The Great Village Show

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.

As Jessie was inwardly celebrating this unexpected triumph, something caught her eye – a white wooden object, covered in mud. After quickly checking over her shoulder to ensure the triplets were still happy and OK inside the safety net of the trampoline, Jessie pulled on her gardening gloves and carefully reached in amongst the overgrown mass of stinging nettles.

A hive!

Jessie’s heart lifted even higher as she brushed away the worst of the grime, making a promise to herself to try again to get involved in village life. Perhaps she could offer to make some honey? If she got a move on she could harvest a small batch of jars to sell at the village show. All she needed was to catch a swarm, and she could do that with her eyes closed – well, perhaps not like that exactly, but certainly with a net curtain, a dustpan brush and a cardboard box, she recalled, having achieved this feat as a teenager when a swarm descended on the village fete and she had rounded up the bees before gently coaxing them into the box and taking them home to live in one of her hives, earning herself a hearty round of applause from the gathered crowd.

With Sebastian off to Zurich soon for a few months, she wouldn’t have to put up with his mood swings, and then when the children joined the village school, Jessie would meet new people. Maybe there’d be a friend she could confide in, someone to talk to about her sham of a marriage, an ally to draw strength from. Jessie had contemplated a life without Sebastian, but she knew with absolute certainty that he would never let her take the children, and she refused to leave them alone with him. So, for now, she had no option other than to try to make a happy life for herself and the children.

Jessie took a deep breath and wandered over to the trampoline to show the children the hive, pondering that perhaps coming to Tindledale really was the perfect move after all.

The following morning, Saturday, and I’m up early and raring to go. I’m already in the High Street, having enjoyed a very pleasant stroll in the magnificent morning sun, taking the long route round past the pond and village green, stopping to offload my leftover stale bread for the greedy geese and ducks, something I haven’t done since Jack was a little boy, but only because Jack’s enormous appetite means there just hasn’t been any leftover food in my house for quite some time. But that’s all changed, and the ducks can now enjoy the remnants of a large seeded bloomer from the Tindledale bakery.

I’m about to pop into all of the shops to make sure they’re happy about committing to the tasks we agreed last night – such as making sure the display windows are pristine, and in keeping with the ‘Traditional Tindledale’ theme that we’ve decided on for this year’s show. And to see if there’s anything I can do to help, as apart from my current cross-stitch project, and of course my school work and my plan for impressing the inspectors, I reckon I could still spare some time on Sundays when my cottage feels emptiest and I miss Jack the most. I’ve already roped in Hettie and Sybs to run some crafting classes with my children, having spoken to them last night after the meeting, and they were more than happy to help out.

I’m also trying to find someone to tend to the little lawn area in the village square, and perhaps the village green. I saw earlier that the duck pond certainly needs attention; there’s algae and weeds sprouting at all angles on the farthest side – which reminds me, the dilapidated two-berth caravan in the station car park has to go. With the roof sawn off and the brambles growing inside ‘left to nature’, it’s an eyesore, and hardly the best first impression of Tindledale should one of the judges choose to arrive by train – although, that seems a bit unlikely, as the walk from the station to the village is over two miles, up a very steep and winding hill, so unless they’re lucky enough to time it right and hop into Tommy Prendergast’s taxi after he’s dropped somebody off – hmm, highly unlikely, as he only does taxi runs after four p.m. when the village store has closed, but anyway, best not to risk it: perhaps Pete can tow the caravan away with his tractor? I pull out my pad to make a note.

I’ve made up a poster listing the dates, times and venues for all of the meetings – the Creative committee is going to meet in Hettie’s House of Haberdashery; they have lots of sofas and chairs in there and, to be honest, it’s where most of the creatively minded villagers tend to spend most of their free time in any case, doing the varied array of classes that Sybs and Hettie run. The Community committee are going to meet in the Duck & Puddle and the Civic committee has opted to use the village hall. I’ve made sure my phone number and email address is on the poster, too, just in case there are other villagers that couldn’t make last night’s meeting but still want to get involved – the more the merrier, I say! And I’ve been thinking about my conversation with Lawrence, and have come up with another idea, a triple whammy – something that will not only impress the school inspectors, and help Lawrence’s B&B business, but also boost our chances on show day, so I’m heading over to the Country Club this afternoon.

I’ve just finished pinning the poster to the notice board, when Taylor from Paws Pet Parlour, on the other side of the High Street, appears at my side.

‘Hi Miss Singer,’ she grins, bobbing from one foot to the other, while fiddling with a yarnbombed bollard which I have to say looks very pretty indeed now that it’s been made to look like a giant knitted daffodil complete with long green knitted petals protruding jauntily on wire stems. Very original and inventive.

