The Great Village Show

by Alexandra Brown

  ‘I could help out with supplying the stone – cost price, and the carving for free,’ the owner of the garden centre offers.

  A woman I’ve not seen before is walking towards the crowd; willowy and beautiful, she’s wearing floaty yoga clothes with a long, pretty cotton scarf trailing from her neck. She looks apprehensive, so I raise a welcoming hand to wave her over, but she doesn’t see me and instead turns around and walks back into the pub. And, I’m not embarrassed to say, hmm, well … maybe I am a little, that the first thought that pops into my head is: I wonder if she has any children? I’m so determined to keep my school open that I’m half tempted to race after her like some kind of crazy looper to find out, and quite possibly insist that she brings them to my school, right away, so the inspectors can see that, actually, numbers aren’t dwindling at all. Ha! But she’s gone. Never mind. I make a mental note to approach her next time I see her around the village … She must be the lucky Mrs Cavendish with the charming, hot husband, as – apart from Dan Wright and the general – I’ve not heard of any other new people in the village, so I’m guessing she must be.

  ‘So, how about a show of hands,’ I say, turning my attention back to the meeting, where everyone is buzzing now, full of enthusiasm and benevolence. This is more like it; this is how we usually do things in Tindledale: together and with good grace. ‘Thank you.’ One of the parish councillors hands me the key to the tiny village notice board on the wall outside the village store.

  Half an hour later, and we’ve divvied up the villagers into three committees, with various people taking charge of things that are particularly important to them. Everyone seems to understand that putting on a truly great show will be a wonderful thing for Tindledale, boosting local businesses and, hopefully, school numbers too. For the first time since Jack left for uni, I am fully focused on my life and future again, and I can’t wait to get started on the preparations for the Great Village Show.

  Jessie pulled down the sleeves of her blouse to protect her arms, before pushing the brambles away from the door of the old, ramshackle potting shed at the far end of her new garden, and allowed herself a moment of quiet contemplation. She had hoped moving to Tindledale would be a fresh start for them all, and an opportunity to put London, in particular, Sam, her first love, out of her mind. But it hadn’t been as simple as that. Sebastian had gone back on his word and insisted they consider St Cuthbert’s, the private school on the outskirts of Tindledale, before making a final decision – so now Jessie felt deflated, duped even, that her wishes hadn’t been taken seriously.

  ‘Jessicaaaaaa!’ Jessie smarted as she always did when Sebastian called her by her full name. He was the only one who did, despite knowing that she hated it. ‘JESSICA. Where are you?’ Sebastian thundered from the back door of the farmhouse. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He strode through the long grass towards her and Jessie felt her back constrict on realising that Sebastian was in one of his moods. He came to a halt in front of her, glowering as he took the top of her arm and pulled her towards him. Jessie knew better than to antagonise him when he was like this, so opted for the position of least resistance and slipped her free arm around his waist.

  ‘Exploring, darling. I thought I’d see what was hidden inside this old shed …’ Jessie painted on her usual smile, which in turn had the usual effect on Sebastian; he released his grip on her arm and pointed to his cheek for a kiss. Jessie duly obliged and did as she was told. Anything to keep the peace. She really couldn’t face another scene, not today, not when the sun was shining and the air was infused with birdsong and jasmine, and – most importantly – the children were happy, bouncing around on the new super-sized trampoline that Sebastian had installed soon after they arrived in Tindledale. Another of his grand gestures, this time to make up for having rehomed Banjo, their beloved cat, without warning shortly before the move. For compassionate reasons, he had claimed, saying Banjo would be confused so far away from London. But Jessie knew Sebastian hated cats, having merely tolerated Banjo on account of his mother buying the kitten as a surprise gift for the triplets. Sebastian was holding out to inherit her vast estate, so liked to keep his mother sweet, hence he hadn’t protested when Banjo’s adorable black fluffy head had popped out of the cardboard box on Christmas Day and the triplets had whooped with joy.

