by Jo Carnegie
‘Is everything all right?’ Angie asked, as the three women sat down.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Clementine assured her. Angie noted her red-rimmed eyes but didn’t say anything.
Calypso reached for the white wine in a bucket on the table. ‘Christ, I could do with a large glass of this,’ she declared.
‘Me, too,’ said Camilla.
‘And I as well,’ echoed Clementine, who normally never drank anything other than a daily glass of champagne – or a sherry on special occasions.
Calypso sloshed wine in each of their glasses and toasted the table. ‘Cheers, everyone!’
She took a deep slug and sat back in her chair, letting the liquid wash over her with its calming presence.
Someone else came over to their table to offer condolences. The plight of Churchminster had made the national press, and everyone had been tremendously nice about it – everyone apart from the Maplethorpe villagers, of course, who sat at their table throwing supercilious looks at everyone else.
The blonde newcomer leant down beside Clementine. ‘Carole Newbury, from Beasley village,’ she said.
‘Oh, hello!’ Clementine said. Beasley was one of the other finalists, a charming little place on the Norfolk-Suffolk border.
Carole Newbury had the weathered nose and cheeks of someone who spends a great deal of time outdoors. ‘I actually grew up in the Cotswolds,’ she said. ‘Not far from Churchminster, and it’s still a very special place to me. I just wanted to say, on behalf of the Beasley committee, how sorry we were to hear about the dreadful business of your church burning down. We all know the importance the church plays in a village, so you must be feeling it, dreadfully. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Why, Carole, thank you.’ Clementine was genuinely touched. A woman called Flora Birch from the other finalist village, a pretty place in Aberdeenshire called Little Haven, had already approached Clementine to offer her stoic Scottish condolences. ‘It’s so nice to know that we’ve all entered the competition with the right spirit.’
‘All except Maplethorpe,’ muttered Carole Newbury, throwing a dark look in the direction of their table. ‘You know there’s been a huge hoo-ha about them making it to the final again. People weren’t happy when they won last year, and there’s been talk of cheating and of some of the judges being buttered up. Thank God for Marjorie Majors, she’ll tell it how it is.’
‘We hope so,’ said Clementine.
‘Well, I’d better get back,’ said Carole Newbury. She smiled round the table at them all. ‘Good luck!’
‘You, too!’ they all called back.
Before the results were announced, they had a four-course dinner that seemed to go on as long as the contest had. There was a mounting frisson of excitement in the room, and people were desperate to know if their months of hard work had paid off. Bottle after bottle of wine was brought out, as nervous finalists tried to settle their nerves.
For Calypso, who had spent the last few months staying in at Rafe’s, a night out was long overdue. As was a healthy amount of wine. At least there’s no one to tell me what to do any more, she thought defiantly.
At nine o’ clock, two hours after it had started, dinner was finally over. Waiting staff came out for the final time to collect the empty coffee cups, and everyone turned expectantly towards a big stage at the front of the room.
Suddenly the lights dimmed and music started up. The stage flashed up with colour again and Marjorie Majors strode out, followed by her two male counterparts. She was clutching a large gold-plated trowel, which would be presented to the eventual winner. The audience started clapping enthusiastically. Marjorie climbed up in front of a lectern to the left of the stage and waited until the applause had died down.
‘Welcome to this year’s Britain’s Best Village competition, in association with Greenacres Garden Centres! This is the tenth year the competition has been running, in which we have seen some worthy winners – and not forgetting their worthy contenders – from all over the nation. This year, the standard has been exceptional and I would like to say a huge well done to Maplethorpe in Yorkshire, Churchminster in the Cotswolds, Beasley in Norfolk and Little Haven in Aberdeenshire. All four villages were shortlisted from a list of thousands not only for their pride in making their village look wonderful, but for their strong sense of community spirit. Whoever is the lucky winner tonight, I would like to salute them all for their tremendous achievement.’
The whole room rose, to applaud the four tables of competitors.
