‘The house?’ I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
‘Of Lords,’ he states.
‘Well, that would be wonderful,’ I say, figuring a connection in Parliament might be just the thing to save my little school, if the teddy bears’ picnics, animal petting afternoon, swimming, cookery and crafting lessons – and our Great Village Show – aren’t enough.
‘Indeed. Right you are. No time to waste in getting a proper commemorative display organised, photos and details giving a potted history of the school and all the distinguished pupils. Not forgetting the invaluable contributions the school has made to our country through two world wars. Good day to you, miss.’ And he marches off to sit back with the parish council people.
‘Gosh,’ says Jessie, grinning, ‘he’s certainly a force to be reckoned with.’
‘Isn’t he just. But nice of him to donate the medal to the “save our school” effort,’ I smile.
‘Sure is. Mind if I take a look please?’ I flip open the case to show her. ‘Do you really think this will help to save the school?’ she asks.
‘To be honest, Jessie, I have no idea … but it has to be worth trying,’ I say, stowing the medal in my bag for safekeeping and feeling a fresh sense of determination to see this mission through.
As I finish the last of my Pimm’s, I notice that Jessie hasn’t touched hers yet. Oh well, maybe she’s not a fan – it is quite potent.
‘Is your husband coming this evening?’ I ask her, looking around vaguely, as if expecting him to hove into view at any moment.
‘No. He’s in Zurich,’ she says in a monotone voice, sitting upright now.
‘Ahh, well, he’d be hard pressed to be in two places at once, wouldn’t he?’ I laugh, feeling an urge to lighten the mood all of a sudden.
‘Thankfully.’ Jessie mutters the word as she turns her face away, but I know I’m not mistaken.
I frown slightly, and turn to her. ‘You know, if you ever want to chat about anything,’ I say, gently touching the top of her arm to avoid the iron burn – feeling my way for fear of overstepping the mark. There’s another short silence while Jessie fiddles with her scarf. She turns to look at me, and goes to say more, but then hesitates and dips her head.
I change the subject. ‘Sooo, the guy earlier … on the village green, he looked nice. How do you know him?’ I ask cheerfully, to cover my own feelings of awkwardness now.
‘Ahh, we grew up together,’ Jessie says, staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. ‘In the same village.’ She doesn’t elaborate, and then Kitty is calling for us all to be quiet as she has something to ask, so I miss my chance to find out more about the mystery man.
‘Obviously, I’ll be laying on the huffkin buns and a selection of other traditional foods,’ Kitty informs us. ‘Afternoon tea with finger sandwiches, strawberries and cream, Eton mess and cakes, etc., but I thought it might be nice for us to be a little more adventurous this year. I’m sure the judges must get tired of sampling the same food at all the village shows around the country. So, I wondered if anyone has any ideas?’ she smiles sweetly, rubbing her hands together and glancing around the crowd. ‘Cher, I know we’ve already chatted and you suggested venison burgers with sweet potato chips.’ Cher, with two empty Pimm’s pitchers in each hand, nods in agreement. There’s a collective circuit of ‘oohs and ahhs’ and ‘that’s a jolly good idea’ from the villagers. The farmers’ table seems especially keen, and then Cooper, the butcher, pulls himself up into a standing position, aided by Molly, who gives him an affectionate slap on the backside.
‘I can sort out the meat for the burgers, no problem.’ Cooper whips out a black pocket pad and makes a note before sitting back down. Molly squeezes his right cheek and then gives him a very generous kiss on the lips, at which their youngest son, Ollie, who’s in Year Six, yells, ‘Ugh. Muuuuuum,’ from over by the fence, where he’s with a group of other children, feeding grass to the five greedy goats in the field next door.
‘Venison is a splendid idea!’ the general puffs.
‘No it isn’t!’ Taylor says, swivelling in her seat and turning her attention away from her mobile, which is a waste of time in any case as there’s no signal in the beer garden. And I’m not even sure why I have a mobile phone, but someone at the council insisted, so they could contact me in an emergency – just goes to show how little they know about Tindledale!
‘Why the devil not?’ he goads.
‘Because it’s cruel. You can’t kill Bambi!’ Taylor shrieks.
