Bryony was very curious to find out what she meant, so Emma took her aside to make sure Miss Pigeon didn’t hear . . .
Miss Dorothea Parsley and Miss Eliza Pigeon, Emma said, had attended the summer fête ever since they were little girls, and that was over seventy-five years ago. And for all that time the pair had been the fiercest rivals!
According to Emma, both old ladies loved entering the various fête competitions. And Emma said they both loved winning them too. So much so, they spent nearly all year planning and plotting their entries.
‘And their favourite competition,’ warned Emma, ‘is jam. So under NO circumstances mention – you know what.’ She mouthed the letters: ‘J-a-m.’
Bryony giggled. ‘It can’t be that bad!’
‘It is.’
Upon their arrival at Miss Parsley’s tiny pink cottage (right next to Miss Pigeon’s tiny blue one), Miss Parsley welcomed the girls with a cheery ‘Good day!’ She nodded curtly at Miss Pigeon and Miss Pigeon nodded curtly back. Bryony could see what Emma meant. Already you could cut the tension with a knife.
Dorothea Parsley was short and round. She had lots of frizzy, silver-grey hair and cheeks the colour of two scoops of strawberry sorbet, which was also the colour of her cottage. She couldn’t have looked more different to the bony, neat-bunned Miss Eliza Pigeon, whose sharp violet-blue eyes were the colour of her cottage!
The girls were fascinated by Miss Parsley’s place. Bryony had not been in any of the oldest-looking cottages just behind the town’s main street, and although Emma had peeped inside from Miss Parsley’s doorstep when carol singing at Christmas, she’d not been inside the cottage either, until now . . .
Bryony looked around, eyes wide. This was enchantingly spooky! It was dark and small, and the walls were so thick it felt like they were in a cave. More like a cavern, Bryony thought, as pots and pans bubbled with rainbow-coloured liquids, all thick and gloopy and smelling of fruity potions.
‘Do you think she’s a witch?’ Bryony whispered to Emma as they stood beneath ceiling beams adorned with swathes of dried hops and bunches of dusty lavender and rose hips.
‘Probably,’ Emma whispered back. ‘But I don’t think she’ll turn us into frogs,’ she added, grinning.
As well as owning various black cats, and making super-fruity jam, Miss Dorothea Parsley always took it upon herself to make posters advertising the annual summer and Christmas fetes.
These posters she painstakingly painted in watercolour, and when she whipped them out to show the girls, Bryony thought they did look rather beautiful with their summer flowers and lazy bees along the top and sides.
‘You’re a very good artist,’ Bryony said to Miss Parsley, at which Miss Pigeon bristled and sniffed. Emma shook her head quickly so only Bryony saw. Bryony bit her lip. She’d need to be more careful what she said!
‘I need ’em putting up now,’ Miss Parsley smiled. ‘Fancy it, girls? I could pay you a little bit of pocket money.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Bryony said at once, eager to earn whatever money they could to buy Red.
‘What yous entering at the fête then?’ Miss Pigeon sniffed, eyeing up Miss Parsley haughtily.
‘You doin’ jam?’ Miss Pigeon prompted, at which Bryony gave a gasp. Jam! That was the one thing that Emma had said sent the old ladies into all-out WAR!
‘Might be!’ snapped Miss Parsley, bobbing her head in the direction of the stove where numerous pans blooped and rattled. ‘Ah, but I thought you would know, Eliza – as you’re meant to be able to tell the future! Huh!’
Frowning back, Miss Pigeon stuck her nose in the air. ‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘I just . . . sometimes pretend I DON’T as I don’t like boasting ’bout me WONDERFUL TALENT!’
‘Rubbish!’ cried Miss Parsley. ‘Poppycock! You daft old fibber you!’
‘I ain’t no fibber!’ Miss Pigeon roared. ‘You old bullfrog!’
As the two old ladies rolled up their sleeves, Bryony shot a nervous look at Emma.
‘Better watch out!’ Emma whispered. ‘Like I said, when they get on the subject of the summer fête they’re brutal!’
Sure enough, there was moment of brooding silence as both old ladies eyed each other menacingly. Who would make the first move? Bryony would have bet anything (except Red!) that Miss Pigeon would be the one to go in first.
