We’re moving through the production line of our big fete bunting: firstly how each table will be laid out, where the materials will be kept, who’ll be overlooking each station. And then whether we have enough pennant templates, scissors and bias binding. Finishing with, essentially, the tea rota by the half hour.
‘And then the sewn, trimmed and reversed pennants are brought over to Lucy’s table, where some of our best stitchers,’ Susannah pauses to wink at Flip, and they enjoy a little moment of co-sewing nerdiness, ‘will sew them with the bias binding, at roughly 25 centimetres apart. And we keep going until we have 500 metres’ worth. Enough for the park railings, come the fete.’
Lucy lets out a low whistle. She’s scrutinising the sewing machine like it’s a bomb she’s been sent to safely defuse. ‘That’s a lot of bunting. And we want to achieve it all on Friday, right?’
I chew the inside of my lip a little. ‘Yes, because we need to get it to the Committee really soon, so they can wade in on our appeal in time. We need their big cojones. Oh, um, sorry Susannah.’
When she looks blank, Flip leans in and whispers a translation in her ear.
Susannah grasps her pearls. ‘Oh. Right.’
Lucy is calculating away in her head, I can tell. She’s scanning the room, counting, sizing things up. ‘Shall we do a test run here, for say ten metres, and time ourselves? Then we’ll know tomorrow if we’re on the right track, time-wise.’
I’ve never known Luce to say anything that wasn’t as sensible as a pac-a-mac on a British holiday, so I’m happy to follow her direction. Some people expected us to hate each other when Steve first brought her back to live in Hazlehurst but I never understood that. Firstly, she’s brave – she took on the prospect of sorting him out. Secondly, she’s funny – her speech at their wedding still makes me laugh when I think of it now, and thirdly, you can never have too many smart, kick-ass friends. I love her just as much as I do Steve now.
We take up our positions: me drawing and cutting triangles of fabric, Susannah sewing them, Lucy trimming and turning them the right way out, then passing them on to Flip, who sews them onto the binding.
There’s something so hypnotic about crafting. I’d almost forgotten it – usually with craft activities for the little ones at the Hall or the Bluebells, I’m too busy dishing out the PVA and newspaper to really get elbow deep myself. But almost instantly I get lost in picking a handful of nice fabrics, placing my templates on them to use what I’ve got as wisely as possible and feeling the satisfying clunky snip of extremely sharp scissors. I can see success in what I do – I’m taking something flat, and without an obvious use, and starting it off on the path to be something lively and gorgeous. Something happy. Because show me one person who doesn’t feel at least five per cent happier when they see bunting.
Luce sidles up while we have a quick tea break. There’s working hard and then there’s taking the correct fuel breaks. I mean, we are British. ‘At this rate I think it will be tight, but we might just do it, with everyone working together,’ she says. ‘Something you might have remembered when you were having your Sistine Chapel moment.’ She points up at the ceiling.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, all you had to do was text Steve or me and say you wanted a hand. This must have taken you day and night.’
I wave her concerned look away with one flick of my wrist. ‘You guys have got your life, this is mine right now.’
‘Risking your neck up a ladder, totally alone, probably knackered through overwork? Wow, you should give motivational seminars on achieving your dreams!’ Luce deadpans. ‘Seriously, though, I get that you are really driven and passionate, and that’s why we all love you. But we do love you and we’re here to help you. So please let us. See how much more we’re all doing as a four than we would if it was just you sweating over a Singer? And when there’s 20 of us we’ll really be kicking butt. You’ve got to let people in, hun. That’s all I’m saying.’ She nudges me with her shoulder and goes back to her work.
* * *
It’s Friday night and with the newly expanded Bluebell Society filling the newly painted Hall, there’s an energy here I haven’t felt since it was my tenth birthday party and Mum and Gran filled the place with purple balloons (my favourite colour), hired a mini bouncy castle and put smiley faces on all my fairy cakes.
Everyone is just about ready and assembled but we’re missing two vital members: Dom and Polly. I send a quick text to Dom.
Hey! You guys OK?
