Trouble for Tom, Jim ruffles feathers and another new arrival at Brookfield

Ambridge pilgrims make slow progress

With rehearsals of Lynda Snell’s Canterbury Tales barely under way, creative differences in the production team are already causing tensions, according to sources.

‘Lynda's very proud of her script, which she claims is a sensitive, modern and compelling reworking of the classic text,’ said a cast member. ‘For example, she thinks that Harry Bailey, host of the Tabard Inn, should give each pilgrim a polyester tabard and a name badge, so the audience can relate the telling of tales to the gossip one hears at the village shop.

‘When Jim Lloyd said this was Chaucer, not Coronation Street, I thought Lynda was going to deck him. Something’s got to give or there will be no Christmas production at this rate.’

Contacted for comment, Mrs Snell said rumours of rows were greatly exaggerated. ‘Of course, there will be teething troubles while people settle into their roles,’ she said. ‘Jim is tremendously valuable as my script supervisor, as long as he remembers he is supervising my script, not writing his own. I cannot allow the full and final flowering of my genius to be marred by pettifogging details about historical accuracy or cultural integrity.’

Pet of the Week

Name: Bess

Belongs to: Ben Archer, Brookfield

Job: trainee sheep dog

Likes: long walks, sleeping in the shed (or she will when she gets used to it) 

Dislikes: being taken away from her brothers and sisters (oh, stop it. She’s a working dog. Ed.)

Do say: ‘She’s got a sharp eye. No wonder Farmer Barker thought she was a fine choice.’

Don’t say: ‘Hope Ben doesn’t run her over with the farm pick-up like he did that poor badger.’

The Trials of Tom Archer 

In the latest chapter of our passionate Autumn saga, by award-winning romantic novelist Lavinia Catwater, our hero dares to dream. Is the love he longs for finally within his reach?

Tom was pacing the yard, waiting for Natasha to arrive. Having ignored his texts for weeks, suddenly she seemed keen to meet. But was it him, or the need to find new domestic markets, given the growing uncertainty over post-Brexit fruit export arrangements, that drew her to Bridge Farm? Soon, he would find out….

His phone buzzed.  ‘Oh hi Hannah mate,’ he grinned. ‘I’m a bit busy for a shag at lunchtime – Natasha’s coming and you know I prefer her. But maybe we could hook up later?’

‘Don’t you lunchtime me, Tom Archer,’ she scolded. ‘I was just about to tell you why I don’t trust men, because my dad left when I was little, so you’d come to love me and we could have a wonderful time at the glittering Nuffield awards gala in Glasgow. But you can stuff your invitation. I’m going to take my rage out on Duncan the tardy pigman instead.’

‘Oh, OK then… but I’m still up for a Netflix and chill…’ There was a strangled scream and a crash, as if Hannah had thrown her mobile across the room. Tom shook his head and smiled ruefully. Women, eh? He’d never understand them…   

*

Half an hour later, Tom and Natasha were sitting in a cosy alcove of the Bridge Farm tea room, each with one of Fallon’s Marshmallow and Toffee Apple Mochachocacappuccinos.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, old girl, have you lost a bit of condition? If you were a pig I’d be supplementing your ration!’ He smiled at his own wit, but to his dismay her blue, saucer-like eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh Tom,’ she sniffed. Her sexy Welsh lilt reminded him of his mother when she was younger. ‘It’s heartbreak. You see, I was with Gethin for 10 years, but it wasn’t working. So I had to finish things, and it didn’t seem right to be texting you and well, you know… when I felt bad about hurting him.’  She looked up through long, dark lashes that reminded Tom of one of the prettier Anguses. His heart melted. ‘Oh, Natasha,’ he breathed. ‘I so understand.  Driving a hard bargain for bulk supplies of fruit drinks is the last thing you need. You deserve so much better.’

He got up and reached out to her. Smiling nervously, she put her hand – soft, but with a hint of assertiveness that thrilled him – in his. ‘What did you have in mind, Tom?’ she asked, with an irresistibly seductive smile. Tom didn’t hesitate. ‘A quick tour of the agroforestry site. I’m desperate to know your views on cultivator and compost versus sub-soiler and mulch!’

To be continued…    

Letter to the Editor   

Dear Madam,

I would like to put the record straight about recent events at Lower Loxley, following the pack of lies published in your gutter-press rival, the Borchester Echo, last week. (Liking this so far. Ed.)

It was quite wrong to say that my son Freddie is an imprisoned drug dealer. He is a victim of a miscarriage of justice, having made a silly mistake because he is an orphan – not the same thing at all.  Secondly, Lower Loxley has not lost its alcohol licence. It is currently being looked after for safe-keeping by Borchester District Council, which again is quite different.

Thirdly, we have not lost a lot of valuable bookings. The fact is, a number of clients have respectfully decided to withdraw, leaving me the time I need to fret about my son.

And lastly, the fuss about the Hallowe’en event was completely overblown. If anyone was upset, it was Roy Tucker’s fault. He would terrify anyone, bearing down on families with his clipboard, bullying them into asking for refunds. In what universe is it any of his business? Just because he’s never forgiven me for dumping him after our… well, anyway. And in any case Geraldine, who no longer works for Lower Loxley, was responsible for booking the act. 

I do hope this clarifies the situation and would like to offer your readers a warm welcome to our legendary Deck the Hall festive events. And if anyone publishes more lies about my family or my business, they will soon find out that ‘Attack of the Mummy’ was a walk in the park compared to the fright they will get from my lawyers.

Yours sincerely

Elizabeth Pargetter