Copyright

Harper

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First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015

Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007597390

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007597406

Version: 2016-04-25

Dedication

For Mavis Holdsworth Mercer

26 November 1928 – 15 January 2015

My Doncaster nanny, a lady who was always very

kind to me xxx

‘Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer’s year – it brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul.’

–Anonymous

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

The Great Village Recipes

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Alexandra Brown

About the Publisher

Prologue

Jessie Cavendish hadn’t been sure about uprooting from their elegant Chelsea mews house and re-locating to the quaint, but quite muddy, little village of Tindledale. Having grown up in a rural, close-knit, welly-wearing community, she knew first hand how incestuous they could be and how isolated they could make one feel. Yet, as she hiked on up to the highest point overlooking the valley, landmarked by the biggest oak tree she had ever seen, pausing to catch her breath as she slipped off her cardy and tied it neatly around her waist, she realised that the more she saw of this idyllic part of the world, the more she rather liked it.

Tindledale was surrounded by lush, undulating green hills dotted with lambs and an abundance of pretty wild flowers, pink apple orchards and strawberry fields. At its heart lay an adorably cobbled High Street, flanked either side with black timber-framed, white-wattle-walled shops with mullioned windows – it really was a special place. And Jessie wasn’t the naïve person she had been back then, when Sebastian had enticed her away to the bright lights of London, to the city where all the women lived fabulously glamorous lives in their pretty ballerina pumps, or so she had thought. But Jessie had grown to realise over the years that it was often far easier to ‘get onboard’, as Sebastian was fond of saying, whenever one of his big, life-changing plans was mooted. Plus, the children would be so much happier in the village school, with its postage-stamp-sized playground and quaint clock tower on the roof – no more navigating the super-shiny 4x4 (Sebastian had insisted she drive the triplets in the oversized, but extra-safe tank, but she hated it, much preferring her clapped-out, old and very small Mini) through the narrow, congested streets of London on the nursery school run.

Moving here would mean just a short trundle through the village where the triplets’ new friends were bound to live, and perhaps Jessie would meet and make some friends of her own too! Yes, far nicer than having the children cloistered away inside some archaic boarding school, as Sebastian had been planning for far too soon after their sixth birthdays, having registered the children’s names before they were even born – so at least she had managed to hold out for something in return, this time, for distancing herself from her old life, her family, her friends, her support network … But then Jessie was under no illusion that this was precisely why Sebastian was so keen for them to move ‘down from London’ to the countryside. She’d make the best of it, as she always had, and maybe living in Tindledale would help them relax, Sebastian especially. That would be bound to have an enormously positive impact on them all.

Jessie closed her eyes and tilted her face up towards the rejuvenating rays of the early summer sun, letting the warm breeze cool her flushed cheeks as she wrapped her arms around herself and then ran a hand over her perfectly taut abdomen. She allowed herself a moment of contemplation, before her mind drifted back to more trivial thoughts – would she manage to find a yoga class to replace the one she loved in London? Tindledale village hall, perhaps! The estate agent had mentioned the thriving community and all that it had to offer: Brownies, Scouts, an amateur dramatics group; even a knitting club in the local haberdashery shop – and she had been meaning to learn to knit for ages now. And something about a summer show being a big part of village life – Jessie made a mental note to find out exactly what this entailed, as it certainly sounded more exciting than the flower-arranging sessions with the Women’s Institute that Sebastian had said would suit her. And then something else occurred to Jessie, something that made her heart sing, something that she hadn’t thought about for such a long time. Bees!

Jessie had loved keeping bees as a child. And chickens. Her dad had taught her how. And, for a while, she had even written about country life for a variety of farming magazines, before her own life had somehow turned into looking after the children and the home instead, so Sebastian could concentrate on his career. Well, maybe this was a chance to change things around and rekindle her passion for bees and chickens … goats and gardening too! The possibilities were endless. So Jessie made her decision. She would do what Sebastian wanted – what she wanted too, she was sure of it now – and move here, to the village of Tindledale.

So with her mind made up, and a sudden urgency to hike back to the car and drive straight to the estate agent’s office to sign all the paperwork for the new house, Jessie took a deep breath and allowed herself one last thought of ‘what if?’ before shaking her head and exhaling hard, knowing there really was no other solution. This was how it had to be. And besides, a fresh start away from London and the distraction there was probably for the best …

As if on autopilot, I flick on the kettle and select two mugs – one with Best Mum Ever on for me, the other with a swirly letter J for Jack. I spoon coffee granules into each of them and then I remember. Jack isn’t here any more! I let out a long breath, before twirling my wavy fair hair up into a messy bun, securing it with a red bobble band from a wonky clay dish Jack made for me in nursery all those years ago – it’s been proudly displayed on the windowsill ever since – before storing his cup back in the kitchen cabinet. Jack has only been gone a week, but I have to say that it’s felt like the longest seven days of my life. Although not quite as bad as when he first went away, back in September – that was really difficult. For a while, it was as if a chunk of my heart was actually missing, which might sound completely melodramatic, but it’s true; it was like a physical pain, a knot of emptiness wedged just below my breastbone that I just couldn’t seem to shift. You see, Jack and I kind of grew up together – I wasn’t much older than Jack is now, when he was born. I know it’s only university and he’ll be back again in a few months for the summer holidays, but still … I guess it’s taking me some time to adjust to my now empty nest.

But I am so proud of him, I really am, and that should make this transitional phase of my life a whole lot easier to cope with. It’s just that I’m so used to keeping it all together for Jack and me – now it’s only for me, it feels very strange indeed. I inhale sharply and drop a sugar lump into my cup, before giving it a good stir, taking care not to clatter the spoon excessively against the side of the mug – Jack hates the sound of it, especially after a late night of gaming with his mates up in his attic bedroom, and even though he isn’t here I find it comforting to remember our familiar family quirks and oddities. I smile fondly at the memory of me bellowing up the stairs for him to turn the volume down or at least put on the expensive Bose headphones that he saved up so long for – working weekends collecting glasses and helping out in the Duck & Puddle pub in the village.

