The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘You heard about it then?’ Sybs sighs. Hettie used to run the House of Haberdashery down the lane on the outskirts of the village, before it became too much for her, so Sybil manages it now, while Hettie takes a back seat in her oast house next door. But Hettie is eighty-something, so I reckon she’s earned a bit of a rest.

  ‘Of course,’ I wink, and then quickly add, ‘you know how it is around these here parts,’ in a silly voice, exaggerating my country burr. Sybs giggles.

  ‘Hmm, I certainly do! News sure does travel fast, and everyone knows your business … before you even do yourself, sometimes.’

  ‘Yep. Good or bad, that’s the Tindledale way I’m afraid.’ I shake my head.

  ‘And I rather like it,’ she nods firmly.

  ‘You do?’ I lift my eyebrows in surprise. ‘It used to drive me nuts when I was growing up, as a teenager especially; it was really stifling at times. And even now, I sometimes hear stuff about my pupils’ parents that I really wished I hadn’t.’ I pull a face, thinking about the time when I overheard Amelia Fisher’s mother in the playground, gossiping to her mate about the new family, the Cavendishes, who bought the big farmhouse over on the outskirts of the Blackwood Farm Estate – how Mr Cavendish is a ‘right dish’ and sooooo charming, but how much of a shame it is that he’s hardly ever around – maybe that’s why his wife seems so sad, because they sure as hell wouldn’t be if they were married to him. Good looks, lots of money – clearly every woman’s dream, apparently! And Mrs Cavendish has little to complain about when she clearly has it all – perfect, tall, slim body; shiny hair with expensive highlights, and a recently refurbished home ‘like something out of Hello! magazine it is, with its acre of land’, and ‘what does she do all day?’ It had taken all my willpower to walk away and not to threaten to put them in detention or something, as I imagine Mrs Cavendish is probably a bit lonely in that big house all on her own while her husband works away – I do wonder sometimes if detention wouldn’t be more effective for the parents instead of the children in my school.

  ‘But better that than nobody caring, or looking out for each other,’ Sybs says.

  ‘That’s true,’ I agree, thinking of my next-door neighbours, Gabe and Vicky, in the middle, and then Pam, Dr Ben’s receptionist, on the other end of our little row of three Pear Tree Cottages. They are more like friends than just people I live next to, as are so many of the people in the village.

  ‘And if Hettie had lived alone in a bigger community, she could well have gone unnoticed for days after her fall.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ I nod. ‘So what happened then? Is Hettie OK?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. It turns out the fall wasn’t anywhere near as bad as we all feared, but Ben did have to give her a telling off …’ Sybs’ forehead creases.

  ‘Oh?’ I frown too.

  ‘You know how fiercely independent Hettie is,’ Sybs continues, and I nod in agreement, remembering all the times I’ve tried to help her and she’s politely refused. ‘Yes, apparently she was standing on a chair, in her slippers, trying to reach her favourite blanket from the top shelf of the airing cupboard, when she toppled over and fell down on to her left hip. Luckily, her hall carpet cushioned the fall and she suffered some minor bruising and not a fractured pelvis.’ Sybs shakes her head.

  ‘Oh dear, but thankfully it wasn’t far worse. I can’t imagine her coping at all if she had to lie around in a hospital bed for any length of time.’ We both smile and shake our heads.

  ‘Absolutely not, Hettie would hate that. Anyway, I’ll let her know that you were asking after her.’

  ‘Thanks, Sybs. I’ll pop down and see her soon. I take it she won’t be running her cross-stitch class this week?’ I glance over at my first attempt hanging on the wall by the window – a simple ‘Home Sweet Home’ sampler in a gorgeous cherry-red thread with a dainty, creamy-coloured blossom flower detailing. Soon after Jack went, I realised that all my evenings were my own again – there was no more need for the Mum-taxi service, taking him to hockey practice, rugby, swimming and such-like in Market Briar. I really fancied trying something new and different, so I signed up to Hettie’s ‘Cross-stitch for Beginners’ course. It’s totally informal; about eight of us meet up every Wednesday evening. After a good thirty minutes or so of catching up (gossiping) and devouring packets of custard creams and Jammie Dodger biscuits, and whatever delicious cake Kitty has brought with her (she runs the Spotted Pig café and tearoom on the corner of the High Street), Hettie shows us how to cross-stitch as beautifully as she does.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Sybs nudges me gently. ‘Why on earth would you think a bruised hip would stop Hettie from soldiering on?’ We both laugh.

