A Fete Worse Than Death

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘No, I got diverted by Ruby’s cup-smashing and then Suze rang with her news, and — that’s it!’ Pippa squeezed Simon so tight that he yelped. ‘That’s what I’ll do!’

  ‘Er, could I have subtitles?’ Simon grinned, releasing himself. ‘Your mega-brain is moving too fast for a mere human like me.’

  ‘The reason I’m going out on Thursday is that I’ve been invited to a meeting about the summer fete at Higginbotham Hall. I tried to get people at playgroup interested, but they all said it was boring. Anyway, what if I offered to take it on and improve it? Maybe I could get a celebrity to come in exchange for promoting something … like a book? A cookbook! I could get a TV chef, and they could do a talk, or a signing, and … judge a baking competition! And we could sell the cakes on a stall!’ The kettle pinged. ‘Bingo!’

  Simon poured water into the mugs and squished at the teabags. ‘Wouldn’t that be a lot of work?’ he said.

  ‘I’d recruit people,’ said Pippa. ‘And it wouldn’t be for long. But if I made a good job of it, and got the fete in the local papers, and on the radio, and maybe even TV, then maybe I could get local PR work. Or the celebrity might take me on —’

  ‘Wouldn’t they already have a publicist?’ Simon went to the fridge for milk.

  ‘Maybe I’m better,’ said Pippa, starry-eyed. ‘Don’t ruin my visualisation of a positive future.’

  ‘That really is PR-speak.’ Simon handed Pippa her tea. ‘Maybe you should drink this before you start taking over the world, though. One thing at a time.’

  ‘I can multitask,’ Pippa retorted. She took her mug through to the dining room. ‘Can I borrow your laptop? I need to write a plan. Could you print me some copies at work? Colour ones?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ Simon saluted. ‘I’m going to watch rubbish while you work.’

  Three minutes later Pippa was tapping her teeth with a pen and staring at a document which was blank except for the words SUMMER FETE. Well, you had to start somewhere. She found her notepad and read through the various suggestions from playgroup. Then she returned to the laptop, deleted FETE, and typed EXTRAVAGANZA. After all, there was no point in being modest.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ said Serendipity, removing a paintbrush and saucer from the dining table.

  ‘What mess?’ As far as Pippa could see, Rosebud Cottage was immaculate. The wooden floorboards shone, the crocheted throw on the sofa was straight, and the gingham bow tied round the jam jar filled with sweet peas was perfect. Monty was snoozing in his basket. The house certainly looked tidier than it ever had when the Parkers had lived there, even before Ruby’s arrival.

  ‘Oh, I was painting plates and I hadn’t quite finished clearing up.’ Pippa parked the sleeping Ruby in the middle of the sitting room and followed Serendipity to the kitchen, where a row of white plates sporting flower garlands around their rims sat on stands.

  ‘Those are so pretty!’

  ‘They came out well,’ Serendipity admitted. ‘Display only, mind. But people like that sort of thing.’

  ‘Speaking of that sort of thing…’

  ‘Oh yes. What was it you wanted to ask me?’ Serendipity turned her wide green eyes on Pippa.

  Pippa decided she might as well jump in. ‘I’m going to a meeting about the summer fete tomorrow evening and I wondered if you’d be interested?’

  ‘I can’t do tomorrow,’ Serendipity said, shaking her head. ‘I’m doing a crochet flower demonstration at the WI. But a fete? I didn’t know there was one.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Pippa. ‘I’d like to take it on and shake it up a bit. Make it a big deal. So I wanted to ask you what people do at the trendy vintage hipster things.’

  ‘Ahh. You could have a retro theme. Maybe go full-on fifties and get people to come in fancy dress. Although I’m not sure what sort of food you’d serve. Spam sandwiches?’

  ‘Maybe not that, then.’ Pippa rummaged in her bag. ‘I’ve got a list of ideas, and I’ve written a plan. Would you maybe co-organise it with —’

  Serendipity smiled and shook her head again. ‘I’ve got loads on at the moment. I’m doing a series of fifteen-minute shows for a craft channel, I’ve got two cake commissions, and I’m painting a picture of Imogen’s dog for her birthday next week. Which you don’t know, because her husband said it was a surprise.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘I won’t say anything.’ Pippa zipped her mouth shut. ‘See, gone already.’

