The Great Village Show

‘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. Carnage, it was, and with absolutely no time to re-turf the green before the judges arrived.’

‘Blimey. Well, let’s hope it isn’t a disaster this time around.’

‘Yep, fingers crossed.’

‘Why don’t you come along to the meeting?’ Sybs suggests, slipping the strap of her bag over her head, cross-body style, before getting back on to her bicycle. ‘Sounds as if we might need a teacher, someone in a position of authority, to bring some order to the event – especially if last time’s disastrous chain of events are anything to go by. What if the villagers start behaving like a bunch of children, bickering and bitching over the provenance of their allotment produce?’ Sybs lets out a long whistle, while I ponder on her suggestion.

‘Now, there’s an idea. I might just do that,’ I nod purposefully, thinking it could be just the thing to kick-start my life. Jack isn’t the only one who can look to new horizons. I’m still young, so who knows what the future might hold?

Monday afternoon, and I’ve just arrived home from a very long and difficult day at school when I spot Lawrence leaning against the frame of my sunshine yellow front door. Tall and fifty-something, he’s the most debonair man in the village, and his head is mere inches away from the hanging basket that’s in desperate need of attention – the rainbow mix of mini-petunias have really come on, so much so that they are now cascading almost down to the top of the wooden welly storage box. I make a mental note to sort them out later on. I find it therapeutic, and just what I need right now.

‘Hungry?’ He waggles a pink paper carrier bag from Kitty’s tearoom high in the air, before giving me a huge hug. Dressed in a smart tweed suit, complete with waistcoat and open-necked checked flannel shirt, he looks every inch the perfect country gent – very Ian McKellen, albeit with cropped short hair and classic aviator-style sunglasses, which he takes off and slips inside his breast pocket, swapping them for his usual black-framed indoor glasses. ‘I thought we might enjoy afternoon tea together?’ he adds thoughtfully, stepping aside so I can balance my bike against the brick side wall and unlock the door.

‘Ahh, I’d love to. Thank you, Lawrence, what a great idea.’ I rummage in my handbag for the bunch of keys.

‘I do try,’ he says modestly, with the vague hint of an American accent. ‘Here, let me help you with that.’ He takes my enormous cloth school bag, bulging with various paraphernalia – exercise books to be marked, laptop, empty lunch box, book, magazine, make-up, my current cross-stitch project to do in the staffroom if I have a minute to spare, staff folders (their quarterly reviews are due soon) and, lastly but most ominously, the A4 envelope that was handed to me as the team of school inspectors left after their impromptu visit this morning.

‘Thanks,’ I say, grateful to offload the massive weight from my left shoulder.

After pushing my key into the front door, I take the bag from Lawrence and heave it into the space on the floor under the coat stand. I purposefully tuck the brown envelope under my arm and walk down the narrow hall and through into the kitchen. Lawrence follows.

‘Summer is definitely here, thankfully. It’s practically tropical out there,’ he exaggerates, putting the paper carrier bag on the scrubbed pine table before slipping off his jacket. He rolls up his sleeves and, after placing the envelope next to the bag, I lean forward to give him a hug.

‘Thanks for popping in,’ I grin, taking a step back. ‘And perfect timing. It’s been,’ I pause for the right words, ‘an interesting day.’ I open the top half of the back door to let the glorious, honeysuckle-scented sun cascade in.

‘Sounds intriguing!’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows.

‘Yes, I’ll tell you about it … Here, I’ll make us some drinks,’ I say, going to pull open the fridge door. ‘How are you Lawrence? Have you had a good day?’ I ask him distractedly as I rummage about trying to find the ingredients. I was actually OK for the rest of the day after this morning’s meeting, but then I didn’t have time to let my feelings spiral. I had three children each requiring an hour of additional reading and numeracy practice and, as far as I’m concerned, the children’s basic learning needs come before the school inspectors’, quite frankly, very spurious ones! I let out a big puff of air, determined not to get het up about it again as I did when cycling home from school. At one point, I was so distracted that I very nearly sped straight into Pete, the cattle farmer, on his tractor as I took a bend in the lane too sharply – luckily his tractor was stationary; he’d stopped to enjoy a roll-up as he listened to the weather forecast bulletin on his beaten-up old radio that he keeps on the seat beside him in the cabin.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Lawrence says, obviously waiting to hear more about my day.

