but I think Steve may have been optimistic about the running time. The kids, the audience and the sets were starting to droop at 30 minutes in and at 47 minutes all hell broke loose when Kevin Veevers decided to make his own fun and yell, somewhat existentially I thought, ‘It’s not real, you know. It’s just a boring play! I haven’t even had my tea yet!’
Steve eventually jogs towards us, letting out a lungful of air in a long, exasperated sigh. ‘The usual complaints about not enough solo time for Timothy, but then a lot of questions about the Hall. All good stuff – you might have a packed Sunday Funday this weekend.’
‘I really hope so. I’m kind of counting on it. And hopefully people still read the Shires Bugle, and that might send hundreds of visitors our way. We’ve only got 12 days to go. Now the appeal has been shot down by The Suit, I’ve got to hit that visitor number. Pronto.’
Lucy leans into Steve as he wraps his arm around her middle. It’s a movement so fluid and familiar, I don’t think either of them are aware they’re doing it. ‘I haven’t seen the paper. Was it good coverage?’
‘Well, it just so happens…’ I dig the three pristine, ironed copies of the Bugle out of my hold-all. Mum made me promise to get one copy for her, one copy for me, and one for best. I think she wants to frame it. This hasn’t happened since I won the school prize for Geography in year eight.
Lucy flips it open and takes in the huge photo on the front page. It dominates almost the whole thing: bunting fluttering in the breeze on the high street in the foreground, more bunting and a few bemused faces in the background. ‘Wow. Great headline too, Con!’
Bunting Bomb Hits Hazlehurst! It’s a bit of old school clickbait, but I love it. And Flip is over the moon that her new phrase is taking off. The subheading reads: Local community take over village in protest over Bluebell Hall closure. Why yes, we are taking over. Thank you. We’re kicking butt.
Lucy’s eyes scan further down into the article and she suddenly sucks in her breath and says ‘Ouch!’
‘What?’
‘You named The Suit in your interview? Um, OK. That’s pretty bold.’
I shrug with more confidence than I feel. I had a been a bit hyped up when chatting to the journalist, overcome with the sight of our bunting filling the street and pumped with adrenalin from rushing home and back. She’d asked me what locals could do to get behind us and after I’d said we wanted to see them all at the Hall for one of our excellent events, I felt a nasty twinge of revenge. Like a little red devil on my shoulder, telling me: might as well stick it to the mansplainer, while we have the chance! So I added, ‘And if you feel strongly, as I do, that losing our local heritage for business profits is a crying shame, please do get in contact with Alex Granger at the Hibbert Estate to voice your concerns.’
Steve pumps his fist in the air. ‘Power to the people. Down with the man!’
‘Exactly! I didn’t say he smells or anything. I just pointed out what his role in this is and how people could talk to him.’
‘OK?’ Luce doesn’t look at all convinced. ‘I suppose he is the bad guy. Even if he is just doing his job.’
I shove my hands in my back pockets. ‘And I’m just doing mine.’
> ‘And I’m done with mine for another 10 hours so let’s eat ribs while the sun shines. I need a post-show cider, where none of the parents can see me and find me and ask me about doing Bugsy Sodding Malone again.’ Steve throws his arm along my shoulders and steers us both towards the car.
* * *
There’s an extra boost of energy to the Bunting Society when we next meet, for the first time after the newspaper went out. Not just that we took over the town for the day and made the papers, but that the Village Committee have officially pledged their support for our cause and want us to play a big part in the May Day fete. We’re going to supply the bunting, of course, but also have a tent of our very own, to showcase the wonderful history of the Hall as part of the village and let everyone know what they can come and do there. We’re going to go nuts with the tent’s decoration, naturally, and deck it out with the weirdest and wildest bunting we can think of to really catch the eye. And it couldn’t come at a better time – the May Day fete is just a handful of days away from the deadline and I’m hoping it will give us a boost of attendance to take us over our target. My fingers are so tightly crossed I’m worried they’ll never untangle.
At the start of tonight’s meeting, I declared it a free-for-all and put out my stack of pencils and pads for sketching and brainstorming for the fete display. As everyone gets down to scribbling and drawing, in between sips of tea, Flip is moving around the room, pointing her iPhone at anything and everything she can.
