The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘I thought I’d get a head start on the Traditional Tindledale theme and practise baking some local favourites so they’re perfect for show day.’ Kitty dips down in the chair opposite me, her aqua eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘And Ed loved huffkin buns, so it seems right, seeing as it would have been his thirty-third birthday on the eleventh of July.’ She glances across at a framed photo on the wall of her late husband, Ed, wearing a khaki uniform and kneeling down with an arm around his military dog, Monty, a gorgeous, shiny black Labrador. Ed was a soldier, killed by a landmine in Afghanistan, and the news came through just a few days before he was due home, the village square having been decorated with bunting and balloons, so we all knew. Well, we all knew Ed in any case, as he grew up in Tindledale, drank in the Duck & Puddle, and played in the cricket team when he was home on leave between tours. It was heartbreaking, seeing poor Kitty, pregnant at the time with her baby girl Teddie, left utterly devastated, her whole world ripped apart. I place my hand over Kitty’s and give it a gentle squeeze. She pats the top of my hand with her free one and smiles wistfully. And Teddie is three years old now and truly adorable. I glance over to the big playpen packed with soft toys, Lego and a painting easel, at the back of the café near the door that leads to the flat upstairs where Kitty and Teddie live.

  ‘Can I say hello?’ I ask Kitty, giving Teddie a big grin and a wave. She lifts her toy cat in the air and jiggles it around in reply.

  ‘Of course,’ Kitty smiles, and walks over to open the playpen gate so Teddie can run out into the café.

  A few seconds later, and I’m enjoying a glorious cuddle with Teddie on my lap, giggling along with her as she dabs her chubby finger into the jammy part of the huffkin bun, before popping it in between her little rosebud lips and saying ‘Mmm, wuvvly,’ over and over. Pressing the tip of my nose down gently into her hair, I draw in the divine smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo. It reminds me of Jack when he was this age, so snuggly and loving; he would curl up next to me on the sofa on a Sunday and we’d watch films together and eat popcorn in our pyjamas all day long. Ahh, those were the days. Hard work at times, too, but very special and I really wish they hadn’t raced by quite so quickly.

  I give Teddie another gentle squeeze, and stroke her hair, before taking a bite of the bun. I break off a chunk for Teddie who opens her little mouth in anticipation. Kitty gives her a look as if to say, ‘Come on, you’re a big girl now,’ to which Teddie responds by taking the piece of bun from my hand and stuffing it into her mouth whole, giving it a couple of chews and swallowing it as fast as she can, clearly eager for more. It makes Kitty and me laugh, which seems to delight Teddie as she throws her little head back and does a big belly laugh before clapping her hands together.

  ‘Well, I’d say you’ve already mastered the traditional huffkin bun, if Teddie’s testimonial is anything to go by,’ I say, in between chewing and swallowing. I take another bite. ‘Mmm, this is truly scrumptious,’ I add, placing my hand over my mouth to ensure crumbs don’t pop out. I can’t resist devouring the sweet-tasting doughy delight. ‘And the judges are going to love popping in here to try them, as will all the other visitors on show day,’ I smile enthusiastically, scanning her tearoom and café – a double-fronted, mullion-windowed shop on the corner of the High Street, central and prominent, with its higgledy-piggledy mix of old dining chairs and tables, and pretty, real china teapots and chintzy cake stands. It’s very olde worlde in an appealing way. Coming in here is like stepping back to a bygone era – like much of the rest of the village, I suppose.

  ‘Ahh, do you think so?’ Kitty asks, leaning into me, but then her expression changes. ‘To be honest, I’m really hoping we’ll win the village show competition this year.’ She pauses, before dropping her voice. ‘Things have been a bit slow so far this summer. I’m usually jam-packed in here with afternoon cream teas by now, but the tourists just aren’t coming this year. I didn’t like to say anything in front of everyone at the meeting last night …’ She shakes her head and looks really anxious, so I place my hand over hers again and give it another quick squeeze.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll pick up, Kitty,’ I smile, keeping my voice light and optimistic. But the smile soon freezes on my face when she whispers, ‘But are the rumours true? That the school is going to be closing down?’