‘Fancy a glass of something chilled and fizzy instead of tea?’ I turn to Lawrence with a ‘dare you’ grin. ‘Go on.’

‘Oh, naughty Ms Singer, drinking in the afternoon … but such a good idea!’ He grins back. ‘Come on, let’s eat cake and you can tell me all about it.’

‘And drink fizzy elderflower champagne …! Hmm, well, it’s wine really, but champagne sounds a bit more glamorous,’ I say, swinging the bottle from the fridge to show him.

‘My dear, I wasn’t aware you had perfected another batch,’ Lawrence says in his usual stately, old-style gentlemanly way. It’s very comforting.

‘Sure have. Six bottles chilling nicely in the fridge. Would you like some to take back to the B&B for your guests?’ I ask.

‘Only if you let me pay for it this time. I insist,’ he says, politely, ‘and it’s only fair, given the love and care you put into making it. And I know you give bottles of it away to some of the villagers, which is very generous, buuuuut … I’d just feel happier …’ He shakes his head.

‘Oh don’t be daft, Lawrence. Making wines and cordials is a hobby, something Jack and I have done together for years – it makes good use of all the wild berries, fruits and flowers in and around Tindledale, plus the surplus veg from my patch at the bottom of the garden. You know that. And there’s plenty … look,’ I tell him, pointing to the four wooden crates stacked up just inside the pantry door next to the steps leading down to the cellar, where my little home brewery is housed. ‘Help yourself. Please. Take as much as you like – there’s plenty more where that came from, my garden is overrun with elderflower this year. Must be the early summer weather,’ I say, plonking four unopened bottles from the fridge on to the counter for him.

‘OK, lovely, thanks Meg.’ Lawrence knows better than to quibble with me – we’ve been friends for such a long time and I can be very ‘scary teacher’, as he calls it, when I need to be … which I do try not to be unless absolutely necessary.

‘You’re welcome.’ I find two glass tumblers and pour us each a generous measure of bubbles before popping a couple of ice cubes and cucumber slices in too. After adding a lime-green plastic giraffe stirrer, I hand one of the glasses to Lawrence.

‘What do you reckon?’

‘Mm-mmm, delicious. Thank you,’ Lawrence says tactfully, before taking a quick sip. ‘And I think this could actually top that truly scrumptious sloe and blackberry gin you made last summer.’ He swirls the liquid around his mouth, as if examining its vintage, like a proper wine connoisseur. I smile as Lawrence swallows and gives the drink a good stir in anticipation of having some more. ‘Cheers,’ he smiles, and then looks at me steadily. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You’re not still fretting about Jack, are you?’

‘No, no,’ I demur. ‘Really not. I mean it’s hard – I love it when he comes home for a holiday, and I do miss him, but of course his life needs to move on. It’s a great chance for him.’

Lawrence smiles kindly. ‘Absolutely. He deserves it after all the work he put in to get his A-level grades. And he talked about nothing else for months – years even. And how marvellous to be that certain of your future, of what you want to do, of what you want to be! It really is something to be admired.’

I nod, thinking properly about what Lawrence has just said. ‘That’s true. What an amazing feeling that must be. Hmm, I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt like that,’ I say.

‘But you’re a wonderful teacher, or so I’ve heard …’ Lawrence smiles wryly, then puts down his glass and looks seriously at me. ‘So maybe you found your métier anyway, just by chance.’

‘It’s true, I do love being a teacher, but I sort of just drifted into it. It fitted in nicely with all Jack’s school holidays … Mrs Pocket, the old head teacher – it was actually her idea.’

‘Oh yes, I know Mrs Pocket – prominent on the parish council and does all that genealogy stuff. Firm but foreboding, in a sensible-shoes-and-plaid-skirt, Miss-Jean-Brodie kind of way.’ Lawrence pulls a face.

‘Ha! I shall tell her you said that,’ I joke. ‘But seriously, she was an amazing mentor, very inspirational. Anyway, she encouraged me to train properly as a teacher, fitting it in around Jack, and that’s what happened.’

‘So you see, you got your chance to shine, and now it’s Jack’s time.’

I nod in agreement, and glance at the brown envelope on the table.

