Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Nine

  CHAPTER TEN

  The early morning of the Nettlecombe Hatchet Cookery Demonstration and Fun Day, as the occasion had been snappily named, was blessed with the rosy sunshine of a very British summer. A wisp of mist rose from the brook, which could be tracked back up and out of the village to its source at Withy Hill Farm.  The scene was in soft focus, as the gentle light quivered in dew drops and diamond-strung webs, and glistened on leaves of viridian trees, which yawned and stretched their limbs as the day woke them up.  The Farm itself had worked hard at hiding its true identity of rural industry, of factory, of place of business, and was instead carefully dressed in its bucolic summer best. All was rustic charm and Arcadian calm, contrived to disarm and beguile the observer into believing that God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world. 

  Tubs and troughs and hanging baskets overflowed with the brightest of blooms, all selected for their quality of relentless cheerfulness, and for the eye-smarting brilliance of their hues. Busy-Lizzies jostled for space with shameless pansies, blousy begonias, petulant petunias, strident geraniums, and the restless and hectic lobelia.  Soon ladies in their good-weather frocks would pick up the theme, chameleon like in their floral prints, competing with the flowers for the sunshine.

  In the old meadow to the side of the farm, comfortably away from any hint of the modern and the new, stalls and stands and little tents and grand marquees had sprung up mushroom-like over night. There was something here for everyone, and so in attempting to please all, nothing was exactly suited to anyone. The beautiful carousel with its transfixed horses would be ignored by thrill-addicted children, and was chiefly an expensive piece of decoration.  The Treasure Hunt would attract the would-be gamblers, but had no entertainment value whatsoever for the spectators. And at the end of the day the trove would reveal a beauty parlour voucher, much to the bemusement of the lucky winner, Mr Albert Games, in his ninetieth year.  The Guess The Weight of the Lamb would start well, but become an increasingly malodorous stand as the day wore on, the focus of such scrutiny nervously and frequently relieving itself in its small pen.  Perhaps it sensed its fate; perhaps it knew it was to be sacrificed on the altar of fun, and that its corpse would be first prize. 

  Parents would struggle for a few hours to convince their children that entertainment could come without a microchip. By four o’clock they would wonder why they bothered. By six o’clock every teenager would be home and plugged in once more.  

  Local food producers with unshakeable smiles would stand behind cheeses and pickles and sausages and hams, and yoghurts and cakes and biscuits and jams, knowing that they would barely cover their costs, but convincing themselves they were living the good life. 

  However much effort was made to elevate the tone and appeal to the finer senses, most of the money would be made by the bouncy castle and the hot-dog stall.

  By nine thirty Rose had Baby is his buggy and was wheeling in the direction of Withy Hill. She would be among the first to arrive, but she had Baby’s routine to consider. Slung beneath the little chair was a fine picnic for the pair of them, along with plenty of bottles in cooling flasks, and one or two favourite toys. The prospect of an outing in the sunshine showing off Baby made Rose smile as she pushed along the lane. The day was already beginning to warm up, and showed signs of continuing the sultry heat that had been a feature of the weather for nearly ten days now.  Rose adjusted the fringed parasol over Baby’s bonneted head. 

  As they reached the entrance to the meadow they met Cynthia hurrying in the direction of the big marquee.

  ‘Ahh, Mrs Behr, and little Baby Behr!’ Cynthia swooped.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Danby. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is. We are so fortunate to have the sun shine on our little party. And how is our local superstar, hmmm?’ she bent over the buggy, causing Baby to stop gurgling and stretch his eyes. She stood up again and addressed Rose. ‘I read about his success in the Echo. My dear, how thrilling! You must be so very proud.’

  Rose blushed a little and smiled.

  ‘He was such a good boy,’ she said. ‘We had to go to London, for the final, and he didn’t mind a bit. Really, Mrs Danby, I think he enjoyed it all.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.  And will his daddy be joining us today?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He wasn’t feeling very well this morning,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry to hear that. Anyway, it’s lovely to see you and Baby here. I know you’ll have a fun-filled day. We’re not quite up and running yet, though,’ she checked her watch.

  ‘Oh, we’re always early for…’ Rose stopped, mouth open, and stared at the car pulling into the farmyard.  It was a sleek, metallic blue Subaru Impreza. Ryan’s car. And yet, as far as Rose knew, Ryan was in bed nursing a gripy tummy and a nasty bout of diarrhoea.  She watched the car come to a halt and the engine stop. Her grip tightened on the buggy handles.

