‘The chef man?’
‘That’s right, the chef man.’
‘Is he very important?’
‘You could say that.’
‘More than me?’
Pippa sighed. ‘No, not more than you. But I have to make sure he has everything he needs, because I’ve asked him to come and help us. So it’s good manners.’
‘Oh, OK.’ Pippa exhaled, glad the interrogation was at an end. ‘Can I watch SuperMouse?’
‘Oh, go on. Ask Daddy to put the TV on for you, and tell him I said you could.’ Anything not to be made to feel guilty by her own child.
Simon entered with two mugs of tea. ‘Here you go,’ he said, putting one on her bedside table. ‘I made yours a strong one. I figure you’ll need it.’
‘So will you.’ She sipped the tea, which was no stronger than the cups she’d been making for herself lately. ‘Freddie’s on form.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ Simon got back in bed. ‘What time do you need to leave?’
‘I said I’d be at the hall for eight thirty to help set up — although we might end up waiting a bit, if it’s still raining. Dev Hardman’s arriving at ten thirty, I’ve booked a taxi for him from the Royal in Gadcester. Lady Higginbotham’s letting him use the library when he’s not on, and his books were delivered yesterday.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all in hand,’ said Simon. His tone was the sort of level which annoyed Pippa. She knew there was something behind it, and she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to try and work out what.
‘Thanks for looking after the kids,’ she said, instead, and drank her tea with her gaze firmly fixed on the duvet cover.
***
The grounds of Higginbotham Hall were a hive of activity when Pippa arrived at quarter past eight, having wriggled into her best casual outfit and a pair of wellies which weren’t Hunters, but close enough. The rain, mercifully, had stopped at around seven, apart from an odd, threatening drop or two out of nowhere, like weather blackmail. Norm, Graham, and an assortment of others were erecting stalls with the speed and nonchalance of people who have done this from time immemorial, and for the first time Pippa realised how lucky she was to have experienced hands in the team. The small stalls formed a rough semicircle, with a break in the middle to allow access to the marquee, while the beer tent was off to the side. The marquee would be the main stage, with all the large or notable events taking place inside; so even if it did rain again (Pippa crossed her fingers), they should still be able to count on an audience.
Beryl Harbottle sailed towards them like a ship of war, brandishing a tea-tray. ‘Refreshments, anyone?’ she trilled. She seemed cheerful; a far cry from the aggressive, defensive person of the meeting. Perhaps she’s glad it’s going well, thought Pippa, and a slight pang of guilt tugged at her heart, for perhaps making the whole process harder than it needed to be. Business was business, though, and the church spire did need repairs. So perhaps everyone was a winner in this case.
Norm wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief and took a cup and a biscuit from the tray. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said. ‘At least most of it’s done before the heat of the day kicks in.’
‘The weather forecast did say it would be warm from late morning,’ Pippa observed.
‘Mm,’ said Norm, through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘I remember the summer of ’76. The jam jars were too hot to touch, the icing on the cakes melted, and kids were being sick behind the stalls. Best year ever for takings, though.’
‘I hope that won’t be repeated,’ said Pippa. Too much of a good thing didn’t appeal at all.
‘So.’ Norm wiped his hands on his corduroy trousers and strolled over to her. ‘Everything in hand?’
Pippa held out her clipboard, on which was a checklist with multiple ticks against it. ‘Stalls up — check. Stallholders here, including substitutes — check. Star of show — arriving later. Posters everywhere — check, put the last ones up three days ago. Local media primed — check. There isn’t much else I can do.’
‘That must be frustrating,’ said Norm.
‘Kind of,’ admitted Pippa. ‘Keeping busy takes my mind off things.’
‘And is your husband looking after the kiddies?’
‘That’s right. He’ll probably come down with them later. I imagine they’ll want ice-cream, candyfloss, cake, and anything else that causes an upset stomach.’
