‘It’s a bit more than that! The roof caved in!’
Susannah nods. ‘It did. And it’s awful. But the way you reacted… it made me think that perhaps it’s not healthy to have just one thing in your life. Even if you truly love it. We can treasure those important things, but it shouldn’t stop us looking for more, for new passions.’
I get up and rub away invisible crumbs from my lap, to avoid her eyes. ‘Yes, well… it’s been on my mind recently. Where I’d go, beyond the Hall. And now I guess I don’t have any choice but to find the answer. As rubbish as it feels.’
Susannah lets out a long sigh. ‘Your Gran was my best friend. I miss her everyday. She loved you so ferociously. She wanted you to have the best in life, and she wanted you to live it to the full. I’m not sure being tied like this to the village, teaching girls to maypole, visiting old folks with your time off, I’m not sure that’s what she would have pictured.’
And I know she’s right. And this feels so much worse than the roof.
After quickly clearing my throat, I move straight back towards the door. ‘Disappointing Gran was the last thing I ever wanted. Must get going. Bye.’
Chapter 16
I’ve always found that by hanging out with kids that you somehow, magically, borrow a bit of their energy and enthusiasm. Sort of like the film Cocoon, but not so creepy and with fewer perms.
An evening with the Bluebells and I’m usually whistling some little Bieber tune and jigging about as I’m stacking chairs and throwing away Mini Cheddars packets at the end of the night. But I’m making my way to the first Bluebell meeting ever to be held outside of Bluebell Hall like my trainers are full of lead and my horoscope just read ‘DOOM’ this morning. It’s been a shower of a week, a very bad cover of the Craig David classic: discovered the Hall was a wreck on Sunday, felt like a loser on Monday, futile job searches on Tuesday, and now I’m at a Scout hut and very much not about to chill with the person there.
As I push open the stiff door to the Scout hut, a small and modern affair tucked behind the high street, I take a deep breath.
‘When they go low, we go high,’ I mutter to myself. But even the ballsy awesomeness of Michelle Obama can’t touch the gloom that’s hanging around my head like a cloud of midges. I swat around my ears as if I can dislodge it.
‘Uh, Miss?’
‘Hello, Veronica. I’m so glad you’re here. I was a bit worried you’d boycott, being this close to the boys.’
She sighs with all the weariness of someone who has a second mortgage and thread veins, not a girl who should be obsessing over gel pens all day long. ‘It kept me up last night, thinking about it. But I decided I am more loyal to my friends than I am annoyed by boys.’ She borderline spits the last word out onto her ballet flats.
‘Well… Everything is an experience. Think of it that way.’
‘Is that how you think about the Hall falling to pieces?’
I scratch the back of my head and pull my jumper down a little further onto my hips. It’s my best teal cashmere jumper: I might feel hopeless but I wouldn’t let the Bluebells down by dressing that way tonight. ‘Let’s get inside, shall we?’
I thought I might be the first here. I was hoping I would be – to scope it out and pick out a good corner to lurk in while everyone else turned up. That way I could assess how I was going to get through this wholly awkward and shameful thing. And hopefully not batter Alex to death with his Scouts Annual 2017. The only plan I had so far was hiding between two crash mats, like a giant Connie toastie.
But nope. Here he is: Alex, surrounded by his minions in a big circle at his feet. The image of a dictator with very small ambitions.
‘Ladies, please come right on in, make yourselves at home.’ He beckons like an air traffic controller, as if we have a jumbo jet behind us.
‘Thank you,’ I manage.
There’s a little bit of sizing up going on between Veronica and some of the boys, so I decide my only route is the high road – I can’t let the girls down now by not modelling the mature way to do things.
‘Scout Master.’ I hold out my hand and dip into a curtesy.
‘Erm, OK.’ Alex shakes it.
OK, maybe I am squeezing a tiny bit of facetiousness in there, with my maturity. But anything to make it through the next few hours.
