by Beth Moran
‘It is run by a democratically elected council consisting of an equal number of members from each side!’ Malcolm stuffed his hands in his tweed jacket pockets, his pointy white beard bristling.
‘Elected? I don’t remember any Parish Council elections,’ DJ Vapes said, glancing around to see if he was the only one.
Malcolm coloured slightly. ‘We only have an election if the number of people standing is greater than the number of positions. So we haven’t had an actual election for a while.’
‘How long’s a while?’ Ziva asked, incredulous.
‘Nineteen seventy-one.’ Malcolm coughed. ‘All the details of minutes and meetings are on our website.’
‘How come nobody knows anything about you?’ another one of the teenagers asked. ‘You can’t have been doing much.’
‘The Parish Council is responsible for maintaining parks, footpaths, community buildings and bus shelters! Amongst other things,’ a heavy-set woman with stringy grey hair barked back. ‘We serve this village tirelessly. And if it’s been undercover for the past three decades, then you can hardly blame us! You lot might all think that no one in this village works together, or even wants to, but the FPC have been sneaking about like secret agents and improving things right under your noses the whole time!’
‘Awesome!’ The teenagers nodded. ‘Can anyone join?’
‘Can we please get back to the matter in hand!’ Alice called. ‘As Malcolm said, the Parish Council has a website, which I’m sure is easy enough to find if you want more details. Now, Malcolm, what can you tell us about getting the bridge rebuilt?’
‘Right. Well…’ Malcolm then proceeded to take the audience on a meandering tour of local council policies and proceedings, with many a detour to examine various by-laws along the way, until eventually Alice, who by that point may have been the only person not lulled into a parish stupor, had to stop him.
‘Okay, so, bearing in mind that most of us have no knowledge, experience or interest in the intricacies of local government, would it be fair to say that the bridge is going to cost at least three million pounds?’
Malcolm nodded, opening his mouth to start talking again before Alice stepped in.
‘Thank you, we can save the details for another time.’
‘Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?’ said Sylvia, whose nut allergy had kick-started the whole thing.
‘There’s a thousand-odd people in this village, if you add both sides together. If we all chip in, that’s three grand each!’ Ziva exclaimed.
‘And that includes every man, woman and child!’ Gavin, the Old Boat House landlord said. ‘How are those of us with kids meant to do it?’
‘Hang on,’ Becky said, moving towards the front. ‘No one agreed that we’d all be chipping in an equal amount. Times have been hard for a lot of us in recent years, and there are a lot more ways to raise money.’
‘Yeah, but even if it’s cake sales and raffles and that, it’s still got to come from us,’ Jase said.
‘Or sponsorship from businesses. Or grants like the National Lottery. Or organisations willing to donate to the regeneration of a historical landmark. We haven’t even investigated whether the government would pay. The whole point of setting up a committee is to find solutions to these problems. All Malcolm is doing is managing expectations, and letting us know that it won’t be easy. But we can handle a challenge, can’t we?’
She scanned the crowd, expectantly. ‘We don’t back down or give up because the answers don’t come strolling in straightaway? I’ve met a lot of vastly different people while working in five different continents, and if there’s one thing I know about Ferrings, Old and New, we are strong and tenacious and we know how to make it happen.’
The room broke out into spontaneous applause, causing Alice to give her forehead a relieved wipe.
‘Right. Next item on the agenda, we need to form a proper committee. After everything we’ve heard, I hope some of you are up for committing to the challenge. We’ll need a chairperson, secretary, treasurer, events officer, publicity…’
‘But that’s only a handful of people,’ Ziva interjected. ‘You can’t send most of us home kicking our heels for the next however many years until we can have the bridge party.’
‘Well, I was kind of presuming you’d be joining the committee,’ Alice replied.
‘Well maybe so, but what about the rest of us? You’ve got everyone all worked up and raring to go. We need a project. Something to keep momentum going in the meantime, so we can see that progress is being made.’
‘She’s right.’ Caris Smith spoke up for the first time. ‘Otherwise everyone’ll just find something else to bicker about.’