  Jessie smiled fondly at the memory, but then tensed on remembering how heartbroken Millie, Max and Olivia had been on finding out that Banjo had ‘been left behind’. They were in the car, following behind the removal van, when Jessie had realised that Banjo’s crate wasn’t in the boot. But it was too late by then; Sebastian refused to turn back and wouldn’t even reveal the name of the neighbour he’d given Banjo to. Jessie had tried to console the children who were crying in the back seat, but then Sebastian had dug the fingertips of his left hand into her thigh, leaving a little row of bruises as he berated her for mollycoddling them. They had all spent the rest of the journey in tense silence.

  ‘Well, stop it and listen to me.’ Sebastian let out a long puff of air. ‘It seems you’ll be getting your own way after all … St Cuthbert’s called.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jessie said, purposely making it sound vague, knowing better than to show delight on hearing that perhaps her wish was coming to fruition after all.

  ‘Full up!’ Sebastian pulled a face. ‘Can you believe it? The only prep school for miles around and they don’t have space for three more. It’s preposterous. I knew I should have registered them in utero.’ Sebastian shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pinstripe trouser pockets.

  ‘Never mind, darling. You didn’t know then that we would be living here; it really can’t be helped,’ Jessie soothed, figuring a show of solidarity and understanding was exactly what was required right now.

  ‘Hmm, true! Well, perhaps it’s for the best in any case, St Cuthbert’s doesn’t even feature in the “Top 100 Best Schools Guide”, which is exactly what I told them! And that if they ever do manage to achieve such status, which I imagine to be highly unlikely, then perhaps we’ll reconsider!’ Sebastian postured, while Jessie withered inwardly, figuring it wouldn’t bode well for them integrating successfully into village life. Word got around rapidly in small communities, Jessie knew that, and the last thing she wanted was to be known as the wife of the rude banker down from London.

  Jessie really wanted to fit in, make new friends and be community-spirited, and the Great Village Show was the perfect opportunity for her to do so. She’d had every intention of going along to the meeting in the Duck & Puddle pub garden – Sebastian had been working late in London, so had chosen to stay in the company flat – and with her dad visiting overnight to see the new house and help with the unpacking and the childcare, Jessie had a rare opportunity to venture out on her own. But it had been harder than she had anticipated, with so many people there. And then when the pretty, friendly-looking woman chairing the meeting had waved her over to join them, Jessie had panicked. With all eyes on her and the bruises on her thigh, not to mention the scrape on her back from a previous altercation, a continuous reminder of how inadequate and raw she felt for not having the courage to call Sebastian out and challenge him, the little confidence left in Jessie had waned entirely.

  ‘So what are we going to do then?’ Jessie asked tentatively, glancing at the grass. Yes, far better to let Sebastian feel in charge; let him think a change of plan was his idea.

  ‘Well you need to get them into the village school, of course!’ Sebastian instructed. ‘And sharpish, because it seems a state school education is de rigueur these days, according to today’s FT.’ He paused to do quote signs in the air. ‘Yes, “state till eight”, it said, so before you know it, every bugger will be jumping on the bandwagon …’

  ‘Is it really?’ Jessie replied carefully, with just the right amount of surprise in her voice.

  ‘Indeed. So don’t fuck it up and forget or they’ll miss out on that too. I’m not paying for home tutors. Not after the fortune I forked ou
t on that useless Norland nanny.’ Sebastian turned to walk away, leaving Jessie with an enormous sense of satisfaction as she ducked down out of sight behind the potting shed to do a silent high five. And it had never been Jessie’s wish to employ a nanny, anyway. Sebastian had selected her, saying it was the norm in the section of society that he came from, further highlighting the chasmic difference in their backgrounds. Jessie had been relieved when the nanny had declined to come to Tindledale with them.

  As Jessie was inwardly celebrating this unexpected triumph, something caught her eye – a white wooden object, covered in mud. After quickly checking over her shoulder to ensure the triplets were still happy and OK inside the safety net of the trampoline, Jessie pulled on her gardening gloves and carefully reached in amongst the overgrown mass of stinging nettles.

  A hive!