‘Hi Taylor, how are you?’ I ask, ‘and you know, you can call me Meg these days – it’s a long time since you were a pupil at my school.’ I tilt my head to one side and smile kindly. I know I shouldn’t have favourites, but Taylor was such a lovely schoolgirl, funny and kind, keen and willing to learn, even though she was also quite rebellious at times too, always up to some prank or another. I remember one time she tipped a pot of glitter into the classroom fish tank so we had to do an emergency goldfish evacuation. Taylor loves animals, and was so upset that she cried herself to sleep that night – according to her mum, Amber. And then she came into school the following day with an apology card covered in stickers of Nemo that she had made herself. I still have it pinned to the cork board on the wall in my office.

‘Ahh, sorry Miss Sing—, oops, sorry, Meg. Feels weird saying Meg,’ she grins and I laugh. ‘Um, I just wondered how Jack was doing?’

‘Oh,’ I say, a little taken aback as I wasn’t aware that they were friends. As if hearing my thoughts, Taylor adds,

‘We played pool together in the Duck & Puddle, last time he was home.’ And I’m sure I spot a flush in her cheeks. ‘I let him win,’ she shrugs, and sweeps her long Elsa-from-Frozen-style plait over her shoulder, clearly smitten.

‘Well, um, that was very kind of you.’ I lean towards her and lower my voice. ‘He can get very huffy if he loses a game,’ I say conspiratorially. Taylor laughs and pats my arm like we’re best friends, and it warms my heart; for a moment I’m reminded of Jack, tapping my arm to get my attention – and then I realise that physical contact is one of the main things I miss most about him not being here, in addition to his smile and jokes and advice on just about everything, from dating to what the latest street-slang words actually mean, to trying to goad me into doing impressions of rappers so he can roll around on the floor laughing at me. Taylor smiles and inspects her paw-print-patterned acrylic nails before asking again how Jack is. ‘He seemed fine, last time we spoke,’ I reply, curious to know why she’s enquiring, and she seems very insistent on finding out – I make a mental note to ask Jack next time he calls.

‘Good. That’s really good,’ Taylor says, distractedly, but she seems vacant now, nervous even. ‘Um,’ she hesitates. ‘Sorry, I …’ Her voice fades.

‘Are you OK, Taylor?’

‘Yes … I just wondered if … um, that when you next talk to him, if you could ask him to get in touch with me, please? It’s quite important – I’ve messaged him but he hasn’t replied.’ She looks at her hands and my heart goes out to her. An unrequited crush is always quite devastating, but especially so when you’re only seventeen years old. I know I’m biased, but Jack is a very good-looking boy, all dark curly hair and gypsy eyes, takes after his dad, whose grandmother was a Romany gypsy, and Taylor isn’t the first girl to go gaga over Jack. Taylor pulls her long cardy closer around herself before folding her arms as if shielding her body. Oh dear, she’s got it bad. She’s clearly feeling vulnerable.

‘Sure, I can do that,’ I smile.

‘Oh would you?’ Taylor beams. ‘That would be awesome!’

*

A couple of hours later, and I’m sitting in Kitty’s tearoom, having already polished off a delicious round of locally sourced cheese and homemade chutney sandwiches, and now have a perfectly plump huffkin bun in front of me, with caramelised cherries cascading from the hole in the centre, and a mug of hot chocolate with a very generous swirl of marshmallow-topped squirty cream on top.

‘What do you reckon?’ It’s Kitty, and after wiping her hands on her ditsy floral-print apron, she points to the cake. I slip my almost finished cross-stitch project back inside the cloth shoe bag to keep it clean and free from crumbs, or a possible hot chocolate spillage. I’ve already had to unstitch part of it three times because I made some silly mistakes with the detailing, so it really is becoming a labour of love and it would be a real shame if it got ruined at this stage when I’ve very nearly finished it.

‘Very impressive! It looks amazing and I bet it tastes as good as it looks too,’ I say, smiling up at her.

‘I thought I’d get a head start on the Traditional Tindledale theme and practise baking some local favourites so they’re perfect for show day.’ Kitty dips down in the chair opposite me, her aqua eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘And Ed loved huffkin buns, so it seems right, seeing as it would have been his thirty-third birthday on the eleventh of July.’ She glances across at a framed photo on the wall of her late husband, Ed, wearing a khaki uniform and kneeling down with an arm around his military dog, Monty, a gorgeous, shiny black Labrador. Ed was a soldier, killed by a landmine in Afghanistan, and the news came through just a few days before he was due home, the village square having been decorated with bunting and balloons, so we all knew. Well, we all knew Ed in any case, as he grew up in Tindledale, drank in the Duck & Puddle, and played in the cricket team when he was home on leave between tours. It was heartbreaking, seeing poor Kitty, pregnant at the time with her baby girl Teddie, left utterly devastated, her whole world ripped apart. I place my hand over Kitty’s and give it a gentle squeeze. She pats the top of my hand with her free one and smiles wistfully. And Teddie is three years old now and truly adorable. I glance over to the big playpen packed with soft toys, Lego and a painting easel, at the back of the café near the door that leads to the flat upstairs where Kitty and Teddie live.

‘Can I say hello?’ I ask Kitty, giving Teddie a big grin and a wave. She lifts her toy cat in the air and jiggles it around in reply.

‘Of course,’ Kitty smiles, and walks over to open the playpen gate so Teddie can run out into the café.

