Previously – The Residents of Riding Road, Basilwade, are going to enter a ‘Best Kept Street’ competition. Trevor Johnson is the self-appointed leader of the committee who must now decide on a theme.
The name Pierre Baguette suited him. Pierre because he was French, and Baguette because he was as thin as a stick – a French stick. Babette Baguette, his sister, had a fuller figure and would have preferred a more anonymous name – but, as she told anyone who appeared in danger of making a joke about her name – don’t suggest the more rounded, doughier Brioche. She did not find the name Babette Brioche funny.
The Baguette brother and sister had moved to England together many years before and Babette, who preferred to be called Babs, retained only the slightest French accent. She didn’t like to stand out.
Pierre, however, revelled in his ‘Frenchness’, and his accent was as strong – if not stronger than when he’d first arrived in Basilwade. He owned the bookshop, Baguette’s Books, in the town centre, although in his spare time, he taught French to reluctant children and harboured hopes he would one day be a world-famous magician – un célèbre prestidigitateur. Who wouldn’t want to be something with such a splendid name? ‘Magician’ or ‘Conjurer’ simply didn’t do it as much justice as Prestidigitateur. Not that most people could pronounce it, of course. But when Pierre said it, the word rolled off his tongue and finished with the final rolled ‘R’ sounding like a cat purring.
Pierre had his own YouTube channel, ‘The Magic Baguette’ but so far, his conjuring career had been slow to take off. However, if talent spotters and local schoolchildren didn’t recognise his worth, the local ladies did, and, with his flashing blue eyes and sexy smile, he was very popular.
‘Too much Gallic charm for your own good,’ Babs often commented.
Occasionally, the Magic Baguette YouTube channel drew criticism from people who’d watched his videos, believing him to be a chef who specialised in baking bread. On the other hand, he’d gained a few likes from people who’d been looking for recipes and had stumbled across him doing one of his amazing magic tricks. He’d even been engaged for a few magic performances at weddings and children’s parties.
The morning after the meeting about the ‘Best Kept Street’ competition, Pierre found a hand-delivered letter on the doormat when he went down for breakfast. During the meeting the previous evening, he’d lost interest, once he’d realised the focus would be on gardening. He knew nothing about plants. So, when he opened the letter, he was shocked to discover he’d been invited to join the committee.
He tapped the letter and slid it across the breakfast table towards Babs. ‘I won’t accept. It’s pre-posthumous.’
‘You mean, preposterous.’
‘That is what I said. Why on earth would they want me?’
‘It’s not so unreasonable.’ Babs spooned honey onto her porridge. ‘You did an amazing job in our front garden.’
‘But I know nothing about plants.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve obviously been selected because of your showmanship.’
Pierre bit off the end of his croissant and chewed thoughtfully. He’d placed a few pots of flowering plants in the front garden and strategically positioned lots of mirrors to make it look as though the small garden was full of flowers.
His whimsical joke had been in response to Babs, nagging him to do something about the garden. She did all the housework and cooking, so she expected him to take care of the gardens. It had probably taken longer to arrange all the mirrors than it would’ve done to dig the ground and plant flowers, but at least Babs had found his solution amusing and not carried out her threat of refusing to cook for him. After a hard day in the bookshop, he enjoyed coming home to a cooked meal.
‘So, will you accept the invitation?’ Babs asked.
‘I might,’ Pierre said.
The first committee meeting was held in Gladys Winterbottom’s house. When she opened the door to Pierre, he smiled winningly and produced a small spray of silk flowers from nowhere, which he presented to her. Her face lit up with delight, and she led him into her front room, where Trevor Johnson glowered at him when he saw her pleasure at the flowers.
Gladys indicated Pierre should sit on the sofa between Elsie Scrivener and Daphne Didcott.
From the armchair, Susan Stibthorpe glared at them both. ‘Perhaps the charming Pierre would like to sit here, rather than be squashed between you two, on the sofa. I could perch on the arm of the chair.’ She half-rose, casting a triumphant look at Elsie and Daphne.