  A cold chill trickles down my spine followed by a warm, prickly sensation in my hands. I open my mouth and then close it again before coughing to clear my throat, sincerely hoping that Mark hasn’t heard about this yet – I should explain to him. Yes, I make a mental note to do so right away as I don’t want him to be concerned unnecessarily. Or Lily to be unsettled – she’s had enough to cope with and there really is no point in them worrying about something that may never happen, certainly not if I’ve got anything to do with it. I’m determined to do everything within my power to keep the school open. I push a brave-it-out grin on to my face.

  ‘Um, well … Where did you hear that?’ I ask, stalling for time while I formulate a proper explanation, but instantly know that it’s futile, and that I was naïve to think I could possibly keep the inspectors’ visit a secret. Damn them for just appearing out of the blue, worrying and upsetting everyone in the village like this. Kitty looks so anxious – she went to my school too, was a few years behind me, being younger than I am, and is planning on Teddie coming as well. She’s friends with some of the school mums, so of course she knows, the whole village probably knows. News like that was never going to wait until Monday. I should have realised and said something last night, as now everyone might be thinking that I’ve deliberately tried to conceal things. Oh dear.

  Kitty looks as if she’s just about to answer when the bell above the door jangles, announcing the arrival of another customer. Kitty and I swivel our heads to see who it is.

  ‘Oh, here, let me help you,’ Kitty says brightly. She jumps up to hold open the door with an enormous grin on her face, seemingly pushing her woes aside to make her next customer feel warm and welcomed.

  ‘Ooh, hello,’ I say, on seeing the woman in the floaty yoga gear from last night, who I’m pretty certain must be the newcomer, Mrs Cavendish, leading three children into the café. The two little girls and a boy all look very nearly school age – about four, I’d say. And I wonder if they’re triplets? They certainly have the same fair hair, cornflower-blue eyes and sprinkling of freckles across their noses, just like their mother. Marvellous. And a very welcome boost to the next academic year’s intake. I must let the inspectors know.

  ‘Um, hi,’ Mrs Cavendish smiles tentatively, clearly not used to strangers greeting her so warmly. She turns to Kitty. ‘Do you have a table for four please?’ she asks politely. Kitty smiles kindly before gesturing with her free hand around the near-empty tearoom. Apart from a couple of farmer boys at the corner table who are enjoying the all-day breakfast, I’m the only customer in here.

  ‘Why don’t you take that nice big table over there in the window?’ Kitty offers, steering the children across the room, while the woman hesitates momentarily before nodding politely and unravelling a pretty purple butterfly print scarf. I wonder where it’s from? An expensive shop in London, I imagine; it even has little diamanté studs dotted all over it – I wonder if I could buy one online? ‘There you go, I’ll bring you some crayons and paper,’ Kitty says to the children, who all look mutely at their mother, as if waiting for permission to be excited, and I can’t help thinking that it’s unusual for children of their age to be quite so pensive. Maybe it’s just taking them a little bit of time to adapt to living in a new place where some of us locals have a habit of chatting to newcomers as if they’re old friends. We aren’t all wary of strangers – well, I’m certainly not; especially ones with children who, hopefully, will come to my school. Mrs Cavendish is gazing at the floor while twiddling an enormous diamond-encrusted platinum ring. Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever seen an engagement ring as impressive as that; it must have cost a small fortune. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you
,’ Mrs Cavendish says quietly, stowing the scarf in her expensive-looking leather duffel bag. Kitty expertly plumps the cushions on the chairs and quickly tidies the condiments on the table and then hands the woman a menu.

  ‘Can I get you some drinks to start with?’ Kitty asks cheerily.

  ‘Oh, um, yes please,’ the woman glances apprehensively across at me and I smile, nodding at the big yellow china mug in front of me. ‘I can highly recommend the honey and almond hot chocolate, even on a warm day like today.’

  There’s a short silence. Mrs Cavendish’s eyes look watery, as if she’s been crying; she swiftly drops her face down to study the menu.

  ‘How about milkshakes for the children?’ Kitty quickly says, picking up on the now suddenly awkward atmosphere. The woman nods and mutters ‘yes please’, absentmindedly, without even looking up from the menu. The children, still mute, stare wide-eyed at Kitty, as if she’s a fairy princess waving a magic wand to make all their dreams come true.

  Before long Kitty re-emerges from the kitchen area with three tall glasses brimming with swirly cream-topped pink milkshakes scattered with rainbow sprinkles. She places them on the table in front of the children, who each mumble their thanks before taking the straws and tucking in, just as there’s a loud ‘bang-bang’on the window. I glance up to see who on earth is making such a racket – even the farmer boys have stopped eating to see what’s going on. Teddie almost jumps out of her skin and I stroke her back to soothe her as she looks around anxiously for her mum.

