The Great Village Show

‘And if the school were to close, where would it leave you?’

‘I’m really not sure,’ I reply. ‘I might get a teaching job at another school somewhere. But it could mean I’ll be travelling miles away too.’

‘OK, but on a positive note, Meg, this could be an opportunity for you! You’re a great teacher, we all know that, so you’re certain to get something else, even if the worst happens. Or maybe you could do private tutoring for children with special needs. I know you really enjoy that aspect of your job. You could even set up a children’s therapy centre … yes, the possibilities are endless.’

There’s a short silence as I ponder on his suggestions.

‘Hmm, yes, you’re right, Lawrence.’ Buoyed on the wave of his enthusiasm, I begin to see the possibilities. I was thrown off course this morning by the inspectors’ visit but, as ever, Lawrence has helped clarify my thoughts. ‘I am not going to sit here moping and worrying about what might never happen. I’m going to take advantage of the spare time I’ve got – now Jack’s off doing his own thing – and right now I’m going to get stuck in to helping out with this year’s village show. There’ll be plenty that needs doing. Have you heard about it? Dr Ben is keen for us to have another go.’ I smile.

‘Oh yes,’ Lawrence grins. ‘Sybs popped by with one of her leaflets. I’m planning on getting involved too – do my bit for the community; and it sure would be helpful for my business if Tindledale were to get a mention in a national newspaper.’

Suddenly I realise how introspective I’ve been recently. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lawrence.’ I look at him with a furrowed brow. ‘I thought things were going really well for you,’ I say slowly, feeling remorseful. I’ve been so wrapped up in missing Jack, when Lawrence has obviously been worrying about his B&B business. And since his partner, Jason, died, he no longer has him for support.

‘Let’s just say that they could be better. Surely you’ve noticed a dip in the number of people in and around the village, the High Street, the Duck & Puddle, Kitty’s tearoom? I was chatting to the vicar just a few days ago, and he said that even the congregation at his Sunday service is dwindling …’ His voice trails off.

‘Well, I hadn’t,’ I admit, ‘but now that you mention it, yes … it did seem quiet last time I popped into Kitty’s for a scone and a mug of hot chocolate. Why is that?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I guess it’s inevitable with us having such a high number of elderly villagers – they pass on. And I reckon it’s also something to do with the new retail park that’s opened up on the other side of the valley, just past Market Briar. They have it all there – designer outlet shops, multiplex cinema, bowling, coffee chains, big-name restaurants; there’s even a hotel with a swimming pool and spa – my cosy little six-bedroom home-from-home B&B just can’t compete. And my guest numbers have definitely dipped since it opened.’

‘But not everyone wants all that high-tech, bells-and-whistles stuff. Surely there are lots of people who still love the cosy quirkiness of a traditional village, the personal touch that you offer at the B&B – not forgetting your award-winning breakfasts,’ I say, counting out the benefits on my fingers. Lawrence smiles. ‘And there must be lots of people who want to amble along our little High Street and watch the world go by through the mullioned windows of Kitty’s café, or thumb through some of the rare books in Adam’s bookstore. I know I do.’

‘I’m sure there are, but if they don’t know about Tindledale and all that we have to offer, then they can’t visit. A feature in a national newspaper is just what my B&B needs. And it’s about time you had some fun too.’

‘Exactly.’ I nod in agreement. ‘It’ll do me good to get involved in the village show and keep myself busy.’

‘Sure will. And broaden your horizons,’ Lawrence says slowly, as if gauging my reaction to a plan that he’s cooking up.

‘What is it?’ Silence follows. ‘Come on, what are you up to?’ I laugh, giving him a gentle dig in the ribs.

‘Later,’ Lawrence does a cryptic smile. ‘Let’s have some cake first,’ he adds, carefully lifting a scrumptious-looking individual lemon drizzle cake from the bag.

