The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  But Lawrence also pointed out that in a way, I suppose, I actually do have Dan to thank, as at least now I can get the sampler back from Adam in the bookshop – the framer doesn’t come to collect the new stuff until next week. Then I can correct the error and save myself the humiliation of letting the inspectors see how the acting head of the village school they are assessing for viability can’t spell ‘Tindledale’, her own village’s name.

  Anyway, Lawrence agreed with me that Dan wanting to turn my school into a publicity stunt to promote himself wasn’t really on. No, so I’ve come up with an alternative plan to broaden the curriculum – Years One and Two are going to visit the Spotted Pig café to see how a proper professional kitchen works, and Kitty will show them how to bake their own bread, followed by a couple of batches of huffkin buns, which they can eat for their tea. The parents have all given permission; some have even offered to come along to help out. When I made the inspectors aware, they seemed very interested: there was lots of ticking and note-making going on, especially when I explained that the huffkin buns are a Tindledale tradition and will be featuring at our village show, so not only are the children learning about food and how to cook it, they’re also finding out about their heritage too. I call that a win-win. And I bet they don’t have trips out to commercial kitchens on the curriculum at the big school in Market Briar.

  ‘How are you, Jessie?’ I ask, stepping back, and then I see her nervously twisting her fingers around the tassels on the end of her scarf. ‘Hey, it’ll be fine … come on,’ I loop my arm through hers. ‘Nothing to be worried about, you’re with me – the villagers wouldn’t dare make you feel unwelcome, not if I put my scary teacher face on.’ I laugh to lighten the mood, but Jessie looks away. ‘Hey, is everything OK?’ I ask. Then something catches my eye. There’s a guy, standing by the pond, wearing a faded grey T-shirt, jeans and trainers. He pushes his sunglasses up over his blond curly hair, and waves across in our direction.

  ‘A friend of yours?’ I smile gently at Jessie, wondering what’s going on.

  The man looks pleasant enough, harmless; an ordinary, down-to-earth guy. Definitely a newcomer, though, as I’ve never seen him here before in Tindledale. And I’m sure the playground mums would have spotted him already and started swooning, as he’s very easy on the eye, so I definitely would have overheard them gossiping about the new ‘mystery man’.

  ‘Oh, um, yes,’ Jessie hesitates, ‘he’s an old friend.’ She busies herself with helping the children off the bench, clearly not wanting to elaborate further. Then, Millie, the only one of her children who actually spoke when they came to the teddy bears’ picnic, spots the man and shrieks, ‘Saaaaaam! Look, Mummy, it’s Sam,’ and she grabs Jessie’s arm in excitement, but I’m sure I spot Jessie wince as she quickly pulls her arm away. ‘Has he come to see us?’ Millie is bobbing up and down now; in stark contrast to the way she was that time in the café. She’s clearly thrilled to see the mystery man.

  ‘That’s enough Millie,’ Jessie snaps, just a little too harshly, and then looks horrified, scared almost, as she glances over her shoulder at the man, who is walking away now, his head bowed despondently as he pushes his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Sorry sweetheart,’ Jessie says, her voice softening as she turns her attention back to little Millie.

  ‘Never mind, Mummy. Shall I kiss it better?’ And Millie places her little hand, very gently, on the top of Jessie’s arm.

  ‘No, it’s OK darling, but thank you.’ Jessie turns to me. ‘He’s a gardener,’ she explains, motioning with her head towards the mystery man, before lifting Millie’s hand away, quickly adding, ‘I caught it on the corner of the iron. Damn thing, hurts like hell,’ she explains, doing an awkward kind of laugh, which doesn’t sound right. In fact, it makes me feel quite uneasy. But before I have a chance to analyse further, Lawrence appears with a glass of Pimm’s in each hand.

  ‘Hello ladies,’ he smiles, ‘I was wondering where you had got to; I thought I’d bring these out to you.’ He hands Jessie a drink before handing me the other one.