  A tall, suave-looking man in an expensive grey pinstripe suit is outside gesticulating, pointing at the woman in between tapping his watch and shaking his head. Mrs Cavendish, clearly startled to see him here, quickly dashes outside.

  And I have to resist the instinctive urge to go after her.

  Because, a few seconds later, the man is gripping her arm. Just a little too tightly. Mrs Cavendish is wincing – or maybe I’m mistaken. It’s hard to be sure as the sun is dazzling against the window, making it difficult to see clearly, and she doesn’t have her sunglasses on, and her eyes were watery and red when she arrived, so maybe she’s just squinting. And she clearly knows the man. Maybe he’s Mr Cavendish, but if he is, then he certainly doesn’t seem very charming right now; in fact I’d go as far as saying that he’s being the complete opposite: utterly forbidding. Even though I can’t hear what he’s saying, it’s quite clear from the way he’s pointing and getting in her face, as Jack would say, that he’s giving her a right telling off. I glance at the farmer boys, who don’t seem bothered as they’ve all resumed eating, and Kitty is soothing Teddie over by her playpen.

  I’m not sure what to do. Nobody likes people who interfere and perhaps I’m worrying unnecessarily. I take a sip of my hot chocolate – the children are still enjoying their milkshakes, not even looking out of the window at their mother – yes, I must be reading something into the situation. And, when I take another look, I’m reassured, because the man has both arms around the woman’s body, and she’s resting her head on his shoulder – I can’t see her face, but surely she wouldn’t be hugging him if things weren’t OK. I let out a little sigh of relief and finish the last of the huffkin bun.

  Mrs Cavendish (I assume) returns to the café. She rummages inside her bag before locating a bunch of keys, which she takes back outside. Ahh, so that’s what the commotion was all about; he’s obviously locked himself out – we’ve all done that and it sure does induce panic. It all seems to be fine between them now. He’s pointing to his cheek, which she stands on tiptoes to kiss, before coming back inside to be with the children, who wave impassively as the man walks away.

  I’m on the bus on my way back from the Country Club and we’re just about to go past Hettie’s House of Haberdashery, so I swivel to the window to see what’s going on. The shop looks truly beautiful, bathed in sunshine, with buttery gold miniature sunflowers lining the little path leading up to the front door, and I can see Sybs sitting in a yarnbomb-covered armchair in the window with the rest of the Tindledale Tappers, the local knitting club. Beth, one of my teachers is there, with her classroom assistant, Pearl, and Basil is sprawled out on his usual spot, a padded window seat covered in a flowery print; it’s perfect for seeing who’s coming and going. Sybs gives me a big wave, knitting needle still in hand … and is that a little lemon-coloured bootie hanging from the other needle? I press my nose to the bus window to try and get a better look. Maybe she and Dr Ben are already planning on starting the big family that Lawrence mused about. I sure hope so!

  Lawrence’s is the next house on the lane, so I decide to jump off and call in to share the good news from my meeting with the manager at the Country Club. He is definitely up for doing a deal with Lawrence’s B&B. I thought a special weekend pampering package, just like they do at the spa hotel on the industrial estate, would help boost business for Lawrence. He can provide the country cottage escape and the award-winning home-cooked food part of the deal, and the club can do the spa experience. And the manager also instantly saw the benefit of the club doing its bit to help the community by sponsoring the village show, figuring a mention in a national newspaper would be just the thing to entice well-heeled people to sign up for golf membership. He even agreed to let my school children have use of the pool for some much-needed swimming lessons, which is bound to impress the inspectors when I tell them first thing on Monday morning. So it’s a win all round.

  After stowing my cross stitch away, I stand up and press the bell before making my way downstairs, gripping the handrail to stay upright, as the bus swerves suddenly to avoid an errant peacock from the Blackwood Farm Estate. The impressive bird is standing proudly in the middle of the road, its iridescent blue and green feathers fanned, the tips wafting nonchalantly in the afternoon breeze. And the peacock is clearly in no hurry to move, so we sit and wait until it eventually struts into a gap in the nearby hedgerow and the bus chugs on before coming to a shuddery halt right at the end of Lawrence’s driveway.