  ‘I would like to help,’ said Serendipity, straightening a plate. ‘I could have a stall, if you want me?’

  ‘Of course we’d want you!’ cried Pippa. ‘You’re the closest we’ve got to a local celebrity! Heaps of people would come to see you —’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ said Serendipity, with the hint of a smile.

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ Pippa said hastily. ‘I mean, your stuff is mostly online —’

  ‘I get it,’ grinned Serendipity. ‘But why do you want to run the fete?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ said Pippa, and Serendipity zipped her own mouth shut in return. ‘I’d like to get back into PR, locally, and this would be a good way to get my foot in the door and make contacts. Radio, TV, the papers.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Serendipity raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know you were in PR.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I did before we moved here. I worked for a firm in London.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’ Serendipity mused, then opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. ‘If you’re looking for work —’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I could use some help. Not so much with the online stuff.’ Serendipity looked at Pippa from under her eyelashes. ‘More with managing event bookings, and getting them. Maybe a few hours a week?’

  ‘I’d like to help,’ said Pippa reluctantly. ‘And it’s not that I couldn’t do it. I used to get all sorts of bookings for our clients. But with this fete —’

  ‘Of course, you’re concentrating on that,’ said Serendipity. ‘And with the children, you can’t spread yourself too thin. I understand, I really do. I — get stressed when I have too much on. Which is why I’m looking for help to manage it.’ The last bit came out in a rush, like air from a pricked balloon.

  ‘I could help after the fete, maybe,’ Pippa offered.

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Serendipity. ‘I wouldn’t be able to pay you a fortune —’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ said Pippa. If everything went to plan, she might be too busy to take up Serendipity’s offer of employment, anyway.

  ‘It’s a deal, then,’ said Serendipity, holding out her hand, and a wave of guilt overcame Pippa as she shook it. ‘I’ll go through my events stuff and send you anything useful.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Pippa gave Serendipity a gentle hug. At least someone was prepared to help. Suze had been no use at all when Pippa had phoned to pick her brain, saying loftily that she was clueless in rural matters.

  ‘Rural matters!’ Pippa had scoffed. ‘It’s an event. You do events.’

  ‘Not hand-knitted ones I don’t. I have no idea how to entice country-dwellers from their cottages and get them to cough up money. I’m sorry, Pippa, I just don’t.’ She had sounded huffy, which Pippa put down to Suze not liking to admit that there was something she didn’t know. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have a call booked in ten minutes.’

  ‘A call? At this time?’ Pippa glanced at the kitchen clock. Twenty five minutes past nine in the evening. ‘You’re not still at work, are you?’

  ‘Yup. It’s the only window in — this person’s diary for the next three days.’

  ‘This person. Top secret, eh?’

  ‘No,’ said Suze, levelly. ‘But private business.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on. Bye, Suze.’ And this time Pippa had ended the call, then felt mean for the little spark of satisfaction it gave her.

  She didn’t have to feel mean about Serendipity, though, just grateful for her generous offer of he
lp. Unless she did weasel out of Serendipity’s diary management —

  ‘Oh, I think Ruby’s stirring. Good grief, look at the time, I need to go and pick Freddie up. Thank you so much, Serendipity.’

  ‘No problem.’ Serendipity’s expression was rather odd. ‘Any time.’ Pippa wondered if somehow she had managed to speak her thoughts aloud — but no. Not even she could be that crass. And Serendipity smiled, and waved goodbye from the doorway of Rosebud Cottage, as she always did.

  Freddie was full of his morning at preschool. ‘Look Mummy! I did a rocket collage!’

  ‘Wow,’ said Pippa, examining it. The collection of felt and corrugated card and milk-bottle tops actually did resemble a rocket, with tissue paper flames issuing from its rear. ‘Did you make this all by yourself?’

  ‘He did,’ said Mrs Marks. ‘He even cut the flames out, didn’t you Freddie?’ Freddie puffed up like a proud little budgie.

  ‘This is going on the fridge! Look, Ruby.’ Pippa held the rocket out of Ruby’s reach, but close enough for her to see. Ruby crowed and clapped her hands. ‘See, she likes it too.’ Freddie ran to the pushchair and nearly tipped it over as he hugged his sister. ‘Easy tiger!’ cried Pippa, grabbing the handles to steady it. ‘Did he eat his lunch?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ beamed Mrs Marks. ‘Cottage pie and peas, and orange jelly for afters.’

