‘My pal?’
‘The model? The one who was ill?’
‘Willie? He’s resting up at home. Glandular fever’s a nightmare.’
‘But he’s getting better? Your… friend?’ That had been too obvious, but it was too late. It was out now.
‘My friend is fine, thank you.’ A very small smile played on her lips, he was sure of it. It was enough to make him feel bold again.
‘Smashin’,’ he said, stupidly. ‘So, eh, I was wondering if you were… doing anything…’ As he was saying this, Peaches’ wide eyes grew even wider. With anticipation? Hope? Anxiety? He couldn’t tell. And it turned out, he never would know, because, at that moment, a loud voice reverberated around the shed.
‘Gather round, everyone!’ It was, lamentably, Peaches’ mother.
The sensation of his shoulders dropping heavily let him know they must have risen up towards his ears during his failed attempt at asking her on a date.
‘Hold up a sec,’ he pleaded as Peaches scurried off towards her mum at the front of the shed.
‘We’d better see what she wants,’ she said as she withdrew, leaving him kicking himself.
When he passed by the café nook, Senga Gifford was slowly shaking her head with disappointment. She bagged up his food now and handed it over.
‘Better luck next time, eh?’ she said.
He tried to act like he didn’t know what the old eavesdropper was on about.
‘Gather round,’ commanded Carenza again.
Astonishingly, everyone obeyed, apart from the café women who remained resolutely behind the glass cake domes on their café counter.
‘There’s a Beltane Bonfire and Sausage Sizzle job for everyone. Let’s make this quick; I’ve eviction papers to serve on two properties this morning and haven’t time for silly nonsense.’ Carenza cast a cautioning glance towards the Giffords as she said this.
‘Careful, now. You don’t want to lose your bakery stall volunteers,’ Senga warned, arms folded across her aproned bosom.
‘Ah yes, Senga and Rhona Gifford…’ Carenza ran a red stiletto fingernail down her list. ‘You’ll be selling your food on your bakery stall? For a profit, yes?’
Getting no reply, other than eyerolls and displeased, conceding looks from the women, she went on. ‘So it can hardly be classed as volunteering. Be there for six to set up, please. You’re stall number one, nearest the entrance to the Knowe recreation ground. Got it? Good.’
Roz, who’d stepped outside to gather in McIntyre and Clyde when Carenza started her rollcall, led the latecomers inside now.
‘Ah, yes, Roz. You’re working with the community to make their Beltane procession costumes, masks and besoms?’
‘I will be running some craft sessions through the week,’ Roz replied, indicating the big plastic storage tubs of old tabloids, green scrap fabric and crepe paper on the floor by her sewing station. ‘Most people keep their masks and costumes from year to year, but the wee ones can make new ones of their own, and some of the older ones will be wanting to embellish or repair theirs.’
Carenza typed into her iPad, saying to herself, ‘Repair shed mask and costume making, beginning in earnest. Tick. Thank you. And where’s that handy husband of yours?’
McIntyre raised a reluctant finger.
‘You’re on fire duty. Building the bonfire on the Knowe in the usual spot, plus helping the townsfolk safely light their torches for the procession.’
‘That’s right. Same as every year since ’99,’ he said.
She added another tick to her list. ‘The procession departs from the repair shop at eighteen hundred hours, making its way along the high street before turning on to the river path towards the rec, yes? And you will oversee the lighting of the bonfire at eighteen thirty-five precisely. No dawdling. Last year, some of the little ones were dithering in front of the shop windows looking at the Beltane displays.’
‘Mrs Hoolit and the other teachers will be there to help,’ McIntyre replied. ‘And all the parents. This will be a dawdle-free year.’
‘Sachin?’ Carenza turned her attention to the shed’s repair triage coordinator. ‘You and Mrs Roy are in charge of the sound system and musical entertainment, correct?’
‘Aye, I’ll be DJing again.’
