Action! Rolling!
Oh, gracious me! muttered Granny Edith as she shuffled along the lane, laden with two enormous shopping bagsit was market day at the station, after all. She decided the pavement was too much trouble to climb, but nearly leaped out of her wellies when a minibus, covered in wild illustrations, roared by with a growl like a motorcycle, nearly brushing past her at a speed that, to gentle, countryside-bred Edith, felt absolutely breakneck. Two regular cars zipped after it before she even caught her breath.
Theyll do someone a mischief, the lot of them! she grumbled, glaring at their noisy retreat. Chasing about like horses let loose from the stables. Tom! Oi, Tom! What in the world’s got them racing, as if the hounds are after them? Has someone snuffed it?
Whys it always death with you, Gran? called Tom from the public bench, cramming another handful of salt and vinegar crisps into his mouth. He rustled the bag for a moment and then looked up. Its television, Gran! Theyre filming a show here. My mate said Victoria Fox is coming herself! His pride was evident.
Victoria Fox, eh? Whats she coming for? Is she one of those animal tamers? Youll not be telling me the BBCs bringing wild beasts to Potters Lane, will you? Children about and peaceful folk, and now theyre setting a viper loose! Who said this could go on? Edith put her hands on her hips, breathing indignant little snorts.
Oh, come off it, Gran Edith! Youre hopeless when it comes to telly. No, Victoria Fox is an actress, not an actual fox or a snake. Tom shoved a crisp in his mouth and washed it down with lemonade. Edith, now sharing his shady spot by the currant bush, reached for the snack bag.
No, not for you, all that salts no good, Tom said, whisking it away.
Dont fuss so! Just a crumb, Tom, I only want to taste. Youve heard what they say: its not the smoking or the drink, its clean livingll kill you in the end. A teensy one, please! Edith pleaded with a schoolgirl pout.
Tom, despairing, handed the bag over at last. Here, all right! Just dont sigh at me again.
Edith, her chin nestled in her palms, soon had her wrinkled facelike an old pancake with a potato for a noseall puckered in bliss as she sniffed two crisps gently. Bit overdone, but delicious nonetheless! she decided, nibbling. So tell me, this Foxwhats the film about? Is it wildlife? What if her wild beast gets out and strangles my chickens? Are you sure theyll keep it locked up, Tom?
Tom rolled his eyes at Gran Ediths pastry face. Gran, pay attention! Shes not a beast, shes an actress! Victoria Fox, maybe from Nottingham or Bristol, cant remember. Hosted that show on the price of butter. Remember?
Edith squinted, thinking. The one with the pink suit and wild hair?
No, the dark-haired one! Young, about twenty-three, proper looker, too! Tom passed the lemonade. Edith refused.
A beauty and a wild one? Never heard of her. And whats she nattering about butter for? Prices are steady, I checked at market today! What am I doing, anyway? The butter will melt if I dont get going. And you, Tom, dont lingerno knowing what trouble your television types might cause. Better off at home!
She bustled off towards her cottage, the same one where, for years, shed handed out boiled sweets to local kiddies and painted Easter eggs with curlicues and yellow willow branchesjust as her late husband taught her. Lovely, they were.
Tom would often hang by Ediths fence where the old pull-up bar stood. Hed do a jumping routine, throw some punches, and dangle from the bar, but never manage a single pull-up. Edith always shook her head, saying he needed a sturdier core and a bit of hard work for some real musclebut Tom couldnt be bothered and drifted about the village all summer munching crisps and sharing them with his not-quite-gran.
Itd become a ritual: theyd lounge, talk about the weather, Edith would recount her dreams and shopping finds, Tom would add tales from his games and online worlds, Edith would cluck her tongue, shake her head, and shamble slowly on.
Today, however, Edith was stepping out lively, flinging her legs like a ponythe butter really was melting!
A little further on, Edith stopped, blinking at an alien encampment of caravans, vans, folding tables cluttered with crates, and benches where somber types pecked at laptops, finishing egg mayo sandwiches with grim persistence. Such cityfolk, she thoughtso pinched! Swifts darting above, a woodpecker drumming, the lime trees thick with yellow blossomsnone of it mattered to this grim crew.
Labels were taped to the caravansButterfly, Lady,Edith snorted at Lady, reminded of her old cats nameSock, Julie, Archie, and more. Each van, apparently, had its inhabitantsome put-upon actor, rehearsing inside. Odd lot, she mused.
