Christian nodded. ‘I see.’ Except he didn’t. Their festival was being run as a democracy? People wandered in and gave their opinions and expected to be listened to? No wonder Jody had decided to hire an event manager. They didn’t need direction, they needed a director. And he was just that.
He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and marched across the room to where the thrown chair had fallen, set it on its feet and straddled it. ‘So, what have you got for me so far? What’s pinned down? What needs final confirmation?’
The women glanced at each other. Bottom lips were chomped down on. Arms folded defensively. Eyes faced any which way but his.
‘Well…’ The top of Jody’s foot twisted back and forth on the faded oak floors. ‘We’ve had some thoughts. We’ve contacted a couple of people.’
‘And we’ve got town clearance to use the entire main street,’ Mrs Harper added.
‘We’ve nearly got town clearance,’ Mrs Hunter interjected. ‘We’ve got one holdout. The butcher, John Thompson. He’s worried people will be too busy having a good time to bother coming in to buy his meat.’
Mrs Harper tapped the side of her nose. ‘I could threaten to reveal to the town that he likes to wear ladies’ knickers underneath his butcher’s apron.’
‘He doesn’t!’ Mrs Hunter’s jaw dropped.
Mrs Harper shrugged. ‘I did housework for him a couple of times. He asked me not to do the laundry but I had a few minutes spare and figured I may as well help the man out. Didn’t expect to see some rather large lacy numbers in there. I mean, they could’ve been his wife’s, but then he doesn’t have one…’
‘So, does he know you know?’ Mrs Hunter bustled over to the table and picked up her handbag.
‘I’m guessing so. Every time he sees me he goes red as a tomato, and he always throws in an extra pack of sausages with the weekly meat order.’ Mrs Harper shook her head. ‘Not that I’d say anything. It’s none of my business what he wears under his trou. And besides, it’s nice to know the old grump has a softer side. All that killing and processing of meat could harden a man, I’m sure. It’s nice he hasn’t let it. Now, shall we go for a cup of tea, Marj? All this planning has left me quite dry.’
‘A cup of tea would go down a treat, Shirl. Great idea. Maybe even a scone.’
‘With lashings of cream and oodles of jam.’ Mrs Harper rubbed her rounded stomach.
Christian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not two minutes ago the two women had been handbags at dawn, and now they had their arms linked and were off for a spot of tea? And they called that fierce argument a discussion? Who were these people and what had he got himself into?
‘Want to come, Jody?’ Mrs Hunter called over her shoulder. ‘We’ll treat the boys to an ice cream.’
‘You go on, we’ll catch up later. I’ll finish briefing Mr Middlemore here.’ She waved goodbye to the women and then turned back to Christian. ‘So, where were we?’
‘We were discussing what’s been confirmed for the festival.’
‘Oh, yeah, that…’ Jody became very interested in the grain of the wooden floors.
Christian’s gut twisted. Not a good thing. His gut only twisted when something very bad was going on, when failure was on the horizon. A feeling he’d only felt once as bad as this… at his most recent event, where disaster had struck due to one moment of inattention. His fault completely. And once word got out he’d be a laughing stock. Not just to those in the industry, but to those who were meant to be his nearest and dearest. This job, this festival, was a way to try and prove to himself he wasn’t washed up, that he was still the best. There was no way he was going to bugger it up. Or let anything or anyone bugger it up for him. Without his career he had nothing, was nothing.
‘So just how much have you got organised. What’s a definite yes?’ Jody’s face, pink with a mixture of embarrassment and shame, gave him his answer. ‘Nothing? Not a single thing?’
‘Well, like I said, it’s a democracy. But we couldn’t decide on anything. Except for Welly-wanging.’
‘Welly-wanging?’ The narrowing of Jody’s nose told Christian he could have sounded more neutral, less disparaging. But really, what the hell was Welly-wanging?
‘What’s wrong with Welly-wanging?’ Her tone was low, deep and dangerous.