Marjorie Majors looked down at her speech before continuing. ‘Of course, there can only be one winner, one village who will scoop the three-quarters of a million pounds prize.’ She emphasized each word dramatically. Clementine felt a shiver down her spine, and it wasn’t a nice one. They so desperately needed that money! The thought of Maplethorpe scooping it, just to add another ostentatious fountain to their village green or something, made her feel quite ill.
‘And now,’ declared Marjorie, ‘the only thing that is left for me to do is to introduce our very important guest this evening, who will be handing out the prize.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Alan Titchmarsh!’
As the celebrity gardener and TV presenter came out on to the stage, the middle-aged ladies in the audience went wild.
‘Love you, Alan!’ shouted one of them. Another elegant woman in her late sixties put her fingers in her mouth and wolf whistled loudly, much to the delight of the people sitting on her table.
‘Ooh, he has got a certain something!’ Angie whispered to Camilla. Camilla giggled, noticing even her grandmother had gone a bit pink around the cheek area.
Alan said a few words about how pleased he was to be there, and then stepped back to let Marjorie start the proceedings. A complete hush settled over the room of nearly one thousand people. On the Churchminster table, everyone held their breath, gripping each other’s hands.
Please, by some stroke of good fortune, let us win! prayed Clementine. On her left, Calypso had shut her eyes tightly and was praying for the first time in her life. Angie Fox-Titt had her head buried in Freddie’s arm, while Lucinda Reinard and Brenda Briggs held on to each other tightly. It seemed like an age before Marjorie Majors put on her pince-nez and slowly unfurled the scroll with the winning village on it.
‘In fourth place,’ she said. There was a long pause. Marjorie looked round at the crowd solemnly.
‘Oh, get on with it!’ hissed Stacey Turner, ‘who does she think she is, Ant and Dec on X Factor?’
‘In fourth place,’ Marjorie repeated, ‘Is the village of …’
Everyone looked at each other, on absolute tenterhooks.
‘Churchminster!’
It was a few seconds before reality hit home. They hadn’t won. The money they so badly needed was not theirs.
Freddie ran his hands over his face. ‘Oh shit,’ he said unhappily.
On the other side of the table, Brenda Briggs had collapsed in tears. ‘We’re going to have to move!’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t live there if the cottage isn’t safe, I can’t!’
‘We’ll have to find the money to floodproof our houses some other way, darling,’ Angie told her, but it was clear from the devastated look on her face that she hadn’t a clue where.
All Clementine could think of was St Bartholomew’s, standing broken and bent on the village green. Images started swirling through her mind: Edmund’s funeral, her mother’s devastated face, the new joy of her son Johnnie’s christening … The pictures started to move away from her. Try as she could, Clementine couldn’t hold on to them, recall the faces. Everything was lost for ever now.
Through the blur, she was aware of a strange noise, like a roar building. Someone was tugging on her arm. Dazed, Clementine turned to look at Calypso.
‘Granny Clem, look!’ she cried. ‘They’re giving us a standing ovation!’
And so they were. With the exc
eption of Maplethorpe, every single person in the room was up on their feet applauding wildly. The members of the Garden Party looked around stunned, not quite able to take it in. As the clapping finally died down, Marjorie Majors spoke again.
‘I feel I must say a word about Churchminster, which holds a place dear in my heart.’ At this, she shot a loaded look at the other two judges. ‘Even though, they came fourth, I think that this little village in the Cotswolds has worked tirelessly, and it is only bad luck and a tragic circumstance that has prevented them from having a good chance at winning. I understand that the police are working hard to find the culprits who burnt down St Bartholomew’s and I hope that those who did such a terrible thing are soon brought to justice. On behalf of the judging panel, I would also like to send our best wishes to Jack Turner, landlord of the Jolly Boot, who is recovering in hospital for his heroic efforts.’
‘That was nice of her,’ Camilla said to the others. Her grandmother nodded vaguely but her eyes had glazed over again as if she wasn’t really there. Stacey Turner was crying now, and being consoled by her strained-looking mother. Marjorie’s words had brought back to both of them how nearly Jack had died.
