Page 62 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

‘God, that is bloody tragic.’ Cerys stared at him in horror. Another glance at our linked hands, followed by a “hmmm” sound.

Both Jay and Rosie by now had told me that Cerys was a fantastic singer herself, and often did turns at the Spatchcock. Proper turns, not just karaoke. And if her brother Geraint was around, they usually drew quite a crowd as they’d already been in a folk band a few years ago. One evening, I’d love to hear them singing.

But I digress.

Jay nodded sadly at Cerys. Then he let go of my hand and waved forlornly at Sam and Ninian, who were setting up rows of small plastic drinking glasses on the adjacent stall — so people could sample the gin, I assumed.

Edie followed his gaze and smiled. ‘Isn’t Ninian wonderful? He’s hopping between both stalls in case there’s a run on gin or cakes. We really needed the help this year, so I’m awfully pleased he was free today. It stopped Veronica fretting anyway. Look at her, bless her with her humungous clipboard. She must have escaped from the tombola. I think I saw Ben being press-ganged up there, actually . . .’

We all looked. Veronica was doing the rounds, and nodding enthusiastically to the stallholders. As she approached us, she waved and Edie gave her a thumbs-up sign.

‘And not a Bakewell was harmed,’ muttered Cerys.

‘I don’t have baby-brain this year,’ muttered Edie back, and then smiled and waved at Veronica as she moved on again. ‘Now. What can we get you?’

Jay did some more of that weird descriptive hand-waving and pointing. I understood what he was aiming to do, so I chipped in verbally, and we ended up leaving with a small box of treats from Cerys and Edie’s cake stall. I was holding onto the box as if my life depended on it (they looked like jolly good treats) when I spotted Damien and Rosie heading across the garden towards us.

‘Yoohoo!’ Rosie waved madly. Today she was wearing a short pinafore dress that had big, splashy prints of feathers on it and some sort of racer-backed top underneath it — ankle-length wellingtons covered her feet. I don’t know how she did it, but the whole look just worked on her.

‘Yoohoo!’ I shouted back, still clutching my box. ‘Why are you wearing wellingtons?’

‘In case it rains,’ she said cheerfully, and hugged me. I looked up at the sky, which was perfectly clear and blue, but who was I to comment? Damien was wearing a white t-shirt, black ripped jeans and scuffed Doc Martens. I think he’d had another piercing in one of his ears — the ear that was not next to me in the pub last night — but it could always have been there and just been hidden by beanie hats and hair. So again, who was I to comment?

‘Jay. Bro. All set for your singing? I’m taking it all in for my Darling! exclusive.’ Rosie beamed up at him and Jay shook his head, pointing at the scarf.

‘He’s lost his voice,’ I told her.

‘Ah bugger.’ She frowned. ‘Oh well.’ She smiled again. ‘There’s always next year. I’ll rewrite the article. Shall we go and see the Art Tent? Dying to see your stuff, Matilda.’

When I’d told them about my exhibition, they’d both seemed gratifyingly impressed.

‘Can I have my coffee first please?’ I asked.

‘Ooh yes. Of course. I’ll have one too. This can be my one caffeinated drink of the day!’ said Rosie, and bounced over to Sally to get her and Damien some cups.

The four of us hung around in our little group chatting and laughing (well apart from Jay who smiled and nodded a lot instead) until we’d all finished, and binned our cups. Then we made a little procession to the Art Tent.

My stomach was churning a bit — it was the first time my work had ever been shown to strangers. But if I was worked up about this showing, imagine how I would have felt if my work had gone to Julio’s? I went hot and cold all over. It just didn’t bear thinking about!

The Art Tent was being guarded surprisingly by Owen-from-the-bookshop. I assumed, therefore, that he must be a member of the Hanging Committee. He was lounging louchely in a deckchair, a book next to him on the table once more, and a pile of leaflets besides. I could see that the leaflets were like a catalogue of artwork.

Rosie smiled at Owen, and picked one up. ‘Thank you. This is Matilda. Matilda Matthews? I believe her exhibits are . . .’ she scanned the leaflet, ‘. . . numbers 10 through 19. Inclusive.’

Owen peered over his rimless spectacles, and actually looked impressed. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘I was looking at those earlier. I’m thinking about getting the one that shows the bookshop for the wall. I mean, I’ll take a print if I can’t have the original. Whatever’s best for you.’

‘Oh. Wow. Thanks. I’m um—’ I stuttered in surprise and pleasure. ‘I’m going to get some prints done. So I’ll — errr — be in touch when they’re ready.’

‘Fantastic.’ Owen grinned and his whole face changed from nerdy and supercilious to cheerful and open. ‘Here. Let me give you one of my cards, and you can let me know when that is.’ He dug into his pocket — today, he was wearing a tweedy sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows and pale denim jeans — and pulled a card out. ‘Enjoy the exhibition.’ He waved us in, and we entered the tent.

Seeing my pictures up in their own sort of gallery was astounding. They even had a sign pinned next to each one with my details on and explanations of the whereabouts of each picture. I took a photo of them and sent it to my family, then posed for another photo in front of them. I’d told my parents what was going to happen, and, although they couldn’t make it to Padcock for the Fayre, I really wanted them to be part of it as well.

My phone soon went bonkers with them responding and congratulating me. It was a lovely feeling.

‘Well done!’ squealed Rosie, throwing her arms around me. ‘They look fantastic!’

‘Thank you.’ I hugged her back, laughing in glee. ‘They look great together, don’t they?’

‘Not bad,’ said Damien. I cast a glance over at him. He was standing with his arms folded, looking at them — for all the world, as if he was at the Tate or the National Portrait Gallery. Then he turned his head to glance at me, and winked. He laughed too and came over and gave me a hug. ‘Well done. See, you got there first in the end. And honestly, I’m really sorry about saying you weren’t as good as me. You are. We’re just — different sorts of good. I was an idiot. Forgive me?’