The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘Sure, and I forget that sometimes,’ Mark says quietly. ‘You know, that other people loved her too.’

  ‘We all did. And still do, very much.’ I touch his arm. ‘And how are things for you?’

  ‘Getting better, thanks. I’m back at work now, which makes a big difference, occupies the mind. My mum is helping out with childcare and the job are being very accommodating – letting me take Lily to school and stuff,’ he explains. But how will he manage if school is suddenly seven miles away? I wonder. Or will Lily be expected to travel on the bus by herself? ‘And I’m glad Lily is OK at school – it’s made the last year or so slightly easier to bear, knowing that she’s just down the hill with people, friends of Pol’s, who care about her, look out for her.’ A short silence follows. ‘It was Pol’s wish for things to stay as “normal” for Lily as possible,’ he says, smiling wryly.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, averting my gaze, desperately wishing the ones in charge of the purse strings at the council could take into account just how important our little school is to the community. It’s so much more than just educating the children, my school is like a pot of glue, keeping the community intact – or helping to stick it back together again. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I say, motioning with my head towards his glass.

  ‘No, just the one for me, I’m on duty tomorrow.’ He leans in to give me a polite kiss on the cheek. ‘Better find Lily before the meeting gets under way.’ And he goes to leave.

  ‘Sure. And Mark,’ I add. He turns back. ‘If you ever want to chat … about how Lily is getting on, or Polly, or just, well, anything at all … you know where I am.’ Mark nods before going to round up Lily.

  Dr Ben steps into the patch of grass at the centre of the tables and coughs to get everyone’s attention. The crowd immediately stops talking and turns their attention to the esteemed village GP.

  ‘Firstly, I’d like to say thank you to you all for giving up your evening to come along—’

  ‘Least we can do, doc,’ someone interrupts, followed by lots of ‘hear hears’, which makes Dr Ben’s cheeks flush slightly as he pushes his glasses further up his nose. He clears his throat before continuing. ‘You’re all very kind,’ he says graciously, in his lovely lilting Irish accent. ‘And this is the first time I’ve been fully involved in anything like this, so I’m really looking forward to seeing how it’s done,’ he says tactfully, pausing to glance reverently at the table where six or so stalwarts of the Women’s Institute are seated, each wearing the obligatory uniform of pastel-coloured cardy twin-set teamed with easy-fit jeans. They each nod and give him knowing looks, as if confirming their allegiance, but most importantly, their solid experience in matters such as village fetes, fairs, shows and such-like – a nationally judged show clearly being like water off a duck’s back for them, thank you very much – and they’re only here to ensure proceedings are conducted in an efficient manner. I smile and look over at another table to see Mrs Pocket and the parish council contingency bristling when Dr Ben fails to glance at them as well, and groan inwardly. Ahh, so the battle has already commenced! WI versus parish council – each of them already assumes that they should head up the Great Village Show committee. Talking of committees, Dr Ben continues:

  ‘I’m wondering if we should start off by selecting a committee panel to oversee each of the show’s elements.’ Sybs rummages through a folder in front of her before handing Dr Ben a sheet of paper. ‘Thank you.’ He winks at Sybs and I’m sure I spot a couple of my school mums bristling – they’d clearly been quite smitten when Dr Ben first arrived in Tindledale to take over the surgery from Dr Donnelly, and were then most put out when it became apparent that newcomer, Sybs, had ‘snared’ him, as I overheard them describe it, having only been here ‘for like five minutes’. Oh well. I was delighted for Sybs: she deserves to find her happy-ever-after as much as the next person. ‘I took the liberty of downloading all of the criteria from the National Village Show Committee website, and it seems that there are three main areas we need to focus on …’

  ‘The three Cs,’ someone shouts out. Followed by, ‘That’s right, I remember from last time – they stand for community, creativity, and, err, um … Oh, I can’t remember the other one,’ bellowed by Lucy, who owns the florist’s in the High Street.

  ‘That’s right. The third C is civic duty,’ Dr Ben says, reading it from the paperwork.