‘Pierre is fine here. Aren’t you?’ Elsie said, grabbing his arm.
‘Indeed he is,’ said Daphne, grabbing the other.
Pierre was pulled off his feet onto the sofa.
Well, at least the ladies appreciated him, which is more than could be said for Trevor, who, from his sulky expression, clearly hadn’t wanted Pierre on the committee.
‘Shall we begin?’ Trevor stood in front of the fireplace and cleared his throat. ‘As I see it, we have two major problems. First, choosing a theme that everyone in the street will be prepared to follow, and second, ensuring everyone takes part. Mr Belling on the corner opposite has shown little enthusiasm, and his front garden is merely a slab of concrete. I fear we’ll have our work cut out with him. Now, who has ideas for a theme?’
There were several suggestions, and each was rejected because people like Mr Belling simply wouldn’t participate.
Trevor raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been remarkably quiet, Pierre. But I expect this sort of thing is outside your experience.’ He threw a gloating glance at Gladys.
It was evident Trevor hadn’t expected him to make a valuable contribution.
Pierre stood and cleared his throat. ‘I have been thinking and debilitating.’
‘Do you mean deliberating?’ Trevor asked, a scornful smile playing on his lips.
‘That is what I said.’ Pierre put his hand in his pocket and took out a pen that he handed to Trevor. ‘I believe you will need this to write down my idea.’
‘That’s my pen!’ Trevor spluttered and patted the pocket where his pen had been earlier. ‘How did you get that?’
The women giggled.
Pierre held up his hand. ‘Obviously, we cannot persuade everyone to join in, so we must think small to be big.’
Trevor snorted in derision. ‘What nonsense,’ he muttered softly, although loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘Shhh!’ Gladys said. ‘Let Pierre finish.’
‘I understand we have a limited budget?’ Pierre raised his eyebrows in question.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘A limited budget, yes.’ His voice was cautious.
‘Then, I suggest we allow people to plant the flowers and the colour schemes they want in their gardens—’
‘That isn’t a theme. It’s chaos. And it doesn’t help us at all!’ Trevor scoffed.
‘Why don’t you let him finish?’ Elsie said.
‘However,’ Pierre continued, ‘in the middle of each garden must be one hanging basket surrendered from a pole.’
‘Surrendered? You mean suspended. Suspended from a pole,’ Trevor corrected.
‘That is what I said.’ Pierre glared at him.
‘But then we’ll have the same problem,’ interrupted Trevor. ‘Choosing a theme and getting people to follow it.’
‘Shush,’ said Gladys. ‘Let him finish. He’s clearly thought it through.’ The words ‘which is more than you have,’ hung in the air between them.
Trevor was almost snarling, but under the scrutiny of the four women, he nodded at Pierre, who continued, ‘For the theme of the hanging basket, each person should select a book they think represents them and their family and they must decorate their basket according to that book. For example, because I am French, I would choose the famous French book, ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ and inside my hanging basket, the flowers would be blue, white and red to represent the tricolour of France. However, I would also attach some tiny bells.’ He paused and looked around the room.
Susan clapped her hands together in delight. ‘I think that’s an amazing suggestion. So long as the rest of the garden is tidy, the focus will be on the hanging basket and that’s not too much to ask people to prepare, is it? And if it is, we can step in and prepare a hanging basket for them with money from the budget. That won’t be too onerous.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Trevor, with a knowing look at Pierre. ‘You’re taking the opportunity to get more business for your bookshop.’
‘Isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle black?’ Elsie asked Trevor. ‘You’ve recommended your nephew’s gardening company to anyone who doesn’t want to do their own work. At least Pierre isn’t shamelessly pushing his bookshop. He hasn’t even mentioned it.’
‘Yes, it’s a dreadful accusation to make,’ Daphne said. ‘People are perfectly capable of choosing a book without having to go into a bookshop to buy a copy. For your hanging basket, Trevor, I suggest ‘Mr Grumpy’ from the Mister Men series. And I don’t suppose you’ll have to rush into town to buy the book.’