‘Okay.’ Alice looked at the agenda in her hand, as if that would be able to provide an answer. ‘Like what?’
While everyone stood there trying to come up with precisely what, Daniel cleared his throat loudly enough to have all heads swivel over to where he leant against the wall.
‘I have a suggestion.’
Alice’s face lit up.
‘Well, come on up to the front then so we can all hear you!’ Caris Smith said, sitting up straighter in her garden chair.
Daniel went to join Alice. ‘We need a project that the whole village can get involved with. Preferably something on neutral territory that can start right away, and ideally help raise funds for the bridge.’
‘Well, yes, we all knew that already!’ a woman at the back tutted. ‘What we need to know is what that’s going to be.’
‘A community orchard,’ Daniel announced.
‘Yes!’ Ziva hollered.
‘For far too long the Damson Farm orchard has lain abandoned. If it wasn’t for Ziva’s stealth attacks with her pruning shears it would be totally reclaimed by the wild by now. I don’t have the time to restore it to a working orchard, but if we work together, the possibilities are fantastic. It isn’t just fruit trees, we could build raised beds for vegetables, and have a go at woodworking projects like picnic benches and compost bins.’
‘Eh, we could do a bit of that,’ an older man sitting on a crate nudged the man squeezed on next to him. ‘Couldn’t we, Frank?’
‘Aye,’ Frank nodded vigorously. ‘Could rope in some of you youngsters an’ all. Teach you how to use a hammer and a chisel.’
‘Awesome!’ The teenagers did a complicated high-five thing that Frank and his friend reciprocated faultlessly.
‘We have a cider press on the farm already,’ Daniel continued. ‘I’ve been talking to Gavin at the Old Boat House, and Miranda who owns the Boatman. We can look at other produce like pies and cakes, depending upon what we decide to grow. Plus, we could create an outdoor classroom for school visits, and other groups. And most of all, there’s the chance to hold whole community events. Lots of orchards get involved with Apple Day, in October. We can celebrate Bonfire Night, do something at Christmas, May Day. If everyone gets involved we can raise money, bring the community together and have fun at the same time.’
‘Awesome!’ someone cheered, and I don’t think it was even one of the teenagers.
‘That’s bloody brilliant!’ Alice exclaimed.
It was. It was brilliant.
‘Are you sure?’ Becky asked, her business head whirring. ‘We had plans for that orchard.’
Daniel shrugged. ‘I’m sure the retreat guests can still join in. It might prove inspiring to them, hearing the story of how the Feud of Ferrington came to an end. Some of them might even be moved to contribute to the bridge fund.’
‘We should include a memorial.’ This was the first thing I’d said all meeting, having promised myself that I wouldn’t be the interfering Out-Sider this time, but the idea popped into my head and it was too good not to share. ‘We can have a competition – get the school involved, maybe – to design a memorial to all those who died or who for whatever reason suffered because of what happened.’
‘That’s perfect,’ Caris Smith said, eyes filling with tears.
‘
Maybe you could be one of the judges?’
‘Or maybe the kids could design something together, have each of them contribute, so for the first time ever in this village everyone wins instead of everyone losing,’ she replied.
‘Well, an orchard will need an entirely different committee,’ Alice said. ‘And a whole load of time and effort. How do you see this working, Daniel?’
‘I see me dropping my work hours, and spending a couple of days a week heading it up. I see us forming a charity, with a board of trustees. I see the Parish Council donating some funds to help us get going, and I see Damson Day to kick-start us off in a few weeks’ time: food and produce stalls, local crafts, a band put together with musicians from both sides, a duck race down the river, some games.’
‘Damsons aren’t ready to be harvested until August,’ someone helpfully pointed out. ‘How can we have a Damson Day in April?’
‘I really don’t think anyone will care about that.’ Ziva rolled her eyes.
It wasn’t long before we had agreed that May Day would be the very first Damson Day, put a volunteer team in place and left the whole room buzzing with anticipation after they had agreed one last suggestion from Caris Smith.
We would start the evening festivities with a funeral pyre. The deceased? Why, the Feud of Ferrington.
