The Great Escape

by Charlotte Fallowfield

  Dilbury fête had become quite well-known, attracting people from the surrounding towns and villages as well as further afield. Lord Kirkland had even organised hot air balloon rides this year, to take in vistas of his estate and further out to the local border towns of Welshpool, Oswestry, and Shrewsbury. I still wasn’t sure whether dangling thousands of feet in the air in a wicker basket attached to a giant sheet by a few strings and reliant on a gas bottle not running out was a tempting proposition or my idea of hell. With Charlie’s track record of being the most accident-prone woman in Shropshire, there was no way I was letting her go up in it, no matter what she said.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Abbie muttered, her face screwing up in a grimace as she failed to hold in more wind.

  ‘Give a girl some warning,’ I laughed, quickly skipping ahead of her and out of the danger zone.

  ‘Please tell me the posh porta loos are on site? There’s no way I can make it back to my house if I get the sudden urge.’

  ‘They’re up there in the corner, where they always are, shaded by the oak tree,’ I pointed. ‘You’ll be fine. We can leave an escape flap in the back of your tent. Besides, I could always go and get some nappies from the shop if you think holding it in will be a problem.’ I winked at her and received a scowl in return.

  ‘If I hadn’t spent hours slaving over these cookies, I’d be flinging them at your head right now.’

  ‘Cooee, hurry up girls, the queue has started already and Reverend Potter will be announcing the official opening of the fête anytime now,’ Daphne called, waving us over. She was sitting on a sturdy three-legged oak stool with a soft cushion on top, in the shade of Abbie’s three-sided tent, keeping a watchful eye on all the goodies we’d already dropped off on our first five runs. Dilbury fête was worse than a car boot sale. People were trying to barter for Abbie’s baked goodies the moment we stepped through the gate to come and set up each year.

  ‘I swear, one year they’ll be queuing up outside your house the night before, or knocking on your door randomly throughout the year with orders. You must be so proud that your reputation is so good. Look, there’s no one at Lady K’s tent yet. She has a face like thunder.’

  ‘The day they queue for her instead of me is the day I quit,’ Abbie huffed. ‘And why do they put her next to me every year? As if I’m not under enough pressure, I have to deal with her snooty remarks and daggered looks all day?’

  Their rivalry was legendary. Everyone in the village knew how important the entries to the competitions were, but it wasn’t just the first-place rosette that was the marker these two set themselves as a challenge. A list was made at the end of the day of all the stalls’ takings, and being the stall that had made the most money was the most important factor in Abbie’s eyes. Despite having won first-place for her entries for the last seven years, she was convinced that one year a judge might be corrupt and side with Lady K, who was a force of nature and downright intimidating. Abbie said the rosette could be obtained by bribery, but takings on the day were the true indication of who had the better skills in the kitchen. Of course, everyone knew that Lady K didn’t actually lift a finger to make anything she entered or sold, she had her cook prepare them all for her. Even so, wiping the smile off her face every year had become one of Daphne, Abbie, and my favourite pastimes.

  ‘Battle faces on,’ I warned, as I straightened up and gave Lady K a saccharine smile when she looked our way, Abbie mirroring me.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Kirkland. Ready for round eight?’

  ‘I’m sorry, did someone say something? Braithwaite, was that you?’ she asked the butler that was standing stiffly next to her, hands behind his back, wearing his uniform complete with cravat, waistcoat, and tails.

  ‘I believe it was your competitor, Lady Kirkland. She who shall not be named.’ He gave us a pointed look and narrowed his eyes, making me roll mine.

  ‘You can hardly put her in Lord Voldemort’s category,’ I scoffed, shooting him a glare. ‘It’s Abbie, as you well know, and she’s apologised enough for that incident. It’s time to let it go.’

  ‘Crikey, don’t say things like “let it go” when I’m holding in the mother of all storms in my bowels,’ Abbie warned under her breath.

