The Great Village Show Read online

  I wonder if Liam thinks about Jack? Misses him? Or, more pertinently, does Jack miss Liam? I wonder if I let my own feelings of hurt and disappointment cloud what was best for Jack. I know that’s why I don’t let people, men mostly, get close: I didn’t want to let myself – or Jack – get hurt like that again … But Jack is a grown-up, he has his own life now. Maybe Lawrence was right; perhaps it is time I broadened my horizons …

  ‘Do you miss your dad, Jack?’ The minute the words are said, I panic. An ominous silence follows. ‘Um, err … sorry sweetheart, I shouldn’t have just blurt—’

  ‘Mum, it’s cool. I spoke to him and …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I had no idea Jack was in contact with Liam. I sink down into the sofa, feeling … actually, I’m not entirely sure how I feel. It was all such a long time ago, and Liam is Jack’s dad … he has every right to a relationship with him. Of course he does. I feel dizzy from the sudden surge of mixed emotions.

  ‘It’s no big deal, Mum. He messaged me … to see how I was getting on.’

  ‘Oh!’ I breathe, calming down a bit. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Yeah, I said I was doing OK,’ he tells me casually, like it’s no biggy, as he would say. ‘I told him uni is awesome, and he showed me some pics of his fam. That was it really … Oh, and he asked if you were all right, and how Gran was, if she still lives in Tenerife. Just the usual, polite chat stuff. I said you were both doing great … never better.’

  ‘His family?’ I ask, trying to process it all quickly, and wondering if I really want to know the finer details of Liam’s life.

  ‘His kids. My half-sisters, I guess. He has two …’ Jack informs me and, somewhat to my surprise, I don’t feel very much at all. It’s funny, how sometimes the thought of something is far, far worse than the actual reality. What I really feel is indifference. Obviously I’m happy for Liam that he isn’t on his own, that he has a family. And what about Jack? I wonder how he feels about this news.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say diplomatically, but what else can I say? And then Jack tells me everything I need to know.

  ‘Yep, he doesn’t see much of them.’ Silence follows. ‘He’s a rubbish dad, really, but it could be worse, I suppose,’ Jack says, blithely.

  ‘Oh. How’s that then?’ I manage, quickly followed by, ‘I’m sorry, Jack.’ I feel like I made a bad choice, but then I wouldn’t have Jack if it weren’t for Liam, so I mustn’t ever regret meeting Liam.

  ‘Well, it would be a right disaster if I had a rubbish mum too!’ and he laughs. And I laugh too as my heart swells.

  I wish Jack were here, so I could get a proper gauge of how he really feels about all of this. But I have to trust that he’s OK, that he’s as laidback about the situation as he sounds. Jack has always been happy-go-lucky – he has a serious, caring side, too, though – and he tends to take things in his stride … like when his skateboard got stolen from outside the sweet shop in Market Briar. I felt so upset for him, and wanted to call the police or scour the streets for the culprit. But he just shrugged, and then promptly got himself a paper round to earn enough money to pay for a new one.

  ‘Are you crying, Mum?’

  ‘No! Don’t be silly.’ I find a tissue and dab my eyes, before taking a deep breath.

  ‘What’s that noise then?’ Jack chuckles. ‘Awww, don’t go soft on me, Mummy,’ he adds, teasing me. He used to call me Mummy at school, in the playground, in front of the other children, when I was training to be a teacher and trying to be professional with my very scary teacher face on, and it always made us laugh as we cycled home together.

  ‘So, Jack, seeing as you did all right, as you say … when are you coming home?’ There’s a short silence. ‘I miss you,’ I say, going out on a limb – I’ve never been this direct with him before, figuring I shouldn’t put pressure on him. The last thing I want is to make him feel obliged. No, I’ve always had it in mind that the best relationship a parent can have with their grown-up child is one where they actually want to spend time with their mum, and not visit them out of some sense of duty.

  ‘I miss you too,’ he replies right away, ‘but I’ll be back before you know it. It’s just the summer holidays.’

  ‘I know. Ignore me; I’m just being silly. Half term will come around soon enough,’ I say, changing tack.

  ‘Yeah, and I can always shoot down for a weekend … or we could go and visit Gran, get some winter sun, like we used to.’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely. You know, the village show is on soon.’

