The expletives rolling off my tongue would make any sailor say, ‘Steady on, love,’ but I’m just so tired and so filthy and so fed up. I want this to be someone else’s problem, just for a minute. I don’t want to be facing this on my own.
But suddenly I’ve lost the little light I did have and nearly scream when a tall shadow looms over me. ‘Are you OK, Connie?’
I go straight for my keys in my pocket, ready to fight off any bad guys with two Chubbs and a handful of foul tissue from the ground. I could do that. I’m resourceful.
But when I clock that this man clearly knows me, my shoulders unhunch and my internal cavewoman steps back from fight duties and slopes off to tend to her fire again. In the inky night, all I can see is the glint from a silver pair of glasses and the reflective strips on the guy’s fancy running beanie. Could be any of the Bluebell dads and not wanting to cause offence – and just wanting this godforsaken night to be over – I bluster on. ‘Oh hey! Sorry about that, it’s gone a bit Pete Tong here.’
‘Can I help?’ Before I can answer, the Bluebell Dad is bending down and scooping the mess up, no doubt ruining whatever clothes he’s got on in this murky evening. As he straightens up, I smell something very welcome indeed – a clean, sharp lemony aftershave. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Must be one of the London commuting dads that I rarely see. All the more reason not to have impure thoughts about his designer fragrance. Plus, I expect a Febreze plug-in would smell like heaven to me right now.
In a jiff he’s taken everything to the bins, including the two last bags that were by the front door. Rubbing his hands on his backside to clean them off, the chap then nods and says ‘Goodnight, then,’ sprinting off and disappearing almost as quickly as he came. My bin-bag-busting hero in Nike. Might just double check with Susannah that the local gossip mill hasn’t reported any newly divorced dads in the village. Just in case.
* * *
At last I got home, sweet smelling home, to the giant piles of fabrics, freshly laundered and taking up my precious slumping space on the sofa. A big Post-it on top read: Iron this! Mum x
The next morning, inspecting some fresh burns on my forearms but also some pleasing stacks of colour-sorted material, the image of Hazlehurst locals shuffling like mad to stay afloat is still niggling at me, still causing an ache in the back of my head. It didn’t work. Looking back through the old books for ideas had been silly, and sort of lazy. Some things are meant to be recycled – like these old shirts and tablecloths we’ll soon be snipping into bunting – and some things just aren’t. Like shuffleboard. I put on my trainers, lean the ladder against the loft hatch door, and put Gran’s old log books back into storage. I’d always keep them there as treasured mementos, but I was retiring them from the role of How To manuals. As I went back downstairs and passed Gran’s photo, I said in just above a whisper, ‘Trust me, old girl. Just trust me. We’re going to do this. But my way.’
Flip has been inviting more and more people to what is now a gigantic WhatsApp group called Bluebell Bunting Bonanza – our session this Friday is going to be mammoth by all accounts. We’ve got WI members raring to go, A-level students sharpening their pinking shears, and more and more people popping up by the day to say they got a flier and they’d love to have a go. I’m going to have to hit Costco for a serious biscuit supply at this rate. So while our ‘sucking up to the Village Committee’ plan gallops ahead towards mountains of glorious bunting, I need to keep my more sneaky tack pushing on too – seeing if there’s any way to extend our deadline for submitting our records, even if there’s some kind of emergency fund that could help us spruce up the Hall and make it oh-so-shiny and impossible to resist.
And for this sneakiness, I need Dom’s help with contracts and fine print. Seeing as the Hall still has a rather unpleasant toilet whiff about it and my living room looks like a John Lewis haberdashery sale, he’s very kindly invited me round to his. Mum’s pretty bright recently, so I don’t feel too bad about leaving her to Fish Finger Mondays on her own. She did say she might go and see a mate if the mood struck, so here’s hoping.