Edith looked for a shady nook to stash her bags, settled for a soft patch of grass, then curiously fingered the garments dangling from makeshift railscoats, jumpers, and items quite incomprehensible to Edith.
She sorted them mentally: those she liked on her right, the rejects on her left.
Security! Whose grans poking about on set? A scarecrow of a man popped out of the Sock caravan, with a villainous grin Edith decided must be for a baddie role. Get her off site! Shes rifling the props! he shrieked.
Im not peering in anywhere, thank you. Treading on my clover, they are, where I courted my late Harry. These are just jumble sale goods, my granddaughter told methey call it a charity shop nowadays, wear it, pass it on! Edith retorted, standing her ground. Dont try anything!
Unbelievable! the man shrilled, mussing his thinning hair. Can we clear the riffraff, please?!
Two beefy security guards materialised, each taking Ediths elbow. As her feet left the ground, they guffawed.
Unhand me! My bagswatch the eggs! Edith scolded, yanking up an old pair of blue wool joggers bequeathed from Harry (also secondhand, in their way). Planting herself, she shrieked as a proper village woman might if her family were being hauled away by the constabulary: Help, help, Im being kidnapped! Call the police, hooligans are about!
But Tom appeared at her side. Leave it, Gran, theyre huge, and were not. Lets go. Youve got butter, the chickens are roaming, come on! he whispered.
The threat of marauding chickens focused Edithshe wriggled free, grabbed her bags, and hurried off. Tom, I locked the gate as you saidhowd the chickens escape again?
Keep quiet, Gran, Tom urged. These are important people, Victoria Fox is mates with the mayor, they say. What if they nick you for trespass?
For trespass? Like send me away? My Harry was packed off once, just for taking a pinch of flour. Lucky, someone pitied him and sent him home. Oh, whereve my chickens gone? Edith wailed. The gates shut, Tom! All right, help me carry the bags. Whats your mum up to today?
Still at work, double shift again. Short on nurses. Shell be home late, Tom sighed.
His mum, Nina, worked endless hours at the small local hospital, sometimes gone three days straight. When she returned, she would barely make it to bed. Tom would watch over her, then bring her tea with honeya tradition inherited from Edith. Nina would whisper apologies, but Tom would lean in and kiss her brow.
Its all right, Mum. Ill heat up lunch. Made us fishcakes and mashed spuds, want some?
Tom had become both helper and man of the house, ever since his father died of cancer two years ago. Nina, a healer and yet unable to save her own dearest, could not quite forgive herself.
With onions, Tom?
And fried bits on the side.
Lovey, you spoil me
Edith eyed Tom fondly, her crumpet-like face wrinkling. So, your mums saving lives and youve just rescued me from TV rowdies. Thats settled. Go wash up, Ill whip up some scones. Want blackcurrant or strawberry jam? She rolled up her sleeves and found the old mixing bowl, tipping in soft, slightly sour curd cheese and hunting up the flour jar.
Tom scrubbed up, eager to help.
Edith wasnt real kin, nor even an immediate neighbour. Tom and his mum had moved into a brick block of flats, new to the village. They hadnt known Edith until fate intervened.
One morning, shed tottered into the hospital, sitting on a bench outside, quietly nursing her left armit was Tom, waiting for his mother, whod noticed her. Mum, theres a gran outside, looks in pain
Nina scolded Edith later for not calling an ambulance, but Edith had dismissed it. No sense troubling folks! Not enough ambulances, I waited out the night. Just tripped in the cabbage patch, had a sit until the black spots cleared. Then thought Id shuffle up to A&E.
An x-ray, a cast, a refusal to stay overnightbut she did invite Nina and Tom in for a nice bit of pie.
A one-armed pirate, making pies? Nina joked, but Edith had a way about hercosy, kind, soft hands like birds, blue fleece jacket too big for her, feet always in old garden clogs. No offer of trainers could tempt hernot Edith, stubborn as stone.
Thats how Tom became a regular at Ediths kitchen tablenever a burden, always a help. Nina, exhausted, was glad her son had someone to watch him.
They now fried up scones. Tom set out the plates, poured tea, and beamed as Edith smiled back, the ache in her legs and the grip on her shoulders foretelling rain. If it comes down, the strawberriesll be watery as anything. What a shame.
