For now, I’m just focusing on May Day. The final elements of the festival are falling into place. I have sourced a hog roast, I have worked out how to fix five-hundred lanterns to the trees around the field where the main bonfire will be, and I have personally transported six bags of biodegradable green glitter to the village hall so that it can be scattered along the parade route. (That, it turns out, was what glitter meant on the to-do list Betsy gave me. My protestations that glitter is not very medieval were met with a firm, ‘it’s traditional’).
I can’t step in and try to help Betsy without her consent, but I can help her coordinate a large-scale project.
And there’s something else I can do, too.
‘Can’t you look frailer?’ I ask Nicola, straightening her cardigan and brushing some lint from her shoulder.
She shoots me a glare that I make a mental note to imitate when I next want to eviscerate a rude co-worker.
‘This is as frail as I go,’ Nicola says. ‘I thought you said you were taking me to Leeds to go shopping. Why do I need to look frail?’
‘Yes, absolutely, shopping,’ I say. ‘We’re just dropping in on a few corporate law firms first.’
‘What?’
‘It won’t take a minute! All our meetings are scheduled for twenty minutes at most.’
Nicola glowers. ‘What do you need me for?’
‘I’m getting a sponsor for the May Day festival. But I’m all, you know, Londony and corporate,’ I say, waving a hand at myself. ‘You are sweet and elderly and get the sympathy vote.’
‘I’m not even from Hamleigh! And sweet my arse,’ says Nicola. ‘If you think I’m going to sit there and simper for some fat-cat lawyer …’
‘Maybe just don’t say anything at all,’ I say, ushering Nicola towards the car. ‘Probably safest.’
Nicola grumbles the whole way to Leeds, but as soon as we get into that first meeting room she’s such a convincing doddery old dear I find it quite hard not to laugh. Such an important event for our poor little village, Nicola says. I look forward to May Day all year. They lap it up. Port & Morgan Solicitors sign up there and then; the others say they’ll think about it.
It feels good to be back in a boardroom, actually. And it’s especially good to be walking out of one victorious, instead of hyperventilating. I send a quick text to Bee as we head to the car.
You’ve still got it, she replies. THAT’S my Leena Cotton.
As we drive back to Knargill, Nicola cackles into the enormous mocha I bought her to say thank you.
‘I had no idea it was so easy getting men like that to cough up some cash!’ she says. ‘What else can we ask them for, eh? Sponsor the mobile library? Sponsor a minibus?’
She might actually be on to something, there. My mind goes to the document still open on Grandma’s computer: B&L Boutique Consulting – strategy. Corporate responsibility is more important than ever for millennials – businesses need to be building charitable work and volunteer opportunities into the heart of their business models, they need to …
‘Leena? This is my house,’ Nicola says.
I screech to a halt.
‘Oops! Sorry! Miles away.’
She eyes me suspiciously. ‘Don’t know why I let you drive me anywhere,’ she mumbles as she unfastens her seatbelt.
*
The next morning I pop around to Arnold’s and knock on the conservatory door. He has morning coffee in here at ten-ish, and every so often I come around to join him. I’ll be honest, the cafetière coffee is a big draw, but it’s more than that. Arnold is lovely. He’s like the granddad I never had. Not that I didn’t have a granddad, but you know, Grandpa Wade hardly counts.
Arnold’s already there, a full cafetière ready and waiting. It’s sitting on his latest book, and I shudder as I step inside and spot the large brown ring spreading across the cover. I move it and spin the novel around: it’s Dorothy L Sayer’s Whose Body?, one of my grandma’s favourites. Arnold seems to be on a detective novel thing of late. Discovering his love of reading has been one of my favourite surprises of my time in Hamleigh.
‘How’s your mother doing?’ Arnold asks as I pour myself a coffee.
I give him an approving nod, and he sighs between his teeth.
‘Would you stop acting like you taught me how to have a conversation? I wasn’t that bad before you got here. I