‘Really? Gosh, that’s very generous of him,’ I say, impressed, and thinking how it just goes to show that first impressions can be so misleading. The general has certainly come up trumps for Tindledale – firstly with the OBE medal and display cabinet in my school, and now this! And then I spot the snag – the food trucks and juice bar are still here on the map. I tap the board discreetly, on the red number eleven – Cher’s venison burger bar, located in the newly tidied station car park. Jessie was there all day yesterday, weeding and clearing, now that the dilapidated old caravan has finally been towed away.
‘What are we going to do?’ I whisper, looking back over my shoulder at Lawrence. It didn’t go down well when I told all the caterers at the emergency meeting last night in the Duck & Puddle that Dan has left Tindledale so it seems we are going to have to make do without the food trucks. And Lawrence hasn’t heard anything more from him, other than another call from Pia to settle Dan’s bill. Lawrence didn’t have a chance to ask anything further, as Pia was very brusque – barely drawing breath, he told me, as she read out the long card number and security digits before practically slamming the phone down.
I swallow hard to quash the feelings of disappointment and sadness rising up inside me. I’ve not slept very well the last few nights, and I’m not sure if it’s Mum’s snoring that’s making me feel so unsettled – yes, I can hear her whistling peaks and troughs from the spare bedroom, even with my bedroom door closed. Or maybe it’s because my back is still hurting, or perhaps knowing that Jack is flying to Cape Town today … But the truth is, it’s none of those things really. When I’ve woken up, it’s with only one person in my head. Dan. I just can’t help it; he has got under my skin in a way no man has in years. I keep wondering what he’s up to. Where is he? And, more importantly, why did he leave? And then I get angry all over again that he’s gone, leaving us with this dilemma and potentially ruining our chances of making the top ten villages list, and leaving me feeling … well, bereft. And I know that I have no right to be, not when he’s already with another woman. And I’m certainly not going to try to contact him, definitely not. No, I’ve had my fair share of men just upping and leaving – Liam did it, and then Will, and it’s not like anything really happened between Dan and me …
‘It’ll be all right,’ Lawrence says, putting his arm around my shoulders. ‘Cher is doing a big barbecue in the pub garden now, in addition to having a trellis table with a pergola cover in the station car park – she’s calling in extra bar staff to help out and act as “runners” between the two locations. Kitty has the café, of course, to serve up her delicious cakes and cream teas, so isn’t overly anxious about not having a food truck too, and apparently the bakery is bringing out its old delivery van. It has a serving hatch so they can sell artisan bread to the hipsters down from London.’ We both smile.
‘Perfect. It won’t be as slick as Dan’s candy-striped, awning-clad chrome food trucks, but it’ll do, and just goes to prove that Tindledale really can do without the likes of Dan flaming Wright.’ I sound defiant, and try to look defiant, but inside I feel flat and sombre – I have to try and pick myself up for everyone’s sake.
‘Exactly. And I’ll help you transport your crates up to the hall, so you can still have a juice bar – it’ll just be a trellis table with plastic cups, but never mind. Now, let’s not worry about it for a moment longer. We have a Great Village Show to put on!’ And Lawrence turns on his heel and heads off towards two women, who I assume are the ones warring over George, the hop farmer, as they’re both standing with their arms folded across their chests, looking daggers at each other. Oh dear, Lawrence sure has his work cut out with those two – I remember them from my school, always bickering and complaining about the other one to whoever was on playground duty. Some things never change.
‘Hi Meg.’ It’s Sybs. ‘Have you seen this?’ She hands me a colourful pamphlet from a pile in her bag, which I take after giving Basil a quick stroke.
‘Thanks.’ I open it up. ‘Wow! Very impressive.’ It’s a mini-concertinaed version of the map so visitors can carry it around the village with them. It even has a little section of vouchers – 10 per cent off when you buy any home-grown produce in the main marquee, 15 per cent off the cost of a ride on a heavy horse-drawn vintage plough; buy one get one free on face painting, next to a picture of my Reception class children with leopard and zebra faces (ahh, so that’s what Mary was up to with the camera at the teddy bears’ picnic that day). There’s a free day-pass to the Country Club, half-price piano lessons with Pam (Dr Ben’s secretary) when you book a course of ten, so there is quite a good selection of offers, and there’s even a free wash and blow dry for your dog when you book them in for the nail-clipping service at the Paws Pet Parlour – which reminds me, I must catch up with Taylor soon to see how she is after Jack called her. I fold the pamphlet back up, thinking how professional it looks, and certainly a step up from last year’s village show fiasco.