‘It’s what kids do,’ said Norm, comfortably. ‘Ours were the same. Flown the nest now, of course. My wife’ll come tomorrow; I’ll introduce you if you’re somewhere about.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pippa, completely taken aback. Norm had a wife? It wasn’t that she’d thought of him as unmarried — or married, for that matter. It was the idea that he had a life, indeed that he even existed outside the library, which she was finding hard to get to grips with.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ said Norm, and wandered towards the stalls, which were gaining awnings, tablecloths, bunting, and banners. Serendipity’s stall had a banner which read Serendipity Jones: Crafter At Large, and matching strings of pink and purple bunting. Trust Serendipity to be prepared. She was probably teaching a class or making something right now, up in the Lakes. Pippa sighed. One day, when she grew up, perhaps she would be like Serendipity. Sensible, balanced, serene. If so, it was a long time coming.
Pippa stood in the middle of the scene and turned, slowly. It was taking shape, it really was. She had even persuaded a fairground ride restorer from Upper Gadding to bring a few rides over, which were being set up in a nearby field as a separate attraction. The truck was an attraction in itself, painted with mermaids, unicorns and dragons; the rides were small and quaint, but people would still enjoy them; and she had negotiated a small cut of any profits.
‘Pip!’ Lila had arrived, stalking across the lawn in diamanté wellies and a fake-fur jacket.
‘This isn’t Glastonbury, you know.’ Pippa said, giving her a hug. ‘Good to see you.’
Lila returned the hug. ‘Jeff’s unloading,’ she said. ‘Where do you want us?’
‘In the marquee.’ Pippa pointed. ‘I think you’ll be popular. Plus — don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s easy to stow away your equipment when the big stuff’s going on.’
‘Don’t say that to Jeff, will you?’ Lila murmured. ‘He gets a bit — well — tetchy when he thinks he’s being upstaged.’
‘I’ll keep schtum,’ said Pippa. ‘It’s not that Jeff isn’t big stuff —’
‘He’s still a bit cross you didn’t ask Short Back and Sides to perform.’ Lila gazed in the direction of the car park, where Jeff was no doubt fuming into the boot of his grey Skoda.
‘You said they were snowed under with bookings, Lila! I thought they’d be too busy to take on anything else!’
‘Would have been nice to ask, though. I’ll see how he’s getting on.’ And Lila drifted off, wellies squelching a little as she crossed the grass.
‘Oh, I give up,’ Pippa said, to no one in particular. Was she supposed to read minds? She walked across to Serendipity’s stall, where Marge was unpacking various crafty bits and bobs. ‘This looks great, Marge.’
She stretched her hand out to straighten a painted tile, but Marge tapped it away briskly. ‘I’ll do that when everything’s out, thank you.’
‘Are you OK?’ It wasn’t like Marge to be snappish.
‘Fine. I’ll be better when someone takes this stall over, and I can spend some time with my grandchildren.’
‘We do appreciate this, you know,’ Pippa assured her, feeling her cheeks burning.
‘Yes, yes.’ Marge set four watercolours on little easels, then lifted up a wicker basket full of craft kits. ‘I’m sure you do. But I always spend fete day with my grandchildren.’
‘There are two days this year —’
‘Don’t reason with me, Pippa Parker. I’m too old for that.’ Marge started to arrange the items on the stall, lining them up in rows like soldiers. ‘You and Se
rendipity Jones can just count this as a big big favour.’
‘I will. I promise.’ But the conversation was clearly over. Pippa sighed and walked off, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Was there anyone she hadn’t managed to annoy by organising this fete? It wasn’t even open yet, and she already wished it was finished.
Her mobile shrilled, and she tugged it from her pocket. A number she didn’t recognise. Probably double glazing. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that … Pippa Parker?’ The woman sounded as if she was reading the name from a sheet.
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Ah, good. This is Dahlia. We’re running a tiny bit late, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Have the books arrived?’
Pippa swallowed, hard. ‘Yes, the books are here, waiting. How late do you think you’ll be?’
‘Ooh, it’s hard to say,’ Dahlia paused. ‘Erm, when is Dev supposed to be arriving?’
‘At half past ten. I’ve booked a taxi from the Royal Hotel for you.’
‘Ohhh. Well, you can cancel that. We’ll make our own way over.’
‘Do you need a taxi numb —’
Buzzzzzz. Dahlia had hung up on her.