  ‘Oh, is it? What date?’

  ‘The eleventh of July, so not long now.’

  ‘Ahh, I’ll be in Cape Town by then. Shame, as the village show is always a good day. Oh well, next time for sure, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, I hope so! And, oh, before I forget, can you give Taylor a call please?’

  ‘Taylor?’ he says, tentatively.

  ‘I didn’t know you two were friends …’ I quickly add.

  ‘Err, we’re not really. We had a laugh together last time I was home, that’s all. No biggy.’

  ‘I don’t think she sees it like that, Jack. She seems quite upset that you haven’t been in touch, or returned her messages,’ I say, wondering what ‘had a laugh together’ means exactly.

  ‘Don’t know why. Look, I’d better go,’ he then says, changing the subject again, like he has all the other times we’ve spoken.

  ‘No you don’t,’ I say, quickly. ‘Tell me what’s going on please, Jack. Has she got a crush on you? And you’re not into her, is that it? Because if so, then you need to tell her. It’s not fair to let her guess this for herself, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll call her,’ he says, somewhat reluctantly. ‘I don’t want her hassling you …’ And I’m sure he tuts, which is very unlike him.

  ‘Jack, it’s not like that. She wasn’t hassling me, she’s a lovely girl, she …’ I stop talking, conscious that he’s never going to want to call Taylor now, if he thinks she’s got his mum on his case about it.

  ‘I said I’ll call. Just leave it Mum, please …’

  ‘Fine, OK.’ I decide not to push it further.

  ‘Yes,’ he softens. ‘I will. Promise. And I’ll call you, and Gran too, before I go to South Africa … anyway, it’s ages away yet, so I’ll probably call you loads before then anyway,’ he laughs. I get the feeling he’s trying to make light of the Taylor situation, which has just the opposite effect and makes my curiosity increase.

  ‘You better had,’ I laugh too, pretending to chastise him, and grateful that the conversation has moved on to a lighter footing now.

  ‘South Africa is going to be so awesome,’ he says, getting back to the main focus in his life right now, and who can blame him? I guess it is a very exciting prospect for an eighteen-year-old with his whole future ahead of him.

  ‘And you’ll have a brilliant time. Are you sure it’s OK for you to go with Stevie? Maybe I should call his dad and have a chat to him?’ I can’t help myself.

  ‘Muuuuuum, no you won’t. I am a big boy now.’ Yes I know. ‘It’ll be fine, stop worrying.’

  We say our goodbyes, and I put the phone down. It’s only when I get into the kitchen to pour myself a much-needed glass of elderflower fizz that I realise I don’t even know Stevie’s dad’s name! Or address, or any of his contact details, for that matter. I grab a pencil from my school bag and walk over to the magnetic memo pad that hangs on the fridge, and write: FIND OUT STEVIE’S DAD’S NAME, ADDRESS, EMAIL, PHONE NUMBER. SKYPE. EVERYTHING. DON’T FORGET!!!!!!

  I underline the reminder three times before pouring myself a large glass of elderflower wine, scooping Blue up for a cuddle and wandering out into the garden to sit on my tree stump in the sun.

  Eleven o’clock, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table, having just finished typing out the notes for this week’s school newsletter, when there’s a knock on the front door. Dan is here, right on cue. Punctual. Well, that’s nice. A good start. And I’m still determined no
t to let him rankle me this time. Yes, I’m determined to keep an open mind and try to remember what Jessie said – bluster! Perhaps, and I’m all for giving people the benefit of the doubt … so long as they aren’t rude or dismissing my lovely little village, Tindledale, as dull.

  After closing the laptop, I walk down the hallway, pausing briefly to check my hair, and teeth (I cooked a cheese and spinach frittata for breakfast, with some eggs that Vicky from next door gave me over the garden fence, straight from her hen house), before pulling open the door. But Dan isn’t here! How strange. I definitely heard a knock. I go to the end of the garden path and look down the lane, left then right, but there’s no sign of him. Oh well, I must have been hearing things. Yes, that’s probably it; the radio was on, The Archers, and I’ve made this mistake before, especially when my mind has been focused elsewhere. I remember one time, listening to a scene in the cowshed, I honestly thought one of Pete’s herd had escaped again and was in my back garden – it’s happened before, a large black and white Friesian broke through from the field and it took Pete, plus five of his farmer friends, to coax the cow back. She was far more interested in tucking into my vegetable patch – nearly cleaning me out of runner beans.

