The honeymoon had been wonderful; they had stayed at the Glitter Bay Hotel, and done all the touristy things: parasailed, surfed, swum with dolphins, and danced to various wonderful bands night after night on various wonderful beaches. And then returned home to the reality of cottage number one.
Actually, Abi was very happy there. She was absorbed with starting her company, planning the festival, learning to ride-at which she proved rather adept: “We’ll have you out with the hounds soon… all two of them,” Mr. Grainger had said with his usual heavy wink-and struggling to cook. After a few weeks of overambitious failures, she gave up and simply served endless enormous roasts, which were easy and satisfied William’s awesome appetite. Mrs. Grainger left her alone for the most part, occasionally arriving at cottage number one with pies and puddings and chutneys and jams-“I know how busy you are; this might help a bit”-which Abi became swiftly grateful for. She knew Mrs. Grainger’s motives were not entirely good, being partly to contrast with her own efforts, but on the other hand it all tasted wonderful.
And here they were on the morning of the festival, with three thousand tickets sold. “Three thousand, I can’t believe it,” Georgia had said. “It’s amazing.”
Abi told her it wasn’t amazing enough-they needed twice that to make any real money; they were way overbudget on the bands. “But we should get loads more on the day… as long as it isn’t tipping down.”
“You said it would be tipping down,” said Georgia. “You can’t get out of it that easily.”
The best thing was that Barney’s bank, BKM, had agreed to sponsor it.
“Only a rather modest amount, I’m afraid,” Barney had told Abi. “Ten grand, piss in a pot to them, but it should help a bit. And they’ll want their pound of flesh or whatever, be credited on all the publicity and so on. They’re actually rather tickled by it. My boss said he’d bring a few friends if it’s a good day.”
Abi told him she didn’t see ten grand as either modest or a piss in a pot, and that she’d thank Barney’s boss personally in the best way she knew how.
“Best not,” said Barney, grinning at her. “He’s gay.”
She got up now, pulled on some jeans, her wellies, and her Barbour-“Who’d ever have thought I’d be seen alive in a Barbour?” she said to Georgia. “But they really do keep the water out better than anything”-and drove down to the site.
It was still only seven, but the place was already full of people. She looked at it from the top of the hill, at her creation, at the transformation of the small lush valley into something so unrecognisably different, and felt a mixture of pride and terror in more or less equal proportions. The cows had been moved out, mildly protesting, a week ago, ousted by a rival herd of huge lorries, massive power lines, tall arc lights, neat rows of portaloos and showers; the brilliant red-and-yellow-striped arena stood at the heart of the site, a flag fluttering from the top bearing the words, In Good Company, a battery of lights above the stage, a rather random array of mikes and other sound equipment standing on it, together with keyboards and drum kits, waiting to be called to order by their musician masters, and even a rather incongruous-looking piano-that would be for Georgia’s friend Anna, the jazz singer, and her daughter-and on either side of it, two huge screens. She parked her car at the site entrance; a couple of portacabins stood just inside the gate. Rosie, the site manager, waved at her and ran over, pulling the hood of her jacket up over her head.
“Hi, Abi. Lovely day.”
“Shit, isn’t it?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Good thing we persuaded William to put down that stone. You’ll need this…” She wrapped a brilliant green plastic strap round Abi’s wrist. “Being Mrs. Farmer won’t get you far today. Green is all areas, for people like us and the bands, yellow for all the stall holders, red for the punters; don’t take it off whatever you do. Security doesn’t take prisoners. They’ve arrived too; they’re in the other hut.”
“OK, thanks. What time did you get here?”
“Four,” said Rosie cheerfully. “So much to do.”
“Four!” said Abi. “I hope we’re not paying you overtime.”
“Course you are. No, it’s fine. My big worry now is Health and Safety; you know they come to do their final inspection an hour before the first band plays…”
“Yeah.”
“They called late last night to say they might be late, got another to do the other side of the M 4. Which is a total bugger; it could hold us up for hours if they find a cable they’re not happy with or something.”
“Yeah, William’s friend who does one of these every year said they once held them up till ten thirty. Oh, God. You’d think there’d be enough of them to go round, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” said Rosie. “And… oh, look, here comes food. I said they could come anytime after seven. They won’t mind the rain; they sell more.”
A small armada of trailer-towing vans was moving down the hill, into the site. “I’ll have to go, tell them where to park. Still happy with what we agreed?”
“Course,” Abi said.
She wondered what on earth Mrs. Grainger might be doing, sent up a small but fervent prayer for a brief, violent, and nonfatal illness, and walked across to a desperate-looking girl at the entrance who said she was in charge of what she called the kiddie roundabouts; one of the trailers had driven into the farmyard by mistake and been unable to turn round, and a very unhelpful woman had refused to move her Land Rover, which would make things much easier. No violent illnesses yet, then, Abi thought, and told the girl to follow her back up the track.
Emma and Barney arrived at eleven, just as a very large white van got hopelessly stuck in the mud.
“What are we going to do?” wailed Abi. “It’s going to block the way for everyone else; half the stalls aren’t here yet and-”
“Abi, I’m no farmer,” said Barney, “but a tractor’d sort that out in no time. Where’s William?”
“He’s trying to sort out some problem with the power leads. The supply isn’t enough, apparently; now they tell us-Over there, look…”
“I’ll go and ask him,” said Barney.
He came back grinning.
“He says he can’t stop what he’s doing, but if I could get his dad or the cowman they’d bring a tractor down. Where do I find either of those people?”
“No idea where his dad is. Strangling his mother, I hope. But the cowman-Ted, he’s called-he’ll almost certainly be up in the cowshed. There’s a cow calving; apparently she’s in real trouble; they’re getting the vet; he won’t be able to leave her just to drive the tractor. Oh, God…”
“I can drive a tractor,” said Barney unexpectedly, “if it’s OK with William.”
“God, I don’t know. He loves those tractors. Far more than he loves me.”
“Do you know where I might find one?”
“Well… yes. There’s one parked outside the lambing shed. I saw it as I came down.”
“Take me to it. I’ll risk William’s wrath.”
“But, Barney… Oh, shit. What a nightmare. Can you really drive a tractor? I mean really?”
“I really can. Chap I was at school with, his dad had a farm; we used to drive the tractors all over the place whenever I went to stay with him.”
“But-”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t say he could drive a tractor if he couldn’t, Abi,” said Emma. “He’s awfully clever.”
“Emma, you’d think Barney could drive a rocket into space. I’ve never known love to make anyone so blind.”
“Yes, OK. But-”
“Look, we’ve got to do something,” said Barney. He pointed at the van; the driver had got out and was squaring up to the security guard, calling him an evil nancy boy. The security guard pulled his radio out of his belt and started alternately talking into it and shouting at the van driver.