  Jessie’s heart lifted even higher as she brushed away the worst of the grime, making a promise to herself to try again to get involved in village life. Perhaps she could offer to make some honey? If she got a move on she could harvest a small batch of jars to sell at the village show. All she needed was to catch a swarm, and she could do that with her eyes closed – well, perhaps not like that exactly, but certainly with a net curtain, a dustpan brush and a cardboard box, she recalled, having achieved this feat as a teenager when a swarm descended on the village fete and she had rounded up the bees before gently coaxing them into the box and taking them home to live in one of her hives, earning herself a hearty round of applause from the gathered crowd.

  With Sebastian off to Zurich soon for a few months, she wouldn’t have to put up with his mood swings, and then when the children joined the village school, Jessie would meet new people. Maybe there’d be a friend she could confide in, someone to talk to about her sham of a marriage, an ally to draw strength from. Jessie had contemplated a life without Sebastian, but she knew with absolute certainty that he would never let her take the children, and she refused to leave them alone with him. So, for now, she had no option other than to try to make a happy life for herself and the children.

  Jessie took a deep breath and wandered over to the trampoline to show the children the hive, pondering that perhaps coming to Tindledale really was the perfect move after all.

  The following morning, Saturday, and I’m up early and raring to go. I’m already in the High Street, having enjoyed a very pleasant stroll in the magnificent morning sun, taking the long route round past the pond and village green, stopping to offload my leftover stale bread for the greedy geese and ducks, something I haven’t done since Jack was a little boy, but only because Jack’s enormous appetite means there just hasn’t been any leftover food in my house for quite some time. But that’s all changed, and the ducks can now enjoy the remnants of a large seeded bloomer from the Tindledale bakery.

  I’m about to pop into all of the shops to make sure they’re happy about committing to the tasks we agreed last night – such as making sure the display windows are pristine, and in keeping with the ‘Traditional Tindledale’ theme that we’ve decided on for this year’s show. And to see if there’s anything I can do to help, as apart from my current cross-stitch project, and of course my school work and my plan for impressing the inspectors, I reckon I could still spare some time on Sundays when my cottage feels emptiest and I miss Jack the most. I’ve already roped in Hettie and Sybs to run some crafting classes with my children, having spoken to them last night after the meeting, and they were more than happy to help out.

  I’m also trying to find someone to tend to the little lawn area in the village square, and perhaps the village green. I saw earlier that the duck pond certainly needs attention; there’s algae and weeds sprouting at all angles on the farthest side – which reminds me, the dilapidated two-berth caravan in the station car park has to go. With the roof sawn off and the brambles growing inside ‘left to nature’, it’s an eyesore, and hardly the best first impression of Tindledale should one of the judges choose to arrive by train – although, that seems a bit unlikely, as the walk from the station to the village is over two miles, up a very steep and winding hill, so unless they’re lucky enough to time it right and hop into Tommy Prendergast’s taxi after he’s dropped somebody off – hmm, highly unlikely, as he only does taxi runs after four p.m. when the village store has closed, but anyway, best not to risk it: perhaps Pete can tow the caravan away with his tractor? I pull out my pad to make a note.

  I’ve made up a poster listing the dates, times and venues for all of the meetings – the Creative committee is going to meet in Hettie’s House of Haberdashery; they have lots of sofas and chairs in there and, to be honest, it’s where most of the creatively minded villagers tend to spend most of their free time in any case, doing the varied array of classes that Sybs and Hettie run. The Community committee are going to meet in the Duck & Puddle and the Civic committee has opted to use the village hall. I’ve made sure my phone number and email address is on the poster, too, just in case there are other villagers that couldn’t make last night’s meeting but still want to get involved – the more the merrier, I say! And I’ve been thinking about my conversation with Lawrence, and have come up with another idea, a triple whammy – something that will not only impress the school inspectors, and help Lawrence’s B&B business, but also boost our chances on show day, so I’m heading over to the Country Club this afternoon.

  I’ve just finished pinning the poster to the notice board, when Taylor from Paws Pet Parlour, on the other side of the High Street, appears at my side.

  ‘Hi Miss Singer,’ she grins, bobbing from one foot to the other, while fiddling with a yarnbombed bollard which I have to say looks very pretty indeed now that it’s been made to look like a giant knitted daffodil complete with long green knitted petals protruding jauntily on wire stems. Very original and inventive.

