Gran’s only failing was that she was no Handy Andy. After my grandad died at the very unfair age of 65, she had no one to help with the maintenance of the building itself and the bursary didn’t stretch to paying third parties. I think, too, that by that time my Gran was blind to the wonky or smelly bits of the Hall: she loved it. It was part of her fabric. It was probably why she wouldn’t give up the caretaker’s role, even in her eighties. And with fewer visitors, there were fewer pairs of eyes to notice. I was at university in Manchester while the Hall was starting to really fall apart. I was studying Philosophy, with a completely philosophical take on the rest of my life. In other words, I had no idea what I was going to do. I was really into bands back then. I was volunteering on the student newspaper, writing reviews of tiny bands in tiny pubs and I was too busy to come home much. I actually love all kinds of music – give me pop, reggae, soul, rock, even German new wave synth if the mood strikes, and I’m happy. But back then it was my big guitar band phase and that scene only really happened in late, loud, boozy places. So catching a 7.30 a.m. train down South for a family lunch slipped off my to do list. I feel a horrible cold clutch to my heart now that I didn’t take more time to talk to Gran then, or listen to her updates on the Bluebells.
My fingers flip through the years, eighties and nineties and noughties. Until I reach Gran’s last year in charge and her very last entry: the Bluebell camping trip. We have our own slightly odd version of the Girl Guides in Hazlehurst – the Bluebells. Again, thank good old Hibbs. He thought that the ‘poor girls’ of the village would benefit from lessons on deportment, manners and needlepoint, so his daughters formed this little club and they all pinned bluebells to their dresses and used the Hall as their headquarters. I think Hibbs had visions of it spreading all around the globe and turning out thousands of sweet, sewing misses but there was only ever one other faction, in Ontario, Canada: one of his daughters moved there when she married and started a new Bluebell gang, out of homesickness I shouldn’t wonder.
Gran was the Bloom Mistress (pretty much a Brown Owl) as well as caretaker, and seeing as getting modern girls to embroider a psalm was a tall order, she started making up new activities for them – a camping trip (sleeping bags inside the Hall), lessons on everything from car maintenance to how to make the perfect bacon sandwich, even – on desperate, rainy days – a singing talent show with hairbrushes and the Top 40 on the radio. I was one of her Bluebells. My indigo sash still proudly hangs from the top of my wardrobe door.
The names of the girls from Gran’s last camp are printed neatly down the page. I wonder if they still think of her. Her tinkly, mischievous laugh or her beady eyes. She could sniff a biscuit tin thief from miles away. She could make a daisy chain with her eyes closed. She was the best Gran.
Luckily I’m saved from a full-on weep by Susannah jangling the keys behind me.
‘Home time! Or are you off to meet a fancy man?’
Steve is not what I’d call fancy. I’m not sure even Lucy would and she’s legally obliged to compliment him. But he is my best mate, and it feels like he always has been.
He opens the door with scissors in hand, ever the teacher. I knew this Sunday roast invite came with a task attached: Steve’s behind on the scenery he’s making for Fantastic Mr Fox, the end of term show. He’s craftily planned double-sided sets that can turn into a fox’s den, a cornfield and a farmhouse kitchen in just a few clever twists. Steve has always been an inventor of sorts, starting with taking apart his remote control car at the age of eight and turning it amphibious. I mean, he tried to turn it amphibious. It’s probably still at the bottom of Hazlehurst duck pond. And the ducks are probably still traumatised. He went away to study product design at university but his plans had a bit of a redesign themselves as he met the love of his life Lucy and they made their own product, four-year-old Abel. So now he’s back in his home village, retrained as a teacher, and fully immersed in life here. Thank cripes, because without him and Luce I would go completely nuts.
People always teased Steve and me about being Made For Each Other. Our birthdays are a week apart, we grew up next door to each other and we were always as thick as thieves when we were little. But as I get a glimpse of his builder’s bum in his trackies, I’m reminded that I’ve never felt so much as a twinge of the hots for him, and I am so glad. I’d rather have a funny, reliable best friend than a terrible ten-minute fumble in 2003 to a Michael Bublé album. And I’m sure over the years, when I went through my various stages of wearing mega flares or beaded chokers or badly applied smokey eyes, he has not remotely fancied me either.