  ‘Splendid,’ exclaimed Pippa. There was something about Mrs Marks that always made her feel a little as if she had stepped into the pages of a boarding-school book. Any minute she might start talking about lacrosse or the tuck shop. ‘That’s one thing with Freddie, he does have a good appetite.’

  ‘He does,’ said Mrs Marks, but she was looking past Pippa. ‘Do excuse me, Mrs Parker, someone’s at the door —’ Pippa turned to see, and her heart sank.

  Sam.

  Sam, who had dropped her in it more times than she had had hot dinners, with or without orange jelly for afters.

  Sam, whom she had banned from the playgroup.

  Sam, come to pick up her clingy child.

  Pippa stood aside for Mrs Marks to open the door, making a point of looking anywhere but at Sam. ‘Sorry I’m later than usual,’ Sam gabbled as she came through the door. Even deliberately not looking at her, Pippa grasped that she was tense, and tired. ‘I got held up at the supermarket, and the traffic was bad.’

  ‘You’re not late,’ said Mrs Marks. ‘And Livvy’s been fine. Haven’t you, Livvy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Livvy from the carpet, where she was lying propped on her elbows, turning the pages of a picture book.

  ‘I’ll get off then,’ said Pippa, to Mrs Marks. ‘Thank you so much.’ She managed to leave without making eye contact with Sam.

  ‘Bye, Mrs Marks! Thank you!’ shouted Freddie, waving as he stumped through the door, and she could have hugged him for that spontaneous display of manners in front of the witch of Much Gadding.

  ***

  ‘Aren’t you going to choir?’ Simon said, when he came home and found Pippa hunkered over her notepad at the dining-room table.

  ‘I’ll plead a sore throat.’ Pippa tapped the paper with her pen. ‘I need to get this plan for the fete done so you can print copies for tomorrow. Have you got your laptop?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, a little testily. ‘And no, I’m not using it myself tonight.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pippa, her eyes on the laptop as Simon transferred it from bag to table.

  Simon looked at her. ‘Unusual to see you pulling a late shift. How long do you think you’ll need?’

  ‘Dunno. As long as it takes, probably.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it too much. It’s a village fete, not the launch of a new airline.’

  ‘It could be the relaunch of my career,’ snapped Pippa. ‘I want to get it right, thank you very much.’

  Simon raised his hands and backed away. ‘Fine. You carry on. I’ll put something in the microwave about eight.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Pippa, to the laptop case.

  ‘I’ll be in the lounge.’

  Pippa found the document she had been working in and began to type up her notes. Already it seemed better, more professional, just by being on screen in print, rather than in her untidy, corrected draft. She created a table and transferred the actions into it, colour-coding them according to area of activity and adding bullet points and headings. I wonder what they’re using at the moment.

  Pippa imagined a general with a pointer, tapping a flip chart and moving pieces around on a scale model of Much Gadding. ‘The coconut shy, which scored a decisive victory last year, advances to here, making a joint attack with the fancy-goods stall, while the disappointing hoopla moves to the rear.’ She visualised herself, twice the size of the general, coming in with her own paddle or shovy thing and pushing the general right off the map, while he blustered and pointed at his medals. This fete needed a shake-up, a new map, new worlds to conquer. And she would be the one to do it. As soon as she got this weird indenting sorted out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Pippa told herself not to be intimidated as she guided the Mini round the twisty drive of Higginbotham Hall. OK, so it was a big house. A big, big house, with turrets and Gothic windows and gardens and a flagpole. She’d been in big houses before. But only at weekends, dragged along by her parents to learn some history while a guide droned on about a portrait of Lady Amelia Whatsits and explained why all the objects in the portrait were symbolic and very important.

  There was no sign for a car park, but Pippa followed the tracks in the gravel round to the right, and found a huddle of cars. It must be all right to leave it here, she thought. There aren’t any No Parking signs. She grabbed her bag and her folder of plan copies, checked her make-up in the mirror, and climbed out. Her feet crunched on the gravel, and she looked around nervously. I won’t get shot by a gamekeeper. Of course not. I’ve been invited, I’m on a list. But she hurried to the house, just in case.

