Mum mimes jabbing me with her needle. ‘Shush. Don’t you dare. I remember when you had that denim jacket and you embroidered lovely things on it. What were you, 11? Gran helped you with it and you got your handicrafts badge.’
I press my hand to my mouth. I hadn’t thought of that jacket in a decade. But back then it was my pride and joy. A simple New Look number, I’d bought it with my pocket money then Gran had helped me out with haberdashery supplies: embroidery floss, a special transfer pen and a few sequinned patches. She helped me plan out the design, draw it onto baking parchment with the pen then give it a good iron so the drawing went onto the denim. Then it was up to me and three weeks of feverish sewing by my desk lamp to complete it. There were huge wonky sunflowers all over the back, a row of Take That symbols along the bottom hem and the sequinny butterflies floating up the right side of the jacket. God, it was a mess. But I loved it.
‘I wonder if it’s in the loft somewhere? Shame I stopped being a size eight a long time ago.’
Mum’s eyes mist over and she smiles down into the triangle stencil she’s cutting. ‘Your Gran was so proud of how hard you worked on it. She told me we should send you to a fashion school.’
‘Me?! Me, who once wore a lime green Lycra top with muddy brown cords to a school disco?’
Mum laughs, but not unkindly. ‘She thought you could do anything. She said you had rightly inherited the female Duncan genes that made you an unstoppable one-man-band.’ She nods decisively, as if these were actual genes recently mapped by scientists in white coats and goggles.
Not so much a one-man-band as a no man’s land when it comes to my love life, Gran, I thought as Mum pushed the box of material my way. Something about the conversation I’d had with Flip at the pub (well, the heated bit of it, anyway) had stirred up a lot of memories of Dell. And when I pushed those aside, it left me with the realisation that he was probably the last guy I’d gone out with. And that was four years ago. Maybe once the Hall was safe and sound, I could get one of the A-Level girls to talk me through Tinder. Slowly. But that was definitely a topic for another time. Not one to be shared with my mum over pin cushions.
I found a chintzy print in a soft, powdery blue. ‘Bluebells. Maybe I can copy a picture off my phone. Seeing as my awful mother didn’t send me to fashion school so now I’m hopeless at drawing. Chuh.’
‘Oh, it’s always the mother’s fault,’ Mum says with mock weariness and catches Susannah’s eye. They nod in unison, then Susannah goes back to stitching and nattering with two of the ladies from her retirement village. Their work looks enviably neat.
I decide on stitching the word Bluebells on the chintzy fabric as actually sketching the flower seems a bit beyond me and it could easily be confused for a bunch of grapes in my inexpert hands. Though I’m sure, to someone out there, grapes mean happiness. But I’d always rather have the Pringles.
The next thing I know, I’m chaining stitching round the second ‘b’ without even realising a minute has gone by, let alone twenty. For the first time in weeks, my brain hasn’t been buzzing and twitching with new worries or ideas, nothing about the past or the future is troubling me, it has just happily sat here as I threaded my needle, softly pushing the point in and out, in and out, following the lines of my task. This stuff works!
As I surface slowly from my sewing meditation and look around me, I can see the huddle of faces, bent over notebooks or sewing hoops. Each face wears a matching look of inner calm and utter tranquility. And with my brain now operating at a healthy speed, I can take stock of what’s really going on here. Yes, new visitors have been clocked up tonight and that makes me happy. But more than that, much more, is that we are using this Hall for exactly the purpose it was built for: the village is coming together, sharing skills, sharing problems. Right here, surrounded by stray buttons and tangles of ribbon, we’ve made a little Hazlehurst Eden and it’s for anyone who wants to join in. No money needed, no status, no qualifications. This is why Hibbs built up this Hall and this is why I’m going to fight for it.
Chapter 13
‘Mmm, I love the smell of poster paint in the morning!’ Steve stands with his hands on his hips, a smudge of blue on the seat of his sandy-coloured cords. Seeing as he’s at the fete today in a school capacity, he’s in full-on respectable teacher uniform.