His hair is gelled, but his red curls refuse to take it lying down and are escaping into wispy question marks all over his head. The contrast in our colouring is what marked us out a mile away as a weird pair in secondary school: he’s bright ginger and I am kohl black. It didn’t help that I wore my hair long and unwashed and parted exactly in the middle. And that I played Massive Attack on loop in the common room, until the garage fans threw cans of Rio at my head.
Without asking, Steve pours red wine into a glass and presses it into my hands.
‘I didn’t want to ruin your weekend, so I didn’t say anything at the time. But some bloke in a suit was in school on Friday. And a real suit, not the usual Asda job that we see round here.’ He points at himself. ‘He was asking when the last time we used Bluebell Hall for a school function was. And how many pupils would have attended. In exact numbers, Connie.’
All my nostalgic glow for the Attack vanishes, like someone had swapped that CD in my head for a Greatest Hits of Chris De Burgh.
‘What? Why?!’
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t get that far. I just overheard him talking to Belinda on the desk, when I was restocking rulers. We did Roman centurions and it was a mistake on my part to pretend a metre stick was my sword. Hoping not to get any lawsuits, to be honest. But I think someone’s sniffing around, about the Hall. You’d better work out what’s going on. Before they do.’
I’m feeling so numb with worry that barely register my bum hitting the red gingham cushion on the kitchen chair. I’d been really looking forward to this roast, for ages, and now I felt like I’d already swallowed a bag of bowling balls. Usually I avoid being the third wheel to Steve and Luce’s family time, as much as I can help it. Between lesson planning and assessing and marking and parents’ evenings, he spends more time obsessing about other people’s families than his own, which always grates on me. Let’s not even get started on his paltry pay.
Lucy walks through the door, with Abel at her heels and a plastic bag on her wrist. ‘Forgot the butter.’ She clocks my face. ‘Oh, you’ve told her. Steve, I said wait till after pudding, you berk.’
He puts his hands up in surrender. ‘I cannot tell a lie. It’s why you love me.’ He opens the oven door and the delicious scent of roast chicken floods out, taking my mood from abysmal to only mostly abysmal.
‘That, and you cook.’ She bites down a smile.
‘Lady!’ Abel yells, and runs head-first into my thighs. You would think I hadn’t seen him for three years, not three hours. This also has the result of perking me right up, taking me to a mere feeling of ‘awful’. A miniature of his dad, Abel has called me Lady since he could talk – apparently he was once looking at a big photo of his first birthday party and Steve was pointing out everyone: ‘There’s your gran, there’s your mum.’ When he got to me, he said, ‘There’s Connie.’
‘And she’s a lady,’ Abel said proudly. Steve’s hysterical reaction to anyone calling me such a thing for the first time meant Abel gleefully said it forever and ever. But I don’t mind. This kid is so sweet he could call me Dog Breath and I’d probably take it.
‘So… Who do you think it is? An estate agent? A property developer?’
Steve wrestles a big dish of vegetable gratin onto the side, next to the resting chicken. It won’t be all that rested when I’m finished with it. If I’m in the middle of an emergency, I’d better stock up
on fuel. And booze. I knock back what’s left of my wine and Luce seamlessly pours me some more.
‘Couldn’t get much more out of my network of spies, I’m afraid. Just: smart bloke, asking questions, taking notes. Pat thought he was cute, but then she would – she’s a biology teacher. Randy,’ he mouthed over the top of Abel’s head.
Chairs are scraped back and glasses refilled as we sit down to eat. The food hits my plate and I confess just how bad the visitor numbers have been in recent months.
‘And it’s not as if I’m being complacent about it. I know the attendance is rubbish, it gives me indigestion sometimes.’ I ignore Steve’s snort of disbelief and continue to talk and eat at 100 miles per hour. ‘I’ve tried so many things to get the Hall going, and they haven’t worked. I knew I was in danger and that we by no means had 50 per cent of people coming but, well,’ I shovel a forkful of cheesy broccoli deep into to my mouth, as if to bury my shame in greens, ‘I just didn’t think anyone was paying attention.’