Sorry. Ten mins late. Polly missing
My heart leaps into my chest. She’s missing? Oh my god. What should we do?
But another text pings in straight after it.
Missing bus home didn’t help. will be there just as soon as she’s changed.
With a long exhale, I put my phone in my back pocket and go and ready some big jugs of squash and the tea urn Flip has borrowed from the WI. Tea means bunting, this much we know.
‘Room for a little one?’ Steve’s voice makes me leap out of my skin, as I’d been daydreaming about bunting flapping in the breeze, decorating the fete and charming everyone nearby, and them all whispering, ‘Yes, it was made at the Hall. By hand! I’m going to have my grandson’s christening party there, you know.’
‘Jeez, Stevie, practise your ninja creeping skills much? Anyway, what are you doing here? Did Luce forget something?’
‘Just her secret, ripped missile.’ He kisses a bicep and pulls an Arnie pose.
‘Huh?’
He knocks me on the forehead with his knuckles, just a touch too hard. ‘I’m here to help, numpty. Abel’s tucked up with granny, for the whole weekend might I smugly add, and seeing as my lovely lady wife can’t stop talking about how great the Hall is looking and about these plans of village domination and legal battles, I thought I should get a piece of the action.’
It’s probably not until I take in his words and see his big dorky smile that I realise I’ve been carrying my shoulders up to my hairline so far tonight. Something eases off inside enough for me to laugh. ‘Well, I can’t wait to see how you handle a sewing machine.’
‘I was thinking of more of a support role – mopping brows, fitting thimbles, pouring tea through a funnel. Luce tells me that the way I put ties and shirts together means I should never get close to any fabric design choices. Here, let me,’ he takes over the filling of the kettle and the assembling of mugs, ‘you go off, do some leader-like thing. Everyone is here because of you, you know.’
I look into the busy, bustling hall full of keen local faces. There’s a burble of happy chatter in the background as the tables are being set up and supplies laid out. We could do it tonight. It could really happen. And in trying to save the Hall, it’s getting a much longed-for taste of its original purpose – to bring Hazlehurst together, to let villagers share memories and pastimes. Even if we come out of this session with half a metre of wonky bunting and pin-puncture fingers, in a way I’ll still be happy.
Two new faces appear at the door: Dom and Polly, at last. So now it’s really time to begin.
* * *
We sewed until our vision blurred. We snipped until the scissors went dull and our conversation went ever duller. Lengths of bias binding whizzed through the machine in front of Flip like she was Rumpelstiltskin with a barn’s worth of straw at his disposal. Checks met spots and plain fabrics nestled up to chintz, colours complimented and clashed and chattered together. Polly has one brilliant eye for colour. Well, two in fact. She really got into the groove of arranging patterns as the pennants came her way and even shyly began chatting to the older teens there, from the college. Everyone dug deep and pulled out bags of energy, while Steve watered them with tea, like little sewing sunflowers.
The one thing we hadn’t planned to within an inch of our sanity? How we’d store the stuff after we’d made it. And loose bunting is like summer’s equivalent of a bunch of Christmas fairy lights, tangling itself into a headache-worthy mess. Thinking o
n my feet as the glorious team worked like a Home Ec teacher on ten espressos, I found one of the noticeboards I’d taken down in my painting blitz. And I started winding. That became my little task of the night and it allowed me to survey the troops, stop anyone getting so knackered that they almost ran a needle over their thumb (Flip) or so hungry they were unknowingly chewing off most of a BIC (Luce). Stevie proved himself an excellent support person, was nicknamed Francis Nightingale by the WI crew, and provoked a lot of giggling and ogling from the A-levellers. Gross, to my mind, but they are from a girls’ school. So, slim pickings.
I was so poleaxed by exhaustion myself that by the end of the night I couldn’t even face a proper tidy-up or an official metre count. It would have been great to do the bit at the end of Comic Relief where they whip out the totaliser at 2 a.m. and announced they’ve smashed their record and everyone has a happy cry. But there were a few locals who were just on the verge of a pinking shears phobia at 10.30 p.m., so I booted everyone out with a promise of a WhatsApp update first thing on Saturday morning. I would arm myself with a sausage roll from Crusty’s and tackle the sorting then, I vowed.