‘Shall it read it myself, or do you want to tell me?’ Lawrence asks softly as he takes the envelope from me and opens the flap.

‘Oh Lawrence, I might as well just tell you, but please don’t breathe a word,’ I say, anxiously. ‘I don’t want the villagers – especially the children – to worry.’

‘I absolutely promise,’ Lawrence says earnestly.

‘OK. Well, put bluntly, it looks as though the village school might have to close!’ I turn away, unable to hold eye contact. Saying the words out loud seems to make it sound so much more inevitable.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Lawrence eventually says, weighing each word carefully, ‘but can they do that? Just close a school? What about the children’s education? Surely there are laws – don’t children have a legal right to an education in this country?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘So how come then?’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows. ‘I mean, it’s a bit out of the blue, isn’t it?’

‘Sure is. A team of inspectors turned up today and are going to be assessing the viability of the school over the coming months … working out the cost of everything we do and use,’ I tell him.

‘I see.’ Lawrence’s calm tones are incredibly reassuring. ‘So what does that mean in real terms?’

‘It means, because our pupil numbers are dwindling, the council wants to see if it’s worth keeping the school open.’

‘But of course it is.’ His eyebrows rise. ‘It’s at the centre of everything. And didn’t most of the people here in Tindledale go to the school?’

‘Yes,’ I sigh, ‘but realistically it comes down to money at the end of the day. If the school …’ And it really does feel like my school, and I’m sure all the other villagers feel the same way – the school belongs to each and all of us together, Lawrence is right; we love the school, it’s just been a part of Tindledale life for ever and ever – since the mists of time, and I’m not even exaggerating. ‘… isn’t deemed affordable any more, then they’ll close us down.’

‘But surely it’s not just about money – what about all the extra stuff you do? The special needs support? Just last week you were telling me how well that little boy recently diagnosed with ADHD was doing.’ Lawrence now seems as shocked as I did when I first heard the news. ‘It’s about a whole community.’

‘I know, and you know, but from the point of view of the council, unless I can find a way to attract more children to the school, then it’ll be closed down.’

‘That’s too bad …’ Lawrence lets out a long whistle.

‘Well, it is a massive problem: there are only four children in this year’s Reception class and the nursery numbers are dropping too, so next September’s intake could be even less. We have capacity for sixty children in total, but there are currently only forty-nine, so unless we can find an additional eleven children, it’s cheaper for the council to pay for the school bus to collect my pupils and take them to the big school in Market Briar,’ I explain, having already gleaned this gem of information from the woman I spoke to on the phone at the council. I called right after I had inhaled my ham and homemade plum chutney sandwich at lunchtime, and before I went to spend the other twenty minutes of my lunch break helping Archie Armstrong with his speech therapy exercises because his mum, another single parent, is profoundly deaf so can’t really do it herself. So, firstly, I enquired as to why the council felt it necessary to send in a team, without warning, followed by a formal letter, and not just pick up the phone to chat about it first, and secondly to ask what this means in real terms, to which I was told, and quite tersely I have to say, that unless the pupil numbers pick up, the school will most likely close at the end of the next academic year, with a decision made by the end of this year’s summer holiday period. So we’ll know in September.

‘Hmm, well, from a purely selfish perspective, I need the village children close by for the Christmas pantomime rehearsals – how else am I going to find twenty singing children to perform “Ten Little Elves” for the grand finale? And be available to rehearse during the school day?’ Lawrence shakes his head as we sit quietly, each of us pondering, searching for a solution.

‘Well, you won’t. And I can hardly see the head teacher at the big school in Market Briar agreeing to let you use the school hall for rehearsals because the village hall’s heating has packed up again,’ I puff, and it’s a very good point, one I must remember to bring up at the village show meeting, as last time the judges commented on how it was extremely chilly in the village hall – and that was in summer time, so they ‘dreaded to think how arctic it might be in winter’. We don’t want to get marked down again for making the same mistake – perhaps we could get some plug-in radiators or something, if the parish council can be persuaded to part with some funding.

‘So what are we going to do then?’ Lawrence looks concerned.

‘Well, short of asking if any of the villagers plan on adopting lots of school-age children in the next few months, I have no idea! But one thing I do know, Lawrence,’ I pause to take a breath, ‘is that I’m not going to stand by and let the inspectors close down my school. Certainly not!’ I say, getting into my stride.