Dunking a digestive biscuit into my coffee, I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction on thinking how well Jack has turned out; even pride, perhaps, as I remember how tough it was too at times – everyone knows that being a single parent is certainly no sauntering stroll in the park. There were many occasions where another adult, someone else to rant to when Jack had ripped his new school trousers after only a day’s wear, would have been very welcome indeed. And someone to share the highs with, like when he was Joseph in the school nativity play and delivered his lines so promptly and perfectly as I watched on with happy tears in my eyes. And then more tears when his place at Leeds University was confirmed, studying architectural engineering, which is no surprise, as Jack has always loved building things. I blame Lego! But no, everything isn’t AWESOME! Well, I guess it is for Jack – a whole new life, an exciting adventure; but why does he have to do it so far away from home? Our lovely little village. Tindledale, the place where he was born, right here in our cosy, tile-hung, two-bedroom cottage, to be exact, on the Laura Ashley rug in front of the log burner in the lounge.

I had called an ambulance, but by the time it had hacked along all the country lanes from Market Briar, the nearest big town, Jack’s scrunched-up bloody face was peering up at me, and my dear friend, Lawrence, who runs the local B&B and is a retired thespian (strolling home on that balmy summer night after a Tindledale Players rehearsal) heard my sweary screams through the open window (and I really am not a swearer, but the pain was excruciating, to be fair) and dashed in the back door to placate my mother, who was hollering out of the hands-free home phone, perched up on the mantelpiece, for me to ‘Pant hard, Megan. PANT HARD!’ And adding, ‘I knew I should have booked an earlier flight’, in between chain-smoking her way through a packet of Lucky Strike, followed by lots of sympathy sighs and intermittent ear-splitting shrieks from her duplex apartment in Tenerife. And Mum has never forgiven me for making her miss the birth of her only grandchild, allegedly … although I have no recollection of actually telling her the wrong due date, but for years she was adamant that I had. ‘Why else would I have written it on my wall calendar, a total of nineteen days after the actual event?’ she had said in an extra-exasperated voice.

Anyway, having Jack is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I adore children, which is very handy given that I’m a teacher – acting head teacher, to be precise – at the Tindledale village school, the same school that I went to, and Jack also. And Mum and I can laugh about it all now, even if it is long distance. Jack and I have had some glorious holidays over the years, staying with her, just a few kilometres from a lovely, secluded sandy beach, and of course she comes to see us whenever she can, but it’s not the same as having family here all the time. Thank God for friends! Talking of which, Sybs, short for Sybil, cycles past the window before popping her head through the open half of the stable door.

‘Hi Meg, not intruding am I?’ She grins, carefully leaning her bicycle next to mine against the honeysuckle-clad fence. Sybs used to be a housing officer in London before giving it all up and settling in Tindledale last year.

‘Of course not, come on in and have a coffee with me,’ I say, thrilled to see her. I go to scoop up Blue so he doesn’t escape when I open the bottom half of the stable door – he’s my super-soft, caramel-coloured, palomino house rabbit, who used to live outside in a hutch until Jack found his poor female friend, Belle, dead one morning, having been savaged by a fox in the night. So Blue lives inside now to keep him safe, and can usually be found basking in the heat from the log burner in winter, or, like today, when it’s so warm and sunny, he likes sprawling prone across the cool, quarry-tiled kitchen floor. I plop him back down, and after a quick twitch of his tail, he scampers off to his bowl to munch on some carrot sticks that I sliced up earlier for him.

‘Ahh, better not,’ Sybs says. ‘I don’t want to ruin your lovely home. Another time, perhaps, I’m just on my way up to the High Street to see if Taylor can squeeze this filthy mutt in for a much-needed appointment at the pet parlour.’ She glances at the basket on the front of the bike where Basil, her black Scottie dog, is sitting inside, caked in mud, before shaking her head. Her red curls bounce around abundantly.

‘Oops, what happened to him?’ I ask, laughing when Basil lets out a disgruntled growl and then hunkers down as if in disgrace. ‘And what is that horrendous pong?’ I quickly place my hand over my nose before leaning in closer to the honeysuckle, hoping to catch a whiff of its glorious scent to take away Basil’s noxious one.

‘Err, this little rascal decided to leg it across Pete’s newly ploughed field after spotting a brace of pheasants on the horizon, and then found a pile of fresh fox poo in the hedgerow and thought it would be a brilliant idea to roll around in it. And he’s ruined my new Converse – I bought them especially to wear in this warm dry weather – but then I had to chase after him.’ She waggles her left foot up in the air to show me the once lovely lilac trainers with polka-dot ribbons that are now a mottled mud colour. ‘His recall skills certainly need working on!’

‘Hmm, no wonder he’s skulking.’

‘Indeed. And so he should. Next time I won’t bother going after him; he can fend for himself in the Tindledale woods for all I care. I’d like to see how he’d cope having to forage around for wild mushrooms, berries and the odd dead mouse to live on.’ Sybs lets out a long huff of air, pretending to be cross, but all of us villagers know just how much she adores Basil, even if he is the cheekiest dog in Tindledale, and probably all of the surrounding villages too.

‘Awww, but he still looks so cute,’ I say, giving Basil a tickle under the chin, deftly avoiding the tarry mess on the side of his neck.

‘Oh, don’t be fooled by those “butter-wouldn’t-melt” eyes; he’s a little devil dog sometimes, and so greedy too – you know, he snaffled a whole pizza from the kitchen counter last week. I turned my back for a moment and it was gone. Still frozen. I had only just taken it out of the freezer.’

‘Wow! That’s impressive, but tell me – how did he reach a paw up to the kitchen counter to swipe the pizza?’ I ask, intrigued.

‘Oh, you won’t believe the stunts he can perform,’ Sybs says, exasperated. ‘He only hopped up on the footstool that I use to reach into the back of my cupboards – Ben spotted him performing the same trick only the day before.’ Sybs shakes her head again. ‘The footstool has since been removed, I hasten to add.’

I smile. ‘I bet he regretted it soon after. I imagine his stomach was arctic.’ Basil does another feeble groan by way of agreement.

‘Yes, and he slept for hours afterwards, comatose from the cheese and carb overload, no doubt.’

‘So, talking of injuries and ailments, how is Dr Ben, that gorgeous boyfriend of yours?’

