Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay Read online

  ‘Shall we begin?’ asked Bob, the chairman of the forum, a man in his fifties with grey hair that fluffed out over his temples.

  The woman in front of her paused mid-sentence at the words ‘ginkgo biloba’ – which for some reason made Hetty laugh – and excitedly went to sit down.

  Hetty tactically chose a seat that would remain in the shade as it was already getting stuffy and the windows were cast wide open to let in as much air as possible. The tiniest of breezes fluttered the blue blinds sending dust motes into the air. Hetty watched them float lazily in the sun’s rays, landing unseen on people’s shoulders.

  The forum was attended by many of the businesses in Swallowtail Bay and Hetty enjoyed the monthly get-together, finding out about upcoming events and promotion opportunities.

  ‘Right,’ said Bob, ‘you’ve all had time to network, now down to business.’

  Despite the forum not having yielded any tangible results so far, Hetty believed it was time well spent. Running her own business, Simply Fantastic Events, had taught her you have to seek out new opportunities rather than just wait for them to land in your lap. People had to know who you were – especially as an event organiser. Waiting for opportunities to magically appear meant missed mortgage payments, worry lines and stress. All of which Hetty had enough of already.

  ‘Now,’ said Bob, ‘you all know that a new bakery has opened in town.’ He checked his notes. ‘Fairy Cakes, down the other end of the high street. The new owner’s assured me she’ll be here next time, so that’s another member of the forum. Good news all round, I’d say.’

  Another baker’s? Hetty wondered if they’d prove a rival to The Bake House. But Hetty refused to let her thoughts linger on that subject.

  ‘Our first order of business for today is the strawberry festival—’

  ‘What strawberry festival?’ asked Stella, a new resident of Swallowtail Bay and owner of Old Herbert’s Shop. She’d moved in earlier in the year and had worked hard to turn around the fortunes of the strange old shop that had sold such a random assortment of goods no one was quite sure what to call it.

  ‘Oh, it used to be brilliant,’ said Lexi, who worked at Raina’s Café and was here to represent her. Lexi always wore vintage clothes and had attended today’s meeting in an amazing spaghetti-strapped Fifties-style dress that flared out at the waist. Hetty couldn’t wear anything with spaghetti straps. She usually had to wear a bra with straps as wide as scaffolding planks. ‘Swallowtail Bay used to be the strawberry-growing capital of Britain and we’d have a festival every year to celebrate. Stalls lined every single street up and down the high street and sold every type of strawberry thing you can think of. There were jams, scones, wines, soaps – anything and everything. Do you remember it, Hetty?’ Her bright green eyes – with a slick of thick black liner – turned to Hetty full of excitement.

  ‘I do. It really used to be something.’ Underneath the soft sleeves of her shirt, the hairs on Hetty’s arms stood on end.

  Gwen, owner of Snip-It, the hairdresser’s, scoffed. ‘It used to be a festival many moons ago, but now it’s nothing more than a church jumble sale.’

  ‘There aren’t many venues available anymore,’ answered Mary, who alongside Gwen was part of the festival committee. No one really knew why Gwen was so depressed about the whole thing. They just assumed it was part of her normal approach to life, or maybe she resented doing any work for it when no one turned out. ‘And no one wants to take part. As everyone has lost interest it’s shrunk, and we’ve had to find smaller venues that don’t charge. We’re very lucky to use St John’s Church Hall. And we all still do our best.’

  Reluctantly, Hetty had to admit that miserable Gwen’s statement was true. The strawberry festival had, at one time, when she was little, been a huge event. There’d been the stalls that Lexi mentioned, plus games, puppet shows, street entertainers – so much to grab your attention, no matter what your taste. It had been the highlight of the summer holidays when bunting lined the streets and everyone came together. When Hetty thought back to the bank holiday weekends spent there, all she could remember was laughter and a strange buzz in the air. The reminiscence brought a smile to her face. But these days the strawberry festival was held in a small church hall and comprised a few tables set out with a handful of homemade cakes, bric-a-brac and a tombola. Not a strawberry in sight. And outside, in the church car park, second-hand clothes would be piled up on wobbly tables. It really was such a shame it had died. It had been a great Swallowtail Bay tradition.

