The Great Village Show. Alexandra Brown
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and nodding, Lawrence winks and nods too, the WI ladies fold their arms and look to each other before doing a collective nod of agreement. Not to be outdone, the people seated at the parish council table demonstrate their support by clapping, apart from the general, who eyes me suspiciously before pulling out a pipe and sticking it into his moustachioed mouth. Molly and Cooper applaud too, having just about managed to recover from their hysterics – Molly is wiping her laughter tears away with a napkin. Taylor from the Pet Parlour, Kitty, Hettie from the haberdashery, and all the school mums join in. Everyone seems to be on board.
‘Excuse me.’ It’s Hettie, with her spindly arms pressed into the table, trying to propel her wiry, frail body up into a standing position. Marigold and Sybs jump to her aid and, after a few seconds, Hettie is fully mobile and walking towards me. ‘Sorry dear, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. But I’d like to say a few words if I may?’ She fixes her Wedgwood-blue eyes on to me.
‘Of course Hettie, go ahead.’ And the crowd falls silent – as one of the oldest villagers from a family that has lived in Tindledale going back several generations, she’s automatically assured a certain level of respect.
‘Thank you. As many of you know, I’ve lived in Tindledale my whole life – that’s eighty years, give or take.’ She pauses and pats her big Aunt Bessie bun. ‘But what many of you don’t know is that Tindledale has already won an award for putting on the greatest village show.’ A collective hushed whisper ricochets around the garden. ‘Yes, it was in 1965, on a gloriously warm day. So this will be the fiftieth anniversary of that win. It might be a nice idea to commemorate that victory – I’m sure a banner was made,’ Hettie adds vaguely, her papery forehead creasing in concentration as she tries to remember what happened to the banner.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the vicar joins in, walking over towards Hettie and me. ‘I was quite young, of course,’ he laughs good-naturedly.
Lord Lucan wanders over as well. ‘Me too. There was a banner, rigged up in the village square for everyone to see. And wasn’t there talk of a commemorative stone? It was so long ago that I really can’t be sure.’ Lord Lucan shakes his head, baffled, as he tries to remember the details.
‘Yes, but there just wasn’t the money around.’ Hettie clasps her hands together.
‘Well, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ the vicar interjects, ‘and would certainly set the right mindset for when the judges arrive – they’ll see that Tindledale really is an old hand when it comes to putting on a great show. We must find the banner and resurrect it in the village square.’
‘And install a proper commemorative stone! It could go next to the war memorial,’ Lord Lucan says, pushing his shirt sleeves up enthusiastically.
‘Absolutely, and one for the civic pride committee to take on, I reckon – six weeks is ample time to raise the funds for a carved stone,’ I venture boldly. I actually have no idea how much carved stones cost, but it has to be worth a go, and I can see it now – a lovely picture of the stone in the centre of the Sunday supplement piece all about Tindledale, the village that has won again, fifty years after the previous triumph!
‘And with plenty of space on the stone to add on this year’s victory!’ Pete gives the general a smarmy smile.
‘I could help out with supplying the stone – cost price, and the carving for free,’ the owner of the garden centre offers.
A woman I’ve not seen before is walking towards the crowd; willowy and beautiful, she’s wearing floaty yoga clothes with a long, pretty cotton scarf trailing from her neck. She looks apprehensive, so I raise a welcoming hand to wave her over, but she doesn’t see me and instead turns around and walks back into the pub. And, I’m not embarrassed to say, hmm, well … maybe I am a little, that the first thought that pops into my head is: I wonder if she has any children? I’m so determined to keep my school open that I’m half tempted to race after her like some kind of crazy looper to find out, and quite possibly insist that she brings them to my school, right away, so the inspectors can see that, actually, numbers aren’t dwindling at all. Ha! But she’s gone. Never mind. I make a mental note to approach her next time I see her around the village … She must be the lucky Mrs Cavendish with the charming, hot husband, as – apart from Dan Wright and the general – I’ve not heard of any other new people in the village, so I’m guessing she must be.
‘So, how about a show of hands,’ I say, turning my attention back to the meeting, where everyone is buzzing now, full of enthusiasm and benevolence. This is more like it; this is how we usually do things in Tindledale: together and with good grace. ‘Thank you.’ One of the parish councillors hands me the key to the tiny village notice board on the wall outside the village store.
Half an hour later, and we’ve divvied up the villagers into three committees, with various people taking charge of things that are particularly important to them. Everyone seems to understand that putting on a truly great show will be a wonderful thing for Tindledale, boosting local businesses and, hopefully, school numbers too. For the first time since Jack left for uni, I am fully focused on my life and future again, and I can’t wait to get started on the preparations for the Great Village Show.
Jessie pulled down the sleeves of her blouse to protect her arms, before pushing the brambles away from the door of the old, ramshackle potting shed at the far end of her new garden, and allowed herself a moment of quiet contemplation. She had hoped moving to Tindledale would be a fresh start for them all, and an opportunity to put London, in particular, Sam, her first love, out of her mind. But it hadn’t been as simple as that. Sebastian had gone back on his word and insisted they consider St Cuthbert’s, the private school on the outskirts of Tindledale, before making a final decision – so now Jessie felt deflated, duped even, that her wishes hadn’t been taken seriously.
‘Jessicaaaaaa!’ Jessie smarted as she always did when Sebastian called her by her full name. He was the only one who did, despite knowing that she hated it. ‘JESSICA. Where are you?’ Sebastian thundered from the back door of the farmhouse. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He strode through the long grass towards her and Jessie felt her back constrict on realising that Sebastian was in one of his moods. He came to a halt in front of her, glowering as he took the top of her arm and pulled her towards him. Jessie knew better than to antagonise him when he was like this, so opted for the position of least resistance and slipped her free arm around his waist.
‘Exploring, darling. I thought I’d see what was hidden inside this old shed …’ Jessie painted on her usual smile, which in turn had the usual effect on Sebastian; he released his grip on her arm and pointed to his cheek for a kiss. Jessie duly obliged and did as she was told. Anything to keep the peace. She really couldn’t face another scene, not today, not when the sun was shining and the air was infused with birdsong and jasmine, and – most importantly – the children were happy, bouncing around on the new super-sized trampoline that Sebastian had installed soon after they arrived in Tindledale. Another of his grand gestures, this time to make up for having rehomed Banjo, their beloved cat, without warning shortly before the move. For compassionate reasons, he had claimed, saying Banjo would be confused so far away from London. But Jessie knew Sebastian hated cats, having merely tolerated Banjo on account of his mother buying the kitten as a surprise gift for the triplets. Sebastian was holding out to inherit her vast estate, so liked to keep his mother sweet, hence he hadn’t protested when Banjo’s adorable black fluffy head had popped out of the cardboard box on Christmas Day and the triplets had whooped with joy.
Jessie smiled fondly at the memory, but then tensed on remembering how heartbroken Millie, Max and Olivia had been on finding out that Banjo had ‘been left behind’. They were in the car, following behind the removal van, when Jessie had realised that Banjo’s crate wasn’t in the boot. But it was too late by then; Sebastian refused to turn back and wouldn’t even reveal the name of the neighbour he’d given Banjo to.