‘Selective memory syndrome!’ June laughed. ‘You were always having Bright Ideas and organising stuff for us to do. Everyone hung on your every word. We all thought you’d end up as the first lady prime minister. No wonder Tarnia was so jealous of you.’
At the mention of the T-word, Mitzi flinched. She shook her head. ‘Tarnia wasn’t jealous of me, for heaven’s sake! She was my best friend at school. We were always together, remember? I was always in awe of her. I felt sort of – well – mousy and goody-goody compared to her. I really wanted to be like her. I wanted to be as devilish and foolhardy as she was.’
‘While she,’ Sally said, ‘was dead envious of your popularity, your loyalty and your ability to see things through. You never gave up. Either on things or people. And yes, maybe Tarnia was a lot more wicked than you – but you got things done in a quiet and well, sort of kind but ruthless way. Everyone liked you, trusted you, relied on you – and they still do. You never let your friends down, while Tarnia didn’t have any friends at all – except you.’
‘She was the most popular girl in the school,’ Mitzi protested. ‘Everyone wanted to be her friend.’
‘No they didn’t,’ June shook her head. ‘Stone me, Mitzi. Don’t tell me you never realised that even then people were scared of Tarnia’s sharp tongue and cruel ways? They wanted to be in her gang so they didn’t get hurt by her. She was an ace bitch even then. And Sally’s right, she didn’t have any friends as such, except you.’
Crikey! Mitzi blinked. It was getting on for forty years since they’d all left school, and she’d never known … never realised.
‘Oh, come on! You’ll have me feeling sorry for her in a minute – and sympathy is about the last thing Tarnia needs! Anyway, I need to see her again about the things we’ve organised, and now’s as good a time as any – so shall we call it a day?’
June and Sally nodded.
As well as the general activities, they’d also arranged a fund-raising Christmas Fayre, a one-off village Christmas party and show, and a Christmas Dinner for all those in Hazy Hassocks and surrounding areas who would be alone on The Big Day.
The ideas were coming in thick and fast, and the sense of community was being resurrected by the minute. It was exactly what Mitzi had wanted.
And Tarnia could put the kibosh on the whole lot.
Mitzi stood up and clapped her hands. As always, no one took the slightest bit of notice.
‘Here,’ June rummaged under the table, emerged looking a bit flushed, and passed her a whistle. ‘This’ll do the trick. Belonged to me ma. She used to be a dinner lady at the Mixed Infants, remember? Used it to bring the little buggers into line. Kept it as a memento. I always have it in my handbag in case of rape.’
Mitzi decided any comment here would be a mistake. She put the whistle to her lips and let out a lengthy ear-splitting shrill.
Bingo!
The uproar died instantly. With Pavlov’s Dog reactions, everyone gawped at the stage. ‘Er – sorry if that brought back vivid memories of lumpy custard and cold cabbage … Thanks for your attention. I think we’ve done really well this evening but I’m sure we’ve all got things we need to get home for. I’ll e-mail the minutes to the library so everyone can have a copy – and I’ll see you here next Wednesday. Enjoy your fireworks.’
Several people clapped. Some nodded. Lavender and Lobelia waved.
Saying her goodbyes, Mitzi pulled on her gloves, turned up her collar and prepared to brave the relentless explosions outside.
Still mulling over the Tarnia revelations, Mitzi fumbled to unlock her car in the icy darkness. Intermittent rainbow explosions lit the sky and plunged the car park in and out of a kaleidoscope of colour and noise.
‘Hang on a mo!’ Trilby Man huffed and puffed out of the hall behind her. ‘You going off to see Lady Muck Snepps now?’
Mitzi nodded.
‘Ah, right. Well, can you tell her we’ll definitely need the hall every Friday and Saturday from now until Christmas, then, duck? And maybe a few nights in between? The am-drammers have decided on their little extravaganza, so we’ll ’ave to ’ave plenty of rehearsals. There’s not much time to get it right for the night …’
‘No, the year’s racing away. Still, if you’re only doing a carol concert and festive readings or something like that it shouldn’t take too much learning off by heart, should it? Everyone knows the Christmas Story and all the traditional carols.’
