of the children in my school.
‘But better that than nobody caring, or looking out for each other,’ Sybs says.
‘That’s true,’ I agree, thinking of my next-door neighbours, Gabe and Vicky, in the middle, and then Pam, Dr Ben’s receptionist, on the other end of our little row of three Pear Tree Cottages. They are more like friends than just people I live next to, as are so many of the people in the village.
‘And if Hettie had lived alone in a bigger community, she could well have gone unnoticed for days after her fall.’
‘I imagine so,’ I nod. ‘So what happened then? Is Hettie OK?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. It turns out the fall wasn’t anywhere near as bad as we all feared, but Ben did have to give her a telling off …’ Sybs’ forehead creases.
‘Oh?’ I frown too.
‘You know how fiercely independent Hettie is,’ Sybs continues, and I nod in agreement, remembering all the times I’ve tried to help her and she’s politely refused. ‘Yes, apparently she was standing on a chair, in her slippers, trying to reach her favourite blanket from the top shelf of the airing cupboard, when she toppled over and fell down on to her left hip. Luckily, her hall carpet cushioned the fall and she suffered some minor bruising and not a fractured pelvis.’ Sybs shakes her head.
‘Oh dear, but thankfully it wasn’t far worse. I can’t imagine her coping at all if she had to lie around in a hospital bed for any length of time.’ We both smile and shake our heads.
‘Absolutely not, Hettie would hate that. Anyway, I’ll let her know that you were asking after her.’
‘Thanks, Sybs. I’ll pop down and see her soon. I take it she won’t be running her cross-stitch class this week?’ I glance over at my first attempt hanging on the wall by the window – a simple ‘Home Sweet Home’ sampler in a gorgeous cherry-red thread with a dainty, creamy-coloured blossom flower detailing. Soon after Jack went, I realised that all my evenings were my own again – there was no more need for the Mum-taxi service, taking him to hockey practice, rugby, swimming and such-like in Market Briar. I really fancied trying something new and different, so I signed up to Hettie’s ‘Cross-stitch for Beginners’ course. It’s totally informal; about eight of us meet up every Wednesday evening. After a good thirty minutes or so of catching up (gossiping) and devouring packets of custard creams and Jammie Dodger biscuits, and whatever delicious cake Kitty has brought with her (she runs the Spotted Pig café and tearoom on the corner of the High Street), Hettie shows us how to cross-stitch as beautifully as she does.
‘Don’t be daft!’ Sybs nudges me gently. ‘Why on earth would you think a bruised hip would stop Hettie from soldiering on?’ We both laugh.
‘Hmmm, I’ve actually no idea why I thought such a thing,’ I say, enjoying our banter. ‘I should have known Hettie wouldn’t let us down.’
‘Absolutely not. And you should have seen the look she gave me when I suggested that of course you would all understand if she wanted to give this week’s class a miss.’
‘Ha! I can imagine. You are one brave woman, Sybil Bloom,’ I chuckle.
‘A foolish one more like,’ she pulls a face. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going and sort out this stinking dog before the whole of Tindledale whiffs of fox poo.’
‘Sure,’ I laugh. ‘Well, thanks for popping by.’ I give Sybs a hug.
‘Oh, I almost forgot – can I give you these?’ She opens the top of her beautiful fuchsia hand-knitted bag – it has rose-print fabric lining – and pulls out a wad of leaflets. ‘It might not be your thing, but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind putting one inside each of your children’s book bags? For the parents. Well, children and dogs too – or ferret in Molly’s case,’ she sighs, and an image of Molly, the butcher’s wife, walking her pet ferret around the village on a lead, pops into my head. ‘Yes, the more the merrier. Ben reckons we really need everyone to get involved if we’re to stand a chance of winning.’ Sybs grins and I grin back, feeling brighter than I have all week. I like Sybil; she’s always cheerful and eager to help out if she can.
‘Sure,’ I say, taking them from her and glancing at the leaflet on top of the pile.
Tindledale Needs You!
Come along to the Duck & Puddle pub on Friday 29 May at 6 p.m. to find out how you can get involved in this year’s GREAT VILLAGE SHOW. All welcome (dogs on leads please).
‘Ooh, so the parish council got over its embarrassment, then, and decided to have another go?’ I say, trying not to sound too amused.
‘What do you mean?’ Sybs asks with a curious look on her face.
‘Well, last time, it, um … didn’t go quite to plan.’ I arch an eyebrow, unsure of how much I should tell her. I imagine some members of the parish council would prefer that the revered village GP and his girlfriend weren’t aware of how badly behaved some of them were last time Tindledale put on a show.
‘Last time?’
‘Yes, it was in the summer before you arrived, which I guess is why you don’t know what happened.’
‘Oh dear, this sounds ominous – what?’ She frowns. ‘Ben thought it might be a good idea, you know, to boost community spirit and really put Tindledale on the map. Apparently the ten best village shows in the whole country get listed in one of the national newspapers, with a full colour feature in their Sunday supplement magazine.’
‘Hmm, Dr Ben is right, it is a good idea, and it certainly does boost community spirit, but last time two of the parish councillors took spirit –’ I pause for added emphasis – ‘to a whole new level and had to resign. There was a falling out over a giant marrow!’
‘Ooops!’ Sybs makes big eyes.
‘Indeed. And we were doing so well, having been pre-selected by the National Village Show Committee to have a celebrity to help with the judging of local produce – food, preserves, cakes, bakes, eggs, vegetables, gardens in bloom … that kind of stuff, which is always a bit of a kudos thing. Stoneley Parish Council were most put out when they had to put up with the plain old ordinary judges. Sooo, Alan Titchmarsh turned up, fresh from his telly gardening programme, and the two Tindledale councillors started bickering and accusing each other of cheating – something about having bought the marrow from the new Lidl that had just opened up in Market Briar, instead of cultivating it on their allotment as per the rules. It was shocking, but hilarious too – one of them completely lost it and ended up grabbing Alan’s clipboard and smashing it over and over and over into the offending marrow, at which point Marigold – you know, the wife of Lord Lucan?’ Sybs nods in acknowledgement, aware I’m referring, not to the famously untraceable nanny-murderer, but to Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton from Blackwood House on the Blackwood Farm Estate. ‘Well, she had to step in with a roll of kitchen towel so Alan could wipe the marrow pulp from his face.’
‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ Sybs says, trying not to laugh.
‘And that’s not all. The day before the show, the village green was defiled. Mud everywhere. It was such a mess. A runaway tractor was to blame – one of the farm boys lost control as he came over the brow of the hill and ended up doing twenty zigzag laps with the plough mode in full throttle, across the immaculately manicured lawn.