  Cynthia turned to see what she could be staring at.  

  ‘Ahh, splendid. I see Claude Lambert has arrived. A little later than expected, but there we are. My goodness, I believe it’s getting warmer by the minute. Please excuse me, I must go and see that he has everything he needs.’ She strode away, a woman with more than enough to do.

  Rose watched the celebrity chef and the beautiful woman climb out of the car as Cynthia approached. Her hold on the buggy relaxed once more and she pushed on towards the flower tent.

  After Neville had pinched his fingers in the trestle table for the third time he decided it wasn’t going to be moved another inch.

  ‘It’ll be fine here,’ he told Pam.

  ‘Didn’t Cynthia say…?’

  ‘If Cynthia doesn’t like it she can move it herself. God, look at the time. Let’s get the cloths on, and then we can start bringing the equipment in. Where is everybody else, anyway? I wasn’t expecting to have to do all the donkey work.’ He adjusted the name badge which declared him Event Organiser. One of Cynthia’s daffier ideas, as far as he was concerned.

  ‘You’re lucky you’ve got me.’ Pam reinforced her point by effortlessly picking up four folding chairs. ‘The pub is going to be packed out on a steaming day like this. I won’t be popular when I get home. Buggered if I know what’s happened to the others.’

  ‘We’ll never be ready for the demonstration on time at this rate. Here, get the other end of this.’

  They were in the process of unfolding a tablecloth the size of a small spinnaker when Cynthia arrived looking worried. One look at the state of Claude and Neville knew why. The man appeared on the verge of collapse, and was indeed being all but held up by Lucy.  Neville stared at them both, still clutching the tablecloth, then became aware Cynthia was saying something.

  ‘Isn’t that done yet?’ she barked. ‘Monsieur Lambert needs to inspect the equipment.’

  Pam spoke in a low voice which was nevertheless clearly audible to all.

  ‘Monsieur Lambert needs to lie down, if you ask me,’ she said.

  Cynthia glanced back at the wobbly chef, who sniffed twice, but was otherwise silent.

  ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps you would like a few minutes to recover from your journey. Lucy, why don’t you take Claude over to the farmhouse, perhaps a nice strong cup of tea…? I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you here.’

  Lucy smiled sweetly.

  ‘What a good idea. Come along, Claude. Soon have you right as rain,’ she said, steering him through the chairs. As she passed Neville her smile brightened a fraction.  ‘Lovely to see you again, Neville,’ she breathed, ‘Catch you later.’

  Neville gazed after her.

  ‘Oy,’ yelled Pam, ‘are we going to stand like this all bloody day?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he lowered the cloth, then turned to Cynthia. ‘My God, he looks like death. He’s bluer than ever.’

  ‘What are we going to do, Neville? He can’t go on stage in that condition.’

  ‘St John’s Ambulance will be thrilled. Bet they’ve never had to treat anything like that before.’

  ‘Really, I don’t see there is anything remotely funny about this situation,’ snapped Cynthia. ‘We have an expectant public arriving for the demonstration in less than an hour, and our star turn is not fit to be seen. I’m not sure he’s capable of standing up unsupported. What are we going to do?’ she wailed again.

  Neville did his best to sound reassuring. A tearful Cynthia was more than he could cope with. Much more.

  ‘Look, don’t let’s panic. Maybe he gets carsick. I’m sure if anyone can sort him out it’s Lucy. He’s in good hands.’

  Cynthia’s expression changed from feeble to frightening in an instant.

  ‘Yes, well of course you would know all about that, I suppose.’ She paused for a moment, seeming to take stock and pull herself together. ‘Right, no point in standing about. The Christians have gone abroad, urgent business apparently, and Miss Siddons has shingles, so it’s just us. Come along, we’ve work to do. Who on earth put this marquee up? Can anyone actually believe it is supposed to be at such an angle? And those two guy ropes aren’t even tight. Can no one do anything properly? And I have to say, inside is not looking much better. That trestle needs moving, for a start.’

  The three worked without pause for the next forty-five minutes. Neville spent most of the time biting his tongue as Cynthia yapped instructions and he and Pam did all the lifting and shifting. The heat outside was already considerable, turning the air inside the marquee into a canvas-flavoured fug. By the time Neville had struggled with a tabletop cooker, a sink unit, a small fridge, and boxes and boxes of essential items, he was a hot, sticky mess.  At last all that could be done had been done, and the plumber arrived to sort out the temporary water supply. 