‘Nonsense. Blasted deer are a menace,’ and the general is off on one now. I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses, thinking he sure doesn’t help himself. Taylor looks as if she’s about to burst into tears. ‘Vandalising my garden … wandering in willy-nilly whenever they feel like it,’ the general continues. ‘No, cull the lot of them, I say!’ And Taylor swings her legs over the wooden bench seat before jumping up and running into the pub. Oh dear. I contemplate going after her, but Amber grabs her purse from the table and darts off, so I leave it.
‘OK, maybe we should do pork and apple burgers instead,’ Cher concedes, but the crowd all seem quite content with the venison idea.
‘And venison burgers would be perfect with a celeriac remoulade.’ It’s Dan. And my hackles are immediately up. What’s it got to do with him? And he’s doing his usual cocky, comfortable-in-his-own-skin stance, leaning against the brick wall of the pub with his arms folded across his wide chest and a casually confident look on his moody, thunderous, bearded face.
‘Ooh, that sounds fancy,’ one of the school mums pipes up, ‘I bet I’d love that,’ she then adds, quite suggestively, before muttering, ‘What is it?’ to her friend.
‘Posh coleslaw,’ Dan offers, laughing pleasantly, and the school mums all join in. There’s a tutting sound from the WI table. Ha! At least they aren’t being bamboozled by his fake display of charisma. Maybe I should mention the YouTube film; the school mums wouldn’t be enjoying jolly banter with him then. I take a deep breath and try to get a grip – I’m being petty, I know, but he riles me so much. And what’s he going on about now? Something about food trucks being dotted around the village on show day – he has a friend who can loan us some lovely, retro, chrome trucks with candy pink and white striped awning, for a very reasonable fee, which, hang on … Dan is even offering to cover the cost of. Wow! Well, OK, that’s very generous of him.
But, I can’t help thinking, how come he’s now so keen to help support the village community, when he wouldn’t come to my school and do a low-key cookery class without his entourage? It’s quite a U-turn. Talk about mercurial! Hmm. He’s now suggesting teaming up with the village bakery to sell artisan loaves to the hipsters down from London. Dan reckons they’ll be flocking to our Great Village Show when they hear about the veritable gourmet food fair that we have planned. And now he’s talking to Sonny – the chef from the pub – about all of them pulling together and selling a selection of traditional food, mingled with some ideas he has for modern innovative fayre. Well, let’s just hope the villagers’ food isn’t too ‘country bumpkinish’ for his exquisite culinary tastes. I stick a cheesy chip into my mouth and cross my arms.
‘But how about my café? Business is hard enough, without your Michelin-star food trucks everywhere,’ Kitty quite rightly points out.
‘No problem, you could have a truck too … We could all cash in,’ Dan suggests.
‘Weell, I like the sound of that,’ Kitty joins in, her forehead furrowing as she mulls it all over. ‘But wait, hang on a minute, how can I run the café and serve food from the truck at the same time?’ she then asks.
‘How about a joint venture – you supply the buns, cakes, sandwiches, etc., and I’ll flog them alongside the other stuff. We can split the revenue, or maybe we can have some volunteers to help out, sell the food in a selection of vans, and I can whizz around keeping an eye on them all and generally lend a hand. What do you reckon?’ Dan throws the question out to the crowd, and there’s an immedi
ate show of hands teamed with lots of eager nodding heads. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll call into your café beforehand and we can thrash it all out together.’ He winks at Kitty, prompting all the school mums to drop their arms and narrow their eyes at her. But I reckon they’re safe enough – Kitty is still mourning Ed, her school sweetheart, her first love. She told me once that he’d be her last love, too, which I remember thinking was just so sad, so I hope she does manage to move on one day. Maybe I should have done so too; maybe I should have tried harder to meet another man. To have been more open to the possibility, if only for Jack’s sake, instead of dismissing his and Mum’s attempts at matchmaking after Will left. Oh well, too late now. Jack is all grown up and gone away, and I’m settled.
Besides, I like stability, things to stay the same. And in the short space of time since Jack has left, I’ve managed to acquire some foibles. I rather like taking my tea and toast back to bed in the morning now – crumbs in the bed don’t bother me, and I quite like leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor – I never did that with Jack around or it would have been impossible to get him to tidy up after himself if I didn’t set a good example. I especially like having the remote control to myself, channel hopping as I please. And having hot chocolate and a packet of custard creams for my dinner, should I fancy doing so, not always having to prepare a proper meal as I did when Jack was around …
‘What other stuff?’ someone shouts out, bringing my thoughts back to Dan and the meeting.
