The Great Village Show (15 page)

Various parents have been asking me what exactly I know about the school closing down and I try and assure them that, as far as I’m concerned, the school most definitely isn’t closing, not if I can help it, but also tell them it would really be helpful if they all sent emails to the council outlining their concerns. Someone from the parish council agrees that it’s an outrage and they have already had ‘words’ at the highest level, before Mrs Pocket says she’s scheduling an emergency governors’ meeting to explore all the options. Good! Because I’m beginning to feel like a one-woman army against the team of inspectors. The sooner they go, the better, and my school can get back to normal.

The meeting looks as if it’s just about to start as Sybs is standing up and trying to get everyone’s attention. She’s chinking the side of a glass with one of her knitting needles. I finish my drink and am about to go and join her, when Taylor appears from behind one of the lavender bushes.

‘Miss Sing—. Sorry, Meg,’ she smiles and scoots into the seat beside me as I bat away a bee that goes to nosedive my drink.

‘Hey Taylor, how are you?’ I say kindly. I bet Jack hasn’t been in touch; she looks very forlorn. Not calling me because he’s having too much fun is one thing, but I don’t like him treating girls badly.

‘Not too bad. I just wondered if you had managed to speak to Jack? I still haven’t heard from him.’ I hesitate and then, to spare her feelings I tell her, ‘Oh Taylor, I’m very sorry, I’ve been so busy, what with the village show and the inspectors at school every day …’ I discreetly cross my fingers to guard against the repercussions of telling a white lie.

Her face drops, and I’m somewhat surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. Gosh, she really has got it bad. It makes me wonder if there’s something more serious going on between them, but then why didn’t Jack mention it? He’s always been quite open in chatting to me about dating and girlfriends and all of that. ‘Taylor, is everything OK?’ I ask softly, and she studies me momentarily, seemingly gauging whether or not to talk to me about whatever it is that’s troubling her, when the moment vanishes as Sybs calls me over to chair the meeting and give everyone an update on the state of the station car park and the duck pond.

An hour later, and I’ve suggested we take a break, seeing as we’ve managed to whizz through the agenda and cover a lot of ground. The village show plans are coming together splendidly and everyone in the village has got on and tackled whichever tasks they agreed to take on at the last meeting. Pete is planning his usual ploughing competition in the fields of the Blackwood Farm Estate – Lord Lucan opens the estate up on every show day – and Pete has roped in over twenty other farmers. Some of them even have heavy horses to pull the old-fashioned manual ploughs, to see who can win his most proficient ploughman’s prize, a barrel of beer from the Duck & Puddle, which sets the general off again with yet more complaints about the ‘utter disregard’ for his mangled borders.

The commemorative stone has already been paid for by the parish council at a heavily discounted price, and is being carved ‘as we speak’, apparently, which I find hard to believe given that the guy who owns the garden centre is currently in the Bahamas for his daughter’s wedding, but we all agree to trust that it’ll be ready and erected in the village square for show day. The WI women have come up with an ‘innovative idea’, their chairwoman says, before treating us all to a very thorough explanation, complete with dance sequence diagrams with little paw prints on – a synchronised dog show! Taylor perks up at this point as, together with her mum, Amber, they’ve agreed to groom all the dogs ahead of the show, and then provide a doggy marquee on the day, with water bowls and beds and treats and stuff. Lord Lucan and his wife, Marigold, are organising hot-air balloons to take off from one of the fields on the estate, and then float over Tindledale on show day, which will be amazing, and such a treat – especially if they can get the right insurances in place so that people, the show judges in particular, can enjoy a ride. I’d love to go up in a hot-air balloon. And we all agreed that this initiative could really set us apart from all the other village shows.

It turns out Jessie is a keen gardener, so she has kindly volunteered to tidy the station car park, duck pond and little lawned area in the village square, and also came up with a great idea to organise an allotment food bank. And everyone agrees this is an excellent way to show Tindledale’s commitment to helping the wider community, especially the allotment owners, who are all delighted at the prospect of their surplus crops going to a worthwhile cause. Apparently they’ve seen a bumper harvest already this year, with the weather being as wonderful as it has been, and they have already passed on as much produce as they can to family and friends. Nobody likes to see good food going to waste. So Mrs Pocket is marshalling a team of volunteers to collect the excess from the twenty or so allotments down the lane near my school, to take to the food banks in Market Briar.

I’ve just finished chatting to policeman Mark and his daughter Lily – she’s delighted with her newly decorated bedroom and insisted on showing me a picture of it on Mark’s phone. They’ve had one of those colourful canvas prints done using pictures of Polly, laughing and pulling silly faces, which now hangs on Lily’s wall.

