I roll my window down as we enter Firs Blandon. There are garlands! And lanterns! The bastards!

‘Excuse me,’ I say to one of the men hanging garlands. ‘Who’s in charge, here?’

‘Take me to your leader!’ Basil barks from the back seat, making himself chuckle.

‘In charge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the chair of the parish council is …’

I wave him off. ‘But really though. Like, when someone starts parking a bit too near a junction or the pub starts charging an extra quid for fish and chips, who is it that gets things to go back to how they were?’

‘Oh, you mean Derek,’ the man says. ‘He’s down there, getting all the food stalls set up in the right spots.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, then let out a small shriek as Penelope puts her foot down again.

‘I’ve never trusted men called Derek,’ Penelope says rather mysteriously, as we come into view of Firs Blandon’s Main Street, now filled with all our food stalls.

‘You guys park up,’ I say, already pulling the passenger door open. ‘I’m going in.’

Derek is not difficult to spot. He is a man in his late sixties, wearing a very bright and entirely unnecessary yellow hard hat and brandishing a megaphone.

‘Right a bit! Left a bit! No left a bit! No left!’ he shouts into the megaphone.

‘Derek?’ I say pleasantly.

‘Yes?’ He barely glances around.

‘Leena Cotton,’ I say, stepping in front of him with my hand out. ‘Here representing Hamleigh-in-Harksdale.’

That gets his attention. ‘Didn’t take you long,’ he says, and there’s a little smirk on his face that really gets my blood boiling.

‘I have a very good driver,’ I say. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘I’m rather in the middle of things,’ says Derek. ‘Got a May Day festival to organise, and all. I’m sure you can relate.’

‘Of course,’ I say, smiling. ‘I just wanted to say good luck to you.’

He blinks. ‘Ta, love,’ he says, that smirk widening. ‘But we don’t need luck. We’ve got the best food in Yorkshire served here today.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean good luck for today,’ I say, ‘I mean with the planning applications.’

Derek freezes. ‘What?’

‘Firs Blandon has some quite ambitious plans! That community hub on the edge of the village, you know, the one within the eyeline of several houses on Peewit Street in Hamleigh? It could be a wonderful addition to the local area, or, of course – depending on one’s viewpoint – it could be an eyesore with an adverse visual impact on the iconic landscape of the Dales.’

I now have Derek’s full attention.

‘Oh, Penelope, Basil, Arnold!’ I say, waving them over. ‘Do come and meet Derek. We’ll be seeing a lot more of him, now that we’ll all be taking a much more active interest in the planning applications coming out of Firs Blandon.’ I smile brightly at Derek. ‘Basil and Penelope and Arnold all have very strong opinions on local issues. Don’t you?’

‘I should say so!’ Basil says, puffing out his chest.

‘Always been very engaged in village business, me,’ says Arnold.

‘All I’m saying,’ Penelope says, with her gaze fixed on Derek, ‘is there’s something about the name Derek. Never met a Derek I’ve liked. Never.’

I smile brightly and take the megaphone from Derek’s unresisting hand.

‘Pack up, everybody!’ I yell into the megaphone. ‘We’re off back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale.’

*

The food stalls return to Hamleigh with their tails between their wagon wheels. Penelope drives back with the carefree abandon of a seventeen-year-old boy, and somehow gets us to the village at the same time as the food stalls even though she takes us via Knargill to pick up Nicola on the way. When we drive past Firs Blandon’s May Day sign, Penelope swerves; I shriek, clinging to the door handle, as she clips the edge of the sandwich board and sends it toppling face down on to the verge.

‘Whoopsie!’ says Penelope.

‘Get that one too!’ says a trigger-happy Nicola, pointing to a sign for a farm shop further ahead.

As we approach Hamleigh, I figure I’ve just about got time to check the Portaloos have arrived before the drainage company get here to deal with the flooding. But when we pull up at the edge of the field assigned for food stalls, there’s a small crowd gathered around the entranceway, blocking our view. Penelope and I frown at each other; she parks on a verge and we get out. I move to help Nicola, but Basil is already there, offering his arm with positively medieval chivalry. Arnold gives Agatha a pat as he climbs out – he’s become very attached to my car since rescuing her from Grandma’s hedge.

‘What’s all that then?’ Arnold asks, nodding to the melee.

‘No idea.’ I check my phone as we make our way over towards the crowd. There’s a message from Bee that makes my heart leap:

Leena, let’s DO IT. B&L Consulting. I’ve been talking it all through with your grandma and I’m EXCITED. If you need more time you know I’m here for you but what I’m saying is, let’s not stall on it. Let me do the legwork if you don’t have the headspace. But let’s not lose sight of the dream, my friend! We’re going to be bosses! xx

And one from Ethan that makes it sink.

Sorry, angel – things have gone crazy here. Going to need to spend a few more hours at the desk. Don’t suppose there’s any chance you could come down here instead? Xx

I swallow and tap out a reply as we make our way across the grass.

Ethan, you know I can’t leave Hamleigh today, it’s May Day. Hope you get everything done OK. Let’s try and talk on the phone at least? x

‘Ethan not coming?’ Arnold says quietly.

I glance at him.

‘You have a very bad poker face,’ he explains.

I tuck my phone in the hoodie pocket. ‘Not his fault. Work, you know.’

Arnold gives me a long, heavy look. ‘Leena,’ he says. ‘I know he was good to you when you needed him. But you don’t stay with somebody out of gratitude. That’s not how to do it.’

‘I’m not with Ethan out of gratitude !’ I exclaim.

‘All right. Well, good.’ Arnold gives me another squeeze of the shoulder. ‘I just think you deserve a man who treats you right, that’s all.’

‘I liked you better when you were a hermit,’ I tell him, eyes narrowed.

He grins, then his smile drops. We’ve both heard the same thing.

‘Don’t you fucking dare!’

It’s Cliff. I push through the crowd, now, into the field, where Betsy and Cliff are facing one another like two cowboys waiting to draw. In fact, Betsy’s already drawn – but it’s not a gun in her hand, it’s a television remote.

‘I’m sick of it! You hear me! I’m sick of it!’ She brings both hands to the remote as if she’s about to snap it in two, and Cliff roars with rage.

Cliff looks pretty much exactly how I expected him to look. Red-faced, stocky, with sports socks and shorts on and a filthy sweatshirt stretched across his beer belly, he is in perfect contrast to neat little Betsy with her neckerchief and her pink cropped jacket. Only, of the two of them, I think Betsy genuinely looks the toughest right now.