Trilby Man looked askance. ‘Bloody hell, Mitzi. The vicar does the carol stuff and reading that old Yonder Star bollocks. Allus ’as. We don’t want to tread on ’is toes, do we? No, we’re going to put on a bit of a song and dance for the festivities. Show ’em in Hazy Hassocks that us old ’uns can still cut the mustard, so to speak.’
Mitzi frowned. There were a lot of would-be musicians, singers and alleged thespians in the Baby Boomers Club. But surely there wasn’t enough time to regiment them into something too artistically elaborate for Christmas?
‘That sounds ambitious … Er – are you going to organise it?’
Trilby Man nodded. ‘Ah, I’m writer, producer and director. I like to adapt stuff my way, you know? I did a lot when I worked for the Water Board – did you ever see our production of Oliver? Brought tears to the eyes.’
Unable to visualise Trilby Man as Hazy Hassocks’s answer to Cameron Macintosh, Mitzi trusted herself merely to nod again. ‘That is, no, I didn’t see it – but, um, yes I can imagine. So is that what you’re going to be doing? Oliver?’
‘Garn! No!’ Trilby Man was scathing. ‘This’ll be even better’n that. Course, what I wanted to do was my version of Titanic – the musical, but I can see staging that in the village hall might cause a few problems …’
Mitzi clenched her teeth together.
Trilby Man beamed at her. ‘So we’ve decided on Hair.’
Mitzi shrieked with laughter, then realising he was deadly serious, managed to turn it into a coughing fit. ‘Oh … um … how lovely … right then, I’d better be off now …’
Shaking with held-in hysteria, she somehow managed to unlock the car. She didn’t let the laughter escape until she was well on the way to Tarnia’s.
Hair! The Baby Boomers were doing Hair?
Oh, God – she’d have to be careful on these narrow lanes – she could hardly see through her tears of merriment. Mind you, she thought, maybe slowing down wouldn’t hurt at all. The fireworks were glorious. It was like driving through an extremely pretty war zone. The sky was sprinkled with flares and flashes and fountains of brilliant light, and even with the car windows tightly shut and ‘Beggar’s Banquet’ roaring from the stereo, the explosions were deafening.
Hair, though! Ohmigod! There wasn’t one of them under fifty! And fiercely loyal as she was to the creed of those born in the after-the-war years having the right to express themselves with gusto, even she’d have to draw the line at all that grey and wrinkled flesh. And surely it was somewhat acrobatic? And the heating in the village hall was less than efficient. Half of them would probably die of hypothermia … And … Jesus!
What the hell had she started?
Mitzi’s head was spinning. What an evening of revelations! The truth about Tarnia, a geriatric hippie musical, and the Granny’s Country Cooking thing. What a difference an evening could make. She turned up Mick and the boys and sang along.
The short journey to Tarnia Towers became increasingly lovely as more and more Hazy Hassockers ignited their incendiary devices. Mitzi had always adored firework night, and was intending to meet up with the rest of the family on the village green for the annual effigy-burning. It would have been nice to have made some food for the occasion, but after Halloween she felt it might be better to allow both digestions and sensibilities to have a little time to recover.
Halloween … another revelation.
She allowed herself a little smirk of satisfaction. Everyone had said it was the best party they’d ever been to. After all that nonsense with the apples, Lu
had danced until the small hours with Shay – admittedly with Carmel alongside them, but she’d seemed happy enough – and Doll and Brett hadn’t emerged from the spare room until the following lunchtime, and Joel Earnshaw had stayed to help her clear up.
Not, of course, that she was harbouring any ideas in that direction – but it had been bliss to spend some time with a gorgeous man who wasn’t her ex-husband. And the ‘getting to know you’ routine was always such fun. And because of the Pumpkin Passion and Clyde’s wine, inhibitions had been shed so early in the evening, flirting had been de rigeur, and by the end everyone felt as though they’d known everyone else for ever.
Joel had said he might come along to the village firework display – so there hadn’t even been that awkward wondering when, or if, she’d see him again – and she hoped he would. Of course, she could always go to the surgery, but as her next dental check-up wasn’t for three months, and she was Mr Johnson’s patient, and – more vitally – the last thing she’d want was for Joel to see her professionally, all prone and wild-eyed, with saliva and guttural utterances and far too much amalgam.
