Page 4 of The Fete of Summer (Tales of Crumbington #1)

Pub

Nathan wrapped his hands around the chilled base of his pint of Amstel, watching in a daze as a drop of condensation trickled down from the rim. A personal mantra played over and over in his head.

Nothing ever happens in Crumbington .

He had always believed those words should be embossed on a plaque and pinned up beneath the boundary signs. Wasn’t that the point of living in their sleepy haven hidden in the rural English county of what he liked to call Couldn’t-Care-Lessfordshire?

“Are you going to drink that?” came Polly’s voice. They perched at a high bar table—one of the few non-wobbly ones—in the bay window of The Crumbington Arms. “Or are you hoping to read your fortune in the bubbles?”

“What just happened?” he asked, echoing his thoughts to the glass.

“Don’t be such a drama king. You’ve been saying for years the summer fête needed a makeover.”

“A makeover, not defibrillation.”

Nathan took a gulp of cold beer, closed his eyes and allowed the liquid to soothe his throat and nerves. When he reopened them, the rough timber-beamed ceiling, chipped oak panelling and familiar ruby monogrammed carpet on the uneven pub floor—the perfect imperfection—conspired to calm him.

“I think it’s a great idea,” said Polly. “Although I’m not sure I entirely trust Arlene Baxter. Don’t you find her pushiness suspect?”

“You think it’s a good idea because you don’t have to do anything—”

“Now, hold on a bloody minute. Who has to smooth-talk their fellow teachers into sitting on a ducking stool? That is not nothing.”

Nathan thumped his pint down and glared at her.

“Have you been tasked with persuading the local football team to get their kit off and pose naked for a calendar shoot? I think not.”

Polly chuckled. “Did you see Doris’ eyes light up? I hope I’m still that frisky when I reach my mid-eighties.”

“Not helping.”

“You’re their captain, Nathan. They’ll listen to you. Although the thought of seeing Barman Bob unclothed is almost enough to put me off my Merlot.”

When Polly giggled loudly, Nathan glanced toward the bar. Bald, rosy-cheeked Bob the goalie, who had been the pub landlord for the past seven years, was serving one of his Friday night regulars. She had a point. Their Sunday league team was hardly Magic Mike .

“When Arlene talked about introducing modern events,” he said.

“I thought she meant a Wheel of Fortune or Crumbington’s Got Talent.

Not naked calendars. And what’s with the ducking stool?

The next thing she’ll be proposing is a school jousting competition or putting your headmaster into stocks on the village green. ”

“Do not suggest that to Arlene, Nathan. Not even in jest. I’m serious.”

Polly folded her arms to make her point.

“I still can’t believe she snagged Cliffy Hogmore to open the fête,” she said, clearly oblivious that every mention of Clifton’s name felt like a stab to Nathan’s stomach. “Wait until I tell the kids at school. Pimple-faced Hoggy Hogmore is coming to town.”

All through their childhood, Polly had never liked Cliff.

Although she’d often denied the fact, Nathan wondered if she’d had a thing for him at school.

His puppy fat had lasted longer than most. Unlike Nathan, he had also suffered the blight of adolescent acne.

All that had changed one summer when his voice—and balls—dropped and he blossomed into a stunningly good-looking teenager.

“O’Keefe,” said Nathan. “He goes by Clifton O’Keefe now. If you try to impress your students by telling them you used to go to school with a celebrity called Hoggy Hogmore, they’ll think you’re barking. Also, can we please change the subject?”

“Come on, Nathan. He left Crumbington like a hundred years ago.”

“Thirteen years ago. We were eighteen when he fell off the face of the planet.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Then perhaps you’ll finally find out why. You were best mates, weren’t you?”

“We were a darned sight more than that. We may not have done the deed, but we did everything else two gay, oversexed teenagers in love could do without getting caught.”

“Spare me the details,” said Polly, pulling a face. “Is he publicly out or still in the closet?”

“Out and proud, according to Wikipedia.” Nathan had checked on his phone as soon as the meeting ended. “And the patron of a number of queer-related charities.”

“Very noble. Well, you never know. Maybe he still has feelings for you.”

“Yeah, right. He’s a film star now. Doubt he’ll even remember me.”

“Bit of closure then.”

“How about you? Do you ever hear from Rick Astley?” asked Nathan, relying on the time-honoured tactic of the best form of defence being attack.

“No. And you know we don’t talk about him.”

To this day, Polly had remained tight-lipped about the mysterious older man who had romanced her on a girls’ night out.