A few seconds later, and I’m enjoying a glorious cuddle with Teddie on my lap, giggling along with her as she dabs her chubby finger into the jammy part of the huffkin bun, before popping it in between her little rosebud lips and saying ‘Mmm, wuvvly,’ over and over. Pressing the tip of my nose down gently into her hair, I draw in the divine smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo. It reminds me of Jack when he was this age, so snuggly and loving; he would curl up next to me on the sofa on a Sunday and we’d watch films together and eat popcorn in our pyjamas all day long. Ahh, those were the days. Hard work at times, too, but very special and I really wish they hadn’t raced by quite so quickly.

I give Teddie another gentle squeeze, and stroke her hair, before taking a bite of the bun. I break off a chunk for Teddie who opens her little mouth in anticipation. Kitty gives her a look as if to say, ‘Come on, you’re a big girl now,’ to which Teddie responds by taking the piece of bun from my hand and stuffing it into her mouth whole, giving it a couple of chews and swallowing it as fast as she can, clearly eager for more. It makes Kitty and me laugh, which seems to delight Teddie as she throws her little head back and does a big belly laugh before clapping her hands together.

‘Well, I’d say you’ve already mastered the traditional huffkin bun, if Teddie’s testimonial is anything to go by,’ I say, in between chewing and swallowing. I take another bite. ‘Mmm, this is truly scrumptious,’ I add, placing my hand over my mouth to ensure crumbs don’t pop out. I can’t resist devouring the sweet-tasting doughy delight. ‘And the judges are going to love popping in here to try them, as will all the other visitors on show day,’ I smile enthusiastically, scanning her tearoom and café – a double-fronted, mullion-windowed shop on the corner of the High Street, central and prominent, with its higgledy-piggledy mix of old dining chairs and tables, and pretty, real china teapots and chintzy cake stands. It’s very olde worlde in an appealing way. Coming in here is like stepping back to a bygone era – like much of the rest of the village, I suppose.

‘Ahh, do you think so?’ Kitty asks, leaning into me, but then her expression changes. ‘To be honest, I’m really hoping we’ll win the village show competition this year.’ She pauses, before dropping her voice. ‘Things have been a bit slow so far this summer. I’m usually jam-packed in here with afternoon cream teas by now, but the tourists just aren’t coming this year. I didn’t like to say anything in front of everyone at the meeting last night …’ She shakes her head and looks really anxious, so I place my hand over hers again and give it another quick squeeze.

‘I’m sure it’ll pick up, Kitty,’ I smile, keeping my voice light and optimistic. But the smile soon freezes on my face when she whispers, ‘But are the rumours true? That the school is going to be closing down?’

A cold chill trickles down my spine followed by a warm, prickly sensation in my hands. I open my mouth and then close it again before coughing to clear my throat, sincerely hoping that Mark hasn’t heard about this yet – I should explain to him. Yes, I make a mental note to do so right away as I don’t want him to be concerned unnecessarily. Or Lily to be unsettled – she’s had enough to cope with and there really is no point in them worrying about something that may never happen, certainly not if I’ve got anything to do with it. I’m determined to do everything within my power to keep the school open. I push a brave-it-out grin on to my face.

‘Um, well … Where did you hear that?’ I ask, stalling for time while I formulate a proper explanation, but instantly know that it’s futile, and that I was naïve to think I could possibly keep the inspectors’ visit a secret. Damn them for just appearing out of the blue, worrying and upsetting everyone in the village like this. Kitty looks so anxious – she went to my school too, was a few years behind me, being younger than I am, and is planning on Teddie coming as well. She’s friends with some of the school mums, so of course she knows, the whole village probably knows. News like that was never going to wait until Monday. I should have realised and said something last night, as now everyone might be thinking that I’ve deliberately tried to conceal things. Oh dear.

Kitty looks as if she’s just about to answer when the bell above the door jangles, announcing the arrival of another customer. Kitty and I swivel our heads to see who it is.

‘Oh, here, let me help you,’ Kitty says brightly. She jumps up to hold open the door with an enormous grin on her face, seemingly pushing her woes aside to make her next customer feel warm and welcomed.

‘Ooh, hello,’ I say, on seeing the woman in the floaty yoga gear from last night, who I’m pretty certain must be the newcomer, Mrs Cavendish, leading three children into the café. The two little girls and a boy all look very nearly school age – about four, I’d say. And I wonder if they’re triplets? They certainly have the same fair hair, cornflower-blue eyes and sprinkling of freckles across their noses, just like their mother. Marvellous. And a very welcome boost to the next academic year’s intake. I must let the inspectors know.

‘Um, hi,’ Mrs Cavendish smiles tentatively, clearly not used to strangers greeting her so warmly. She turns to Kitty. ‘Do you have a table for four please?’ she asks politely. Kitty smiles kindly before gesturing with her free hand around the near-empty tearoom. Apart from a couple of farmer boys at the corner table who are enjoying the all-day breakfast, I’m the only customer in here.