THE SECOND DAY

Jacob shoves a discarded beer can into his refuse sack and bends to snatch for a plastic crisp packet dancing and skittering around people’s feet. It is late afternoon and crowds are milling all around him, waiting for the next set to begin. Further away, snatches of music can be heard from other stages around the festival site, but here at the main stage the speakers are silent during the pause. Jim Glasgow is due up in just under half an hour and Jacob is looking forward to hearing him sing. Now that’s more what music should be: decent lyrics and a tune you can hum. Not like this monotonous, repetitious stuff all the young kids seem to like so much nowadays.

The sound of flapping catches his attention. A wooden tent peg from a nearby stall has broken and the canvas is thrashing about, the useless guy rope whipping dangerously in the wind. Jacob grabs at it, coils it and ties it up. The trees in the coppice behind the campground are bending and tossing, their branches flailing beneath a gunmetal sky, heavy with rain. Turning towards the sea, Jacob watches for a moment and sees white spray arcing up from the rocks beyond the beach. The smooth, silvery surface of the water yesterday has given way to a menacing pewter, flecked with white. On the beach, waves are building, drawing themselves up, then hurling down onto the sand and pebbles. A small crowd has gathered to watch, people laughing and snapping selfies on their phones, the angry water crashing behind them.

Jacob sucks in his breath and pulls the radio from the pocket of his waxed jacket.

‘Luke, you there?’ He lifts his thumb from the transmit button, listening intently. There is no response. ‘Luke, this is Jacob. The weather’s looking bad. Reckon we’ve got problems.’ Again he listens anxiously for a reply but there is silence. Then he hears John’s voice.

‘Jacob, it’s John. I’ve been trying to get hold of Luke but he’s not responding. God knows where he is. Where are you?’

‘John, I’m by the main stage. The wind’s picking up. There’s a storm on the way – much worse than we thought.’ Jacob has to raise his voice to be heard above the noise around him.

‘Reckon you’re right. I’m on my way down to you.’

As Jacob thrusts the radio back in his pocket, he hears a distant rumble of thunder. Looking towards the big house, he glimpses John’s old Land Rover nosing its way down the hill towards him through the hordes of people.

*

*

‘There is more stock in the boxes underneath the middle table, Anneke. The macrame dreamcatchers are a good seller and thankfully I made plenty. It’s so kind of you to mind the stall. Piran has been really good, but I need a break with him so he can play on the beach a bit.’

‘You go on, I’ll enjoy it. I hope the rain keeps off. It’s getting blustery.’

‘Bless you. There’s change in the little grey tin underneath the table’.

‘That’s fine. My goodness – your bunting is getting tangled. I’ll fix it. Go on and have your break’.

‘See you in about an hour’. Karenza hurries off in the direction of the beach, the stiff breeze whipping her skirts. Anneke watches with a smile as Piran rushes along with her, arms outstretched, head down, imitating an aeroplane, in the buffeting wind. He has been with Kevin but he has now gone back to the music and the buzz of the festival. Anneke is fond of the little family, always feeling a pang when she sees how Piran is growing.

She busies herself trying to protect Karenza’s stall from the change in the weather. Thunder rumbles in the distance followed by the inevitable crack of lightning. Scanning the horizon, she sees John down on the quay. The waves are coming in high now, breaking over the top and he is herding people away.

Here comes the rain, she thinks. She struggles with a large, clear, polythene cover, determined to protect Karenza’s beautiful wares. The cover flaps into her face, then a squall whips it out of her hands, lifting it high into the darkening sky like a huge, unanchored kite. She has to let go, watching in despair as it takes flight.

*

Up at the house, Margaret is taking a moment to have coffee when Luke strolls into the kitchen.

‘As we’re between sets, I thought you might like to meet Jim Glasgow, our star from North Carolina. How about a whisky with that coffee? It’s getting chilly out there.

Bending to get through the door is a tall, bearded man with a dazzling American smile. He wears a battered black leather jacket with an enormous eagle emblazoned on the back. The cuffs are pushed up exposing sinewy brown arms. His weathered face folds into smile lines and his blue eyes twinkle as he stoops to offer his hand to Margaret.

‘So pleased to meet you, ma’am – it’s an honour to be able to perform on your beautiful ancient estate.’

Margaret rises, inclines her head coquettishly, pats her hair and laughs, ‘I feel as though I should be asking for your autograph! I remember the first time I heard a record of yours, a friend who had just come back from America gave it to me on my birthday. It was so different from Cliff Richard and The Beatles at that time. I always wondered though… why are you called Jim Glasgow?’

‘Well, it’s a long story. My Scottish grandfather married a local Cherokee woman and they always insisted on my wearing a kilt on special occasions, so it became my nickname at school – got me into a lot of fights too… you know, the ‘Glasgow kiss’!’

He leans closer and grins. ‘Have you got any secrets, Margaret?’

“Well we certainly did have some wonderful times in the 60s – so many parties, so much music and singing. I performed too, for a short while – dancing, but I wasn’t the right shape for classical ballet.’

‘Well, you look in perfect shape to me – maybe we should take a spin around your kitchen, for old time’s sake. Turn up the radio, Luke.’ With that he whisks her into his arms and they twirl around the room to George Ezra singing on Radio 2.

Margaret is delighted. Such a charming man, making her feel like the beautiful, exuberant girl she once was rather than being treated like an old invalid. It was fun to flirt again.

She pauses for breath as three tall, beautiful girls rush in, their sequinned dresses shimmering, holding satin jackets above their heads.

‘Hey Ma’am – it sure can rain on your Cornish Riviera,’ says one. ‘Jim, we’ve got ten minutes before we’re on.

Jim downs his whisky. ‘Must catch up with you again soon Margaret,’ and he bends to kiss her on the cheek.

Luke’s phone is ringing incessantly but he just tops up his glass as another band bursts in, a surly group of inner-city teenagers without a good manner between them.

‘Any food in here – it’s f…ing foul out there and all the f….ing food vans are shutting up. What you got, Luke?’

Luke shifts uneasily, ‘I’m sure we can find something – Margaret, what can we offer  these boys?’

‘I wasn’t really expecting to entertain people up here – I thought you had the catering organized down on the site.’ Margaret stands helpless as the band push past her into the larder, emerging with a ham, bread, a chocolate cake, and several bottles of wine and beer.

‘This’ll do. Thanks darlin’.’

‘So this is where you are!’ Several tottering girlfriends crash through the door and squeeze around the table, shedding wet cagoules and muddy healed boots. Margaret watches in increasing distress. Luke is nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 41