The other women giggled, and Trevor turned crimson.
‘Well, assuming we use Pierre’s idea, how about Mr. Belling?’ Trevor said. ‘His garden is covered in concrete. How would we put a hanging basket pole into that?’
‘We may need a pole with a stand, and as for a theme, how about ‘The Secret Garden’?’ Pierre asked.
‘There’s nothing secret about Mr Belling’s garden,’ Trevor scoffed. ‘It’s the most dull, boring garden on the road. Probably in Basilwade.’
‘But by the time I have installed a mist machine in there, it will look very mysterious,’ Pierre said with a twinkle in his eye.
Susan clapped her hands together again. ‘Oh, how simply marvellous.’ She paused. ‘But which book should we each choose?’
Pierre had already considered this. ‘For Gladys, the book should be ‘Treasure Island’.’
‘Treasure…’ said Gladys, her eyes lighting up.
‘He means because your dog is called Robert Louis Stevenson, not because you’re valuable like treasure,’ Trevor said.
‘Of course. I knew that,’ said Gladys, whose disappointed expression suggested she hadn’t.
‘Do you have any other ideas?’ Elsie asked Pierre.
‘Well, for you, Elsie, how about one of the Nancy Drew mysteries? The main character is an athletic, independent woman such as yourself. And for the flowers, how about some bold colours to match your tracksuit?’ Pierre hoped no one would ask for some examples of such flowers because he couldn’t think of one.
Elsie beamed. ‘Yes, I think that’s perfect.’
Pierre breathed a sigh of relief, and Trevor snorted.
‘And me?’ Daphne asked eagerly. ‘Which book for me?’
‘The Ultimate Book of Vegetables,’ Pierre said. ‘Obviously, in your basket, there should be vegetables.’ He held his breath again; doubtful it was possible to grow vegetables in a hanging basket.
Daphne beamed. ‘Yes, I’ll get some of those trailing tomato plants.’
‘And how about a book for me?’ Susan asked.
‘I think ‘Great Expectations’ would be perfect,’ said Pierre, wondering how to represent expectations in floral form. Then it came to him. ‘And if you have a much larger basket than the others, that would suggest you expected more than anyone else.
‘Great expectations?’ Susan sighed and looked at Pierre with longing. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say ‘expectations’,’ she said. ‘More like hopes.’
‘I was thinking of your expectations for your delightful son, Cyril, and his homeschooling,’ Pierre said quickly.
Susan blushed deeply; her expression instantly changing. ‘Cyril. Yes, indeed. Of course. That’s exactly what I thought you meant.’
‘And how about Mr Grumpy? What could he use in his hanging basket?’ Susan asked.
‘Cacti,’ Gladys said with a smirk. Trevor’s lips set in a thin line, and Pierre breathed a sigh of relief. The best he could have come up with was ‘weeds’ but since he didn’t know a prize begonia from a dandelion, Gladys’s suggestion was brilliant, although Pierre hadn’t anticipated such discord in the committee. Oh well, perhaps once they started work, things would improve. He certainly wanted harmony. Trevor hadn’t been correct about Pierre trying to get business for the bookshop, but he was hoping it might get him noticed as a magician, and, if possible, gain him a few engagements.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Trevor said to Pierre, ‘I shall choose my own book.’
Judging by Trevor’s scowl, things might not improve, Pierre thought. He smiled. ‘Of course. You must choose your own book, that is your provocative.’
‘My…?’ Trevor said with a puzzled frown. ‘Oh, I think you mean it’s my prerogative.’
Pierre smiled ‘That is exactly what I said.’
Despite the committee’s initial disharmony, Trevor worked hard and cooperated with the other members until, surprisingly, all the gardens in Riding Road, except for Mr Belling’s, were full of colourful flowers or, in the case of the Baguettes’ garden, a few strategically placed pots and lots of mirrors.
Each household had a hanging basket, hidden from sight in its back garden, based on a book, and Daphne had planted a few extra baskets in case of disaster, which were stored in her greenhouse. Gladys and Susan had prepared a label for each basket, giving the title of the book and a brief explanation about the choice, which they’d laminated, ready to be hung on each pole.
