The Dunstable Tablecloth That Took Flight

The first customer I met in Dunstable this morning was a tablecloth. It came sailing over a privet hedge, wrapped itself round my shoulders and settled there as though I’d been appointed mayor of lunchtime. I was still finding my way out when a voice called, ‘Don’t move! You’re wearing the good embroidery!’

Mrs Fenella Bunting appeared through her side gate carrying a wooden clothes peg between her teeth. I’ve cleaned her windows for years, and I know that when Fenella has a peg in her mouth, something important is happening. Usually it involves linen, weather, or both.

‘Garden lunch,’ she explained, rescuing the cloth from my salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Six places. Proper sandwiches. And this wind has absolutely no manners.’

Behind her, the garden looked lovely. Six mismatched chairs stood round a long table, sweet peas nodded in jam jars, and a cake waited beneath a mesh cover. I helped peg the cloth securely in place, then fetched my window-cleaning kit from the van.

By the time I’d finished the upstairs glass, five people had arrived. There was Fenella, her neighbour Orson Vale, two sisters from the little close behind her house, and a cheerful woman carrying enough cucumber sandwiches to insulate a loft. They all admired the table. Nobody sat down.

Fenella checked her watch. Then the gate. Then her watch again.

‘Waiting for somebody?’ I asked.

‘Lionel Preece. Moved into number seventeen last month. He’s hardly met anyone yet.’ She straightened a perfectly straight fork. ‘He said he’d come. I hope we haven’t frightened him off by making a fuss.’

I knew Lionel: a quiet chap with excellent roses and a front window full of model boats. That morning, as I’d driven past, I’d seen him standing in his doorway with his coat on. It didn’t seem like he’d forgotten.

‘I’ll knock,’ I said. ‘I’m heading that way for the next house anyway.’

Number seventeen was only a short walk away. Lionel opened the door before I’d quite finished knocking. He still had his coat on. On the hall table beside him sat a shallow cardboard box containing something brown, crumbly and rather defeated.

‘I made a cake,’ he said.

I looked at the box.

‘It was taller before I tried getting it out of the tin.’

He’d promised Fenella he would bring his late wife’s ginger cake. It was the first time he’d attempted her recipe, and he’d spent the morning following the handwritten instructions. Unfortunately, he hadn’t waited for it to cool.

‘I can’t turn up with that,’ he said. ‘They’ll think I’m hopeless.’

‘Lionel, I arrived wearing the tablecloth. The standard’s already been set.’

That earned a small smile.

I asked whether he had a knife and a serving plate. He fetched both, and I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. Between us, we cut the larger pieces into little squares and arranged them neatly. The crumbs went into a bowl for later. Lionel tried a square, then offered me one.

Warm ginger, sticky edges. Lovely.

We walked back together, me carrying the plate while he held his wife’s recipe, carefully folded in his pocket.

Fenella opened the gate with such obvious delight that Lionel’s shoulders dropped straight away. She found room for his cake beside hers, and Orson pulled out the empty chair.

When I finished the last window, all six were talking at once. Lionel was explaining the trick with the treacle, although he admitted he wasn’t yet qualified to explain the tin.

Fenella sent me away with a sandwich wrapped in a napkin. I tucked it safely into the van before the wind could nominate me for another civic honour. Through the bright glass, I could see Lionel reaching across the table to offer somebody the last square.