‘Right! Well, we can all throw in some suggestions,’ Dan begins slowly. ‘And this is just off the top of my head. But how about something like handmade scotch eggs, fiery beetroot salad, butternut squash tostadas, rice noodle cups with chilli prawns, mini chorizo pizzas … as long as people can eat it easily enough with a napkin and a fork, the possibilities are endless.’
OK. So that could work. I suppose. I find myself nodding along with everyone else. And, as much as it peeves me to think so, given that it’s Dan’s idea, I reckon the families with lots of children, reading the Sunday supplement review of the top ten village shows, will like it too – food trucks are a thing; there was a discussion about it on the radio last Sunday. Street food. It’s actually very ‘on trend’, as they say.
‘And how about a pop-up juice bar?’ Dan goes on, but then Lucy, the florist, sitting next to an elderly woman, nudges her and chimes in with, ‘We could flog some of your parsnip wine, Granny Elizabeth.’ And everyone laughs. I resist the urge to smirk. Jack and I tried out Granny Elizabeth’s recipe a few years ago, and it is certainly an acquired taste. Or rank, as Jack described it after swigging a mouthful. He had to spit it out into the kitchen sink before grabbing some milk from the fridge to take the starchy taste away. I don’t think I had let it ferment for long enough though, to be fair; I’ve tried it again since at the last school fete, and it was surprisingly pleasant. Sweet and nutty with a hint of orange.
‘Yes! That’s a great idea,’ he keeps on. ‘Parsnip schnapps!’ Dan embellishes. He looks totally focused, younger and more relaxed somehow. This is clearly what he was born to do; his métier, as Lawrence described my teaching.
‘Don’t you mean “snips”?’ someone laughs.
‘Yes! Even better. Parsnip “snips”. Has a ring to it. How many litres do you have?’ Dan addresses Granny Elizabeth. ‘We wouldn’t need vats of the stuff, not if it’s strong – small measures would suffice. I take it all the temporary event licences have been applied for?’ he asks no one in particular, and seems to really be in his element now. Dan pushes a hand through his messy hair.
‘Of course, everything is in order. We have all the correct permissions to sell whatever we want to – cakes, alcohol, rides on machinery. You name it, we have it in place; I’ve made sure of it,’ someone very serious on the parish council table states, and Mark nods firmly in confirmation.
‘And we could serve the “snips” in jam jars, like they do in the cocktail bars in London,’ Cher offers, ‘and add some garnish, lovely!’
‘Yeah, stick a parsnip on the side of the jar,’ one of the farmer boys yells, and everyone laughs again, including Dan. Hmm, so he has a sense of humour. ‘Well, it seems like a waste of a decent jam jar to me,’ Granny Elizabeth quips, ‘but if that’s what the young people want these days, and the judges are going to be impressed, then …’ She shakes her head in disbelief and Dan leaps forward to give her a hug. Granny Elizabeth bats him away with her bony hand, but not before giving him a peck on the cheek and grinning like a lovestruck teenager.
Dan turns to Lawrence, coughing to clear his throat. ‘Yes, and Lawrence, that sparkling elderflower wine you serve would work well. Needs tweaking a bit, of course.’
Whaaaat did he just say? Needs tweaking! I push up my sleeves and brace myself, while Lawrence looks nervously in my direction.
‘What do you mean?’ Lawrence replies a little defensively. Bless him; he’s always been such a loyal friend.
‘Well, it’s a bit blah!’
Blah? What does that mean? Flaming cheek. And I have to wonder if Dan is actually setting out to deliberately get my back up. ‘But it could be amazing – livened up with a hint of ginger, or a mint infusion, the possibilities are endless.’ Dan nods and smiles.
‘Or how about with a twist of cucumber and poured over ice?’ Lawrence suggests with a hint of irony, his lips twitching into a sideways smile in my direction, making me laugh inwardly, given that this is exactly how I serve it.
‘Yes, now that would really bring out the fresh floral notes of the elderflower. What do you reckon, Lawrence? How many bottles do you have?’ Dan asks.
‘Well, I only have one bottle left,’ Lawrence starts, and I know exactly what’s coming next. I take a deep breath and put on a sweet smile, because, suddenly, all of the villagers are looking at me, then swivelling their heads back to gawp at Dan like he’s some kind of juice-bar genie. A proper legend, as Jack would say.