  Pam slumped into a folding chair, which gave a little creak of protest.

  ‘I’m buggered,’ she announced. ‘I’m not doing another bloody thing until I get a long cold drink. How about it Cynthia?’

  ‘What? I’m afraid I have a million things to do. Someone has to check on Claude and make sure he’s ready for the demonstration. Oh, very well, I’ll have some drinks sent over.’

  Further conversation was rendered impossible at that moment due to the Young Farmers Club Steel Band limbering up with a few lively numbers.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Cynthia cried above the noise. ‘I said we should have had a string quartet. And they can’t possibly set up there, it’s entirely the wrong place,’ she charged off towards the unsuspecting teenagers with a shout of ‘What do you think you are doing!?’

  Neville sat heavily next to Pam.

  ‘This is going to be a shambles,’ he said. ‘I feel it in my bones.’ He stretched stiffly, joints clicking, ‘Make that my aching muscles. How did we let ourselves get talked into this in the first place?’

  ‘Our Cynthia can be very persuasive.’

  ‘That’s a generous word for it.’ He allowed himself a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘Actually, I did it because of Claude – he’s my hero, you know. Always admired his recipes. Inspired, some of them. Truly inspired. But look at the state of him. He’s like one of the living dead.’

  ‘He did look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Peaky! I tell you there’s sod all chance he’s going to be able to cook properly today. And as for judging the competition entries…’

  ‘Ah, worried he won’t appreciate your little creation, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s capable of appreciating anything in that state. God, I hope Lucy’s managed to sort him out.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to find out,’ said Pam, standing up and nodding in the direction of Lucy, who had just breezed into the tent. ‘I’m off to find that drink. See you later.’

  Neville squinted up at Lucy as she stood in front of him, backlit by the sunshine,  more beautiful than ever.  He ran a hand through his sweat drenched hair, then wished he hadn’t as she held out an exquisitely manicured paw to him. He stood up quickly, taking her hand and giving it a damp squeeze.

  ‘Neville, it is so lovely to see you again.’ She lent forwards and gave him the lightest of kisses on his salty cheek. 

  Neville breathed in her glorious perfume. It was like oxygen to a drowning man after the fetid atmosphere of the marquee.

  ‘Lucy, I wasn’t sure you’d be here. It’s…it’s wonderful to see you again too.’ He found himself staring so tried to be business like. ‘So, how is the great man. Walking unaided yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid poor Claude is not feeling very well today.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine once he gets started. He’s terribly professional. A true perfectionist, like yourself, Neville.’

  She stepped a little closer.

  Neville struggled with an urge to grab the woman and kiss her, and an equally strong desire to run.

  ‘You know,’ Lucy began to fiddle with his lapel badge, ‘I believe you and I have some unfinished business.’

  A lazy grin slid round Neville’s face. A second later it was replaced by an expression of horror, as Sandra and Brian wandered into the tent, twins fidgeting beside them.

  ‘Sod it,’ said Neville. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lucy arched her perfectly plucked brows.

  ‘Oh no, not you. It’s my sister and her brood. I’m afraid they’re looking for me.’

  There was a deal of waving and smiling and cooey-ing.

  ‘Looks like they’ve found you,’ said Lucy.

  Neville attempted to get past her to head off his family, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘Neville,’ Sandra insisted on a peck, ‘this all looks very nice.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were planning to come,’ he said, aware that Lucy still had her hand resting on his collar. He couldn’t quite bring himself to wriggle free.

  Brian gave Neville a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘Thought we’d come and see what you were up to. You know, check things out.’

  Neville tried to pretend his brother-in-law didn’t exist.

  ‘This is not a good moment really,’ he appealed to Sandra.

  ‘Say no more, Nev,’ Brain winked again and leered at Lucy.

  Sandra noticed his bizarre behaviour.

  ‘Brain, have you got something in your eye?’ She turned back to her brother. ‘Aren’t you going to introduced us, Neville?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lucy, my sister Sandra, and her husband Brian, and the twins. This is Lucy Ferris-Brown. She is Claude Lambert’s personal assistant. Now, as I said, this is not a good moment. The demonstration is due to start. As you can see, people are beginning to take their seats, and…’

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ Sandra waved away his concerns. She gave Lucy her brightest smile, followed by a limp handshake. ‘It is so nice to meet you at last. Neville’s mentioned you, of course, and it’s always nice to put a face to the name, isn’t it?’