Just as theyd split the scones, sniffs and sobs echoed in from next door.
Eat up, Tom, Ill check in. Its Mrs Marsh, poor loveher Georges being made redundant, now hes in a right sulk.
Edith shuffled out and soon returned with Mrs Marsh in towso tall and broad, Tom was stunned she fit through the door.
Sit down, Steph, have some tea. No need to fret. Georgell be fine; storms pass. Tom, be a dear, Edith chirped.
Tom obliged, side-eyeing the mighty Steph.
Next, the postie arrivedIzzy, the local gossip, giving Tom a look as if to say, What are townies doing here?
Seen the film crews?! Edith told the assembly. Tom said the Fox herself is here! Mind you keep your curtains drawnwho knows what beasts are about!
Tom huffed. Not a beast, Granits Victoria Fox, not a snake!
Edith grinned and squeezed his hand. Oh, I know, Tom, actresses are just as ferocious some days. Thats what they call them at the circusstars with four legs!
Izzy gasped. Victoria Fox is in action films! I saw her punch out a robber in a movieshes fierce, not like our lot!
Well, its always the stuntsmen. That Fox is no fighter, she weighs less than my Sunday roast! snorted Steph.
And her mum must be well off, raking it in. Not like my gran, who still faffs about with bad teeth! Actresses, reallyId trust them as far as I could throw them, Izzy said, scratching her ankle where a nettle had caught her.
Lets not judge, Izzy. Oh, my, look at the rain! Edith peered out the windowthe sky was pouring.
Whatll become of their costumes left outside? Its all a hullabaloo. Tom, they nearly carted me off! Good job you rescued me.
She regaled them with her earlier adventure, painting Tom as a hero vanquishing security. The guests listened, mouths opening and closing as Edith embroidered, until all were stifling yawns.
The rain drummed soothingly; the warmth of tea and fresh scones made eyelids heavy.
Tom got up to leave, thanking Edithbut suddenly, chaos erupted.
Through the doorway barged five people, Sock at their head, mumbling apologies and fussing over the period look of Ediths kitchen. Three men dragged cameras and lights, and a lady toted a box of makeup. Edith blinked, wanting to object, but the room was a rush of instructions.
Sock babbled to Tom, Izzy squealed, Steph stood protector, and Edith peeped from behind her at the circus.
Tom, what is happening? she whispered, clutching his arm. Ive not taken a thing, and anyway, the scones are gone! Tell them, will you?
They dont want scones, Gran. They wantyou to come with them, Tom whispered, patting her hand.
She wont be going anywhere, Ill see to that! rumbled Steph, ready to swing for the production team. But by then they were rearranging the furniture, firing up lamps and spotlights.
Apocalypse, Edith whisperedshe loved saying it that way, with a bit of musical drama.
Fiona, give her a touch-up, but not too muchshes got the look, already, said Sock, directing the women to don headscarves. Play the parish woman at the councilgot it? Edith, youre the grumpy office assistant. We need paperwork, maybe a typewriter. Thats rightlovely!
But whats with the scarves? Whos dead, then? protested Steph.
Its the part, love. Youre waiting for the council chair to turn up, chatting to the clerkour Edith here, Sock explained, fussing further.
Hed noticed Ediths strong type right away and followed her here, knowing natural village folk played the best background characters.
Dont worry, Kir, all on track, soothed Fiona, powdering down Ediths crumpet cheeks as Edith basked in the commotion, half-convinced she was dreaming.
Attagirl, were all set! Fiona murmured, brushing an anxious Kirs shoulder.
They rehearsed the shot, swapped out digital watches for old ones, and as things finally calmed, a tiny girl stomped inhair soaking, nose pert, dressed oddly like a younger Edith. She dashed to the table, jabbed the typewriter keys, then shrieked, The barns are burning!
A breathless silence followedand then Edith leapt up, shoving Steph so hard she nearly bowled Kir over, elbowing her way to the door.
What are you on, pet? Its tipping buckets out there! Fiona tried to block her.
The cows! Theyll need saving! gasped Edith. Tom, ring the fire brigadeoh, blazes
With raincoat flapping, Edith rushed outsideuntil Sock caught her by the gate.