Lucy nods and sips her wine. She’s a quantity surveyor, and I know she’s bitten her lip over the years when she’s seen just how wobbly the Hall has become. But it also means she has a clear eye for a problem and assessing just how it can be fixed. ‘OK. So we know someone is asking questions. But who? And why?’
‘Mum,’ Abel chips in excitedly, with his hand in the air, as if he’s got all the answers, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about so can I watch Paw Patrol please?’
Smart kid.
‘For one episode, then teeth and then bed, OK, sonny Jim?’
‘OK, mummy Jim.’ And he’s gone in a blur of grey socks and muddy elbows. It’s a relief, as I really don’t want him to see a grown woman cry into a cheesy bake and a chicken leg.
‘Could be someone from the estate, a harmless routine thing?’ Steve suggests.
‘But why wouldn’t they just ring me?’ I slap my hands to my forehead. ‘Unless they don’t trust me. Unless they’re getting ready to sack me. Oh god, they’ve probably done their sums and my P45 is in the post.’
‘Well, hang on,’ Lucy rubs my shoulder. ‘If it’s that severe then their lawyer probably would have come to see you directly, or asked to see the books. He’d be within his rights. So, it must be another interested party. Someone who…’ As the thought hit her she broke off and became suddenly fascinated with pushing some carrots around her plate.
So I put her out of her awkward misery. ‘Someone else who wants the Hall.’ I knock back another glass of wine in one gulp. I must have taken out half their wine rack by now. I wish I was grown up enough to have a wine rack. I think they must come as standard with a marriage license and God knows I’ve got little chance of coming across one of those soon. ‘So do you recommend teaching, Steve, or should I aim lower to be sure? I think they need a new sales assistant at the garage.’
‘Cons, pull it together. Nothing is for definite yet. And no, do not become a teacher. The perks at the garage would be far superior. I hear they’re getting a Costa machine. Come on, let’s brainstorm how we get the Hall back on track.’ He starts digging in his teacher bag for pens and paper. It’s like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag has swallowed up a Ryman’s in there.
I use a bit of bread to sweep up the last of the gravy. There’s something about gravy that reminds you the world must be a good place, if it’s a world that could produce such a fatty, salty wonder sauce.
‘OK, so I’ve tried reaching out to the baby brigade – put notices up for the Funday at the library and the GP. Had two new attendees today. They hated it.’
Steve scribbles down ‘Tots’ and puts a line through it immediately.
‘Can’t get the retirement home to visit again because of the leaky roof and that we don’t have a ramp. Without proper health and safety regs, they aren’t insured to be there.’ I twiddle my fork as I talk.
‘And the same goes for Hazlehurst Primary – we can’t put on our plays there like we used to because it doesn’t meet with safety checks. Plus, it’s a bit small now the school’s so much bigger than in Hibbs’ day. Damn education for all, damn it!’ I appreciate the effort he’s making to keep things light. Old friends are the best for life saving silliness.
I plough on. ‘I tried massage classes but that only attracted the slightly unsavoury locals.’
Steve writes down ‘Massage – pervs’ and puts a big cross by it.
‘The yoga teacher I contacted said the Hall had a bad energy but I think it was actually the fact that she’d have to change in the kitchen, as we don’t have any other rooms for that. The Bridge Club didn’t last long because for the life of me I don’t understand it, so I had no hope explaining the rules.’ I finish the last of my food and wine. The comforting tastes and textures have helped relax me quite a bit, but despite the great loads of carbs now in my system, those bowling balls are still churning over in my stomach.
‘I even went over Gran’s old books for inspiration. But I just don’t see flower arranging or hat decorating being a hit with villagers today. And I can’t really afford to buy heaps of stuff for a class that might not go anywhere. And the teenagers absolutely won’t come because you can’t get 4G inside. Which, I’ll admit, does suck.’
‘So we know what the village doesn’t want.’ Steve points at the sad little list of my false starts. ‘What we need to know is what they do want. Some market research. I remember that much from my product design days.’
