Whatever happened, the negotiations and legalities would take time, and she had given herself a strict talking to. In the meantime she must not waste her life, she had to carry on as normal, live in the moment. And once she’d reached that decision it had made things easier.
Lottie glanced up at the sky, which had a smattering of innocent white puffs of cloud. The weather forecast hadn’t been too bad. To be honest, she hadn’t exactly been concentrating that hard on it so might have missed some bits, but she got the gist. The forecaster had definitely mentioned the words ‘sun’, ‘dry’ and ‘cloud’. There had been no mention of rain or thunder, which was fine by her. The month of May was always a bit unpredictable, but by the looks of things the village show was going to be umbrella-free.
Today there was an expectant air, as though the place was on pins, waiting for the explosion of activity that would come later in the day. And it would be an explosion.
Despite wracking her brain for days, she had been totally unable to come up with a diplomatic reason for banning the village band from making an appearance. When the drummer had broken his wrist (she’d been informed it was from over-enthusiastic beating – which she hoped only involved a drum), the butcher had been drafted in and Lottie could have sworn he was deaf and had no sense of rhythm. The euphonium player had aspirations of soloist fame and seemed to play an arrangement of his own making, and two of the teenage cornet players competed to see who could wear the most revealing outfit and get the most wolf whistles. This successfully distracted from their variable playing, and drew a crowd, but had led to a fight in the refreshment tent last year when the father of one had taken umbrage and taken a couple of the more enthusiastic observers to task.
It was also practically impossible to stop the band once they got started. They took the heckling as a sign of approval and would continue to march around, restarting their programme of music and invariably clashing with the Morris dancers, who would jingle their bells and clash their sticks ever louder.
Not that the Morris dancers were much better. One year Brian the joiner had got so carried away his clog had flown off and hit the vicar on the side of the head. He’d had to attend church for six months before his wife had considered he’d repented sufficiently. And then there was the time that one of the terriers had taken a liking to the sashes they wore dangling from their waists, and had nearly deprived two of Tippermere’s finest of their manhood.
Then, of course, there would be the barking dogs, keen to impress in the agility competition, which would upset the rabbits and chickens, and there was bound to be at least one outburst of hysterical tears from a child whose pony had failed to win the best fancy-dress award. All in all though, she did love everything about the afternoon apart from the need to award prizes. Despite having the head teacher from the village school support her in a bid for a non-competitive spirit, the rest of the village pooh-poohed it; some of them (like Billy) very loudly declaring that a bit of competition never hurt anybody. She wasn’t convinced. There would be tears, she was sure of it.
Along with half the village they’d worked late into the evening putting up bunting and marquees, setting out tables, and marking out a centre ring for the various competitions, and an area for the pony races.
She slipped her mobile phone out of her pocket to check the time. They’d probably got a couple of hours before the committee members arrived to put the finishing touches to everything, and then it would be all go. Which gave her just enough time for breakfast and to put some icing on the top of her carrot cake. She would kill whoever had come up with the idea of a Bake-off style show-stopper competition – whatever was wrong with a good old Victoria sponge with jam in it?
Which reminded her, she really did have to impress upon whoever was in charge of the cake tent that no food should be left unsupervised for even a minute. She still hadn’t got over the time one of Elizabeth’s Labradors had eaten half the food at the charity cricket match before they’d even broken for tea.
* * *
Lottie stared at the array of cakes crammed onto the table and wondered if ‘accidentally’ dropping hers on to Harry’s head was a better idea than admitting it was an entry for the ‘Tippermere Village Show country pursuits themed cake competition’.
‘Well you are brave, love.’ Tiggy gave her an admiring smile, then reached out and snatched the cake before she had the chance to sabotage it. ‘There’s a tiny gap here for it. I didn’t dare bring one of my attempts. Your dad says he’ll never get over my beetroot cake. They really didn’t make it clear in the recipe, though, that you couldn’t use the pickled ones. Here we are,’ she squeezed the cake in next to a perfect reproduction of the Hickstead Bank, complete with horse and rider sliding down the slope. ‘Aren’t you clever? A carrot cake shaped like a carrot. It is carrot cake, isn’t it love? I thought those orangey bits …’ She tugged an orange strand out and popped it in her mouth.