  I wander back through into the kitchen.

  And nearly have a heart attack. I actually gasp and clutch my chest like the heroines do in those old black and white movies.

  There’s a man standing by the Rayburn with a giant bunch of gloriously scented red, purple, pink and white freesias in his arms. I step backwards and bend down, instinctively reaching for Blue, who hops over my foot before scampering off to the cool spot on the tiles next to his food bowl, seemingly unfazed by this very large intruder.

  ‘The top half of your stable door was open, so when you didn’t answer at the front, I …’ Dan Wright pops his head out from around the side of the flowers with a cheery grin on his face. ‘Don’t worry, I made sure the rabbit didn’t escape,’ he adds, nodding at Blue.

  ‘Oh, um, right! And thank you,’ I manage, wishing my cheeks weren’t still flushed from the shock.

  ‘I didn’t scare you, did I?’ And Dan takes a step forward, sounding genuinely concerned.

  ‘Err, um … no. Of course not!’ I start, trying to sound fearless and in control, like it’s an everyday occurrence to bump into a man bearing flowers in my kitchen – I don’t want him thinking I’m some kind of wimp. But this is before I realise that my voice sounds shaky, thereby totally giving me away, so I quickly figure it best to come clean. ‘Yes! Jesus! You gave me a fright,’ I smile, but he doesn’t reciprocate, so the smile freezes on my face. Silence follows. It throws me and I react. ‘Why didn’t you wait like everyone else does? Do you have a habit of breaking into people’s homes?’ And no sooner are the words out of my mouth than I’m cringing. Scary teacher telling him off again. I must stop it! Dan won’t want to help with the village show if I carry on like this. Let alone open his restaurant here and really put Tindledale on the map. I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, snatching a few seconds to compose myself and start again.

  I grin apologetically, and a little sheepishly, as he hands me the flowers.

  ‘For you! And, for the record, no, I don’t have a habit of breaking into people’s homes; but this is the countryside, I reckoned it would be OK, you know … rural life, relaxed, laidback, where everyone seems much more easy-going … well, almost everyone …’ He shrugs, locking his dark eyes on to mine, and I can’t tell if he’s having a dig at me. ‘People mill in and out of the B&B all day long – just wander in the back door bearing various homemade food items for Lawrence and his guests. It’s very cosy and bygone in a Darling Buds of May way. And your bike is outside. I saw you’d left it in the High Street, so I borrowed it to ride down here on.’

  ‘Um. Right. Well … err, thank you,’ I say, feeling taken aback, but smile as an image of him squashed on to my bike with a bouquet of flowers under his arm pops into my head.

  ‘Kitty pointed it out, she was doing her window display when I walked past, so we had a chinwag about her food truck and I said I was on my way to see you, sooo … Anyway, the bike is here and I’ve even lifted the seat back up for you – had to adjust it to stop my knees from crunching under the handlebars every time I turned the pedals.’ He shakes his head and grins.

  ‘Well, you are pretty tall, to be fair,’ I smile. He’s a good head-and-shoulders taller than me.

  ‘True.’ Dan shrugs easily. ‘You know, that would never happen where I live – a bike left unchained next to a bus stop?’ He takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘It would last roughly five seconds before it got lifted and, come to think of it, someone coming in the back door? Nah!’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘I’d have the bat out in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘The bat?’ I repeat, and promptly cringe as I remember what he accused me of last time. Dan opens his mouth, probably to point out once more my habit of parrot-like repetition, but then decides to stay silent, and smiles instead.

  ‘Baseball bat. Can’t be too careful where I’m from.’ He nods.

  ‘Maida Vale?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ His face immediately clouds in suspicion. Guarded, almost, like I’m one of his groupies and he’s boxed into a corner – his eyes even dart towards the window, as if searching for a quick exit.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure, I think I read it somewhere, in a magazine maybe, ages ago …’ I fib, not wanting him to know that I’ve watched him on YouTube very recently.

  ‘Hmm, yes, that was a very long time ago.’

  ‘So where do you live now then? It sounds very rough if you have to keep a baseball bat handy.’ I crease my forehead as I wait for his reply.

