Love Letters (17 page)

Fenella laughed. ‘It sounds fun. And is Dermot Flynn really “Oirish”?’

‘He has a definite lilt but he doesn’t sound like someone out of
Father Ted
.’

‘Oh!
Father Ted
! How wonderful was that?’ Fenella sighed.

‘Are you two planning on doing any work tonight?’ said Rupert. ‘Do you want more wine or not?’

‘Yes please,’ said Fenella. ‘We decided we’re going to start early tomorrow. Tonight we can just toss around ideas.’

‘Alcohol always helps with that,’ said Rupert, pouring. ‘And we’re just about ready to eat.’

‘I’ll set the table.’ Fenella reached into a drawer and pulled out a random selection of knives and forks. Then she cleared one end of the table with her elbow, sending a miscellany of papers, a fruit bowl, a pile of clean underwear that had presumably been drying over the Aga and a screwdriver up the other end. Fortunately it was a long table.

‘I should really have tidied up a bit more for your visit,’ Fenella went on apologetically, setting places. ‘But I never seem to unless we’ve got a huge event on. We don’t do weddings much in the winter so we never see the whole table cleared until spring. Maybe we should just force the family to come to us for Christmas. Then I’d do it.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a huge joint of beef,’ said Laura, watching Rupert carve.

‘It’s locally produced,’ said Fenella, ‘and we’ll eat it cold for ages now, with soup and baked potatoes. I’m always a bit vague when it comes to ordering meat. I seem to buy it by the haunch rather than the pound.’

‘As long as you’re not vague when it comes to organising literary festivals,’ said Laura. She was teasing but there was a thread of anxiety in the back of her mind.

‘Oh no, work wise, I’m spot on. It’s just domestically I’m a bit of a dilly.’

‘Here you are, Dilly,’ said her husband fondly, ‘and make sure Laura has plenty of gravy.’

When at last they were all eating, and no one had to jump up and get anything else, Laura said, ‘I’ve had quite a lot of ideas about things we could do in the run-up for the festival. A reading group for instance.’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea. As you know, I’m in a reading group,’ said Fenella. ‘And there are another couple around, including one in the library.’

Laura nodded while she finished her mouthful. ‘I’ve been in touch with the local librarian. She’s very keen. We just need to get the authors sorted out as quickly as possible.’

‘Then we’ll sell lots of books and they’ll be inspired to come to the events.’ Fenella speared a piece of roast potato. ‘It’ll stir up interest.’ She chewed thoughtfully. ‘Although the library’s group always get their books ordered specially. Not everyone can afford to buy a new book every month.’

Laura’s bookseller’s mantle fell away for a moment. ‘Of course not. I couldn’t myself if I didn’t get proofs from the shop. But it’s great to have the library on side.’

‘We could get the local paper to sponsor something,’ suggested Rupert. ‘All the local institutions should have a stake in it.’

‘What about a writing competition?’ suggested Fenella, her mouth full of carrot.

‘But who would we get to judge it?’ said Rupert. ‘We’re going to have our work cut out setting this thing up, and we’re not qualified, really.’

‘Dermot,’ muttered Laura, who was still faintly resentful about him offering to do that course and cross with herself because of it. She sipped her wine, wondering why she was feeling so resentful. He wasn’t her exclusive property and he hadn’t actually taken her virginity, after all.

‘We’ll find someone,’ said Fenella. ‘I’ve got a huge wish list of authors I want. One of them will be willing to pick a winner, if we didn’t offer them more than about five to read.’

‘Damien Stubbs might,’ said Laura. ‘We should definitely ask him to the festival. He’s really good and very attractive. Eleanora could make him come. He’s one of hers.’

‘I hope we don’t forget all this. Here, Rupes, chuck us that bit of paper and a pencil.’ Fenella made a note.

‘Oh,’ said Laura, ‘and a children’s writing competition would be good. The best ones could be read out at an event and printed in the local paper.’ Laura considered for a moment. ‘Although would the parents come to the event if they could see their child’s work in print anyway?’

‘I should think so,’ said Fenella. ‘Hard to tell. But children’s events would make the locals keen. It would be their festival too, not just something that’s inflicted on them.’ She chewed reflectively. ‘I’ve no idea how to get in touch with my wish list of writers.’