  Brain chipped in.

  ‘A name would have been a start. Plays his cards close to his chest, does our Nev.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucy gave Brian a dismissive look and refocused on Neville. ‘I like a man with a bit of mystery about him.’

  ‘I must say,’ Sandra was getting into her stride, ‘you’re not at all what I expected. When Neville said he’d met someone in the village, well, most people around here are not very glamorous, are they? Lovely people, of course, but…’

  ‘Mum, mum,’ for once a twin made a welcome interruption, ‘can we go on the bouncy castle now? Can we?’

  ‘Dad said we could,’ the second one pointed out, ‘he promised.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Brian, give them some money. Fifteen minutes, boys, I don’t want you both being sick all afternoon. Now, Lucy, you must promise you’ll come and visit us. Dinner one night perhaps, hmm?’

  Neville stepped in.

  ‘Lucy’s really terribly busy, Sandra…’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Lucy purred. ‘You can tell me all Neville’s little secrets.’

  Neville was spared the trouble of interrupting further as Cynthia arrived in full military commander mode.

  ‘There you are, Lucy. This is no time to stand around chatting,’ she wagged a dangerous looking finger, ‘Claude is asking for you. For heavens sake get him to come out of the house. Tell him the marquee is full and the audience is getting restless.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Lucy was unfazed by Cynthia’s brusqueness. ‘Catch you later, Neville.’ She gave a little wave as she left.

  Cynthia squinted at Sandra and Brian.

  ‘Have you got tickets?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid not…’ said Sandra.

  ‘This is my sister and her husband,’ Neville explained.

  Cynthia softened immediately.

  ‘Oh, your family, Neville, darling boy, why didn’t you say so?’ She grasped first Sandra’s hand, then Brian’s. ‘Cynthia Danby. So nice to meet you. I expect Neville’s told you all about me.’

  ‘Well, I…’ Sandra was confused.

  ‘We’ve been seeing more and more of each other lately. So much to do for the fundraiser. Not that I’m complaining, of course. There is no one (I)? with whom I would rather spend my time. We are kindred spirits, your brother and I. We share a grand passion.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Brian. ‘But I thought…’

  Sandra trod heavily on his foot.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Cynthia.’

  ‘Neville can be a naughty boy,’ Cynthia grabbed his arm. ‘He likes to have his little secrets. But we understand one another, don’t we, mon cher?’

  ‘Cooking,’ Neville explained. ‘Like me, Cynthia is very keen on cooking.’

  ‘That’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Sandra smiled ‘A shared interest keeps a couple happy. We’ve always found that, haven’t we, Brian?’

  ‘We have? Oh yes, we have,’ said Brian. 

  Cynthia gave one of her unnerving girlish giggles.

  ‘Neville, find your family some seats. There are one or two left at the back, I think. Then you really must excuse us. The demonstration is about to begin, and…’

  ‘Blimey,’ Brian was staring past her, ‘is that your wonder chef? Whatever he’s got I hope it’s not catching.’

  They turned to see a sickly looking Claude being propelled onto the stage by Lucy. He stood in front of the cheerfully clapping audience, blinking like a mole in a sunbeam, and teetering on unsteady feet.

  A growl of not-too-distant thunder expressed Neville’s thoughts.

 ‘My God,’ he said, ‘he looks even worse than he did before.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can bear to watch,’ wailed Cynthia.

  They stood, riveted by the unfolding disaster in front of them. The sky had darkened and now deafening thunder came nearer and grew louder, drowning out the pathetic little voice of the shambolic chef. Claude attempted to do what was expected of him, but it was obvious he was not up to it. He dropped things. He broke things. He muttered and mumbled and forgot what he was supposed to be doing. The longer it went on the more painful the experience became for everybody. The audience began to fidget. This embarrassing performance was not what they had come to see.

   Ten long minutes into the demonstration Claude suddenly froze. All movement ceased, and he appeared incapable of speech. He stared out of the side door of the marquee, open-mouthed.

  ‘Now what?’ hissed Neville.

  ‘Is he having some sort of seizure?’ Cynthia asked.