There is so much to get done before the fete kicks off at ten, I’d persuaded Steve and Luce (and Abel) to make a sort of picnic breakfast out of it as we got our bits and pieces together in the park. I guess I might have painted a rosy Famous Five type picture, when in fact I’ve brought Sainsbury’s croissants and a flask of tea that’s getting that weird metallic taste. And I forgot the blanket, so our legs are a bit wet.
Steve and his family troupe are painting big signs for the Hall’s tent: Make Your Own Bunting Here! Read About Local History! Join The Bluebells! And then what I think is a yellow dinosaur dancing with a pig. That’s from Abel. We’re just letting him go free range for a bit.
I’m getting to grips with the gazebo. Susannah managed to borrow it from her retirement home but neglected to mention it had about 700 pole pieces and no instructions, just random red triangles and blue squares on the end of things. What makes trying to stupidly shove one pole into the end of another pole when it clearly doesn’t feel like it even worse, is that all around me other tents and awnings are popping up in mere seconds, marking the perimeter of the fete.
I huffily kick at the peg bag and then try not to squeal as my toes take the impact. Stupid stupid stupid.
‘It’s fine to ask for help,’ Steve says in a calm voice, splodging a smiley face on some white card. ‘I’m sure one of those other tent guys could give it a go with you.’
I bat the idea away with my free hand, the one not clutching four different metal poles. ‘I’m fine. I can do it.’
‘Getting help is not the same as not being able to do it. It’s just sensible. Because according to your schedule, you wanted this thing up by now and half the bunting in place. But it’s your call.’ He rubs at his chin. I’m not going to tell him he’s just smooshed bright red paint into his stubble. He can find out when his pupils arrive.
‘Morning!’ Brian, the Village Committee chairman, bounds over, his bum bag slapping against his waterproof trousers. ‘Does anyone need a hand?’
Without catching Steve’s eye, because I know it will be smug, I let the poles clatter to my feet. ‘Me please.’
It’s one of those confusing bright but cloudy days, where you want to squint because of the sharp light but to put your sunglasses on would look a bit daft, there not being any visible sun or anything. But I think that’s just about perfect for a fete – not too hot, not too cold, perfect mooching weather to take in a dog show, waste a fiver on the tombola to win some Radox, and even absorb some local history with a social crusade on the side.
The Bunting Society has outdone itself: the inside of our gazebo is not so much Middle England dream as Middle Eastern harem – the bunting is swagged along the walls, back and forth along the ceiling, tucked in around the poles. There are bright colours, bold patterns, clashes of beautiful things, artfully done. We’ve got pennants made of felt with fuzzy felt decorations, we’ve got knitted and crocheted pennants, and we’ve even got a string of the paper bunting left over from our takeover of the village. The Sew Chill group have their finished charity quilt pinned up – it really is an object of happiness; amazing that it came together in a week – and are doing a roaring trade with the raffle tickets to win it. It’s like being in a lush greenhouse where all the vines and creepers and flowers are actually made out of fabric and bias binding and string. I love it. I’m buzzing with pride.
My buzz helps me sidestep any weirdness with Flip when she arrives. I never pegged her as a ‘Settle down, young lady’ type but her questioning the other night really rankled me. OK, I might not have a grand life plan. But who said I have to? And anyway, today is not about that: today is about selling the back legs off the Hal
l to anyone who’ll listen. Including the press. So I’m putting any awkwardness from that drink to the back of our mind as we tackle the matter at hand.
‘Ready?’ She asks gingerly, putting down a wicker basket behind our table.
I give a double thumbs up – the international hand gesture for ultimate confidence. ‘What’s in the basket?’
‘Flapjacks. Oat and raisin cookies. Diet Coke. Fuel to keep us going all day long!’ She rocks back and forth on her emerald green ballet shoes. ‘What time do the Bluebells go on? Gurpreet told me, but then she went into the plot of Frozen in a lot of detail and I got sidetracked.’
My eyes wander to the performance area smack bang in the middle of the park. ‘Noon. The big show.’ I grimace.
‘They’ll be fine!’
‘Probably. I’m actually more nervous about the maypole than the Hall, to be honest. I know people won’t be able to help but love what we’ve got going on here. But whether we’ll keep the locals entertained with fifteen minutes of knotted up ribbons is another matter. Next year, I’m going to blow the budget and get a live accordion player. Actually, I’m going to start rounding them up. That could take a good hour, especially if the doughnut stall has opened. Are you OK here? Give me a bell if the journalist turns up.’