  ‘We used to have awards for the best strawberry product,’ Mary continued. ‘A strawberry trail to find a big stuffed strawberry toy, and a strawberry-eating competition. Oh, it was so lovely.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Bob tried to bring them to order but the two older ladies were off.

  ‘People used to come from everywhere,’ Gwen agreed. ‘All the neighbouring towns turned out.’ Hetty cocked her head, listening with interest. ‘Now it’s an embarrassment to the word festival.’ Poor Mary blushed at Gwen’s harsh words, but she carried on regardless. ‘We used to have to squeeze the stalls in wherever we could – it was so popular. Now we’re lucky if we make twenty pounds from donations.’

  ‘It is a bit of a shame it’s not as popular anymore,’ said Bob. ‘But it’s still a great opportunity for us all to promote our businesses. I was thinking we could have a stand of leaflets or something like that.’

  Sparks began to fire in Hetty’s brain and intuition tied a knot in her stomach. Her body was telling her something. And if there was one thing Hetty Colman always did, it was listen to her intuition. Her brain quickly made a list of pros and cons, tallied costs against potential profit, calculated the work involved and went through a million and one other things, then she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘I’ve a suggestion about the strawberry festival, actually.’ All eyes turned to her. ‘You all know how I’ve been looking for opportunities to expand my business, well, I’ve a gut feeling this is just the chance I’ve been looking for.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bob with genuine interest. Gwen and Mary had gone quiet and everyone else waited for her to speak.

  ‘I think we should revamp the strawberry festival and bring it back to its former glory.’ Eyes widened a little but with Lexi and Stella’s encouraging expressions, Hetty confidently continued. ‘I think we should turn it into a giant food festival that lasts the whole of the bank holiday weekend.’

  ‘What?’ asked Gwen, the scornful tone returning to her voice. ‘You? Run a great big food festival? It’s a lot more complicated than a kid’s birthday party or ordering sandwiches for a wake.’

  Hetty simply smiled in response. She didn’t take Gwen’s remarks personally, she was always like this. It was a wonder Gwen had any customers left with her gloomy, glass-half-empty attitude. And Hetty was incredibly thick-skinned. ‘As I said,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘this is just the challenge I’m looking for to boost my business. Strawberries would remain a focus, but I think if it’s expanded to other things too, we could have a really big food festival attracting regional, maybe even national attention. And we all know how business slows in the winter without the tourists. This would give us a final boost before the drop.’

  Nell, the owner of a boutique bed and breakfast, Holly Lodge, nodded along. ‘I could definitely do with the boost, so anything that brings in the visitors is good with me.’

  ‘Still held in the town?’ asked Bob. ‘It’s in four weeks, though, Hetty. If you plan to keep it to the bank holiday weekend, I’m not sure we’d get permission from the council by then.’

  It was true that time was short, but even though she was excited, Hetty’s logical and practical mind had, in the few minutes available, already mulled over several possibilities for locations. Bob was quite right that getting permission from the council to close roads, divert traffic and all that faff for the August bank holiday weekend was most likely not going to happen in the time she had available. To attr
act stalls and entertainment on the scale she was thinking of, she needed a firm location before approaching vendors, so the town was definitely out. That left two other options as far as she could see: the first was a large sports field on the east side of the bay, but it was owned and operated by a private leisure facility and they’d be unlikely to give permission at such short notice. The other was a difficult option too but more likely to succeed, and one that could turn out to be beneficial to both parties, if local rumours were anything to go by.

  ‘I was actually thinking of Thornhill Hall,’ Hetty said confidently.

  The full tables surrounding her erupted into low mumbles and the incredulous shaking of heads. When they fell silent, Hetty again watched the dust motes dance down the shafts of light.

  ‘Thornhill Hall?’ asked Gwen, returning to her sarcastic tone. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? There’s absolutely no way John Thornhill will let you use his family’s land for a food festival. The Thornhills keep themselves to themselves these days.’