Dom opens the door, dressed halfway between businessman and househusband – in a navy blue suit, still with his jacket on, but with a Leicester City cooking apron on top and a tea towel slung over one shoulder. There are a few beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Sorry! Got caught up… wanted to make a spag bol from scratch but then we were late in and I couldn’t find the passatta and Polly… Well,’ he laughs with a weary shrug thrown in, ‘Polly is Polly.’
I can hear Coldplay singing down at me from the floor above. ‘Oooh, spag bol!’ I make a big fuss of licking my lips. But the truth is, I can’t remember when the last time was Mum or I made something from scratch so a big plate of spaghetti and a good sauce sounds blummin’ amazing. I follow him into the kitchen, where pans are rattling from boiling within, and a streak of tomato sauce is making its way slowly and surely down one cupboard and to the floor. ‘So did you get held up at work?’ I point at his suit.
‘No. It was parents’ evening, and some things came up. That needed a lot of careful discussion.’ I can tell by the way that he delicately pronounces these last two words that they must be the official school term for a really horrible chat.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Exactly. And Polly just point blank refused to go into the art teacher’s room. Which I can’t for the life of me understand as that’s usually her best subject. She’s so creative. She’s always talking about being a children’s book illustrator.’ Though his eyes are tired and lined, there’s an energy that shines out when he talks about his daughter, even if sometimes it’s a nervous one.
‘And she wouldn’t tell you why?’
His eye rolls tells me everything I need to know. I get the feeling a conversation shift is in order. So I tap the big wedge of papers I have clamped under my left arm.
‘Well, I think I found just about everything relevant to the Hall tenancy in here, and I’ve read it all and made some notes. So if I can ask you to decode the odd bit or just have your best stab, after we’ve tucked in…’
‘Sounds like a plan. Just pop them on the top of the piano for now. Grub’s up.’
I help Dom carry through a plate and a bowl of salad, as he yells up the stairs, ‘Pol! Connie is here and dinner’s ready!’
There’s a light clatter of feet and Polly appears, still in her uniform, her olive skin impossibly clear but her eyes framed by grey bags. I want to ask if no one in this family has joggers to change into when they get home – it’s like they’re both more comfortable in the uniforms from their ‘other’ lives, away from the house. Work and school. Home is just somewhere to begrudgingly pass the hours before you can leave again. I’m feeling self-consciously casual in my jeans and old uni sweater, my dark bob wavy and messy as yet another chance for a blow dry is ignored in favour of a quick game of Candy Crush. Maybe to fit in with their uniform stylings I should have gone for some caretaking dungarees?
She gives me a genuine smile and plops down on a chair next to where I’m sitting. ‘How are things, Polly?’
‘Yeah, you know.’ She twirls a fork round in her pasta. I think those two words are meant to express something, but I’m 15 years too old to understand what.
‘Right. Well, we’re all set for the next bunting meeting. Loads of great fabrics, amazing colours, all the sewing machines oiled up and in working order. Just need to make sure our art director is there to have it all come together beautifully.’ I nod in her direction.
She winces a little. ‘Oh, yeah. But someone else could do it, I don’t know… What if I mess it up?’
My Bluebells duties have taught me that just about every girl has a well of self doubt, and without it being boarded up properly, confidence can just slip away into its dark depths. Dom hasn’t said anything, he’s pushing garlic bread around with a twitchy hand. So I’m going to nail a big wooden cover over this.
‘You’ll be great. I mean,’ I look around fo
r inspiration and see her fingers drumming on the pine table, ‘take your nails for example. I would never have thought a turquoise like that could look so good next to a lemon yellow, but you’ve chosen two different colours and mixed and matched them up a treat. That’s exactly what I need you to do on Friday. And you’re already smashing it!’
Polly sits back in her chair, holding her hands up in front of her as if she’d forgotten they were there. ‘You think? Um. OK. Cool. I’ll be there.’
‘Well, it’ll be nice to know where you are for that night at least.’ Dom shoves the last edge of his bread into his mouth.
Polly is hiding her hands in the armpits of her school cardigan now, glowering madly at him.