‘It is carrot.’ If she was lucky Tiggy might eat it before the show opened. ‘You will be here all the time, won’t you, Tiggy?’ If the terrier trio escaped and demolished these lovingly prepared creations she would get lynched.
‘Of course I will, love. You know you can rely on me.’ She beamed and patted Lottie on the arm.
But, that was the problem. Tiggy was about the most unreliable person in Tippermere. She was lovely, generous, kind, but all those things weren’t the same as reliable. One whiff of something happening elsewhere and she’d forget all about her duties.
‘You are getting changed into something more appropriate, I presume, Charlotte?’
Lottie jumped as a prod to her arm and the commanding voice announced her gran’s arrival. She looked down at her jeans and clean polo shirt (which was actually ironed and didn’t have a trace of horse slobber on it).
‘But this is appropriate.’ She looked back at her gran. ‘When I was little I remember you wearing your dog-walking clothes and wellies.’
Elizabeth sniffed. ‘It had been a wet spring.’
Lottie tried not to grin. Today Gran was dressed like the Queen Mother about to attend a garden party or Royal Ascot. She blamed Sam, who was clearly having a very bad influence on her.
Sam believed very strongly that appearances mattered, and you had to dress and act the part. So she never compromised. Wherever she was, she was Sam, footballer’s wife. She was in love with all things sparkly and so she always wore jewellery. She also considered long, polished nails an essential, along with the type of high heels that Lottie would have fallen off. Given a choice between riding a horse with a reputation for bolting and a pair of Sam’s shoes she’d go for the horse every time.
In complete contrast, Lady Elizabeth was as traditional as they came, with a leaning towards the eccentric. Her favourite footwear included Hunter wellingtons and sensible flat shoes, and she had always considered a tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket suitable for most occasions. Until Sam had come along.
Sam clung to her beliefs that Elizabeth spent her days sipping sherry and entertaining the gentry, despite strong evidence to the contrary – including constant calls for G&T’s and the complete absence of visitors apart from the vicar, farmers, and gamekeepers.
But Elizabeth, it appeared (and Lottie still wasn’t sure if this was a little private joke at Sam’s expense or not), had now decided she should act the part when making a public appearance. Lottie knew that Sam would be impressed.
‘It’s only the village show, Gran. I always dress like this.’
‘And very nice you look too.’ Tiggy, who was dressed in a very full gypsy skirt, which billowed out over her ample hips, and an off-the-shoulder broderie anglaise top that showed off her pink, freckle-smattered cleavage, beamed at Elizabeth, who carried on undeterred.
‘One should keep up appearances. What will the vicar’s wife think when you present prizes dressed like that?’
Lottie frowned. The Very Reverend Waterson always insisted that he was delighted to open the show (despite the commi
ttee assuring him that it was absolutely no problem at all for them to find a celebrity to perform the task), and informed Lottie that his unassuming wife Jane would be devastated if she were ever not asked to help with judging. Lottie couldn’t imagine the pleasant and uncomplaining woman ever thinking anything derogatory of anybody. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind at all, Gran.’
‘On your own head be it.’ Elizabeth tapped her stick against the table leg and Lottie cringed, wishing she’d stop. The last thing they wanted was the whole thing giving way and a mass of fondant icing raining down on the grass. ‘You youngsters. In my day a lady would act with some decorum and dress the part.’
‘Oh wow, babe, isn’t this fab?’
Lottie could have sworn Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Sam, a designer-clad vision, was dragged into the marquee by an enthusiastic Scruffy, who was luckily on a lead.