Not that she’d be seeing him as such, professionally or otherwise, she reminded herself as she pulled up outside Tarnia’s filigreed gates. No, no doubt by the time Joel had sobered up he wouldn’t remember much about Friday’s party at all.
Still, thinking about Joel and Hair and her venture into becoming Nigella-with-Sinister-Herbal-Overtones would have to wait. Right now, for the sake of the Baby Boomers, she had – simply had – to get Tarnia on her side. Scrambling from the car and shivering in the bitter darkness, Mitzi hurried towards the intercom.
Before she reached it, a squat figure trundled out of the shadows.
‘You got an invite?’
Mitzi peered downwards in the darkness. Had Tarnia gone completely Lord of the Rings and started employing trolls?
The truncated bundle rocked on its heels. ‘Intercom’s deactivated. It’s invites only tonight. For the firework party. So if you hasn’t got one you can’t come in. Oh, ’alio, Mitzi duck.’
A troll with special cognitive powers?
Trust Tarnia to go for the top end of the troll market.
‘Er – hello?’
‘It’s me, duck. Gwyneth. Friend of your Lu’s. And Hedley and Biff Pippin of course. You remember me, don’t you?’
A fortuitous barrage of white light exploded overhead, giving Mitzi just enough time to pick out the octogenarian features of Gwyneth Wilkins, one of the Pippins’ animal-rights, intelligence-gathering moles from the neighbouring village of Fiddlesticks. Gwyneth and her friend, Big Ida Tomms, were notorious for being more enthusiastic than accurate. They, apparently, had been solely responsible for the erroneous information which had led to Lulu’s recent brush with the law.
‘Oh, hello, Gwyneth,’ Mitzi yelled over a Big Booma Bazooka Rocket. ‘Nice to see you. I didn’t know you worked for Tarnia.’
‘Ah, well – I don’t as a rule,’ Gwyneth screamed back. ‘But she’s made a hefty donation to our Save the Voles group, so when she asked for volunteers to man the gates I couldn’t say no, could I?’
Mitzi thought she definitely not only could but should, but chose not to say so. She shrugged noncommittally.
Gwyneth ducked as something whizzed overhead. ‘Bugger me! That was a close ’un. What was I saying? Oh, yes, working for Tarnia … Me and Big Ida did her Halloween bash as well – your Lance came to that, with ’is floozy, by the way – and we’ve been pencilled in for her next party in a couple of weeks’ time and for her Christmas entertaining. She’s very persuasive is young Tarnia …’
Mitzi nodded. She knew Tarnia’s methods only too well. Take advantage of the villagers while appearing to be doing them a huge favour. She’d been just the same at school. Maybe June and Sally had been right. Thinking back, Tarnia would break the nibs of your pens then offer you a lend of hers – at a price. Or she’d tear pages out of your text book then charge you a week’s dinner money to share hers. Or spill milk all over your homework and make you pay to copy hers. Or … oh, well, the instances were legion.
‘I haven’t got an invite,’ Mitzi stooped down to be nearer Gwyneth’s ears. She wasn’t sure it would help much as Gwyneth was wearing a woolly headscarf beneath a man’s cap with dangling earflaps. ‘But I only wanted to see Tarnia for a moment. Village business. I don’t want to go to the party.’
Gwyneth looked a bit concerned. ‘Well, I don’t know …’
‘You owe me one, Gwyneth. You caused our Lu an awful lot of trouble over that mix-up with Jeffrey’s Millinery and the ferrets.’
‘Ah … Right … Well, okay then, duck. Young Tarnia’s still in the house getting ready. Party don’t start in the Big Meadow until ten. Early-comers is in the stables ’aving drinks.’
‘What stables? Tarnia’s never been on a horse in her life, has she? Do they actually own horses then?’
‘Search me.’ Gwyneth shrugged inside the mammoth coat. It remained rigid. ‘Shouldn’t think so for a minute. They’ve got an orangery with no bloody oranges and a gazebo without hide nor hair of a gaz. So I doubts if they’ve got ’orses. Look, duck, if you wants to go in you’d better go now. There’s another car coming … quick about it – in you pop.’
Leaving the car outside the gates for an easy getaway, Mitzi popped.
In the distance, the Big Meadow at the back of Tarnia’s Bad-Taste Palace was illuminated by a tower-block bonfire. Shadowy figures were darting around, setting up the tubes for the fireworks, with even more tending a massive barbecue. It made Hazy Hassocks’s planned gathering on the village green look very amateurish by comparison.