‘And see there.’ Sybs turns the pamphlet over and points to a picture on the back.
‘The commemorative stone!’ I say, impressed.
‘That’s right,’ she grins.
‘Is it here? In place?’ I swivel my head towards the direction of the village square, but can’t see of course, as it’s around the corner, opposite Ruby’s vintage dress shop and the bus shelter.
‘Yep, it sure is. And Hettie is over the moon. Marigold’s husband, Lord Lucan, too.’
‘Ooh, I can’t wait to see it,’ I say, lifting my wicker shopping basket on to my arm – it’s crammed with all kinds of paraphernalia that I thought might come in handy this evening – staple gun, glue, pens, markers, fluoro cardboard signs, tissues (in the run-up to the last village show there were lots of tears as some villagers got overwrought by the enormity of the preparations) and plenty of packets of biscuits to pop on to the plates next to the numerous tea urns dotted around the place, to keep all the organisers sustained.
‘Come on, I’ll walk over with you,’ Sybs says, slipping her arm through mine and clicking with her tongue to give Basil his cue to come along too.
Back home, and I’ve just changed into my nightie and dressing gown and scooped Blue up for a cuddle on the sofa after sorting Mum out with a hot bath – for some reason, she ‘forgot’ to bring any of her ‘pampering stuff’ as she calls it (she had packed it all into a separate vanity case, which she subsequently left in the boot of her car at Tenerife South airport), so she’s now soaking herself in my extra creamy bluebell foam bubble bath, which I treated myself to in the little farm shop after doing the bluebell walk through the Tindledale woods – when there’s a knock on the door. Feeling very disgruntled, I pop Blue down on the armchair and slip on my bunny slippers before pulling the lounge door to and making my way to answer it. I’m just about to open the front door, when there’s another knock, much louder this time, and very insistent, so I go to pull open the door, with a suitable rebuke already prepared: honestly, it’s almost ten o’clock, and very bad manners to be hammering on my door at this time of night. But before I have a chance to actually say anything, Mr Cavendish barges past me and storms into my house with a murderous look on his face.
‘Err, excuse me!’ I start, racing down the hallway after him. He’s standing in the kitchen now, pacing around with his hands on his hips. ‘You can’t just barge in here. What do you want?’ I ask, stepping towards him, and wondering what on earth is going on. He’s clearly furious, but why is he here? He’s supposed to be in Zurich. And if he’s here, then what about Jessie? And the children? Do they know that he’s here in Tindledale? At my house. Should I call Jessie and find out what is going on? But why isn’t he at home, in the farmhouse? And then a horrible, sickening feeling runs through me and I instinctively move away from him by taking a few steps backwards. I need to call Jessie. I need to go to her and make sure she’s OK. The children, I must make sure they’re safe, and why didn’t I talk to Becky? I never did mention my concerns after Mill
ie told me about the iron burn incident. And what if it’s now too late? What if he’s hurt Jessie again? Oh God.
‘A word with you,’ he spits, angry eyes flicking around the kitchen like a feral animal on high alert.
‘I think you need to calm down first.’ I hold up my palms in a peaceful way, going straight into teacher mode, but then rapidly realise that this might antagonise him further, so I change tack. ‘I don’t know what the problem is, but if I can help in any wa—’
‘Help? Is that what you call it? I think you’ve done enough of that already. Filling my wife’s head with your nonsense. We were perfectly happy before you came on the scene …’ he bellows into my face, stepping closer towards me, and instinct tells me he’s done this before – warned people off. Jessie did say that any friends she has made in the past have tended to drift away after meeting her husband, and now I can see why. I bet he goes around intimidating them, scaring them off so he can keep Jessie all to himself, controlled and lonely, unloved and uncared for. Well, he’s got another think coming if he reckons for one second he’s going to frighten me away.