‘Oh your Ladyship,’ Lottie kicked her on the ankle as she threatened a bob. ‘I bet it’s nearly as good as one of them garden parties, isn’t it? Look at them flower arrangements over there. No Scruffy,’ she giggled, ‘you can’t eat them. Don’t you think he looks smart, Lottie? Me and Roxy gave him a bath and look, she painted his little toenails all by herself, bless.’
Lottie, Tiggy, and Elizabeth all looked down at Scruffy’s feet to see nails and hairy toes daubed liberally with bright red sparkly nail varnish. Elizabeth snorted in a very unladylike way, then deftly morphed it into a more polite cough.
‘I am off to check where they have placed the bandstand this year, Charlotte. I do hope it is out of general earshot.’
‘Aww, isn’t she lovely, Lottie? I wish I had a gran like her, and she’s so proper posh. The way she looks down her nose and everything.’
Lottie groaned. ‘I better see what she’s up to, or she’ll be telling them to move marquees and everybody will be here soon.’
‘Okay, babe. Oh I can’t wait for you to see Roxy and her little Rupert. She’s made her pony so pretty. You’ll be amazed.’
Amazed, Lottie decided, probably wasn’t the word for it.
* * *
‘I do find this so difficult, dear, don’t you?’ Jane, the vicar’s wife, hovered at the side of Lottie, a basket of rosettes in her hand. ‘I’m always so afraid of hurting people’s feelings.’ She straightened the ribbons of the third-place rosette nervously. ‘Mr George, the butcher, came to me after the show last year and accused us of showing favouritism. He said we’d picked the cutest child not the waggiest tail, and it wasn’t fair that his Amy had got orange hair and braces. We were discriminating against her unfavourably, he said, and after all it was God that had made her that way.’
‘She’d also got a dog with fleas and a habit of dragging its bottom along the floor,’ Lottie pointed out reasonably.
‘Oh, I know. But I couldn’t say that to him. He’s normally such a nice man, but he was quite aggressive. I was rather worried about what he might put in my sausages. Oh look, isn’t that puppy adorable?’
Lottie looked at the gangly puppy, which was indeed cute, then she glanced up. ‘But that’s Mrs Warburton’s daughter and she always wins best chutney, and her husband is on the town-planning committee. They’ll all say we’re after something.’
‘How about that one? It’s the scruffiest dog I’ve ever seen, but look at its tiny painted nails and it’s so happy.’
‘That,’ Lottie groaned, ‘is my best friend’s dog.’
Roxy, spotting that she was being observed, started to jump up and down. She waved wildly, shouting as loudly as she could, ‘Auntie Lottie, Auntie Lottie, look at me,’ which didn’t help at all.
The problem was, Lottie decided, she knew all of them and whatever they decided there would be trouble.
‘We could ask them about pet care?’ Jane said, as dogs and owners started to walk around the makeshift ring with their parents shouting frantic instructions.
‘Not fair on the youngest or least educated.’
‘Ask them to get their dogs to jump over a little obstacle?’
‘Size-ist.’
‘Waggiest tail?’
‘Well we did think that maybe we should go for the dog we’d most like to take home this year, because last year somebody complained it wasn’t fair for dogs that didn’t have tails.’
‘Well maybe if we just ask them why?’ Jane said, going pale as a bouncy Dalmatian caught up with the dog in front and tried to mount it.
‘Might have to separate them first.’
When they finally got the parade of dogs in a fairly neat line, Lottie was already dying for a stiff drink.
‘Why would we want to take your dog home, dear?’ Jane patted an elderly Labrador on its head.
‘Cos my dad says he needs shooting.’
‘Oh heavens.’ She stopped and looked at Lottie for help. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean that.’
‘Says he’s a right bugger.’
‘Oh.’ Jane patted the dog again and moved on to a Cavalier spaniel with mournful eyes.
‘And, er, why would we want to take your dog home?’
The little girl stared, her eyes opened wide and then Lottie realised that her lower lip had actually started to wobble. She dithered, mesmerised. It was far too early for upset – they hadn’t even started to award rosettes yet.
