The Great Village Show (10 page)

I’
m on the bus on my way back from the Country Club and we’re just about to go past Hettie’s House of Haberdashery, so I swivel to the window to see what’s going on. The shop looks truly beautiful, bathed in sunshine, with buttery gold miniature sunflowers lining the little path leading up to the front door, and I can see Sybs sitting in a yarnbomb-covered armchair in the window with the rest of the Tindledale Tappers, the local knitting club. Beth, one of my teachers is there, with her classroom assistant, Pearl, and Basil is sprawled out on his usual spot, a padded window seat covered in a flowery print; it’s perfect for seeing who’s coming and going. Sybs gives me a big wave, knitting needle still in hand … and is that a little lemon-coloured bootie hanging from the other needle? I press my nose to the bus window to try and get a better look. Maybe she and Dr Ben are already planning on starting the
big
family that Lawrence mused about. I sure hope so!

Lawrence’s is the next house on the lane, so I decide to jump off and call in to share the good news from my meeting with the manager at the Country Club. He is definitely up for doing a deal with Lawrence’s B&B. I thought a special weekend pampering package, just like they do at the spa hotel on the industrial estate, would help boost business for Lawrence. He can provide the country cottage escape and the award-winning home-cooked food part of the deal, and the club can do the spa experience. And the manager also instantly saw the benefit of the club doing its bit to help the community by sponsoring the village show, figuring a mention in a national newspaper would be just the thing to entice well-heeled people to sign up for golf membership. He even agreed to let my school children have use of the pool for some much-needed swimming lessons, which is bound to impress the inspectors when I tell them first thing on Monday morning. So it’s a win all round.

After stowing my cross stitch away, I stand up and press the bell before making my way downstairs, gripping the handrail to stay upright, as the bus swerves suddenly to avoid an errant peacock from the Blackwood Farm Estate. The impressive bird is standing proudly in the middle of the road, its iridescent blue and green feathers fanned, the tips wafting nonchalantly in the afternoon breeze. And the peacock is clearly in no hurry to move, so we sit and wait until it eventually struts into a gap in the nearby hedgerow and the bus chugs on before coming to a shuddery halt right at the end of Lawrence’s driveway.

‘Thanks Don,’ I say to the driver – he’s been doing this route since I was a little girl, so everyone in Tindledale knows him. I step off the bus, giving him a cheery wave, and start crunching across the gravel parking area and down the long path towards the picturesque black-and-white Tudor beamed cottage with a tall chimney at either end of the thatched roof.

I’ve just stepped on to the narrow little wooden bridge to cross the stream in Lawrence’s front garden, when a man, head bent down, furiously tapping away on a mobile phone, comes barrelling towards me.

‘Oh, um,’ I start, surprised to note he’s making no attempt to move out of my way, despite the fact that I was on the bridge first. But I’m just about to give in, figuring it’s the easiest thing to do, and step aside, when his left leg catches on my new, and very lovely Cath Kidston basket – green wicker with a polka-dot fabric interior – making it jolt sharply. He stops moving and tuts overdramatically.

‘Well,
excuse me
,’ I puff under my breath, before pushing the basket back into the crook of my elbow and turning to walk away. But the man doesn’t move.

‘
Pardon?
’ he grunts, without even bothering to glance up, still mesmerised by his phone.

‘I think you mean
sorry
?’ I say automatically, in my best teacher voice, but the minute the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could push them straight back in, for two reasons: firstly, this man is not a child – no, he most definitely is not; and secondly, I realise belatedly that he’s the celebrity chef Lawrence was telling me about, Dan Wright. I’m sure of it. Much older than he was in the YouTube clip, of course, but with the same unruly black hair and sardonic set to his jaw. I was right, though – he is a spreader; he’s taking up the whole bridge with no regard for my personal space. He even has his enormous Timberland-clad foot planted in front of my shoes, blocking my way.

Buuuut
, if we want him to open a fine dining restaurant with ten-course tasting menus in Tindledale, which would really help put us on the map and attract new blood with lots of children to the village and ultimately my school, he has to be made to feel welcome … Sooooo, I take a deep breath and think of the greater good and attempt some damage limitation.

‘What I actually meant was, that I, um …’ I fiddle with a stray tendril of hair and flick my eyes away, willing my cheeks to stop flaming, ‘err, I meant that I’m sorry,’ I just about manage, hating having to apologise when he’s the one in the wrong.

