Page 3 of The Fete of Summer (Tales of Crumbington #1)

“Then maybe they should be. Our performance was an embarrassment. My children raised more for their Christmas panto. More importantly, attendance numbers were down by over thirty per cent. Something radical needs to change, and I am planning a number of modifications, including ditching many traditional stalls and injecting some originality and excitement into this year’s offering. ”

“But surely we’ll still have a baking competition?” asked Doris. Nathan’s late father had always judged the event, an honour Nathan had passed to Arthur Meade, the true talent behind Fresher and Son Bakery.

“Of course we’ll have a baking competition, Doris.

Heavens above. After the international success of the British baking shows we’d be foolish not to.

Those programmes have brought our garden variety village event and the popularity of local bakeries back into the public eye. Am I not right, Nathan?”

Nathan faked a smile. The programmes had brought him no end of headaches.

He rarely had time to watch television and had initially been puzzled when customers began asking if his shop made cheese-filled Cypriot Flaounes, Swedish Prinsesst?rta cake, Hungarian Dobos Torte or Uyghur bread.

Shop assistant Halina had eventually made the connection.

Nathan had almost caved in to demand until Arthur Meade put his foot down, saying Fresher and Son had a reputation as a traditional English bakery, not a specialist outlet catering to the short-term whims of a fickle public.

“I’m thinking we should follow the televised format,” continued Arlene.

“Have cakes created following a theme and presented on the day, then showcased and judged. I’ve even considered whether we could get one of the show’s stars to judge the contest. Celebrity appearances sell events like ours.

But I’m afraid they’re well beyond our budget.

That’s why I need us all to think outside the box.

Before I give you my suggestions, does anyone have any innovative ideas to share? ”

Her remark caught Nathan off guard, which had perhaps been her intention. Doris still had her eyes closed, but he and Father Mulligan peered at each other for inspiration.

“How about Taylor Swift?” said Polly. “Maybe she could play a couple of numbers. It is for a good cause, after all.”

Polly slumped low in her plastic seat, arms folded, looking like a rebellious teenager.

When she glammed up—which was rare—she looked stunning with her natural blonde hair and grey-blue eyes.

Tonight she sported a fluffy, hot pink mohair jumper.

Together with black velvet pants and bright yellow dangly earrings, she looked like a Liquorice Allsort.

Nathan stifled a laugh with his hand, knowing her well enough to recognise the playfulness in her tone.

Arlene did not, and her eyes brimmed with excitement.

“You have connections to Taylor Swift?”

“No.”

Slight pause.

“But you know someone who does?”

“No.”

Longer pause.

“I don’t understand. Do you have connections to anyone in the music business?”

“No. But I am thinking outside the box.”

Finally, the penny dropped, and Arlene pouted.

“Can we think out of the box but with at least one foot planted firmly in reality?”

“Dunk the teacher,” came the voice of sleeping Doris, her eyes opening.

“I’m sorry?” said Polly and Arlene simultaneously.

“At Parsnip Green they had a dunk-the-teacher stall. If you threw a ball and hit a target, a teacher would drop into a tub of green slime.”

“A ducking stool,” said Polly, smirking and clapping her hands lightly beneath her chin. “Wonderful. Shockingly medieval and barbaric, yet at the same time quintessentially English.”

“I think it’s a marvellous idea, Doris,” said Arlene. “Polly, one for you. Are there any teachers at your school the children might want to dunk?”

“There are some I would like to drown,” said Polly.

“I suppose a better question would be,” added Nathan, seeing where this was going, “are there any teachers who would be willing to get dunked?”

“Of course there are. But the ones who would be game are the ones the kids like. Those they dislike and would pay good money to see drenched might be less open to public humiliation.”

“Could you not appeal to their better natures?” asked Arlene.

“You’re assuming they have better natures.”

“Well, do your best, Polly. It’s my experience that the less popular among us welcome the opportunity to let others see what good sports we are.

Now, as we haven’t got all night and rather than belabour this, I’ll provide some suggestions of my own.

If you have any other ideas before the next meeting, we’ll set up a chat group and text each other. ”

Without saying anything, Arlene brought out a small tablet computer from her handbag and prodded the screen a couple of times.

“Keep an open mind as I go through these. I used to be the vice president of marketing and events coordination for a large corporation and know my way around an event or two. Here’s what I have so far.

An amateur dog show, an old-fashioned fairground with a carousel, mini helter-skelter and other fun rides for children—already sourced.

We would, of course, have a food court and the obligatory beer and wine tent, but maybe invite promising young bands or musicians to play.

And in the evening, we’ll organise an adult social here in the village hall.

I’ve already found a celebrity to open the event.