The rest of my Bluebells start to file in slowly, with some anxious parents popping their faces round the door. When they see me they all produce the same sympathetic look, with a small frown and a head tilt. It starts to become funny in the way sad things shouldn’t, but then do. I once laughed all the way through a rendition of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ at a great-uncle’s funeral.
And now I can feel the giggles bubbling at the base of my throat. So I do a head count as a distraction.
‘All here.’ I turn to Alex. ‘Seeing as this is your domain, Scout Master, why don’t we fit in with whatever you would normally be doing tonight? Bark studies, knot unpicking, tent dusting?’
I hear the titters of my sweet Bluebells as they realise I’m teasing.
But Alex seems unmoved. ‘Actually, Mistress Bloom…’ He puts one hand behind his back and bows in my direction. Pah. ‘Here at the Hazlehurst Pack, we have a very special presentation to make to your troop. A unique performance, just for you. Isn’t that right, Davey?’
A small dark-haired boy stands up just to my left and starts to speak with a squeaky wobble to his voice. ‘This week we have been studying the history of female oppression throughout the ages, and the birth of femininim… Femiminimi… Of being fair to everyone. We would like to perform what we’ve learnt to you in a series of sketches.’
Little boys love serious drama like little boys love spinach for pudding.
‘Do I have time to get a cushion, Scout Master?’
Alex smiles. ‘But of course. And do take notes,’ he says loudly and clearly, ‘as you Bluebells will be the judges as to which boys deserve their arts badge from this task. Yes?’
‘Yes!’ the girls all sing back. Veronica even air punches, which may be her very first one.
And all of a sudden I am really looking forward to this evening.
* * *
It seems only fair to give Alex a hand with the tidying up as children are being collected from the front door. There was a lot of instrumental cross dressing as part of the sketches and now big white elasticated skirts have fallen over every surface, like discarded parachutes in the war on misogyny.
Those boys certainly went for it, so I will wipe the memory of their stupid chant at the fete from my mind. In fact, it feels so much easier at the moment to forget the entire fete.
After some furious blushing in the first five minutes, when the Scouts fully realised they couldn’t fall back on fight scenes and gun mimes as they might in any other drama lesson, they got down to the matter at hand – a passionate Florence Nightingale at the battlefield hospital, a brave suffragette throwing herself under the king’s horse, bras burned on the streets of London. Come to think of it, those first two did involve a few noisy death scenes and then in the third a boy called Francis got a bit carried away with the improvised nature of the scene and ran around screaming, ‘Oh no, now my pants have caught fire! Help meeeee!’ But by then the Bluebells were enjoying themselves so much they just cheered and applauded.
Each boy was awarded a badge in a quick ceremony at the end, just before the parents started turning up. And in all the activity, I didn’t realise my batteries were once again recharging. No wonder the Matrix wants to harvest us – kids are really the most amazing source of energy.
I have my hands full of underskirts and cloth caps, and I’m holding the king’s hobby horse under my chin to stop it toppling off.
‘Let me take those from you, Connie.’ It feels weird to hear Alex use my actual name. He stuffs all the assorted props into a big blue IKEA bag. ‘That went well, I thought. Just enough public embarrassment to be both a punishment and a lesson.’
‘Totally. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but I know the girls appreciated it. So… yup, thanks.’
He swings the bag up and onto his shoulder, his bicep suddenly like a grapefruit under his sleeve. I can’t seem to take my eyes off it. Maybe those Bourne DVDs of his come with a workout routine. ‘The least I could do. Now, look, while we’re here, I wanted to say, to clear some things up. You know, in all of this, I’ve never had a moment to explain my part in the—’
‘Wait, that reminds me.’ I scoop my book bag up from under one of the tables. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind me combining business and, er, well not pleasure as such… But anyway, I owe you this.’
I fish out the log book. My hands tremble as I push it towards him.
‘Oh no, Connie. I don’t need that. Not now.’
‘Please take it.’
‘No, honestly. I think from the uninhabitable state of the Hall, the Board can fairly rule that visitor numbers aren’t making their quota.’ He gives a sad shrug.