I fiddle with my fringe as I think. I shouldn’t – fine, flat black hair like mine needs no encouragement from chicken grease to go limp and lank. I’ll look worryingly like my emo sixth form self again. ‘I’ve got the Bluebells meeting coming up in a few days; I could corner the parents at pick up time, ask them what they think. I give them Tuesday nights without their kids, so they owe me.’
Steve puts down a Viennetta in the middle of the table. ‘Which reminds me, Emo, if you want a big chunk of this we need to finish Mr Fox’s house tonight and five styrofoam carrots. You give a little, to get a little.’
I swipe an errant chocolate flake from the tablecloth. ‘Understood, sir.’
Chapter 2
I’ve lunged my way across the Hall, I’ve warmed up my arms with a ‘Single Ladies’ hand twist and now I’m ready for a Bluebells dance rehearsal. Trying to teach a gaggle of 6- to 12-year-olds how to do the same move pretty much involves doing it yourself a trillion times over. I’ve box-stepped so much over the last month that I’m almost confident I could give Davina McCall a run for her money. But as the girls will be dancing in the Easter parade, with all their family, friends, and any potential mean-name-callers from school watching, I want these girls to put their best dancing feet forward.
In years gone by we’ve made bonnets for Easter, as is traditional, but since I can’t store anything in the Hall without it getting a sprinkling of black mould and most of the girls view glueing feathers and sequins onto things as a bit babyish, I’ve let it go. I had to bite my lip and not tell them that Lady Gaga has actually made a global empire out of gluing bonkers things onto her accessories – but then Beyoncé has made hers out of executing killer dance moves, so who knows which is a more sensible pastime. But the one thing I draw the line at is twerking. Not on my watch, Bethany Stevens, not on my watch. Gran would turn in her grave if she so much as knew twerking existed, let alone watched it go on down the high street.
So far we have a routine which is a little nineties Janet Jackson mixed with bits I’ve copied from Britain’s Got Talent clips on YouTube. Lots of armography, lots of almost-on-time turns and jumps on the spot. We don’t have a little enough girl to throw into the air and that’s probably a blessing for everyone involved. It can’t be too complicated a number, because we have to keep moving with the rest of the parade, but it has to be complicated enough to keep the girls busy for an hour every Tuesday from here until Good Friday. I’m saying lots of things I hope are helpful like ‘Listen for the beat!’ and ‘Watch out for your neighbour’s legs on the hi
gh kick!’ And so far it’s going pretty well. No squabbles and no broken ankles.
So take that, Mr Snoopy Suit, whoever you are, I think to myself.
The twenty-fifth playing of ‘Beggin’’ by Madcon finally ends. My ears do a happy wiggle to be free.
‘Oh, can’t we do it one more time?’ Bethany asks from the back. ‘I think I’m nearly getting that body roll.’
For the sake of Bethany and her next steps into puberty, I’m not going to let her perfect it for another week.
‘Sorry! Here are your parents, though!’ I trill. ‘Everyone got their stuff? Bags and water bottles?’
Mums and dads start gathering at the open door. They never really come in – they’ve heard too much about the roof – but they’re very glad for a free hour off a week. And these girls always surprise and delight me, so I’m happy for that hour too.
A small, chilly hand suddenly takes mine.
‘Oh hello, Veronica. Are you ready? Is Mum here?’
‘Yes, but first I’d like a word.’
I shouldn’t have a favourite Bluebell, but I do, and it’s Veronica. Really, she should be the Bloom Mistress – she’s full of wisdom and poise, that one. She complimented me on getting my hair cut into a short bob last month, saying it gave me ‘gravitas’. When I was 11 I would have said gravitas was Spanish for the little pebbles on your driveway.
Being the current Bloom Mistress gives me a weird kind of influence and responsibility and it still makes me want to laugh nervously. It wasn’t all that long ago that I was perfectly at home crammed against other sweaty bodies at the front of the Pyramid Stage, drunk and dancing madly – it’s a long way to the front of the queue at Homebase and other ‘grown up’ things. But I expect this stuff didn’t come overnight to Gran, either, so I’m willing to learn on the job, even a few years in. I mean, I didn’t have to fight off any other interested parties for the job, but I still feel like I’m 11 and covered in Care Bear stickers, never mind being a positive role model for the girls of today.
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 2
