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.
‘Yes,’ she nods some more. ‘My mummy is the best one in the whole world and the good thing about her being in heaven is that she gets to see me all the time.’ And with that, Lily squeezes my hand, turns on her heels and does a running body-slam back on to the bouncy castle, leaving me reflecting that children are often so much more resilient than we sometimes give them credit for.
Taking a sip of my Pimm’s, I head over to Mark, who looks as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He lifts his head when I reach him.
‘Hi Meg, how are things at the school?’ he asks in a monotone voice, as if on autopilot and reading from a script he prepared earlier.
‘Fine,’ I hesitate momentarily, ‘yes, all good, thanks for asking,’ I reply, figuring a little white lie won’t hurt; I imagine he has enough worries without me adding to them. ‘Um, I just bumped into Lily, she seems to be having a lovely time on the bouncy castle with her school friends,’ I add, gesturing over my shoulder, feeling unsure, really, of what else to say. I take another mouthful of my drink.
‘Yes, it’s nice to see. And how is she getting on at school these days?’ He turns his head sideways towards me before lifting a hand from his pocket to sweep over his bald head. He looks tired, his eyes lacking lustre – rather like a neglected Labrador; in need of comfort and affection, just like his daughter. I resist the urge to put my arms around him and pat his head.
‘Good, she’s been much …’ I pause to choose the right word, ‘calmer,’ I settle on, feeling relieved when Mark exhales and his shoulders visibly relax.
‘Pleased to hear it. Pol and I—’ He stops talking abruptly and lifts an empty pint glass from a nearby table. ‘Sorry, force of habit,’ he shrugs and stares into the glass.
‘Hey, no need to apologise.’ An ominous silence follows. ‘I miss her too,’ I manage, softly, remembering my friend with a deep fondness. We grew up together. Her dad was the pharmacist in the village chemist’s until he retired and moved with her mum to a house by the sea.
‘Sure, and I forget that sometimes,’ Mark says quietly. ‘You know, that other