Tarnia, opening the door, was clearly not pleased to see her.
‘You aren’t invited.’
‘I know,’ Mitzi yelled as the WMDs belonging to the youth of the Bath Road Estate whined overhead. ‘This is just a flying visit. About the village hall and the fields …’
Tarnia sighed. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t got time to listen to all that again. I’ve agreed to you meeting there – against my better judgement – haven’t I? What more do you want?’
‘Something in writing – a year’s lease of usage – or something. Look, we’ve planned lots of things, especially for Christmas—’ Mitzi made a lightning decision to keep the Hair revelation a closely guarded secret ‘—and everyone is really looking forward to it. I don’t want you to change your mind.’ She closed her eyes as another WMD exploded overhead. ‘Could I come in for a moment?’
‘No. I’m far too busy. We’ve got all the Rotary coming tonight, and the council, and several titled people, not to mention the Soames-Hartley and the Pugh-Padgetts and—’
‘Duncan Didsbury and a vat of strawberry yoghurt?’
Tarnia turned pale beneath her orange skin. ‘I knew I should have burned that bloody Polaroid. Okay – but only for a minute. And only in the hall.’
Once inside, Mitzi realised that tonight the hall and Tarnia were a matching pair.
In tight pink leather trousers, gold high-heeled boots and a white glittery bomber jacket, Tarnia could have been put on a plinth and no one would have spotted her. It would have been just like a tat version of Where’s Wally? that Lu and Doll had loved so much as children.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Mitzi smiled at Tarnia. ‘I didn’t catch that.’
‘I said, yes, I’ll get our people to draw up a lease – but only if I can vet the proceedings first and only if your awful villagey things don’t clash with anything I may have arranged.’
Blimey! Did the Powers of Persuasion Puddings have a lasting effect? Had Tarnia’s brain been permanently addled?
Aware that she was gawping, Mitzi snapped her mouth closed. ‘Oh, right. Yes, that’ll be great. Thanks. I won’t keep you any longer. Give me a ring when you’ve spoken to your solicitor and we’ll get together to sign whatever is necessary. But – um – why the change of heart?’
Tarnia raked golden sparkly talons th
rough her black spiky hair and looked smug. ‘No change of heart, darling. By choice I wouldn’t have the plebs within a million miles of my home. When you first came here and asked me about it – the day you gave me those rather nice cakes – I was dead against it. But later, when you’d persuaded me, and I had to confess to Marquis, he – clever boy – pointed out that it would go down well on our list of Good Works.’
‘Good Works?’
Tarnia looked irritable. ‘Oh, for goodness sake – you know. Charitable stuff. Being kind. Making donations. Improving things for the community. Being seen to be caring.’
‘ You? You and Snotty Mark? Good works?’
‘Marquis!’ Tarnia narrowed her eyes. ‘And yes, why should that seem so odd? Look, for years they’ve handed out gongs and titles to bloody footballers and bloody pop singers and bloody people who work themselves to a frazzle for stupid charities – and what happens to us? We have great parties and have single-handedly raised the tone of the area – and what happens each time the list is announced? Sod all, that’s what!’
Mitzi concentrated hard on the pink tiles under her boots. If she laughed now it might prove fatal.
Tarnia’s voice became even more strident. ‘So – we’re upping our profile. Your rubbishy village-hall stuff will do us a power of good – as long as you keep the riff-raff away when we have important people here, understand?’
Mitzi understood. Tarnia and Snotty Mark were aiming to become the Neil and Christine Hamilton of Hazy Hassocks. Once reviled, carefully rebuilding their public image, and if not quite aiming for canonisation, then definitely hoping for an honour of some hue.
If it wasn’t so sad she’d laugh.
‘I understand perfectly. I’ve always been a great believer in the ends justifying the means. Thanks … Oh, and we’re putting on quite a few Christmassy things so we’ll need the hall practically full-time for the next couple of months. Will that be okay? Tarnia? Tarnia?’
‘What? Yes, oh, yes – whatever …’ Tarnia was staring with ill-disguised delight at a tall black-haired man with very blue eyes who had just appeared in the doorway and who seemed rather dazzled by the golden pinkness of it all.
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