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A pebble-shaped ball of anxiety formed in Jody’s stomach.
‘Uh-huh.’ She gave a little nod of agreement.
‘And you have someone who can work a sound system?’
The pebble began to take on a stone-like quality.
‘And the MC has been properly briefed?’
Stone? More like a boulder. A boulder that was making her feel more ill by the second.
‘And do you know you’ve gone quite green? Do you need to sit down? Shall I pop over to that café and get a takeaway cup of tea? A glass of water?’
God, why was he being so concerned? He was being fired. He should be angry with her, not offering to get her a cup of bloody tea.
‘You’ve gone a bit green too, Christian,’ Tyler piped up.
‘Yeah, and you’re sweating,’ said Jordan. ‘And it’s not even that hot. Look, Mum, the edges of his face are all wet.’
Jody snuck a peek at Christian out of the corner of her eye. The boys were right. He did look quite ill. Why? What was she missing?
‘I’m fine, boys. It’s a rather warm day. However, I do think your mother is being rash sending me back to London without having me check everything over. The festival may be looking in tip-top shape right now, it may even be perfect, but the last thing she or the town needs is a cock-up on the big day.’
Tyler giggled and elbowed Jordan. ‘He said “cock-up”!’
Jody closed her eyes and exhaled. Now she was going to be hearing those two words for the next week. Excellent. ‘Could you watch your language around my sons, please? They’re impressionable. And I promise you, we don’t need you. We’re fine. In fact, like you said, we’re perfect.’ She angled her chin upwards, defying him to question her one more time.
A screech of anger filled the air. ‘You’re a mean old cow and I can’t believe I ever forgave you for breaking my best crystal vase. Although I do wish I’d been the one to break it… over your head!’
Christian’s lips quirked.
Jody threw her head back and stared at the brilliant blue sky. ‘Those women are going to be the death of me,’ she muttered before facing Christian again.
Those lush lips of his had gone from quirked to pursed in obvious amusement. Jody itched to clamp her hand over his mouth to hide those twitching lips, the way she did with the boys when they stuck their tongues out or lifted their lips in a sneer.
‘Shall I get back in my car, or shall we go and sort things out?’ he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of those annoying, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-seeing-and-I-find-it-all-too-hilarious-for-words lips.
Jody paused. An image of the fundraising thermometer she’d painted for the town flickered in the back of her mind. The red ‘mercury’ was still sitting at next-to-nothing three years later despite her organising six book sales and monthly bingo nights. She might not want Christian Middlemore, but the town needed him if they were going to get the community pool up and running. Up and running? More like totally rebuilt.
‘Fine,’ she huffed, turning to head back to the hall. ‘Follow me. You boys stay out here. You’re too young to be exposed to what’s going on in there.’
Tyler nodded sagely. ‘Cock-ups. Lots of them.’
The clang of what sounded like a chair being thrown against the wall echoed out through the hall’s doors.
Christian bent down to the boys’ height. ‘Do as your mum says. But if you hear screaming, call the police.’ He winked and straightened up again.
Jody rolled her eyes. Who did this guy think he was telling her boys what to do? Well, if he tried to tell her what to do, he was going to find out very quickly who was in charge.
***
Christian stood beside Jody as she cleared her throat to get the committee’s attention. The committee being two women who looked to be in their mid fifties, and who were currently glaring at each other from across the room, an overturned chair between them.
‘Christian, I’d like you to meet my fellow committee members. In the left corner we have Marjorie Hunter. Marjorie runs a dairy farm with her husband and their daughter, Serena. Marjorie’s also on the committee for the Farmer of the Year Awards.’
A soft snort came from the other woman. ‘More like the Failure of the Year Awards.’
Jody lifted an eyebrow. ‘Shirley.’ Her tone was sharp enough to make the woman drop her eyes to the floor.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
Jody McArthur might look youthful, with her blonde curls bobbing about her shoulders and that spaghetti-strapped sunshine-yellow sundress floating about her tanned and rather firm-looking mid thighs, Christian noted, but she wasn’t to be messed with. Or trifled with. And he got the feeling she wasn’t to be flirted with. Which wasn’t a problem, not when she had two lust-killers playing outside. He didn’t do happy families, he worked. He succeeded. He only ever did his best. The best. Anything less was unacceptable.