  Neville leant forward to try and see what it was that had had such an effect on the poor man. He could just make out Claude’s car in the car park. Next to it stood two particularly large men in sombre suits. They were peering into the car and trying the doors. 

  ‘I think someone’s trying to steal his car,’ he told Cynthia.

  ‘Never mind his car, look!’ she shrieked.

  Neville did look, just in time to see Claude fleeing out of the back of the tent, showing a surprising turn of speed for one apparently so near death.  In two seconds he was gone, leaving an empty stage, a crowd about to turn nasty, and a baffled Neville trying to placate a near hysterical Cynthia.

    It was only a short walk from Brook Terrace to Withy Hill Farm, but by the time they arrived, Fliss was already wishing she hadn’t talked Daniel into coming along.

  ‘Oh look,’ he pointed at the hot dog stall, ‘good, wholesome country food. I was wondering why we’d come.’

  Fliss glanced back at Rhian and Sam, (walking a safe distance from anyone who might be identified as a parent), then continued to do her best to ignore Daniel’s snide remarks.

  ‘I want to go to the flower tent,’ she told him, ‘see if I can pick up one or two things for the garden. Bound to be healthier plants than in a garden centre.’

  ‘Whatever, Babe. I’m just happy to soak up the atmosphere. Rural entertainment at its best. All the little village people coming together to bond over gladioli and strawberry jam.’

  ‘I think things may have moved on a bit since your grandmother’s day, Daniel. We may surprise you.’

  ‘”We”, eh? Gotta hand it to you, Fliss, you’re really getting into the whole village life experience.’

  ‘I don’t see the point in living here if you’re not prepared to try things. This sort of event is important. It stops people feeling isolated; builds up a sense of community. Anyway, I don’t want people thinking I’m just another Londoner who wants the space and fresh air, but isn’t prepared to contribute anything.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘No, it’s different for you. You’re a part-timer.’

  ‘Oh, is that how you see me? Your part-time boyfriend? Hmm, better have a good look round and see who I might be job-sharing with. Fancy a bit of rustic muscle mid-week do you?’

  ‘Very funny, Dan. Almost as funny as all your other little jokes at everyone else’s expense.’

  ‘I only said the hog roast looked like a sacrifice at a black mass. And that the steel band appeared to be made up of care in the community rejects. And that…’

  ‘Yes, thank you, they didn’t make me laugh the first time I heard them.’

  ‘Come on, Babe, lighten up. Only having a bit of fun.’ 

  ‘Well do you have to be so snippy about everything?’

  ‘Sorree! If that’s how you feel, think I’ll leave you to it and check out the beer tent. That OK with you?’

  ‘You do whatever you want, Daniel, you always do.’

  ‘Right, I will then.’

  ‘Right, see you later.’

  Fliss watched him stomp off and wondered, not for the first time in the past few weeks, just whether or not her relationship with Daniel could have a future. All around her women in summer frocks and children clutching candy floss seemed to be genuinely happy and having a quietly normal good time. And here she was having a spat with the man she spent all week looking forward to seeing. Somehow, lately, the reality had not been living up to expectation.  She sighed, annoyed at having her mood altered in a downward direction. 

  ‘Mum,’ Rhian had caught her up, ‘can you bung us a few quid? I haven’t got much pocket money left.’

  ‘Good grief, Rhi, I only gave it to you yesterday. What do you do with it?’

  ‘Am I supposed to keep accounts? Look it’s really hot, I just wanted to get Sam and me a couple of frozen yoghurts, OK?’

  ‘Can you eat that?’ Fliss was surprised.

  ‘Filmore Dairies do a range with Soya milk,’ Sam explained. ‘They have realised the potential of the vegan market.’

  ‘Right, well, why not. Here you are. And that’s it, there’s no more, OK?’

  ‘OK, thanks Mum. Hey, look, there’s that bloke Sam was telling us about. The nerdy one from the planning office,’ she pointed to the entrance of the big marquee. Neville was standing in the doorway talking to a swarm of people. ‘You said you’d speak to him, Mum. Now’s your chance.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Go on, he’s right there. You promised.’

  Fliss took in the expression on her daughter’s face and realised she had been issued a challenge. She turned back to Sam.

  ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Meatcher. Neville Meatcher.’

  ‘Right. Here goes,’ said Fliss, taking a deep breath.