As the judging day approached, Pierre felt increasingly anxious. Each morning, he’d cycled a different way to work and had visited each of the roads that had entered the competition. Many of the streets were vibrant with colour-coordinated flowers and obvious themes, including flags and bunting.
Riding Road, by comparison, was second rate. So far, it appeared the flowers in each garden were the total of their effort. There was no hint of a theme, either in colour or style. However, on what Pierre called ‘The Day of Judgement’, the secret ingredients would be revealed. The hanging baskets would be put in position and in Mr Belling’s garden, Pierre’s magical touches would be revealed to the world. It would also be revealed to Mr Belling, who had no idea his garden would be a feature.
The committee members gathered early on The Day of Judgement and supervised the positioning of the hanging baskets. Pierre, dressed in his black magician’s suit, scarlet-lined cape and top hat, set up his smoke machine under Mr Belling’s privet hedge. It was the only growing thing in the garden, and Trevor had arranged for it to be trimmed by his nephew, Alfie. Pierre wondered if he might engage Alfie’s services and get rid of all the mirrors. That would stop Babs from nagging him. The novelty of the reflected flowers had worn off, especially since members of the local wildlife were taking such an interest. Pierre wasn’t sure if foxes, badgers, squirrels and cats caught sight of themselves in the mirrors as they wandered through his garden and thought they’d found a mate or an enemy. But often, during the night, there was a lot of commotion in the front garden. Eventually, it would result in a broken mirror.
Pierre set up his confetti cannon in the corner of Mr Belling’s garden and checked the remote control in his pocket. The cannon was full of flower petal confetti that it would shoot into the air over the judges after they’d appreciated Mr Belling’s garden – the end of the tour of Riding Road. Or perhaps Pierre would trigger the cannon while they were looking at his garden if they were paying too much attention and there was a risk they’d spot the cracked concrete.
At 10 o’clock, the committee gathered at the end of Riding Road to greet the judges from SHEILA, the Society of Horticultural Excellence In Local Areas, and Reverend Forbes-Snell, who was escorting them to all the roads that were taking part.
Doris Scuppet, who’d addressed them at the meeting in the church hall made it clear she was in charge of the other two judges: Imogen Griswold, a tall, thin woman who clutched her clipboard to her chest as if it concealed state secrets and Bernard Lemmon, a distinguished gentleman with a waxed moustache, smart suit and shiny shoes. The small group oozed disapproval.
Pierre scrutinised each judge as Trevor, on behalf of the committee, greeted them. They were going to be hard to impress. Doris Scuppet’s lip was permanently curled in scorn, and her fellow judges had heavy frown lines that were deepening by the second. No, this was not going to be easy.
‘So, if you’ll please follow me,’ Trevor said, setting off. He turned to see the judges looking towards the splendidly dressed Pierre for guidance. They hadn’t moved, clearly believing he was in charge.
‘If you would please follow Mr Johnson, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I will be waiting for you at the finale.’ Pierre waved his magic wand with a flourish, pointing towards Trevor, who, realising he’d been upstaged, glowered at Pierre.
By chance, as Pierre waved his wand, four pigeons took off simultaneously from Daphne’s garden, further along the road with much flapping of wings.
‘Ooh, I say,’ said Doris, looking back at Pierre with what might pass as an expression of approval. Pierre bowed slightly in acknowledgement of a trick he hadn’t been responsible for.
As the judges and vicar followed Trevor, Pierre saw that dreadful cat, Horatio, saunter out of Daphne’s garden. Presumably, he’d been responsible for the pigeons taking flight. It was the first time Pierre had ever been pleased to see the mangy animal.
The judges stopped at each hanging basket and read the attached sign, so they were running late by the time they’d crossed over the road and were almost at Mr Belling’s house. Pierre had turned on his machine when they were still a few doors away and now, mist swirled mysteriously over the concrete, obscuring it completely.