  ‘Hmmm, I’ve actually no idea why I thought such a thing,’ I say, enjoying our banter. ‘I should have known Hettie wouldn’t let us down.’

  ‘Absolutely not. And you should have seen the look she gave me when I suggested that of course you would all understand if she wanted to give this week’s class a miss.’

  ‘Ha! I can imagine. You are one brave woman, Sybil Bloom,’ I chuckle.

  ‘A foolish one more like,’ she pulls a face. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going and sort out this stinking dog before the whole of Tindledale whiffs of fox poo.’

  ‘Sure,’ I laugh. ‘Well, thanks for popping by.’ I give Sybs a hug.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot – can I give you these?’ She opens the top of her beautiful fuchsia hand-knitted bag – it has rose-print fabric lining – and pulls out a wad of leaflets. ‘It might not be your thing, but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind putting one inside each of your children’s book bags? For the parents. Well, children and dogs too – or ferret in Molly’s case,’ she sighs, and an image of Molly, the butcher’s wife, walking her pet ferret around the village on a lead, pops into my head. ‘Yes, the more the merrier. Ben reckons we really need everyone to get involved if we’re to stand a chance of winning.’ Sybs grins and I grin back, feeling brighter than I have all week. I like Sybil; she’s always cheerful and eager to help out if she can.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, taking them from her and glancing at the leaflet on top of the pile.

  Tindledale Needs You!

  Come along to the Duck & Puddle pub on Friday 29 May at 6 p.m. to find out how you can get involved in this year’s GREAT VILLAGE SHOW. All welcome (dogs on leads please).

  ‘Ooh, so the parish council got over its embarrassment, then, and decided to have another go?’ I say, trying not to sound too amused.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sybs asks with a curious look on her face.

  ‘Well, last time, it, um … didn’t go quite to plan.’ I arch an eyebrow, unsure of how much I should tell her. I imagine some members of the parish council would prefer that the revered village GP and his girlfriend weren’t aware of how badly behaved some of them were last time Tindledale put on a show.

  ‘Last time?’

  ‘Yes, it was in the summer before you arrived, which I guess is why you don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Oh dear, this sounds ominous – what?’ She frowns. ‘Ben thought it might be a good idea, you know, to boost community spirit and really put Tindledale on the map. Apparently the ten best village shows in the whole country get listed in one of the national newspapers, with a full colour feature in their Sunday supplement magazine.’

  ‘Hmm, Dr Ben is right, it is a good idea, and it certainly does boost community spirit, but last time two of the parish councillors took spirit –’ I pause for added emphasis – ‘to a whole new level and had to resign. There was a falling out over a giant marrow!’

  ‘Ooops!’ Sybs makes big eyes.

  ‘Indeed. And we were doing so well, having been pre-selected by the National Village Show Committee to have a celebrity to help with the judging of local produce – food, preserves, cakes, bakes, eggs, vegetables, gardens in bloom … that kind of stuff, which is always a bit of a kudos thing. Stoneley Parish Council were most put out when they had to put up with the plain
old ordinary judges. Sooo, Alan Titchmarsh turned up, fresh from his telly gardening programme, and the two Tindledale councillors started bickering and accusing each other of cheating – something about having bought the marrow from the new Lidl that had just opened up in Market Briar, instead of cultivating it on their allotment as per the rules. It was shocking, but hilarious too – one of them completely lost it and ended up grabbing Alan’s clipboard and smashing it over and over and over into the offending marrow, at which point Marigold – you know, the wife of Lord Lucan?’ Sybs nods in acknowledgement, aware I’m referring, not to the famously untraceable nanny-murderer, but to Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton from Blackwood House on the Blackwood Farm Estate. ‘Well, she had to step in with a roll of kitchen towel so Alan could wipe the marrow pulp from his face.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ Sybs says, trying not to laugh.