  ‘May the best woman win. Again,’ I added, giving Lady K a smug smile. She lifted her nose in the air and turned her back on us, muttering something under her breath. ‘Seriously, how did someone so toxic give birth to such a lovely man as Max Kirkland?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Abbie said as she squeezed behind the serving table and let Daphne take some of the boxes off her. ‘But thank God he’s Lord of the Manor now, and she only visits occasionally. Can you imagine living next to her year after year?’

  ‘You girls are lucky. I had years of it when she was in residence before her husband died,’ Daphne said, as she struggled to open one of the Tupperware boxes.

  ‘Let me,’ I offered, gently taking it from her. It was scary to see how hard she was finding small tasks like that with her arthritic fingers. She was still amazing for an eighty-odd-year-old, but I was so glad she was moving into the converted apartments in the old school house up Ivy Lane. She’d have around-the-clock care, and no stairs to contend with, as they’d installed a fancy lift to the first floor where her apartment was.

  ‘Goodness gracious. What in the world was that noise?’ she exclaimed, jumping slightly as what sounded like a foghorn went off in the tent.

  ‘Seriously?’ Abbie squealed, quickly setting down the boxes and darting out through a gap in the back of the tent. I was glad I’d thought ahead and not tied the material to the pole, thinking she might need to make a hasty exit up to the toilets without being stopped by well-meaning customers wanting to compliment her and ask for baking tips.

  ‘That would be a pound of sugar-free gummi bears working their way through Abbie’s digestive system,’ I whisper giggled. ‘Be prepared for her to spend most of the day in the porta loo.’

  ‘Oh my,’ Daphne gasped, her face crestfallen. ‘She can’t be ill, not today.’

  ‘Well, her competition entries were submitted to the judges first thing this morning, and she doesn’t actually have to be here for sales on the day. We can man the table for her, can’t we?’

  ‘We certainly can, there’s no way she’s winning.’ Daphne shot a scathing look in Lady K’s direction and I made a mental note to grill her one day about the animosity I’d picked up on between the two women over the years. Daphne was a sweetheart who got on with everyone, yet just the mention of Max’s mother had her hackles rise uncharacteristically in an instant.

  ‘Just make sure you stay sitting down and tell me if you need a rest. I’d rather you go and have an afternoon sleep than wear yourself out. Weston’s looking forward to meeting you tomorrow,’ I reminded her. I’d told him I was busy today. As much as I wanted to see him, my best friend came first. I’d offered to cook Sunday lunch tomorrow and had invited over Abbie, as well as Daphne and Charlie, who’d been nagging me to meet him for days. If I was in his shoes, I’d be quaking right around now, with the inquisition from my three best friends almost upon him.

  ‘I’m old, not past it, thank you very much,’ Daphne replied, her face changing to one of grim determination as she started to display the cookies on a pretty blue and white china plate complete with a doily. ‘Abbie needs us and we’re not going to let her down.’

  ‘Ok, but in the spirit of honesty, if you keel over, I’m not giving you mouth to mouth. You skipped the last girlie pamper night at Charlie’s and those whiskers on your top lip will give me worse stubble rash than if I’d been kissing Weston vigorously with his five o’clock shadow,’ I teased.

  ‘Is it really that bad?’ she asked, abandoning the cookies to rummage a mirror out of her handbag.

  ‘Maybe I better answer that when I see Mr. Bentley’s face later. If he has stubble rash, you’ll be grounded for too much smooching, young lady.’

  ‘Georgie Bassett, you’re not too old to be p
ut across my knee for impertinence,’ she retorted, her old cheeks crinkling up as she blushed and flicked a dismissive hand at me.

  ‘I’d break your brittle bones if I lay on your knees today. I’ve already had two of Abbie’s chocolate cherry scones loaded with sugary jam, as well as far too much clotted cream and chocolate dipping sauce, for breakfast. Then two cookies for snacks. I’ll have put on a stone by the end of the day.’ I looked down and palmed my bloated stomach with two hands. No way was Weston going to see me in a bikini again, let alone naked, until I’d lost the few pounds I always put on over fête weekend.