  ‘Thanks Don,’ I say to the driver – he’s been doing this route since I was a little girl, so everyone in Tindledale knows him. I step off the bus, giving him a cheery wave, and start crunching across the gravel parking area and down the long path towards the picturesque black-and-white Tudor beamed cottage with a tall chimney at either end of the thatched roof.

  I’ve just stepped on to the narrow little wooden bridge to cross the stream in Lawrence’s front garden, when a man, head bent down, furiously tapping away on a mobile phone, comes barrelling towards me.

  ‘Oh, um,’ I start, surprised to note he’s making no attempt to move out of my way, despite the fact that I was on the bridge first. But I’m just about to give in, figuring it’s the easiest thing to do, and step aside, when his left leg catches on my new, and very lovely Cath Kidston basket – green wicker with a polka-dot fabric interior – making it jolt sharply. He stops moving and tuts overdramatically.

  ‘Well, excuse me,’ I puff under my breath, before pushing the basket back into the crook of my elbow and turning to walk away. But the man doesn’t move.

  ‘Pardon?’ he grunts, without even bothering to glance up, still mesmerised by his phone.

  ‘I think you mean sorry?’ I say automatically, in my best teacher voice, but the minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could push them straight back in, for two reasons: firstly, this man is not a child – no, he most definitely is not; and secondly, I realise belatedly that he’s the celebrity chef Lawrence was telling me about, Dan Wright. I’m sure of it. Much older than he was in the YouTube clip, of course, but with the same unruly black hair and sardonic set to his jaw. I was right, though – he is a spreader; he’s taking up the whole bridge with no regard for my personal space. He even has his enormous Timberland-clad foot planted in front of my shoes, blocking my way.

  Buuuut, if we want him to open a fine dining restaurant with ten-course tasting menus in Tindledale, which would really help put us on the map and attract new blood with lot
s of children to the village and ultimately my school, he has to be made to feel welcome … Sooooo, I take a deep breath and think of the greater good and attempt some damage limitation.

  ‘What I actually meant was, that I, um …’ I fiddle with a stray tendril of hair and flick my eyes away, willing my cheeks to stop flaming, ‘err, I meant that I’m sorry,’ I just about manage, hating having to apologise when he’s the one in the wrong.

  ‘Forget it!’ he grumbles distractedly, still staring at his phone.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback by his sheer audacity and lack of grace.

  A short, very awkward silence follows. Eventually he gives up on the phone and shoves it inside his jeans pocket.

  ‘Bloody place. How do locals cope?’

  ‘Cope?’ I repeat, bemused.

  ‘Yes, cope!’ he says irritably. ‘You know, being so cut off from the rest of the civilised world?’ And it sounds more like a statement than a question. He runs a hand across his beard, which is a little bushier and unkempt than is currently fashionable.

  ‘Um,’ I start. Dan actually seems to be waiting for an answer. ‘Weeeell, I guess us locals manage somehow. Pigeons make very good messengers, and you can’t beat a good old-fashioned letter with a stamp on.’ I shrug my shoulders in what I hope is a nonchalant way. ‘And only last week I was telling all my children about that modern phenomenon, the World Wide Web. Have you heard of it?’ I tilt my head to one side, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  ‘All your children?’ he says, sounding aghast. He even takes a small step backwards, recoiling, as if imagining a tribe of children, all from different fathers, all making appearances on Jeremy Kyle as we sort out our latest spats and feuds. His face is even screwed up now. I can feel myself bristling so I pull my shoulders up to ease the tension.

  ‘School children!’ I tell him firmly. ‘I’m the acting head teacher at the village school,’ I add, just a little too primly, and he actually shrinks his head back a bit and arches his eyebrows, like I’m some kind of wicked witch who’s about to give him a hundred lines for being rude. I cough to clear my throat as I straighten my navy bolero cardy, wishing I’d opted now for my usual jeans and stripy T-shirt instead of this shapeless but very comfortable, faded flower-print tea dress and battered old floppy sun hat with sweat stains around the rim that I usually only wear when gardening (I couldn’t find my sunglasses so it was better than nothing) which, on reflection, probably makes me look like a scatty old spinster to him, with only her pets to keep her company. And then, to my horror, I spot a selection of Blue’s caramel-coloured hairs, stark against the navy wool, clinging to my left shoulder from where I gave him a cuddle this morning, which just confirms my theory.