The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Riiiiight.’ And he gives me an up-and-down look, before passing judgement, ‘Well, that explains it …’ And I’m perplexed: what does that even mean, explains it? I open my mouth to reply, but on second thoughts … I close it again, and then pull off the sun hat and shove it sharply inside my basket. What on earth was I thinking, putting that on my head and venturing outside? I really should have gone without. Another short silence ensues, and I take the opportunity to glance at his foot, wondering if he might actually get the hint and move it so I can carry on my way; but no such luck, he’s oblivious, so I end up having to say, ‘Excuse me,’ followed by a loaded look downwards to the wooden panels beneath us.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He finally moves his big-booted foot out of my way, and then goes to walk on, but hesitates and turns back, as if he’s just thought of something else. He rubs his beard again, as though he’s trying to remember. Eventually he says, ‘What network are you on?’ And please is what immediately happens inside my head. Honestly! If he were one of my school children, I’d be telling him right now to remember his manners.

  ‘Network?’ I arch an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, mobile phone network.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘And why are you repeating everything I say?’ he adds, creasing his forehead again and shaking his head slightly, as if he’s talking to the village idiot. My back bristles some more. He really is the most infuriating man I have ever met, and that is really saying something, after the way Jack’s dad carried on.

  ‘I’m not, but if you ask nicely, then I might tell you!’ I snip, wishing to God that I had just gone home now and called Lawrence with the news about the Country Club deal, rather than detouring to tell him in person. I feel deflated now. And ridiculous. And Dan Wright is to blame.

  ‘Err …’ Dan pauses, and now it’s his turn to look taken aback. He’s clearly not used to people pulling him up on his communication skills – or lack of. Most likely they’re all very reverent and just mutter, ‘Yes chef’, in between doffing their forelocks all the time like they do on that Gordon Ramsay TV programme. An amused smile creeps on to his annoying face as he nods his head really slowly. Ha! Take that, rude celebrity chef man.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says quietly. ‘I probably deserved that.’ He shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets.

  ‘You did!’ I nod back. ‘And just so you know … we don’t have proper mobile network coverage in the village. Broadband, yes! But mobile phones are pretty much redundant here in Tindledale.’

  ‘Whaaaat?’ He looks incredulous. ‘You’re joking! You mean to say that I’ve been wasting my time wandering around waggling my phone at all angles like some kind of lunatic for absolutely no reason?’ He stares at me intently.

  ‘Well, um, yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that.’ I smile, despite myself, but have to admit, very frustratingly, that Lawrence was right. Dan is actually quite attractive when he isn’t being hostile. There’s a glint, a sparkle almost, in his dark, leonine brown eyes; or maybe I’m mistaken and it’s mischief or sheer blooming bloody-mindedness. Either way, it’s quite appealing. Damn it! And I reckon he probably has a very firm, athletic-looking jawline if he got rid of the silly beard, or at least trimmed it back a bit. He looks like a Viking! A big, chunky, tall Viking – all he needs is a club, a horned helmet and one of those swingy leather skirts. And, on glancing at the gap where his shirt is fluttering open in the warm breeze, I see that he already has the mandatory hairy chest, so maybe he belongs to one of those re-enactment clubs where they meet up in muddy fields and do pretend battles. It’s entirely possible.

  ‘Right. Well, in that case, I won’t be needing this!’ And Dan actually whips out his phone and flips it over the side of the bridge before pushing his hand back into his pocket like a petulant child. He shrugs, like nothing just happened. I stare at him momentarily, unable to believe my own eyes.

  ‘Um! Err … what on earth are you doing?’ I ask, incredulously, glancing into the stream. But it’s too late. The phone lands with a triumphant splash, sending a cascade of water up on to the bank and all over a nearby duck, which quacks disgruntledly before flapping its wings and waddling away.

  ‘Something I should have done a very long time ago.’ And a half-smile slips on to his face.

  ‘Oh!’ I cough, unsure of what else to say.

