now – the bus driver is kindly taking a detour from her usual route to drop us in the village, but even so, we’re late.
The bingo regulars are gathered at the corner of Peewit Street and Middling Lane, in front of the village shop; the rain started coming down a few minutes ago and most of the gang are only half visible inside enormous mackintoshes and rainproof ponchos.
‘What are we going to do?’ Nicola asks from beside me, as we approach the gaggle of bingo-goers. ‘We’ve not got a van to take them to the bingo hall. Shall I tell them it’s off?’
‘Excuse me?’ I say, wiping my face. ‘It is not off. All that’s required here is a bit of innovative thinking.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to …’ Mum trails off on seeing my expression. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘What do you need?’
‘Felt tips,’ I say. ‘Chairs. And a face wipe, for the chin mascara.’
*
‘Twenty-seven! Two and seven! Thirty-one! Three and one, that’s thirty-one!’
My voice is hoarse from shouting after all that crying. Thank God for Grandma’s printer – it may have taken half an hour of slow, painful chugging, but it eventually produced fifteen bingo sheets. Sometime during that time my mother disappeared (probably for the best), but the rest of the Hamleigh bingo fans are sitting in every chair that exists in my grandmother’s house, plus three from Arnold’s. After some initial grumbling, the bingo players looked grudgingly impressed with the set-up, and when I cooked up a few party platters Grandma had stored in the freezer and handed out some ciders, the mood of the room improved considerably.
We’ve rearranged the living room so I can stand at the front, where the telly is, and the bingo gang can all see me. And, in theory, hear me, but that’s not going so well.
‘Eh?’ yells Roland. ‘Was that forty-nine?’
‘Thirty-one!’ Penelope yells back.
‘Twenty-one?’
‘Thirty-one!’ she calls.
‘Perhaps Penelope should sit next to Roland?’ I suggest. ‘So she can tell him what I’ve said?’
‘We wouldn’t be having this problem in the bingo hall,’ Betsy points out primly.
‘Cider isn’t this good at the bingo hall,’ Roland says, happily swigging from the bottle.
‘And those mini spring rolls are delightful,’ says Penelope.
I suppress a smile and return my gaze to the random number generator on Kathleen’s phone. My phone – previously known as Grandma’s phone – is too rudimentary to have such features, but Kathleen came to my rescue and lent me her smartphone. ‘Forty-nine!’ I yell. ‘That’s four and nine!’
‘I thought you already said forty-nine!’ calls Roland. ‘Didn’t she already say forty-nine?’
‘She said thirty-one!’ Penelope shouts back to him.
‘Thirty-seven?’
‘Thirty-three,’ calls another voice. It’s Nicola. She’s behind Roland, and I catch her wicked look and roll my eyes.
Not helping, I mouth at her, and she shrugs, totally unapologetic.
‘Did someone say thirty-three?’ asks Roland.
‘Thirty-one!’ Penelope yells cheerily.
‘Forty—’
‘Oh, bloody hellfire, Roland, turn your fucking hearing aid up!’ Basil roars.
There is a short, horrified silence, and then a cacophony of outraged noise from the group. I rub my eyes; they’re sore from crying. The doorbell rings and I wince. I know who that’s going to be.
I didn’t feel I could tell Jackson over the phone that the school van he kindly lent me had a dented bonnet and was currently abandoned just outside Tauntingham. It felt like an in-person sort of discussion.
I hurry to the door, which is not an easy task when there’s an obstacle course of chairs and walking sticks to get through.
Jackson’s got a sloppy grey beanie hat on, half-covering his left ear, and the shirt he’s wearing under his jacket is so crumpled it looks like he’s actively ironed the creases in. He gives me a smile as I open the door.
‘You all right?’ he says.
‘Umm,’ I say. ‘Won’t you come in?’
He steps obediently into the hall, then cocks his head, listening to the commotion from the living room. He shoots me a curious look.
‘Bingo plan change,’ I say. I squirm. ‘That’s … sort of what I need to talk to you about. There was a bit of an accident. With the van. That you let me borrow.’
Jackson absorbs this. ‘How bad?’ he says.
‘I’ll pay for it all, obviously, if it’s not covered on insurance. And I’ll walk up to where it’s parked and drive it back to you or straight to the garage or whichever is best for you as soon as this lot have left. And I know I’m already coming to help paint your classroom this weekend, but if there’s anything else