  ‘If rumour is to be believed,’ said Hetty, adopting her best don’t-mess-with-me voice and tucking her blonde pixie-cropped hair behind her ear, ‘he needs the money. If I offer him a share of the profits in exchange for use of his land, what has he got to lose? He hasn’t got to do anything. I’m going to do all the organising.’

  ‘And what about the costs?’ countered Gwen. ‘Who’s going to stump up for all this? As much as we love Swallowtail Bay, we can’t all volunteer, or pay for pitches. Or move our businesses to a different location for the day, hiring extra staff so we can have one of those pop-up shop type things. Then there are stewards and all that what-not.’

  A few people nodded support then regarded Hetty with apologetic expressions. The meeting room suddenly seemed stuffy under everyone’s gaze and Hetty felt an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt. Adjusting her glasses, she pushed it down; it was a moment’s nerves, that was all. And nerves were a good thing. They kept you focused.

  While Hetty’s dislike for Gwen was growing by the second, she had to concede that, again, Gwen had a valid point. With safety and security to think about, and stewards and equipment hire, there were going to be a lot of expenses, but grumpy Gwen had underestimated her. Hetty relaxed. To make this work she was going to have to use the capital from her own business, and as scary as that was, it was an investment in her future. One that she was more than willing to make. Hetty didn’t normally commit to things without a lot of forethought but something about this opportunity felt right deep down in her bones. She knew this was the right thing to do, the right step for her career. It was a cliché, but sometimes you really did have to speculate to accumulate.

  ‘Well?’ said Gwen again. ‘Who do you propose will pay for it all? You haven’t got time to find sponsors, have you?’

  Matching Gwen’s gaze, with a carefree shrug Hetty answered. ‘I will.’

  ‘Are you sure, Hetty?’ asked Lexi, her forehead creasing in concern.

  ‘Absolutely. I really think this could be a great way for Swallowtail Bay to get back on the map. After all, we have some of the best food around. We have artisan bakers, cheese makers, vineyards, not to mention the best fish and chips in the land. By turning the food festival into a big weekend event, we could really get people coming back to Swallowtail Bay.’

  ‘It’ll be a lot of work,’ said Bob. ‘Especially with such a tight timescale.’

  ‘I think it’s a fabulous idea,’ said Lexi.

  Stella nodded too. ‘I’d definitely be interested in having a stall.’

  Hetty couldn’t help feeling like she was in a job interview under everyone’s expectant gaze. ‘I know this seems like a big deal, and it is. But I’m ready for the challenge. More than ready.’ Adrenalin was already pumping through her veins and she had a sudden urge to leave the meeting, grab a new notebook and get started. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Mary, the member who’d spoken earlier and was on the festival committee. Her head was bowed, but Hetty couldn’t quite make out her expression. Realising she may have overstepped the mark by getting too carried away, she said, ‘Mary, do you think the committee would agree to this? I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or make any enemies. I just thought it would be a solution that worked for everyone.’

  Mary’s head lifted and Hetty saw her face suddenly relax into a smile. ‘Thank you for asking, Hetty. While I’m sure they’d be relieved to have it off their hands, I think you’d better talk to the festival committee when we’re all together. I can’t agree to it on my own.’

  ‘Okay, Mary. Perhaps we can get something set up over the next few days?’

  Gwen snorted. ‘Don’t jump the gun, Hetty. You still need to get John Thornhill on board first and there’s about as much chance of him agreeing to this as there is of me winning Miss World.’

  Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out, Hetty hid the feeling of dread that was creeping up her spine with a confident beam. There was only one thing for it. Straight after the meeting Hetty would make a trip to Thornhill Hall and face the scary – and scarily handsome – lord of the manor. She had to convince him to agree.

  ***

  Filled with excitement, Hetty didn’t waste any time after the forum finished, pausing only to steal a couple more mini croissants on her way out. Once outside, she swapped her glasses for sunglasses, jumped into Myrtle and drove to Thornhill Hall.