I push again in his direction. ‘No, honestly, I insist. There’s no use for it now. You might as file it with the rest of the Hall stuff.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘I do!’ I don’t mean to push quite so hard, but the leather cover makes contact with his sweatshirt. ‘Take it. The Hall is yours, anyway. I lost.’
Alex finally takes it in his hands, and presses his lips together into a dead straight line. He opens his mouth to speak but then something over my shoulder catches his eye. ‘I think you’ve got a visitor. Do you mind locking up? All my Scouts are gone.’ He takes the keys from his pocket and hands them over. It’s like a very disappointing Secret Santa over here right now.
When I turn around, I see Flip in the doorway, her arms crossed and her foot tapping a fast, impatient rhythm. The grumpy look of her pose is somewhat spoiled by the huge fabric flowers she’s customised her shoes with, and Gurpreet hopscotching around her.
Alex nods to Flip as he leaves, dragging his bag of props behind him. ‘You two could form a double act, you know,’ Flip starts. ‘Glum and Glummer.’
‘Gurpreet, love, could you do a very important job for me? I need you to check all the doors and windows are locked around the hut. Could you do that?’
She squeaks with excitement. ‘Actual keys! My mum never lets me hold hers anymore!’ Not a great sign, but I think Flip and I need some grownup time to get her very obvious grievances off her chest.
With Gurpreet heading for the broom cupboard, Flip hisses ‘I can’t believe you handed over the log book like that! Voluntarily! We should have been keeping that up our sleeve.’
I feel my battery draining all over again. Eighty per cent. Sixty… ‘There’s no more sleeve, Flip. No trouser leg, not so much as a glove. Nothing more to do. I tried to tell Dom, and Susannah. We had a great campaign and I’m so grateful for everything you did but—’
She lets out a snort. Her bright lipstick, usually always a beacon of cheer, on a pursed pout suddenly takes on a slightly scary look. ‘But you’re giving up. At this hurdle.’
‘A hurdle of weight-bearing beams that are now on the floor of the Hall, yes. I just… Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ll chain myself to the front doors? I’ll gag Alex with a metre of bunting? I’ll throw myself under the king’s horse!?’
She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t know what I want you to say, either. But I wanted you to fight, for the Hall, for all of us. You help bring this place together. You bring people together.’
‘No, Flip, that was you. I just push a mop and make the tea, mostly.’
‘Don’t give me that nonsense! I used my PR tricks but you’re the one that made me feel a part of the group, even as a newcomer. You’re a bright spark, you’re just also pretty good at hiding it. Behind your bloody mop. I… This whole thing really made me feel like part of the fabric round here. And now it’s gone.’ Her shoulders slump down a little. ‘I miss it.’
I reach out and take her hand. ‘So do I. Just because I know when to throw in the towel doesn’t mean I didn’t think it was an excellent towel. A towel I really really like. A lot.’
With a frown, Flip swings my hand a little. ‘And just because I like you, doesn’t mean I’m joining you in the towel throwing. I still think there’s something there…’
‘Ooh, what’s towel throwing? Is it like welly wanging? Can we get a badge in it?’ Gurpreet skips over, the keys tinkling as she goes.
‘That’s for next week. Everything locked tightly? Sure?’
The little lass nods solemnly.
‘Good, because it’s important everything is locked up tight. Leave the keys by the door for me. Thanks, love.’
Flip pulls on one of Gurpreet’s long plaits. ‘High time I got you home, lady. We’re 15 minutes late for tea as it is and then your mum will be picking you up. And, Connie, please start using your phone again, hey?’ She gives me a beady eye combined with a lopsided smile.
‘Promise.’ I put my hands to my heart. ‘I swear on my best towel.’
I can tell there’s so much more Flip would love to press me on, but the inescapable inevitability of teatime has saved my bacon. They hurry out together, little person rushing after big person.