‘Will do. Have fun!’
* * *
Luce has been politely swallowing her hysteria as I take the Bluebells through an improvised warm-up. It’s based on what I can remember from a Geordie Shore exercise DVD Steve gave me as a gag gift and a Pilates class that Mum and I went to twice, three years ago. It’s a disturbing mix, I’ll admit.
‘Now stretch your hands up, right up, and go on to your toes. That’s it! Now, drop that and… lunge. Big lunge. Feel your bum and core getting a good stretch.’
There’s a giggle at the back from Bethany.
‘Now Bluebells, do you all remember the steps? I’m not looking at anyone. Gurpreet, darling, I’m not looking at you.’
‘Oh oh oh, Miss!’ Gurpreet waves her arms wildly like she’s got all the answers to the SATs tucked into her knickers. ‘I found a new remembering trick, see?’ There’s a little green leaf tucked into her left shoelaces. ‘When you leave somewhere, you have left. See? So the leaf means left!’
I squeeze her shoulder. ‘Genius! Latin ballroom, here you come. Now, girls, it’s ten to, so we’re going to walk in a nice orderly line over to the arena to wait for the announcer to say we’re going to dance. Then the music will start and I’ll give the sign to start.’
Veronica has her arms behind her back at the front of the group. ‘And what is the sign to start?’
‘I’ll say “start”.’ She rolls her eyes. The only eight-year-old I know who has no time for silliness. She’s probably silently working out a Middle Eastern peace agreement while I’m bleating on about securely tied shoelaces and smiling to the crowd.
I lead the girls away from the grass behind our tent to the arena. I’m so glad we have warmed up because what’s before me is a perfect West Side Story moment: Alex, with his gang of mini uniformed idiots, and me with my prancing Bluebells.
‘Girls, take your places. I’ll be right back after I’ve had a word with The Su— the Scout Master.’
‘Oooooooh!’ say all the Bluebells, bar Veronica.
I see Alex point his troupe in the same direction. They’re on after us with some lame camp building demonstration. Yawn. Give me chirpy country music and a gigantic pole any day. He’s coming my way. In his pressed uniform. Damn. I so wanted to storm up to him, to look as intimidating as I can muster.
‘Mistress Bloom.’ Sarky git.
‘Scout Master. How are you?’
‘Very we—’
‘Yes, actually, what I wanted to say to you, is please stop filling the young minds of this village with tosh.’
‘Sorry?’ He shoves his hands in his khaki shorts. They are ridiculous. And make me very happy. Even his toned legs poking out the bottom can’t distract from how stupid little boy shorts are on a grown man.
I lace my fingers together. ‘You’ve told the Scouts that the Hall is going to be torn down. That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? And I might add: over my dead body. So keep your nonsense to yourself and keep busy with dib dibs and getting to sleep at night knowing you professionally sell off beloved landmarks. Because you really should know that we—’
My Hillary-Clinton-worthy rant is interrupted by a tug at my t-shirt and a tearful Veronica. ‘The boys…’ she hiccups, ‘they’re being so mean.’
‘What are they doing, love?’
‘They saying we’re… we’re pole dancers… and strippers!’
‘WHAT!’ I bellow, spinning on my heels. I can see two Scouts faux-twerking in front of a group of sobbing Bluebells. The rest of the boys are laughing and jeering, bar a few pale-faced conscientious objectors at the back. But before I can do my best Storm from X-Men impression and rain some fury down on these little arses, Alex has beaten me to it and is striding off at a lightning speed. Maybe to get in first and get their stories straight. Typical.
I jog after him and flinch when he starts shouting. ‘Fall in line! Never, ever have I heard of such atrocious behaviour. Unacceptable! Utterly unacceptable! You have shown yourselves up, Scouts. You have been rude, discourteous and… I’m so disappointed. That’s it – I’m cancelling our display.’
The faint mewls of protest are met with a glare from Alex. Wow, when he goes for it, he goes for it. I wouldn’t like to take the last Kit Kat in his snack drawer.