  ‘Oh, mmm, thanks Lawrence,’ I say, in between taking a couple of sips of the refreshing, fruity drink that instantly makes me feel warm and relaxed as the alcohol hits my bloodstream. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Jessie yet,’ I say gesturing with my free hand, ‘or her lovely children, Millie, Olivia and Max.’

  ‘No, I’ve not had the pleasure yet,’ Lawrence says. ‘Welcome to Tindledale,’ he adds politely, doing a little nod in his usual gentlemanly way. ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘Yes, good, um … thank you,’ Jessie says, sounding flustered now.

  ‘Lawrence is my oldest and dearest friend,’ I jump in, feeling a need to put her at ease. But I make a mental note to try and chat to her later, make sure everything is OK, at least, because I’m not entirely sure it is.

  ‘Err, excuse me! Less of the old,’ Lawrence laughs, bringing my thoughts back to the moment.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’ Grinning, I bat his arm playfully, and steal a surreptitious glance sideways in Jessie’s direction – she has her sunglasses on now, but is staring ahead into the middle distance, in the direction that Sam went. And her fingers are trembling, only slightly, but I spot it nonetheless.

  ‘Here, Jessie, let me help you with your Pimm’s,’ I say, cheerfully, taking the glass from her. ‘You’ll need both hands for the children.’ I smile. And Lawrence, sensing something is awry, I’m sure of it, quickly steps in to help out too.

  ‘Yes, silly me, I wasn’t thinking! Why don’t I carry both glasses back across to the pub garden and then you can follow on with the children …’ he says calmly and reassuringly as he nods at me. ‘That’s better. There we go.’ Lawrence takes the Pimm’s and starts wandering off across the lane towards the Duck & Puddle pub. After seeing the children link hands in a little line, with Max then holding on to Jessie’s hand, I walk along next to Lawrence, with Jessie and the children following behind. ‘So, how’s it all going with the inspectors?’ Lawrence turns his head towards me.

  ‘So-so,’ I shrug, ‘but they did seem pretty impressed with my teddy bears’ picnic initiative – Jessie and the triplets joined us and she told us all about bees and how they make honey. She even brought along a proper white wooden hive – an empty one, but the children were still fascinated. Jessie found it behind an old outbuilding, figuring Victor’s family must have overlooked it when they cleared out all his stuff.’

  We make it into the pub garden, where Jessie and I manage to bag a comfy cushioned corner sofa under a pergola next to three giant wooden trugs crammed with wild lavender. The scent is truly divine. And with the still-warm sun glistening on the grassy horizon, I can imagine it really is like being in the South of France, if you ignore the crunch of crisps and whiff of frothy beer mingled with garlic bread and cheesy chips from the farmers’ table to our left.

  The triplets are happy on the bouncy castle with all the other children, and Becky has volunteered to be a community babysitter for the evening, so there’s a lovely, fun and relaxed atmosphere from the off, which makes a change from last time, or maybe it’s the copious amounts of Pimm’s that have already been drunk. I cast a glance around the garden and see that most of the tables have at least one – some have two – already empty jugs on them.

  Various parents have been asking me what exactly I know about the school closing down and I try and assure them that, as far as I’m concerned, the school most definitely isn’t closing, not if I can help it, but also tell them it would really be helpful if they all sent emails to the council outlining their concerns. Someone from the parish council agrees that it’s an outrage and they have already had ‘words’ at the highest level, before Mrs Pocket says she’s scheduling an emergency governors’ meeting to explore all the options. Good! Because I’m beginning to feel like a one-woman army against the team of inspectors. The sooner they go, the better, and my school can get back to normal.

  The meeting looks as if it’s ju
st about to start as Sybs is standing up and trying to get everyone’s attention. She’s chinking the side of a glass with one of her knitting needles. I finish my drink and am about to go and join her, when Taylor appears from behind one of the lavender bushes.

  ‘Miss Sing—. Sorry, Meg,’ she smiles and scoots into the seat beside me as I bat away a bee that goes to nosedive my drink.

  ‘Hey Taylor, how are you?’ I say kindly. I bet Jack hasn’t been in touch; she looks very forlorn. Not calling me because he’s having too much fun is one thing, but I don’t like him treating girls badly.

