The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  Added to which, the parents are up in arms about the possible closure of the school, which is probably a good thing as they can be a very vocal group and it’ll put pressure on the council to let us stay open. They want to discuss it properly at the next village show meeting on Friday; as one parent quite rightly pointed out, ‘We haven’t a hope in hell of putting on the best village show if the heart of our community, one of the big three Cs, has been ripped away before our very eyes.’

  I’m packing up my bag, when there’s a knock on my office door, and before I can walk across the room to open it, the door flies open and Mary dashes towards me with a huge, girlish grin on her sixty-something face. And a very nonchalant-looking Dan Wright is leaning against the doorframe of my office. Oh no! What does he want? My heart sinks.

  Mary steps right up close to me, and with her eyes all googly, she mouths, ‘He’s off the telly!’ before giving him a simpering look back over her shoulder.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I say under my breath, reaching for my bag and hoisting it over my shoulder. The last thing I want to do today is have to deal with Dan Wright. I’m just not in the mood for round two. I wanted to make a start on writing the new school newsletter before my cross-stitch class this evening, so the inspectors, and all the parents, can see what wonderful things the children have been up to recently. They’ve been crafting with Sybs on Monday afternoon (Hettie had to bow out gracefully as someone needed to stay in the haberdashery shop), and she’s got them making some kind of tapestry display of Tindledale through the ages – very intriguing and top secret, apparently. The adults aren’t allowed to see it until it’s finished and the children are beside themselves with excitement about it. And I must remember to mention the most impressive new addition to our curriculum … swimming lessons! Years Five and Six had their first one today at the Country Club and it was a phenomenal success. And I’m sure I saw a flicker of a smile on one of the inspectors’ faces when I explained why their classrooms were empty this afternoon, and at no additional cost to the council. I’m now pondering on how we might raise enough funds for a school minibus, as taking twenty-two children in a walking bus line to catch the actual bus from the stop in the village square, which only runs on the hour every hour, was quite some feat. Especially at this time of year when all the bramble bushes are bulging with blackberries that the children just can’t resist picking to eat – popping them into their mouths and covering their fingers and faces in the inky juice.

  ‘But you can’t gooooo,’ Mary exclaims, ‘what if Mr Wright wants to do a TV show here in the school? Can you imagine? It would be just like that series Jamie Oliver did about school dinners.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ I say, far too quickly, and instantly regret it when Mary’s face looks so crestfallen. But what is he even doing here in any case? How does Dan know that I work here? And then I remember – I told him! Hmm. Well, he still has no business just turning up, unless he’s come to apologise. Maybe that’s it. I dump my bag back on the floor and fold my arms in anticipation.

  ‘But he’s Dan Wright. The famous chef,’ Mary gasps in an exaggerated stage whisper, clearly baffled by my attitude.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, we’ve already met. And perhaps you could, err …’ What exactly? I’m not sure what to say – ask her to send him packing, ask her to tell him in no uncertain terms that he isn’t welcome here. Or I could tell her that he hates Tindledale, I bet she wouldn’t be so impressed by him then. But then I realise that I’m being ridiculous, immature and emotional. It was a run-in, that’s all. Adults get off on the wrong foot all the time.

  ‘It might make all the difference if the inspectors see him here – and think the school will be on the telly … could be brilliant publicity,’ Mary says persuasively, giving me a gentle, covert nudge with her elbow. Ha! If only she knew, but rather than burst her bubble further, I relent.

  I cough to clear my throat as I straighten my necklace, a little silver rabbit on a chain that Jack bought for my last birthday, before gesturing towards Dan. I take a deep breath and say,

  ‘OK. He can come in.’ And Mary turns and practically hoicks Dan from the doorframe, by slipping her hand inside the crook of his elbow and propelling him towards me.