‘Forget it!’ he grumbles distractedly, still staring at his phone.

‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback by his sheer audacity and lack of grace.

A short, very awkward silence follows. Eventually he gives up on the phone and shoves it inside his jeans pocket.

‘Bloody place. How do locals cope?’

‘Cope?’ I repeat, bemused.

‘Yes, cope!’ he says irritably. ‘You know, being so cut off from the rest of the civilised world?’ And it sounds more like a statement than a question. He runs a hand across his beard, which is a little bushier and unkempt than is currently fashionable.

‘Um,’ I start. Dan actually seems to be waiting for an answer. ‘Weeeell, I guess us
locals
manage somehow. Pigeons make very good messengers, and you can’t beat a good old-fashioned letter with a stamp on.’ I shrug my shoulders in what I hope is a nonchalant way. ‘And only last week I was telling all my children about that modern phenomenon, the World Wide Web. Have you heard of it?’ I tilt my head to one side, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

‘
All your children?
’ he says, sounding aghast. He even takes a small step backwards, recoiling, as if imagining a tribe of children, all from different fathers, all making appearances on
Jeremy Kyle
as we sort out our latest spats and feuds. His face is even screwed up now. I can feel myself bristling so I pull my shoulders up to ease the tension.

‘School children!’ I tell him firmly. ‘I’m the acting head teacher at the village school,’ I add, just a little too primly, and he actually shrinks his head back a bit and arches his eyebrows, like I’m some kind of wicked witch who’s about to give him a hundred lines for being rude. I cough to clear my throat as I straighten my navy bolero cardy, wishing I’d opted now for my usual jeans and stripy T-shirt instead of this shapeless but very comfortable, faded flower-print tea dress and battered old floppy sun hat with sweat stains around the rim that I usually only wear when gardening (I couldn’t find my sunglasses so it was better than nothing) which, on reflection, probably makes me look like a scatty old spinster to him, with only her pets to keep her company. And then, to my horror, I spot a selection of Blue’s caramel-coloured hairs, stark against the navy wool, clinging to my left shoulder from where I gave him a cuddle this morning, which just confirms my theory.

‘Riiiiight.’ And he gives me an up-and-down look, before passing judgement, ‘Well, that explains it …’ And I’m perplexed: what does that even mean,
explains it
?
I open my mouth to reply, but on second thoughts … I close it again, and then pull off the sun hat and shove it sharply inside my basket. What on earth was I thinking, putting that on my head and venturing outside? I really should have gone without. Another short silence ensues, and I take the opportunity to glance at his foot, wondering if he might actually get the hint and move it so I can carry on my way; but no such luck, he’s oblivious, so I end up having to say, ‘Excuse me,’ followed by a loaded look downwards to the wooden panels beneath us.

‘Yeah, sure.’ He finally moves his big-booted foot out of my way, and then goes to walk on, but hesitates and turns back, as if he’s just thought of something else. He rubs his beard again, as though he’s trying to remember. Eventually he says, ‘What network are you on?’ And
please
is what immediately happens inside my head. Honestly! If he were one of my school children, I’d be telling him right now to remember his manners.

‘Network?’ I arch an eyebrow.

‘Yes, mobile phone network.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘And why are you repeating everything I say?’ he adds, creasing his forehead again and shaking his head slightly, as if he’s talking to the village idiot. My back bristles some more. He really is the most infuriating man I have ever met, and that is really saying something, after the way Jack’s dad carried on.

‘I’m not, but if you ask nicely, then I might tell you!’ I snip, wishing to God that I had just gone home now and called Lawrence with the news about the Country Club deal, rather than detouring to tell him in person. I feel deflated now. And ridiculous. And Dan Wright is to blame.

‘Err …’ Dan pauses, and now it’s his turn to look taken aback. He’s clearly not used to people pulling him up on his communication skills – or lack of. Most likely they’re all very reverent and just mutter, ‘Yes chef’, in between doffing their forelocks all the time like they do on that Gordon Ramsay TV programme. An amused smile creeps on to his annoying face as he nods his head really slowly. Ha! Take that, rude celebrity chef man.

‘Fair enough,’ he says quietly. ‘I probably deserved that.’ He shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets.