  ‘We’ll be in charge of that one,’ harrumphs a pompous-looking man with a long nose and flared nostrils. He leans back from the parish council table to adjust his braces. I’ve never seen him before. But it’s no surprise, as villagers old and new always come out of the woodwork whenever there’s a big event like this to be organised.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Wouldn’t it be better to vote on it, get an idea of who wants to be involved in what?’ Molly says, after glaring at the pompous guy. ‘Take Sybs, for example: she should be in charge of the creative element … seeing as she runs the haberdashery shop and is good at knitting and quilting and making stuff look pretty … The High Street would look beautiful with some of her floral bunting buffeting in the breeze between the lampposts,’ she adds brightly.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ the pompous guy pipes up again. ‘Does she know how to thatch a roof? That’s what I want to know. Nope! Now that’s a proper creative master skill, not fiddling around with bits of bunting.’ He flares his nostrils out a little further and some of the others seated at his table begin to bristle. ‘The judges aren’t going to be bothered by all those gimmicky things,’ he ploughs on. ‘What we need is to tidy up the verges. Have you seen the state of them? Tyre marks all over the grass outside my cottage! It’s a disgrace.’

  ‘Well, I agree with Molly,’ Ruby from the vintage dress shop interjects, smoothing her scarlet, shoulder-length Dita Von Teese-style hair into place while treating the pompous guy to a very disdainful glower, her cherry-red lips poised for a comeback if he so much as dares to heckle further. I resist the urge to smirk by stirring my Pimm’s and then drinking a big mouthful as I take in what’s going on around me. The remonstrating and arguing about trivial details goes on until someone brings up the marrow incident, which doesn’t help, and then Pete jumps in and it really kicks off.

  ‘Those tyre marks will be from my tractor!’ he states to nobody in particular, as if deliberately, and quite mischievously, meaning to escalate the matter, before draining the last of his cider. He wipes his mouth with the shoulder part of his shirt and then pulls open a bag of cheese & onion crisps, as if he hasn’t a care in the world, which rankles the pompous guy further. He’s up on his feet now, with the sides of his jacket pushed back so he can plant his hands firmly on his hips, showing us he’s ready for action.

  ‘Ahh, so you’re the culprit. Well it won’t do – I’ve a good mind to place some boulders around my borders,’ the pompous guy retaliates. ‘That’ll stop you in your tracks.’

  Cue a collective snigger from the farmers’ table, followed by: ‘I could supply you with a sack of coal if you like – you could paint all the lumps white and then pop them around your borders,’ from John, who owns the hardware store on the Stoneley Road – and always has a mountain of logs and sacks of coal in the open lock-up adjacent to his place.

  ‘Good idea, that should do the trick,’ the pompous guy puffs, and I figure that he must be a newcomer as he’s utterly unaware that they’re pulling his leg now by goading him with their ‘coal-painter’ jibes, a local euphemism for the ‘townies’ who keep a country cottage in Tindledale for the weekends, but haven’t a clue when it comes to rural life. Tractors mounting verges is just the way it is here; the lanes are just so narrow and winding in parts of the village that it’d be impossible for Pete, or any of the other farmers for that matter, to transport their cattle or crates of apples around the place.

  ‘Or what about some nice painted pebbles?’ Molly pipes up again, making the farmers chortle some more. But one of the WI ladies has had enough and butts in with:


  ‘Never mind securing your borders, what the community would like to know is: when are you going to trim your bush!’ And she extends a very accusatory index finger in Molly’s direction.

  A flabbergasted silence ensues. Even Pete stops crunching his crisps and stares open-mouthed.

  ‘Um, I, err … beg your pardon,’ Molly eventually manages to splutter, as Cooper shoves a fist into his mouth and silently laughs himself into a hernia, making his shoulders jig up and down uncontrollably.

  ‘That bush of yours really needs attention.’ Oh dear, Lawrence catches my eye and pulls an exaggerated aghast face. I have to look away before I burst into laughter too, and that would never do – I’m conscious that a reporter from the Tindledale Herald is sitting a few feet away from me, and the last thing I’d want is him reporting on the first committee meeting with tales of how ‘even the headmistress laughed along to the juvenile, school-playground-style jokes’. The WI woman ploughs on, seemingly oblivious to the mirth she’s causing.