Marjorie looked down at the scroll, her face more businesslike.
‘Anyway, let’s get back to the task in hand. Third place goes to – and it really was very close – Little Haven!’
More applause, as the occupants of Little Haven table commiserated each other with rueful grins and hugs.
‘So it’s only Beasley or Maplethorpe!’ whispered Calypso. ‘Shit, Beasley have got to win.’ She cast a worried glance at Clementine, who was sitting perfectly still in her chair, eyes closed. It’s too much for her, Calypso thought. First the shock of her run-in with Veronica, and now not winning; her grandmother was getting too old to cope with all this. She had aged ten years in the last week.
The atmosphere in the room was electric. In a few moments, the winner of Britain’s Best Village would be announced to nationwide acclaim.
‘Maplethorpe can’t win it two years running!’ Calypso said in an undertone to Camilla. Her voice was uncertain. ‘Can they?’
They were about to find out. As Marjorie Majors waffled on about the standard being the highest yet, and what an honour it was to judge, the Beasley table shuffled on their seats restlessly. Christ, she was drawing it out! Finally, she looked out over the sea of people and took a breath.
‘And the winner of this year’s Britain’s Best Village is …’
Someone whooped and cheered at the back of the room.
‘And the winner is …’
There was a loud crash at the back of the room as one of the waiters dropped a tray of glasses.
‘Maplethorpe!’
Chapter 54
SO THAT WAS that. Her worst nightmare had come true. Clementine slumped in her chair, utterly defeated. Across the room the Maplethorpe table erupted gracelessly, as the Beasley table looked deflated. They had been so close. One of the Maplethorpe table, a florid-faced man with a huge handlebar moustache, stood up and faced the Beasley group. He was obviously drunk. ‘Ha, trounced! We were always going to win, you’re playing with the big boys now!’
Sounds of disgust sounded round the room. Veronica made a big show of pulling the man back on to his seat, but by the gleeful look on her face it was clear she felt the same.
Camilla looked anxiously at her grandmother. Her face had gone as white as a sheet.
‘It’s not bloody on!’ exploded Angie Fox-Titt, who Clementine had confided in about Veronica Stockard-Manning’s underhand tactics.
Freddie put his hand over hers. ‘Take it easy, darling.’
Up on stage, Marjorie Majors frowned at the unseemly spectacle going on at the Maplethorpe table. The man who had stood up was now loudly demanding ‘some more bloody champers’.
Marjorie shot him a death look and spoke into the microphone. ‘I’d just like to say how close the competition was this year, and how Maplethorpe only just edged through to claim victory. Beasley village have been wonderful contenders, and I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate them on getting this far. There’s always next year, chaps!’
Heartfelt applause rang out. Camilla wished they could have won, Carole Newbury had seemed like a lovely woman.
To a cacophony of female cheers, Alan Titchmarsh stepped forward to present the trophy and cheque to Maplethorpe. Even Marjorie Majors looked like she was swooning a bit, giggling coquettishly whenever Alan said something to her.
‘If Maplethorpe would like to come up on stage,’ she called. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you this year’s winner, Maplethorpe village in Yorkshire!’
The party made their way up and scattered applause sounded, followed by a few boos. It appeared Maplethorpe’s unpopularity was widespread. It didn’t seem to affect Veronica, though, as she swept past the Churchminster table shooting a triumphant look at Clementine. It took all of Camilla’s efforts to persuade her sister to not jump up and empty another glass over Veronica’s head.
As they all filed on stage smugly, Veronica in the lead, Alan Titchmarsh was waiting, the gold trowel ready in his hand. But just as he stepped forward to present the trophy to them, the doors at the back of the room burst open.
Everyone turned to look, including the people on stage. Veronica looked furious. How dare someone spoil her big moment!
Clementine had to look twice; she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Sure enough, the uniformed figure of Bedlington’s PC Penny was marching towards the stage, gripping the arm of a protesting youth.
