The Great Village Show. Alexandra Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ flabbergasted silence ensues. Even Pete stops crunching his crisps and stares open-mouthed.

      ‘Um, I, err … beg your pardon,’ Molly eventually manages to splutter, as Cooper shoves a fist into his mouth and silently laughs himself into a hernia, making his shoulders jig up and down uncontrollably.

      ‘That bush of yours really needs attention.’ Oh dear, Lawrence catches my eye and pulls an exaggerated aghast face. I have to look away before I burst into laughter too, and that would never do – I’m conscious that a reporter from the Tindledale Herald is sitting a few feet away from me, and the last thing I’d want is him reporting on the first committee meeting with tales of how ‘even the headmistress laughed along to the juvenile, school-playground-style jokes’. The WI woman ploughs on, seemingly oblivious to the mirth she’s causing.

      ‘Yes, it’s so unruly, the path outside your house is practically impassable – my husband had to steer his motorised scooter right out into the road, just to get past. It’s a wonder he wasn’t mown down by one of Pete’s verge-mounting tractors. No, your bush is a disgrace and must go before the judges arrive on show day!’

      ‘Well, there’s no need to be quite so “personal” about it,’ Molly manages to squeak, barely able to speak properly for trying not to howl with laughter. But it’s no use, and she caves in. And then Sybs joins in, and soon everyone is screaming, tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks as the WI woman stalks off inside, muttering something about needing a double whisky, for medicinal purposes. I take a deep breath and keep on observing – it was inevitable, I guess – thirty minutes in, and the villagers are already like squabbling ducks; they just can’t help themselves from falling out, or making mischief. They’re still laughing and the pompous man, it turns out, is a pensioned general, ex-army, and moved here last month for some ‘much-needed R&R’, according to Marigold, who’s sitting opposite me.

      Lawrence looks over and motions with his head for me to rescue Dr Ben, who is now hijacked in a debate about the therapeutic powers of wild honey and whether it might be a good idea to have a stall set up on the day with a working hive on display for the judges to try some out for themselves. The health-and-safety implications are being mulled over, with somebody actually suggesting the parish council would need to stump up a budget for ‘protective clothing’, which doesn’t go down very well at all. Especially as Mrs Gibbs is still waiting for a decision about her request for a rubbish bin to be placed in the layby outside her house – it drives her mad when louts hurl their empty lager cans from car windows when passing through our lovely little village.

      Unable to sit and watch the fiasco unfolding before me for any longer, I stand up and walk over to the crowd that’s formed around Dr Ben, lift my elbows, and muscle my way in, before surreptitiously leaning into his left shoulder.

      ‘Do you mind if I step in?’ I ask discreetly.

      ‘Be my guest,’ Dr Ben says, giving me a very grateful grin as he hands the paperwork over to me. ‘I’m so glad you’re here; we really need someone used to taking charge,’ he adds, wasting no time in joining Sybs back on the bench.

      ‘OK, if I can have everyone’s attention please,’ I say in my best school assembly voice, and then count to five in my head. It works: the children on the castle stop bouncing right away, of course. Even the dogs seem to settle down, and eventually the adults stop bickering amongst themselves, the crowd dissipates back to the benches to finish the last of the cheesy chips and everyone turns their attention to me. ‘Wonderful. And thank you. Now, as Dr Ben said, it’s great to see everyone here and I can see how enthusiastic you all are, but we really have no time to spare if we’re to stand a chance of Tindledale putting on a really great show this year! On …’ I pause to scan the papers and see which date we’ve been allocated, and then I spot it. My pulse speeds up. Oh dear. ‘July 11th!’ Right before the end of the school term, but Jack will be home then for the gloriously long summer holidays. And my heart lifts at the prospect of having him around for a couple of months.

      The crowd falls silent. Nobody moves.

      ‘But that’s only,’ Lawrence pulls out his pocket diary, ‘six weeks away!’ he says after thumbing through the pages to check. There’s a collective inward gasp.

      ‘Um, yes, err, I’m very sorry, it’s my fault,’ Dr Ben raises his hand in the air. ‘I sent off the application form quite some time ago and, well, I—’

      ‘Don’t you worry, doc,’ Tommy Prendergast, who runs the village store, quickly pitches in, pulling himself upright with a very staunch look on his face. ‘We won’t let you down.’ He’s busy retucking his shirt back in around his rotund waist when everyone joins him in supporting the revered village GP.

      ‘Hear hear! Can’t blame the doc. He’s a busy man. We’d be lost without him …’ As ever, Dr Ben can do no wrong as far as all the villagers are concerned, and they certainly all seem committed to putting on a great show in record time. And what perfect timing, as now the school inspectors can really get to see what the village is all about. In fact, I’m going to invite them along to our Great Village Show – maybe we could get one of those boards with circle cut-outs for them to put their faces through while the villagers throw wet sponges, like they do at the seaside. I bet that would raise a few laughs amongst the community. JOKE.

      ‘OK, everyone,’ I say, refocusing us all. ‘So I reckon we should just get on with it.’ I glance around, and great, they’re all listening. ‘Let’s have three committees working in tandem, with weekly meetings. Then we can convene a meeting for the whole village at regular intervals. I’m happy to put together and communicate a set of dates and times, locations, etc. I could pin a list on the notice board in the village square.’ I quickly pause and look at Sybs for confirmation, not wanting to step on her toes, but by the look of the big grin on her face, she seems perfectly happy for me to take charge, so I carry on. ‘Yes, and Tindledale needs to look its very best before show day, just in case the judges arrive a few days earlier, as they’ve been known to in the past.’

      I stop talking and see them all staring at me, clearly bamboozled by my bossy, but – and if I do say so myself – extra-efficient approach. I spot Mrs Pocket in my peripheral vision, pursing her lips and doing her ‘that’s my girl’ face, so she clearly approves. And if I have her on board, then getting everyone else on side should be a doddle. Spurred on, I scan the beer garden – Sybs is smiling and nodding, Lawrence winks and nods too, the WI ladies fold their arms and look to each other before doing a collective nod of agreement. Not to be outdone, the people seated at the parish council table demonstrate their support by clapping, apart from the general, who eyes me suspiciously before pulling out a pipe and sticking it into his moustachioed mouth. Molly and Cooper applaud too, having just about managed to recover from their hysterics – Molly is wiping her laughter tears away with a napkin. Taylor from the Pet Parlour, Kitty, Hettie from the haberdashery, and all the school mums join in. Everyone seems to be on board.

      ‘Excuse me.’ It’s Hettie, with her spindly arms pressed into the table, trying to propel her wiry, frail body up into a standing position. Marigold and Sybs jump to her aid and, after a few seconds, Hettie is fully mobile and walking towards me. ‘Sorry dear, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. But I’d like to say a few words if I may?’ She fixes her Wedgwood-blue eyes on to me.

      ‘Of course Hettie, go ahead.’ And the crowd falls silent – as one of the oldest villagers from a family that has lived in Tindledale going back several generations, she’s automatically assured a certain level of respect.

      ‘Thank you. As many of you know, I’ve lived in Tindledale my whole life – that’s eighty years, give or take.’ She pauses and pats her big Aunt СКАЧАТЬ