‘That’s what I’m here for. We contact them through their agents or publishers,’ said Laura. ‘We find out who’s in charge of their publicity and ask them. The only trouble is that it can take a while, if you don’t get a named person to deal with.’

‘Oh it’s so good having you,’ said Fenella. ‘You know all the wrinkles.’

‘And I’ll probably get a few too,’ Laura murmured.

Fenella ignored this. ‘I want to involve the local schools, get them to all come to something.’

‘Or it might be easier to get the authors to go to the schools,’ suggested Laura, flinching at the vision of marshalling fifty or so children into a hall.

‘Or both,’ suggested Rupert. ‘The authors go into the schools, give the children such a good time that they pester their parents to take them to the main event.’

‘Good thinking. You’re not just a pretty face, after all.’ Fenella smiled at her husband affectionately.

‘Where are we actually going to hold the events?’ asked Laura, feeling gently envious of their relationship. ‘Obviously you won’t be doing everything here. Festivals always scatter themselves over a town, of course, but yours is a pretty small one.’

‘Big enough though,’ said Fenella, defending her home territory. ‘There’ll be some here, of course, but for Dermot or any other really big names, we can hire the cinema. Don’t look at me like that! Apparently it’s lovely! And there’s a huge car park just next door. And I’ve had a word with the vicar and there’s a chapel that’s not used much that we can have. That has parking too,’ added Fenella, looking at Rupert, who’d obviously been a bit obsessed by this issue.

‘So the vicar’s keen on the festival, is he?’ said Laura. ‘I’m sure that’ll be helpful.’

‘Not he, she, and she’s in my book group.’

‘Excellent!’

‘So we’ll need to sort out the venues, but Sarah – remember? She was at the meeting – is going to help decide who should go where. I’m hopeless about guessing numbers and how much space they’ll take up.’

‘Wouldn’t a marquee here be better for Dermot than a cinema?’ suggested Laura.

‘You don’t like my cinema idea, do you? Well, we can go and look at it and decide later.’

‘Where are you going to put everyone up?’ asked Laura.

‘Here, as far as we can. We can sleep about eight, comfortably, and of course not everyone will be here at the same time. The authors will stay in the house on a rolling basis unless they’re sharing, in which case they might have one of the cottages. There are also lots of b. and b’s. locally, but we hope we don’t have to put writers in them, unless they prefer it for some reason.’

‘We must mention the b. and b.s when we do the flyers, so people know they can stay. It’ll be part of the rural image: “Enjoy literature in the undiscovered beauties of wherever . . .”’

‘We’re not exactly undiscovered,’ complained Rupert. ‘We did have a lot of publicity for a celebrity wedding not long ago.’

‘I meant the area in general,’ said Laura. ‘If people think the area is attractive, they’re more likely to come. Think of Hay-on-Wye!’

‘Are we going to have a theme?’ asked Fenella. ‘I mean, we’ve got the music stuff going on too.’

‘At exactly the same time?’ asked Laura anxiously.

‘We thought alternate days,’ said Rupert, ‘or a few musical events, a few literary ones, and then a music one at the end. Or vice versa. We’ve got permission to use a couple of the fields.’

‘That took a lot of tact and persuasion,’ said Fenella. ‘It’s only because farming isn’t doing brilliantly at the moment that I managed to swing it. I think they all imagined Glastonbury was moving up here.’

‘But the farms should get something out of it,’ said Rupert. ‘Lots of them said they could rent out space for camping.’

‘And we’ve got some really big names for the music side of it,’ said Laura.

Fenella winced slightly. ‘Not confirmed,’ she said. ‘That’s why I wanted some biggies for the lit. bit. Monica is on the case though. She’s pulled in all the favours she can manage and has used blackmail if that failed.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t refuse her anything,’ declared Laura.

‘And I hope you won’t refuse another roast spud from me,’ said Rupert.

‘Of course not.’

‘So, theme or no theme?’ asked Fenella. ‘I think not, on the whole.’

‘The Cheltenham lit. fest. always has one,’ said Laura.

‘I know but they’ve got the pick of the bunch. We’re brand new. Authors might not be so keen to come to us.’

‘I think they will,’ said Laura, pushing her plate away from her so she could really make her point. ‘Having Dermot will make it a big literary event, they’ll want to be there. Amazing publicity for them. Besides, most of them will get to stay in a lovely country house and there’s something special about the first year of a festival.’ Laura felt herself getting excited. She realised she was going to enjoy working on the festival with Fen, however much work it might involve.