  ‘Great, thanks love,’ he says, patting the back of Mary’s hand before extracting it from his arm. Love? That’s a bit familiar.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mary gushes to Dan, clasping her hands together in glee. ‘Shall I bring some tea, Meg?’ She turns her flushed face towards me, her eyes all sparkly and fluttery.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think that’s necessary; I wouldn’t want to keep you back late. It’s home time,’ I say, thinking it’s highly unlikely that Dan and I are going to cosy up over a pot of tea – and besides, I know that Mary has Brownies tonight in the village hall – she’s Brown Owl – plus she’ll want to be getting home to sort out her elderly mother’s dinner. She’s her carer, so she really has enough to do without waiting on Dan and me too.

  ‘There might be some of Becky’s Victoria sponge birthday cake left. I could slice it up for you, if you like,’ Mary continues, extra-eagerly, before turning to look at Dan. ‘It’s a just a shop-bought one, left over from when her daughter popped in at the weekend – she iced it herself – but Becky couldn’t manage it all on her own so she brought it into school to share, which is very kind, but some of us need to watch our figures.’ And Mary does a jovial pat of her rotund tummy, ‘and it won’t be up to your exquisite culinary standards of course, Mr Wright, but it’s no bother.’ She fixes her dazzling smile on to Dan before switching it to me. I open my mouth to reply, but Dan leaps in.

  ‘Your hospitality is very kind, Mary. But I’ve just eaten, so I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.’ And I’m flabbergasted. Who is this well-mannered, attentive man in front of me, kindly managing to remember the clearly besotted school secretary’s name? Certainly not the one I bumped into on the little bridge in Lawrence’s front garden, that’s for sure. I glance at Dan and he looks totally different. He’s smiling, warmly and openly, and it makes him look – dare I say it? – quite appealing. Hmm. I glance at the wall clock.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Mary breathes reverently before backing out of the room.

  As soon as she has closed the door behind her, Dan strides across the room and plonks his bottom on the corner of my desk. He folds his arms in a very casual, relaxed way, clearly comfortable in his own skin. So why then does he have this stifled anger thing going on?

  ‘Err, excuse me, was there something I can help you with?’ I ask, and then immediately wonder why I sound so prim again, just like Mrs Pocket, all of a sudden. I actually think I may have arched an eyebrow, too, just to complete my scary teacher face. I turn away and pretend to be busy rummaging in my cloth school bag. It’s Dan, the effect he has on me; his demeanour is very … confident, gregarious, larger than life. It makes me feel quite guarded – even a little intimidated, perhaps.

  ‘There’s no rush. I’ll wait for you to find whatever it is you’re searching for,’ and he gestures with his head towards my bag. There’s an amused smile on his face.

  ‘Sorry, have I got a leaf in my hair or something?’ I can’t believe I just said that, but why is he looking at me in this way, as if he’s about to burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter?

  ‘A leaf?’ he repeats, pulling a face of confusion. There’s a short silence before he adds, ‘Why? Do you often have leaves in your hair?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’ I stop rummaging and pat my hair, just to be sure, as it can actually be a hazard when cycling around country lanes, especially on a windy, autumnal day – I once found part of a prickly conker shell tangled up in my ponytail.

  ‘Why did you say it then?’ He tilts his head to one side.

  ‘Because there’s obviously something amusing you!’

  ‘Is that so?’ The corners of his mouth tilt upwards.

  ‘I don’t know, you tell me? You’re the one sitting on my desk w
ith a daft grin on your face … so I just assumed …’ I place a hand on my hip, wishing I had stuck to my guns and gone home now.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s very nice! Charming indeed.’ He laughs. ‘I came here to tell you that I’ve been thinking about your request, and to say that maybe I could help out after all … Why not? Kids love me.’ He does a big shrug, holding up his palms to emphasise his claim, ‘and it would certainly keep my manager happy …’ He stands up and studies the swirly pattern on the carpet. ‘It would need to be kept hush-hush of course, no publicity. You know, no pictures on the school website, talking to the media, or any of that stuff. My people would want it all contained. They like to oversee everything. Control it all.’ Dan shakes his head before rubbing his beard, and I can’t tell if this is really him talking or a pre-rehearsed persona. It’s weird. Like he’s playing a part, almost.

