We stop for a few moments to watch the birds of prey and their handlers. There are falcons, hawks, buzzards and a magnificent eagle owl. They are fascinating, beautiful creatures and we both agree we could easily watch them all day, with their intelligent yellow eyes and haughty expressions. Finally, we spy the VIP tent with a couple of burly bouncers outside.
‘Hello,’ I say to one of them. ‘Is Marcia here? The Mayor told us it would be okay for us to see her.’
‘Wait there,’ he says and disappears inside the tent. He returns moments later with a large round lady, dressed from head to toe in royal blue silk. She has an unflattering blue bonnet perched on her shiny bowl haircut and a row of green bangles jangle on her arm. She’s drains the contents of her pint glass as she strides towards us.
‘Hello, hello. I’m Marcia Rowbotham. You must be our visitors. Care for a drink? I’m on the Old Ozzlehorn, it’s a great tipple.’
She shakes our hands and we follow her into the tent. The interior sparkles like a glamorous five-star hotel in a scene from a movie. We have to take our footwear off at the entrance and put on a pair of silken embroidered Turkish slippers. I can see why, as I step from grass into deep cream shag-pile carpet.
Great long sofas and ornate armchairs have been arranged in cosy groups around low dark wood tables. Dining tables are laid out in elegant rows. Crystal chandeliers glitter from the ceiling and a string quartet plays soothing sounds, blending with soft chatter and the gentle clink of glasses and silver cutlery. You would never guess we were in the middle of a field on a hot summer’s day.
Next to the bar, a sumptuous buffet is laid out on white cloth-covered trestles and the VIPs are digging in with barely-concealed abandon, all as outlandishly dressed as Marcia Rowbotham. It’s a strange sight and these eccentric people look completely at odds with their formal surroundings.
‘What can I do for you young ‘uns?’ she says, handing us each a half pint of beer and motioning for us all to sit on one of the sofas.
‘We were just wondering if it would be possible to stay here overnight and then carry on with our journey in the morning?’ I ask.
‘Course it would. Not a problem. You can stay with us at the Lodge. Aubs and I will meet you for afternoon tea at four, we’ll talk then. Now I must get back to meeting and greeting. You go off and enjoy yourselves. We’ll see you later. Leave the glasses in the tent, when you’ve finished.’
She heaves her huge bulk off the soft armchair and is gone. My stomach is rumbling with disappointment that she didn’t offer us any of the delicious-looking food from the buffet, and the beer’s making me light-headed. But on second thoughts, I’m relieved we don’t have to stay and make small talk with strangers. I want Luc all to myself.
We spend a glorious three-and-a-half hours, eating, drinking and dozing in the sunshine. We also have a good wander around the fair, exclaiming at the exceptionally gorgeous farm animals – shaggy coated cattle, llamas, plumptious poultry, curly horned rams, comical ducks, spotted pigs, yellow-eyed goats and all their adorable offspring. We watch the show jumping, the pony and trap display and the tractor racing.
As much as I’m enjoying all the sights, my breath is shallow and my senses are heightened. Each time Luc touches my hand or my arm, it’s like I’m on fire. When we kiss lightly, I want the world to melt away so we can kiss deeply. But now isn’t the time and I have to tell myself that we’ve got all the time in the world. That we can enjoy having fun this afternoon, because the rest can come later.
The highlight of the afternoon’s entertainment is Penny Purvis, a drunken goose shepherdess, trying to herd her flock through a tricky course, in front of a highly amused audience. She’s wearing a microphone and swearing like a trooper to her oblivious birds, prompting howls of laughter and outraged gasps, before being forcibly removed from the arena. Time whizzes by in a contented blur and soon four o’clock rolls around – time for tea.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Four months later, on an icy cold February morning, Johnny returned to Gloucestershire. The bombings had eased off now, but the borders stayed firmly closed. The military were frantically recruiting as nearly half their force was still trying to get back from overseas and there were rumours they would start compulsory drafting soon.
Petrol was non-existent and there’d been no food on the supermarket shelves for weeks. People hawked produce in the streets and goods were traded as British coin was currently worthless. People wanted food, alcohol, tobacco and medicine. Pharmacies and hospitals had been emptied of stocks. Supplies, supposed to be on their way, just weren’t getting through to their destinations. Electricity, phones, gas and water were functioning, but only intermittently and people hoarded bottled water.
We were lucky to be in a small village and not a big town or city where there were riots and looting. It was a surreal time, where a person could be stabbed to death for a pack of cigarettes.
Johnny came round to call for me on a Saturday night. I was nervous about seeing him again as a lot had changed since we last met. He came in and chatted to my parents and my brothers. He’d brought a case of red wine and a caddy of loose-leaf tea with him as a gift for my parents and they were delighted to accept such a generous gift. He said not to worry, he had plenty at home and he would be offended if they didn’t accept.
It was unsafe to go out at night now, due to the curfew and I wondered how Johnny had managed to avoid it. He wanted to take me out that evening, but my parents forbid it and he accepted their decision. We went and sat in the conservatory at the back of the house instead. My mum offered him a glass of the precious wine, but he declined and said he’d rather have a cup of tea. We had to drink it black, as we had no milk.
‘You’ve got petrol,’ I said.
‘Yes, I’ve got good contacts.’
As I sat in the wicker armchair, next to him, I smoothed my hands over my stomach. His eyes followed my hands and I heard his sharp intake of breath. His eyes widened and then he composed himself, looking up into my defensive eyes.
‘Is it his?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ I had the good grace to look down.
‘How far gone are you?’
‘Twenty six weeks.’
‘Congratulations.’ He didn’t look or sound as if he meant it.
‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,’ I said. ‘To meet up again after all this time.’ I felt bad for him.
‘You being pregnant doesn’t change why I’ve come here. I’ve got a proposition for you and I’d like you to hear me out before you say anything, or make any decision.’ His voice sounded harsh and unfriendly, but I was curious to hear what he’d come to tell me.
‘What is it, Johnny?’
‘I went back home and… well, Bournemouth’s a virtual war zone now.
‘What!’
‘No one’s safe, not even in their homes. I’ve had to hire armed guards to protect my place.’
I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like.
‘My next-door-neighbours, the Donovans, they own a security firm and they’ve come up with a good idea. Eddie Donovan’s a smart man and I trust him.’
‘What’s his idea?’
‘We’ve sectioned off the area where we live and hired guards to protect it from the looters and all the nutcases. In our area, we’ve all clubbed together and put up an enclosure. We had to do it quickly, before they trashed everything. It’s basic, but it’s high and secure. And now we’ve got guards patrolling its perimeter 24 7. Some outsiders were pretty angry, because we’ve sealed-off quite a few roads. They got the army to check it out, but the army has agreed we’re within our rights to defend our properties.’