‘It might be the first and last,’ said Rupert.

‘We might have to tell them he’s going to appear and they’ll get a chance to meet him. I wonder if he’d mind us doing that?’ said Laura, ignoring Rupert’s uncharacteristic pessimism.

‘Or would he hate that even more?’ asked Fenella. ‘You know him, Laura. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know! He may hate other authors. I’ve come across a few who do. It’s probably professional jealousy or something.’

‘Maybe we could arrange a discreet authors’ dinner before his event. He can choose which ones and we’ll make it really special.’

‘But would that be cost-effective?’ asked Laura. ‘A special dinner could cost loads.’

‘We don’t need to worry about that,’ said Rupert. ‘We have contacts.’

‘Breaking even is all we can hope to do this first year,’ said Fenella. ‘Although the bottom line is important, we have to speculate in order to accumulate.’

‘That sounds very businesslike,’ said Laura, impressed.

‘I read it somewhere,’ said Fenella, ‘but more to the point, do you think Dermot would agree to all this?’

‘If we’d cleared it with him first,’ said Laura. ‘He’s not easy. And a bit unpredictable,’ she added, thinking of him agreeing to do a course, apparently without even being asked, when everyone in Ireland had told her that he wouldn’t stir out of his village. ‘He may love the idea.’

‘On the other hand,’ put in Rupert, ‘maybe we shouldn’t give Dermot so much control? He may never be able to decide who he wants to come. I think we should just invite who we think we’d like.’

On Saturday morning their work began in earnest. Laura sat at the computer and, with Fenella’s help, typed up all the ideas that had flowed as freely as the wine had the night before.

‘OK, now we’ve got our definitive list of authors, we must check up on who their publishers are.’

‘How are we going to do that?’

‘I’ve bought some trade mags. That’ll help,’ said Laura. ‘But to be honest, I know lots of them. Now we’ve pruned it down a bit, it shouldn’t take long.’

They had agreed that in order to be invited the authors had to (
a
) be still alive (this when Rupert expressed a burning desire to meet Evelyn Waugh) and (
b
) live either in the UK or near enough so their travel expenses wouldn’t use up the entire budget.

When letters had been dispatched, including inducements such as nights to be spent in ‘country-house style with old-fashioned hospitality’, they spent the rest of the morning writing to schools, inviting entrants to their children’s short-story competition. Laura knew a lovely children’s author who could be the final judge and Fenella knew a couple of teachers from her book group who could draw up a shortlist.

After lunch, they took all the dogs for a gallop over the fields, and Rupert advised Laura on what sort of car she should buy. She couldn’t go on borrowing Grant’s for much longer; twice was enough.

On Sunday afternoon they had all repaired to what Fenella and Rupert referred to as ‘the small drawing room’, which would have swallowed up Laura’s bedsit twice over. Rupert had built a dazzling log fire and they were all beginning to doze off in front of it. Laura had had a tour of the local area so she could see some of the venues (from the outside at least) and they had ended up at the pub for lunch. Laura was seriously considering Fenella’s suggestion that she should stay another night and go back early the next morning.

Rupert had picked up the paper and was working on the general knowledge crossword when the phone rang. He and Fenella exchanged glances and then Fen got up. ‘I can’t think who’d be ringing at this time of day.’

‘It’s only four o’clock,’ said Rupert. ‘And if you answer it you’ll know who it is.’

‘Hello,’ said Fenella, sounding efficient. ‘Somerby.’

Laura stole the crossword from Rupert while his attention was distracted. Then she stole his pencil and put in the answer to a clue.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Fenella was saying. ‘Uh huh, that’s me. What? Oh. Well yes, I have, actually, but I can do better than that. She’s here. I’ll put her on. Laura?’ Fenella came across the room and offered her the handset. ‘It’s for you.’

‘It can’t be,’ said Laura, not touching the phone but at least getting up. ‘Who is it?’

‘Dermot Flynn. He rang me to get your number.’

Laura’s knees went weak and her mouth went dry. She tugged at her polo neck, swallowed and took a deep breath. ‘Right. OK.’ She took the phone as if it might explode and walked away from the others. Her heart started to race with nerves and excitement. ‘Hello? Dermot?’ This was the first time she’d spoken to him since Ireland.