  ‘Yes, it’s so unruly, the path outside your house is practically impassable – my husband had to steer his motorised scooter right out into the road, just to get past. It’s a wonder he wasn’t mown down by one of Pete’s verge-mounting tractors. No, your bush is a disgrace and must go before the judges arrive on show day!’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to be quite so “personal” about it,’ Molly manages to squeak, barely able to speak properly for trying not to howl with laughter. But it’s no use, and she caves in. And then Sybs joins in, and soon everyone is screaming, tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks as the WI woman stalks off inside, muttering something about needing a double whisky, for medicinal purposes. I take a deep breath and keep on observing – it was inevitable, I guess – thirty minutes in, and the villagers are already like squabbling ducks; they just can’t help themselves from falling out, or making mischief. They’re still laughing and the pompous man, it turns out, is a pensioned general, ex-army, and moved here last month for some ‘much-needed R&R’, according to Marigold, who’s sitting opposite me.

  Lawrence looks over and motions with his head for me to rescue Dr Ben, who is now hijacked in a debate about the therapeutic powers of wild honey and whether it might be a good idea to have a stall set up on the day with a working hive on display for the judges to try some out for themselves. The health-and-safety implications are being mulled over, with somebody actually suggesting the parish council would need to stump up a budget for ‘protective clothing’, which doesn’t go down very well at all. Especially as Mrs Gibbs is still waiting for a decision about her request for a rubbish bin to be placed in the layby outside her house – it drives her mad when louts hurl their empty lager cans from car windows when passing through our lovely little village.

  Unable to sit and watch the fiasco unfolding before me for any longer, I stand up and walk over to the crowd that’s formed around Dr Ben, lift my elbows, and muscle my way in, before surreptitiously leaning into his left shoulder.

  ‘Do you mind if I step in?’ I ask discreetly.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Dr Ben says, giving me a very grateful grin as he hands the paperwork over to me. ‘I’m so glad you’re here; we really need someone used to taking charge,’ he adds, wasting no time in joining Sybs back on the bench.

  ‘OK, if I can have everyone’s attention please,’ I say in my best school assembly voice, and then count to five in my head. It works: the children on the castle stop bouncing right away, of course. Even the dogs seem to settle down, and eventually the adults stop bickering amongst themselves, the crowd dissipates back to the benches to finish the last of the cheesy chips and everyone turns their attention to me. ‘Wonderful. And thank you. Now, as Dr Ben said, it’s great to see everyone here and I can see how enthusiastic you all are, but we really have no time to spare if we’re to stand a chance of Tindledale putting on a really great show this year! On …’ I pause to scan the papers and see which date we’ve been allocated, and then I spot it. My pulse speeds up. Oh dear. ‘July 11th!’ Right before the end of the school term, but Jack will be home then for the gloriously long summer holidays. And my heart lifts at the prospect of having him around for a couple of months.

  The crowd falls silent. Nobody moves.

  ‘But that’s only,’ Lawrence pulls out his pocket diary, ‘six weeks away!’ he says after thumbing through the pages to check. There’s a collective inward gasp.

  ‘Um, yes, err, I’m very sorry, it’s my fault,’ Dr Ben raises his hand in the air. ‘I sent off the application form quite some time ago and, well, I—’

  ‘Don’t you worry, doc,’ Tommy Prendergast, who runs the village store, quickly pitches in, pulling himself upright with a very staunch look on his face. ‘We won’t let you down.’ He’s busy retucking his shirt back in around his rotund waist when everyone joins him in supporting the revered village GP.

  ‘Hear hear! Can’t blame the doc. He’s a busy man. We’d be lost without him …’ As ever, Dr Ben can do no wrong as far as all the villagers are concerned, and they certainly all seem committed to putting on a great show in record time. And what perfect timing, as now the school inspectors can really get to see what the village is all about. In fact, I’m going to invite them along to our Great Village Show – maybe we could get one of those boards with circle cut-outs for them to put their faces through while the villagers throw wet sponges, like they do at the seaside. I bet that would raise a few laughs amongst the community. JOKE.