I retrieve two bird-patterned tea plates from the dishwasher. Grabbing a couple of forks, too, I place them on the kitchen table and we sit adjacent to each other on the long padded window seat in the sun, arranging the assortment of homemade cushions behind us, plumping and patting until we’re both comfortable. Suddenly I feel lighter and more optimistic than I have in ages. ‘So, what’s new, Lawrence?’ I ask him, conspiratorially. ‘Any interesting guests at the B&B?’ I take a bite of the cake, which tastes divine – citrusy and sweet, but with just the right amount of sharpness too; Kitty sure is a cake-making queen. And Lawrence has been like a fairy godfather to me since he came to Tindledale twenty or so years ago – so, still a relative newcomer, compared to most of the other villagers whose families have been here for generations – and opened Tindledale’s first bed and breakfast, which has proved to be very popular with tourists, and a welcome boost to Tindledale’s economy. You’d be surprised how many pints of cider visitors can get through in the Duck & Puddle, and then there’s the locally sourced produce they all go mad for in the butcher’s and the fruit & veg shops in the High Street. And not forgetting Kitty’s tearoom – tourists can’t get enough of her afternoon teas with melt-in-the-mouth fruit scones, strawberry jam and deliciously thick cream, churned by Pete on his cattle farm down in the valley near Cherry Tree Orchard.

Lawrence takes another mouthful of wine before doing a furtive left-then-right glance.

‘What is it? Or, should I say, who is it? Why are you looking so sheepish?’ I ask, my interest instantly piqued. I bet it’s someone famous – it must be; I’ve only ever seen Lawrence behave like this once before, and that was when the novelist Fern Britton checked in. They were doing some filming for a TV programme nearby in Market Briar, but she wanted to stay somewhere quieter. Lawrence said she was a true professional, very gracious and down-to-earth.

‘OK, but you must promise not to tell a soul.’

‘I promise,’ I say right away, now dying to know who the famous guest is.

‘Okaaaaaay,’ Lawrence pauses. ‘It’s Dan Wright!’ he announces impressively, as if I’m bound to know who Dan Wright is. Lawrence’s face drops when he realises that I’m struggling to place him. ‘Come on, you must know him, Meg.’

I lick my fingers before jumping up and running down the hall to retrieve my laptop. After lifting the screen into place, I go to type Dan Wright into Google and I get as far as the W.

‘Look,’ I tap the screen to show Lawrence. ‘Google has found him right away. And he has a Wiki page,’ I add, gradually piecing together a jumble of half-remembered facts and images.

Dan Wright, celebrity chef and owner of The Fatted Calf, three-Michelin-starred restaurant in London’s Mayfair …

‘Of course it has. He’s famous. So, do you recognise him now?’ Lawrence says, standing up and joining me at the end of the table.

‘Yes, I think so … but when do I ever go to fancy restaurants in London?’ I shrug, remembering the last time I went out for dinner – at the Oriental Palace, a Chinese restaurant and takeaway in Market Briar. Jack chose it, citing a desire for a lovely last chicken chow mein with his mum before heading to uni – it was such a fun evening, us and four of his friends, all laughing and being silly with our chopsticks.

‘Fair point! You must have seen him on TV – he had his own show for a bit; though not for a while now, to be fair.’ Lawrence swivels the laptop towards him, pulling up another chair and clicking on to YouTube. He does a quick search. ‘Here.’ There’s a short silence while we both sit with our buffer faces on, waiting for the film to start. ‘Isn’t he handsome? In a filthy, Kit Harington about to do battle in Game of Thrones kind of way …’

A young guy pops on to the screen, sniggering about something the interviewer has just said, before sweeping a hand through a thick, unruly thatch of black hair.

I crinkle my forehead, staring at the image. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Blimey, he’s very young to be a three-Michelin-starred chef, isn’t he? Barely older than Jack,’ I muse, but Lawrence smiles.

‘Oh no, this film clip is ages old – twenty years, at least. I reckon he must be mid forties perhaps, by now. Sorry, I should have explained.’

‘Hmm, oh right.’ I turn to face Lawrence and see a strange expression on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not thinking I might fancy him, are you?’ I laugh. I’m quite used to people trying to match-make for me, so I learnt ages ago to put my foot down right away. Mum is the worst culprit. Whenever I’m with her in Tenerife, she always tries to palm me off with some lost soul – usually divorced with a big chip on his shoulder and a long boring story about how the ‘ex-missus stitched me up like a kipper’. Lawrence looks a bit guilty but faces me down, tilting his head to one side and giving me a curious look. ‘Well, would it be so bad if you did?’

‘Weeeell, I don’t know, he just doesn’t look my type.’ I fold my arms and look away. The fact is, I’ve hardly had any good experiences when it comes to men – my own father did a disappearing act before my fifth birthday and Jack’s dad, Liam, didn’t even last that long. He left before Jack was born, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a father – he needed to travel the world and find his passion before he could even contemplate settling down. But then when Jack was about eight, I met Will. Sexy, talented Will, who played in a band and was rather gorgeous – but who ended up being almost as free-range and untrustworthy as Liam, and who finally decided he wasn’t doing either me or Jack any good. And since then, five or so years have passed and I’ve just not had the heart to begin dating again, even though Jack has intermittently told me that I should put myself on Match.com before I get ‘like reeeeeally old’.

