In the comfortable sitting room, Hazel took out her notebook and pen and looked at Derek.
“First meeting,” she said, “so no minutes. Do we have any apologies?”
“What for?” said Tony Dibson.
“For not being able to attend,” said Hazel, smiling at him. Dear old chap. It must seem a load of rubbish to him, but this committee was to be conducted properly, with minutes of meetings kept and circulated to the full parish council.
“No, we’re all here,” Derek said. “Welcome, everyone. And thanks, Gavin, for deciding to come and help us. A newcomer’s view will be really useful.”
So that’s put me firmly in my place, thought Gavin. This electrician Derek was not such a thicko as he had expected. “Thanks. Glad to be here,” he said.
“Now,” continued Derek, “the first thing on the agenda is to decide what our main fund-raising event will be. The sooner that’s settled the better. Then we can get on with planning the campaign.”
Hazel cleared her throat. “Um, can I suggest something, Derek?”
He nodded. “O’ course, Hazel. Fire away.”
“Well, I know we must have a big project to raise a respectably large sum, but to involve all the village-which I think is necessary-we should ask all the various groups, like WI and Guides and Scouts an’ that, to have their own money-raising events as well. It’s surprising how it all adds up, and it would keep people interested.”
“Hear, hear,” John Thornbull said, looking proudly at his wife. “Great suggestion, Hazel.”
Gavin thought to himself that this was a very secondary matter, and said, “So shall we get back to the big project?”
“Do you have a suggestion, Gavin?” Derek said. “We shall need three or four ideas before we decide.”
“Yep. This is a winner,” Gavin said. “We did this where we lived before. We’ll have a really big summer show. The Long Farnden Festival. Exhibitions, sporting fixtures, concerts, you name it, we’ll have it. I’ve got lots of contacts.”
Silence followed this, as the others reeled.
Derek was first to speak. “Wonderful idea,” he said, swallowing hard. “Any other suggestions?” he added, praying that someone would speak up.
John raised his hand. “I got one,” he said. “I was watching telly last night, and they had a bit on the news about a soap box race up in Derbyshire. All kinds of soap boxes, homemade. Amazing, some of ’em. And quite a crowd watching. We could do that, couldn’t we? Have our own grand prix?”
Tony Dibson’s face lit up and he leaned forwards. “My God, boy,” he said. “You got it! We used to have soap boxes when I was a kid. High Street’s on a slope, and we’d start one end with a good shove from behind, and pick up speed as we went. Leg power, it was. I were nearly always the winner. That gets my vote,” he said cheerfully, and subsided in his chair.
“And where would our big profit come from?” Gavin said scathingly. “A quid’s entrance money from half a dozen competitors, and rattle a tin round the spectators?”
“Good point,” said Derek, but John’s idea had caught his imagination and he could see the others were looking keen. “Any other suggestions?” he said, but they shook their heads.
Hazel stopped writing, and glanced around the silent room. She looked at Derek, and decided to rescue him.
“Couldn’t we combine the two ideas?” she said. “We could have the soap box grand prix down the High Street, and then around the village we could have some of the other things Gavin has suggested for his festival. What d’you think?”
They all nodded except Gavin, who said that wasn’t quite what he had in mind. How about a vote? Festival or grand prix with side shows?
Derek obediently took a vote. It was as he had hoped. “Soap box has it, then,” he said, “and with Gavin’s expertise, I know the sideshows will be real money-spinners.”
The discussion then continued until late in the evening, and when the meeting was finally closed, Derek walked into the kitchen where Gran and Lois were waiting.
“Phew!” he said, and gave them a brief summary. “The thing is,” he said, “all I can think of right now is how I’m going to steer the awkward brigade to achieve what we set out to do.”
“You’ll do it,” said Gran, “with Lois and me helping.”
FOUR
MUM? DOUGLAS HERE.” “Hi, son. What can I do for you?” Lois smiled broadly. If she allowed herself to have a favourite offspring, it would be Douglas. Her firstborn, he had been easy from the start. Even tempered and cheerful, he had lulled her into a sense of false security on the child upbringing front. When Josie came along, she was fretful, needing constant attention and yelling if she didn’t get it. Derek had said that girls were always more difficult, and what did she expect? Three stroppy generations of women, in his view. Gran, Lois and Josie. All dedicated to making his life difficult.
“It’s what we can do for you, for once,” Douglas said now. “Me and Susie and young Harry are going to the National Space Centre at Leicester on Sunday, and wondered if you and Dad would like to come along?”
“Isn’t Harry a bit young for the space centre?” Lois asked. She knew that Derek would jump at the idea, but you could hardly expect a one-year-old to take much interest in the wonders of rocket science.
“There’s something for all ages, it says in the leaflet. A mate of mine has been with his kids, and says its wonderful. D’you want to see what Dad says? You can ring me back. Got to go now. Big meeting.”
Lois put down the phone and shook her head with a smile. You don’t fool me, Douglas Meade, she said to herself. It’s like that supersize train set Harry had for his half birthday. Doug plays with it all the time, and it’ll be Doug who wants a simulated ride in a space capsule. Ah, well, why not? A family outing would be a nice distraction for Derek, already frowning with worry about how to raise at least twenty thousand pounds in a frighteningly short period.
AT AROUND THIS TIME, JOSIE MEADE, SHOPKEEPER AND OCCASIONAL helpmeet in her mother’s detecting activities, was thinking about babies. Here she was, living alone after her longtime partner had been killed, now more or less restored with the help of Mum’s cop’s nephew Matthew, but with a blank future in front of her. When she saw Matthew pulling up outside in the police car, she wondered if this was an omen. Would he make a good father? This was such a ridiculous thought that she laughed out loud, lifting Matthew’s spirits as he came into the shop.
Matthew Vickers had settled well into Tresham police force, and despite the fact that the chief detective inspector was his uncle, he had finally been absorbed and accepted by his colleagues. He had fallen in love with Josie Meade long before her partner died, and had tried a few forays to see how secure that relationship was. Then the disaster had happened and he had concentrated on being a solid comforting presence for her, nothing more. Her smiling face was a really good sign.
“What’s the joke, Josie?” he said, and blew her a kiss across the counter.
“Can’t tell you,” she said. “Except that I was wondering whether to give up the shop and go back to education as a mature student. I’m done with grieving, and have to think about the future.”
“You can’t!” he said. “What will Long Farnden do without you? The whole place would fall apart if you gave up the shop.”
“I could sell it. It’s doing really well now, and they say you should sell when a business is doing well, not when it’s on the slide.”
“Are you serious, Josie?”
“No. I love my shop and my village.” And maybe you, Matthew, just a little bit, she added to herself. “Now, are you investigating a crime? Or just calling for a packet of Polo mints?”
“Both,” he said. “But seriously, we’ve had an anonymous call, probably from the usual nutcase, suggesting there is a local conspiracy to burn down your village hall. The caller said he had seen a prowler with a can of petrol, and whoever it was ran off when he saw he was observed. Have you heard anything?”