  ‘I don’t really – my hipster beard is all the protection I need!’ He laughs, raises an eyebrow and then drops his shoulders, seeming to relax. ‘I live in Shoreditch.’

  ‘Is that in London too?’ and for some reason that I can’t fathom, Dan seems to think this is the funniest thing ever. He does an enormous belly laugh, which makes his big, broad shoulders bob up and down like a cartoon character. ‘Ahh, yes, that’s right, I remember now – it’s all skinny jeans and dirty burgers,’ I quickly add, vaguely recalling a radio debate I listened to some time ago about urban living. Dan laughs even harder. ‘What’s so funny?’ I shift the bouquet of flowers over on to my left hip and plant my free hand on the other.

  ‘Nothing,’ he splutters, attempting to recover, ‘nothing at all. And yes, it is in London,’ he adds, smiling nicely.

  And I have to say that I really am very pleasantly surprised. He looks good – great, in fact. He’s shaved the silly beard off; well, some of it. It’s now an acceptable length and it suits him. He’s wearing a smartish shirt, not the billowing sail-like thing he had on at the last village show meeting, and his hair is less unkempt and messy … more effortlessly ruffled. It seems like he’s made an effort today, and that’s nice. His aftershave is pretty delicious too; it’s the same almond and oud as before, which must be his ‘signature scent’ and definitely a winner.

  Hmm, perhaps Jessie has a point. Maybe Dan is ‘taken’ with me … But noooooo, I’m being daft. Of course he must have his pick of women fawning over him. He’s a celebrity chef, famous, and all the school mums fancy him, not to mention the crowd in the audience on the YouTube clip – they couldn’t get enough of him. He must be used to London women – women that dress like Jessie, in expensive clothes with jewelled scarfs and designer shoes, not homemade tea dresses and sweat-stained sun hats usually reserved for gardening only. I glance at the dress I’m wearing. My favourite – homemade by me last summer – it’s a pretty yellow peony print cotton. It’s so cool and comfortable in this hot weather, but now it seems a bit dowdy and provincial, especially with … oh no! Dan follows the direction of my glance. He looks at the ground too. I have two very fluffy faux-fur rabbits nestled around my feet. They were a gift from Lawrence last Christmas – to keep Blue company, he had said, and w
e had chortled together at the time, but now the bunny slippers don’t seem very funny at all. ‘Nice footwear!’ Dan guffaws. An enormously expressive and demonstrative guffaw, not like the Shoreditch laugh that he just did – no, this is a different laugh, and I get that feeling again. It’s not fear, it really isn’t, or intimidation; it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before … uncomfortable almost, nervous perhaps, is the best way I can describe it, without analysing further. And it’s certainly not a feeling that I’m used to.

  ‘I’ll change.’ And after carefully placing the flowers on the counter, I go to scoot off down the hall to find my shoes, but Dan stops me. He grabs my arm. Not aggressively. Gently. And I stop moving and look back over my shoulder. His eyes are fixed on mine. Intense. I’m the first to look away.

  ‘Don’t change,’ he says in a low voice, and the words hang in the air. A double-entendre of awkwardness. I can’t be sure. But something I do know is that my cheeks are really hot now, flaming like a pair of plum tomatoes. Maybe I should go and stand inside my polytunnel, I reckon I’d look right at home in there lined up alongside the tomato plants. Oh God. ‘Sorry, what I meant was, that, um … fuck,’ Dan says quickly. ‘Oops, shit … sorry.’ He slaps his free hand over his mouth and pulls a face. ‘I bet you never swear, being a teacher and all.’ He looks at his other hand, still on my arm. ‘What am I thinking?’ And Dan suddenly drops my arm like it’s a scalding red-hot poker. ‘I should go,’ and he takes several steps backwards towards the stable door.

  ‘But, hang on!’ I say, perplexed. Why the sudden U-turn? Just a few seconds ago he was being as nice as pie, but now it’s as if he’s panicking, having a change of heart. ‘What about our Great Village Show, the juice bar, the restaurant? And … you can’t go, we need you, I need …’ I add, too fast, panicky, the words tumbling out then stopping abruptly. We’re standing opposite each other now. Staring – or glaring, even. Neither of us really knows what to say next.