.
organise.’
‘That’s true,’ Lawrence says thoughtfully, then suddenly leaps in the air, terrifying Blue, who scampers under the table. ‘I have a plan!’ Lawrence is now channelling John Gielgud – or is it Brian Blessed?
‘You do?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘I most certainly do. Listen Meg.’
‘I’m listening,’ I say, rescuing Blue and stroking his velvety soft ear.
‘Good. Here goes,’ he pauses for impact, ‘we make sure that Tindledale puts on the greatest show of its life!’ Lawrence is pacing around the kitchen now.
‘But what difference will that make to the school?’ I ask, standing up too.
‘Meeeeeg, don’t you see?’ He stops pacing, enthusiasm flooding his voice now.
‘See what?’ I ask, reaching for the wine to top us both up.
‘This is the perfect opportunity.’
‘What is?’
‘Weeeell,’ he starts elaborating slowly, as if formulating the plan in his head as he goes. ‘If this year’s village show is great, we’ll make it into the top ten list in the national newspaper and the whole country will see how wonderful Tindledale is – the perfect place to live! Then everyone will be looking at your school on the Internet … you do have a website, I take it?’ He looks panic-stricken for a brief moment. I nod. The council organised it years ago and it’s very basic, but I reckon I could get it updated. ‘Good, because, let’s face it, every parent wants the best school for their child, sooooo everyone will then want to live here – FAMILIES, with LOTS OF CHILDREN to fill your school. Yes, it’s the perfect solution.’
We stare at each other.
‘And if there’s a Michelin-starred restaurant here too … all the better!’ I jump in, ‘because everyone loves good food – and you could do gourmet weekend breaks, maybe culinary courses too; you could ask Dan to help out – use his restaurant kitchen, perhaps. And soon your B&B will be booked up indefinitely, and with a very long waiting list to boot.’
‘And Kitty and all the other businesses in the village will be thrilled too,’ Lawrence nods, enthusiastically.
‘Yes! Outstanding school. Outstanding food. Outstanding pub, tearoom, butcher’s, baker’s, and all the other stuff the great village of Tindledale has to show for itself … We have the lot,’ I say, my voice brimming with excitement now, helped along by the fizz we’ve been consuming. ‘They’ll be beating a path here to Tindledale in no time, and the Great Village Show will save my great village school – you just wait and see!’
As I duck down under the beam above the Duck & Puddle’s gnarled old oak entrance door, I can see that there’s quite a crowd gathered already – by the looks of it, most of the villagers are crammed into the compact but cosy space. Some are even hovering by the hatch in the snug at the end of the bar that doubles as the pub shop, selling essentials such as sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel, that kind of thing.
‘All right, Miss?’ one of the farmer boys grins, giving me a big wink as I walk past, while his two mates snigger and nudge each other in the background. I try not to smile at their juvenility, and keep my scary teacher face firmly in place as I overhear them pondering the merits of adding TILF to their list of acronyms.
Cher, the landlady, repatriates a stray tendril of hair back into her treacle-coloured beehive before clapping her hands together and hollering from behind the bar in her Cockney accent.
‘Ladies and gents, children and dogs.’ Molly coughs from over by the inglenook fireplace where she’s standing with her pet ferret in her arms – it’s wearing a little leather harness and looks unfazed as it nestles into the crook of her elbow. Cooper, her husband, who owns the village butcher’s, glances sideways at her before shaking his head with an exasperated look on his face, which we all know is just for effect as he absolutely adores his wife and would never begrudge her a pet ferret. ‘Ooops, sorry … and ferrets!’ Cher continues, and we all laugh before doing lots of ‘shushes’ and whispered nods of ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ as more people arrive. ‘Welcome to the first Great Village Show meeting …’ Cher twiddles a sparkly red-varnished fingertip around the inside of her huge gold hoop earring. ‘There’s plenty of space in our new beer garden … so if you’d like to go through,’ Cher motions to a door with GARDEN written on it in swirly writing on a little wooden plaque, ‘and Clive has laid on some nibbles which we’ll bring out to you with our compliments.’
‘Round of applause for Sonny!’ one of the farmer boys shouts from over by the darts board – clearly Cher’s boyfriend’s nickname is here to stay. I remember when Cher first arrived in Tindledale, not very long ago, to take over the running of the Duck & Puddle pub – of course the whole village was curious to see who she was (the older men of the village wanting to know if she was actually up to the job, what with her being a woman and all – they were used to Ray, an ex-policeman, running the pub for thirty years before he died). And they promptly renamed Cher’s boyfriend Sonny, thinking it hilarious to sing ‘I Got You Babe’ at any given opportunity. So Clive, also known as Sonny, answers to both names now. Being the pub chef, he is probably one of the most popular people in the village, especially on a Sunday when the bowls of salted pork crackling and goose-fat roast potatoes appear on the bar for people to pick at over their pints.
‘Now, what can I get you all to drink?’ Cher shouts, and there’s practically a stampede as the entire pub crowd surges forward to buy big jugs of Pimm’s garnished with cucumber and strawberries and flagons of frothy ice-cold cider – it’s such a lovely early summer evening, so it would be a shame not to make the most of it.
Twenty minutes later, and we’re all milling around in the beer garden, the warm evening air full with the scent of citronella from the candles dotted around to keep the mosquitoes at bay. A variety of dogs are scooting about, and what seems like all of my schoolchildren are bouncing up and down on the inflatable castle that Cher has kindly supplied to keep them occupied while the adults get on with the meeting.
‘Hi Miss Singer,’ several of the children chorus, as I walk past looking for a space at one of the wooden bench tables.
‘Hello, are you all having a fun time?’ I smile, lifting my glass of Pimm’s out of the way to give Lily a big hug as she jumps off the bouncy castle and practically launches herself into my body; her skinny arms curled tight around me, clinging on to my sundress, seeking out affection. Waist height, I rest my free hand on her blonde, curly hair before gently unfurling her arms and crouching down to look her in the eye. ‘Is your daddy here with you this evening?’ I ask tentatively, wondering how Mark, our village policeman, is bearing up – it’s only six months since his wife, Polly, passed away after losing her battle with breast cancer. Lily nods and points to the far side of the beer garden where a gaunt-looking Mark is standing with his hands in his jeans pockets and a lonesome look in his eyes. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ I say brightly, pleased for Lily that she hasn’t had to come along with one of her friends’ mums again, because Mark wasn’t up to socialising. Lily nods enthusiastically, giving me a big gappy grin.
‘Daddy said Mummy is going to send the tooth fairy to collect my teeth tonight and take them up to her in heaven so she can look after them.’
‘Oh,’ I gulp, and then quickly add, ‘well that’s very kind,’ followed by a big smile, not wanting the brave little girl in front of me to see my anguish for her. It’s been a tough time for her at school, with many occasions spent crying in my office or with her class teacher asking my advice on whether or not to reprimand Lily for lashing out at another child – there was an incident shortly after Mother’s Day, but