‘Err,’ I open my mouth, but he flings up a hand with such ferocity, it startles me and I immediately stop talking.
‘Don’t interrupt me. I haven’t finished.’ Silence follows as he glares at me, but I manage to hold eye contact, unflinching.
‘Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,’ I shout, still holding my nerve. ‘You don’t scare me. You’re a bully! Now get out of my house. You’re not welcome here, and you certainly weren’t invited, so I’d like you to leave. Right now!’ And I stand aside so he can go out the same way he came in here, but he doesn’t move. Instead he looks me up and down before giving me a sneering look. I take a deep breath and will myself to stop shaking. Adrenalin is surging through me so fast, and I can hear my own blood pumping inside my head. But I’m not backing down. No way. Jessie is my friend and that isn’t changing any time soon, just because he doesn’t like it.
‘Enjoy yourself, did you?’ Mr Cavendish sneers. ‘Giving my wife a crash course in being assertive. Women’s rights, or whatever rubbish it is you people spew? What are you, some kind of burn-your-bra freak? That’s if you even need to wear a bra …’ And he drops his eyes to my modest chest. I instinctively fold my arms and glare back at him.
RUDE. VERY, VERY RUDE!
I draw a long breath in.
‘Look, Jessie and I are friends—’
‘Oh yes, I know that,’ he interrupts again. ‘She told me all about you – how caring and kind you are, and how right you were when you said that she needed time to think about her life. Listen, my wife has everything she ever needs, and do you know why? Because I give it to her. That’s right, me, her loving and loyal husband.’
Well, I know that isn’t true!
He stabs at his chest with a pointy index finger and I actually think he might be deranged. Deluded. Psychotic, even. ‘You’re nobody to her, so stay away …’ he finishes, panting slightly as he comes to the end of his diatribe.
I change tack. ‘You need to go. You’re clearly very upset.’
‘So long as you understand. You keep away from my wife. You stop trying to change her. She doesn’t need friends like you. That’s why we moved here, to get away from all the other busybodies getting inside her head.’
‘I want you to go,’ I try again, feeling quite scared now. Abusive and threatening is one thing, but the way he’s behaving is something different.
‘I’m going nowhere until you swear to keep away …’ And he actually pulls out one of my dining chairs and drops down on to it with a weird, sort of sneering, manic smile on his face. Jesus. I spot the hands-free phone on the kitchen table. I can call Mark at the police house, but Mr Cavendish sees it too and jumps up. He smashes the phone across the room, causing it to shatter against the side of the Rayburn, and then goes to grab my arm, but the chair topples slightly, catching his foot, so he stumbles instead. My heart near leaps into my throat, and what’s that buzzing noise inside my head? I can’t breathe. My throat has closed and my chest feels as if a concrete slab has been dropped on it.
Suddenly, I see something in my peripheral vision. A movement.
The bathroom door.
‘GET OUT!’
It’s Mum.
And, I don’t believe it. She has a pink bath towel twirled around her head, and is sopping wet, with bubbles all over her naked body, only just covering her modesty.
Mr Cavendish doesn’t move. His jaw drops open. Mine too. And before he can respond, Mum swings the white wicker laundry basket lid up in front of her like a shield, which she then uses to body-slam the charming Mr Cavendish.
‘Go on! You heard her. GET OUT!’ Mum screams with such ferocity – I’ve never heard the like of it from her before, and it’s utterly terrifying.
She’s bashing the wicker lid into Mr Cavendish’s side now, over and over and over, all the while shrieking at him to leave. And, oh my God, she’s now dropped the makeshift shield and has grabbed a glass demijohn from the kitchen table. Mr Cavendish looks petrified as he tries to bring his fists up to protect himself. But Mum is on a roll; she’s like a Ninja, a super-hero or something, as she hurls the demijohn up high in the air with both hands before aiming it at Mr Cavendish’s head.
‘NOOOOOOO!’ I scream, flinging my hands out as if to stop her. ‘Not his head, Mum! You’ll kill him,’ I plead, with a sudden image flashing inside my head of her shuffling into a prison visiting room to see me when she’s serving a life sentence for his murder. ‘He’s not worth it,’ I pant, slapping my hands on to the back of his pinstripe shirt and shoving him as hard as I can.