We’ve avoided the Well of No Confidence and tumbled straight into the Quicksands of a Row. It suddenly hits me why Mum and I don’t have so many full-on family dinners… And I don’t really want to get sucked into this one, so I clap my hands and plunge into a new subject. Maria Von Trapp would be proud.
‘So your dad says you’re into art? I always loved art. And the design side of things too, I did a Textiles course at school. Kind of the cheat’s way into arty stuff if you can’t draw, like me.’
Polly rolls her eyes and it’s not just her Mediterranean complexion she’s got from her dad – they have the same weary eye roll down to a T. ‘I used to like it. Whatevs.’
I feign innocence. ‘But not any more?’
A sudden burst of anger makes Polly sit bolt upright and talk slightly too loudly. ‘Stupid Miss Ingram and her stupid projects. They’re just bullshit!’
‘Polly!’ Dom roars. ‘Language! And don’t speak disrespectfully of your teachers.’
‘If you knew what she was asking—’
‘I don’t care. You don’t talk like that in front of me, or guests. Or anyone.’
‘But she’s making us do… It’s a…’ Polly scrunches up her eyes and bolts for the door.
* * *
Dom and I finished the rest of our meal quickly and awkwardly got down to the nitty gritty of the Hall paperwork. I was dying to ask him if he wanted me to wait while he went after Polly, but I knew that was well over the line and not something I would do with a Bluebell family I’d known for years, let alone brand new friends. And though I spend a lot of time with pre-teens and their dilemmas, they are mostly about hair styles and I’ve never been a full-time parent, let alone a single one.
He pointed out where there was a clause about challenging any decision of the estate by writing to its board directly, and gave me some good tips on how to write it very formally but clearly, CCing in my local councillor and MP, to really show I meant business. I took feverish notes on my phone and mentally began to compose sentences containing words like ‘forthwith’, ‘inconceivable’ and ‘notwithstanding’. After an hour I think we’ve both taken all the tiny copperplate script we can take and I thank Dom for his excellent spag and his even better contract cooking. I feel full of cheese but also of promise: we might wriggle our way out of a loophole on this one.
He lets me out into the crisp spring evening with a promise to be at Friday’s meeting with bells on.
As I’m walking down his garden path, I hear a light crunching of gravel. And instantly the reconstruction of my murder in Crimewatch flashes through my mind. Will they find an extra with exactly my kind of fringe?
But I can see the toes of a pair of smallish acid pink trainers in the gloom, a little way down the side of the house. So unless serial killers are wearing size four Sketchers these days, I think it’s safe to approach.
‘Polly?’
‘Oh hey. I’m not being weird. I just like to sit here, sometimes. For a bit of headspace.’ She swinging her legs back and forth, sitting on a weather-beaten bench that’s been parked down the side passage.
‘Sure. I get it. Can I?’
She shrugs.
‘So, you never quite said what exactly was such a pain about that art teacher. What has she done?’
Polly lets out a big fat sigh. ‘Ugh. I thought she was OK. We did still life, and Pop Art, and mosaics and junk. But now… Look, I didn’t mean to be a nut job earlier. I’m not a diva. It’s just, some things get me,’ her hands turn circles in the air, ‘mixed up.’
‘Well, who isn’t mixed up around here?’
She laughs a little bit. ‘It’s a family tree project. Miss Ingram wants us to do a family tree in an original way. And it’s not fair. Because what if, what if, you don’t have that much family to use? I mean our family is a stump. Just two of us. It’s, like, I could just write our names down and put one line in between. That’s it.’ She picks at a painted-yellow thumbnail.
I choose my words very carefully, like trying to avoid the strawberry creams in a box of Quality Street, if the strawberry creams also contained explosives. ‘You can put family that aren’t actually still with you, in a family tree. Go back another generation, too. Add some branches and leaves to that stump. And it’s nice to reflect everyone in your family, because even if they aren’t here they made your family what it is.’