  ‘Not too bad. I just wondered if you had managed to speak to Jack? I still haven’t heard from him.’ I hesitate and then, to spare her feelings I tell her, ‘Oh Taylor, I’m very sorry, I’ve been so busy, what with the village show and the inspectors at school every day …’ I discreetly cross my fingers to guard against the repercussions of telling a white lie.

  Her face drops, and I’m somewhat surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. Gosh, she really has got it bad. It makes me wonder if there’s something more serious going on between them, but then why didn’t Jack mention it? He’s always been quite open in chatting to me about dating and girlfriends and all of that. ‘Taylor, is everything OK?’ I ask softly, and she studies me momentarily, seemingly gauging whether or not to talk to me about whatever it is that’s troubling her, when the moment vanishes as Sybs calls me over to chair the meeting and give everyone an update on the state of the station car park and the duck pond.

  An hour later, and I’ve suggested we take a break, seeing as we’ve managed to whizz through the agenda and cover a lot of ground. The village show plans are coming together splendidly and everyone in the village has got on and tackled whichever tasks they agreed to take on at the last meeting. Pete is planning his usual ploughing competition in the fields of the Blackwood Farm Estate – Lord Lucan opens the estate up on every show day – and Pete has roped in over twenty other farmers. Some of them even have heavy horses to pull the old-fashioned manual ploughs, to see who can win his most proficient ploughman’s prize, a barrel of beer from the Duck & Puddle, which sets the general off again with yet more complaints about the ‘utter disregard’ for his mangled borders.

  The commemorative stone has already been paid for by the parish council at a heavily discounted price, and is being carved ‘as we speak’, apparently, which I find hard to believe given that the guy who owns the garden centre is currently in the Bahamas for his daughter’s wedding, but we all agree to trust that it’ll be ready and erected in the village square for show day. The WI women have come up with an ‘innovative idea’, their chairwoman says, before treating us all to a very thorough explanation, complete with dance sequence diagrams with little paw prints on – a synchronised dog show! Taylor perks up at this point as, together with her mum, Amber, they’ve agreed to groom all the dogs ahead of the show, and then provide a doggy marquee on the day, with water bowls and beds and treats and stuff. Lord Lucan and his wife, Marigold, are organising hot-air balloons to take off from one of the fields on the estate, and then float over Tindledale on show day, which will be amazing, and such a treat – especially if they can get the right insurances in place so that people, the show judges in particular, can enjoy a ride. I’d love to go up in a hot-air balloon. And we all agreed that this initiative could really set us apart from all the other village shows.

  It turns out Jessie is a keen gardener, so she has kindly volunteered to tidy the station car park, duck pond and little lawned area in the village square, and also came up with a great idea to organise an allotment food bank. And everyone agrees this is an excellent way to show Tindledale’s commitment to helping the wider community, especially the allotment owners, who are all delighted at the prospect of their surplus crops going to a worthwhile cause. Apparently they’ve seen a bumper harvest already this year, with the weather being as wonderful as it has been, and they have already passed on as much produce as they can to family and friends. Nobody likes to see good food going to waste. So Mrs Pocket is marshalling a team of volunteers to collect the excess from the twenty or so allotments down the lane near my school, to take to the food banks in Market Briar.

  I’ve just finished chatting to policeman Mark and his daughter Lily – she’s delighted with her newly decorated bedroom and insisted on showing me a picture of it on Mark’s phone. They’ve had one of those colourful canvas prints done using pictures of Polly, laughing and pulling silly faces, which now hangs on Lily’s wall.

  I’m walking over to join Jessie on the corner sofa, when … Oh no. My heart sinks.

  What’s he doing here?

  Dan is striding across the grass.

  That’s all I need. Another run-in with Dan flaming Wright.