‘And in the right corner we have Shirley Harper. Shirley is an active member of Rabbits Leap. She’s raised three sons here. She does a little housekeeping here and there. Volunteers at all the school fundraisers…’
‘And thinks she’s the Queen of the Leap because one of her sons just happens to be a sporting bigwig.’ Marjorie’s lip lifted in a sneer directed at her adversary.
‘Well, at least he’s done something with his life. What’s your girl done? Not a lot from what I can gather. Partied a lot. Travelled the globe at someone else’s expense. Had to come home and work on the farm because of her fail—’
‘Which is where she belongs.’ Mrs Hunter cut her off, nostrils flaring in warning. ‘There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re wrong and your place is at home. Serena just took some time to come round to the idea. And she’s doing great things on the farm. She’ll be nominated in the Young Farmer category this year for sure. And she’ll win it.’
Was it Christian’s imagination or did that last statement lack conviction? He glanced at Jody, who was shaking her head, eyes heavenward. She didn’t need a miracle to manage these two. She needed him. Lucky for her, and unfortunately for him, he had nowhere else to be.
‘So that’s the committee? All of them?’ he asked.
‘Well, we do get the odd straggler come and sit in and give us their opinion, which we take onboard. The more the merrier. It’s a democracy and all that. But we’re the core team.’
Christian nodded. ‘I see.’ Except he didn’t. Their festival was being run as a democracy? People wandered in and gave their opinions and expected to be listened to? No wonder Jody had decided to hire an event manager. They didn’t need direction, they needed a director. And he was just that.
He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and marched across the room to where the thrown chair had fallen, set it on its feet and straddled it. ‘So, what have you got for me so far? What’s pinned down? What needs final confirmation?’
The women glanced at each other. Bottom lips were chomped down on. Arms folded defensively. Eyes faced any which way but his.
‘Well…’ The top of Jody’s foot twisted back and forth on the faded oak floors. ‘We’ve had some thoughts. We’ve contacted a couple of people.’
‘And we’ve got town clearance to use the entire main street,’ Mrs Harper added.
‘We’ve nearly got town clearance,’ Mrs Hunter interjected. ‘We’ve got one holdout. The butcher, John Thompson. He’s worried people will be too busy having a good time to bother coming in to buy his meat.’
Mrs Harper tapped the side of her nose. ‘I could threaten to reveal to the town that he likes to wear ladies’ knickers underneath his butcher’s apron.’
‘He doesn’t!’ Mrs Hunter’s jaw dropped.
Mrs Harper shrugged. ‘I did housework for him a couple of times. He asked me not to do the laundry but I had a few minutes spare and figured I may as well help the man out. Didn’t expect to see some rather large lacy numbers in there. I mean, they could’ve been his wife’s, but then he doesn’t have one…’
‘So, does he know you know?’ Mrs Hunter bustled over to the table and picked up her handbag.
‘I’m guessing so. Every time he sees me he goes red as a tomato, and he always throws in an extra pack of sausages with the weekly meat order.’ Mrs Harper shook her head. ‘Not that I’d say anything. It’s none of my business what he wears under his trou. And besides, it’s nice to know the old grump has a softer side. All that killing and processing of meat could harden a man, I’m sure. It’s nice he hasn’t let it. Now, shall we go for a cup of tea, Marj? All this planning has left me quite dry.’
‘A cup of tea would go down a treat, Shirl. Great idea. Maybe even a scone.’
‘With lashings of cream and oodles of jam.’ Mrs Harper rubbed her rounded stomach.
Christian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not two minutes ago the two women had been handbags at dawn, and now they had their arms linked and were off for a spot of tea? And they called that fierce argument a discussion? Who were these people and what had he got himself into?