‘Ahh, Ben is as lovely as ever. And as busy as ever! It’s funny, though – since we started living together, we seem to see less of each other than ever before,’ she sighs. ‘There’s no time off for a village GP – you know how it is. He can’t even go into the Duck & Puddle for a pint after surgery hours without being fawned over by his patients, all wanting to buy him a thank-you drink for sorting out their illness, or ask his advice on a whole range of medical issues.’ Sybs laughs and shrugs. ‘But I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she beams.

‘Well, it’s lovely seeing you so happy.’

‘Thanks Meg. And I truly am very happy – it’s wonderful how things work out in life sometimes,’ she says in a dreamy, faraway voice.

‘Sure is. And you know what, it’s always been that way, with the village GP being mobbed whenever he sets foot outside the surgery,’ I grin, resting my elbows on the top of the stable door. ‘As a child, I remember Dr Ben’s uncle, Dr Donnelly, getting the exact same treatment from the villagers, pardon the pun.’ We both laugh.

‘Sooo, how’s Hettie getting on after her fall last week?’ I ask, pulling off my cardy and pushing up the sleeves of my navy striped Breton top – the sun is really warm today. Not that I’m complaining, I love this weather, but jeans with long wellies and too many layers really isn’t suitable, but then there was a definite nip in the air this morning when I took my tea and toasted crumpets down to the end of the garden, to sit on the old tree stump beside the magnolia bush and draw in the breathtaking, lemony-vanilla-scented view across the stream that runs down the side of my cottage.

‘You heard about it then?’ Sybs sighs. Hettie used to run the House of Haberdashery down the lane on the outskirts of the village, before it became too much for her, so Sybil manages it now, while Hettie takes a back seat in her oast house next door. But Hettie is eighty-something, so I reckon she’s earned a bit of a rest.

‘Of course,’ I wink, and then quickly add, ‘you know how it is around these here parts,’ in a silly voice, exaggerating my country burr. Sybs giggles.

‘Hmm, I certainly do! News sure does travel fast, and everyone knows your business … before you even do yourself, sometimes.’

‘Yep. Good or bad, that’s the Tindledale way I’m afraid.’ I shake my head.

‘And I rather like it,’ she nods firmly.

‘You do?’ I lift my eyebrows in surprise. ‘It used to drive me nuts when I was growing up, as a teenager especially; it was really stifling at times. And even now, I sometimes hear stuff about my pupils’ parents that I really wished I hadn’t.’ I pull a face, thinking about the time when I overheard Amelia Fisher’s mother in the playground, gossiping to her mate about the new family, the Cavendishes, who bought the big farmhouse over on the outskirts of the Blackwood Farm Estate – how Mr Cavendish is a ‘right dish’ and sooooo charming, but how much of a shame it is that he’s hardly ever around – maybe that’s why his wife seems so sad, because they sure as hell wouldn’t be if they were married to him. Good looks, lots of money – clearly every woman’s dream, apparently! And Mrs Cavendish has little to complain about when she clearly has it all – perfect, tall, slim body; shiny hair with expensive highlights, and a recently refurbished home ‘like something out of Hello! magazine it is, with its acre of land’, and ‘what does she do all day?’ It had taken all my willpower to walk away and not to threaten to put them in detention or something, as I imagine Mrs Cavendish is probably a bit lonely in that big house all on her own while her husband works away – I do wonder sometimes if detention wouldn’t be more effective for the parents instead 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. 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.’

‘And if the school were to close, where would it leave you?’

‘I’m really not sure,’ I reply. ‘I might get a teaching job at another school somewhere. But it could mean I’ll be travelling miles away too.’

‘OK, but on a positive note, Meg, this could be an opportunity for you! You’re a great teacher, we all know that, so you’re certain to get something else, even if the worst happens. Or maybe you could do private tutoring for children with special needs. I know you really enjoy that aspect of your job. You could even set up a children’s therapy centre … yes, the possibilities are endless.’

There’s a short silence as I ponder on his suggestions.

‘Hmm, yes, you’re right, Lawrence.’ Buoyed on the wave of his enthusiasm, I begin to see the possibilities. I was thrown off course this morning by the inspectors’ visit but, as ever, Lawrence has helped clarify my thoughts. ‘I am not going to sit here moping and worrying about what might never happen. I’m going to take advantage of the spare time I’ve got – now Jack’s off doing his own thing – and right now I’m going to get stuck in to helping out with this year’s village show. There’ll be plenty that needs doing. Have you heard about it? Dr Ben is keen for us to have another go.’ I smile.

‘Oh yes,’ Lawrence grins. ‘Sybs popped by with one of her leaflets. I’m planning on getting involved too – do my bit for the community; and it sure would be helpful for my business if Tindledale were to get a mention in a national newspaper.’

Suddenly I realise how introspective I’ve been recently. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lawrence.’ I look at him with a furrowed brow. ‘I thought things were going really well for you,’ I say slowly, feeling remorseful. I’ve been so wrapped up in missing Jack, when Lawrence has obviously been worrying about his B&B business. And since his partner, Jason, died, he no longer has him for support.

‘Let’s just say that they could be better. Surely you’ve noticed a dip in the number of people in and around the village, the High Street, the Duck & Puddle, Kitty’s tearoom? I was chatting to the vicar just a few days ago, and he said that even the congregation at his Sunday service is dwindling …’ His voice trails off.

‘Well, I hadn’t,’ I admit, ‘but now that you mention it, yes … it did seem quiet last time I popped into Kitty’s for a scone and a mug of hot chocolate. Why is that?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I guess it’s inevitable with us having such a high number of elderly villagers – they pass on. And I reckon it’s also something to do with the new retail park that’s opened up on the other side of the valley, just past Market Briar. They have it all there – designer outlet shops, multiplex cinema, bowling, coffee chains, big-name restaurants; there’s even a hotel with a swimming pool and spa – my cosy little six-bedroom home-from-home B&B just can’t compete. And my guest numbers have definitely dipped since it opened.’

