Читать книгу The Great Village Show - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 10

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!’