I’m walking over to join Jessie on the corner sofa, when … Oh no. My heart sinks.

What’s he doing here?

Dan is striding across the grass.

That’s all I need. Another run-in with Dan
flaming
Wright.

And what on earth does he look like? A big, pirate sailboat – his long black shirt is hanging out of the back of his jeans, billowing in the breeze as he gathers speed. His beard has reached ridiculous lengths now – and what’s he done to his hair? He’s clearly going for the ‘bird’s nest’ or ‘bonkers professor’ look, as it’s truly wild: more Ken Dodd than Kit Harington. But he smells nice; a mixture of almonds and oud lingers in the air behind him, which I suppose makes up for the monstrous Cornish-pasty-shaped green Crocs on his feet. I’ve never seen the attraction myself, and can honestly say that they do nothing for Dan – he looks as if he’s just rolled in from a wild weekend-long yacht party. Wired and dishevelled.

Well, I’ll just ignore him. Everyone else is pretending to, even though I can see some of the mums nudging each other and grinning like pubescent schoolgirls. One of them has even got a mirror out of her handbag and is hurriedly topping up her lipstick and fluffing her hair about, obviously attracted to the brutish type.

I reach Jessie and sit back down beside her.

‘Well done, Meg,’ she says brightly, popping a straw into a carton of juice before handing it to Millie, who practically imbibes it in one enormous gulp, she’s so eager to get back to her new friends on the bouncy castle. ‘I wish I could be as forthright and organised as you,’ Jessie smiles as she busies herself with wiping Millie’s mouth and sending her on her way.

‘I’m sure you do just fine,’ I say, wondering if now might be a good moment for me to find out a bit more about her. But just as I open my mouth, the general appears in front of us.

‘Good evening! I hear that you are the lady to deal with,’ he says very directly, whilst doing a sort of rocking movement on his feet, his arms ramrod straight behind his back.

‘Oh, um, maybe,’ I reply hesitantly, lifting a hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling orange evening sun as I rummage in my handbag with the other to find my sunglasses. The general, surprisingly thoughtfully, shifts a little to the left to block the sun so that I can see him without squinting. ‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘Do you need my help with something?’

‘No. It is I who can help you!’ he says slowly, punctuating each of the words distinctively. He rocks some more.

‘Is that so?’ I ask, curiously. Ahh, I find my sunglasses and pop them on.

‘Indeed. I’m outraged by all this hot air flying around – stuff and nonsense about closing the village school. It’s preposterous! You know, my father was educated there … before winning his place at Sandhurst. And his father before him.’ The general nods firmly.

‘Oh, I didn’t realise you had a family conn—’

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s the reason I came to Tindledale. Inherited the old place – my father’s childhood home. Anyway, I found this in the attic and want you to display it in the school hall. I’ll have a tradesman come by to install a proper cabinet.’ And the general hands me a small blue box. I open it carefully. ‘Don’t be afraid, dear – have a proper look, it’s a remarkably fine piece of craftsmanship,’ he informs me.

‘Oh gosh, it’s an OBE medal!’ I say, impressed, as I touch a finger to the scarlet and grey striped ribbon, and then down, momentarily tracing over the gilt crown and floriated cross beneath it.

‘That’s right. It was my father’s. He was awarded the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire for his sterling contribution to business,’ he informs me, using the proper, full name for the medal.

‘Wow! But I can’t possibly take this,’ I say, closing the box and trying to hand the medal back to him.

‘You must. I’ve already informed Mrs Pocket. She will trace all the other people of note that attended your school. Right back to the beginning.’ The general straightens the collar of his navy blazer. ‘Tindledale village school is steeped in history, and we must be proud of this fact! Did you know that your school hall was commandeered during the war by the Home Guard
and
took responsibility for educating a very respectable number of evacuees?’ and he pulls his pipe from a pocket and points it in the air to punctuate the words.

‘Um, no. No, I didn’t,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘How fascinating!’ And my mind is already working overtime, wondering how we can utilise the school’s impressive history to put even more pressure on the team of inspectors.

‘Yes it is! And this is why we must not allow the buffoons at the council to close it down without a second thought.’ He points his pipe in the air some more. ‘The heritage of this fine country is not to be sniffed at.’ And he’s rocking again now, as if gearing up for one of his rants. I smile politely, and spot Dan in my peripheral vision from behind my sunglasses – he’s chugging a glass of what looks like whisky. ‘I shall get on to my pal in the house if it comes to it,’ the general harrumphs.

‘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.

A
s 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.