‘But not everyone wants all that high-tech, bells-and-whistles stuff. Surely there are lots of people who still love the cosy quirkiness of a traditional village, the personal touch that you offer at the B&B – not forgetting your award-winning breakfasts,’ I say, counting out the benefits on my fingers. Lawrence smiles. ‘And there must be lots of people who want to amble along our little High Street and watch the world go by through the mullioned windows of Kitty’s café, or thumb through some of the rare books in Adam’s bookstore. I know I do.’

‘I’m sure there are, but if they don’t know about Tindledale and all that we have to offer, then they can’t visit. A feature in a national newspaper is just what my B&B needs. And it’s about time you had some fun too.’

‘Exactly.’ I nod in agreement. ‘It’ll do me good to get involved in the village show and keep myself busy.’

‘Sure will. And broaden your horizons,’ Lawrence says slowly, as if gauging my reaction to a plan that he’s cooking up.

‘What is it?’ Silence follows. ‘Come on, what are you up to?’ I laugh, giving him a gentle dig in the ribs.

‘Later,’ Lawrence does a cryptic smile. ‘Let’s have some cake first,’ he adds, carefully lifting a scrumptious-looking individual lemon drizzle cake from the bag.

I retrieve two bird-patterned tea plates from the dishwasher. Grabbing a couple of forks, too, I place them on the kitchen table and we sit adjacent to each other on the long padded window seat in the sun, arranging the assortment of homemade cushions behind us, plumping and patting until we’re both comfortable. Suddenly I feel lighter and more optimistic than I have in ages. ‘So, what’s new, Lawrence?’ I ask him, conspiratorially. ‘Any interesting guests at the B&B?’ I take a bite of the cake, which tastes divine – citrusy and sweet, but with just the right amount of sharpness too; Kitty sure is a cake-making queen. And Lawrence has been like a fairy godfather to me since he came to Tindledale twenty or so years ago – so, still a relative newcomer, compared to most of the other villagers whose families have been here for generations – and opened Tindledale’s first bed and breakfast, which has proved to be very popular with tourists, and a welcome boost to Tindledale’s economy. You’d be surprised how many pints of cider visitors can get through in the Duck & Puddle, and then there’s the locally sourced produce they all go mad for in the butcher’s and the fruit & veg shops in the High Street. And not forgetting Kitty’s tearoom – tourists can’t get enough of her afternoon teas with melt-in-the-mouth fruit scones, strawberry jam and deliciously thick cream, churned by Pete on his cattle farm down in the valley near Cherry Tree Orchard.

Lawrence takes another mouthful of wine before doing a furtive left-then-right glance.

‘What is it? Or, should I say, who is it? Why are you looking so sheepish?’ I ask, my interest instantly piqued. I bet it’s someone famous – it must be; I’ve only ever seen Lawrence behave like this once before, and that was when the novelist Fern Britton checked in. They were doing some filming for a TV programme nearby in Market Briar, but she wanted to stay somewhere quieter. Lawrence said she was a true professional, very gracious and down-to-earth.

‘OK, but you must promise not to tell a soul.’

‘I promise,’ I say right away, now dying to know who the famous guest is.

‘Okaaaaaay,’ Lawrence pauses. ‘It’s Dan Wright!’ he announces impressively, as if I’m bound to know who Dan Wright is. Lawrence’s face drops when he realises that I’m struggling to place him. ‘Come on, you must know him, Meg.’

I lick my fingers before jumping up and running down the hall to retrieve my laptop. After lifting the screen into place, I go to type Dan Wright into Google and I get as far as the W.

‘Look,’ I tap the screen to show Lawrence. ‘Google has found him right away. And he has a Wiki page,’ I add, gradually piecing together a jumble of half-remembered facts and images.

Dan Wright, celebrity chef and owner of The Fatted Calf, three-Michelin-starred restaurant in London’s Mayfair …

‘Of course it has. He’s famous. So, do you recognise him now?’ Lawrence says, standing up and joining me at the end of the table.

‘Yes, I think so … but when do I ever go to fancy restaurants in London?’ I shrug, remembering the last time I went out for dinner – at the Oriental Palace, a Chinese restaurant and takeaway in Market Briar. Jack chose it, citing a desire for a lovely last chicken chow mein with his mum before heading to uni – it was such a fun evening, us and four of his friends, all laughing and being silly with our chopsticks.

‘Fair point! You must have seen him on TV – he had his own show for a bit; though not for a while now, to be fair.’ Lawrence swivels the laptop towards him, pulling up another chair and clicking on to YouTube. He does a quick search. ‘Here.’ There’s a short silence while we both sit with our buffer faces on, waiting for the film to start. ‘Isn’t he handsome? In a filthy, Kit Harington about to do battle in Game of Thrones kind of way …’

A young guy pops on to the screen, sniggering about something the interviewer has just said, before sweeping a hand through a thick, unruly thatch of black hair.

I crinkle my forehead, staring at the image. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Blimey, he’s very young to be a three-Michelin-starred chef, isn’t he? Barely older than Jack,’ I muse, but Lawrence smiles.

‘Oh no, this film clip is ages old – twenty years, at least. I reckon he must be mid forties perhaps, by now. Sorry, I should have explained.’

‘Hmm, oh right.’ I turn to face Lawrence and see a strange expression on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not thinking I might fancy him, are you?’ I laugh. I’m quite used to people trying to match-make for me, so I learnt ages ago to put my foot down right away. Mum is the worst culprit. Whenever I’m with her in Tenerife, she always tries to palm me off with some lost soul – usually divorced with a big chip on his shoulder and a long boring story about how the ‘ex-missus stitched me up like a kipper’. Lawrence looks a bit guilty but faces me down, tilting his head to one side and giving me a curious look. ‘Well, would it be so bad if you did?’

‘Weeeell, I don’t know, he just doesn’t look my type.’ I fold my arms and look away. The fact is, I’ve hardly had any good experiences when it comes to men – my own father did a disappearing act before my fifth birthday and Jack’s dad, Liam, didn’t even last that long. He left before Jack was born, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a father – he needed to travel the world and find his passion before he could even contemplate settling down. But then when Jack was about eight, I met Will. Sexy, talented Will, who played in a band and was rather gorgeous – but who ended up being almost as free-range and untrustworthy as Liam, and who finally decided he wasn’t doing either me or Jack any good. And since then, five or so years have passed and I’ve just not had the heart to begin dating again, even though Jack has intermittently told me that I should put myself on Match.com before I get ‘like reeeeeally old’.