But no.
Suddenly Miss Parsley gave a snort and advanced like a raging tornado. Snatching up an egg from the egg box just delivered, she hurled it through the air in the direction of Miss Pigeon, who whacked it away with a baguette.
‘Time to leave,’ whispered Emma.
‘Yep,’ whispered Bryony. ‘Quick!’
The girls ducked outside with the posters, and when they were safely on the street . . .
‘I see what you mean!’ Bryony giggled. ‘Brutal!’
They started to stick the posters up. They had about twenty of them in all.
‘Hang on, Miss Parsley’s used watercolours,’ said Bryony as she pinned one up in the bus shelter. ‘So won’t the paint wash away in the rain?’
‘Yep!’ Emma nodded. ‘Always does! But everyone knows when and where the fête is. It’s the same time, same place every year.’
Bryony read down the poster, as she didn’t know.
‘Oh, right, Brook Dale Manor. Of course . . .’ she groaned. ‘Best house for miles, right?’
‘And Georgina loves it,’ Emma frowned. ‘Strutting about like she owns the place – which . . . she does!’
Both girls found this surprisingly funny, when a few weeks ago neither would have. But being a team, united against Georgina, and with a plan too, seemed to be making things a little easier for them both.
At the same time Bryony never lost focus. All these jobs were for money to buy Red. And the faster they worked, the more money they’d earn – simple!
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get these posters up quickly. Then we can help Grandpa with more gardening.’
‘Okay,’ Emma nodded. ‘Good idea!’
They arrived at the park and Bryony started to pin a poster to the noticeboard really carefully. All week she’d taken great care over all the little jobs she’d done. If people were paying her good money, she’d hate to do anything half-heartedly and disappoint anyone.
But as she was about to put in the last pin, Bryony stopped and spun round.
‘Emma! These fête competitions!’ she cried. ‘If you win, do you get any money?’
The posters were advertising all sorts of things from pet shows to scarecrow-making and photography.
‘Sure,’ replied Emma. ‘They pay really well if you place first, second or third.’
‘So let’s enter as many as we can!’ said Bryony. ‘The more money we win, the—’
‘More money to buy Red!’ Emma finished her sentence with a nod.
‘Yes, exactly,’ Bryony said. ‘This is great!’
They only had just over a week to get all their entries ready. And they’d have to be good or they wouldn’t stand a chance. Not if the two old Miss Ps were anything to go by!
Turning back round, Bryony was beaming as she popped the last pin into the poster, when all of a sudden, out of the blue—
Wham!
Something cold, hard and splattery had hit her on the back of the head. It had also covered the poster in messy brown splodges.
‘OW!’ Bryony yelled. ‘That really hurt!’ She rubbed her head and frowned.
‘Mud!’ cried Emma. Solid clods of it, and lots of soft smelly mud too. Both girls turned just in time to spy a rowdy gang clearing off down the road.
‘Oi!’ Bryony called after them. But suddenly she went very quiet. The gang were on skateboards, wearing hoodies with the hoods up. Even then Bryony could pick him out. The one skating slightly behind all the others, with the skinny white freckly legs. It was her brother. Josh had pelted her with mud. How – why? Why was he being like this?
‘Dan Artt’s gang,’ Emma sighed. ‘Da
rtt’s at school with me. And he’ll be in your class too. He’s a right pain. And his gang are as well.’
‘Oh, Josh . . .’ groaned Bryony, shaking her head and spraying mud everywhere. Just what had her brother got himself into?
*
The next day was Saturday. One week before the fête. The girls met early at Plum Cottage to start on their competition entries.
‘Eeek,’ gulped Bryony, ‘there’s tons to do, and we haven’t got very long.’ They’d have to be organised. There wasn’t a moment to lose.
The first thing they did was put up a tent in the back garden. This, they decided, would be their ‘Crafting Headquarters’.
Josh stuck in his head as he set off to meet his little gang of ‘mudslingers’. He didn’t stay long, though, disappearing promptly when Bryony completely ignored him. They’d had a big argument last night after what had happened in the park. And Bryony was in a no better mood with him today.
