The Great Village Show (26 page)

‘Indeed,’ I say, greatly buoyed by the news of Fern coming to our Great Village Show and trying to keep my disappointment about Dan at bay. ‘So how did you manage to swing it?’

‘Well, we kept in touch and I thought there was no harm in asking; as luck would have it, Fern is free on that day and is delighted to help out …’ There’s a short silence. ‘Oh, Meg, I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to go, a guest needs me.’

‘OK, lovely to chat. See you later.’

We end the call, and I hang up, basking in the news of Fern Britton being here on show day, but then the feeling soon subsides and I suddenly feel deflated all over again. I sink back into my desk chair. For some unfathomable reason, my eyes are all filmy and my back is constricting – a full-on tight spasm. I breathe deeply and lean forward in my chair, but I still feel … crushed! So disappointed. Dan has gone. So much for his ‘don’t ever change’ comment. And what kind of a fool am I, for thinking it was possibly something more than it was, after his long, hard, passionate kiss? And actually wanting him to do it again! I must be mad. Was it really all just a big joke to him, after all? And, on top of all these feelings, and just to compound things further, I’m convinced of it, I’m truly shocked at my reaction to the news of his sudden departure. Especially as I have no idea if I will ever get to see him again … and to think that I thought I didn’t even like him. A rude, mercurial maverick, a troglodyte, and I still thought all these things about him just a few minutes ago – in fact, I still do right now! He is all of these things, and now I can add unreliable to his battery of unattractive traits.

So why then do I feel so upset? It doesn’t make any sense. Clearly, I’m going mad, because in spite of all of this, I think it’s fair to say that I may well actually like Dan Wright very much indeed. But I don’t want to like him, I really don’t. He has a girlfriend – I would never do that. So why would I feel attracted to someone like him? It goes against everything that I think is important, and besides, I’m not even looking to meet a man, I’m fine as I am. Not that Dan is interested in me, that much is obvious, because a man that is interested in a woman doesn’t just up and leave without any warning, without so much as a pleasant cheerio and a wave goodbye. And not only did Dan leave my house, he’s left Tindledale too … he’s got as far away as he can from me. But none of this matters anyway, or makes any difference; my feelings are irrelevant, because there’s nothing I can do about any of them. Dan has gone. I’ve missed my chance, if there was even a chance of anything happening between us. Not that I even know if I wanted something to happen, and certainly not when he has a girlfriend. Oh God, it’s so confusing. But either way, I’ll never know, because it’s too late now …

T
he village hall looks every inch as good as Lawrence told me it did. Better in fact, as the civic committee has had an enormous laminated map of Tindledale made with numbered marker points, showing where each of the attractions are going to be located on show day. It’s mounted on the wall outside, nice and central to the village, and is the perfect place for our guests, plus the villagers of course, to find their way around. It’s like the kind of maps that zoos and theme parks have at their entrances; I remember from last year when we took the nursery and KS1 children to the petting zoo near the seaside.

‘So what do you reckon?’ Lawrence asks, appearing behind me with a broad grin on his face.

‘The hall looks amazing, and I especially love this map,’ I say.

‘Me too, isn’t it genius? Rumour has it that it was the general’s idea, and he personally funded it, too, when the parish council balked at the price of having it custom made.’

‘Really? Gosh, that’s very generous of him,’ I say, impressed, and thinking how it just goes to show that first impressions can be so misleading. The general has certainly come up trumps for Tindledale – firstly with the OBE medal and display cabinet in my school, and now this! And then I spot the snag – the food trucks and juice bar are still here on the map. I tap the board discreetly, on the red number eleven – Cher’s venison burger bar, located in the newly tidied station car park. Jessie was there all day yesterday, weeding and clearing, now that the dilapidated old caravan has finally been towed away.

‘What are we going to do?’ I whisper, looking back over my shoulder at Lawrence. It didn’t go down well when I told all the caterers at the emergency meeting last night in the Duck & Puddle that Dan has left Tindledale so it seems we are going to have to make do without the food trucks. And Lawrence hasn’t heard anything more from him, other than another call from Pia to settle Dan’s bill. Lawrence didn’t have a chance to ask anything further, as Pia was very brusque – barely drawing breath, he told me, as she read out the long card number and security digits before practically slamming the phone down.

I swallow hard to quash the feelings of disappointment and sadness rising up inside me. I’ve not slept very well the last few nights, and I’m not sure if it’s Mum’s snoring that’s making me feel so unsettled – yes, I can hear her whistling peaks and troughs from the spare bedroom, even with my bedroom door closed. Or maybe it’s because my back is still hurting, or perhaps knowing that Jack is flying to Cape Town today … But the truth is, it’s none of those things really. When I’ve woken up, it’s with only one person in my head. Dan. I just can’t help it; he has got under my skin in a way no man has in years. I keep wondering what he’s up to. Where is he? And, more importantly, why did he leave? And then I get angry all over again that he’s gone, leaving us with this dilemma and potentially ruining our chances of making the top ten villages list, and leaving me feeling … well, bereft. And I know that I have no right to be, not when he’s already with another woman. And I’m certainly not going to try to contact him, definitely not. No, I’ve had my fair share of men just upping and leaving – Liam did it, and then Will, and it’s not like anything really happened between Dan and me …

‘It’ll be all right,’ Lawrence says, putting his arm around my shoulders. ‘Cher is doing a big barbecue in the pub garden now, in addition to having a trellis table with a pergola cover in the station car park – she’s calling in extra bar staff to help out and act as “runners” between the two locations. Kitty has the café, of course, to serve up her delicious cakes and cream teas, so isn’t overly anxious about not having a food truck too, and apparently the bakery is bringing out its old delivery van. It has a serving hatch so they can sell artisan bread to the hipsters down from London.’ We both smile.