‘Want to come, Jody?’ Mrs Hunter called over her shoulder. ‘We’ll treat the boys to an ice cream.’
‘You go on, we’ll catch up later. I’ll finish briefing Mr Middlemore here.’ She waved goodbye to the women and then turned back to Christian. ‘So, where were we?’
‘We were discussing what’s been confirmed for the festival.’
‘Oh, yeah, that…’ Jody became very interested in the grain of the wooden floors.
Christian’s gut twisted. Not a good thing. His gut only twisted when something very bad was going on, when failure was on the horizon. A feeling he’d only felt once as bad as this… at his most recent event, where disaster had struck due to one moment of inattention. His fault completely. And once word got out he’d be a laughing stock. Not just to those in the industry, but to those who were meant to be his nearest and dearest. This job, this festival, was a way to try and prove to himself he wasn’t washed up, that he was still the best. There was no way he was going to bugger it up. Or let anything or anyone bugger it up for him. Without his career he had nothing, was nothing.
‘So just how much have you got organised. What’s a definite yes?’ Jody’s face, pink with a mixture of embarrassment and shame, gave him his answer. ‘Nothing? Not a single thing?’
‘Well, like I said, it’s a democracy. But we couldn’t decide on anything. Except for Welly-wanging.’
‘Welly-wanging?’ The narrowing of Jody’s nose told Christian he could have sounded more neutral, less disparaging. But really, what the hell was Welly-wanging?
‘What’s wrong with Welly-wanging?’ Her tone was low, deep and dangerous.
Shit. What he would give to wind back the last minute. Still, there was no going back. He had to stand his ground.
‘What’s wrong with Welly-wanging is that I don’t know what it is… but it sounds utterly provincial and I can’t imagine people coming to a festival to wang a Welly. Also, it sounds quite filthy, not family-friendly at all.’
Jody’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh my God. What are you on? It’s not dirty, it’s throwing a Wellington and whoever throws it the furthest wins a prize.’ She shook her head, indignation radiating off her. ‘I don’t know what you folk from the city get up to so that you think something like Welly-wanging sounds filthy and, quite frankly, I don’t want to.’
Christian adopted a calm tone, the opposite to Jody’s raised pitch. ‘Well even if it’s a sweet and innocent game, it doesn’t sound all that interesting and it really doesn’t seem all that much fun either. There are so many things we could do. Things that will attract people to come rather than repel them.’
‘Like what?’ Jody took a step towards him, her chin tilted, defiant. ‘What would be more fun than throwing a Wellington as far as you can?’
‘What wouldn’t be? Pony rides. They’d be fun. Amusement park rides. Vintage car displays go down well. What was the idea that sparked this whole festival again?’
Jody’s chest rose and fell, a huff escaping her lips. ‘The Rabbit Revolt. It’s the anniversary of when the town was overrun with rabbits and the local musicians made a deal with the Spirit of the Marsh granting them the ability to play the rabbits away. They marched down the main street, the rabbits followed, and then they were never seen in those numbers ever again. Frankly, I think their playing was probably just terrible and the rabbits ran to save their ears. That’d explain why the local band, The Revolting Rabbits, all descendants of the original musicians, can’t play a tuneful note between them.’
An idea sparked in the back of Christian’s head. ‘There could be something in that tale. But I have a question. What did the musicians have to exchange for the magic of the Marsh Spirit. or whatever it’s called…?’
‘They had to change the name of the town.’
‘From?’
‘Arrow’s Head.’
‘To Rabbits Leap?’
‘Yes. But despite much pleading it had to be Rabbits Leap without the apostrophe.’
‘I did wonder about the lack of apostrophe. I mean, it could be a statement, “Rabbits Leap”, because they do. It’s a fact. But it just feels… wrong.’
‘Oh, I know. It turns out the Spirit of the Marsh was a trickster who actually quite liked rabbits, but never said no to a deal. So it made us pay by having to explain our choice of apostrophe or lack thereof over and over again for nearly five hundred years.’
‘And no one’s made a deal since then I take it?’