  Sensing a bit of a thaw in the previously frosty atmosphere, I decide to seize the moment and ask him – soon the village show will be in full swing, so Dan is going to have to get cracking if he is planning on opening a restaurant in the village. Plus, I want to talk to him about coming to my school, too – and if I don’t ask, I won’t get! So, I take a deep breath and decide to go for it, imagining the look on the inspectors’ faces when I tell them tomorrow that celebrity chef, Dan Wright, is popping in some time this week to teach Year Six. Oh yes, didn’t you know? That’s how we roll out here in the sticks. And the big school in Market Briar doesn’t even do domestic science after their teacher left and they weren’t able to find a suitable replacement. Ha! I sort out my hat hair in preparation.

  ‘Can I ask you a question please?’ I smile, properly this time.

  ‘Sure,’ Dan shrugs.

  ‘Well, I know that you’re a chef,’ I pause, and he looks at his watch, ‘a very famous, award-winning chef of course,’ I quickly add, figuring a bit of flattery won’t hurt, but he folds his arms. Oh no, I should have realised; he’s probably in a hurry – important meetings to do with the new restaurant – so I quickly cut to the chase. ‘Is there any chance you could spare a couple of hours to run a cookery class with my school children please?’ I widen my grin.

  Silence.

  ‘It really would be very much appreciated,’ I add, gripping the handle of my basket a little tighter in anticipation of his answer.

  Dan’s face hardens. He gives me another all-over look before delivering his verdict.

  ‘NO!’

  My mouth drops open. He turns around and strides off back into the B&B.

  Rude.

  I swallow hard and, after reuniting my jaw with the rest of my face, I realise that I was right – initial impressions sure do count. The YouTube clip of him was spot-on. Dan Wright is a child! In fact, that’s actually an insult to the children in my school, as they wouldn’t even dream of behaving as badly as he just did. And I hadn’t even got to the ‘teaming up with Lawrence’s B&B for cookery course weekends’ idea!

  Well, never mind! Tindledale can certainly do without the likes of him. And Lawrence would be making a grave mistake if he so much as contemplated any kind of joint business venture with Dan Wright, because if he’s as rude to his customers as he has just been to me, then the B&B would probably end up having to close down completely, when potential guests see its shockingly low rating for hospitality, or severe lack of, on travel sites such as TripAdvisor and the like. And I do an actual harrumph as I bat Blue’s veritable bale of hair right off my shoulder.

  With my resolve never to speak to Dan Wright ever again firmly in place, I snatch the sun hat back out from my basket, slap it on to my head, tug it down sharply, and storm off back to the lane to wait for the next bus home. I’ll call Lawrence later, which is exactly what I should have done in the first place.

  Back home, and after dumping my basket on the window seat in the kitchen and letting Blue out of his cage, I pull open the fridge door and grab the bottle with the last of the elderflower wine in. After bypassing the pouring into a glass part of the process, I pop the cork out, which bounces across the table before landing angrily against the side of my open laptop, and I stick the bottle up to my lips.

  As I go to retrieve the cork, my hand brushes over the mouse pad, bringing the screen alive, and just to rankle me further, I’m sure of it, Dan’s smirking face pops up. The YouTube clip is still freeze-framed on the screen. I hesitate, my finger hovering, and then curiosity gets the better of me and I click the arrow. The film continues playing. Dan is slouched back on the interviewer’s sofa, his legs st
ill spread wide. He slings an arm across the back of the sofa. God, could he look any more arrogant and over-entitled …? I take another mouthful of wine as I listen to him rattling on about his childhood in Maida Vale, wherever that is, and about how his passion for food started at a very young age when he spent the summer holidays with his grandparents. Ooh, he’s laughing now, the audience too … some in-joke about his granny ruining him with her dripping on toast and full-fat unpasteurised cream straight from the farm served with plump strawberries from the fields at the back of their garden. I put the wine bottle down and turn up the volume.

  ‘Yes, she’s an old-fashioned cook. Sticks to plain and simple “country bumpkin” fare,’ Dan smirks, swinging his left foot up on to his right knee, forming a triangle of crassness as he makes silly quote marks with his fingers round the words ‘country bumpkin’.