  The front door — doors — were huge, painted black, with a large brass knocker in the shape of a stag’s head mounted high on each. Pippa had to stretch up to reach one. Her first knock was pathetic, a little tap that she doubted anyone would have heard even if they were beside the door. She tried again, and produced a more satisfying Bom! Bom!

  The door creaked open. Behind it was a pleasant-faced woman of around fifty-five, with short grey hair. She wore a tweed skirt and a cream blouse of a plain but classic cut. ‘Good evening,’ she said, smiling. Her accent was local, soft, with the rough edges Pippa sometimes heard among the older people in the village rubbed off. She sounded quite different from the way she had on the phone, but then lots of people did. Maybe that was just her phone voice. ‘You must be Pippa Parker.’ She held out a hand, and Pippa noticed that the cuff of her blouse was slightly frayed.

  ‘That’s right.’ Pippa shook hands. ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Harbottle.’

  The woman looked blank for a moment, then giggled. ‘Oh, um, er, no, I mean, Beryl’s in charge tonight, so it was easier for me to answer the door. I’m June Higginbotham.’

  If only the carpet runner would swallow her up. If only she could escape up the chimney and be carried far, far away. ‘Oh my gosh I’m so sorry, I assumed, how stupid of me…’ Pippa’s voice tailed off as she realised that Lady Higginbotham looked almost as embarrassed as she felt.

  ‘We’re in the dining room tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you, then get the kettle on.’ She led the way across a hall which Pippa barely took in, beyond that it was huge, scary, and cold, and opened a large oak door. This led to a picture-lined corridor, papered in bottle green. ‘We don’t use it much, but Beryl aired it this morning and took the covers off, so it should be fine.’

  Lady Higginbotham paused at a door halfway down, listened for a moment, and knocked. ‘Come in,’ said a voice which Pippa now recognised as that of the woman she had spoken to on the phone. Honestly, how could she have been so stupid?

  The door opened into a formal dining room, beautiful
ly furnished, with perhaps eight people seated around the table. A woman was standing by a flip chart, pointing at it with a marker pen. ‘Mrs Parker is here, Beryl,’ said Lady Higginbotham. ‘I’ll go and make the tea.’

  Mrs Harbottle lowered the marker pen. ‘I could make the tea,’ she said, but her tone conveyed that it would be a severe inconvenience.

  ‘Oh no, Beryl, you’re busy.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Beryl. ‘Do take a seat, Mrs Parker.’ She waited while Pippa’s chair scraped out and in again. ‘Just you, then.’

  ‘Er, yes. I said I’d report back to playgroup. Lots of people find evenings difficult,’ Pippa found herself saying. Something about this woman made her bristle. She wished she had offered to help Lady Higginbotham in the kitchen, but she had already withdrawn.

  ‘Quite.’ Mrs Harbottle tapped the chart. ‘So, a quick recap of our plan of action. The fete will take place on the 24th of June, from 11am to 3pm, on the east lawn as usual. This year we are raising money for minor repairs to the church spire at St Saviour’s, with a target of two thousand pounds.’

  ‘Though of course whatever you raise will be most welcome,’ smiled a portly man in a clerical collar.

  ‘Of course, Reverend. All the profit we make will be donated to you, but I feel it’s important to have an achievable target.’ Mrs Harbottle looked ever so slightly ruffled. ‘And we have already suffered a setback with the loss of Barbara, who always knew how to arrange things. However, I think we shall be able to run the fete more or less as she would have done. Norm, are you willing to take on security again?’

  Pippa started at the name, and scanned the room. Yes, there was Norm, in checked shirt and cardigan, a notepad and pen at his elbow. It just seemed strange to see him transplanted from the library.

  ‘That’ll be fine, Beryl,’ he said, comfortably. ‘I daresay PC Horsley will pop in on the day, too.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Mrs Harbottle, not seeming overjoyed at the prospect. ‘So — Sonia on the tombola, Graham on the coconut shy, Margaret on the hoopla, and someone from the WI will look after the jam and chutney. Mrs Parker, you can take on Hook-a-Duck. There isn’t much to it, and we have everything you would need; ducks, poles and a paddling pool. Good. How many helpers can we count on from the playgroup? I know Barbara had a hard time whipping up any interest.’