‘That’s that little oik who was rogering Celia Blakely-Norton!’ Lucinda exclaimed to Angie as he was frogmarched by. ‘What in dickens are they doing here?’
They stared at each other, at a complete loss.
‘What on earth is going on?’ Marjorie Majors exclaimed angrily. ‘You can’t just storm in here!’
‘If you don’t mind madam,’ PC Penny said. ‘I’ve just picked up this young fellow on a public decency charge and he had rather an interesting story to tell.’
‘That’s her!’ shouted the youth pointing directly at Pam Viner. Pam took a step back in shock.
‘Are you sure?’ demanded PC Penny. He seemed to be rather enjoying the drama of it all.
The youth nodded. ‘I’d swear me mum’s life on it. She’s the woman who paid me to vandalize Churchminster and start a fire in the church!’
Gasps sounded round the room.
‘What?’ choked Clementine.
‘I didn’t mean for the whole thing to go up!’ cried the youth, all swagger gone now. ‘It was just meant to be the potting shed at the back of the church, but it got out of control. I couldn’t stop it!’
‘It was ’er!’ the youth protested. ‘Gave me a hundred quid each time, extra fifty for hush money.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Pam started to bluster. ‘I’ve never seen this hoodlum before in my life.’
‘All the same, madam, I’d like you to accompany me back to Bedlington police station,’ PC Penny said. ‘This is a very serious matter that needs investigating immediately.’
All pretence at good cheer went out the window. ‘She made me do it!’ Pam shouted, pointing at Veronica. ‘She said if I didn’t, she’d hound me out of Maplethorpe!’
Veronica’s pudgy hand flew to her mouth. ‘Why would you say such an awful thing?’ Another police officer had turned up, slightly breathless and she turned imploringly to him. ‘I can assure you I have no idea what Pamela is going on about. I’m afraid she’s always had a vivid imagination.’
‘If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me,’ shouted Pam. ‘I’ve even kept recordings of our phone conversations, just in case you did something like this to me, Veronica!’
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch!’ hissed Veronica, but the game was up.
The other police officer stepped forward sternly. ‘Ladies, if you’d like to follow me.’
‘I’m an old a
ge pensioner, you can’t do this to me!’ Veronica shrieked, but it was no use.
To a chorus of boos from the audience, they were led off.
On the Churchminster table, mouths were wide open.
‘I knew there was something fishy going on!’ cried Lucinda Reinard. ‘That bloody Viner woman always seemed to be creeping around!’
Clementine was speechless. Of all the low-down, despicable …
‘Order, order!’ shouted Marjorie Majors from the stage. She looked at the rest of the Maplethorpe party, left rather shamefacedly on stage. ‘Please leave. You’re a disgrace to the competition and I shall personally make sure you’re all banned from entering again for life!’
They trooped off to catcalls and heckling.
Looking rather flustered, Marjorie Majors called the other two judges over and they went into a huddle. After lots of head-shaking and a few nods, Marjorie called for calm again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’
The babble continued.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she tried again. ‘Please!’
Gradually the noise died down.
Marjorie took to the lectern again. ‘May I be the first to apologize for such a dreadful incident, and, rest assured, along with the police we will be carrying out our own thorough investigation. Maplethorpe may have tried to blacken the reputation of Britain’s Best Village, but I will not stand by and let that happen!’
‘Hear, hear!’ cheered someone.
Marjorie continued. ‘Never before has this happened in the history of the competition, but I have no choice but to disqualify Maplethorpe. Therefore, the winner of this competition and of the three-quarters of a million pounds prize money is Beasley!’
The room erupted again, including the Churchminster table. Bleak as their future might now be, they were delighted Beasley had snatched victory from Maplethorpe. But the Beasley table sat talking intently for a moment, heads bowed together.
‘Come on!’ bellowed a delighted Marjorie. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve all got stage fright!’ The table stood up smiling, and made their way in a procession towards the stage.
