‘OK,’ Tom said as they neared the marquee, ‘let’s see how you did, Hats,’ but before they actually got in, Kath and Rob came out, pushing Patrick in his buggy.
‘Ooh, I wouldn’t go in there,’ Kath said, doing some dramatic eye-rolling. Hattie was already in her usual position with Patrick, down on her knees by his buggy, pulling faces. He was kicking about and looking happy under his hat.
‘Not another baking incident?’ Tom asked with mock horror.
‘Worse than last year,’ Rob said. He looked tired – Patrick wasn’t a good sleeper – but under his floppy sun hat, his brother also looked happy. It was a hat that was exactly the same colour as Patrick’s and that made Tom indescribably pleased.
‘See you in the food tent?’ Kath said. ‘His highness needs something soon or he’ll start wailing. And so does Patrick.’ She gave Rob a fond poke to the stomach.
Arrangements to meet were made and Tom watched them set off, then Rob was coming back. He took Tom to one side, ‘Patrick’s a bit red on his cheeks, a bit grizzly.’ Rob was looking at Tom expectantly. ‘I’m thinking teeth, but it could be anything—’
‘Is he generally happy, apart from that?’
A nod.
‘And he hasn’t got any rash? No funny cry when he moves his head?’
‘No.’
‘Teeth then. Get me a beer in.’
Rob bounded off again with a ‘Cheers, mate.’
Inside the tent, Tom headed for the vegetable animals and before he got there, saw that Hattie had won by the way she was doing karate moves and shouting, ‘Take that!’
He read the judges’ comment:
An imaginative and skilful interpretation of a fox and her cubs executed in sweet potato and butternut squash. The use of samphire as grass is a particularly charming touch.
Hattie was still karate-chopping, so he said, ‘Hey. Tone it down a bit. Ever heard of being a “good winner”? You have to be modest.’
‘What’s modest?’ she asked, making an L for Loser hand gesture at the less-successful animals.
And then he didn’t care about her being modest because Fran was coming towards him. They grinned at each other. They’d talked about this earlier, how weird it would be to be back at the start. Now he thought about that, he felt choked up and so he checked Hattie was occupied and put down the picture and the earrings and placed his hands on Fran’s waist and kissed her on the lips. He felt her arms come up round his neck and she was kissing him back.
French-kissing in the craft tent, near uncovered baked goods; they were probably contravening all kinds of Health and Safety rules.
He stopped kissing for long enough to say what had just come to him, ‘I am so glad I bumped into you here that day. I love you, Fran. You caught me when I had such a bloody big fall, and I adore every bit of you from your brilliant hair to your long second toes and all the beautiful places in between. I can’t believe my bloody luck.’
‘You’ve practised that,’ she said. ‘It makes my speech seem completely lame. I can only think to say that I love you, Tom. You feel like part of me, somehow, grafted on but in a good way. I would fight lions to save you.’ She paused. ‘Can I also ask you why you’re carrying a picture of Saddam Hussein?’
‘Hattie brought it for you. And it’s Elvis.’
‘Ah. An energetic interpretation.’
He went back to kissing her.
When he opened his eyes, he could see Mrs Egremont, of the sharp elbows, having a set-to with the baked goods’ judging panel.
‘Trouble up?’ he asked.
‘Indeed. Someone has beaten her in every category. She’s not taking it well. Oh, Hattie, darling, thank you for Elvis, he’s so … individual. And may I congratulate you on your magnificent achievement.’ She got down to Hattie’s level and gave her a hug and they looked at the fox family and the rosette propped against them.
‘I think you should wear that rosette,’ Fran said and pinned it to Hattie’s T-shirt.
Hattie examined it. ‘Next year I might do something prehistoric.’
‘Oh yes.’ Fran was screwing up her eyes. ‘I’m seeing some major battle between a tyrannosaurus and some velociraptors?’
Tom walked over to his mother.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said, pushing air with her hand. Tom didn’t and went to look at the entries and came back.
‘So who’s this Mary H. W. Fane then?’
His mother shrugged. ‘No idea. Taxi driver delivered the
entries, along with all the proper forms. Whoever this Mary woman is, she obviously wanted to be androgynous.’
‘Anonymous.’
His mother didn’t respond, she’d been dragged back into a confab with the other judges.
‘It’s not legal,’ Mrs Egremont was saying. ‘The rules state that entries must be delivered in person.’
Fran had joined him. ‘Oh, I think you’ve just made that up, Mrs Egremont. Having to deliver in person would count against anyone who is housebound, but a good baker.’