I’m still mid-storm, so I end up standing just behind him. ‘And what would you like to add, Mistress Bloom?’
‘Oh. Only that I agree completely with you, Scout Master. I’ve never seen anything like it in nearly 30 years of living in Hazlehurst. I’m appalled. And I’ll certainly be talking to Mrs Simmons at your school about it.’ I don’t care that I sound like someone’s maiden aunt, I am not letting these little misogynists in the making get away without a lesson in respect.
‘Now you can all go and find your parents and explain just why they won’t be watching you erect a tent at 12.30. GO!’ he yells, when they keep standing, dumbstruck.
With this 14 young pups disperse, tails dragging behind them.
‘I’m sorry, ladies.’ Alex addresses my troupe. ‘It shouldn’t have happened and it certainly won’t happen again. Don’t suppose you could use any help today, could you? Someone to bring you orange slices at half time?’
The girls laugh, their tears and tensions slowly slipping away. Veronica wipes the back of her hand under her eyes. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We just keep going. But you could press play on the tape deck, thank you.’
Alex salutes her. ‘It would be an honour to serve the mighty Bluebells.’
‘Right, OK, girls. Time to go. Everyone look for your families, give them a big smile. If you forget what to do, yell at Veronica. But you won’t, because you’ll be fine!’
My girls really pull it out of the bag, considering the drama they’ve endured just minutes before doing their do si dos and backwards turns. Gurpreet is picture-perfect, even managing to wave at her mum and dad without letting go of her ribbon. As the last wheeze of the music crackles through the speakers, we have a beautiful woven pattern down the pole and the audience of villagers break out into loud, spontaneous applause. What more could you want from your average maypole dance?
I’m beaming with pride as the girls file out neatly and Alex returns with the boom box.
‘Impressive.’ He nods. ‘And I am sorry about before. I’ve got a few hard nuts, with some problems, and they lead the others astray. But they’re going to find next week’s meeting about feminism really instructive.’
I splutter out a laugh. I can’t help it.
‘What?’
‘You’re going to do feminism? With the Scouts?’
‘Yes.’ Alex blinks and shrinks back a little, like I’d just pinched him somewhere soft. ‘Why, is that weird? It’s not
just women that can be feminists, you know.’ I’m about to muster a reply to say that Of course I know men can be feminists, thank you very much, capitalist swine, when he adjusts his toggle and looks edgy. ‘Ah, one of the hard nut dads is looking for me, I can see. This will be fun. I’ll swing by the tent later, say hello. It looks really impressive.’
And at that I am truly gobsmacked into silence. He’s impressed? With me? And my attempts to derail him?
Eh?
Lucy, Steve and I are taking a super speedy sandwich break. Well, it’s not so much a break as standing a few paces away from the action and shoving panini down our necks. There is a frenzy of colouring in going on at our bunting crafts table. Steve took a free Mindfulness Colouring sheet the school was sent and photocopied it in a triangle shape. So now the local kids, and a few stressed-looking grown ups, are getting busy with the crayons to colour and create their own bunting. Susannah is currently supervising the stapling of each bit onto the string, but when I’ve polished off this ham and cheese toastie I’ll relieve her. She’s been grafting today.
We’re serenaded by my little choir singing ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ and it’s probably one of the most bonkers moments of my life. As I see a mum and her two boys finish their scribbling and get up to leave, I thrust a leaflet at her with greasy paws. ‘Funday Monday, come and join us at the Hall!’ I hope I communicated some energy and happiness through my gobful of lunch.
‘Nice work,’ Lucy says as she wipes her mouth and chucks her paper plate in the bin. ‘God, there’s such a great vibe today. I think we’re going to do this!’ She gives an air punch and Stevie shakes his head in joyful embarrassment.
‘It has all gone swimmingly, apart from The Suit exploding in the middle of the field. Super weird. What was that about?’ Steve turns to me.
‘Oh, some Scouts being little nob— um, ne’er-do-wells.’ Abel rushes past my legs, flapping two bunting triangles like pterodactyl wings and squawking. ‘He was actually pretty good about putting them right.’
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 12