  ‘And that’s not all. The day before the show, the village green was defiled. Mud everywhere. It was such a mess. A runaway tractor was to blame – one of the farm boys lost control as he came over the brow of the hill and ended up doing twenty zigzag laps with the plough mode in full throttle, across the immaculately manicured lawn. Carnage, it was, and with absolutely no time to re-turf the green before the judges arrived.’

  ‘Blimey. Well, let’s hope it isn’t a disaster this time around.’

  ‘Yep, fingers crossed.’

  ‘Why don’t you come along to the meeting?’ Sybs suggests, slipping the strap of her bag over her head, cross-body style, before getting back on to her bicycle. ‘Sounds as if we might need a teacher, someone in a position of authority, to bring some order to the event – especially if last time’s disastrous chain of events are anything to go by. What if the villagers start behaving like a bunch of children, bickering and bitching over the provenance of their allotment produce?’ Sybs lets out a long whistle, while I ponder on her suggestion.

  ‘Now, there’s an idea. I might just do that,’ I nod purposefully, thinking it could be just the thing to kick-start my life. Jack isn’t the only one who can look to new horizons. I’m still young, so who knows what the future might hold?

  Monday afternoon, and I’ve just arrived home from a very long and difficult day at school when I spot Lawrence leaning against the frame of my sunshine yellow front door. Tall and fifty-something, he’s the most debonair man in the village, and his head is mere inches away from the hanging basket that’s in desperate need of attention – the rainbow mix of mini-petunias have really come on, so much so that they are now cascading almost down to the top of the wooden welly storage box. I make a mental note to sort them out later on. I find it therapeutic, and just what I need right now.

  ‘Hungry?’ He waggles a pink paper carrier bag from Kitty’s tearoom high in the air, before giving me a huge hug. Dressed in a smart tweed suit, complete with waistcoat and open-necked checked flannel shirt, he looks every inch the perfect country gent – very Ian McKellen, albeit with cropped short hair and classic aviator-style sunglasses, which he takes off and slips inside his breast pocket, swapping them for his usual black-framed indoor glasses. ‘I thought we might enjoy afternoon tea together?’ he adds thoughtfully, stepping aside so I can balance my bike against the brick side wall and unlock the door.

  ‘Ahh, I’d love to. Thank you, Lawrence, what a great idea.’ I rummage in my handbag for the bunch of keys.

  ‘I do try,’ he says modestly, with the vague hint of an American accent. ‘Here, let me help you with that.’ He takes my enormous cloth school bag, bulging with various paraphernalia – exercise books to be marked, laptop, empty lunch box, book, magazine, make-up, my current cross-stitch project to do in the staffroom if I have a minute to spare, staff folders (their quarterly reviews are due soon) and, lastly but most ominously, the A4 envelope that was handed to me as the team of school inspectors left after their impromptu visit this morning.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, grateful to offload the massive weight from my left shoulder.

  After pushing my key into the front door, I take the bag from Lawrence and heave it into the space on the floor under the coat stand. I purposefully tuck the brown envelope under my arm and walk down the narrow hall and through into the kitchen. Lawrence follows.

  ‘Summer is definitely here, thankfully. It’s practically tropical out there,’ he exaggerates, putting the paper carrier bag on the scrubbed pine table before slipping off his jacket. He rolls up his sleeves and, after placing the envelope next to the bag, I lean forward to give him a hug.

  ‘Thanks for popping in,’ I grin, taking a step back. ‘And perfect timing. It’s been,’ I pause for the right words, ‘an interesting day.’ I open the top half of the back door to let the glorious, honeysuckle-scented sun cascade in.