Lawrence knew Will, and was really fond of him, and knows how hard his departure hit our little family at the time, and he looks suitably sympathetic. ‘Look, I know it’s really difficult, but Jack has moved on and so should you.’

‘I know that,’ I tell him, and I really do. ‘It’s more that I just can’t be bothered with it all. Getting your heart broken, and all that. It’s so overrated.’

‘Ahh, I get it!’ Lawrence persists, clearly still bemused. ‘You’ve made an assumption based on watching just a few seconds of an old YouTube clip and now that’s the end of it! Dan Wright isn’t your type!’ He holds his palms up in the air in an ‘I-give-up’ pose.

‘No. But look, he’s a celebrity chef from swanky Mayfair,’ I pull a face. ‘Worlds apart from me. I can’t even remember the last time I went to London.’ I pause to think and then it comes to me. ‘I know, Jack was about ten years old and Will and I took him to see the sights – Big Ben, Tower of London, Madame Tussaud’s, that kind of thing,’ I start, feeling very provincial indeed.

‘Marvellous! Seeeee …’ And Lawrence smiles. ‘You have the perfect icebreaker. You can ask Dan what his favourite waxwork person is.’ He laughs to lighten the mood.

‘Ha-ha, very funny,’ I smirk. ‘And just look at how he’s sitting.’ I tap the laptop screen where the film is paused, showing Dan on the TV sofa with his legs wide open.

‘Sitting?’ Lawrence laughs harder. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Everything! He’s a spreader. And spreaders are inconsiderate, with no respect for personal space,’ I inform him, sounding far haughtier than I actually intended to. I cringe inwardly.

‘Ha! Well yes, I can see what you mean. But honestly, I’ve not seen him sitting like that at the breakfast table – in fact I think he had his legs firmly crossed, and on the few occasions when we’ve chatted, he actually seemed quite nice. Plus, you have to agree, you aren’t exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to meeting a new man here in Tindledale.’

‘Hmm, this is very true,’ I say, loath to agree, but Lawrence has a very valid point. I grew up with most of the Tindledale men – went to school with them – so any charm or sexual attraction they might have had got lost somewhere along the way, likely when they were busy picking their noses in class or attempting a snog at the end-of-year disco, having scoffed all the prawn cocktail crisps from the finger buffet only moments earlier. Eugh. No, the mystique and magic just isn’t happening. ‘Anyway, like I say, I really can’t be bothered with all that.’

‘Truly? Isn’t it what we all want? To love and be loved! Oh come on, Meg, wouldn’t it be brilliant for you to be wined and dined? A gorgeous creature like you with your peaches-and-cream complexion and curves in all the right places …’ He grins, sounding very corny indeed.

‘Oh stop it, you old smoothy,’ I laugh, giving his arm an affectionate bat.

‘Weell, it’s true, and how marvellous would it be … swept off your feet and whisked away to his restaurant in Mayfair? Very romantic! And he has three Michelin stars, so you’d know you’d be in for a gourmet treat,’ Lawrence adds, brightly, for good measure.

‘Maybe, but what’s he even doing here in Tindledale?’

‘Good point …’ Lawrence pauses. ‘I actually don’t know …’ He looks thoughtful.

‘Ooh, you’re slipping, Lawrence,’ I tut, pretending to admonish him. ‘I’d have thought you would have found out by now – you usually know everything that’s going on in the village.’

‘Are you implying that I’m a gossip?’ He feigns hurt.

‘Of course not, but it’s true, you do often seem to know stuff.’

‘That’s because people confide in me – I can’t help that,’ he smiles, pausing to contemplate, and then adds, ‘There is a rumour going around that Dan is here scouting out the village with a view to opening a new restaurant.’

‘Really? And do you think that might be the case? Has he said anything about it? But where?’ I ask, racking my brains to think of a suitable spot for a high-end restaurant somewhere in the village. There are a couple of empty places – the one next to the fruit & veg shop is probably too small, and there’s definitely a rodent problem in there – I saw the pest control man’s van outside there just last week. But then it’s inevitable in the countryside with all the fields around us; I often have to put the mice powder down to stop them overtaking my cottage.

‘The shop at the end overlooking the village green is reasonably sized,’ Lawrence suggests.

‘Oooh, yes. And it’s double fronted, with lots of space to sit outside, which would be nice in this gorgeous warm weather, and very cosmopolitan, I imagine – sitting underneath a parasol enjoying an expensive bottle of wine with a ten-course tasting meal – that’s what they have in London …’

‘Hmm, but Tindledale is hardly Mayfair.’ Lawrence pulls a face.

‘True. And my fizzy elderflower wine is definitely not a fine Sancerre.’ We both sit silently for a few seconds, pondering the possibilities. ‘But, we have the village green right opposite – perfect for when the movie stars and celebrities helicopter in for their fine dining experience. And I’m sure your actor friends will come. You could call Dame Judi – or what about Helen? You said that she’s a great dinner companion.’

‘Ha!’ Lawrence laughs. ‘But we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves,’ he adds, always the voice of caution. ‘Dan Wright hasn’t actually said anything to me about a new restaurant. We are just speculating. But if he is planning on opening one here, then even better – he can appoint a manager, a head chef or whatever, at The Fatted Calf in London, and then move here. Then you can both live happily ever after together in Tindledale,’ Lawrence finishes with a flourish, ever the romantic, having seemingly worked it all out.

‘Hold on, slow down a minute. It’s nice of you to be so concerned about my love life … or rather lack of,’ I smile wryly. ‘But honestly, I’m fine as I am. I love my friends, my home and my life. And anyway, neither of us will have any time for distractions for the foreseeable future. We have a village show to organise.’

‘That’s true,’ Lawrence says thoughtfully, then suddenly leaps in the air, terrifying Blue, who scampers under the table. ‘I have a plan!’ Lawrence is now channelling John Gielgud – or is it Brian Blessed?

‘You do?’ I ask, eagerly.

‘I most certainly do. Listen Meg.’

‘I’m listening,’ I say, rescuing Blue and stroking his velvety soft ear.