The girls checked down the list of competitions they were going to have a go at – the Cakes for Afternoon Tea class, the painting class, the photography class entitled Reflections, the Make-a-Scarecrow class, the Home-made Jam class and the Miniature Flower Arrangement class.
‘I know it’s a lot,’ Bryony said. ‘But the more we enter, the more chance we have of winning at least something.’
All of Saturday was taken up with painting a picture for the painting class. The subject was ‘The Journey’, and whilst Bryony painted the journey of a butterfly in and out of the flowers, Emma did the journey of a snail. Except her snail just wanted to stay in its shell and do nothing!
After that, they took photos of reflections in the rock pools at the beach for the photography class.
‘I think we’ve done well today,’ said Bryony as they looked at their work that night.
‘Yes!’ Emma nodded back brightly. ‘Me too!’
On Sunday the girls decided to make jam, so they went blackberry-picking bright and early. They knew the Miss Ps would be hard to beat but the twenty-pounds first prize meant that they had to try!
When countless bowls and jars were crammed full of berries, Bryony’s mum insisted she supervised the cooking of the fruit. It was likely to get blisteringly hot as the berries bubbled and slowly mushed down into jam.
By Sunday evening, umpteen jam jars brimmed with deep purple loveliness! There was even some blackberry jam left over for Bryony and Emma to have with scones as they camped in the tent that night.
‘It’s been a good day,’ Bryony said. ‘If only Red had been with us – he would have really loved the blackberries.’
‘I know,’ nodded Emma. ‘But we’re doing it to get him, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Bryony forced herself to smile. ‘You’re right.’
Both girls were brown from the warm August sun and their faces were smeared with berry juice. As they continued to nibble through their midnight feast, they talked about all kinds of things: school and friends, and ponies, of course – Emma was definitely warming to them thanks to the time she’d spent with Red. When she grew up, Emma wanted to be a vet, so becoming more familiar with ponies would be very useful.
‘You know so much about the countryside,’ said Bryony. That had been clear when the girls had been blackberry-picking.
‘I’m on the nature team at my school,’ replied Emma. ‘I mean our school,’ she corrected.
‘Oh, yes!’ said Bryony. Then she had a thought.
‘Wait! Does Georgina go there too?’
‘No, don’t worry,’ Emma replied. ‘She goes to a posh school a few towns away.’
‘Phew!’
When the owls were hooting madly and a huge moon hung in the sky, Bryony’s mum brought out mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on the top. As the girls drank them, Bryony couldn’t help her thoughts turning, once again, to Red.
She had always loved settling him down at night, tickling him behind his left ear the way he liked just before she said goodnight. She wondered if anyone would be doing that now? By anyone, of course, that meant Georgina. Bryony doubted he’d be getting any hugs or tickles from her . . .
The hot chocolate soon made the girls sleepy so they snuggled down in their sleeping bags. The tent was slightly see-through and Bryony could just make out the stars. Small, silver, sparkly balls, they were dotted all about. Like the owls had decorated the sky with strings of fairy lights!
‘My mum used to like camping,’ said Emma sleepily. She’d said hardly anything about her mum before, only that she was no longer with her dad.
‘Do you still . . .’ Bryony stopped.
‘Go on,’ said Emma.
‘I was just wondering if you . . . if you still see her sometimes?’ said Bryony. ‘But you don’t have to say if it’s hard.’
‘It’s okay,’ replied Emma. ‘Mum . . . moved to France when I was eight, and now she has a boyfriend who’s got other children.’
‘It must be really hard,’ Bryony said.
‘Mmm. But I’ve still got Dad,’ replied Emma. ‘And Will, and now there’s you too.’
‘Yes!’ said Bryony. That felt nice to hear.
‘Night, Bry,’ yawned Emma.
‘Night, Em.’
*
On Monday the kitchen was a hive of activity as the girls got started on their cakes for the Afternoon Tea competition. They chose to make eclairs, the cakey bits of which they’d bake now and then freeze until Friday. This would keep them really fresh. And making them early meant if they went wrong, they’d have time to do another batch. On Saturday morning they’d fill them with cream and a sweet plum compote. Then they’d finish them off with a shiny chocolate glaze.