I decide I owe it to Alex to really leave his place shipshape. Not just because of the awesome Feminism Half-hour, but because I might have been a bit brutal just before he left. He really didn’t want to take that book, but I just couldn’t bear to see it looking sadly out of place at home. Closure is what I’m after right now. Seeing as I don’t have a job or a social campaign or – yes, Delilah, I do listen to you – any sort of romantic life, I think the first thing I need is closure. Even if it was handled with boxing gloves rather than kid ones.
I’ve washed up the squash beakers, I’ve sorted a few things in the broom cupboard so they no longer greet anyone opening the door with a dust pan in the face and I’ve put the lid back on about a million felt tips. I will expect a thank you card for that one. My last act of caretaking behind me after a half an hour blitz, I start to switch off the lights and make my way to the door.
But it doesn’t open. I kick my feet around to find where Gurpreet has left the keys. But they’re not there. Because she’s locked it from the outside.
Oh balls. I’d obviously stressed locking everything a little too much and in her hurry to get back for jacket potatoes and beans Flip hasn’t noticed what’s happened. I scrabble in my bag for my phone. But calling Flip when she’s probably running baths and digging out clean PJs would just be a pain. The same for Stevie. I don’t want my mum panicking that I’m no longer capable of leaving a building on my own. And the rest of the Bunting Society are still pretty ratty with me. The only person I can think of who wouldn’t mind sorting out this pickle is… Well, I have put the lids back on his felt tips. That counts for something.
After a very embarrassed/incredulous text exchange about my predicament, where I had to reassure Alex twice that I wasn’t joking, he’s on his way. So I sit with my back to the door, killing time by wondering how much worse my week could possibly get. I’ve just added ‘dying for a toasted sandwich’ and ‘getting a bit chilly’ onto my current list of misery. Next week’s horoscope: just when you thought there was no more DOOM to be had…
‘Connie?’
‘I’m here. God, thanks so much. I’m starving—’
‘Just before I let you out, I do want to say something.’
Doooooom.
‘OK! But you could say it when I’m on the other side of the door? The freedom side.’
His voice is a little muffled but absolutely confident. ‘If I let you out before I say it, you’ll cut me off again. Or assault me with a notebook or something. I absolutely have to say this.’
My forehead clonks onto the rough doorframe. ‘Right. Great. I’ll absolutely listen.’
‘You said earlier that you lost. But this wasn’t a war, not for me. I was doing my job, and I was trying to do it fai
rly.’
Doors are at least very useful for hiding rude hand gestures.
‘You think I’m all about selling off properties for companies to make loads of money and that couldn’t be more different from what I do. I’m working with the Estate because they don’t have money. They give money to so many different charities and buildings, but it can’t go on forever, that money. So someone like me comes in to manage it.’
‘By snooping about behind our backs? By telling people the Hall was going to be a coffee shop any day now?’
There’s a clonk from the other side of the wood. ‘I had to find out how many people were actively using the Hall, whether it deserved those really crucial funds. You know the hospice in Castleview village? The Estate owns the building and they fund it. Well, they fund about 80 per cent of it. And so with a real cash flow problem, I was looking at each project with the exact same view – who was going to suffer if they lost their funding, if they had to move out of their building? Where can we get some essential funds from to keep the hospice operational? Unfortunately, Bluebell Hall didn’t make it to the top of that list.’
‘Where did we come?’
‘Um, the bottom. Sorry. But there was an animal shelter and a program for supplying children’s books to public buildings on there too. Good old Hibbs liked his charitable pursuits. I just wish he’d put as much effort into choosing financial advisors. His Estate is dangerously close to going broke. They’re selling off the manor house, you know.’
I leap up and look through the spy hole. ‘No way!’
I can just about make out Alex pushing a hand through his hair and kicking at the gravel. ‘Way. I’ve just put it in the hands of the estate agent in the village, so expect the gossip to be all over Hazlehurst in at least seven minutes.’ His mouth turns up into a rueful smile.
‘There’s probably already a text on my phone from Luce about it.’
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 15