All Nathan knew for sure was that he’d turned out to be a divorced dad whose kids went to the school where Polly taught, a total no-no in her rule book.

A number of times, she’d tried to shut his advances down, but the man had been persistent, vowing that he would never give her up. Hence the Rick Astley tag.

“We’re a couple of lost causes, aren’t we?” he said, finally smirking. “Should we tie the knot? Date other men but with the added advantage of a married couple’s tax allowance?”

“Sanctioned infidelity doesn’t work for me. You know that. But if you discover a long-lost straight brother somewhere in the world, then get back to me. Otherwise, friendship will have to do.”

“So, what dark secrets have you found out about our new chairperson? And don’t tell me you haven’t already Googled her.”

About to take a sip of her drink, Polly froze and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You really think that little of me?”

Nathan snorted. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re thorough.”

Polly’s slow smile morphed into a frown.

“Nothing yet. Not even a sniff. And everyone has a footprint in this digital age, even in Crumbington. I got Doris to do some digging. Arlene Baxter is a ghost.”

“She’s definitely scary. What, then? Witness protection?”

Polly provided a trademark roll of her eyes.

“The husband’s well known on media sites. Even her two kids. But there’s absolutely zilch on her. Not that we’ve found. Not yet. Total mystery.”

“As much of a mystery as you volunteering on the committee year after year?”

“You know why I do. Our Head thinks someone from the teaching faculty ought to be involved, and I get to attend something on behalf of the school without my teacher’s hat on. And, more importantly, I get to hang out with Crumbington’s coolest baker.”

“More like Crumbington’s biggest fraud. So cool, he’s only ever trusted to turn on the ovens, never to make a batch of dough or bake a tray of bread. Arthur Meade is the real star of Fresher’s.”

“Sell up, then.”

Polly liked to use the same blunt argument to shut down Nathan’s grumblings.

She had heard him bemoan his fate all too often.

Poor Arthur Meade had tried to teach him the basics, but Nathan had neither the enthusiasm nor the talent for baking.

Fortunately he managed the business side well and seemed to be a hit with the customers.

“You know it’s not that easy.”

“Why not? Because of a misplaced sense of duty to keep a family business going and appease the ghosts of your ancestors? How very Dickensian.”

“You know it’s not just that. Staff rely on me for their livelihood. Besides, I’m good with the financials. And even with competition, we still make enough to keep the lights on.”

“What about the ovens?”

Nathan looked away. Due to falling demand, they only used two of their four ovens, but he was not about to tell Polly that. He finished the last of his lager and wiped the foam moustache from his upper lip.

“Is the beer inspiring any other outside-the-box ideas for the fête?” she asked.

“Apart from asking the Red Arrows for a flyby or petitioning Elon Musk to raffle a place on his next space mission, then no, not off the top of my head,” said Nathan.

Polly’s phone began vibrating and sliding across the tabletop. “Oh, shit, I forgot. Hang on a sec. I need to take this.”

When she wandered off, Nathan looked round his busy local.

Built during the seventeenth century, the place had benefited from a scant few modernisations and paint jobs over the years.

Most of the locals seated around the bar—all retired residents of Crumbington—he knew intimately.

Lyn and Eric Pope. Married for fifty-three years.

Two seeded sourdoughs, sometimes sliced, and assorted buns for Sunday afternoon tea.

Eric Patel. Widower. Large unsliced whole wheat and six cinnamon buns.

Molly and Minnie Webster. Sisters. Three baguettes, one bloomer and six crumpets.

The list went on. Having Polly and Nathan there tonight decreased the average age by at least a decade.

Nathan noticed Polly frowning at her phone before gently shaking her head and heading back to him.

“Voice message. My cousin telling me he’s just arrived.

Dad’s brother’s kid. I wasn’t sure he was coming.

He was supposed to be here before our meeting, true to form.

He asked if he could crash on my couch while he sorted himself out a place.

Hopefully, no more than a week. Family can be a pain in the backside.

Do you mind if he joins us? Otherwise I’ll need to head home and let him in. ”

Nathan minded but said nothing. He rarely had a chance to have Polly to himself.

When Mikey joined them he invariably monopolised the conversation, either wanting to talk about his kids, gripe about the national vegan conspiracy, or bemoan the hypermarket that had opened not far from the village which was hell-bent on closing down his butcher’s trade.

Hopefully the cousin would be quiet and polite and not a conversation monopoliser.