“Then maybe they should be. Our performance was an embarrassment. My children raised more for their Christmas panto. More importantly, attendance numbers were down by over thirty per cent. Something radical needs to change, and I am planning a number of modifications, including ditching many traditional stalls and injecting some originality and excitement into this year’s offering.”
“But surely we’ll still have a baking competition?” asked Doris. Nathan’s late father had always judged the event, an honour Nathan had passed to Arthur Meade, the true talent behind Fresher and Son Bakery.
“Of course we’ll have a baking competition, Doris. Heavens above. After the international success of the British baking shows we’d be foolish not to. Those programmes have brought our garden variety village event and the popularity of local bakeries back into the public eye. Am I not right, Nathan?”
Nathan faked a smile. The programmes had brought him no end of headaches. He rarely had time to watch television and had initially been puzzled when customers began asking if his shop made cheese-filled Cypriot Flaounes, Swedish Prinsesstårta cake, Hungarian Dobos Torte or Uyghur bread. Shop assistant Halina had eventually made the connection. Nathan had almost caved in to demand until Arthur Meade put his foot down, saying Fresher and Son had a reputation as a traditional English bakery, not a specialist outlet catering to the short-term whims of a fickle public.
“I’m thinking we should follow the televised format,” continued Arlene. “Have cakes created following a theme and presented on the day, then showcased and judged. I’ve even considered whether we could get one of the show’s stars to judge the contest. Celebrity appearances sell events like ours. But I’m afraid they’re well beyond our budget. That’s why I need us all to think outside the box. Before I give you my suggestions, does anyone have any innovative ideas to share?”
Her remark caught Nathan off guard, which had perhaps been her intention. Doris still had her eyes closed, but he and Father Mulligan peered at each other for inspiration.
“How about Taylor Swift?” said Polly. “Maybe she could play a couple of numbers. It is for a good cause, after all.”
Polly slumped low in her plastic seat, arms folded, looking like a rebellious teenager. When she glammed up—which was rare—she looked stunning with her natural blonde hair and grey-blue eyes. Tonight she sported a fluffy, hot pink mohair jumper. Together with black velvet pants and bright yellow dangly earrings, she looked like a Liquorice Allsort. Nathan stifled a laugh with his hand, knowing her well enough to recognise the playfulness in her tone. Arlene did not, and her eyes brimmed with excitement.
“You have connections to Taylor Swift?”
“No.”
Slight pause.
“But you know someone who does?”
“No.”
Longer pause.
“I don’t understand. Do you have connections to anyone in the music business?”
“No. But Iamthinking outside the box.”
Finally, the penny dropped, and Arlene pouted.
“Can we think out of the box but with at least one foot planted firmly in reality?”
“Dunk the teacher,” came the voice of sleeping Doris, her eyes opening.
“I’m sorry?” said Polly and Arlene simultaneously.
“At Parsnip Green they had a dunk-the-teacher stall. If you threw a ball and hit a target, a teacher would drop into a tub of green slime.”
“A ducking stool,” said Polly, smirking and clapping her hands lightly beneath her chin. “Wonderful. Shockingly medieval and barbaric, yet at the same time quintessentially English.”
“I think it’s a marvellous idea, Doris,” said Arlene. “Polly, one for you. Are there any teachers at your school the children might want to dunk?”
“There are someIwould like to drown,” said Polly.
“I suppose a better question would be,” added Nathan, seeing where this was going, “are there any teachers who would be willing to get dunked?”
“Of course there are. But the ones who would be game are the ones the kids like. Those they dislike and would pay good money to see drenched might be less open to public humiliation.”
“Could you not appeal to their better natures?” asked Arlene.
“You’re assuming they have better natures.”
“Well, do your best, Polly. It’s my experience that the less popular among us welcome the opportunity to let others see what good sports we are. Now, as we haven’t got all night and rather than belabour this, I’ll provide some suggestions of my own. If you have any other ideas before the next meeting, we’ll set up a chat group and text each other.”
Without saying anything, Arlene brought out a small tablet computer from her handbag and prodded the screen a couple of times.