  ‘Hi Taylor, how are you?’ I ask, ‘and you know, you can call me Meg these days – it’s a long time since you were a pupil at my school.’ I tilt my head to one side and smile kindly. I know I shouldn’t have favourites, but Taylor was such a lovely schoolgirl, funny and kind, keen and willing to learn, even though she was also quite rebellious at times too, always up to some prank or another. I remember one time she tipped a pot of glitter into the classroom fish tank so we had to do an emergency goldfish evacuation. Taylor loves animals, and was so upset that she cried herself to sleep that night – according to her mum, Amber. And then she came into school the following day with an apology card covered in stickers of Nemo that she had made herself. I still have it pinned to the cork board on the wall in my office.

  ‘Ahh, sorry Miss Sing—, oops, sorry, Meg. Feels weird saying Meg,’ she grins and I laugh. ‘Um, I just wondered how Jack was doing?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a little taken aback as I wasn’t aware that they were friends. As if hearing my thoughts, Taylor adds,

  ‘We played pool together in the Duck & Puddle, last time he was home.’ And I’m sure I spot a flush in her cheeks. ‘I let him win,’ she shrugs, and sweeps her long Elsa-from-Frozen-style plait over her shoulder, clearly smitten.

  ‘Well, um, that was very kind of you.’ I lean towards her and lower my voice. ‘He can get very huffy if he loses a game,’ I say conspiratorially. Taylor laughs and pats my arm like we’re best friends, and it warms my heart; for a moment I’m reminded of Jack, tapping my arm to get my attention – and then I realise that physical contact is one of the main things I miss most about him not being here, in addition to his smile and jokes and advice on just about everything, from dating to what the latest street-slang words actually mean, to trying to goad me into doing impressions of rappers so he can roll around on the floor laughing at me. Taylor smiles and inspects her paw-print-patterned acrylic nails before asking again how Jack is. ‘He seemed fine, last time we spoke,’ I reply, curious to know why she’s enquiring, and she seems very insistent on finding out – I make a mental note to ask Jack next time he calls.

  ‘Good. That’s really good,’ Taylor say
s, distractedly, but she seems vacant now, nervous even. ‘Um,’ she hesitates. ‘Sorry, I …’ Her voice fades.

  ‘Are you OK, Taylor?’

  ‘Yes … I just wondered if … um, that when you next talk to him, if you could ask him to get in touch with me, please? It’s quite important – I’ve messaged him but he hasn’t replied.’ She looks at her hands and my heart goes out to her. An unrequited crush is always quite devastating, but especially so when you’re only seventeen years old. I know I’m biased, but Jack is a very good-looking boy, all dark curly hair and gypsy eyes, takes after his dad, whose grandmother was a Romany gypsy, and Taylor isn’t the first girl to go gaga over Jack. Taylor pulls her long cardy closer around herself before folding her arms as if shielding her body. Oh dear, she’s got it bad. She’s clearly feeling vulnerable.

  ‘Sure, I can do that,’ I smile.

  ‘Oh would you?’ Taylor beams. ‘That would be awesome!’

  *

  A couple of hours later, and I’m sitting in Kitty’s tearoom, having already polished off a delicious round of locally sourced cheese and homemade chutney sandwiches, and now have a perfectly plump huffkin bun in front of me, with caramelised cherries cascading from the hole in the centre, and a mug of hot chocolate with a very generous swirl of marshmallow-topped squirty cream on top.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ It’s Kitty, and after wiping her hands on her ditsy floral-print apron, she points to the cake. I slip my almost finished cross-stitch project back inside the cloth shoe bag to keep it clean and free from crumbs, or a possible hot chocolate spillage. I’ve already had to unstitch part of it three times because I made some silly mistakes with the detailing, so it really is becoming a labour of love and it would be a real shame if it got ruined at this stage when I’ve very nearly finished it.

  ‘Very impressive! It looks amazing and I bet it tastes as good as it looks too,’ I say, smiling up at her.