‘Good. Here goes,’ he pauses for impact, ‘we make sure that Tindledale puts on the greatest show of its life!’ Lawrence is pacing around the kitchen now.

‘But what difference will that make to the school?’ I ask, standing up too.

‘Meeeeeg, don’t you see?’ He stops pacing, enthusiasm flooding his voice now.

‘See what?’ I ask, reaching for the wine to top us both up.

‘This is the perfect opportunity.’

‘What is?’

‘Weeeell,’ he starts elaborating slowly, as if formulating the plan in his head as he goes. ‘If this year’s village show is great, we’ll make it into the top ten list in the national newspaper and the whole country will see how wonderful Tindledale is – the perfect place to live! Then everyone will be looking at your school on the Internet … you do have a website, I take it?’ He looks panic-stricken for a brief moment. I nod. The council organised it years ago and it’s very basic, but I reckon I could get it updated. ‘Good, because, let’s face it, every parent wants the best school for their child, sooooo everyone will then want to live here – FAMILIES, with LOTS OF CHILDREN to fill your school. Yes, it’s the perfect solution.’

We stare at each other.

‘And if there’s a Michelin-starred restaurant here too … all the better!’ I jump in, ‘because everyone loves good food – and you could do gourmet weekend breaks, maybe culinary courses too; you could ask Dan to help out – use his restaurant kitchen, perhaps. And soon your B&B will be booked up indefinitely, and with a very long waiting list to boot.’

‘And Kitty and all the other businesses in the village will be thrilled too,’ Lawrence nods, enthusiastically.

‘Yes! Outstanding school. Outstanding food. Outstanding pub, tearoom, butcher’s, baker’s, and all the other stuff the great village of Tindledale has to show for itself … We have the lot,’ I say, my voice brimming with excitement now, helped along by the fizz we’ve been consuming. ‘They’ll be beating a path here to Tindledale in no time, and the Great Village Show will 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 people loved her too.’

‘We all did. And still do, very much.’ I touch his arm. ‘And how are things for you?’

‘Getting better, thanks. I’m back at work 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 mind securing your borders, what the community would like to know is: when are you going to trim your bush!’ And she extends a very accusatory index finger in Molly’s direction.

A flabbergasted silence ensues. Even Pete stops crunching his crisps and stares open-mouthed.

‘Um, I, err … beg your pardon,’ Molly eventually manages to splutter, as Cooper shoves a fist into his mouth and silently laughs himself into a hernia, making his shoulders jig up and down uncontrollably.

‘That bush of yours really needs attention.’ Oh dear, Lawrence catches my eye and pulls an exaggerated aghast face. I have to look away before I burst into laughter too, and that would never do – I’m conscious that a reporter from the Tindledale Herald is sitting a few feet away from me, and the last thing I’d want is him reporting on the first committee meeting with tales of how ‘even the headmistress laughed along to the juvenile, school-playground-style jokes’. The WI woman ploughs on, seemingly oblivious to the mirth she’s causing.

‘Yes, it’s so unruly, the path outside your house is practically impassable – my husband had to steer his motorised scooter right out into the road, just to get past. It’s a wonder he wasn’t mown down by one of Pete’s verge-mounting tractors. No, your bush is a disgrace and must go before the judges arrive on show day!’

‘Well, there’s no need to be quite so “personal” about it,’ Molly manages to squeak, barely able to speak properly for trying not to howl with laughter. But it’s no use, and she caves in. And then Sybs joins in, and soon everyone is screaming, tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks as the WI woman stalks off inside, muttering something about needing a double whisky, for medicinal purposes. I take a deep breath and keep on observing – it was inevitable, I guess – thirty minutes in, and the villagers are already like squabbling ducks; they just can’t help themselves from falling out, or making mischief. They’re still laughing and the pompous man, it turns out, is a pensioned general, ex-army, and moved here last month for some ‘much-needed R&R’, according to Marigold, who’s sitting opposite me.

Lawrence looks over and motions with his head for me to rescue Dr Ben, who is now hijacked in a debate about the therapeutic powers of wild honey and whether it might be a good idea to have a stall set up on the day with a working hive on display for the judges to try some out for themselves. The health-and-safety implications are being mulled over, with somebody actually suggesting the parish council would need to stump up a budget for ‘protective clothing’, which doesn’t go down very well at all. Especially as Mrs Gibbs is still waiting for a decision about her request for a rubbish bin to be placed in the layby outside her house – it drives her mad when louts hurl their empty lager cans from car windows when passing through our lovely little village.

Unable to sit and watch the fiasco unfolding before me for any longer, I stand up and walk over to the crowd that’s formed around Dr Ben, lift my elbows, and muscle my way in, before surreptitiously leaning into his left shoulder.

‘Do you mind if I step in?’ I ask discreetly.

‘Be my guest,’ Dr Ben says, giving me a very grateful grin as he hands the paperwork over to me. ‘I’m so glad you’re here; we really need someone used to taking charge,’ he adds, wasting no time in joining Sybs back on the bench.

‘OK, if I can have everyone’s attention please,’ I say in my best school assembly voice, and then count to five in my head. It works: the children on the castle stop bouncing right away, of course. Even the dogs seem to settle down, and eventually the adults stop bickering amongst themselves, the crowd dissipates back to the benches to finish the last of the cheesy chips and everyone turns their attention to me. ‘Wonderful. And thank you. Now, as Dr Ben said, it’s great to see everyone here and I can see how enthusiastic you all are, but we really have no time to spare if we’re to stand a chance of Tindledale putting on a really great show this year! On …’ I pause to scan the papers and see which date we’ve been allocated, and then I spot it. My pulse speeds up. Oh dear. ‘July 11th!’ Right before the end of the school term, but Jack will be home then for the gloriously long summer holidays. And my heart lifts at the prospect of having him around for a couple of months.

The crowd falls silent. Nobody moves.

‘But that’s only,’ Lawrence pulls out his pocket diary, ‘six weeks away!’ he says after thumbing through the pages to check. There’s a collective inward gasp.