‘Oh no!’ Dan scratches his head, deep in thought. ‘But you can get more, right?’ He looks genuinely concerned, like he really does care about making the pop-up juice bar a success for the Tindledale show. ‘Who makes it?’ he asks. ‘Who do I need to be nice to?’ Dan glances around the pub garden. Ha! Might be too late for that …
‘She’s sitting right here,’ and Lawrence points across the garden in my direction. ‘I think you’ve already met, but I’m happy to introduce you properly, if you like. Dan Wright, meet my lovely friend and Tindledale’s finest winemaker, Meg Singer.’
Dan turns towards the pergola. I do an awkward little wave and fix a grin on to my face before self-consciously lifting my drink to my lips, and I can feel Jessie’s elbow nudging me gently in the side. And then Dan realises. He does a double take. It’s slight, but I spot it nonetheless. He’s disappointed, I think, but I can’t tell for sure as he’s definitely a professional, used to being in the spotlight and dealing with every eventuality, it seems, as he quickly composes himself and strides towards my table with a big smile on his face.
‘Fantastic! Meg, you and I are going to have loads of fun together.’ And I almost choke on the last mouthful of my Pimm’s.
‘We are?’ I splutter, snatching a tissue from my bag to wipe away the embarrassing froth of bubbles currently clinging to my top lip.
‘Yep. Just wait and see!’ Oh. I can barely contain myself. Much. He winks and grabs my hand to shake, so vigorously, it almost dislocates my arm from the socket. ‘Sorry,’ he says quickly, clocking my pained expression, ‘I’m getting excited,’ he grins, letting go of me. Hmm, I’d never have guessed, ‘… and also for,’ he waves a hand in the air, ‘… you know.’ I lift an eyebrow and then instantly drop it, realising that I’m doing my scary teacher face. ‘The bridge …’ he prompts, creasing his forehead and nodding purposefully, as if telepathically transmitting the meaning of his words, before heading back across the lawn towards the crowd who are all staring at me – the school mums looking as if they’re about to implode.
> And, I can’t be sure, but did Dan just apologise? I think he might have!
And despite all my misgivings about Dan Wright, culinary bad boy, I can feel my resolve starting to weaken, because his ideas are all pretty good, even if this does mean that I’m now going to have to spend some proper one-to-one time with him having ‘loads of fun together’. But I have to admit that his enthusiasm and effervescent energy is actually very appealing. Not for me personally, of course, oh no! But if he helps us put on a Great Village Show, which in turn puts Tindledale firmly on the map as a ‘top ten most desirable place to live and bring all your children to the lovely village school’, then that’s good enough for me … I’m sure I can put up with Dan Wright’s insufferable rudeness and big personality for a little while longer.
Saturday, and I’m in the High Street updating the community notice board. I feel delighted on seeing that the village is starting to get its show hat on. The village square is undergoing a ‘dress rehearsal’ ahead of the big day, and has been swept clean, literally, by the WI women with their wooden, wire-bristled brooms. All the shop windows are looking super shiny and colourful, each with their traditional Tindledale themes. The bookshop in particular deserves additional merit as my favourite, with its collage of black and white photos depicting Tindledale through the ages. The picture of a horse and cart in the tiny village square – just a patch of dirt really, as it was back then – is incredibly poignant; the owner is dressed in shabby, ill-fitting trousers, worn-out boots and what looks like a scratchy shirt made from an old sack. The horse has a nosebag hung around its head.
Even the old Victorian lampposts have been swathed in Sybs’ polka-dot bunting; she’s standing on Pete’s tractor as we speak, on the other side of the road, securing the ties into place. And, talking of displays, the general stayed true to his word and had a cabinet installed in my school hall, which now houses a fascinating arrangement of various war medals and other merits donated by the villagers from over the years – he placed an advert in the Parish News magazine that gets delivered by volunteers to every home in Tindledale, asking for any kind of memorabilia to be loaned to the school. The villagers came up trumps and produced loads of fascinating artefacts – photos mainly, but also trophies for various sporting events won by the pupils over the years. We even have an old Tindledale school cricket jumper, circa 1940, which was donated by Hettie after she found it in amongst a pile of stuff in her back bedroom. There’s also a girl’s green gingham 1950s summer uniform dress, that Ruby, who owns the vintage clothes emporium, had donated by an anonymous person, who left a bag full of stuff outside her shop door one night.
The Great Village Show Page 12