Shit. What he would give to wind back the last minute. Still, there was no going back. He had to stand his ground.
‘What’s wrong with Welly-wanging is that I don’t know what it is… but it sounds utterly provincial and I can’t imagine people coming to a festival to wang a Welly. Also, it sounds quite filthy, not family-friendly at all.’
Jody’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh my God. What are you on? It’s not dirty, it’s throwing a Wellington and whoever throws it the furthest wins a prize.’ She shook her head, indignation radiating off her. ‘I don’t know what you folk from the city get up to so that you think something like Welly-wanging sounds filthy and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.’
Christian adopted a calm tone, the opposite to Jody’s raised pitch. ‘Well even if it’s a sweet and innocent game, it doesn’t sound all that interesting and it really doesn’t seem all that much fun either. There are so many things we could do. Things that will attract people to come rather than repel them.’
‘Like what?’ Jody took a step towards him, her chin tilted, defiant. ‘What would be more fun than throwing a Wellington as far as you can?’
‘What wouldn’t be? Pony rides. They’d be fun. Amusement park rides. Vintage car displays go down well. What was the idea that sparked this whole festival again?’
Jody’s chest rose and fell, a huff escaping her lips. ‘The Rabbit Revolt. It’s the anniversary of when the town was overrun with rabbits and the local musicians made a deal with the Spirit of the Marsh granting them the ability to play the rabbits away. They marched down the main street, the rabbits followed, and then they were never seen in those numbers ever again. Frankly, I think their playing was probably just terrible and the rabbits ran to save their ears. That’d explain why the local band, The Revolting Rabbits, all descendants of the original musicians, can’t play a tuneful note between them.’
An idea sparked in the back of Christian’s head. ‘There could be something in that tale. But I have a question. What did the musicians have to exchange for the magic of the Marsh Spirit. or whatever it’s called…?’
‘They had to change the name of the town.’
‘From?’
‘Arrow’s Head.’
‘To Rabbits Leap?’
‘Yes. But despite much pleading it had to be Rabbits Leap without the apostrophe.’
‘I did wonder about the lack of apostrophe. I mean, it could be a statement, “Rabbits Leap”, because they do. It’s a fact. But it just feels… wrong.’
‘Oh, I know. It turns out the Spirit of the Marsh was a trickster who actually quite liked rabbits, but never said no to a deal. So it made us pay by having to explain our choice of apostrophe or lack thereof over and over again for nearly five hundred years.’
‘And no one’s made a deal since then I take it?’
Jody shook her head, eyes solemn. ‘No one’s dared.’
‘Right. Well, then. We should do a recreation of that event. It could be the grand finale. We could have The Revolting Rabbits play the part of the musicians. The children of the village could dress up as rabbits. We could have a marsh spirit, complete with light show. It would be amazing.’
‘But no Welly-wanging.’ Jody folded her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the side, eyebrows raised.
‘It’s not big enough. Not exciting enough. It’s a no from me. And my word is final.’ Then it hit him… ‘You know… Rabbits Leap, no apostrophe, is a little place, but it has a big story to tell… there’s a name in that. Do you have a name for the festival yet?’
Jody shook her head.
‘Well, how about… The Big Little Festival. It’s
perfect, don’t you think?’
Jody unfolded her arms and placed them squarely on her hips. As much as she appreciated his ideas, his enthusiasm, she hadn’t hired him to ride roughshod over their plans, what little there were, for the festival. She’d hired him to work with her, not to take over. Not to steal her opportunity to give back to the community in a meaningful way. And if this was how he ran things, with an iron fist, she was going to have to find another way to give back to Rabbits Leap. ‘You know, Christian, what I think is that I can’t work under a dictatorship. I think you can call the festival whatever you want, because I quit.’
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Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017
Copyright © Kellie Hailes 2017
Kellie Hailes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008259181
Christmas at the Second Chance Chocolate Shop Page 23