  ‘How will she keep the chocolate sauce liquid? She hasn’t got a portable stove.’

  ‘A secret recipe, so secret she wouldn’t even share it with me,’ I huffed as I grabbed my white apron, covered in brightly coloured cupcakes. ‘Right, are you ready? It’s nearly ten o’clock and we have some impatient customers.’

  ‘Let the madness begin,’ Daphne nodded, as we heard the unmistakable crackle of the tannoy system and Reverend Potter coughing, then shouting, ‘Testing, testing, one, two, one, two,’ far too loudly. It was a good job we had St John Ambulance’s first aiders on standby. If people didn’t overdose on food and drink, or get horrible sunburn, the vicar was likely to give them a heart attack each time he yelled down the microphone. I grimaced as I spotted he’d already claimed his first victim. Mr. Benson had toppled over and was currently being hauled out of the koi pond with a load of green sludge all over his Sunday-best suit. I chuckled to myself. Village life was certainly never dull.

  The next few hours passed in a blur, with Abbie barely present for more than a few minutes at a time. Charlie joined Daphne and me to lend us a hand as we couldn’t keep up with demand. We were nearly out of scones and cookies, and we’d been a bit overgenerous with the chocolate sauce and were having to disappoint customers now as all of the tubs were empty, but Abbie was in no fit state to go and make a fresh batch.

  ‘Abbie, seriously, I think we need to call the first aiders over,’ Charlie gasped as Abbie doubled up behind us, panting through another round of griping pain.

  ‘It … will … pass,’ she whimpered, trumpeting loudly, then groaning as beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.

  ‘Sing,’ Daphne ordered.

  ‘How’s that going to help her?’ I exclaimed. Daphne was usually the best advice giver ever, but she was way off base on this one.

  ‘I’m telling you to sing, not Abbie. We can’t serve people food while she’s playing a symphony of trumps in the background. You have a lovely voice, Georgie, drown her out.’

  ‘Talk about putting me on the spot.’ I swallowed hard. It was one thing singing in church, at home in the shower, or during drunken karaoke in the village hall, but sober in front of hundreds of people?

  ‘Yes, come on Georgie, sing,’ Charlie urged, as more noise emanated from behind us and Abbie flopped to the grass, cursing as she cradled her tummy.

  ‘Yes, Georgie, come on, sing for us,’ a deep and seductive voice urged. I whipped my head around in shock to see Weston standing to the side of the queue, Bertie straining at his lead to come and greet me. My stomach did a high jump as I drank Weston in. He was casually dressed in knee-length distressed-denim shorts, navy flip-flops, and a loose, crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves. All of a sudden, the searing summer sunshine had nothing on the heat radiating off my body as it reacted to his presence.

  ‘Weston? What are you … I had no idea you’d be coming today.’

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you, but by the noises coming from the tent, it sounds like I picked a bad time.’

  ‘Georgie, for goodness sake, sing,’ Daphne repeated. ‘Drown her out.’

  I blinked at her. Even if I could overcome my nerves at singing in such a public place, on top of my boyfriend hearing me sing for the first time, being surprised by him had wiped my memory. I couldn’t think of a single song to even attempt.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Charlie giggled, covering her ears with her hands. It sounded like the brass section of a couple of orchestras was tuning up behind us, peppered with the bluest of language from Abbie’s mouth. The remaining people queuing for the last of our supplies all started craning their necks, trying to see what was happening.

  Daphne shot to her feet, surprising us all, and then shocked us even more when she opened her mouth and started belting out Kelis’s Milkshake. She was waving her arms in the air and thrusting her hips back and forth at such an alarming pace, I wasn’t sure if I should burst out laughing or worry that she was about to dislocate something. Charlie had no such compunction and roared with laughter as I watched stunned, while Weston stood with his mouth ajar, not quite sure what he was seeing. Well, that was one way for Daphne to make an impression on him.

  ‘Help me,’ came a pitiful mewl from behind. I spun around and gasped to see Abbie writhing in pain, which kickstarted my brain again.