  ‘OK, everyone,’ I say, refocusing us all. ‘So I reckon we should just get on with it.’ I glance around, and great, they’re all listening. ‘Let’s have three committees working in tandem, with weekly meetings. Then we can convene a meeting for the whole village at regular intervals. I’m happy to put together and communicate a set of dates and times, locations, etc. I could pin a list on the notice board in the village square.’ I quickly pause and look at Sybs for confirmation, not wanting to step on her toes, but by the look of the big grin on her face, she seems perfectly happy for me to take charge, so I carry on. ‘Yes, and Tindledale needs to look its very best before show day, just in case the judges arrive a few days earlier, as they’ve been known to in the past.’

  I stop talking and see them all staring at me, clearly bamboozled by my bossy, but – and if I do say so myself – extra-efficient approach. I spot Mrs Pocket in my peripheral vision, pursing her lips and doing her ‘that’s my girl’ face, so she clearly approves. And if I have her on board, then getting everyone else on side should be a doddle. Spurred on, I scan the beer garden – Sybs is smiling and nodding, Lawrence winks and nods too, the WI ladies fold their arms and look to each other before doing a collective nod of agreement. Not to be outdone, the people seated at the parish council table demonstrate their support by clapping, apart from the general, who eyes me suspiciously before pulling out a pipe and sticking it into his moustachioed mouth. Molly and Cooper applaud too, having just about managed to recover from their hysterics – Molly is wiping her laughter tears away with a napkin. Taylor from the Pet Parlour, Kitty, Hettie from the haberdashery, and all the school mums join in. Everyone seems to be on board.

  ‘Excuse me.’ It’s Hettie, with her spindly arms pressed into the table, trying to propel her wiry, frail body up into a standing position. Marigold and Sybs jump to her aid and, after a few seconds, Hettie is fully mobile and walking towards me. ‘Sorry dear, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. But I’d like to say a few words if I may?’ She fixes her Wedgwood-blue eyes on to me.

  ‘Of course Hettie, go ahead.’ And the crowd falls silent – as one of the oldest villagers from a family that has lived in Tindledale going back several generations, she’s automatically assured a certain level of respect.

  ‘Thank you. As many of you know, I’ve lived in Tindledale my whole life – that’s eighty years, give or take.’ She pauses and pats her big Aunt Bessie bun. ‘But what many of you don’t know is that Tindledale has already won an award for putting
on the greatest village show.’ A collective hushed whisper ricochets around the garden. ‘Yes, it was in 1965, on a gloriously warm day. So this will be the fiftieth anniversary of that win. It might be a nice idea to commemorate that victory – I’m sure a banner was made,’ Hettie adds vaguely, her papery forehead creasing in concentration as she tries to remember what happened to the banner.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the vicar joins in, walking over towards Hettie and me. ‘I was quite young, of course,’ he laughs good-naturedly.

  Lord Lucan wanders over as well. ‘Me too. There was a banner, rigged up in the village square for everyone to see. And wasn’t there talk of a commemorative stone? It was so long ago that I really can’t be sure.’ Lord Lucan shakes his head, baffled, as he tries to remember the details.

  ‘Yes, but there just wasn’t the money around.’ Hettie clasps her hands together.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ the vicar interjects, ‘and would certainly set the right mindset for when the judges arrive – they’ll see that Tindledale really is an old hand when it comes to putting on a great show. We must find the banner and resurrect it in the village square.’

  ‘And install a proper commemorative stone! It could go next to the war memorial,’ Lord Lucan says, pushing his shirt sleeves up enthusiastically.

  ‘Absolutely, and one for the civic pride committee to take on, I reckon – six weeks is ample time to raise the funds for a carved stone,’ I venture boldly. I actually have no idea how much carved stones cost, but it has to be worth a go, and I can see it now – a lovely picture of the stone in the centre of the Sunday supplement piece all about Tindledale, the village that has won again, fifty years after the previous triumph!

  ‘And with plenty of space on the stone to add on this year’s victory!’ Pete gives the general a smarmy smile.