‘Sweetheart, I’d just stay out of this,’ Tom said.
The judging panel had obviously come to a decision. His mother said, ‘Well, our marks stand, but Mary Fane will have to put in an appearance. I mean, she could be a professional chef or such like.’
‘Yes, she bloody could,’ Mrs Egremont said and several of the judging panel murmured, ‘Language.’
‘Oh all right then, mystery over,’ Fran said, cheerily. ‘It’s me. I’m Mary H. W. Fane, it’s an anagram of Fran Mayhew, you see. I’ve been practising and practising. I wanted to show you, Joan, what a very good teacher you are.’
‘Oh, Holy Crap,’ Joan said, which Tom did not think was a very good thing for a woman married to a vicar to say.
‘You!’ Mrs Egremont snarled at Fran. That got a lot of heads turning. ‘You! But you’re her son’s fancy woman.’
‘Oh what a lovely way of putting it,’ Fran said. ‘Did you hear that, Tom?
Fancy woman
.’
‘Fran dear,’ his mother was saying, ‘this is very awkward—’
‘Not to mention suspicious.’ Mrs Egremont looked as if she was gearing up for some head-butting.
‘But why?’ Fran asked, her eyes wide. ‘I used an alias so you and the judging panel wouldn’t know who I was, so you couldn’t be accused of favouritism.’
The judging panel smiled at her until they saw Mrs Egremont’s expression and then they busied themselves with tidying up their table.
‘But it might not be interpreted by others like that.’ His mother did a not-very-subtle head jerk at Mrs Egremont.
‘Oh,’ Fran said as if a penny had just dropped.
Tom leaned back against a table and watched events unfold. He was smiling, he couldn’t help it. Just another example of how Fran did not always understand how the world worked. There had been others, there would be more, and in the future it might even mean court cases, but he didn’t care. Her straight-down-the-line view of life was one of the things he loved so much about her.
‘All right, all right,’ Fran said when there was the smallest of lulls in Mrs Egremont’s complaining. ‘Why don’t we take one category, say, rock buns and re-judge it?
And honestly, Mrs E, I’m quite prepared to taste your entry and you can taste mine and we’ll be brutally honest and see what happens.’
Tom watched Fran’s enthusiasm trying to ignite the others. ‘So,’ she said, clapping her hands. ‘Come along. Rock cakes.’
Fran was moving to the relevant table, Mrs Egremont grudgingly going with her.
‘Right, here we go,’ Fran said. ‘I’ll take first bite … Oh!’ She was looking down at the plates on which her entry and Mrs Egremont’s were displayed.
Mrs Egremont’s plate was empty.
‘That’s not right,’ Fran said, ‘who’s …?’
Hattie was standing just behind the table. She looked like a hamster and you didn’t really need an X-ray machine to see that it was one half of a rock cake that she had in each cheek.
There was a lot of talking and some shouting then, but Tom just stayed leaning where he was.
‘My girls,’ he said and his vision started to blur, ‘my bloody wonderful girls.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to the following for generously letting me pick their brains – Emma for insights into the logistics of magazine production; Sally for advice about pregnancy and maternity care; Mo for information regarding police procedures; Victoria for briefing me on the legal aspects of divorce and Penny for updating me on what small children eat, read, think about and play with. Any inaccuracies in the book on these subjects are down to me and none of the above!
Seeing Helen Musselwhite’s stunning paper sculptures gave me the inspiration for Fran’s work. Thanks to her for making the time to chat to me. Any grumbles I gave Fran about her work schedule were definitely not Helen’s and you can see her lovely paper art at
www.helenmusselwhite.co.uk
I’m extremely lucky to have objective, kind people reading my work as I write. Thanks to Chris Marples, particularly for her sound plot advice, and to Sara and Ruth.
A rousing cheer for my Agent, Broo, whose calm hand on the tiller and laugh at the end of the phone has got me through an ‘interesting’ couple of years.
And, of course this book would be nowhere without Quercus. I am hugely grateful to the whole team, from designers to sales and marketing people and especially to Kathryn who had the dubious job of overseeing the editing stage and Jo Dickinson who started it all off by ensuring the book was in the best possible shape.
Lastly a big hug to my sisters for their continuing merriment and support and more gratitude than I can put into words to Matthew, Kate and Becky for being so damned lovely and always one hundred per cent on my side. Girls, I’m looking forward to the brand new chapters that are about to unfold in your lives.
And of course, grateful thanks to you, the reader. Don’t forget to let me know what you think of the book.
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