‘Good! That’s the spirit,’ Lawrence rallies. ‘We need to attract new blood to the village – young families, young couples to have lots of babies – yes, and how about Sybs and Dr Ben? I wonder if they’ve talked about having a family yet. A BIG one.’

‘Hmm. Funnily enough, Sybs didn’t mention it when I saw her yesterday,’ I joke.

‘Then you must ask her right away!’ Lawrence turns to face me with a very serious look on his face. ‘There’s no time to waste. And she’s a twin! And they say that twins run in families, so if she and Dr Ben get cracking now, you could have two more pupils lined up for the nursery in nine months’ time. Surely if we can show the demand is there, babies that will be five and ready to start school in the blink of an eye, then the council will have to change its mind.’ His voice trails off.

‘But I can’t do that!’ I say, horrified. ‘We are friends, but not that close – can you imagine? “Oh Sybs, I was just wondering if you and Ben were getting it on, frequently, as in making babies any time soon, because I’m now touting for business!” I could do a poster perhaps – WANTED! Children to fill my school. What on earth would she think?’ I shake my head.

‘Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Sybs isn’t one to take offence,’ Lawrence says gently, and I soften, knowing that he’s just trying to help. I quickly reconsider – maybe he has a point, and what other options do I have right now? It could be my best chance.

‘Hmm, maybe I should go a step further and open up Tindledale’s very first fertility clinic, just to be on the safe side.’ I laugh.

‘Good idea,’ Lawrence says, not missing a beat.

‘Or perhaps you could ask Sybs – you’re closer to her than I am,’ I smile.

‘Yes, I might just do that!’

‘But, joking aside, Lawrence, we do need to come up with some serious ideas to boost business for you and to make sure the school stays open,’ I say, pointing an index finger in the air, as if marshalling a rescue package for a major conglomerate.

‘What about coffee mornings? Parent and toddler groups where you can show off the school and its facilities to prospective parents? Do you do stuff like that already?’ Lawrence asks.

‘Um, no, not really. But I know St Cuthbert’s does,’ I say enthusiastically, my mind going into an overdrive full of taster sessions and newsletters, spring festivals and teddy bears’ picnics in the Tindledale woods. That would be fairly easy to organise too … Hmm, I’m going to get on to that right away. ‘And how about a crafting circle? Children love making things – I could ask Hettie or Sybs to show the older children how to knit, crochet, quilt and cross-stitch – broaden the curriculum, because it’s not all just about numeracy and literacy and league tables. We could even set up a mini petting farm. I’m sure I could round up enough rabbits, guinea pigs, chickens, goats and lambs – the possibilities are endless.’

‘They sure are. But tell me about St Cuthbert’s – is this the big school they’d bus your children to?’ Lawrence asks.

‘Oh no, it’s the private school on the old Market Briar Road – their numbers are flourishing, so I know there are lots of children in the area. Mostly families that have relocated from larger towns where the schools aren’t performing so well, but then St Cuthbert’s has far better facilities than we do – Olympic-size swimming pool, all-weather sports arena and a proper arts theatre with a sound deck and professional lighting and all of that, somebody said. My little village school – with its patch of tarmac for a playground and regular rounds of begging letters to parents for donations of kitchen roll and shaving cream for messy play – really can’t compete.’ I shake my head.

‘Ahh, but your school is ranked Outstanding on the government thingamajig.’

‘Ofsted!’ I offer, and he’s right, and we’re very proud of this fact.

‘And what about Blue? Didn’t you take him into school when you were doing the Beatrix Potter project? A real live Peter Rabbit. Surely the inspectors will be impressed by that initiative. And I bet they don’t bring nature into the classroom at the big school in town,’ Lawrence says hopefully, eyeing Blue, who is now snuggling on my lap, his little paws perpetually moving as he cleans his face.

‘That’s right, I did. And I’ll be making sure he comes to school with me again so the inspectors can see how much the children love playing with Blue, and learning how to be gentle, how to care for him, how to take turns – all that emotional development is very important; it’s a huge part of the whole child approach that I try to apply in my school. But what I really need is more pupils. That’s what will make all the difference. We can have the best curriculum for miles around, but it doesn’t mean very much if the children aren’t coming to my school.’