My body clearly had other thoughts and Mum shook me awake at 11 a.m., with a bacon sarnie right under my nose. ‘Come on, hardworking girl. Let’s get something in your system. I think someone’s been overdoing it.’
Mum sat on the bed while I wolfed down the sandwich and filled her in, mid-bite, on all the goings-on at the Bunting Society. I could have been 12 and telling her about my Gymnastic meet final. Sometimes when she had her dark days when I was little, she wouldn’t make my school plays or come see me awkwardly leap over the vault and land nose-first in a crash mat. But Gran would be a worthy stand-in and Mum always made a point when she felt stronger of getting me to rattle off a full update over hot chocolate and toast. Yes, I would rather have had her there – and it made me angry when I was young – but Gran carefully explained to me that it was far from Mum’s choice. It was in fact the last thing she’d want to happen, and she needed our patience more than anything.
Mum nodded and smiled throughout this update and I couldn’t see bags under her eyes or that grey tinge to her skin she gets when she’s been inside for weeks on end. She was feeling good.
‘Don’t speak with your mouth full, love. But it sounds marvellous. I think I’ll come next time!’ I could only smile in response, red sauce on my teeth, because we both knew what a big statement that was.
I had the world’s fastest shower, probably the equivalent of a wet wipe, but I just couldn’t wait to get back to Bluebell Hall and take stock of our achievements. It was like knowing your birthday presents are waiting in the kitchen and almost throwing yourself down the stairs to get there faster.
At the Hall approximately seven minutes later, I figure out my measuring strategy – I mark two spots on the parquet with chalk, three meters apart, and then I walk back and forth with the unspooled bunting between the marks so all I have to do when it’s all laid out is count the lengths and times them by three. Genius. And the pacing is good for balancing out all the custard creams I ate last night.
I stop counting my laps somewhere around 23 and let my mind wander to the next stages of our plan. We’ll present the bunting to the Village Committee, charm them into supporting us. My letter is with the Hibbert Estate already, so I’ll have to play the waiting game for a response and hopefully an extension. We have two weeks left – it is just about do-able. Just. But I still want more locals to know what we are trying to achieve, more bodies through the door. I should ask Flip for more of her PR know-how in grabbing attention, and maybe any experience Dom has with advertising through his business. I can’t keep banging on about the Hall’s place in history; it needs to feel relevant to the village of today. So my ideas should be just as fresh and modern. I used to know all the crazy, hip stuff when I still lived in a big city but now I’m about as edgy as a satsuma. I developed a bit of an allergy to anything too trendy after my time at B-Side, so it’s best left to the youth. I whip out my phone and make a note in my To Do list: Ask Polly about Pinterest. What the heck is it.
I’m just dreaming about what kind of role I could make for Mum in the process – maybe Budgens would let us put some leaflets by the tills and she could chat to customers about what was going on? Maybe, if she was feeling up to all that interaction. And then the clap of the letterbox catches me out, once again.
Surely not. On a Saturday? If it’s anything like the last bit of post here…
With a weird surge of anger, I leg it to the door and sprint outside before my besuited postman can escape.
‘Hey!’ I yell to the back of a crisp white shirt. ‘Oi! Wait right there!’
He freezes. And turns on the spot, a few feet from his car and any hope of an escape.
It’s the sodding Scout Master.
My rage slides into embarrassment as I remember his flinty eyes blanking me at the parade. But social awkwardness can do one, I’m not letting him get away without some sort of explanation.
I wave the letter I scooped up on my run out here. ‘So can I take it you also hand deliver for the Hibbert Estate, as well as teaching the military art of marching to under 12s?’
His jaw sets and I can tell he’s taking his time to think of a polite response. ‘I’m currently employed as a financial consultant for the estate, yes.’
