now, which makes a big difference, occupies the mind. My mum is helping out with childcare and the job are being very accommodating – letting me take Lily to school and stuff,’ he explains. But how will he manage if school is suddenly seven miles away? I wonder. Or will Lily be expected to travel on the bus by herself? ‘And I’m glad Lily is OK at school – it’s made the last year or so slightly easier to bear, knowing that she’s just down the hill with people, friends of Pol’s, who care about her, look out for her.’ A short silence follows. ‘It was Pol’s wish for things to stay as “normal” for Lily as possible,’ he says, smiling wryly.
‘Of course,’ I say, averting my gaze, desperately wishing the ones in charge of the purse strings at the council could take into account just how important our little school is to the community. It’s so much more than just educating the children, my school is like a pot of glue, keeping the community intact – or helping to stick it back together again. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I say, motioning with my head towards his glass.
‘No, just the one for me, I’m on duty tomorrow.’ He leans in to give me a polite kiss on the cheek. ‘Better find Lily before the meeting gets under way.’ And he goes to leave.
‘Sure. And Mark,’ I add. He turns back. ‘If you ever want to chat … about how Lily is getting on, or Polly, or just, well, anything at all … you know where I am.’ Mark nods before going to round up Lily.
Dr Ben steps into the patch of grass at the centre of the tables and coughs to get everyone’s attention. The crowd immediately stops talking and turns their attention to the esteemed village GP.
‘Firstly, I’d like to say thank you to you all for giving up your evening to come along—’
‘Least we can do, doc,’ someone interrupts, followed by lots of ‘hear hears’, which makes Dr Ben’s cheeks flush slightly as he pushes his glasses further up his nose. He clears his throat before continuing. ‘You’re all very kind,’ he says graciously, in his lovely lilting Irish accent. ‘And this is the first time I’ve been fully involved in anything like this, so I’m really looking forward to seeing how it’s done,’ he says tactfully, pausing to glance reverently at the table where six or so stalwarts of the Women’s Institute are seated, each wearing the obligatory uniform of pastel-coloured cardy twin-set teamed with easy-fit jeans. They each nod and give him knowing looks, as if confirming their allegiance, but most importantly, their solid experience in matters such as village fetes, fairs, shows and such-like – a nationally judged show clearly being like water off a duck’s back for them, thank you very much – and they’re only here to ensure proceedings are conducted in an efficient manner. I smile and look over at another table to see Mrs Pocket and the parish council contingency bristling when Dr Ben fails to glance at them as well, and groan inwardly. Ahh, so the battle has already commenced! WI versus parish council – each of them already assumes that they should head up the Great Village Show committee. Talking of committees, Dr Ben continues:
‘I’m wondering if we should start off by selecting a committee panel to oversee each of the show’s elements.’ Sybs rummages through a folder in front of her before handing Dr Ben a sheet of paper. ‘Thank you.’ He winks at Sybs and I’m sure I spot a couple of my school mums bristling – they’d clearly been quite smitten when Dr Ben first arrived in Tindledale to take over the surgery from Dr Donnelly, and were then most put out when it became apparent that newcomer, Sybs, had ‘snared’ him, as I overheard them describe it, having only been here ‘for like five minutes’. Oh well. I was delighted for Sybs: she deserves to find her happy-ever-after as much as the next person. ‘I took the liberty of downloading all of the criteria from the National Village Show Committee website, and it seems that there are three main areas we need to focus on …’
‘The three Cs,’ someone shouts out. Followed by, ‘That’s right, I remember from last time – they stand for community, creativity, and, err, um … Oh, I can’t remember the other one,’ bellowed by Lucy, who owns the florist’s in the High Street.
‘That’s right. The third C is civic duty,’ Dr Ben says, reading it from the paperwork.
‘We’ll be in charge of that one,’ harrumphs a pompous-looking man with a long nose and flared nostrils. He leans back from the parish council table to adjust his braces. I’ve never seen him before. But it’s no surprise, as villagers old and new always come out of the woodwork whenever there’s a big event like this to be organised.
‘Hang on a minute. Wouldn’t it be better to vote on it, get an idea of who wants to be involved in what?’ Molly says, after glaring at the pompous guy. ‘Take Sybs, for example: she should be in charge of the creative element … seeing as she runs the haberdashery shop and is good at knitting and quilting and making stuff look pretty … The High Street would look beautiful with some of her floral bunting buffeting in the breeze between the lampposts,’ she adds brightly.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ the pompous guy pipes up again. ‘Does she know how to thatch a roof? That’s what I want to know. Nope! Now that’s a proper creative master skill, not fiddling around with bits of bunting.’ He flares his nostrils out a little further and some of the others seated at his table begin to bristle. ‘The judges aren’t going to be bothered by all those gimmicky things,’ he ploughs on. ‘What we need is to tidy up the verges. Have you seen the state of them? Tyre marks all over the grass outside my cottage! It’s a disgrace.’
‘Well, I agree with Molly,’ Ruby from the vintage dress shop interjects, smoothing her scarlet, shoulder-length Dita Von Teese-style hair into place while treating the pompous guy to a very disdainful glower, her cherry-red lips poised for a comeback if he so much as dares to heckle further. I resist the urge to smirk by stirring my Pimm’s and then drinking a big mouthful as I take in what’s going on around me. The remonstrating and arguing about trivial details goes on until someone brings up the marrow incident, which doesn’t help, and then Pete jumps in and it really kicks off.
‘Those tyre marks will be from my tractor!’ he states to nobody in particular, as if deliberately, and quite mischievously, meaning to escalate the matter, before draining the last of his cider. He wipes his mouth with the shoulder part of his shirt and then pulls open a bag of cheese & onion crisps, as if he hasn’t a care in the world, which rankles the pompous guy further. He’s up on his feet now, with the sides of his jacket pushed back so he can plant his hands firmly on his hips, showing us he’s ready for action.
‘Ahh, so you’re the culprit. Well it won’t do – I’ve a good mind to place some boulders around my borders,’ the pompous guy retaliates. ‘That’ll stop you in your tracks.’
Cue a collective snigger from the farmers’ table, followed by: ‘I could supply you with a sack of coal if you like – you could paint all the lumps white and then pop them around your borders,’ from John, who owns the hardware store on the Stoneley Road – and always has a mountain of logs and sacks of coal in the open lock-up adjacent to his place.
‘Good idea, that should do the trick,’ the pompous guy puffs, and I figure that he must be a newcomer as he’s utterly unaware that they’re pulling his leg now by goading him with their ‘coal-painter’ jibes, a local euphemism for the ‘townies’ who keep a country cottage in Tindledale for the weekends, but haven’t a clue when it comes to rural life. Tractors mounting verges is just the way it is here; the lanes are just so narrow and winding in parts of the village that it’d be impossible for Pete, or any of the other farmers for that matter, to transport their cattle or crates of apples around the place.
‘Or what about some nice painted pebbles?’ Molly pipes up again, making the farmers chortle some more. But one of the WI ladies has had enough and butts in with:
‘Never