But before that, we need a gimmick to grab people’s imagination leading up to the event, something more than the usual adverts or flyers, to build some excitement leading up to the day.

Nathan, you play for the local football team, don’t you? ”

“He’s the team captain,” said Polly.

“How would you feel about being photographed for a team calendar—”

“Oh, my. How innovative,” said Polly, pretending to stifle a yawn. “They have snapshots stuck up on the corkboard in the clubhouse that nobody looks at. You could use those.”

“Let me finish, Polly. I’m talking about a naked calendar. The kind of thing those rowers or the French rugby team produce each year. We could even follow up with a fun date auction for any single players and have them on stage before the social begins. All for charity, naturally.”

Stunned silence descended on the church hall as though someone had openly blasphemed. Arlene took a beat but appeared to interpret the lack of response as approval.

“Excellent. A friend of mine is a most brilliant professional photographer—”

“Wait, wait. Hang on,” said Nathan, catching his breath and holding up both palms. “Naked pictures of the football team? Are you serious? None of the players are going to agree to that.”

“Tastefully photographed, Nathan,” said Arlene. “Your private areas would not be on display. We’d have footballs held in front or have you stood behind goalposts. My friend will have plenty of artistic suggestions.”

“Ooh, I think it’s a lovely idea.” Wide awake now, Doris held her veined hands beneath her chin as though in prayer.

“Arlene, apart from me, have you actually met any of the Crumbington team?” asked Nathan, still in shock. "We are hardly Chippendale material."

“Oh, please, Nathan. Women—and I am not just speaking for myself here—prefer real men. Not those buff bodybuilders pumped up on protein shakes and steroids who can barely walk in a straight line. Am I right, Doris? And your team players are already considered local celebrities. Besides, my friend can touch up the images on her computer before they go to print. How many are there in the squad?”

“Around eighteen, if you include the part-timers who can’t make every match. Only around ten are in what you might call good shape. And I’ll tell you now. None are going to agree.”

“I like the idea,” joked Polly. “If it means we get to see the captain with his kit off.”

“Not helping,” Nathan muttered back.

“All in favour of the idea,” called Arlene. Everyone’s hand rose except for Nathan’s.

“Mikey’s on the team, and he would never agree,” he said.

“Even so, that would still be four votes to two,” said Arlene, tapping notes into her tablet.

“Let’s at least give it our best shot. I’m making this your personal mission, Nathan.

Twelve of the better-looking players, one for every month of the year.

And we need the shoot done next month at the latest if we’re going to get this edited, printed and ready to sell by the end of April.

I suggest you start thinking of ways to talk them round. If you need backup, give me a call.”

“We’ve got a game on Sunday. I suppose I could ask them. But I’m not promising anything.”

“Good. My photographer friend is coming over this weekend. I’ve reserved the private bar in The Crumbington Arms at Sunday lunchtime for the committee members and special guests.

I’ll arrange finger food and soft drinks.

Let’s hope you have good news by then. As I say, I’ve already reserved the fairground rides.

Doris, please update the website and social media pages and announce the event date. ”

“Consider it done. I’ve made some modifications from last year to make the website work better on mobiles and tablets. We have accounts on most of the newer microblogging services, and I’ve also got the online donation page ready to go.”

“Well done. One last thing. As I mentioned, I’ve already secured a very special guest to open the fête. One of our more famous ex-residents of Crumbington, the actor Clifton O’Keefe.”

The front legs of Nathan’s plastic chair clunked loudly back to earth.

“Clifton O’Keefe?” he echoed, his voice a whisper.

Had a cold wind just swept through the church hall? From the corner of his eye, he noticed Polly turn to stare horrified at him. Everyone else appeared oblivious.

“Who’s Christian O’Keefe?” asked Father Mulligan.

“Clifton, Father Mulligan,” said Arlene, clearly pleased with herself.

“A rising star in the American television and film industry. He’s shooting episodes for a new British television series, which will keep him here until the end of the year.

My husband is on the production team and called in a favour.

If that doesn’t draw a crowd, nothing will.

He’s confirmed, by the way, Doris. I’ll send over the authorised publicity information tonight once I’ve spoken with my husband. ”

In high school, Nathan had fallen heavily for Clifford Hogmore, now reinvented as the actor Clifton O’Keefe. Both had played for the football team, and Nathan had tried his damnedest to hide his feelings, to be a friend and nothing more.

Until the day Cliff admitted to having feelings for Nathan.

After that, well, all bets had been off, and nobody and nothing could keep them apart.

But they’d kept everything in the proverbial locker room, inseparable until the night Cliff and his family disappeared off the face of the planet, only to resurface six years later in Los Angeles with Cliff as Hollywood’s latest heartthrob.

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, a phrase going round in his head.

What the hell just happened ?