Mrs BrownEdith, please! There are no barns, its just in the script. We needed the excitement and you and your friends saved the scene! Honestly, well use your real voicesitll be wonderful. Please, come in, youll catch your death!
Out of breath, Kir clutched his chest. Edith, a bit embarrassed, realised it was all make-believe after all.
But what about that lovely girl shouting? What was that for? Edith chided him, then kindly offered, Come home, Ill give you some pickles. Like gherkins?
Back inside, the camera team played back what theyd filmed: Stephs horrified face, Izzys confusion, Ediths resolute glare, Tom scratching his chinhed be retaking that shot, they told him.
The little messenger girl stood by the window, watching the rain. Edith beckoned her, Come on, get in the spare room and into a dressing gown or youll catch your death. Tom, on with the tea, please.
The girl smiled. Thank you. Its justmy great-gran lived in a house like this, with the same smell of flour and jam Funny, I barely remember her face, but I do remember the house. Can I just sit here for a bit, and warm up?
If your mum was here, shed scold you for sitting in wet things. Towels in there. Your hands are ice! Edith fussed, as Tom hurried to make tea.
Tom leaned in to whisper to Edith, Thats heryou know, Victoria Fox!
What, that little thing? That cant be! exclaimed Edith.
She isshes the star. You never can tell, can you? mused Edith, recalling ancient actressesperhaps they could look like anything, after all.
Soon, everyone clustered around the table againKir brought kebabs, Edith plonked down her homemade pickles. They laughed and chattered, eating and sipping and sighing over the days surreal events. Tom couldnt help watching Victoria Foxjust an ordinary girl, despite her strange, snaky name.
Thanks to Kirs insistence, everyone received a little reward; he roared down the phone it was not stealing budget but recognising true local talent. Victoria gave him an approving smilehe made a fine figure, really, for a string bean.
By autumn, when the programme aired, the whole village took pride in Edith the clerk, Steph, Izzy and Tom up on the little screen.
The film was a hit, slice of life, they called it. Victoriajust Vicky, to Edithvisited often, bringing city treats, always trying to please Edith. Why? Because something about Ediths cottage warmth stayed with youwhether you were a star or a simple Tom or Vicky. Once youd felt that comfort, you spent a lifetime seeking it, and when found, you settled in by its hearth for as long, and as close, as you couldWhen the credits rolled that blustery November night, Potters Lane whooped and cheered so loudly the foxes outside fled. Nina wept, squeezing Toms shoulders; Steph shook Ediths hand with such gusto she nearly toppled her chair. Even Izzy, whod sworn to the end shed spot every slip-up, raised a mug and toasted Our Edithstar of screen and jam!
As for Edith, flushed and bashful amid the fuss, she shooed them all into the parlour and shuffled away, returning with a tin of sugar-dusted rock cakes saved just for the occasion. Vicky, whod slipped in late from the station car, perched on the armrest beside Tom and nibbled her cake with a reverence befitting royal offerings.
Never thought Id see my kitchen on telly, Edith chuckled. But I suppose the real show is right here, eh? Good neighbours and a kettle that never quite cools.
Outside, the rain had eased, dew beading on the grass, and from the window, Tom could see the village cats prowling in the half-light, chasing moths. The world had shrunk for a momentfrom spotlights and minivans, bursting with city dramato the hush of home and hands around the table, with laughter rising like bread in the warm air.
Vicky looked at Ediththe kind of look you keep safe for your pocket on lonely days. You know, Miss Edith, it might be I came to Potters Lane to act, but Im staying for your scones and stories.
Edith winked, her eyes crinkling like pastry edges. Good. If you ever grow tired of the big world, remember: theres always a seat at this table, fame or no fame. All you need is clean hands and a bit of appetite.
Tom grinned, jiggling his mug so the spoon rattled. Reckon theres a bit of star in all of us, Gran.
And a bit of Potters Lane now in her, Edith replied, glancing at Vicky, who nodded, tongue half out in concentration as she spread jam across her second rock cake.
The kettle whistled once more. As the cups were passed and the talk spun on, nobody remembered to fuss about wild actresses or runaway chickens or the price of butter. They remembered only the feelingof scones, of company, of being, for one night at least, exactly where they belonged.
And from then on, every Thursday, rain or shine, youd find a table aglow at Ediths, crowded with laughter and biscuits, stardust scattered quietly among the crumbs.