‘Perfect. It won’t be as slick as Dan’s candy-striped, awning-clad chrome food trucks, but it’ll do, and just goes to prove that Tindledale really can do without the likes of Dan flaming Wright.’ I sound defiant, and try to look defiant, but inside I feel flat and sombre – I have to try and pick myself up for everyone’s sake.

‘Exactly. And I’ll help you transport your crates up to the hall, so you can still have a juice bar – it’ll just be a trellis table with plastic cups, but never mind. Now, let’s not worry about it for a moment longer. We have a Great Village Show to put on!’ And Lawrence turns on his heel and heads off towards two women, who I assume are the ones warring over George, the hop farmer, as they’re both standing with their arms folded across their chests, looking daggers at each other. Oh dear, Lawrence sure has his work cut out with those two – I remember them from my school, always bickering and complaining about the other one to whoever was on playground duty. Some things never change.

‘Hi Meg.’ It’s Sybs. ‘Have you seen this?’ She hands me a colourful pamphlet from a pile in her bag, which I take after giving Basil a quick stroke.

‘Thanks.’ I open it up. ‘Wow! Very impressive.’ It’s a mini-concertinaed version of the map so visitors can carry it around the village with them. It even has a little section of vouchers – 10 per cent off when you buy any home-grown produce in the main marquee, 15 per cent off the cost of a ride on a heavy horse-drawn vintage plough; buy one get one free on face painting, next to a picture of my Reception class children with leopard and zebra faces (ahh, so that’s what Mary was up to with the camera at the teddy bears’ picnic that day). There’s a free day-pass to the Country Club, half-price piano lessons with Pam (Dr Ben’s secretary) when you book a course of ten, so there is quite a good selection of offers, and there’s even a free wash and blow dry for your dog when you book them in for the nail-clipping service at the Paws Pet Parlour – which reminds me, I must catch up with Taylor soon to see how she is after Jack called her. I fold the pamphlet back up, thinking how professional it looks, and certainly a step up from last year’s village show fiasco.

‘And see there.’ Sybs turns the pamphlet over and points to a picture on the back.

‘The commemorative stone!’ I say, impressed.

‘That’s right,’ she grins.

‘Is it here? In place?’ I swivel my head towards the direction of the village square, but can’t see of course, as it’s around the corner, opposite Ruby’s vintage dress shop and the bus shelter.

‘Yep, it sure is. And Hettie is over the moon. Marigold’s husband, Lord Lucan, too.’

‘Ooh, I can’t wait to see it,’ I say, lifting my wicker shopping basket on to my arm – it’s crammed with all kinds of paraphernalia that I thought might come in handy this evening – staple gun, glue, pens, markers, fluoro cardboard signs, tissues (in the run-up to the last village show there were lots of tears as some villagers got overwrought by the enormity of the preparations) and plenty of packets of biscuits to pop on to the plates next to the numerous tea urns dotted around the place, to keep all the organisers sustained.

‘Come on, I’ll walk over with you,’ Sybs says, slipping her arm through mine and clicking with her tongue to give Basil his cue to come along too.

B
ack home, and I’ve just changed into my nightie and dressing gown and scooped Blue up for a cuddle on the sofa after sorting Mum out with a hot bath – for some reason, she ‘forgot’ to bring any of her ‘pampering stuff’ as she calls it (she had packed it all into a separate vanity case, which she subsequently left in the boot of her car at Tenerife South airport), so she’s now soaking herself in my extra creamy bluebell foam bubble bath, which I treated myself to in the little farm shop after doing the bluebell walk through the Tindledale woods – when there’s a knock on the door. Feeling very disgruntled, I pop Blue down on the armchair and slip on my bunny slippers before pulling the lounge door to and making my way to answer it. I’m just about to open the front door, when there’s another knock, much louder this time, and very insistent, so I go to pull open the door, with a suitable rebuke already prepared:
honestly, it’s almost ten o’clock, and very bad manners to be hammering on my door at this time of night.
But before I have a chance to actually say anything, Mr Cavendish barges past me and storms into my house with a murderous look on his face.

‘Err, excuse me!’ I start, racing down the hallway after him. He’s standing in the kitchen now, pacing around with his hands on his hips. ‘You can’t just barge in here. What do you want?’ I ask, stepping towards him, and wondering what on earth is going on. He’s clearly furious, but why is he here? He’s supposed to be in Zurich. And if he’s here, then what about Jessie? And the children? Do they know that he’s here in Tindledale? At my house. Should I call Jessie and find out what is going on? But why isn’t he at home, in the farmhouse? And then a horrible, sickening feeling runs through me and I instinctively move away from him by taking a few steps backwards. I need to call Jessie. I need to go to her and make sure she’s OK. The children, I must make sure they’re safe, and why didn’t I talk to Becky? I never did mention my concerns after Millie told me about the iron burn incident. And what if it’s now too late? What if he’s hurt Jessie again? Oh God.

‘A word with you,’ he spits, angry eyes flicking around the kitchen like a feral animal on high alert.

‘I think you need to calm down first.’ I hold up my palms in a peaceful way, going straight into teacher mode, but then rapidly realise that this might antagonise him further, so I change tack. ‘I don’t know what the problem is, but if I can help in any wa—’