  And what on earth does he look like? A big, pirate sailboat – his long black shirt is hanging out of the back of his jeans, billowing in the breeze as he gathers speed. His beard has reached ridiculous lengths now – and what’s he done to his hair? He’s clearly going for the ‘bird’s nest’ or ‘bonkers professor’ look, as it’s truly wild: more Ken Dodd than Kit Harington. But he smells nice; a mixture of almonds and oud lingers in the air behind him, which I suppose makes up for the monstrous Cornish-pasty-shaped green Crocs on his feet. I’ve never seen the attraction myself, and can honestly say that they do nothing for Dan – he looks as if he’s just rolled in from a wild weekend-long yacht party. Wired and dishevelled.

  Well, I’ll just ignore him. Everyone else is pretending to, even though I can see some of the mums nudging each other and grinning like pubescent schoolgirls. One of them has even got a mirror out of her handbag and is hurriedly topping up her lipstick and fluffing her hair about, obviously attracted to the brutish type.

  I reach Jessie and sit back down beside her.

  ‘Well done, Meg,’ she says brightly, popping a straw into a carton of juice before handing it to Millie, who practically imbibes it in one enormous gulp, she’s so eager to get back to her new friends on the bouncy castle. ‘I wish I could be as forthright and organised as you,’ Jessie smiles as she busies herself with wiping Millie’s mouth and sending her on her way.

  ‘I’m sure you do just fine,’ I say, wondering if now might be a good moment for me to find out a bit more about her. But just as I open my mouth, the general appears in front of us.

  ‘Good evening! I hear that you are the lady to deal with,’ he says very directly, whilst doing a sort of rocking movement on his feet, his arms ramrod straight behind his back.

  ‘Oh, um, maybe,’ I reply hesitantly, lifting a hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling orange evening sun as I rummage in my handbag with the other to find my sunglasses. The general, surprisingly thoughtfully, shifts a little to the left to block the sun so that I can see him without squinting. ‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘Do you need my help with something?’

  ‘No. It is I who can help you!’ he says slowly, punctuating each of the words distinctively. He rocks some more.

  ‘Is that so?’ I ask, curiously. Ahh, I find my sunglasses and pop them on.

  ‘Indeed. I’m outraged by all this hot air flying around – stuff and nonsense about closing the village school. It’s preposterous! You know, my father was educated there … before winning his place at Sandhurst. And his father before him.’ The general nods firmly.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you had a family conn—’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s the reason I came to Tindledale. Inherited the old place – my father’s childhood home. Anyway, I found this in the attic and want you to display it in the school hall. I’ll have a tradesman come by to install a proper cabinet.’ And the general hands me a small blue box. I open it carefully. ‘Don’t be afraid, dear – have a proper look, it’s a remarkably fine piece of craftsmanship,’ he informs me.

  ‘Oh gosh, it’s an OBE medal!’ I say, impressed, as I touch a finger to the scarlet and grey striped ribbon, and then down, momentarily tracing over the gilt crow
n and floriated cross beneath it.

  ‘That’s right. It was my father’s. He was awarded the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire for his sterling contribution to business,’ he informs me, using the proper, full name for the medal.

  ‘Wow! But I can’t possibly take this,’ I say, closing the box and trying to hand the medal back to him.

  ‘You must. I’ve already informed Mrs Pocket. She will trace all the other people of note that attended your school. Right back to the beginning.’ The general straightens the collar of his navy blazer. ‘Tindledale village school is steeped in history, and we must be proud of this fact! Did you know that your school hall was commandeered during the war by the Home Guard and took responsibility for educating a very respectable number of evacuees?’ and he pulls his pipe from a pocket and points it in the air to punctuate the words.

  ‘Um, no. No, I didn’t,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘How fascinating!’ And my mind is already working overtime, wondering how we can utilise the school’s impressive history to put even more pressure on the team of inspectors.

  ‘Yes it is! And this is why we must not allow the buffoons at the council to close it down without a second thought.’ He points his pipe in the air some more. ‘The heritage of this fine country is not to be sniffed at.’ And he’s rocking again now, as if gearing up for one of his rants. I smile politely, and spot Dan in my peripheral vision from behind my sunglasses – he’s chugging a glass of what looks like whisky. ‘I shall get on to my pal in the house if it comes to it,’ the general harrumphs.