Page 68 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

‘Fabulous,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and pin this up. We start in five minutes, by the way.’

She stuck the list of first-round matches on the display board in the hall, which one of the teachers had kindly cleared of its original display of children’s Van Gogh style sunflower paintings. A rush of people gathered round, several of whom were clutching their own dictionaries.

‘They’re the professionals,’ whispered Ras in her ear as she moved to one side.

She turned to face him. ‘Professionals?’

‘Well, not professionals exactly, but they go round all the tournaments in the north. They take it ever so seriously. You won’t catch any of them in your craft room making gifts for Mother’s Day.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I used to go round all the tournaments too, when I wasn’t on call over the weekend. I recognise some of them.’

It crossed Jo’s mind that this was something they could do together when the festival was over. Would he want to?

‘I’ve drawn the head teacher,’ a tall man in jeans was saying to the woman next to him. ‘Bet he’ll be miffed to go out in the first round, in front of all his pupils.’

‘I seem to be playing someone called Cosmic Ray,’ she said.

The members of the Scrabble club and the handful of parents who had plucked up courage to enter were all holding back, she noticed. With the exception of Florence, who’d pushed herself to the front and was jotting down the matches. She recognised Alfred too, the boy she’d seen waiting in reception on her first visit to the school; he was the only child to have entered the tournament and was now standing nervously near the display board, with his mother giving him some kind of pep talk.

‘It’s time, Jo,’ said Ras, tapping his watch.

Jo checked that the ‘Quiet Please. Tournament in Progress’ signs were on the doors leading into the hall then went up to the stage. She tapped the mic and cleared her throat. This wasn’t something she’d have envisaged herself doing three months ago. It was every bit as daunting as being winched one hundred metres down into Gaping Gill or speaking live on local radio, yet she’d managed those things so she could manage this.

She took a deep breath. ‘Er… could everyone please… er…’

No, that sounded wimpy. Be confident, Jo, she willed herself, and began again. ‘Good morning, everyone. Thank you for…’

A chorus of children’s voices chimed back at her, ‘Good morning, Mr Morgan. Good morning, everyone.’

Jo hadn’t expected that. She cleared her throat and began again. ‘Welcome to Hebbleswick Scrabble festival and thank you for coming. Due to the terrible weather, we’ve decided to cancel the fancy dress competition as so many of the lovely costumes are just too soggy. But there’s lots of other things for you to do, children. There’s some craft activities and junior Scrabble games in one of the classrooms so please do visit those. And in the hall this morning, we have the tournament about to start. So, competitors, please can you take your seats at your numbered table, so we can begin?’

As the tournament got underway, Gemma went off in search of coffee, whilst Jo, feeling like an exam invigilator, perched herself on the edge of the stage and watched. Halfway through, she decided to have a look to see how the games were going. It was neck and neck on Mr Morgan’s table. He was giving the professional a bit of a run for his money. Alfred was winning his game hands down against one of the parents. Ras had taken the lead on his table by playing ZAX on a double word space – Jo knew the word but had never seen anyone play it before – and even Cosmic Ray was winning his game so far. That early night had clearly been worth it.

When the first round came to an end, Jo and Gemma raced around the hall, jotting down the name of the winner at each table. Jo was delighted that both Ras and Cosmic were through to the next round, as were almost all of the professionals: the one who’d been bragging about beating Mr Morgan had lost. Florence, Sylvia and Mr B were still in, too.

During the lunch break, Gemma and Jo sat on the edge of the stage, eating ham and tomato sandwiches and surveying the scene. The dinner ladies – or ‘lunchtime supervisors’ as Mr Morgan had always referred to them – were doing a roaring trade in beefburgers, cheese pies and jacket potatoes. The PTA’s cake stall seemed to be doing well too, and there was quite a crowd gathered around Annie’s biscuits.

‘It’s a roaring success, Jo,’ said Gem. ‘I knew you could do it. Oh, look. There’s Gaping Gill man again.’

They’d just finished eating, when Jo noticed Ras walking over to them, carrying something in his hands. He looked rather pleased with himself.

‘I made these in the craft room.’ He held out his hands, revealing three necklaces made of letter tiles.

‘I didn’t have you down as an arty, crafty kind of person,’ said Jo.

‘The kids dragged me in there, so I thought I’d make us each a souvenir of this weekend.’

‘Wow, thanks,’ said Gemma. She and Jo each took their necklaces, fastening them on.

‘Can you do mine, please, Jo?’ Ras said. ‘I don’t normally wear necklaces – I don’t seem to be able to do it myself.’

He turned his back to her and offered up each end of the necklace. Jo tied it for him, her fingers brushing his warm, smooth neck as she did. She wanted so much to touch more of that soft skin but pushed the thought away.

Ras turned to face the two women. ‘Ta-dah,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Jo stared at the necklace. It didn’t say RAS. It said RAZZ.