Now I’m staring at the Toyota in front because I’m trying to keep the tears in my eyes. This was no idle burst of hijinks. This was a lonely girl trying to get back to her mum.
‘So, when you were disappearing out, and your dad thought it was with new mates, you were…’
‘With my gran. Yeah, I know it’s lame. But. Whatevs.’
I swallowed hard. ‘I bet your dad would go with you to do that, any day of the week. You nearly gave him a heart attack, you know.’
Polly’s cheek bunches up where she’s biting it on the inside. She just nods in reply.
‘He loves you.’
‘I know,’ she manages in a small croak. ‘But he doesn’t get it. When he sees Gran they both get really sad and they don’t want to get into all that so they talk about pointless stuff like the weather and traffic. But when it’s just me and her, we can talk about the good things. And even the crying is good then. Does that sound weird?’
‘Nope. Not at all. There is definitely such a thing as good crying.’ Wow. This girl is operating on a level of emotional maturity I’m not sure I could find on a good day.
‘I didn’t want to hurt him. And I shouldn’t take it out on him at home, but sometimes I need to dig it all up, think about Mum and remember her. It won’t bring her back, I know, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than pretending she was never here. That’s what he does.’
A white BMW rushes past us in the fast lane. ‘I don’t think that’s what he’s doing, love. I think that’s just his only way of coping. Or maybe he feels just like you do – that he’d like to talk about her but he doesn’t want you to get sad? But really there’s only one way to find out…’
‘Talk to him,’ Polly says in a wobbly voice. ‘I figured that’s where you were going with this.’
‘Pass me some M&Ms then.’ I throw back the handful she gives me. ‘OK, so you and your dad are going to talk about you guys and your life, when you get home. But right now you’ve got to keep me awake till we get there. If you don’t want to tell me your life story, why not tell me your mum’s. Tell me everything you learned from your Gran. Start at the beginning, don’t leave anything out.’
* * *
I think I would have really liked Polly’s mum, if I’d had the chance to meet her. Apparently she used to go to all the festivals she could as a teenager, and she was really into Madonna and Prince when she was Polly’s age. Had the lace gloves and everything. She used to rescue battered songbirds from the neighbour’s cat and feed them bacon rind till they were better. She met Dom at a drunken house party, when they both reached for the last can of cider, and they fell in love at first sight.
Polly spoke clearly and happily about her mum all the way home, the stories getting richer and warmer the further south we went. As we drove into Hazlehurst she wound down an anecdote about her mum breaking her ankle in a pair of white stilettos.
‘Grandpa never let her live it down, Gran said.’
‘I bet. And quite rightly.’
‘So… Are you going to tell me the full story of your life?’
I blow a big breath of air up through my fringe. ‘Well then I’d just send us both to sleep, and that wasn’t the point.’
‘It’s funny, though.’ Polly traces a finger round and round on the window. ‘I had to get to Coventry – on my own – to find the thing I’d lost. I had to go there to keep my mum alive, in my mind, I mean. But the thing you’ve lost is right on your doorstep and you’re just… whatever.’
‘Polly, it’s not that simple…’
She gives me a blank stare. ‘I’m not saying you can save the Hall single-handedly. You can’t, like, magically win the lottery and buy it back. But you don’t have to cut it out so harshly. You can remember it. Keep it with you. You could say a proper goodbye.’
We pull up outside their house and the front curtains twitch. A second later, Dom is at the door, waving madly.
‘It’s wrapped up in you, like we wrapped the high street in bunting that time. You can’t just ignore that.’
I’m completely spellbound by what she’s said and sit there like a right lemon, immobile, long after she’s finished hugging Dom fiercely on the doorstep. The only thing that jolts me out of my coma is a text. From Annabel:
We’ve just had a busy weekend at a fashion trade show and desperately need help sooner rather than later. We’re seriously considering you for the post. Can you come tomorrow for an interview and face-to-face with Alfred?
