The Switch(79)

‘Penelope,’ I say, patting her hand, ‘this is genuinely the most fun I’ve had in … God, I don’t know, ages. Please don’t make me take a break.’

She blinks those owlish eyes at me. ‘You are odd, love,’ she says.

I grin at her and check my phone again: three miraculous bars of signal, though still no text from Ethan. I shake off the thought and get Betsy up on speed dial (not joking: Grandma’s phone actually still has speed dial).

‘Sorry I missed your last call!’ I say into the phone, gesturing leftwards to the men putting up the garlands (Rob and Terry? I think it’s Rob and Terry? Or are they the ones I commandeered to block off traffic to Lower Lane?)

‘Leena. The food stalls. They’re not coming.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘I don’t know!’ Betsy sounds almost tearful.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’ I ring off and dig out the number for one of the food stalls. They’re all run by separate people, mostly local to the area; the cheese-toastie guy’s number is the first I find.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Firs Blandon offered us double.’

‘Firs Blandon?’ The village that the Neighbourhood Watch are always bitching about? ‘What for?’

‘They’re doing May Day too, I think. Got a sign up next to yours on the road, directing people their way. Bigger sign than yours, actually,’ cheese-toastie man adds helpfully.

‘Don’t do this,’ I say. ‘I am already on my way to Firs Blandon’ – I’m heading for Agatha at a jog – ‘and I will be getting you all back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale as agreed, but it’s going to be messy, and I can promise you, it’ll all be a lot nicer if you just come back and fulfil your contractual obligations here in Hamleigh.’

There’s an uncomfortable pause. ‘I didn’t sign anything,’ cheese-toastie man points out.

Feck, feck, feck. No, he didn’t. We just contacted the food stalls that come every year and asked them to do a medieval theme this time, and they all said, Oh, sure, we’ll be there! There might have been a contract once, when May Day was first organised, but God knows where that is.

‘We still have legal rights,’ I say coolly, though I haven’t a clue if that’s true.

‘Right. Well … sorry, Leena. There’s not a lot of money in the cheese-toastie gig, and … Sorry.’ He rings off.

I unlock the car. Penelope appears beside me, her giant eyes wide with worry.

‘There are no food stalls!’ she says, clutching my arm.

‘It’s a disaster !’ roars Basil, approaching at a very slow but purposeful jog. ‘Bloody Firs Blandon! I should have known they’d be up to something!’

‘All right, Leena?’ calls Arnold from over the road, where he’s checking the bulbs in the hanging lanterns.

‘All of you: in,’ I say, pointing to the car.

I chuck the keys at Penelope, who catches them, then looks extremely surprised her reflexes were up to the job.

‘You’re driving,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, but what would Dr Piotr say?’ Basil asks. ‘He said Penelope ought not to—’

Penelope’s eyes twinkle. ‘Bother Dr Piotr,’ she says, opening the driver’s door. ‘This is exciting.’

*

I wouldn’t say I feel safe with Penelope driving. But we certainly make progress.

‘That was a red light,’ Arnold says mildly, as we go sailing past it.

‘It would have been green in a minute,’ Penelope says, foot on the accelerator.

I, meanwhile, am glued to my phone.

‘Who’s in charge at Firs Blandon?’ I ask. ‘Is there a mayor or something?’

‘What? No,’ Arnold says. ‘I suppose there’s probably a chair of the parish council.’

‘There might well be,’ Penelope says shrewdly, ‘but they’re most likely not in charge.’

I glance up from my phone. ‘No?’

‘Eileen’s chair of our Neighbourhood Watch,’ Penelope says, taking a sharp bend at sixty. ‘But we all know Betsy runs things, don’t we?’

‘Whoa, whoa, that was a thirty sign!’

‘Well, I didn’t see it,’ says Penelope.

I roll my window down as we enter Firs Blandon. There are garlands! And lanterns! The bastards!

‘Excuse me,’ I say to one of the men hanging garlands. ‘Who’s in charge, here?’

‘Take me to your leader!’ Basil barks from the back seat, making himself chuckle.

‘In charge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the chair of the parish council is …’

I wave him off. ‘But really though. Like, when someone starts parking a bit too near a junction or the pub starts charging an extra quid for fish and chips, who is it that gets things to go back to how they were?’

‘Oh, you mean Derek,’ the man says. ‘He’s down there, getting all the food stalls set up in the right spots.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, then let out a small shriek as Penelope puts her foot down again.

‘I’ve never trusted men called Derek,’ Penelope says rather mysteriously, as we come into view of Firs Blandon’s Main Street, now filled with all our food stalls.