I spent the next few days mulling over the feud issue. Was there any way I could try to get involved in this situation without coming across as horrendously offensive? The only positive outcome then being that both sides finally had something to unite them – their outrage at me, the patronising Out-Sider. I joined the community Facebook groups for both sides under different profiles (both fake), scrolling back through reams of posts to see what kind of problems the divide had caused (trying to resist the urge to get sucked into conversations about lost phones, found cats, Sally Jones’ kids on the Co-op roof, or, one particular saga that went on for months: ‘If Macca B don’t stop leaving those fat balls on the rec where my dog can get at them it’ll be HIS balls dangling from the bird feeder’.)
I scoured the websites for every village activity I could find, walked along Old Main Street to look at the posters on the miners’ club noticeboard, then drove to the New Side to do the same at the Methodist chapel. Trying to find something that could cross the Maddon river, a common thread that I could tug on.
It kept coming back to the same thing: a bridge would be in everyone’s interest. Reuniting the village would enable them to pool resources, save money and provide a desperately needed boost to local businesses. More importantly, rather than Ferrington’s identity being forged around the worst time in its long history, a bridge would create an opportunity to celebrate something new and positive.
By the weekend, I’d found enough evidence to cobble together at least the bare bones of an argument. Becky was visiting her brother for a long weekend, and Daniel was juggling Hope alongside a work deadline, so I turned to my friend from the New Side.
Alice was working a double shift that Saturday, so I decided to treat myself to a late lunch, wandering into the Water Boatman just after two. About half of the tables were occupied, and another cluster of customers were gathered around a screen showing a football match.
Every single person turned to watch as I sidled up to the bar, glancing about for Alice, who was unloading a tray of empty glasses. She looked up at me and winked, nodding to a bar stool.
‘All right, Eleanor?’ she called, about three times louder than was necessary.
There was a general rumbling from the other customers. Scuttling to the stool I clambered on and kept my eyes firmly fixed on the row of bottles in front of me, but could still sense every eye in the room boring a hole into my back.
‘Who’s this, then?’ one man asked, leaning on the other end of the bar. ‘Ain’t seen you in the Boatman before.’
‘Oh, leave it out, Stigsy!’ Alice shook her head, taking a wad of notes and about a pint of loose change from the man she’d just served. ‘She’s an Out-Sider. Only moved here a few weeks ago.’
‘Moved where?’ Stigsy said, leaning forwards to inspect me with a leer, as though he could find an address label, or catch a whiff of Old Side takeaway pizza.
‘Damson Farm!’ Alice folded her arms and stuck her chin up. ‘Like I said, neutral.’
Stigsy sniffed. A few of the other men stepped closer, and a woman seated at a table in the corner with a set of dominoes called out, ‘You know the rumours, Alice. Maybe Damson weren’t so neutral as all that!’
‘Yeah!’ various people in the crowd agreed.
Oh my goodness.
What the hell had I walked into? I’d thought it was rural Nottinghamshire, not the Wild West.
‘Shame on you, Carole-Ann Matthews!’ Alice yelled above the growing murmurings. ‘If we’re talking rumours, what about your Dylan going to Ziva Solomon about his manky elbow because he couldn’t be bothered to see Dr Porter over at Brooksby, eh?’
Carole-Ann turned scarlet, suddenly finding her dominoes deeply engrossing.
Alice picked up a tea-towel and began slowly drying a pint glass, somehow making the gesture appear ominously threatening.
‘And you, Dennis?’ she asked, her voice soft with menace. ‘You want to talk about the rumours regarding your little Tuesday night rendezvous? John Stoat, do I even need to mention the words MOT?’ She scanned the room, eyes narrowed. I don’t know about the rest of the crowd, but every hair on the back of my neck stood up.
‘That was an emergency!’ An older man with tattoos covering his bald head blurted, before grabbing his bottle of cider and flinging himself out the door.
‘Now,’ Alice carried on. ‘If anyone of you want another drink today, or any other day I’m in charge of this bar, you’d better sit down, shut up, and make sure you don’t pass within three metres of my friend here unless it’s to extend a warm, New Sider welcome.’