Chapter 20
With Mum still living it up on the coast with ice cream cones and broken legs, there was no one to disturb with my 5 a.m. run first thing on Monday morning. Polly had spent all of Sunday talking with Dom, really talking by the sounds of her texts (after I had Googled some of the weirder abbreviations. IU2U felt a bit like it was harder work than just typing It’s Up To You, but hey, I’m clearly old). I’d spent Sunday sending a lot of texts and emails to get my new life order up and running. Firstly another one to Annabel, sorting out an interview filling her in about me. And then a whole lot more. It’s time to make a change, and one that I choose for myself, rather than one that just happens to me.
I spent a lot of time staring at the giant pile of bunting that had been rescued from the sludgy hall store room. It had a slight whiff of damp but that wasn’t what made my stomach turn in knots. Was I really going to do this?
I was. I really was.
The last thing I had to do before my run, before everything kicked off, was to send a message to Alex. He wasn’t going to like this, but it had to be done. What Polly said had really hit home. I had run away from the Hall for the last time. Now I was facing the truth – and head on.
With my message swooshing its way to him, my trainers on my feet and a heavy rucksack on my back, it was time to hit the streets.
* * *
‘What on EARTH are you doing?! I thought I explained all this!’
Alex is trying to keep his voice low and steady, but it’s not working. Stress is making him squeaky. I know a little something about stress, as Flip tied my arms just that bit too high up, and now they’re really starting to ache. But then, who said being a human barricade was easy? It can be pretty, if you’re as wrapped up in bunting as I am, but it won’t be easy.
‘Bluebell Hall, for one, for all!’ Susannah shouts right in Alex’s ear as she stomps past, her handmade sign held proudly at head height. He winces and then takes a full step back as Flip and her kids run in front of him, their hands linked in a human crocodile. Her two littlest ones have decorated T-shirts that say ‘Bluebell Hall a coffee shop? You’re having a latte!’
Alex ruffles his already bed-ruffled hair. It’s 7.30 a.m. and he clearly leapt straight out of bed when he saw my early morning text and shot over here. I think his crumpled Iron Man top might be the one he sleeps in. It’s weirdly cute.
But his face is about as cute as a charging bull’s. ‘You know what’s going on here, Connie. I’m not sitting on a fat pile of cash. I’m just trying to keep the charity above water.’
I beckon him closer in my direction, with a twitch of my head. My hands are, after all, bound by bunting to the front gate. ‘I know that,’ I say very softly, catching a smell of something lemony from his neck. ‘I know the Hall is sold. But I don’t want to go quietly, sorry. Consider this my very loud goodbye. And I figured, if we could get a little publicity for the Hibbert Foundation, and how it’s doing so much good stuff with so little money, that couldn’t hurt?’
Alex blinks and loosens his scowl. ‘Oh.’
‘Thing is, we’ve got some more of Flip’s mates joining us with their kids on the school run, any time soon. And the OAP choir, once they’ve had their tea and toast and get minibussed down. Our sixth-formers, if they can convince the bus driver to make an extra stop. So that will make a decent crowd for the journalist and his photographer to capture. A decent human interest piece, Bunting Society Goes Barmy for Great British Charity. Something like that.’
>
Alex blinks some more. And then he smiles, just a little. ‘Well, what can I do?’
‘Play the part of disgruntled suit, if you don’t mind, for that bit more drama, and,’ I twitch my head again so he leans in towards me and that citrus smell tickles my nose, ‘I actually have this really annoying itch on my inner wrist, if you could?’
‘An opportunist to the last.’ Alex rolls his eyes, but in a soft, indulgent way. ‘Fine. I’m going to go home, get changed into actual clothes and then come back with a fake strop on. But please tell Susannah to stop shouting at me; it’s pretty alarming to see an OAP that aggressive in pearls. Good luck.’ He nods and jogs off towards his old banger of a car.
Flip and her brood continue their snaking dance around the front lawn and cheer when they see a huddle of friends walking down the path. ‘Comrades!’ Flip shouts, sprinting in their direction.