‘Um, yes, err, I’m very sorry, it’s my fault,’ Dr Ben raises his hand in the air. ‘I sent off the application form quite some time ago and, well, I—’

‘Don’t you worry, doc,’ Tommy Prendergast, who runs the village store, quickly pitches in, pulling himself upright with a very staunch look on his face. ‘We won’t let you down.’ He’s busy retucking his shirt back in around his rotund waist when everyone joins him in supporting the revered village GP.

‘Hear hear! Can’t blame the doc. He’s a busy man. We’d be lost without him …’ As ever, Dr Ben can do no wrong as far as all the villagers are concerned, and they certainly all seem committed to putting on a great show in record time. And what perfect timing, as now the school inspectors can really get to see what the village is all about. In fact, I’m going to invite them along to our Great Village Show – maybe we could get one of those boards with circle cut-outs for them to put their faces through while the villagers throw wet sponges, like they do at the seaside. I bet that would raise a few laughs amongst the community. JOKE.

‘OK, everyone,’ I say, refocusing us all. ‘So I reckon we should just get on with it.’ I glance around, and great, they’re all listening. ‘Let’s have three committees working in tandem, with weekly meetings. Then we can convene a meeting for the whole village at regular intervals. I’m happy to put together and communicate a set of dates and times, locations, etc. I could pin a list on the notice board in the village square.’ I quickly pause and look at Sybs for confirmation, not wanting to step on her toes, but by the look of the big grin on her face, she seems perfectly happy for me to take charge, so I carry on. ‘Yes, and Tindledale needs to look its very best before show day, just in case the judges arrive a few days earlier, as they’ve been known to in the past.’

I stop talking and see them all staring at me, clearly bamboozled by my bossy, but – and if I do say so myself – extra-efficient approach. I spot Mrs Pocket in my peripheral vision, pursing her lips and doing her ‘that’s my girl’ face, so she clearly approves. And if I have her on board, then getting everyone else on side should be a doddle. Spurred on, I scan the beer garden – Sybs is smiling and nodding, Lawrence winks and nods too, the WI ladies fold their arms and look to each other before doing a collective nod of agreement. Not to be outdone, the people seated at the parish council table demonstrate their support by clapping, apart from the general, who eyes me suspiciously before pulling out a pipe and sticking it into his moustachioed mouth. Molly and Cooper applaud too, having just about managed to recover from their hysterics – Molly is wiping her laughter tears away with a napkin. Taylor from the Pet Parlour, Kitty, Hettie from the haberdashery, and all the school mums join in. Everyone seems to be on board.

‘Excuse me.’ It’s Hettie, with her spindly arms pressed into the table, trying to propel her wiry, frail body up into a standing position. Marigold and Sybs jump to her aid and, after a few seconds, Hettie is fully mobile and walking towards me. ‘Sorry dear, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be. But I’d like to say a few words if I may?’ She fixes her Wedgwood-blue eyes on to me.

‘Of course Hettie, go ahead.’ And the crowd falls silent – as one of the oldest villagers from a family that has lived in Tindledale going back several generations, she’s automatically assured a certain level of respect.

‘Thank you. As many of you know, I’ve lived in Tindledale my whole life – that’s eighty years, give or take.’ She pauses and pats her big Aunt Bessie bun. ‘But what many of you don’t know is that Tindledale has already won an award for putting on the greatest village show.’ A collective hushed whisper ricochets around the garden. ‘Yes, it was in 1965, on a gloriously warm day. So this will be the fiftieth anniversary of that win. It might be a nice idea to commemorate that victory – I’m sure a banner was made,’ Hettie adds vaguely, her papery forehead creasing in concentration as she tries to remember what happened to the banner.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the vicar joins in, walking over towards Hettie and me. ‘I was quite young, of course,’ he laughs good-naturedly.

Lord Lucan wanders over as well. ‘Me too. There was a banner, rigged up in the village square for everyone to see. And wasn’t there talk of a commemorative stone? It was so long ago that I really can’t be sure.’ Lord Lucan shakes his head, baffled, as he tries to remember the details.

‘Yes, but there just wasn’t the money around.’ Hettie clasps her hands together.

‘Well, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ the vicar interjects, ‘and would certainly set the right mindset for when the judges arrive – they’ll see that Tindledale really is an old hand when it comes to putting on a great show. We must find the banner and resurrect it in the village square.’

‘And install a proper commemorative stone! It could go next to the war memorial,’ Lord Lucan says, pushing his shirt sleeves up enthusiastically.

‘Absolutely, and one for the civic pride committee to take on, I reckon – six weeks is ample time to raise the funds for a carved stone,’ I venture boldly. I actually have no idea how much carved stones cost, but it has to be worth a go, and I can see it now – a lovely picture of the stone in the centre of the Sunday supplement piece all about Tindledale, the village that has won again, fifty years after the previous triumph!

‘And with plenty of space on the stone to add on this year’s victory!’ Pete gives the general a smarmy smile.

‘I could help out with supplying the stone – cost price, and the carving for free,’ the owner of the garden centre offers.

A woman I’ve not seen before is walking towards the crowd; willowy and beautiful, she’s wearing floaty yoga clothes with a long, pretty cotton scarf trailing from her neck. She looks apprehensive, so I raise a welcoming hand to wave her over, but she doesn’t see me and instead turns around and walks back into the pub. And, I’m not embarrassed to say, hmm, well … maybe I am a little, that the first thought that pops into my head is: I wonder if she has any children? I’m so determined to keep my school open that I’m half tempted to race after her like some kind of crazy looper to find out, and quite possibly insist that she brings them to my school, right away, so the inspectors can see that, actually, numbers aren’t dwindling at all. Ha! But she’s gone. Never mind. I make a mental note to approach her next time I see her around the village … She must be the lucky Mrs Cavendish with the charming, hot husband, as – apart from Dan Wright and the general – I’ve not heard of any other new people in the village, so I’m guessing she must be.

‘So, how about a show of hands,’ I say, turning my attention back to the meeting, where everyone is buzzing now, full of enthusiasm and benevolence. This is more like it; this is how we usually do things in Tindledale: together and with good grace. ‘Thank you.’ One of the parish councillors hands me the key to the tiny village notice board on the wall outside the village store.