‘You can’t, you can’t take my Molly home – she’s mine.’ Tears spilled and ran at an alarming pace down the previously happy face and with a distressed wail she wrapped her arms around her dog. ‘Mummy, mummy, don’t let her have Molly.’ Scrambling to her feet, she ran right out of the ring, towing the dog behind her. ‘Mummy, mummy.’
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean …’
She really did have to get this over as quickly as possible, thought Lottie, glancing at her fellow judge, who was close to tears herself. ‘Maybe we should just pat them on the head?’
Jane nodded, biting her bottom lip.
Patting seemed to work and Jane had cheered up by the time they’d worked their way around the ring without causing any more upset. And, after persuading the little girl that nobody was going to steal her pet they awarded first prize to the Cavalier, as it couldn’t be disputed that the dog was undeniably the one that its owner most wanted to take home.
Lottie was just heading over towards the cake tent, to make sure that Tiggy was still standing guard, when she got waylaid by a giggling Tab, who had a beaming Jamie with her.
‘Oh my God that is just so funny, you have got to see.’
Lottie looked at her in amazement. ‘What is?’
‘Pandora!’ She started giggling again.
‘What do you mean Pandora? I didn’t even know she was here. I mean I know we invited everybody, but I didn’t expect her and Seb to hang around.’
‘You didn’t?’ It was Tab’s turn to be surprised. ‘Then I wonder who arranged that.’ She turned around and pointed over to the far side of the ring, where there were two identical gazebos side by side.
Lottie peered. Even from this distance she could see that one had ‘Gypsy Rose’ (otherwise known as Mrs Jones’ sister) in it, as was traditional, and the other had … Pandora.
‘But what—’
‘She insisted on signing autographs, love.’ Billy put an arm round Tab, and his other around Lottie, and stared across. ‘Seems to think she’s a proper celebrity, so your gran parked her over there with raddled Rose. Said they were both away with the fairies, and she was well out of it over there, and’ he chuckled, ‘look at that queue old Rose has got. We’ll see how long Pandora can stick hearing the same bloody fortune told over and over again. Ay up, look, Rose is sneaking a tipple.’
Everybody in Tippermere knew Rose, and there was always a competition to see who could get the most outrageous fortune from her. Being as fond of a tipple of cider as she was, the stories got more far-fetched as the day went on, and everybody knew that if you fed her a whiff of scandal she’d run with it. Pandora would be torn between covering her ears and listening in.
‘Last year she told Dom that he’d got a secret sex life and she knew he liked his women pinned down and helpless so that he could have his wicked way,’ giggled Tab.
‘She didn’t!’
‘She did, Amanda told me. And she told Amanda that she would have five children by different fathers. She said still waters run deep and even Amanda didn’t recognise the powerful passion she had inside her yet. Amanda said nothing was going to gurgle inside her, including another baby, after this one.’
Lottie laughed. ‘She swore she’d never get pregnant again. I think she’s threatened to give Dom a vasectomy herself.’
‘Poor Rose.’ Tab was fascinated by the fortune teller, who was jingling her gigantic hoop earrings and jangling her bangles more animatedly by the minute. ‘Do you think she’s really a gypsy?’
Billy guffawed. ‘Gypsy, my arse. Her dad worked at the abattoir and her mum was a dinner lady at the village school, love. More alcohol than gypsy in her bloodstream.’
‘I think it’s the combination of cider and weed that makes her so potty,’ said Tab. ‘I might ask her to tell my fortune. She told Sam she was a princess in a previous life and that she’d rise again from the ashes.’
‘Isn’t it a phoenix that does that?’
‘I don’t know, but Sam was happy. She said she knew deep down that she should be wearing a tiara and talking all posh like her ladyship.’
‘Well Pandora isn’t happy.’ Lottie nodded over at Pandora, who had put her sunglasses on and was tapping her foot irritably as she glared at the crowd waiting to have their fortune told.
‘Right, enough gossiping, come on you lot, shift your arses.’ Billy rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
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