A pair of dark brown brows meet over her eyes. ‘But how are you supposed to do it all ‘uniquely’? Like, a tree is a tree?’
I think about all the generations of people filtering down into this one girl. Completely unique in herself, the way genes have combined and behaviours have been learned. Little pieces of the family that have gone before still in her bones. But one big thing missing. One big thing that keeps tripping her up, every day, even in her favourite class.
‘I might just have an idea. Got a sketch book in there? And do you think your dad would let you come over to mine one day this week?’
* * *
As I walk slowly home, I think about the bits of Gran and Mum in me. The things I am so glad to carry with me, and the things that make me sad that I miss Gran and that this situation maybe isn’t the bed of roses it could be. And if I’m going to dish out ideas to Polly about embracing what has been and gone but putting our own creative spin on it, I’d better be willing to eat a big plate of that advice myself. I have to ask myself: if we can save the Hall, if we can pull off this trick worthy of Ocean’s 14, do I actually want to be the caretaker forever? Am I in it for a forty-year stint, like Gran? I know that I want to put my own spin on things here now, rather than just going through the motions, but what about when my new ideas become the norm?
There’s so much of Gran in me, and in my nature, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we should have exactly the same paths in life, does it? The Hall was everything to Gran, but will it be enough for the rest of my life?
Chapter 8
‘Blimey O’Reilly!’
Flip drops her gold lamé satchel on the floor with a wallop. ‘This is… This is… Whoah. Connie, I bow down to you, girl. This is amazing.’ She puts her arms out and spins on the spot. Her hands point to the fuchsia pink wall, then the teal wall, the sunny yellow all around the doorway and the crisp bluebell blue on the fireplace wall. The same colours that I’m still finding flecks of under my nails and in my eyebrows, funnily enough.
‘You did all this?’ Susannah walks in slowly behind her. I’ve been nervous of her response especially, but her gobsmacked lips quickly find a smile shape. ‘Divine!’
‘It really is!’ Flips nods and clasps her hands together, like this is her living room after a DIY SOS reveal. ‘It’s like a new space entirely.’
I shove my hands in my back pockets, hoping to seem more laid back about their reactions than I am. ‘That’s what I was going for. I thought – if they’re going to take this place away, or try to at least, why am I obsessing over keeping the original and, let’s be honest, awful Victorian wallpaper? No one likes it, it doesn’t make anyone feel cheery. But colours do. Bright and positive and clean. And it just so happens that one of my old school mates works at B&Q so he used his discount on some end of the line paints. His sister was a Bluebell back in the day, so he did me a solid favour.’ I shrug, the movement remindi
ng me that my shoulders and neck aren’t quite recovered from the last three days’ worth of rollering and edging and general lugging of huge paint cans.
After I talked with Polly, and still thinking about those nail varnish colours of hers, I suddenly had an amazingly clear vision of how the Hall should be. Not a legacy of the past, but a reflection of what our village is now and where we want it to go. It needs to be an uplifting place to capture a moment, not a mausoleum to the past. So I got busy with brushes and dust sheets. And I’m damn pleased with it. The exertion also helped silence the voice in my head, asking me what exactly my life plan would be when our 17 days are up. That voice can be gagged for now; it’s hardly helping matters at hand.
I wanted to keep the reveal as a big surprise for Flip, Susannah and Luce tonight: we’re having a little pre-meet before tomorrow night’s Bunting Society meeting. The numbers are now up to almost 20 of us, so Flip suggested (from her past life of organising big events and groups of people) that we get together, the core of us, beforehand and have a bit of a plan. I can see she is enjoying flexing her PR know-how and I am definitely loving having her expertise on my side. I don’t have time to waste, and there’s so much at stake.
‘Kettle on, then. And we can crack on. I expect Luce will be here soon, commuting and all.’
From within the kitchen (not yet painted but I have my eye on a very light green that should open the dingy space up a bit) I can hear a clatter of heels and then, ‘Christ on a bike!’ Lucy is here.
* * *
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 7