Half an hour later, and we’ve divvied up the villagers into three committees, with various people taking charge of things that are particularly important to them. Everyone seems to understand that putting on a truly great show will be a wonderful thing for Tindledale, boosting local businesses and, hopefully, school numbers too. For the first time since Jack left for uni, I am fully focused on my life and future again, and I can’t wait to get started on the preparations for the Great Village Show.

Jessie pulled down the sleeves of her blouse to protect her arms, before pushing the brambles away from the door of the old, ramshackle potting shed at the far end of her new garden, and allowed herself a moment of quiet contemplation. She had hoped moving to Tindledale would be a fresh start for them all, and an opportunity to put London, in particular, Sam, her first love, out of her mind. But it hadn’t been as simple as that. Sebastian had gone back on his word and insisted they consider St Cuthbert’s, the private school on the outskirts of Tindledale, before making a final decision – so now Jessie felt deflated, duped even, that her wishes hadn’t been taken seriously.

‘Jessicaaaaaa!’ Jessie smarted as she always did when Sebastian called her by her full name. He was the only one who did, despite knowing that she hated it. ‘JESSICA. Where are you?’ Sebastian thundered from the back door of the farmhouse. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He strode through the long grass towards her and Jessie felt her back constrict on realising that Sebastian was in one of his moods. He came to a halt in front of her, glowering as he took the top of her arm and pulled her towards him. Jessie knew better than to antagonise him when he was like this, so opted for the position of least resistance and slipped her free arm around his waist.

‘Exploring, darling. I thought I’d see what was hidden inside this old shed …’ Jessie painted on her usual smile, which in turn had the usual effect on Sebastian; he released his grip on her arm and pointed to his cheek for a kiss. Jessie duly obliged and did as she was told. Anything to keep the peace. She really couldn’t face another scene, not today, not when the sun was shining and the air was infused with birdsong and jasmine, and – most importantly – the children were happy, bouncing around on the new super-sized trampoline that Sebastian had installed soon after they arrived in Tindledale. Another of his grand gestures, this time to make up for having rehomed Banjo, their beloved cat, without warning shortly before the move. For compassionate reasons, he had claimed, saying Banjo would be confused so far away from London. But Jessie knew Sebastian hated cats, having merely tolerated Banjo on account of his mother buying the kitten as a surprise gift for the triplets. Sebastian was holding out to inherit her vast estate, so liked to keep his mother sweet, hence he hadn’t protested when Banjo’s adorable black fluffy head had popped out of the cardboard box on Christmas Day and the triplets had whooped with joy.

Jessie smiled fondly at the memory, but then tensed on remembering how heartbroken Millie, Max and Olivia had been on finding out that Banjo had ‘been left behind’. They were in the car, following behind the removal van, when Jessie had realised that Banjo’s crate wasn’t in the boot. But it was too late by then; Sebastian refused to turn back and wouldn’t even reveal the name of the neighbour he’d given Banjo to. Jessie had tried to console the children who were crying in the back seat, but then Sebastian had dug the fingertips of his left hand into her thigh, leaving a little row of bruises as he berated her for mollycoddling them. They had all spent the rest of the journey in tense silence.

‘Well, stop it and listen to me.’ Sebastian let out a long puff of air. ‘It seems you’ll be getting your own way after all … St Cuthbert’s called.’

‘Oh?’ Jessie said, purposely making it sound vague, knowing better than to show delight on hearing that perhaps her wish was coming to fruition after all.

‘Full up!’ Sebastian pulled a face. ‘Can you believe it? The only prep school for miles around and they don’t have space for three more. It’s preposterous. I knew I should have registered them in utero.’ Sebastian shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pinstripe trouser pockets.

‘Never mind, darling. You didn’t know then that we would be living here; it really can’t be helped,’ Jessie soothed, figuring a show of solidarity and understanding was exactly what was required right now.

‘Hmm, true! Well, perhaps it’s for the best in any case, St Cuthbert’s doesn’t even feature in the “Top 100 Best Schools Guide”, which is exactly what I told them! And that if they ever do manage to achieve such status, which I imagine to be highly unlikely, then perhaps we’ll reconsider!’ Sebastian postured, while Jessie withered inwardly, figuring it wouldn’t bode well for them integrating successfully into village life. Word got around rapidly in small communities, Jessie knew that, and the last thing she wanted was to be known as the wife of the rude banker down from London.

Jessie really wanted to fit in, make new friends and be community-spirited, and the Great Village Show was the perfect opportunity for her to do so. She’d had every intention of going along to the meeting in the Duck & Puddle pub garden – Sebastian had been working late in London, so had chosen to stay in the company flat – and with her dad visiting overnight to see the new house and help with the unpacking and the childcare, Jessie had a rare opportunity to venture out on her own. But it had been harder than she had anticipated, with so many people there. And then when the pretty, friendly-looking woman chairing the meeting had waved her over to join them, Jessie had panicked. With all eyes on her and the bruises on her thigh, not to mention the scrape on her back from a previous altercation, a continuous reminder of how inadequate and raw she felt for not having the courage to call Sebastian out and challenge him, the little confidence left in Jessie had waned entirely.

‘So what are we going to do then?’ Jessie asked tentatively, glancing at the grass. Yes, far better to let Sebastian feel in charge; let him think a change of plan was his idea.

‘Well you need to get them into the village school, of course!’ Sebastian instructed. ‘And sharpish, because it seems a state school education is de rigueur these days, according to today’s FT.’ He paused to do quote signs in the air. ‘Yes, “state till eight”, it said, so before you know it, every bugger will be jumping on the bandwagon …’

‘Is it really?’ Jessie replied carefully, with just the right amount of surprise in her voice.

‘Indeed. So don’t fuck it up and forget or they’ll miss out on that too. I’m not paying for home tutors. Not after the fortune I forked out on that useless Norland nanny.’ Sebastian turned to walk away, leaving Jessie with an enormous sense of satisfaction as she ducked down out of sight behind the potting shed to do a silent high five. And it had never been Jessie’s wish to employ a nanny, anyway. Sebastian had selected her, saying it was the norm in the section of society that he came from, further highlighting the chasmic difference in their backgrounds. Jessie had been relieved when the nanny had declined to come to Tindledale with them.

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