Page 82 of One Last Try

“The new roof . . . it’ll benefit the entire community, yeah?”

“Yeah . . .” she replies, still frowning like I’ve lost my mind.

“And we want to plan a community event . . .”

She folds her arms and pouts her lips impatiently.

“Then we need the community to help us convince him. He’s not gonna listen to me, and he won’t listen to you, but what if everyone presented a different argument towards it? What the pub means to them individually, and then together we fight the community angle. I mean, The Little ThatchisMudford-upon-Hooke’s community centre anyway.”

“Okay . . . I like it,” she says. She’s hesitant, though.

“But?” There’s definitely a but in there somewhere.

“But even if we convince him to have this kitsch as fuck county fete, are we really gonna raise thirty-five grand from selling jams and Victoria sponges and fucking hook-the-ducks?”

Damn. She’s right. I slump against the bar top. No. No fucking way. That’s big-league type of money. I’m still not discounting the idea of a match, though. A twenty-four hour rugby-a-thon, or getting some of the Cents lads involved.If we could get some sponsorship or . . . I don’t know, proper media coverage maybe.

But who would want to film a small-town sevens game?

Then it hits me. All at once. Like a freight train right in the face. It might ruin any chance I have of finding peace and respect with the Cents fans, but I’m fine with that. I’ve been dealing with this team’s rejection for years. It’s nothing new.

“Okay, Daisy Bosley, prepare yourself, because I have just had the idea to end all ideas.”

31

Thursday 8th May 2025

Owen

I’ve been ushered to sit at the table Viv typically occupies. It’s right in the centre of the pub and faces the big screen telly on the wall. Daisy places a pint of Hooker’s Dribble in front of me and holds out two packets of crisps—cheese and onion, and salt and vinegar. Evidently, I’m supposed to make a selection. I grab the salt and vinegar. Will Shakespeare curls up against my legs, and nestles his dribbly jowls in my lap, and suddenly I’m lamenting my decision to don shorts this morning.

“What is all thisin aid of?” I ask.

Daisy takes the rejected bag of crisps, opens it, and starts munching them. Urgh, that’s my stock she’s abusing. “Before we start the quiz, we’ve put together a presentation for you. Well, Mathias put together the presentation, but we’ve all contributed.”

“All?”

“Yep, everyone. Lan, Viv, Tom and Bryn, Rodge, Ange, even little Willy.” At the mention of his name, Will Shakespeare lifts his head, smushing his slobber along my bare thigh. His tail thuds lazily against the flagstone. “Mathias bought a special pointer for the presentation.”

“It was either a plain boring pointer, or this one.” Mathias takes something from his back pocket. It’s a short silver stick, and with one sweeping motion, he extends it to over a metre in length. On the end is a tiny white pointing Mickey Mouse’s hand.

Today Mathias is wearing pale-pink dress shorts and a navy floral shirt unbuttoned to the base of his cross. On anyone else, the outfit could be comical, but Mathias looks like a fucking catwalk model. His hair has that “just been railed,” tousled vibe, and frankly it’s all very distracting. I’m doubtful whether I’ll absorb any of this presentation; I’ll probably just be watching Mathias all night with my jaw on the floor. I’m almost definitely dribbling more than Mr Shakespeare.

“What kind of idiot needs a pointer to do a presentation?” Roger yells from behind me somewhere.

“Hey! I don’t shit on your dreams,” Mathias snaps, and it fills me with unbridled joy that he doesn’t hesitate to tell Roger off. And also that his dream is to do a presentation with a pointer. Jesus. I don’t know why that makes me feel all weird and fuzzy.

Mathias’s fancy laptop is positioned on the edge of the bar. He fiddles with it, and an image appears on the TV. It’s an opening slide from PowerPoint. On it, cut-outs of everyone’s heads seem to float around the edges like a border, and in the centre the text reads:Operation Under One Roof.

“That’s the official title,” he says, smashing his pointer against the screen.

“Watch out you don’t break my telly,” I say.

“Owen, I’ll be honest. This thing’s so old and decrepit that at this point, breaking it would be doing you a favour.” He slaps the TV again. “Official title.Operation Under One Roof.” The way his mouth ticks up at the corner, I know he’s proud of that pun.

“But what about—” Roger begins.

Mathias puts his hand up. “No. We are no longer entertaining project name ideas. You had your chance, and you couldn’t come up with anything not stupid.Thatch Wankersis not it, okay? I don’t find it funny. I don’t want to be a thatch wanker.”

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