  John Thornhill very rarely came into town but from the few visits he’d made he had gathered quite a reputation for himself. Insanely handsome, with green-blue eyes and thick dark hair, but with a rather too entitled and forbidding attitude, Mr Thornhill was known for being rude, irascible and a complete stick-in-the mud who also happened to be stuck in the past, obsessed with his ancestral home. Unlike a lot of country houses that were open to the public for at least a few days a year, the Thornhills kept themselves locked away and rarely mixed with the local riffraff. It hadn’t gone down well with the residents of Swallowtail Bay.

  The slightest of sea breezes blew through the open window as Hetty drove the long road that ran along the seafront. Once she’d left the town centre and the boutique shops that lined the front, the bay opened up onto a wonderful pebbly beach. A long green ran parallel with the road and weather-beaten and well-used fishing boats sat between small white beach huts. At this time of year the huts were well used and doors hung open while children ran in and out.

  When finally the pebble beach curved away to the left and the road she was on took her to the right, Hetty drove until she reached the outskirts of town to be surrounded by fields and winding country lanes. Though the salt air faded, overtaken by the strong aroma of manure, if she looked in the rear-view mirror, she could see the bright blue of the sea on the horizon. Hetty watched as the fields rolled by, dotted here and there with enormous circular hay bales. Closing the window but cranking up the air-con, Hetty swung Myrtle past a tractor and down the road to Thornhill Hall. Though it was such a large country house, it nestled amid such sprawling acres of land that made it seem small by comparison.

  According to the town gossips, John’s father, Rupert, had expensive tastes which had lost most of the family fortune and now the place was falling into disrepair. As excited as she was to get the festival planning underway in earnest, Hetty was also keen to see if any of the rumours were true. No one got to see Thornhill Hall up close, only sighting its beautiful columned façade from gaps in the hedges lining the roads.

  As a child she’d imagined what it would be like to live there, running its lengthy halls like an orphan in a Victorian gothic novel. There’d be butlers, cooks, maids and governesses – a house full of staff serving the masters of the house. At one point, before she started grammar school, Hetty had decided that one day she’d live in a house like this. The thought made her chuckle now as she adjusted the sun visor. Obviously, that hadn’t happened, but she loved the small cottage by the sea she’d ended up in, with its rickety front gate and tiny kitche
n. From the seat in her bay window she could sit and watch the tide – strong and fierce in the winter and serene and calm in summer.

  Finally reaching the boundary of the grand estate, Hetty pulled off the single-track country lane into the drive, surprised to see the large wrought-iron gates had been left open. Her rickety front gate paled in comparison to the eight-foot tall, dark black metal with gold patterning at the top. The long gravel drive lay before her, lined on either side with mature trees whose verdant haws offered only a little shade on this hot, cloudless day. The light shone through onto her windscreen and she drove slowly, following the winding path towards the house. About halfway down the drive, the mature trees were replaced with formal gardens. High, unkept privet hedges now lined the driveway but what lay behind them, Hetty couldn’t see.

  Behind her owl-like sunglasses, Hetty felt her eyes widen at the enormity of the house as it finally came into view. She slowed the car. She’d always imagined seeing Thornhill Hall up close for the first time as something akin to the moment Elizabeth Bennett first sees Pemberley. But somehow, up close, it managed to be even grander than she had thought. The great grey Palladian façade was a mass of windows, covered in wisteria. Though not a gardener, wisteria was one plant Hetty knew the name of. Even in winter it made a house look enchanting and magical. The pale brown vines reached out over the front of Thornhill Hall in long winding fingers, and a few spring blooms dotted the front, hanging down here and there like lilac lanterns. She wasn’t exactly boned-up on architectural design, but Hetty supposed the house would be called Neo-classical in style. The two recessed wings on either side of the main building housed six windows each and the front door, which was in fact enormous, appeared small nestled behind four columns on top of which stood a large vaulted gable. Behind the house, great swathes of fields spread out and the sea became a vista of hazy lines of blue.