Lucy comes over with a bottle of water and a straw. ‘Hydration for the human sacrifice. How are you bearing up?’
I blow my fringe out of my eyes. ‘Not too bad. Counting down the minutes till the journalist gets here so I can say my piece and then get the feeling back in my fingers. But, you know, oddly proud.’
Luce squats down on the gravel and gives me an affectionate knee pat. ‘You should be. You brought us all here in this lovely group. Weird, don’t get me wrong, it’s weird but I love it. This is our village, and we make arses of ourselves for it.’ She flips one of her pigtails, tied up with bunting. ‘I only wish Steve hadn’t had to get into school early and miss it. Seeing you like this would have made his year.’
‘Ha! He needs to absorb all the Connie-brand mess he can, because from this week onwards, I’m getting my shit together.’
Luce chewed the end of one of her bunches. ‘I’ve always liked your shit exactly the way it is. But I’m glad you’re going to get out there. Who knows where you might be, this time next year.’
‘Maybe tied to a whole other gate.’
‘Shut up. You could be working in a charity, maybe on a whole other continent.’
The itch was back and I tried wriggling on the spot to ease it. I mean, I could hardly look any more stupid, so what did I have to lose?
‘Not so far away, I hope. I know it sounds a bit beauty queen, but when I went back up to Manchester it hit me that, OK, I’d ended up back in Hazlehurst because the magazine thing didn’t work out and as a sort of favour to Gran – but that wasn’t why I stayed. Not because I didn’t have any better ideas, but because helping people is good for me. It feels good, in an almost selfish way.’
Luce rolls her eyes comically. ‘And you just want world peace and to twirl your fiery batons?’
My publicity stunt pose means I’m helpless to whack her one for that.
She holds up her hands. ‘Sorry, sorry. I ruined the moment. But I get it. And it’s great, really, Cons. In an odd way, losing this place has been good for us. We found our bunting brotherhood, and it’s kind of bounced you onto all sorts of other interesting things.’
I arch my neck to take a look back at the Hall. On a damp, gloomy morning it’s not looking all that grand, a bit like a carefully folded swan napkin at the end of a boozy banquet meal: once a thing of beauty, now a bit sloppy and bashed up and all of a sudden useless.
It’s time, Gran, I think. It’s time to say goodbye, if we’re honest. Let someone come in and build a brand new place, clean and shiny and pigeon-free. Or pour their money into fixing the plumbing and the subsidence and working out what on earth that sticky patch is at the back of the broom cupboard. We just didn’t have that money, though we had the love.
And I might learn to love grabbing a super-hot venti seven minutes from our house.
‘Choir’s here!’ Lucy bounces up. ‘I’ll go and help them off.’
I can hear a round robin of ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved!’ sung brightly if not tunefully from within the rusty minibus that’s pulling up.
The gang are all here. We just need our press man to complete Bluebell Hall’s final farewell. It might be goodbye, but it’s a very loud one. I’m not reviewing gigs or planning festivals like I once dreamt, but I can plan an amazing event, alright. Maybe I’m not married just yet, but I don’t think it’s because I’m horribly deformed or broken inside: I just need to get out and go on some actual dates. That would help. The plan I’ve carved out for my future is a bit patchy, a bit hopeful, but I have the best friends in the world to help me get there. All in good time.
Chapter 21
Three months later
‘If you’re happy and you know it, make a noise!’ The roar that hits me is a messy, lovely sound. Fifteen toddlers, a veritable hunting pack in less pleasant circumstances, are shaking tambourines and cowbells and maracas. The chubby babies on their mums’ laps are doing their best to clap, though mostly just swiping air.
I move from a kneel to a cross-legged position, as I’d started to lose feeling in my legs in all the enjoyable hullabaloo. This new carpet is definitely a lot comfier than the old parquet. And one big bonus is that it’s not my job to clean it at the end of the session. It turns out my goodbye to the Hall was pretty short-lived, all in all.
