And there was plenty to see. The local drama over Ebbing’s first music festival was well into its second series. Battle lines had been drawn as soon as the posters went up in July. You couldn’t miss them. Acid yellow, blue, green, and red blotting out the usual sun-bleached notices and burning off the dust and gloom of the High Street, where shops seemed to open and shut before she had a chance to use them.
Never mind Glasto—come to Ebbo! the posters had trumpeted. The Diamond Music Festival is for everyone!
“That looks like it could be fun for the kids,” she’d said to the newsagent.
She’d forgotten his name as soon as she’d started speaking—it had been happening more and more since her chemo had started—and stammered, leaving it at “mister.” She’d put it on her list of things to ask Ronnie.
Mister had scowled, baring a gold bridge in his mouth. “If you say so, miss. It’s a scandal it’s being allowed—we got turned down for a beer festival last year on health and safety grounds. But Pete Diamond’s been here only five minutes and he’s got permission to turn his garden into a rock arena for two nights. Something’s gone on—that’s what everyone’s saying.”
They were. And the accusations had got more extreme as a petition to have the festival canceled went unheeded by the authorities. “He’s putting this on just to launder money,” a young mum with a child on each hand had said in the supermarket. “Everyone knows he’s using Ebbing to hide dodgy activities.”
Elise had looked at the others in the queue, nodding grimly along as if they had an inside edge on organized crime. And she’d felt slightly queasy. People festered about things they saw every day: garden boundaries, blocked views, bad parking. Festival posters. It could fill their every waking moment until it became a full-blown feud. She’d once nicked an ex-mayor who’d stabbed his eighty-year-old neighbor over an unpainted fence panel.
She’d wanted to say that she’d checked their nemesis out very early on, having nothing better to do, and Mr. Diamond was as clean as a whistle. But no one would have wanted to hear that.
I hope things don’t get out of hand, she’d thought.
* * *
—
Elise was swallowing the last bitter drops of her tea when Charlie Perry entered her frame of vision, greeting passersby with a mock salute. He was what her gran would have called a bit of a dandy in his pink striped shirt, silver hair parted and slicked back. The first time she’d seen him, she’d almost been able to smell the tang of Old Spice that her grandad used to wear on Sundays.
He had a word with everyone as he strolled down the street. Making people laugh or smile warmly. He’d passed the time of day with Elise in the post office queue once, twinkling and full of self-deprecating charm, but she hadn’t rushed to join the fan club. The thing was that she’d never been big on all that “Hello, dear lady” shtick. No one was like that, really. He was bound to have a dark side. Membership of a right-wing organization or a weakness for S and M, she’d entertained herself with the possibilities in the privacy of her own head. But not out loud. She’d quickly learned that he’d been practically canonized by the folk of Ebbing.
Charlie suddenly changed direction and crossed the road toward the cottages. He was heading for her door. Shit, I’m not dressed yet.
The knock was soft but insistent.
“Good morning,” Charlie said as soon as she cracked the door open. “Oh, goodness, I’ve disturbed your breakfast. Please forgive me.”
“No, no. How can I help you, Mr. Perry?”
“Charlie, please. I called the other day but you were out. I’m on my rounds, collecting raffle prizes for a fund-raiser—it’s one I do every year for a lovely little charity—and I wondered if you would like to contribute.”
“Er . . . I’m not sure I’ve got anything suitable.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything grand—a bottle of wine would be lovely.”
“Right. Well, I’ll have a look.”
“That is so kind of you.” He lowered his bag to the pavement, the contents clanking. “Oof, that’s heavy. I’m doing really well today.”
“Which charity is it?” she asked, and stopped herself from asking for his ID.
“It’s local—we support young people with brain injuries. It’s something very close to my heart. My daughter, you see.” His voice caught and he wiped his face with a hankie. “Sorry,” he said. “It can still catch me out sometimes. Even after all this time.”