  ‘Charlie, you serve while Daphne entertains. Weston, go and grab a beer and I’ll be with you in a while. Abbie needs me.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’ he asked, a look of concern marring his handsome face.

  ‘Honestly, that’s really sweet and I’m sure you could with your skill set, but this is kind of a sensitive deal and I think it would embarrass Abbie if you came back here.’

  ‘I won’t be far. You call me if you need me, no matter what, ok?’ he ordered, dominance radiating through his tone.

  ‘Clear,’ I nodded, offering him a grateful smile.

  ‘Wow, hot and bossy, I like him already,’ Charlie murmured.

  ‘Find your own, he’s taken,’ I grinned. I quickly turned around and dropped to my knees next to where Abbie was curled up on the floor beside all the empty Tupperware containers. ‘What can I do? I really think you need medical attention.’

  ‘No, it’s not fair, not when I’m … farting so badly,’ she groaned. I gently stroked her damp forehead, pushing some tendrils of hair that were stuck to her clammy skin out of the way. She was pale and taking fast and shallow breaths, and I’d never heard anything like the sounds coming from her stomach, let alone her bottom.

  ‘So, it’s ok to subject me to the toxic gasses?’ I teased as I tried to soothe her.

  ‘You’re my best friend.’

  ‘And you’d do it for me too, right?’

  ‘No, because I’m a shitty best friend. I’d probably laugh and shut you in the bathroom with a box of wet wipes and a can of air freshener and not let you out until the storm had passed. Owww,’ she cried.

  ‘Abbie, seriously, you need help. You really think it was just the bears that did this to you?’

  ‘Bears? Bloody bears?! They should be called gummi devils. Bears are cuddly and cute, and those instruments of torture are anything but. I need to poo, I know I need to poo, but if I start, I don’t think I’ll stop and those little gummi shits are going to feel like acid melting my sphincter when they shoot out. I swear it feels like the devil himself has taken up camp in my bowels. The more I clench, the more he’s torturing me. I can’t take it anymore, make it stop, please make it stop,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Sweetie, come on, we need to get you home. I can get you up to the safety and privacy of your own bathroom and stay close in case you do need medical attention.’

  ‘I can’t walk, Georgie, don’t make me walk. It’s taking all of my concentration not to poop in my knickers right now. Only I’m not sure it can be classed as poop when I feel like I’m holding back a chocolate tsunami.’

  ‘You can’t lie here hoping to hold back the tide, Abbie. If you need to go, you need to go, and I’m not sure how much of Daphne’s singing and dance moves we can subject everyone to,’ I added as I realised she was halfway through Missy Elliot’s Get Ur Freak On. ‘Seriously, who set up her playlist? If it was Heath, he’s in for an earful when I see him.’

  ‘She’s having … fun.’

  ‘And you’re not, and now I’m not as I’m watching you suffer and I feel helpless. Come on, I�
��m going to get you to the porta loos, they’re closer than home.’ I ignored her protestations and managed to pull her into a kneeling position, but any colour she had left in her face quickly drained.

  ‘No. No, no, no. It’s happening, it’s happening,’ she shrieked in anguish. Recognising the sign of genuine fear on her face, I looked around and grabbed the large Tupperware container labelled “Chocolate Sauce” and ripped the lid off.

  ‘Charlie, move everyone back. Now!’ I barked. ‘We need privacy.’ I slammed the brown-stained container down on the grass behind Abbie and grabbed one of the spare tablecloths from our fête supplies that were stacked at the back of the tent, quickly standing and holding it up to shield her. ‘Go, Abbie.’

  ‘I can’t shit in a box on the front lawn of Lord Kirkland’s manor,’ Abbie cried. ‘Not after last time. It will be known as turdgate the sequel. Just when you thought it was safe, Abbie strikes again.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice. No one can see you but me. Do it. Daphne, seriously?’ I uttered as I threw a look over my shoulder when she launched into Europe’s The Final Countdown, complete with beat box mimics of the musical sections, the occasional air guitar, and the use of the serving tongs on the table for the drums.