The Great Village Show (14 page)

He doesn’t say anything as he mulls over my suggestion.

‘You can’t call me direct,’ he eventually replies, turning his back on me to study the corkboard on the wall.

Rude
. Again!

‘Oh, why not?’ I ask, feeling even more irked when he taps something on the board and does a sort of snigger to himself, his shoulders bobbing up and down. ‘Am I too much of a “country bumpkin”?’ I ask, remembering his line in the YouTube interview. I even do the same silly quote marks with my fingers, which, even though he can’t see me, is still actually quite ridiculous, so, feeling like an idiot, I immediately drop my hands back down by my sides.

‘What are you talking about?’ Dan turns back to face me, and looks confused. ‘Don’t be daft … you can’t call me because I threw my phone in the river, remember?’ he clarifies casually.

‘Um.’ I can feel my cheeks reddening. ‘Yes, well, err … of course, I know that …’ I say, trying to sound breezy and indifferent, on realising that he’s seemingly got one over me.

‘So are you going to call Pia or not?’ He looks me up and down, and it unnerves me again. And why does he have to be so … bold and direct? And, oh I don’t know … larger than life, I guess! It’s intrusive. Yes, that’s what it is.

‘I don’t think so,’ I reply, feeling put on the spot.

‘Fair enough. I’ll be off then …’ and he goes to leave.

‘I think that’s probably a very good idea,’ I retort, feeling stubborn and petulant and immature now. But he started all this.

‘Fine.’ He strides across my office, and then just as he reaches the door, he stops and turns back. ‘You know if they do close down the school, you should call a film studio and get a job as a fight director; you’d be really good at that!’ And he’s gone.

And yet again, I’m left flabbergasted.

Speechless. My hands are tingling with indignation. How dare he? I didn’t start the so-called fight, so what does he mean? Fight director! Is there even such a thing? And why does he think we’re fighting? I declined his offer to use my school as some kind of publicity stunt, that’s all. I can only assume that he’s not used to being turned down. Or thinks I’m the one being difficult, deliberately setting out to pick a fight with him. Why would I do that?

I close the door behind him and walk into the middle of my office. I don’t know what to do. I actually don’t. So I do nothing. I just stand still, with my eyes closed, as I concentrate on breathing. In and out. Over and over. I even count to ten as I taught Jack to do when he was just a little boy with a large fiery temper.

That’s better, I feel calmer now. I go over to the wall, curious to know what Dan was sniggering over, and scan the corkboard. There’s Taylor’s picture of the goldfish, numerous thank-you cards from children and parents, collected over the years. There are a couple of pictures that Jack drew – an alien, a sunflower, a wooden hutch with Blue and Belle inside, each chewing on a carrot. There’s a space-hopper-shaped scribbly circle with stick arms and legs, which is supposed to be me – Jack had just turned three years old when he drew it, so it would be incredibly unfair if Dan was sniggering at this. And then I spot it.

I lean in closer and my heart actually stops mid-beat, momentarily.

Noooooo! Oh no!

And of all the people to see it, it had to be Dan
flaming
Wright. It’s my completed cross-stitch project. I took a photo of it before dropping it off to be framed at the bookshop in the High Street – my beautiful cross-stitch sampler to celebrate my lovely village school. I thought I could hang it on the wall in the hall so that the inspectors could spot it; see how long the school has been here – over a hundred years! I even managed to stitch a fairly reasonable image of the school with the clock tower on too.

But it’s all ruined, and I’m an enormous idiot! Because the words say,

Spot the error! I didn’t. And I don’t know how many times I checked it. A lot, that’s for sure. I guess my eyes saw what they wanted to see. How infuriating. And embarrassing. No wonder Dan was sniggering. And I hate how I feel now, like he’s got one over me … again! More so, that I seem to be bothered. What is that all about? I really wish I didn’t care, but for some reason I do. Damn it! Dan Wright has really got under my skin.

Once again, I find myself hoisting my bag over my arm and storming off, wondering how on earth I managed to misspell TINDLEDALE, the name of the village in which I have lived my whole life.

A
t last, the end of a very long week has arrived, and when I get to the village green for tonight’s show meeting, Jessie is already here. The triplets are sitting in a neat row on the wooden bench, while she stands, shielding her eyes from the early evening sun.

‘Hi Meg. How are you?’ Jessie asks as I sit down next to her.

‘Great,’ I fib, still reeling slightly from my last terse encounter with Dan. I called in to see Lawrence on my way home after my class with Hettie on Wednesday evening, and he already knew all about the defective cross-stitch sampler – said it was no big deal and that Dan wasn’t laughing at me. That, in fact, he had asked Lawrence to let me know about the misspelling, as he felt mean later, not having pointed it out to me at the time, but reckoned I was already wound up enough without him antagonising me further. Hmm, likely story. He was definitely sniggering – well, his shoulders were jigging about. I didn’t actually hear him doing a sniggery sound, but … anyway, he was right about one thing, he had certainly wound me up! And I realised afterwards that he hadn’t even apologised for barging into me on the bridge. I reckon he only came to see me as, on reflection, he thought a televised trip to the quaint little village school would make him look good. He even said as much by telling me it would keep his manager happy. I bet they talked about it and saw an opportunity – all that spiel about wanting control over publicity, yep, so they could sell a story to the papers. Do another interview on TV perhaps, with Dan telling silly jokes about the ‘country bumpkins’ – have you heard the one about the teacher with the sweat-stained sun hat, who thinks she has leaves in her hair and can’t even spell properly? Hahahaha!

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.