The only sound in the whole room was my heart, approaching warp-speed as it rattled against my ribs.
‘Well, a friend of Alice is a friend of ours, isn’t that right, fellas?’ A man wearing a tie and formal jacket over the top of his Mansfield Town football shirt said. ‘Nice to meet you, love.’
‘Cheers, Kev,’ Alice nodded, the rest of the pub echoing his comments with rumbles of assent as they turned back to the screen and picked up their pints again.
I pressed one hand to my wheezing chest. ‘And you arranged to meet me here why, exactly?’
Alice handed me a glass of white wine, eyes glinting. ‘Nothing to get your knickers in a knot about. These lot know where the balance of power lies.’
‘And you didn’t think to warn me?’
‘Nothing to warn you about!’ She waved her hands at the now settled room. ‘Besides, I thought it would be good practice for them, having a new face turn up. Prise open their narrow minds a fraction. Isn’t that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
I took a long slow sip of wine, eyes closed as I regained my composure. ‘I’m driving, obviously, I can’t actually drink this.’
‘Drink away. It’s on the house. Ray over there starts his Uber shift in a couple of hours. He’ll drop you back, no worries.’
I was very worried, actually. Although, the more wine that settled in my stomach, the more I remembered that this totally proved my whole point, that the village was in dire need of someone to come up with a brilliant idea to end all this nonsense once and for all.
Alice wasn’t so sure.
‘You want to what?’ she whispered, leaning across the bar, eyes darting.
‘Just an initial meeting, so we can get the ball rolling.’
‘Did you see what happened here, less than an hour ago?’
‘I did.’ I stifled a hiccup. ‘And I also saw that people actually need both sides. And they know it. The doctors, MOTs, they’re just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been looking into conflict resolution in small communities, and what we need is one person to stand up and speak out. The key is making sure that it’s the right person – someone people listen to, and respect. Someone with standing, who wields power. Once you—’
‘Blummin’ ’eck, Eleanor, do not even joke about that being me!’
‘Once this very specific and wise and lovely person starts advocating for reconciliation, all those other people who secretly want it too, who know full well that it’s in the interests of everyone, once that person speaks up, other people have the courage to join them.’
‘No.’ She leant back, whipped her towel over her shoulder and went to serve more drinks.
Okay, stealth attack it was then.
After briefly contemplating walking home, wading across the river where it wound around the edge of the farm, I decided to save that escapade for warmer times, instead calling Daniel and offering him a cinnamon apple crumble in exchange for a lift home.
While I waited for him to arrive, I posted an event on each of the Ferrington Facebook groups. I’d been invited to enough events over the past few years to understand what motivated people to turn up to them. The difficulty in this case had been finding a suitable location. While admiring the impressive range of fruit ciders behind the Boatman bar, I’d had an idea that hit every base with one genius stroke, if I did say so myself.
Cider tasting in the orchard barn! Damson wine! Damson and apple pies! Cakes! Tarts! Crumbles! Jams and chutneys!
Next Sunday evening, a time that my rigorous research into Ferrington goings-on revealed had absolutely nothing going on whatsoever. Even the takeaway vendors were shut. Both pubs were open, but they were always open, and neither of them were offering free drinks.
Underneath the giant font pronouncing THREE FREE SAMPLES PER PERSON, I added, in much smaller font, that there would be a ‘short talk from a local about Ferrington’s glorious farming history’. There. Now, no one could boo me when I gave a presentation that would of course mention Ferrington’s pre-mining history, before perhaps then dropping a hint or two about how this could inform a potentially glorious future.
In order to cover all bases, I adapted the posts into real A4 posters, and printed out a pile of copies while Daniel was bathing Hope, ready to pin to every spare lamp post and available noticeboard the next day.
All I had to do now was use my nationally acclaimed writing skills to pen a speech so convincing in its brilliance that everyone who heard it would be too enthralled to either shout me down, run me out of town or wallop me over the head with a bottle of cider. And, immediately after that we could get on with raising the funds to build the Ferrington peace bridge.
You’re welcome.