The Big Little Festival. Kellie Hailes
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stared at the empty doorway where Jody had stood mere seconds ago. What had just happened? What kind of committee head just quit? And why the hell was she so hung up on this Welly-wanging business?
Still, he stood behind his belief that it wouldn’t draw people in, and he refused to do anything that would jeopardise the success of The Big Little Festival, or, more importantly, jeopardise what would be left of his career once the pop-star debacle came home to roost square on his head.
Fine. Jody was out. Next step? Go find Mrs Harper and Mrs Hunter and drag them back to the hall to finally nail down some plans. And his say would be final. There would be no democracy under his watch.
He strode across the hall, stepped out into the sunshine and, squinting from its brightness, took in the lay of the land. Total chocolate-box. The kind of town people from overseas expected to see when they came to Devon. All whitewashed stone walls with thatched or tiled roofs. Flower boxes brimming with flowers, and a few weeds. That’d need to be sorted. He mentally began to put together a list of what would need to be done to the village to turn it from sweet and a little sad to something sensational.
Bunting. Lots of it. Criss-crossing the main street. A big sign at either end with The Big Little Festival painted in jaunty colours. They’d need to have portable toilets brought in. They could possibly go at the back of the park. Perhaps with some kind of wall set up to give some privacy and hide their unsightliness.
The street wasn’t wide, so he’d have to be economical with the attractions. Which would be what? He stroked his chin, soft spikes reminding him he needed to shave. He was back in the game. He had a job. Now was not the time to look like a down and outer.
A cackle of laughter caught his attention. Mrs Harper and Mrs Hunter. It must be. Another cackle sent him speeding off in its direction towards a building with ‘Mel’s Café’ emblazoned on the window.
He stepped through the door and startled at the jolly ting-a-ling of the doorbell. Who had actual bells in their store any more? Where were the electronic chimes? He took in the yesteryear British vibe, all mirrored wall art and china tea trios on display. Had he actually gone back in time? Had Rabbits Leap decided 1953 was a great year to stop moving forward?
His suspicions deepened when he saw the proprietress. A petite woman with blonde hair, wearing a pink-and-red-rose-covered vintage frock, who was smiling at him in that polite manner that suggested she was wary of the stranger in her café, but would never be rude to a customer.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to take a seat? Or would you like a moment to take a look at the cabinets?’
‘Um, actually, I was just looking…’
‘Marjorie.’ Mrs Harper’s squawk filled the room. ‘Look who’s tracked us down?! And he’s not looking happy… I guess Jody has filled him in on how things are going with the festival.’
‘Christian, stop staring at everything like a gormless wonder and sit with us.’ Mrs Hunter pushed out a chair and waved at him to join them.
‘Can I get you a coffee? Tea? I’m Mel by the way.’ The proprietress’s smile widened. ‘Welcome to Rabbits Leap. I hear you’re here to help with the festival.’
Wow, word got around quickly in this place. ‘I’m here to do what I can.’ Christian attempted to return her smile, but the painful gut-twist had returned. Like a snake intent on wrapping itself into a knot. Many knots. ‘An espresso would be great, thanks. Oh, and a scone. Extra cream, please.’
Mel leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. ‘They’ve got you stress-eating already? A word of advice. Just hold your ground. Don’t let them boss you about’. She straightened up and sent him on his way with a flick of her hand.
Boss him around? Stress-eating? What did she think he was? A pushover? It would be him doing the bossing. No two ways about that. Christian settled into the chair Mrs Harper had made available for him and gave the women a curt nod. ‘Ladies, let’s get down to business. The festival is three weeks away. It appears nothing has been organised and time is of the essence. But first things first. Jody has resigned as head of the committee. I shall take her place and this whole democracy thing you’ve got going on is out the window. There’s no time for democracy. Although I’d appreciate your connections within the wider community when it comes to booking entertainment and activities.’ Christian nodded in satisfaction and gave the women a tight smile. Job done. They knew the score. They’d be onboard. There’d be no bossing or bulldozing.
A cackle filled the air. High-pitched and hysterical. Followed by the low rumble of a chuckle. They were laughing? At him? He looked over his shoulder to see Mel giving him a pitiful glance. What was going on?
Mrs Hunter was gripping the table and gasping for air. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she panted, as she gasped for air, ‘that you said to Jody what you just said to us?’
Mrs Harper was clutching her sides. ‘You’re hilarious. Who knew the big-city boy would be so very funny? ‘There’s no time for democracy’! Oh my word. Bless your cotton socks, Christian.’
‘Look, dear.’ Mrs Hunter laid her hand on his forearm and gave it a squeeze. ‘I don’t know how you do things up in London. I’m not even sure what you’ve done before. Jody didn’t say. In fact, hiring you is the only thing she’s done without chatting to us about it first, so it’s not like we expected you to be here, and we’re not entirely sure why we need you in the first place… But you have to understand that trying to tell us how to do things in that stern manner of yours is never going to work. It clearly didn’t work with Jody and it doesn’t sit well with us.’
Was that a threat he detected in that sweet and low voice? And why had Jody not consulted them? Surely she’d have had to in order to secure the budget for his services? Not that the price had been that high. But he’d needed to get out of town, it was a paying job, and if he made a success of the festival then his great mistake would hopefully be quickly forgotten. His reputation as the best event manager in London would remain intact.
Christian saw something out the corner of his eye. A young boy with a stick in his hand and a hoop beside him, rolling it down the street. Had he travelled back in time? Was he going mad? Had the stress of the pop-star disaster actually sent him barmy? Was he currently locked up in a padded cell having a delusion?
Two soft thunks and the aroma of rich coffee brought him to his senses.
‘Here’s your coffee, and the scone, with extra cream. Eat up. Drink up. You’ve the look of a man whose blood sugar is dropping at a rapid rate.’ Mel scooted the sugar bowl his way. ‘Pop two of these in, it’ll do you good.’
Christian nodded his thanks and spooned the sugar into the coffee, hoping the women across from him, still snickering away, wouldn’t notice the trembling of the spoon, or the small granules of sugar that fell onto the table.
‘So, how is this going to work then?’ he asked. ‘Will I make suggestions and you poo-poo them? Will you make suggestions and expect me to action them? Am I to be your lackey?’
‘Ooooh, I’ve always wanted a lackey.’ Mrs Harper clapped her hands in delight. ‘Yes, I’m very happy with that idea of yours. Excellent idea. You do as we say. I could live with that.’
‘Now, now, Shirley.’ Mrs Hunter shook her head in mock despair. ‘Give the poor lad a break. He’s here to help us and he must have connections. Why don’t we let him find the musical acts and we can go about telling the Rotary girls what we need for the baking stall. We’ve got the Welly-wanging sorted; Jody had that well in hand. So that should be it. We’re done.’
Christian gripped the coffee cup with both hands, brought it to his lips and sipped, holding the rich and surprisingly delicious liquid in his mouth. Who knew a tiny town could do a better cup of coffee than any he’d had in the city? He swallowed and tried to process what he’d just been told. Did they think a baking stand, some Wellington throwing and a bit of music was all a festival needed? It needed more. Much more.