  There were so many people trying to speak to the rather nervous looking man that for a minute Fliss doubted she was going to get to him. Then a whistling announcement over the Tannoy suggested ticket refunds might be available at the stage and the crowd moved as one body to the other end of the tent. Fliss saw her moment.

  ‘Mr Meatcher, I wonder if I could speak with you?’ her words were obscured by a teeth-jarring crash of thunder.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, you’ll have to queue with the other ticket holders to get your money back,’ he told her.

  ‘What? No, I didn’t have a ticket. I want to talk to you,’ she followed him inside the tent. ‘My name is Fliss Horton.’

  He studied her for a second or two.

  ‘Sorry, should that mean anything to me?’

  Fliss tried to respond but was drowned out again.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he yelled at her, ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

  Fliss raised her voice to a shout, and the words came out angrier than she had intended, though actually befitting her mood.

  ‘Planning! I want to know what’s going on about the planning applications here at Withy Hill Farm!  I hear you’re the man in charge.’

  ‘First, I am not in charge of planning applications!’ he bellowed back. ‘Second, even if I were I wouldn’t discuss it with a complete stranger who has no interest in the project, and third,’ he flinched as lightning bleached the sky for an instant, ‘third, this is neither the time, nor the place,’ the thunder boomed once more, ‘nor the sodding weather in which to discuss such matters. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a monumental cock up to try to sort out!’

  ‘Wait a minute! There’s no need to be so bloody rude. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about it because you’ve got something to hide!’

  ‘What? Look, Mrs Norton…’

  ‘Horton!’

  ‘Quite. I assure you…’

  But the weather Gods had other ideas. At last the sagging clouds overhead could carry their load no more. With an apocryphal rumble and ear-splitting crack of lightning the rain came down. It rained as if there had been years of drought, and as if it might not get a chance to rain ever again. The water speared through the sticky air, slicing it’s way to the ground with alarming force.  A force that was more than a match for the hastily and inexpertly erected marquee.  Outside, people ran for their cars, or for the shelter of the barns. Inside, aggrieved ticket holders forgot about their £3.50 and fled. Above them the canvas sagged and stretched. Around them the poles wobbled and the ropes creaked. In less than a minute the tent had emptied, save for Neville and Fliss standing in the middle of the chairs, and Cynthia on stage like a tragic heroine in a little known opera.

  ‘I think we should continue our conversation somewhere else,’ Neville shouted.

  Fliss nodded, not attempting to speak further above the cacophony of the storm and the alarming groans of the marquee. She turned on her heel, causing her hair to spin round behind her. Unfortunately, she had been standing closer to Neville than she had realised, and her hair caught in his name badge, at the precise moment he chose to try and exit in the opposite direction.

  ‘Ouch!’ Fliss screamed. ‘Wait a minute!’

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing, woman? Keep still.’

  Fliss had little choice but to do as she was told. For a second it seemed the structure of the tent would hold, but then the creaking of the ropes and the listing of the poles increased, and it was clear collapse was imminent.

  ‘It’s no use, we’ve got to get out!’ she yelled, grabbing Neville’s hand and hauling him after her through the snagging rows of chairs. Behind them she could hear shrieking from the stage as the roof came in. She made for the exit, but Neville tripped and brought them both heavily to the floor.

  It occurred to Fliss, as she lay half drowned on the soaking ground, a strange man and a large tent on top of her, that she had had better days. After much struggling and floundering, and a little help from a couple outside, she and Neville were released from the tangle of canvas and rope. Still joined by Fliss’s hair they lay, stunned, on the grass, spluttering as the rain continued to drench them.

  ‘Neville?’ A woman’s voice broke through Fliss’s thoughts.

  ‘It’s all right, Sandra, don’t fuss, we’re fine,’ said Neville.

  Fliss smiled feebly up at the worried looking woman, who tried to get them help.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Brian,’ she yapped, ‘do something.’

  ‘All under control,’ said Brian, reaching down and taking Fliss’s hand. 

  Of necessity, Neville hauled himself to his feet too, holding on to Fliss to prevent her losing a large chunk of hair.

  Brian’s grin could be seen even through the power-shower of water that coursed over his face. ‘Well, Nev, a redhead too. The words ‘dark’ and ‘horse’ spring to mind, you old devil, you. I am impressed.’ 

  Fliss turned to look at the saturated, mud-splattered, red-faced, bedraggled creature to which she was so annoyingly attached and saw very, very little to be impressed by.

To be continued…