‘How’s it going with the social media domination?’
Flip pauses to fiddle with the silk scarf tied around her lush red hair. ‘Not too shabby, not at all. Content coming along nicely. Helps that we have such gorgeous stitchers!’ She pauses to wink at Susannah who laughs and bats her away. ‘I’m just glad you sweet-talked our student girls into running the Twitter and Facebook accounts. I mean, I thought I had a handle on this stuff but…’
‘Hey,’ I give her a little squeeze on the arm, ‘they were literally born with cries that took up no more than 140 characters – we might as well harness their crazy youth. I’m a Facebook girl, but old school. I mostly lurk these days. But I do know that done right, it can be brilliant for bringing groups together and sharing inspirational stories. So I wanted some experts. It just so happens they’re 17. So we’ll get the great content, they do the good sharing.’
Flip looks uncharacteristically deflated for a brief moment. ‘But even a year ago, in London, I was totally hot on my social media. It just moves so fast. Anyway, I’ve got all these from installing the Bunting Bomb.’ She swipes back and shows me her husband up a ladder against Budgens, looking half asleep as he ties bunting around a hanging basket holder in the dawn light. ‘And then these from when we took it down and recycled it properly.’ With a few more swipes, we’re looking at her man again, but this time gleefully shoving handfuls of bunting into a giant paper recycling bin. ‘With some action shots of bunting business tonight, that gives us a bold start. Oh, I love a good opportunistic campaign!’ She’s recovered her bounce and her grin is so wide it almost smudges her lipstick.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Flip. You are a star. You’ve made this whole thing happen.’
She gives a quick curtesy. ‘A total pleasure, Connie. Total. But I’m just the noisemaker: you made the message for me to spread, remember.’
Being British, I never quite know how to take a compliment so I mutter something about restocking the bobbins and wander off.
Everyone has their heads down over a sketchbook or rummaging in one of our big IKEA bags of fabric offcuts, so with no one to help, I think I might do a quick totalising of our log book. Sunday Funday this weekend should really make the difference, now we’ve had a mention at the school and through the paper.
As I fetch the book from the hallway, I spot that Dom has moved off, to sit alone in a quiet corner. Tonight’s rugby shirt is baggy through being worn almost to death, and his skin is tinged with grey.
‘Hello stranger! No Polly tonight?’
He grunts. ‘No. With ‘friends’ is all I’m told. And the curfew gets ignored too. So I’ve decided not just to sit in and wait like a mug. I’ve come out, take my mind off things. Enjoy myself.’ But the mobile on his lap, which his eyes dart back to every twenty seconds, says otherwise.
A disappearing teen doesn’t sound good, but it’s way beyond my level of experience. ‘Oh. Right. I’m sure she’ll be home bang on time tonight.’
Another grunt.
‘Had any good ideas?’
He turns his empty paper to face me. ‘I’m not a fabrics kind of man, if I’m honest. Precise cutting up, measuring, yes. But creative flair, not on your nelly. Flip’s paper bunting, that’s more my bag. Quick and efficient. I might make some for the restaurant. But I’m not your arty sort. Polly got that from her mother.’ He picks up his phone and presses the button to wake it up. No messages.
I’m suddenly feeling very tongue-tied. How do you jolly someone who’s lost their life partner, the mother of their child? I can do scraped knees and sweeping up biscuit crumbs. But this kind of fix feels so far beyond me I can’t even imagine what it looks like.
‘Polly’s project – how did that go down with Miss Ingram?’
He closely inspects the ceiling. ‘Good, good. Turns out the teacher hadn’t been briefed on Polly’s… background. So she didn’t know when she set the family tree theme just how hard that was for Pol.’
‘And for you.’
‘Well, yes. There’s that.’ He shifts on the hard plastic seat. ‘I didn’t know what to say when she brought it out, the cut up bits of her mum’s stuff. I… it caught me off guard. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful. And Sue would have loved it. Sue. That was my wife’s name.’
I nod. Hoping he’ll go on.
‘I just… I thought I should maybe save all her things, the way they were. For Polly, when she was older. She might want them. And I didn’t want the house to change, not straight away. I wanted Polly to still recognise it as her home.’