Jody shook her head, eyes solemn. ‘No one’s dared.’
‘Right. Well, then. We should do a recreation of that event. It could be the grand finale. We could have The Revolting Rabbits play the part of the musicians. The children of the village could dress up as rabbits. We could have a marsh spirit, complete with light show. It would be amazing.’
‘But no Welly-wanging.’ Jody folded her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the side, eyebrows raised.
‘It’s not big enough. Not exciting enough. It’s a no from me. And my word is final.’ Then it hit him… ‘You know… Rabbits Leap, no apostrophe, is a little place, but it has a big story to tell… there’s a name in that. Do you have a name for the festival yet?’
Jody shook her head.
‘Well, how about… The Big Little Festival. It’s perfect, don’t you think?’
Jody unfolded her arms and placed them squarely on her hips. As much as she appreciated his ideas, his enthusiasm, she hadn’t hired him to ride roughshod over their plans, what little there were, for the festival. She’d hired him to work with her, not to take over. Not to steal her opportunity to give back to the community in a meaningful way. And if this was how he ran things, with an iron fist, she was going to have to find another way to give back to Rabbits Leap. ‘You know, Christian, what I think is that I can’t work under a dictatorship. I think you can call the festival whatever you want, because I quit.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e82c4911-7708-51a7-9177-e80c0bc8a80b)
Buggery bollocks. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Christian stared at the empty doorway where Jody had stood mere seconds ago. What had just happened? What kind of committee head just quit? And why the hell was she so hung up on this Welly-wanging business?
Still, he stood behind his belief that it wouldn’t draw people in, and he refused to do anything that would jeopardise the success of The Big Little Festival, or, more importantly, jeopardise what would be left of his career once the pop-star debacle came home to roost square on his head.
Fine. Jody was out. Next step? Go find Mrs Harper and Mrs Hunter and drag them back to the hall to finally nail down some plans. And his say would be final. There would be no democracy under his watch.
He strode across the hall, stepped out into the sunshine and, squinting from its brightness, took in the lay of the land. Total chocolate-box. The kind of town people from overseas expected to see when they came to Devon. All whitewashed stone walls with thatched or tiled roofs. Flower boxes brimming with flowers, and a few weeds. That’d need to be sorted. He mentally began to put together a list of what would need to be done to the village to turn it from sweet and a little sad to something sensational.
Bunting. Lots of it. Criss-crossing the main street. A big sign at either end with The Big Little Festival painted in jaunty colours. They’d need to have portable toilets brought in. They could possibly go at the back of the park. Perhaps with some kind of wall set up to give some privacy and hide their unsightliness.
The street wasn’t wide, so he’d have to be economical with the attractions. Which would be what? He stroked his chin, soft spikes reminding him he needed to shave. He was back in the game. He had a job. Now was not the time to look like a down and outer.
A cackle of laughter caught his attention. Mrs Harper and Mrs Hunter. It must be. Another cackle sent him speeding off in its direction towards a building with ‘Mel’s Café’ emblazoned on the window.
He stepped through the door and startled at the jolly ting-a-ling of the doorbell. Who had actual bells in their store any more? Where were the electronic chimes? He took in the yesteryear British vibe, all mirrored wall art and china tea trios on display. Had he actually gone back in time? Had Rabbits Leap decided 1953 was a great year to stop moving forward?
His suspicions deepened when he saw the proprietress. A petite woman with blonde hair, wearing a pink-and-red-rose-covered vintage frock, who was smiling at him in that polite manner that suggested she was wary of the stranger in her café, but would never be rude to a customer.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to take a seat? Or would you like a moment to take a look at the cabinets?’
‘Um, actually, I was just looking…’
‘Marjorie.’ Mrs Harper’s squawk filled the room. ‘Look who’s tracked us down?! And he’s not looking happy… I guess Jody has filled him in on how things are going with the festival.’
‘Christian, stop staring at everything like a gormless wonder and sit with us.’ Mrs Hunter pushed out a chair and waved at him to join them.
