Jane Wenham-Jones - Mum in the Middle - Feel good, funny and unforgettable

Back downstairs, my fingers curled around the leaflet in my pocket. The reason I’d plucked up the courage to bang on Jinni’s door.

‘Did you get one of these?’ I held out the flyer for a Wine and Wisdom evening for the local theatre group. Individuals welcome! ‘Do you fancy going?’

Jinni stiffened. ‘Eurgh. Those am-dram types get on my wick – all emoting and “getting in the zone” as if they’re Dench or Olivier – and if I see Ingrid once more this week, I might swing for her.’

She took a large mouthful of wine. ‘She’s the bane of my bloody life. Still objecting to my change-of-use application on all sorts of insane grounds and she’s been up and down the street trying to get everyone else to protest as well.’

‘She put a note through my door about it,’ I told Jinni uncomfortably. ‘Said she was worried about extra vehicles and you chopping down trees.’

Jinni scowled. ‘Don’t listen to that environmental crap,’ she said. ‘It’s sour grapes. Her creepy son tried to buy it before I managed to. I outbid him. That’s the real reason the old witch is so bitter and twisted.’

‘Oh!’ I waited while Jinni took another swig from her glass. ‘What was he going to do with it?’

‘Turn it into flats probably. Or demolish it – one of his mates owns the place behind me so I expect the plan was to flatten the lot and build a whole new cul-de-sac. Even more cars, even more of the dreaded DFLs tempted here. Not that they need much tempting now we’ve got the fast train. And a whacking great profit for him. Wanker.’

She poured some more into her glass and pushed the bottle towards me. ‘I wouldn’t mind if she was honest about it. But it’s so damn hypocritical. I’m making this place beautiful again, bringing out all the original features. I’ve been advised to take out one tree because it’s diseased and it might bloody fall on me. I’ve got huge plans for the garden. It’s going to be stunning. And if I had his money, yes, I’d keep the whole place just for me but I’m going to have to do B&B to afford the upkeep.’

She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to rant on.’

‘He’s a builder, is he?’

‘David?’ she said, with a comical sneer. ‘He’s an architect. Got some flash practice in town. But fingers in all the local pies. Ingrid’s always storming the council offices talking about all the new commuters ruining the area and there not being enough affordable housing, while her precious boy is the first one to mop up any bargains and make a fast buck. They both make me sick.’

I looked at her, startled by the real venom in her voice. I made myself smile. ‘So that’s a no, then?’

Jinni grinned back.

‘Sorry hun – you’ll have to be brave and go on your own.’

‘Bravery’s not my strong point.’

The Wine and Wisdom Evening was in a function room at the back of a pub called the Six Pears. I walked the half mile there, looking in the old-fashioned shop fronts, as I crossed the cobbled market square onto the High Street, still finding it hard to believe this was now home.

The town had changed and spread over the years since I’d first come here to visit my friend Fran. There were rows of houses where once there were fields, more traffic and speed bumps and the lovely old ironmongers had closed down now. But Northstone always kept its charm. Even in the years when Fran was in Italy, we’d got into the habit of stopping off on the way back from the coast for coffees or ice-creams, to poke about among the antiques or simply find a loo, and I’d often imagined living here.

The fantasy had grown legs the moment I’d read about the new high-speed link to the city. House prices were rising sharply and already the bookshop had become an emporium of scented candles and high-end bath oils and our favourite pub, with the bar billiards table, a raw-food restaurant. When we got a buyer for Finchley, I moved fast. I loved the idea of a small community and a proper local, quiet streets and the river nearby. With London now under an hour away, it seemed meant to be. I’d thought about Ben getting to uni and me getting to the office, and having somewhere to park and a garden. But somehow I’d overlooked the day-to-day reality of making new friends and who I’d talk to …

The wind was cold and I could feel the make-up running from my streaming eyes as I reached the door, suddenly wishing I’d stayed at home with some biscuits and the box set of Downton Abbey .

But, I reminded myself as I shoved my body across the threshold, I needed a social life.

Visions of painting the place red with Fran had faded fast – the last time I’d dropped in, it was all baby yoga, organic dishcloths and making sure her four children got their ten-a-day. Apart from Jinni, the only person I’d spoken to at any length since I got here was the chap in the corner shop and that was only a thrilling exchange about my newspaper delivery and why he was fresh out of washing-up liquid.

A woman with grey-blonde hair and some rather nice silver jewellery was sat at a table next to a cash box.

‘Wicked Wits?’ she enquired, consulting a list.

‘Sorry?’

She repeated it, mouthing the words carefully as if I were in need of learning support. ‘Are you on a TEAM?’

‘No, I’m on my own …’

She rustled the paper. ‘The Wits said they were waiting for one more.’ She beamed. ‘But if you’re a one-off I’ll give you to Brigitte …’

Brigitte, a dramatically made-up lady with highly defined eyebrows, was, as she immediately introduced herself, chair of the Northstone Players –for which the evening was raising much-needed funds – and currently rehearsing Madame Francine for their forthcoming production of A Frenchman in Disguise.

‘Do you know the play?’

I shook my head.

‘Ever done any acting?’ I shook my head again. She patted my arm. ‘We’re always looking for help with the scenery …’

She led me across a room filled with round tables adorned with paper, pens and bowls of peanuts, through small groups of people holding glasses, to the far corner. A broad-shouldered, grey-haired man in his late fifties sat with a younger, bearded chap and a blonde girl of about twenty.

‘One for you, Malcolm,’ Brigitte said. ‘This is Tess – she’s new to Northstone and could be your secret weapon.’

‘I don’t know about that …’ I squeaked, embarrassed.

Malcolm looked me up and down. ‘Neither do I,’ he said gruffly.

Malcolm was the editor of the local paper, the Northstone & District News , as well as other regional publications; the young girl, Emily, was one of his junior reporters and the man, Adrian, another of the town’s thesps, who, he told me, had written a play he was hoping they would perform for their autumn production.

‘We’ll call ourselves the Odds and Sods, shall we?’ said Malcolm.

When we’d got to the third round and I still hadn’t known the answer to anything except who’d played Deirdre in Coronation Street, I could feel myself sinking in my chair.

My only consolation came from the fact that Emily didn’t seem to know much either and Adrian had only contributed the names of three Olympic gold medallists and the symbols from the periodic table for lead, tin and pewter.

Malcolm, on the other hand, was grunting out answers like a one-man Wikipedia and was only seen to be flummoxed when a question came up about boy bands. ‘You must know that,’ he instructed Emily, who didn’t.

By half-time we were sitting in third place. ‘And we haven’t done current affairs yet,’ said Malcolm, satisfied. ‘What do you do? And why did you move here?’

I was halfway through regaling him with the highlights of my enthralling career as an office space planner, when I saw Ingrid bearing down on us with a beer mug full of money and two books of raffle tickets.