‘Get off me,’ he yells, wrenching himself free. ‘The pair of you are fucking crazy. Jesus, I’ve a good mind to call the police and have you both arrested for assault!’ And he’s in such a hurry to escape that he gets disorientated and runs into the bathroom and promptly slips, just like I did on the bathroom mat, but instead of catapulting forward across the bath, he goes backwards and ends up in a heap on the floor, so I do the first thing that comes into my head and run across the kitchen and, after quickly kicking his outstretched arm out of the way, I fling the bathroom door shut and then immediately drag the armchair from over by the Rayburn and wedge it firmly under the handle so the charming Mr Cavendish is secured inside.
‘Ha! That’s my girl. Well done Megan,’ Mum puffs, placing both hands on her hips. I instinctively turn away as the suds have started to melt now and there are some things a daughter should never need to see. A sparkly vajazzle is definitely one of them.
‘Mum, run up to the police house and get Mark – here, put this on,’ and I rip off my dressing gown and sling it in her direction before loading wine crates on to the armchair, just in case the charming Mr Cavendish tries to push the door open. Hopefully, with the added weight, he’ll be going nowhere until Mark gets here.
‘I’m not leaving you alone with him,’ Mum protests, with a furious look on her face. ‘I’ll call 999.’
‘You can’t. He smashed the phone,’ I quickly tell her. ‘Go on, I’ll be fine. He’s going nowhere – and there’s no way he’ll fit through the tiny bathroom window,’ I state, loading another crate on to the pile already stacked up on the armchair. ‘Hurry. I need to make sure Jessie is OK. God knows what state she’s in, what he might have done to her before he came looking for me.’
‘Jessie?’
‘Yes, Mum. His wife,’ I tell her, feeling frantic now.
‘Poor woman!’ Mum promptly shoves her feet into a pair of my gardening clogs by the back door, and is off, running down the side of my cottage on to the lane and up into the village. The police house is only a five-minute walk away, so if she runs all the way, she’ll be there in no time.
*
Just moments later, or so it seems, and my tiny cottage is crammed with people in police uniform taking Mr Cavendish away. Gabe and Vicky are here too; they heard all the commotion and saw Mum tearing dow
n the lane in a dressing gown, so thought it best to come round and check on me to see if everything was OK. I borrowed their phone to ring Jessie, and she’s fine, shaken up after the terrible argument that erupted when Sebastian turned up out of the blue, but she’s OK – Sam is with her now, and I’m going down to the farmhouse to see her shortly, just as soon as everyone has left.
‘Honestly, I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, gratefully accepting the blanket from Vicky.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, and I nod.
‘How about I make you both a nice cup of tea?’ Gabe offers, glancing at Mum, who thankfully has kept my dressing gown well and truly on, and with the belt tied securely around her waist.
‘I think we could do with something a bit stronger!’ And she grabs a bottle of carrot wine from the table, pulls the cork out and takes an enormous glug before collapsing in the window seat with a very harried look on her face. ‘And to think I came to Tindledale with my heart set on spending some nice, quiet, quality time with my daughter! How wrong was I? Things sure have moved on around here – in my day it was all cows and sheep and strawberries and fields. Lots of fields.’ She rolls her eyes before glugging another mouthful of wine. ‘Honestly, nowadays, if it isn’t lunatics breaking into people’s homes, then it’s S&M dungeons in your cottage basement.’ She points to the steps next to my pantry door and Gabe and Vicky exchange horrified looks as I shrivel a little inside. An image pops into my head of the Tindledale Herald headlines – Local teacher with S&M fetish – even has own dungeon! It could happen! If Mum keeps on like this.
*
It’s nearly midnight when Mark and I get to Jessie’s farmhouse. There’s a light glowing from the kitchen window and I can see Jessie sitting at the pine table with her head in her hands. Sam comes to the door right away, on seeing me.
‘Meg, thank you for coming, and I’m so sorry for everything. Are you OK?’ he says, concern etched all over his face.
The Great Village Show Page 20