I’m not going to cry in public, Pippa told herself, stomping off the lawn. I’m going to take a deep breath, count to ten, and find someone else to open the fete. But I might have a quick cry first. And as she hurried towards the sanctuary of her Mini, a huge raindrop hit her on the nose.
CHAPTER 7
Eleven o’clock came and went, and there was still no sign of Dev Hardman. At five to eleven, after calling Dahlia’s mobile for the third time and going straight to voicemail yet again, Pippa had scanned the field for someone, anyone, who would open the fete. Crowds had gathered in the rain, and she didn’t want to risk an angry mob. No, an angrier mob. If only Serendipity were here! She was at least famous online, and her calm would have worked its magic on the crowd. There must be someone…
Her eye was caught, and held, by a bright pink suit moving purposefully towards the beer tent. It must be … no-one else would wear that suit. She dashed across the lawn and intercepted the figure. ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
The figure turned, and it was! Ritz Robertson, local DJ and emcee, proving once again that he would turn up to the opening of an envelope. Today would be his lucky day.
‘Mr Robertson!’ His expression softened as he took in that Pippa was female and reasonably young. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you! Would you be an angel and open our fete today?’ Pippa gazed up at him in what she hoped resembled adoration rather than desperation.
Ritz Robertson straightened his lime-green tie and smiled. ‘Oh of course. Anything for a young lady!’
‘Wonderful. Come this way.’ She took him by the arm and marched him towards the microphone set up outside the marquee.
‘I’ll get wet!’ he protested.
‘No you won’t.’ Pippa ran to the stalls. ‘Has anyone got an umbrella?’
‘Me,’ growled Marge. ‘I want it back, mind.’ And she jabbed her finger at a just-visible handle which, unless Pippa was mistaken, took the form of a skull’s head.
‘Thanks, Marge!’ She bent for the umbrella — a golf umbrella, even better — opened it, and ran to Ritz Robertson, sheltering in the doorway of the marquee. ‘Here you go.’
He looked up. ‘Slayers of Doom?’ he asked.
‘It’s an umbrella,’ snapped Pippa. ‘Take it or leave it.’
Ritz Robertson glared at her before taking the umbrella and plastering a welcoming smile on his face. He strode to the microphone. ‘Hello, everyone!’
‘Hello,’ chorused the crowd of damp spectators, dutifully.
‘Ritz can’t hear you! Hello, everyone!’ He accompanied this with a whooshing motion of his right arm.
‘HELLO.’ The crowd sounded combative now.
‘Where’s Dev Hardman?’ came from the midst of the crowd.
Ritz Robertson threw a hostile glance at Pippa.
‘Say he’s on his way,’ Pippa said, ignoring the hostility. She couldn’t cope with any more of that.
‘He’s on his way,’ said Ritz. ‘So you’ve got me. I declare this fete officially open. There. Thank you.’ He stepped back from the microphone. ‘Was I supposed to cut a ribbon?’ he asked, close enough to the mike to make this audible to the whole field.
‘That’s fine,’ Pippa said, hurrying forward to the mike. ‘Thank you very much, Ritz Robertson!’ She led a small ripple of applause. ‘Everything’s open — rides, stalls, beer tent — and we’ll be starting the karaoke soon, followed by … other attractions.’ Since she didn’t know when, or if, Dev would be arriving. Oh heck, what if he didn’t come? Maybe she could move the choir up, or get the am-dram folks to do a matinee, or … something.
The rain continued to beat down, thudding on the umbrellas of those who had brought one, and on the heads of those who hadn’t and weren’t disposed to visit either the beer tent or the marquee. To be fair, Pippa marvelled that so many people were enduring the caterwauling coming from the karaoke. She presumed Jeff wasn’t partaking.
Jeff… She gritted her teeth and entered the marquee. Jeff was leaning against one of the speakers, possibly trying to muffle the sound of ‘The Greatest Love of All’ being strangled by a teenage girl in a crop top.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Grim,’ he said, under his breath.
‘I’ll get to the point,’ said Pippa. ‘I’d have asked Short Back and Sides to perform, but I thought you were too busy, what with all the bookings Lila goes on about. So if you wanted to get everyone together…’
‘It’s very short notice,’ Jeff said. ‘It’s not like we’re prepared or anything.’