‘You did!’ I nod back. ‘And just so you know … we don’t have proper mobile network coverage in the village. Broadband, yes! But mobile phones are pretty much redundant here in Tindledale.’

‘
Whaaaat?
’ He looks incredulous. ‘You’re joking! You mean to say that I’ve been wasting my time wandering around waggling my phone at all angles like some kind of lunatic for absolutely no reason?’ He stares at me intently.

‘Well, um, yes, I suppose so, if you put it like that.’ I smile, despite myself, but have to admit, very frustratingly, that Lawrence was right. Dan is actually quite attractive when he isn’t being hostile. There’s a glint, a sparkle almost, in his dark, leonine brown eyes; or maybe I’m mistaken and it’s mischief or sheer blooming bloody-mindedness. Either way, it’s quite appealing. Damn it! And I reckon he probably has a very firm, athletic-looking jawline if he got rid of the silly beard, or at least trimmed it back a bit. He looks like a Viking! A big, chunky, tall Viking – all he needs is a club, a horned helmet and one of those swingy leather skirts. And, on glancing at the gap where his shirt is fluttering open in the warm breeze, I see that he already has the mandatory hairy chest, so maybe he belongs to one of those re-enactment clubs where they meet up in muddy fields and do pretend battles. It’s entirely possible.

‘Right. Well, in that case, I won’t be needing this!’ And Dan actually whips out his phone and flips it over the side of the bridge before pushing his hand back into his pocket like a petulant child. He shrugs, like nothing just happened. I stare at him momentarily, unable to believe my own eyes.

‘Um! Err … what on earth are you doing?’ I ask, incredulously, glancing into the stream. But it’s too late. The phone lands with a triumphant splash, sending a cascade of water up on to the bank and all over a nearby duck, which quacks disgruntledly before flapping its wings and waddling away.

‘Something I should have done a very long time ago.’ And a half-smile slips on to his face.

‘Oh!’ I cough, unsure of what else to say.

Sensing a bit of a thaw in the previously frosty atmosphere, I decide to seize the moment and ask him – soon the village show will be in full swing, so Dan is going to have to get cracking if he
is
planning on opening a restaurant in the village. Plus, I want to talk to him about coming to my school, too – and if I don’t ask, I won’t get! So, I take a deep breath and decide to go for it, imagining the look on the inspectors’ faces when I tell them tomorrow that celebrity chef, Dan Wright, is popping in some time this week to teach Year Six.
Oh yes, didn’t you know? That’s how we roll out here in the sticks. And the big school in Market Briar doesn’t even do domestic science after their teacher left and they weren’t able to find a suitable replacement. Ha!
I sort out my hat hair in preparation.

‘Can I ask you a question please?’ I smile, properly this time.

‘Sure,’ Dan shrugs.

‘Well, I know that you’re a chef,’ I pause, and he looks at his watch, ‘a very famous, award-winning chef of course,’ I quickly add, figuring a bit of flattery won’t hurt, but he folds his arms. Oh no, I should have realised; he’s probably in a hurry – important meetings to do with the new restaurant – so I quickly cut to the chase. ‘Is there any chance you could spare a couple of hours to run a cookery class with my school children please?’ I widen my grin.

Silence.

‘It really would be very much appreciated,’ I add, gripping the handle of my basket a little tighter in anticipation of his answer.

Dan’s face hardens. He gives me another all-over look before delivering his verdict.

‘NO!’

My mouth drops open. He turns around and strides off back into the B&B.

Rude.

I swallow hard and, after reuniting my jaw with the rest of my face, I realise that I was right – initial impressions sure do count. The YouTube clip of him was spot-on. Dan Wright
is
a child! In fact, that’s actually an insult to the children in my school, as they wouldn’t even
dream
of behaving as badly as he just did. And I hadn’t even got to the ‘teaming up with Lawrence’s B&B for cookery course weekends’ idea!

Well, never mind! Tindledale can certainly do without the likes of him. And Lawrence would be making a grave mistake if he so much as contemplated any kind of joint business venture with Dan Wright, because if he’s as rude to his customers as he has just been to me, then the B&B would probably end up having to close down completely, when potential guests see its shockingly low rating for hospitality, or severe lack of, on travel sites such as TripAdvisor and the like. And I do an actual harrumph as I bat Blue’s veritable bale of hair right off my shoulder.