I was so excited I almost forgot to worry about the stalker.
I did not, however, forget to grab Becky and drag her into a quiet corner as soon as the meeting was over. I’d not missed her doe-eyed glances over at where Luke hovered near the back of the room, or how he wove through the clusters of people chatting and leaned in close to say goodbye before he left.
‘So?’ I asked eagerly, pleased to be on the other end of the romantic interrogation for once. ‘How did it go?’ I’d obviously messaged her on Saturday, but the answers had been about as descriptive as if I’d asked Luke.
‘The pie was… not too bad!’ She squinted. ‘The pint was better.’
I jabbed her in the ribs hard enough to make her squeak.
‘Okay! We had a lovely time. We stayed until last orders and even managed some decent conversation. Not the whole time, but when we were quiet that was fine, too. Like, a companionable silence.’
‘A dreamy, transfixed-by-Luke’s-gaze silence?’
‘Well. That, too,’ she giggled.
‘Everything you’ve imagined it would be when mooning at him in year nine Geography lessons?’
She hugged herself, letting out a heartfelt sigh. ‘Better.’
Alice sauntered over. ‘All right, Becky? Survived your evening on the New Side?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Only when I was locking up, I thought I saw Luke giving you the kiss of life.’
‘He kissed you?’ I grabbed her arm in delight.
‘Nope.’ Becky looked strangely happy about that. Before Alice could protest, she declared, ‘I kissed him!’
‘What?’
‘I’ve waited twenty years for a chance with Luke Winter. It might have been my one and only date, I wasn’t about to waste it.’
I grinned. ‘Sounds like he kissed you back?’
‘With all the passion and attention to detail that he put into grouting my kitchen,’ Alice chipped in.
Becky’s pink cheeks said it all.
‘Did he take your breath away?’ I asked.
‘On the contrary, I feel as though for the first time in forever I’ve stopped holding my breath.’ She looked it, as well. ‘He called me on Saturday. Not even a text, a call. To say that he’d had a great time and would I like to go out on his boat next weekend. I’m so happy I could pop.’
‘I could pop I’m so happy for you. Look at us, all loved up.’ I glanced at Alice. ‘Speaking of which, it was good to see Jase here.’
Alice shrugged. ‘I hid the controller to his Xbox. Said I’d help him look for it if he came.’
‘Alice.’ Becky screwed up her nose. ‘He’s not being supportive if you’ve tricked him into it.’
‘I know.’ She shook her head, morose. ‘Where do you draw the line, though? If I was going through a bad patch, I wouldn’t want him to just bail on me because I needed some time to sort myself out. That’s not how relationships work.’
‘If you were going through a bad patch, would he even notice?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘He bought me a box of chocolates when our cat died.’ She sniffed. ‘But then he did eat all the white ones and he knows they’re my favourites.’
She burst out laughing at the memory, the kind of laugh that is on the brink of a sob. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to keep giving him endless chances. But I need a plan before I decide whether this is a phase, or if it’s just him. However crappy things have got, it’s still better than going back to sharing a bedroom with Nan.’
‘You could come here,’ I said. ‘Only £200 a night, breakfast included.’
‘Make it two a night and I’ll pack my bags.’
I nearly accepted her offer, only we had guests booked in and a business to run and I was still a bit scared of Alice so wasn’t quite ready to share a house with her.
‘You could stay with me?’ Becky said.
Alice frowned. ‘That would mean a really long commute.’
‘Unless you borrowed Luke’s boat? He keeps it at the Old Boat House dock anyway.’
She looked at Becky, a long, open stare, and although I couldn’t ever really understand what it meant, how significant the invitation was to cross this metaphorical bridge between their communities, I knew that this was how it started. Two individuals, prepared to lay the past behind and take a step forward.
‘I’ll think about it. But, well, thanks. That means a lot.’
Ain’t that the truth.
31
‘A community orchard?’ I asked Daniel an hour later, lying on the sofa with a hot chocolate, my feet in his lap. ‘When did you decide that?’