Tuesday was scarecrow-making day. Emma thought they should make a ‘different’ kind of scarecrow though because everyone, she said, made normal ones. Finally they decided that their scarecrow would be – a massive crow! Its body would be made from bent wire coat hangers, which would then be covered with copious amounts of black crêpe paper and feathers!
This, however, proved very tricky and so took up much of Wednesday too. They were very glad when just after tea, Bryony’s grandfather dropped by with a bag of sherbet lemons he’d just bought for them at the shop.
‘Crafters need to keep their energy up!’ he chuckled, peeping into their HQ. ‘But – oh, my!’ he cried. ‘Aren’t you doing well?’ And rolling up his sleeves, he helped them stick a few last feathers on their crow.
‘If you win it’ll be down to that last row of tail feathers!’ Grandpa said with a chuckle.
‘Okay,’ nodded Bryony, and Emma gave a grin.
‘For sure!’
Thursday was miniature flower arrangement day. The theme was ‘The Secret Garden’ and Bryony and Emma had decided to do a display based around a drystone wall. Except miniature meant that everything had to be tiny.
They made the wall from smooth flat pebbles they’d collected off the beach last Saturday. Into this they wove the daintiest trails of ivy and honeysuckle they could find. They finished it off by threading in tiny flowers.
Finally, on Friday (they’d put it off as long as they could!) it was time to spruce up Blueberry Muffin for the fête’s pet show.
‘Hold him still!’ cried Bryony.
‘I’m trying!’ Emma giggled. ‘Come back, Mr Grumps, and have your bath!’
The plump grey cat was growling loudly and his fluffy (unwashed) tail was swishing about. A sure sign to keep well away!
At long last, with water everywhere and several new scratches on their hands, they finally bundled him into the tub brimming with sweet-smelling bubbles.
‘Meowwwwwww!’ The cat was angrier than ever, splashing, and yowling wildly.
‘I don’t think he’s keen on Mr Fluffy’s cat shampoo,’ said Bryony, dodging the claws.
‘Me neither!’ said Emma. ‘Let’s wash him quick and get him out!’
They only managed a few bubbly swishes before Blueberry was climbing up the sides. Emma scooped him out ont
o a nice warm towel and wrapped it around him quickly. Now he looked like a cross fluffy baby in a shawl!
When dry, he was combed. But the cantankerous moggy didn’t seem to like that either. To top it all off, on his collar Bryony tried out a big lilac bow to see if he should wear it tomorrow. Berry looked revolted, his face like thunder and his fur smelling like a rose.
‘Who’s a pretty pussykins, then!’ Bryony giggled as Blueberry scowled.
Well, that was it! The girls were all done. Apart from their eclairs still to decorate in the morning, their week of crafting was over!
That night, they chose to sleep inside the cottage as their HQ was full of their creations. Before bed, though, Bryony was still thinking money. What else could she do to earn extra pennies for Red?
She looked in her wardrobe. At the bottom of it were two boxes filled with old toys. She hadn’t had the heart to part company with these when she’d moved here just a few weeks ago. Just a few weeks! It felt like much longer given all that had happened.
‘Right, these can all be sold!’ Bryony said, businesslike.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Emma.
‘Yep,’ Bryony nodded. Suddenly toys didn’t compare to a living, breathing animal!
As well as the toys, there were various clay models Bryony had made as she’d worked beside her dad. She shook her head. She couldn’t part with these. Besides, she told herself, they probably wouldn’t sell, being a lot more precious to her than to anyone else.
Next Bryony rifled through her jewellery box to see if there was anything else in there she could sell. She pulled out a rainbow tangle of bracelets and bangles.
‘Hmm, most of these can go,’ she said. ‘If we can ever untangle them!’
‘I’m good at untangling,’ Emma replied. Bryony wasn’t surprised. Quiet and careful, Emma was by far the more patient.
The girls dug deeper into the jewellery box. There were lots of pretty rings and hair clips too. Bryony still liked most of them, but right now she didn’t mind selling them for Red.
Emma then unearthed a black velvet pouch tied with a pale blue ribbon.
‘Not that!’ cried Bryony. She hadn’t meant to shout but what was in that pouch was very precious.
The Pony With No Name Page 8