Marcus gave us a great write-up in the Mirror when we staged our sit in and the local Shires Bugle covered it too. After our MP retweeted a piece about the story, the coffee chain who’d just signed the papers on the Hall were so concerned about the bad PR, they gave Alex the go-ahead to offer us an olive branch: yes, the Hall would still become a mega coffee shop, but a part of the space would be given over twice a week to community projects! So we resurrected Sunday Fundays and the choir is still running too (all the elderly members still alive and kicking, I’m happy to say.) It was really a nifty thing to do, because the whole village instantly warmed to the change of ownership AND the company had a guaranteed stream of parental coffee addicts coming through their door. I haven’t been able to persuade Susannah to try a mocha caramel latte with whipped cream just yet, though. She just sucks her lips in and mutters something about how tea is good enough for the Queen, so it’s jolly well good enough for her.
I still have a weird urge to go into the broom cupboard and count the Brillo pads now and again, but seeing as it’s now a ladies’ loo cubicle, I can pull it off as needing to spend a cheeky penny. And I have to admit, it’s lovely to see Bluebell Hall looking as fresh as a daisy. All the original features have been kept and gently restored, there’s no whiff of damp, even on a wet day, and it has in its own way offered the community a place to be. The less edgy local teens are really glad to have a place to hang out that doesn’t involve smoking in the woods or bullying children off the swings, and I’ve started to recognise some former Bluebells who now meet their mates here to have something trendy and skinny with a fat lot of gossip on the side. Flip has started a new sewing bee here one night a week and I make it to most of them, even though I still leave my thumb looking like Swiss cheese after any type of needlework. Polly is a dedicated member and is even learning how to adjust some of her mum’s eighties stuff into one-offs that she can wear.
Things settled between Polly and Dom pretty swiftly after her return from Coventry. His bloodshot eyes and grey face at the door told her just how important she is to him, I think, and were a reminder that he didn’t have everything locked away and forgotten about. Dom doesn’t come along to the bee – he finally exhausted his tiny amount of enthusiasm for crafting when Flip suggested sewing phone cases out of tie-dyed denim – but he and Polly have a weekly ice skating date where they skate, talk and eat waffles. (The waffles come after.)
It’s not something they ever did with Polly’s mum, it’s completely new to them, a memory that isn’t tinged with sadness – but they also don’t stop themselves talking about the past as they whizz round on their blades with a background of lively pop. Dom told me he’d read a book about being a single parent dad and it advised that if you found talking about emotional stuff hard, try it when you were doing an activity tha
t doesn’t require constant eye contact. It’s quite a nifty trick.
Polly has by no means magicked herself into a Swallows and Amazons teen – I’ve seen her huff and stomp away when someone else nabbed the last scrap of Liberty fabric at the sewing bee. But in my experience that is about as healthy as it gets for a 15-year-old, with the world and puberty to wrestle simultaneously.
* * *
After I left the Hall on that last day, with string burns around my wrists from where the bunting had begun to bite, I didn’t go and interview with Annabel for the position of her nanny. Not that it wouldn’t have been a rewarding thing to do in a different way, but it wasn’t for me. It just felt… not quite enough. It would have felt wrong to make my world that limited. I wanted to be part of a bigger community, like I had through the Hall.
And I’m still trying to figure it out. I’m enrolled on a Charities Administration course that starts in October, in two months’ time. If I want to get stuck in, I’m going to do it properly. I’ll temp around my studies, so I can still help out with the household bills, and it might be a long road to a proper job in a proper organisation but I just feel in my bones that it’s worth it. Caretaking on an epic scale. I want to organise events like the bunting bomb and the fete and even my human sacrifice stunt, to help raise cash and awareness for charities doing vital work. Kind of like masterminding festivals but with less glitter and more of a feel-good vibe the next day. But if I can find a way to work in live music and face-painting, all the better.
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 18
