It’s loud and getting a bit rowdy in the pub now that all the farmers are a few pints into their evening. I catch Lucy’s eye, and she mouths, ‘What’s he like?’ and does a none-too-subtle pointy gesture towards the snug.
I mouth back, ‘Not bad.’
She laughs, and I hear it all the way over here at the bar.
‘What you havin’, love?’ asks Ken, Lolla’s husband.
The bar staff are seriously earning their tips tonight and the pumps are being worked non-stop. I order the same again, and a scene catches my eye right at the end of the bar that makes me stoop behind one of the boozy farmers so I can get a better look.
It’s the superhead. In the pub!
‘Surprised to see ’im in here,’ says Ken, following my eyeline. ‘Thought he’d be ’iding away like usual. He’s not like us Wheaton lot.’ Ken sets Charlie’s pint on the bar and busies himself again. I’m still peeping out from my spying place.
The super Mr Bold is uncharacteristically attempting a smile and is clutching a glass of wine to his chest, and I have to say he is looking a bit less starchy with his blue shirtsleeves rolled back and without the tie knotted at his throat. Less like a sixth-former desperate to be promoted to school captain.
I peer round the farmer’s sideburns shielding me to see who’s making the superhead quite so wide-eyed and am startled to see Sully Scrimengor, the put-upon young baker who is talking up at him animatedly.
‘Ah! That’s nice,’ I say, making the farmer startle and turn to look at me. ‘Sorry,’ I say before spinning round to give Lucy an urgent look that says,There’s Sully. Go and invite him over.
Shell and Fern are engaged in doing something on their phones, so I can gesture and point as much as necessary to get Lucy rolling her eyes and slipping huffily off her stool.
I watch in satisfaction as she approaches the men and invites them to join the girls over in the corner. The superhead clamps his mouth shut, looking panicked, but Sully’s made of friendlier stuff, and I watch him dragging Mr Bold by the wrist towards them and Lucy making the introductions. There! Just how it should be. A group of young people being sociable in the local pub.
Ken’s taking his time finding my Pinot, long enough for further inspiration to strike. I amon firethis evening!
I’m on the move. Lucy’s face is a picture of hidden mortification, but I’m not stopping now.
‘Evening all,’ I begin. Fern and Shell jump to attention. ‘Mr Bold! It’s nice to see you in your new local. Just wondered if you’d had time to think about the offer we made?’
‘Uh, what offer was that?’ He tries to smile again. He has lovely white teeth. Smiling suits him. He should let his eyes in on it too.
‘You know? The gingerbread grotto committee coming into the school to teach the children some icing techniques? So that the little ones can see their own art displayed in the grotto exhibition?’
‘Oh, right, that. Well, as I said the other day…’ he begins.
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ interrupts Sully, his eyes bright.
Is this what he’s like when he’s out from under his grandfather’s thumb? Or, and I’m starting to put two and two together now, is it only when he’s talking to a handsome head teacher?
‘Kids love that sort of thing, don’t they?’ Sully’s saying. ‘I know I always did, hanging around the bakery when I was little, putting the buttons on the gingerbread men. It’s what made me want to be a baker.’
‘And now you are,’ I say.
‘And now I am,’ he smiles.
‘Your grandfather makes the best gingerbread men in the Cotswolds,’ I tell him, and I’m not lying, even if I am deliberately flattering a teensy bit.
‘It’s true, you know,’ Sully tells Mr Bold, who’s looking at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘So, when are you going into the school?’ Sully directs this at me, and I could kiss him, it’s so perfect.
‘Well, that’s up to Mr Bold.’ I smile, turning to look at the flustered man.
‘He’s just told me he wants to be called Leo,’ Sully throws in.
The superhead sniffs a laugh and nods. He knows an ambush when he sees one. I almost feel bad for making use of sweet, innocent Sully, but needs must.
‘That’s true,’ he says to me, accepting his fate. ‘Call me Leo. I’m not at work now.’
‘So, when are we doing it?’ I push. ‘We usually bring enough biscuits for sixty kids. Will that cover it?’