Pippa stared at him. ‘Come off it! I’ve heard you. You could do a ten-song set with a minute’s notice, you’re so well-rehearsed.’
The corner of Jeff’s mouth crept up. ‘When would you want us?’
‘As soon as you can assemble. I’m a chef short of a book signing.’
‘I’m not promising anything.’ But Jeff was already tapping at his phone. ‘We won’t have outfits.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Pippa. ‘So long as you’ve got voices.’
Just then she felt a tug on her sleeve. ‘Excuse me,’ said Sonia, politely. ‘What should we do about change?’
‘Embrace it,’ said Pippa, coldly. ‘What do you mean, Sonia?’
‘For the stalls. Someone’s given me a twenty-pound note, and that’s all my change gone.’ Sonia spread her hands in a helpless manner.
‘Have you asked the other stallholders?’
‘They’re in the same boat. Barbara always used to sort out a change float.’
‘Did she,’ growled Pippa. ‘What a pity she didn’t leave a basic plan or a checklist. All right, I’ll come round and check what people need.’
Ten minutes later she was en route to the bank at Gadding Magna, the nearest that opened on a Saturday, muttering under her breath. She was still muttering when she pulled into the car park, and started in surprise as she caught the horrified eye of the woman in the car parked next to her. Oh God. She probably came across as unhinged, one of those people who talk to themselves in the street. Although all she would have to do to appear normal was to hold her phone to her ear.
Luckily the queue at the bank was small, and soon Pippa was next in line to be served. However, the person before her, a tall, angular woman with cherry-coloured hair, holding a takeaway coffee, seemed rather demanding. ‘I want it sorted now,’ she kept saying. ‘I haven’t got time to hang around, I’m supposed to be somewhere.’
Aren’t we all, thought Pippa. But eventually even she was satisfied, and it was Pippa’s turn. Less than three minutes later she was on her way to the car with a large bag of pound coins and assorted change, feeling as if it ought to be marked SWAG. A red Porsche roared past, top down, fast enough to blow Pippa’s hair about. She could have been mistaken, but the driver appeared to have bright red hair
. There was a passenger too, a blur of dark hair and clothes.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ said Pippa. She put the money bag in the passenger footwell, and set off towards Much Gadding at a quick but not antisocial pace. What was Cherry Top doing that was so important she had to break the speed limit? Whatever it was, it was probably less important than Cherry Top thought.
When she arrived at Higginbotham Hall, Short Back and Sides were in full swing, with Jeff leading their version of ‘Castle on the Hill’. They had a good crowd, who seemed to be enjoying the impromptu concert. Thank heavens, thought Pippa. She left the bag of change for Sonia and the stallholders to deal with, and ran to the hall to see if Dev Hardman had, by some slim chance, managed to get himself there during her absence. The answer, delivered by a frosty Beryl Harbottle, was no.
‘This is why I don’t hold with celebrities,’ she said, leaning on the frame of the great door like a bouncer. ‘Unreliable. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ She closed the door in Pippa’s face.
What to do? What could she do? Pippa’s mind raced through the various possibilities as she hurried back to the fete. Her choir, Sweet Harmony, were due on at three. She could ask them to move up, but that would be two choirs in a row — and, to be honest, she didn’t want to put them on straight after Short Back and Sides, who sang with almost military precision. Ooh, she could kill Dev Hardman, and Dahlia flaming Dean…
That’s it! She pulled her phone from her pocket, and dialled.
‘Tim Selby speaking,’ said a rich, deep voice.
‘Hi Tim, it’s Pippa Parker, from the Much Gadding fete committee.’
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, sounding a little less enthusiastic.
‘We’ve had a bit of a programme malfunction, and I wondered if the Gadding Players would be interested in doing a matinee performance of Macbeth.’
‘Instead of our evening show?’ Tim sounded positively chilly.
‘Oh no, no, as well as. I always wanted to ask you to do two shows, but we didn’t have space before, and now we do it would be a terrible shame to miss the opportunity.’ Sometimes she surprised herself with her ability to devise outrageous flattery at speed.
A Fete Worse Than Death (Pippa Parker Mysteries Book 3) Page 4