  ‘Sounds intriguing!’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell you about it … Here, I’ll make us some drinks,’ I say, going to pull open the fridge door. ‘How are you Lawrence? Have you had a good day?’ I ask him distractedly as I rummage about trying to find the ingredients. I was actually OK for the rest of the day after this morning’s meeting, but then I didn’t have time to let my feelings spiral. I had three children each requiring an hour of additional reading and numeracy practice and, as far as I’m concerned, the children’s basic learning needs come before the school inspectors’, quite frankly, very spurious ones! I let out a big puff of air, determined not to get het up about it again as I did when cycling home from school. At one point, I was so distracted that I very nearly sped straight into Pete, the cattle farmer, on his tractor as I took a bend in the lane too sharply – luckily his tractor was stationary; he’d stopped to enjoy a roll-up as he listened to the weather forecast bulletin on his beaten-up old radio that he keeps on the seat beside him in the cabin.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Lawrence says, obviously waiting to hear more about my day.

  ‘Fancy a glass of something chilled and fizzy instead of tea?’ I turn to Lawrence with a ‘dare you’ grin. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Oh, naughty Ms Singer, drinking in the afternoon … but such a good idea!’ He grins back. ‘Come on, let’s eat cake and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘And drink fizzy elderflower champagne …! Hmm, well, it’s wine really, but champagne sounds a bit more glamorous,’ I say, swinging the bottle from the fridge to show him.

  ‘My dear, I wasn’t aware you had perfected another batch,’ Lawrence says in his usual stately, old-style gentlemanly way. It’s very comforting.

  ‘Sure have. Six bottles chilling nicely in the fridge. Would you like some to take back to the B&B for your guests?’ I ask.

  ‘Only if you let me pay for it this time. I insist,’ he says, politely, ‘and it’s only fair, given the love and care you put into making it. And I know you give bottles of it away to some of the villagers, which is very generous, buuuuut … I’d just feel happier …’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Oh don’t be daft, Lawrence. Making wines and cordials is a hobby, something Jack and I have done together for years – it makes good use of all the wild berries, fruits and flowers in and around Tindledale, plus the surplus veg from my patch at the bottom of the garden. You know that. And there’s plenty … look,’ I tell him, pointing to the four wooden crates stacked up just inside the pantry door next to the steps leading down to the cellar, where my little home brewery is housed. ‘Help yourself. Please. Take as much as you like – there’s plenty more where that came from, my garden is overrun with elderflower this year. Must be the early summer weather,’ I say, plonking four unopened bottles from the fridge on to the counter for him.

  ‘OK, lovely, thanks Meg.’ Lawrence knows better than to quibble with me – we’ve been friends for such a long time and I can be very ‘scary teacher’, as he calls it, when I need to be … which I do try not to be unless absolutely necessary.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I find two glass tumblers and pour us each a generous measure of bubbles before popping a couple of ice cubes and cucumber slices
in too. After adding a lime-green plastic giraffe stirrer, I hand one of the glasses to Lawrence.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Mm-mmm, delicious. Thank you,’ Lawrence says tactfully, before taking a quick sip. ‘And I think this could actually top that truly scrumptious sloe and blackberry gin you made last summer.’ He swirls the liquid around his mouth, as if examining its vintage, like a proper wine connoisseur. I smile as Lawrence swallows and gives the drink a good stir in anticipation of having some more. ‘Cheers,’ he smiles, and then looks at me steadily. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You’re not still fretting about Jack, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ I demur. ‘Really not. I mean it’s hard – I love it when he comes home for a holiday, and I do miss him, but of course his life needs to move on. It’s a great chance for him.’

  Lawrence smiles kindly. ‘Absolutely. He deserves it after all the work he put in to get his A-level grades. And he talked about nothing else for months – years even. And how marvellous to be that certain of your future, of what you want to do, of what you want to be! It really is something to be admired.’

  I nod, thinking properly about what Lawrence has just said. ‘That’s true. What an amazing feeling that must be. Hmm, I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt like that,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re a wonderful teacher, or so I’ve heard …’ Lawrence smiles wryly, then puts down his glass and looks seriously at me. ‘So maybe you found your métier anyway, just by chance.’

  ‘It’s true, I do love being a teacher, but I sort of just drifted into it. It fitted in nicely with all Jack’s school holidays … Mrs Pocket, the old head teacher – it was actually her idea.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know Mrs Pocket – prominent on the parish council and does all that genealogy stuff. Firm but foreboding, in a sensible-shoes-and-plaid-skirt, Miss-Jean-Brodie kind of way.’ Lawrence pulls a face.