‘Which means, to us common folk…’
‘Which means I’m helping them assess the Hall in its current state and usage and put together a series of next steps.’
‘Such as flogging it to Costa or tearing it down for a new block of flats?’
I can see by the spot of colour that begins to show above his cheekbones that I’m onto something. I was just being dramatic, all hopped up on self-righteousness. I didn’t actually want to be right! My stomach gives a weird gurgle of panic.
He clears his throat. ‘I help communities. In the same way I help people who are struggling with defunct plumbing systems and bags of rotting paper towels, even when I’d rather be enjoying a nice, sweet-smelling run through the village.’
A big stinky penny drops. It was the Scout Master that night, who helped me with the bin bags. Not a hot Bluebell dad. I am so baffled by this admission that all I can do is steamroll on with my frustrations.
‘Well, let me show you something about how sweet this village really is.’ I grab him by the shirt sleeve and physically drag him through the front doors. He could very well stop me if he wants to – he’s really rather tall and I can feel some muscles going on under my grip – but I think we’re both so shocked that I’m actually doing this that before we know it we’re smack bang in front of my bunting census. I remember to drop his shirt sleeve before I launch into another soapbox moment.
‘This hall is part of our village life. We’re not giving up easily and I will prove to you this hall is still used just as Hibbs… William Hibbert intended.’ My air jabbing finger comes to rest, pointing at the team handicrafts by our feet.
His eyes narrow. ‘What… Is that bunting?’
‘Yes!’ I realise I’m not doing myself any favours in the way I’m blurting things out, ten to the dozen, and the sudden wave of nervous sweat is not really detracting from my ‘crazy lady’ demeanour right now. ‘Made by many, many Hazlehurst hands. And more will come. You’ll see!’ Oh, I’ve actually veered into Scooby-Doo villain territory now.
‘Right.’ He puts his hands into his annoyingly stylish suit pockets. ‘And how will that make a difference? Some bunting on the floor?’
With my resounding ‘Pfft!’ of annoyance, I manage to get some spit on his shirt collar. Excellent. The cherry on top of the bat shit cake. ‘That’s for you to find out, Mr…’
‘Alex. Alex Granger, Miss Duncan.’
Christ, he knows just who I am. Putting it down to an ‘unstable temp’ is not going to help me gloss this over when I have to come face to face with the Estate Board. Brilliant.
So I steam on. The pe
rfect antidote to chatting rubbish is of course to lay some more rubbish quickly on top. And maybe this will all turn out to be a bad custard-cream-related dream. ‘And it’s not on the floor, not like that. I’m measuring it. Because we’ve made loads. As a community team.’
Alex nods, infuriatingly calm in the face of my verbal diarrhoea. ‘You should have made the markers bigger.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re measuring between these two markers, and you obviously have a lot to measure by the looks of it, you should have spaced them further apart. It would have been more efficient.’
Mansplaining. That’s exactly the kind of kerosene my white hot anger needs right now. He might as well have called me sweet pea and told me to put the kettle on.
I clench and unclench my fists. I did not polish this floor just to stain it with Scout Master blood. I will be calm.
I let out one breath very slowly through my teeth. ‘Right. And you just make a habit of working on a Saturday in a full fancy suit, do you?’ Why did I say fancy!? ‘Your social calendar must be bursting at the Saville Row seams.’
His eyes suddenly avoid mine, inspecting his highly polished shoes instead. That was possibly too much, but I can’t think straight for the steam coming out of my ears.
After clearing his throat, Alex says calmly, ‘I always dress appropriately for work matters,’ his eyes flick to my Stone Roses t-shirt, ‘and I thought you’d want to receive this response as soon as possible.’
‘Response?’
He nods and points to the letter in my sweaty grasp. ‘We received your request for an extension. But we politely decline – within our rights,’ he hastily adds, as if that’s going to calm me down.
I’m starting to think I could live with blood stains. ‘You must have given it all of five seconds’ consideration, then,’ I mutter.
‘Honestly, it was the opposite.’
I fold my arms. ‘Well, thanks. So much. For the personal touch.’
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 8