  ‘And plenty of it, I assume …’ The interviewer laughs.

  ‘What are you saying? That I’m fat?’ Dan pats his flat stomach, grinning at the audience.

  A woman shouts out, ‘No, you’re not Dan. You’re lovely!’ and they all clap; someone even does a wolf whistle.

  ‘Nooo, certainly not. It’s just grannies always seem to serve up enormous portions,’ the interviewer laughs, before composing himself and asking: ‘So, Dan, have you ever considered a permanent move to live in the village with your grandparents – it sounds as if you enjoyed some very idyllic school holidays there?’

  ‘What, move to Tindledale?’ Dan clarifies, and I gasp.

  His grandparents live here? Is that why he’s here? Do I know them?

  Well, whoever they are, they surely can’t be impressed by his attitude. But then I remember what Lawrence said, that this film clip is years old, so they may not even be alive any more. But it does explain his presence in Tindledale – he has a family connection. That’s nice, I suppose, but he’s going to have a job on his hands if he carries on behaving the way he did with me earlier. The villagers certainly won’t entertain such rudeness, and nobody will want to sit under one of his parasols watching the world go by as they pop an olive into their mouth.

  Back on the show, Dan is cooking his goose in impressive style: ‘God no! Not even the discovery of the finest truffles in the Tindledale woods would make me want to live there. School holidays are one thing, but every day?’ and he pulls a horrified face as he cocks his head to one side, loops an index finger in a circle around his neck, mimicking an imaginary hangman’s noose, before lifting his fist up high in the air as if he’s pulling a rope tight. He even pokes his tongue out of the side of his mouth for added comedic effect.

  And I’m aghast.

  So he thinks Tindledale is truly dullsville. That living here is likely to send him so close to the edge that he’d take his own life just to escape the boredom! Ridiculous. And he really is insufferable. And the sooner he goes back to Maida Vale, or whatever wonderfully vibrant and life-affirming place he lives in now, the better! I assume he’ll open the new restaurant and stick a manager in to run it for him then, as it’s quite clear that he hates being here. Maybe that’s why he was so obnoxious to me – he’s already losing the will to live. He just can’t wait to escape this godforsaken little village and get far, far away!

  I slam the laptop shut and sit stunned for a few minutes.

  I’ve just glugged the last of the satisfyingly fizzy liquid and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand when the phone rings. Jack! It might be. I was planning on calling him tomorrow in any case – I’m intrigued to know what’s so urgent about him contacting Taylor, but maybe my plan has worked after all. I backed off and now he wants to call his mum. And what wonderful timing, as I sure could do with hearing his cheery voice after Dan’s quite frankly terse and belligerent one.

  I dump the bottle on the side and dash into the lounge to retrieve the handset from the base.

  ‘Hello.’ It’s not Jack, but a voice I don’t recognise.

  ‘Oh, um, hello. Is that Meg?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ I reply, momentarily concerned that something has happened to Jack. But someone from the university wouldn’t just casually call and ask for Meg. Surely it would be a more formal request to speak to Miss Singer; my rational, sensible self quickly kicks in.

  ‘Err, I hope you don’t mind me calling … my name’s Jessie, Jessie Cavendish, and I saw your poster on the notice board in the village square with this number to call for information on how to get involved. And well, I’d like to,’ there’s a short pause, ‘um, get involved, that is.’

  ‘Oh hi!’ I manage to say, before she carries on.

  ‘I was hoping that I might be able to help out with the village show in some way. I’ve just moved to Tindledale and I …’ Her voice falters nervously. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece and quickly rearrange the still-disgruntled scowl on my face. It’s not Jessie’s fault that Dan is a giant arse. It must be very hard uprooting from everything you know to move to a brand-new place. My mood softens as I walk across the room and sink into the enormous squishy sofa by the window. Gabe, next door, is deadheading his lipstick-pink roses in the front garden, and when he looks up and across to my cottage, I give him a neighbourly wave.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say to Jessie. ‘I think we’ve already met – well, not properly. I was in the Spotted Pig café in the High Street earlier and I think you popped in with your lovely children.’ An ominous silence follows. ‘I’m the acting head at the village school,’ I quickly add, to plug the gap, and then groan inwardly for oversharing. Oh dear. And she’s going to know there’s been gossip now, about the newcomer, as how else would I presume to have already met her earlier?