‘About two minutes before I said it,’ he smiled. ‘While I’ve been doing research for the orchard, the idea kept cropping up. There are plenty of places where it seems to work.’ He shrugged. ‘I think Dad would have liked the idea.’
‘Charlie would have loved it.’
He rested his mug on my knee. ‘What do you think? Will you mind having the whole community hanging about just over the garden fence? Helping themselves to our apples?’
I pursed my lips. ‘I have one major problem with it.’
‘Oh?’
‘What about my arbour?’ I poked him in the stomach with my foot, causing his drink to wobble precariously.
‘I will personally see your arbour relocated to the garden. Around the side of the house where the retreat guests won’t spot it, either.’
‘Hmm…’
‘There’s a corner where the hedge is low enough to see over if you’re sitting down, with a view right across the valley.’
‘Sounds perfect. I give my wholehearted endorsement and support to the Damson Farm community orchard.’
He grabbed my hand, pulling it up to kiss the palm. ‘You did realise the date of the launch?’
‘I know! Our first proper guests arrive two days before Damson Day.’
‘It’ll be a busy month.’
‘Right now, keeping busy might be the only thing that keeps me sane.’
And there it was again, the shadow from my past life leering over us, forever hanging there ominously.
The next few weeks were indeed jam-packed with our joint ventures. For the first two weeks Daniel was still working full-time while trying to get things started with the orchard, and with Becky and I getting everything ready for the upcoming retreat, we had little time or energy to do much more than share the odd meal, and hand over Hope with a quick kiss and a catch-up. However, as the days rolled by, things were gradually taking shape, transforming before our eyes, and the joy of seeing the finishing touches, final programmes printed and the pantry overflowing with ingredients ready for both events was ex
hilarating.
An army of locals had been pruning, planting and constructing in the orchard, like some amateur farming version of DIY SOS. There were now sturdy fences and a beautiful new gate opening onto the footpath that led through the meadow and along the river into the village. By the second week, there were raised beds and a pagoda with benches and tables for the educational area. It turned out that Ziva’s husband, John, was an admin whizz, and he spent hours looking into charity applications and setting up a board of trustees. Various staff from the pubs and takeaways made regular trips bearing drinks and trays of sandwiches or pizza. There was a clear sense of rivalry between the different eateries, but it was gradually becoming a friendly one, and if it meant the food grew better by the day, no one was about to intervene.
One of the teenagers bashed out a basic website, and where she’d created a bookings page for carpentry workshops, a range of gardening and horticultural classes and Ziva’s beekeeping for beginners, the places were getting filled quicker than she could organise them.
Daniel was reborn. His face shone, he laughed with new vigour and strode about the farm as if he finally owned the place, and loved every inch. Hope was, if possible, even more delighted. She spent hours outside, transfixed by the sawing and sowing, charming everyone who stopped to say hello when she was confined to her pushchair, and inspecting every leaf and ladybird in the times she was free to explore. She grew more like her mother every day.
Becky and I had to reluctantly miss out on this stage of the community reformation, although Becky minded a lot less during the first week, when Luke was still finishing off the work inside, than she did once he’d joined the orchard volunteer crew. The first day he was out there, she spent a whole afternoon cleaning the windows on the orchard side of the house, and found every excuse going to ‘nip outside’. Despite this, we were making fantastic progress, and as each room was signed off and various plans were finalised, our excitement blossomed.
We had opened the website for further bookings, and Becky was putting together a marketing plan. While Charlie’s brilliant but ridiculous notion of ‘exclusivity’ had enabled us to charge a fortune to those who could afford it, it also went against her original dream, that anyone who needed a Damson Farm Retreat was welcome, and for that to happen they needed to be able to find us. We decided to try offering a range of events that balanced a viable profit with being able to look our customers in the eye while handing them the bill. The ultra-exclusive breaks that offered extra ‘luxuries’, a full programme of jargon-soaked activities and unlimited everything, through to a simple stay where guests could enjoy good, nourishing food in beautiful surroundings, and then join in with group sessions or laze in the hammock with a cold drink.