Lawrence knew Will, and was really fond of him, and knows how hard his departure hit our little family at the time, and he looks suitably sympathetic. ‘Look, I know it’s really difficult, but Jack has moved on and so should you.’

‘I know that,’ I tell him, and I really do. ‘It’s more that I just can’t be bothered with it all. Getting your heart broken, and all that. It’s so overrated.’

‘Ahh, I get it!’ Lawrence persists, clearly still bemused. ‘You’ve made an assumption based on watching just a few seconds of an old YouTube clip and now that’s the end of it! Dan Wright isn’t your type!’ He holds his palms up in the air in an ‘I-give-up’ pose.

‘No. But look, he’s a celebrity chef from swanky Mayfair,’ I pull a face. ‘Worlds apart from me. I can’t even remember the last time I went to London.’ I pause to think and then it comes to me. ‘I know, Jack was about ten years old and Will and I took him to see the sights – Big Ben, Tower of London, Madame Tussaud’s, that kind of thing,’ I start, feeling very provincial indeed.

‘Marvellous! Seeeee …’ And Lawrence smiles. ‘You have the perfect icebreaker. You can ask Dan what his favourite waxwork person is.’ He laughs to lighten the mood.

‘Ha-ha, very funny,’ I smirk. ‘And just look at how he’s sitting.’ I tap the laptop screen where the film is paused, showing Dan on the TV sofa with his legs wide open.

‘Sitting?’ Lawrence laughs harder. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Everything! He’s a spreader. And spreaders are inconsiderate, with no respect for personal space,’ I inform him, sounding far haughtier than I actually intended to. I cringe inwardly.

‘Ha! Well yes, I can see what you mean. But honestly, I’ve not seen him sitting like that at the breakfast table – in fact I think he had his legs firmly crossed, and on the few occasions when we’ve chatted, he actually seemed quite nice. Plus, you have to agree, you aren’t exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to meeting a new man here in Tindledale.’

‘Hmm, this is very true,’ I say, loath to agree, but Lawrence has a very valid point. I grew up with most of the Tindledale men – went to school with them – so any charm or sexual attraction they might have had got lost somewhere along the way, likely when they were busy picking their noses in class or attempting a snog at the end-of-year disco, having scoffed all the prawn cocktail crisps from the finger buffet only moments earlier. Eugh. No, the mystique and magic just isn’t happening. ‘Anyway, like I say, I really can’t be bothered with all that.’

‘Truly? Isn’t it what we all want? To love and be loved! Oh come on, Meg, wouldn’t it be brilliant for you to be wined and dined? A gorgeous creature like you with your peaches-and-cream complexion and curves in all the right places …’ He grins, sounding very corny indeed.

‘Oh stop it, you old smoothy,’ I laugh, giving his arm an affectionate bat.

‘Weell, it’s true, and how marvellous would it be … swept off your feet and whisked away to his restaurant in Mayfair? Very romantic! And he has three Michelin stars, so you’d know you’d be in for a gourmet treat,’ Lawrence adds, brightly, for good measure.

‘Maybe, but what’s he even doing here in Tindledale?’

‘Good point …’ Lawrence pauses. ‘I actually don’t know …’ He looks thoughtful.

‘Ooh, you’re slipping, Lawrence,’ I tut, pretending to admonish him. ‘I’d have thought you would have found out by now – you usually know everything that’s going on in the village.’

‘Are you implying that I’m a gossip?’ He feigns hurt.

‘Of course not, but it’s true, you do often seem to know stuff.’

‘That’s because people confide in me – I can’t help that,’ he smiles, pausing to contemplate, and then adds, ‘There is a rumour going around that Dan is here scouting out the village with a view to opening a new restaurant.’

‘Really? And do you think that might be the case? Has he said anything about it? But where?’ I ask, racking my brains to think of a suitable spot for a high-end restaurant somewhere in the village. There are a couple of empty places – the one next to the fruit & veg shop is probably too small, and there’s definitely a rodent problem in there – I saw the pest control man’s van outside there just last week. But then it’s inevitable in the countryside with all the fields around us; I often have to put the mice powder down to stop them overtaking my cottage.