‘And this,’ Trevor said with a wave of his hand towards the corner – and final – garden, ‘is the Secret Garden.’
‘Ooh, I say,’ said Doris. ‘How diverting.’
Even Ingrid and Bernard both smiled.
‘Most imaginative,’ said Bernard.
‘Is that a real cat?’ Ingrid asked.
Pierre swung around to see Horatio appear to glide through the mist as if he were part of the act. It couldn’t have looked better if Pierre had choreographed it.
The judges hastily scribbled on the score sheets on their clipboards, and Trevor was giving a surreptitious thumbs-up to Gladys when Pierre noticed Horatio heading for the corner of the ‘Secret Garden’, the location of the confetti cannon. Not only that, but Mr Belling was peering out of his window, his eyes wide in alarm. He pointed at the mist that wafted over his garden and, after becoming tangled in the net curtain, he struggled to open the window. Finally, he threw it open and yelled, ‘Fire! Fire! Save me!’
Before anyone could react, Horatio, frightened by the shouts, leapt into the corner. He obviously rubbed up against the cannon’s button, because, with a roar, flower petal confetti was blasted upwards. The terrified cat shot up in the air, yowling, then fled through the mist.
‘And that concludes Riding Road’s entry,’ Trevor said hastily, stepping forward to shepherd the judges away from Mr Belling’s garden.
Doris brushed flower petals away from her jacket. ‘Well, Mr Johnson, I have to say, that display is going to be hard to beat. And the actor at the window shouting for help was inspired. Very realistic.’
Pierre appeared at her elbow and produced a bunch of silk flowers from the air, which he presented to her. He hoped to distract her from asking more about the ‘actor’.
Her features softened as she accepted the gift, and Imogen almost elbowed her out of the way, looking at Pierre expectantly. He produced another bunch for her and one for Bernard.
Bernard handed Pierre his business card. ‘Our society holds an annual dinner, and I think it would be a fine idea to have a table magician if you’re interested. I am the social secretary, so please give me a ring.’
Pierre was very interested, and he handed over several of his business cards, turning his back on Trevor, whose face was puce with rage. However, before his temper erupted, the wail of sirens filled the air, and a fire engine and police car screeched to a halt.
‘Fire!’ yelled Mr Belling, who’d opened an upstairs window and was leaning out, waving. ‘Arrest those people. They’ve just blown up a cat!’ He pointed at the committee members and judges who watched with open mouths.
‘Not your finest hour, then?’ Babs said later when Pierre arrived home.
‘On the contrary, it was a glorious succession.’
‘Success. A glorious success.’
‘That is what I said.’
‘But the entire street has been in uproar this morning. Mr Belling is threatening to sue for setting fire to his garden and for killing a cat. And it’s just as well the firemen and police saw the funny side of the situation…’
‘Mr Belling is full of hot airs and graces. He cannot sue. There was no fire, and Horatio is still alive, although he may be slightly dramatized for a while.’
‘I think you mean traumatised.’
‘Yes, yes. Why must you interrupt so often? It has been a perfectly splendid day. I have been booked for the Firemen’s Ball as a magician, and I have been promised a gig at SHEILA’s dinner.’
‘Who’s Sheila?’
‘See, you do not know everything, my little brioche.’
Pierre hurried away while the going was good.
It remained to be seen if Riding Road’s entry won, but if it didn’t, it would certainly be the most memorable. And who knew where his two magic show engagements might lead?
Everything comes to he who waits. And if he doesn’t have time to wait, then a little magic should do the trick. Just ask a Prestidigitateurrrrrrrrrrr, thought Pierre.
To read the previous stories:
Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html
Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html
Cyril’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/05/cyrils-story-by-dawn-knox-lashings-of.html
Daphne’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/06/daphnes-story-by-dawn-knox-green.html
Elsie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/07/elsies-story-by-dawn-knox-tea-and-buns.html
When Sally met Cyril (And Roger) is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/09/when-sally-met-cyril-and-roger-by-dawn.html
Robert Louis Stevenson’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/10/robert-louis-stevensons-story-by-dawn.html