  ‘Pardon?’ I crease my forehead.

  ‘Which bit?’ He looks up and fixes his leonine brown eyes on me. I feel compelled to glance away.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, now feeling infuriated by him all over again.

  ‘A cookery class for the kids. Here’s my card – give Pia a call and she’ll sort it all out.’ He hands me a cream-coloured business card.

  ‘Pia?’

  ‘My manager!’ Dan says it as if it’s the most widely known fact in the Western world. I take the card and turn it over a few times before going to hand it back to him. ‘What’s up?’ he says, standing up and pushing his hands into his jeans pockets.

  ‘I’d rather not call Pia.’ I pull a face, but then stop talking, as Dan has his head thrown back and is laughing hard. ‘What’s so amusing now?’ I ask, placing the card on my desk.

  ‘You! You’re hilarious.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say, a little wounded. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or with me.

  ‘Yep. Truth be told, Pia scares the crap out of me too!’ And he laughs some more.

  ‘Um, no, I didn’t mean …’ I shake my head.

  ‘Just call her and I’ll turn up alongside the crew when I’m told to,’ he says in a very matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘Crew?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He gives me a look, and then elaborates when he realises I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Oh, you know … camera and sound guys, assistant chefs – choppers and peelers I call them, and mustn’t forget the make-up girl – she dollops stuff on to my face to give it a glow.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Pia will deal with it all,’ he finishes, sounding a bit weary now, like he can’t really be bothered.

  ‘But it doesn’t need to be a huge thing,’ I start. ‘And I’m not sure about filming the children – that would take a very long time to get organised, get the right permissions in place, and so on,’ I say, panicking. This isn’t what I had in mind at all, and he doesn’t really seem to be keen on the idea in any case. I’d rather not have him teach the children if he’s going to come across as bored or, worst still, here under sufferance. You can’t pull the wool over the children’s eyes – they are bound to pick up on it right away. And what will the inspectors think when they see him? Dan Wright, the reluctant chef! ‘Can’t I just call you and arrange for you to do something low key – I thought you could pop in and perhaps show the children how to make a shepherd’s pie or something.’ A flicker of disdain darts across his face. I guess he’s used to cooking fancy cordon-bleu stuff, not boring, basic shepherd’s pies. But my children love a shepherd’s pie – me too; everyone has second helpings when it’s on the school lunch menu. ‘We have an oven in the school kitchen,’ I offer, feeling feeble and very provincial.

  He doesn’t say anything as he mulls over my suggestion.

  ‘You can’t call me direct,’ he eventually replies, turning his back on me to study the corkboard on the wall.

  Rude. Again!

  ‘Oh, why not?’ I ask, feeling even more irked when he taps something on the board and does a sort of snigger to himself, his shoulders bobbing up and down. ‘Am I too much of a “country bumpkin”?’ I ask, remembering his line in the YouTube interview. I even do the same silly quote marks with my fingers, which, even though he can’t see me, is still actually quite ridiculous, so, feeling like an idiot, I immediately drop my hands back down by my sides.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dan turns back to face me, and looks confused. ‘Don’t be daft … you can’t call me because I threw my phone in the river, remember?’ he clarifies casually.

  ‘Um.’ I can feel my cheeks reddening. ‘Yes, well, err … of course, I know that …’ I say, trying to sound breezy and indifferent, on realising that he’s seemingly got one over me.

  ‘So are you going to call Pia or not?’ He looks me up and down, and it unnerves me again. And why does he have to be so … bold and direct? And, oh I don’t know … larger than life, I guess! It’s intrusive. Yes, that’s what it is.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, feeling put on the spot.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll be off then …’ and he goes to leave.

  ‘I think that’s probably a very good idea,’ I retort, feeling stubborn and petulant and immature now. But he started all this.

  ‘Fine.’ He strides across my office, and then just as he reaches the door, he stops and turns back. ‘You know if they do close down the school, you should call a film studio and get a job as a fight director; you’d be really good at that!’ And he’s gone.