‘The shop at the end overlooking the village green is reasonably sized,’ Lawrence suggests.

‘Oooh, yes. And it’s double fronted, with lots of space to sit outside, which would be nice in this gorgeous warm weather, and very cosmopolitan, I imagine – sitting underneath a parasol enjoying an expensive bottle of wine with a ten-course tasting meal – that’s what they have in London …’

‘Hmm, but Tindledale is hardly Mayfair.’ Lawrence pulls a face.

‘True. And my fizzy elderflower wine is definitely not a fine Sancerre.’ We both sit silently for a few seconds, pondering the possibilities. ‘But, we have the village green right opposite – perfect for when the movie stars and celebrities helicopter in for their fine dining experience. And I’m sure your actor friends will come. You could call Dame Judi – or what about Helen? You said that she’s a great dinner companion.’

‘Ha!’ Lawrence laughs. ‘But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves,’ he adds, always the voice of caution. ‘Dan Wright hasn’t actually said anything to me about a new restaurant. We are just speculating. But if he is planning on opening one here, then even better – he can appoint a manager, a head chef or whatever, at The Fatted Calf in London, and then move here. Then you can both live happily ever after together in Tindledale,’ Lawrence finishes with a flourish, ever the romantic, having seemingly worked it all out.

‘Hold on, slow down a minute. It’s nice of you to be so concerned about my love life … or rather lack of,’ I smile wryly. ‘But honestly, I’m fine as I am. I love my friends, my home and my life. And anyway, neither of us will have any time for distractions for the foreseeable future. We have a village show to organise.’

‘That’s true,’ Lawrence says thoughtfully, then suddenly leaps in the air, terrifying Blue, who scampers under the table. ‘I have a plan!’ Lawrence is now channelling John Gielgud – or is it Brian Blessed?

‘You do?’ I ask, eagerly.

‘I most certainly do. Listen Meg.’

‘I’m listening,’ I say, rescuing Blue and stroking his velvety soft ear.

‘Good. Here goes,’ he pauses for impact, ‘we make sure that Tindledale puts on the greatest show of its life!’ Lawrence is pacing around the kitchen now.

‘But what difference will that make to the school?’ I ask, standing up too.

‘Meeeeeg, don’t you see?’ He stops pacing, enthusiasm flooding his voice now.

‘See what?’ I ask, reaching for the wine to top us both up.

‘This is the perfect opportunity.’

‘What is?’

‘Weeeell,’ he starts elaborating slowly, as if formulating the plan in his head as he goes. ‘If this year’s village show is great, we’ll make it into the top ten list in the national newspaper and the whole country will see how wonderful Tindledale is – the perfect place to live! Then everyone will be looking at your school on the Internet … you do have a website, I take it?’ He looks panic-stricken for a brief moment. I nod. The council organised it years ago and it’s very basic, but I reckon I could get it updated. ‘Good, because, let’s face it, every parent wants the best school for their child, sooooo everyone will then want to live here – FAMILIES, with LOTS OF CHILDREN to fill your school. Yes, it’s the perfect solution.’

We stare at each other.

‘And if there’s a Michelin-starred restaurant here too … all the better!’ I jump in, ‘because everyone loves good food – and you could do gourmet weekend breaks, maybe culinary courses too; you could ask Dan to help out – use his restaurant kitchen, perhaps. And soon your B&B will be booked up indefinitely, and with a very long waiting list to boot.’

‘And Kitty and all the other businesses in the village will be thrilled too,’ Lawrence nods, enthusiastically.

‘Yes! Outstanding school. Outstanding food. Outstanding pub, tearoom, butcher’s, baker’s, and all the other stuff the great village of Tindledale has to show for itself … We have the lot,’ I say, my voice brimming with excitement now, helped along by the fizz we’ve been consuming. ‘They’ll be beating a path here to Tindledale in no time, and the Great Village Show will save my great village school – you just wait and see!’

As I duck down under the beam above the Duck & Puddle’s gnarled old oak entrance door, I can see that there’s quite a crowd gathered already – by the looks of it, most of the villagers are crammed into the compact but cosy space. Some are even hovering by the hatch in the snug at the end of the bar that doubles as the pub shop, selling essentials such as sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel, that kind of thing.