I crouch down and sit against the wall by Dom’s chair. ‘It’ll always be her home, because you’re there. It was just me and Mum growing up, and I never felt anything but at home with her. And it wasn’t all tea and crumpets. There were times that were hard and we fell out. But we always came back together.’
‘Really?’ Dom’s face is suddenly lit up with so much hope, it’s like I’ve just shown him the last life jacket on the Titanic. ‘She sometimes goes off all day on a weekend, sometimes she doesn’t get back till late after school. It’s hard when you’re trying to figure out the best way forward on your own.’
I nod.
‘You know that dream where it’s ten minutes before a Physics exam and you haven’t got a pen and all you can remember is two French verbs? Parenting is like that. All the time.’ He gives a half-hearted smile.
I stand up and brush off my jeans. ‘Well, you’re clearly doing a great job. Because that girl is wonderful. That idea she had about the art therapy class? That’s was so selfless and kind and mature. I was blown away. She’s a credit to you. And I personally love a bit of feistiness in a teenage girl. Shows they’ll be able to fend for themselves in life.’
Dom fiddles with his phone again. ‘Hmm.’ I think he is also very British about accepting compliments.
‘I’m going to get you a tea and we’re going to put your talents to better use. We’ll need some signage printed for the tent. Do you know anyone who could do that on the cheap?
‘Actually, yes. I do know a bloke. I’ll give him a ring.’
‘Brilli—’
I’m cut off by a shrill scream. Oh god. Someone’s caught a major artery with the pinking shears.
‘Conniiiiiiiiie!’ Flip yells, and rushes over, Susannah hot on her heels with a shocked look. ‘It’s big… It’s… Oh my god!’
I grab her by the forearms. ‘Is anyone bleeding out?!’
‘No, no, but we are on fire!’
&nbs
p; ‘Who! Who’s on fire?!’
‘The campaign. I’ve just had an email from the Mirror. They want to pick up the regional story, with more colour. Everyone needs good news stories right now. I’ve told them to come to the May Day fete. Eeeeep!’ She bounces on the spot, round and round in circles.
Susannah claps behind her. ‘It’s so wonderful! A national newspaper, no less! I’m going to call your mum.’ Flip and I dance about together before spreading the news to the rest of the society.
‘This is it, people!’ I shout happily. ‘Bluebell Hall is on the up! We need bunting like there’s no tomorrow!’
Chapter 11
The Bluebells all ooohed and aaaahed at my paint job in the hall at the last meeting but tonight we’re moving outside, onto the scrubby patch of ground behind the building. With everything that’s been going on, I perhaps haven’t been the most attentive Bloom Mistress. One of our meetings recently was themed ‘modern journalism’ and I got them comparing a copy of Heat to the home page of BuzzFeed. For 90 minutes, with some squash for kicks.
But now we seem to be on a high with our campaign and everything is about nailing the perfect May Day fete, just nine days away, so I really do need to catch up with my girls and their part of the day – maypole dancing. Yup, skipping round a log with some gaudy ribbons. It’s still happening in this day and age. And I’m perpetrating it.
I always felt like a prat doing maypole dances when I was a Bluebell but Gran wouldn’t hear of us moving on to something different. Even the mention of Scottish Country dancing instead had her tsking and rolling her eyes. To be fair, she used to play the accordion for us herself and the memory of her elbows and shoulders swinging back and forth, a massive grin plastered on her wrinkly face, is still one of my most vivid childhood memories. So I’m sticking firmly in the past with Gran on this one.
We don’t get the actual pole out to practise with (I’m not the Incredible Caretaker. I can barely lift the old cassette player out of its box, let alone a trussed up caber) but we have the crown of ribbons from the top, and that sits on a traffic cone while I hit play on my crunchy-sounding tape of accordion music. Some of the girls here have a few May Day fetes behind them and know the drill of keeping up with the pace of the song but not overtaking anyone in a flush of excitement and bodging up the pattern. Veronica is my maypole Jedi Knight. If I ever pause while yelling out instructions, she calmly takes up where I left off. ‘Pass on your left, skip back twice, and around.’ And all the Bluebells fall into a perfectly synchronised jig. Sometimes I think I should just abdicate and make her Bloom Mistress right now, before she cuts me in half with a lightsaber.
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 10