  And yet again, I’m left flabbergasted.

  Speechless. My hands are tingling with indignation. How dare he? I didn’t start the so-called fight, so what does he mean? Fight director! Is there even such a thing? And why does he think we’re fighting? I declined his offer to use my school as some kind of publicity stunt, that’s all. I can only assume that he’s not used to being turned down. Or thinks I’m the one being difficult, deliberately setting out to pick a fight with him. Why would I do that?

  I close the door behind him and walk into the middle of my office. I don’t know what to do. I actually don’t. So I do nothing. I just stand still, with my eyes closed, as I concentrate on breathing. In and out. Over and over. I even count to ten as I taught Jack to do when he was just a little boy with a large fiery temper.

  That’s better, I feel calmer now. I go over to the wall, curious to know what Dan was sniggering over, and scan the corkboard. There’s Taylor’s picture of the goldfish, numerous thank-you cards from children and parents, collected over the years. There are a couple of pictures that Jack drew – an alien, a sunflower, a wooden hutch with Blue and Belle inside, each chewing on a carrot. There’s a space-hopper-shaped scribbly circle with stick arms and legs, which is supposed to be me – Jack had just turned three years old when he drew it, so it would be incredibly unfair if Dan was sniggering at this. And then I spot it.

  I lean in closer and my heart actually stops mid-beat, momentarily.

  Noooooo! Oh no!

  And of all the people to see it, it had to be Dan flaming Wright. It’s my completed cross-stitch project. I took a photo of it before dropping it off to be framed at the bookshop in the High Street – my beautiful cross-stitch sampler to celebrate my lovely village school. I thought I could hang it on the wall in the hall so that the inspectors could spot it; see how long the school has been here – over a hundred years! I even managed to stitch a fairly reasonable image of the school with the clock tower on too.

  But it’s all ruined, and I’m an enormous idiot! Because the words say,

  Tinbledale Village School

  Established 1841

  Spot the error! I didn’t. And I don’t know how many times I checked it. A lot, that’s for sure. I guess my eyes saw what they wanted to see. How infuriating. And embarrassing. No wonder Dan was sniggering. And I hate how I feel now, like he’s got one over me … again! More so, that I seem to be bothered. What is that all about? I really wish I didn’t care, but for some reason I do. Damn it! Dan Wright has really got under my skin.

  Once again, I find
myself hoisting my bag over my arm and storming off, wondering how on earth I managed to misspell TINDLEDALE, the name of the village in which I have lived my whole life.

  At last, the end of a very long week has arrived, and when I get to the village green for tonight’s show meeting, Jessie is already here. The triplets are sitting in a neat row on the wooden bench, while she stands, shielding her eyes from the early evening sun.

  ‘Hi Meg. How are you?’ Jessie asks as I sit down next to her.

  ‘Great,’ I fib, still reeling slightly from my last terse encounter with Dan. I called in to see Lawrence on my way home after my class with Hettie on Wednesday evening, and he already knew all about the defective cross-stitch sampler – said it was no big deal and that Dan wasn’t laughing at me. That, in fact, he had asked Lawrence to let me know about the misspelling, as he felt mean later, not having pointed it out to me at the time, but reckoned I was already wound up enough without him antagonising me further. Hmm, likely story. He was definitely sniggering – well, his shoulders were jigging about. I didn’t actually hear him doing a sniggery sound, but … anyway, he was right about one thing, he had certainly wound me up! And I realised afterwards that he hadn’t even apologised for barging into me on the bridge. I reckon he only came to see me as, on reflection, he thought a televised trip to the quaint little village school would make him look good. He even said as much by telling me it would keep his manager happy. I bet they talked about it and saw an opportunity – all that spiel about wanting control over publicity, yep, so they could sell a story to the papers. Do another interview on TV perhaps, with Dan telling silly jokes about the ‘country bumpkins’ – have you heard the one about the teacher with the sweat-stained sun hat, who thinks she has leaves in her hair and can’t even spell properly? Hahahaha!