  ‘Err …’ I can hear her inhaling, ‘yes,’ she coughs to clear her throat now, ‘yes, that’s right, we were there earlier. Were you the lady who recommended the hot chocolate?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Ahh, so she did hear me. ‘And sorry if I was intruding, I was just …’ I let my voice fade, figuring it best not to mention her seemingly vacant demeanour, or indeed her watery eyes. A short silence follows.

  ‘I’m very sorry about my husband …’ There’s another short silence. ‘For scaring your little girl like that. He, err, is under a lot of pressure … with his work and stuff.’ Jessie sounds anxious.

  ‘Oh, Teddie isn’t my little girl. No, she’s Kitty’s daughter, the woman who owns the café.’

  ‘Ahh, I see. Well, I had better go back and apologise to her then.’ And I can’t help wondering why, if it’s such a big deal, her husband isn’t doing the apologising.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need. Teddie just jumped when he banged on the window, that’s all,’ and not wanting Jessie to be as concerned about it as she sounds, I swiftly decide to change the subject. ‘So how are you all settling in to the village?’

  ‘Oh, yes, good, thank you. The children and I are enjoying finding our way around. And everyone has been so friendly and welcoming.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say, and then without thinking I add, ‘and I hope your husband is settling in well too?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ she says, not elaborating further, and then immediately gets back to the purpose of her call. ‘I’d like to help out with the show if I can. I thought it might be a good opportunity to get to know some people in the village.’

  ‘Yes, we’d love to have you on board. There really isn’t very much time, so any help you can offer would be very much appreciated. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t really got that far …’ There’s a short silence and I’m wondering about suggesting she comes along to the next meeting with me – I could introduce her and we could take it from there – when she continues, ‘I used to keep bees back in the day. Perhaps I could do a talk about that … although I’m sure you already have someone in the village who makes honey in any case. I probably shouldn’t intrude.’ She laughs nervously.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea, and quite coincidental …’ I say encouraginglyr />
  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ Jessie asks.

  ‘Your farmhouse! The old boy, Victor, who used to live there – he kept bees too.’

  ‘Really? How lovely, and explains the old hive that I found behind the potting shed,’ she says, sounding brighter already.

  ‘Yes, he’s long gone now, of course, died ages ago. The farmhouse was empty for a number of years until his family finally sorted out the probate and decided to renovate it and make it lovely, all ready for you to live in.’ I smile, remembering when I was in The Spotted Pig café one time, several months ago, and a group of school mums on the next table were huddled around an iPad, having found the house on Rightmove. I caught sight of some of the pictures, and it really is a beautiful home. Jessie is very lucky indeed. I then overheard the mums saying, ‘It’s all granite counters and solid oak flooring with a master bedroom suite and a walk-in dressing room.’ They were very in awe of whoever bought the house, seemingly having it all!

  ‘Sounds interesting!’ Jessie says. ‘I’d love to hear more about the history of this house,’ she adds enthusiastically, but then I hear a muffled sound as if she has her hand over the phone. Maybe one of the children is after something. Jack always used to do that – he’d be playing nicely, but the minute I picked up the phone he’d be all over me, patting my leg and bellowing for something or another, or jumping on the sofa when he knew very well that he shouldn’t, just to monopolise my attention. But this is different, I can hear a man’s voice – Mr Cavendish, I assume, and he’s shouting. Then there’s a soft, thudding sound and his voice is quite clear, ‘How many times have I told you?’ Then silence. ‘The car is coming in twenty minutes!’ He must be telling one of the children off … surely he doesn’t talk to Jessie in this way? I wait patiently and then Jessie is back on the line. ‘Sorry.’ But she offers no explanation. I cough to clear my throat and carry on the conversation.