‘All right, Miss?’ one of the farmer boys grins, giving me a big wink as I walk past, while his two mates snigger and nudge each other in the background. I try not to smile at their juvenility, and keep my scary teacher face firmly in place as I overhear them pondering the merits of adding TILF to their list of acronyms.

Cher, the landlady, repatriates a stray tendril of hair back into her treacle-coloured beehive before clapping her hands together and hollering from behind the bar in her Cockney accent.

‘Ladies and gents, children and dogs.’ Molly coughs from over by the inglenook fireplace where she’s standing with her pet ferret in her arms – it’s wearing a little leather harness and looks unfazed as it nestles into the crook of her elbow. Cooper, her husband, who owns the village butcher’s, glances sideways at her before shaking his head with an exasperated look on his face, which we all know is just for effect as he absolutely adores his wife and would never begrudge her a pet ferret. ‘Ooops, sorry … and ferrets!’ Cher continues, and we all laugh before doing lots of ‘shushes’ and whispered nods of ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ as more people arrive. ‘Welcome to the first Great Village Show meeting …’ Cher twiddles a sparkly red-varnished fingertip around the inside of her huge gold hoop earring. ‘There’s plenty of space in our new beer garden … so if you’d like to go through,’ Cher motions to a door with GARDEN written on it in swirly writing on a little wooden plaque, ‘and Clive has laid on some nibbles which we’ll bring out to you with our compliments.’

‘Round of applause for Sonny!’ one of the farmer boys shouts from over by the darts board – clearly Cher’s boyfriend’s nickname is here to stay. I remember when Cher first arrived in Tindledale, not very long ago, to take over the running of the Duck & Puddle pub – of course the whole village was curious to see who she was (the older men of the village wanting to know if she was actually up to the job, what with her being a woman and all – they were used to Ray, an ex-policeman, running the pub for thirty years before he died). And they promptly renamed Cher’s boyfriend Sonny, thinking it hilarious to sing ‘I Got You Babe’ at any given opportunity. So Clive, also known as Sonny, answers to both names now. Being the pub chef, he is probably one of the most popular people in the village, especially on a Sunday when the bowls of salted pork crackling and goose-fat roast potatoes appear on the bar for people to pick at over their pints.

‘Now, what can I get you all to drink?’ Cher shouts, and there’s practically a stampede as the entire pub crowd surges forward to buy big jugs of Pimm’s garnished with cucumber and strawberries and flagons of frothy ice-cold cider – it’s such a lovely early summer evening, so it would be a shame not to make the most of it.

Twenty minutes later, and we’re all milling around in the beer garden, the warm evening air full with the scent of citronella from the candles dotted around to keep the mosquitoes at bay. A variety of dogs are scooting about, and what seems like all of my schoolchildren are bouncing up and down on the inflatable castle that Cher has kindly supplied to keep them occupied while the adults get on with the meeting.

‘Hi Miss Singer,’ several of the children chorus, as I walk past looking for a space at one of the wooden bench tables.

‘Hello, are you all having a fun time?’ I smile, lifting my glass of Pimm’s out of the way to give Lily a big hug as she jumps off the bouncy castle and practically launches herself into my body; her skinny arms curled tight around me, clinging on to my sundress, seeking out affection. Waist height, I rest my free hand on her blonde, curly hair before gently unfurling her arms and crouching down to look her in the eye. ‘Is your daddy here with you this evening?’ I ask tentatively, wondering how Mark, our village policeman, is bearing up – it’s only six months since his wife, Polly, passed away after losing her battle with breast cancer. Lily nods and points to the far side of the beer garden where a gaunt-looking Mark is standing with his hands in his jeans pockets and a lonesome look in his eyes. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ I say brightly, pleased for Lily that she hasn’t had to come along with one of her friends’ mums again, because Mark wasn’t up to socialising. Lily nods enthusiastically, giving me a big gappy grin.

‘Daddy said Mummy is going to send the tooth fairy to collect my teeth tonight and take them up to her in heaven so she can look after them.’

‘Oh,’ I gulp, and then quickly add, ‘well that’s very kind,’ followed by a big smile, not wanting the brave little girl in front of me to see my anguish for her. It’s been a tough time for her at school, with many occasions spent crying in my office or with her class teacher asking my advice on whether or not to reprimand Lily for lashing out at another child – there was an incident shortly after Mother’s Day, but the softly-softly, lots-of-love approach seems to be working fine: Lily is a lot less angry than she was, not so very long ago.