Page 65 of Matilda’s Summer of New Beginnings

Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge our play.’

He then bowed a low, courtly, sweeping bow and held his hand out.

There was a small pause, then Polly popped out onto the stage. I guessed that someone had given her a gentle push. But, to give Polly her due (after a brief moment of staring at Owen with her bottom jaw hanging open, slightly slack), she quickly pulled herself up to her full, impressive height, straightened her shoulders and walked confidently over to him, her guitar over her shoulder. Owen bowed again, and took her hand. One of the packing boxes I’d seen earlier was whizzed onto the stage from the other wing, and Owen led Polly gently over to it, helping her sit down and waiting until she’d arranged those long legs comfortably. Then he bowed again — once to her, and once to the audience, and strolled off the stage, hands in pockets, to a tremendous round of applause.

‘Hard act to follow,’ muttered Jay, in a definitely un-croaky voice.

‘Jay—’ I turned in my seat and stared at him, then opened my mouth to speak. But he pointed to the stage, put his forefinger gently on my lips, and then pointed to the stage again.

My lips felt like they were wired up to the electricity supply nearby and, instead of looking at the stage, I couldn’t help staring at him, my own fingers now on my lips. His profile teased me, looking steadily at the stage, his eyes apparently blank. Apart from one tiny moment when he glanced my way and there was a certain spark in them — then the glimmer was gone and once again he was looking at the stage, almost unconsciously, it seemed, turtling inside his bright blue scarf.

‘Welcome now to Polly Adamson,’ boomed Mrs Pomeroy from the megaphone, making me jump again and the hounds wail mournfully. ‘Today she will be singing “Go Your Own Way”, originally a hit from a band called . . .’ Mrs Pomeroy rustled her papers ‘. . . Fleetwood Mac. This is Polly’s first Padcock’s Got Talent appearance, and we hope it won’t be her last.’

‘Go on Polly!’ I heard Cerys say. ‘Remember that chord change.’ Her fingers were plucking at thin air, and I guessed she was practising the chords herself on an invisible guitar.

I could see Polly take a deep breath. She nodded to the side of the stage where the box had come from, and the backing tape started for her song.

Then she opened her mouth, closed her eyes — and blew us away.

I don’t think I was the only one whose jaw dropped — properly. Not just in a slack fashion as Polly’s had when she had been led onto the stage by Owen.

The girl was amazing. Her voice was utterly perfect — I know even less about music and pitch and singing than I do about Shakespeare, but even I could tell it was incredible. The outfit, the hair, the guitar — everything was unreal. Everything was awesome.

As the last notes died away, Polly opened her eyes and seemed stunned to be on the stage at the Padcock Summer Fayre. She blinked and then looked at the audience. She caught sight of us in the front row, and before I knew it, Jay was on his feet clapping, Cerys was jumping up and down, and Edie was giving her the thumbs up while bouncing around maniacally.

But Polly’s gaze drifted, despite her little nod and quick “thank you” to Jay and Cerys . . . I could tell who her eyes were searching for. And she eventually found him. Owen stood up slowly, bowed again, then blew her a kiss.

And that, I think, was the best moment of the entire talent show.

Chapter Twenty-Five

We sat through several more acts of varying degrees of talent. My favourite was Sausage the dachshund who came dressed in a hot-dog bun outfit and was supposed to somehow juggle sausages, but he ate them all instead. It was a very short act.

A lady came on next dressed like a Valkyrie and sang something that was supposed to be operatic, but almost made our ears bleed instead. It was cut short by tuneful howling from the hounds and the Valkyrie stormed off, horns a-quivering, accusing them of heckling her.

The Valkyrie was followed by a little girl with carefully curled hair who looked like she’d be more suited to one of those American beauty pageants for little ladies. She started doing cartwheels whilst singing ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’, but her foot got tangled in her petticoats and she splatted rather than tumbled elegantly, and then descended into a tantrum and loudly blamed her mother for making her wear such a “fecking stupid outfit”. The Valkyrie raced on and dragged the little girl off, still screaming.

‘Aurelia and her mum?’ I looked at Jay questioningly.

His head had almost disappeared into his scarf, but I caught him nod as his shoulders shook with laughter and I bit my lip to stop myself joining in, while I applauded politely with the rest of the audience.

Eventually, the show came to an end, and the judges now had to cast their vote. The winner would be announced soon, but would not receive the prize until official prize-giving, which we were informed was in around an hour.

To me, the winner could only be Polly or Owen . . . if they didn’t give Sausage first prize (unlikely), and I know I wouldn’t like to have had to pick. Personally, I loved a bit of music so, if pressed, I’d choose Polly — but there was no denying that Owen had been excellent, especially as he’d basically filled in at short notice.

‘Could we have your attention please?’ hollered Mrs Pomeroy, accompanied as always by the hounds. ‘We shall be doing the prize-giving later today, as is tradition. There are still jams to be tasted and tomatoes to be validated. Let me repeat that shop-bought purchases will not be accepted into the category, and we will know if that is the case.’ She glared around at the audience, and even I, who had never grown a tomato in my life, quailed.

I assumed that in a place like Padcock people would know if you had an allotment or a greenhouse or even a tomato plant in your garden, and spies would report it if you’d been seen buying some particularly juicy specimens in the shops.

‘But! In the meantime, we are delighted to announce the winner of Padcock’s Got Talent.’ Now, Mrs Pomeroy beamed around the audience. ‘Arfur and Umbert will bring the winner’s name to me, and I shall have the pleasure of reading it out in just a moment.’

I crossed my fingers as I saw the hounds waddling sedately over to Mrs Pomeroy. They both had pieces of paper in their mouths. I assumed the winner’s name was written on them both, in case one was too soggy to read. As I watched, I admit that in my heart I was rooting for Polly. Winning the competition would give her the confidence she needed and it would definitely get her noticed by Owen — not that that was likely to be a problem going forwards . . .

I cast a glance at Owen. He was sitting at the edge of his seat, leaning over and staring across at the stage, or, more precisely, over the side of the stage where I assumed Polly was ensconced. He was taking no notice of the hounds’ leisurely procession. Owen had come back to his seat after his turn, but all the other performers seemed to have stayed in the wings. They didn’t have seats, for one thing, and I also guessed that Owen was the sort of person who didn’t do that sort of company too well.

He certainly didn’t look as if he cared or was bothered about winning. I sensed that he had only stepped up because he actually liked Polly in his own quiet, slightly odd way.