The Best of Times (78 page)

• • •

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 M4. 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.

“Oh, OK. I’ll drive you up there. Emma, you stay here and tell William some lie if he comes over.”

“OK,” said Emma cheerfully.

• • •

She looked around her. It all looked—stuck van aside—extremely organised.

The food trailers were all in place and putting up their shutters, revealing signs that said things like,
Best burgers
and
Finest fries
. A couple of girls were standing by a small children’s roundabout, giving a child a ride; two rainbow-coloured tents side by side announced that they were face painting and willow weaving; someone clearly with a sense of humour was hoisting a large hot-air balloon over the loos that read,
In Good Company
. A St. John’s ambulance tent was going up; a girl and a man were constructing a large barbecue under a pagoda tent, with a sign that said,
Paella: Biggest portions
, and a small but determined-looking queue was forming across the valley where the punters’ entrance was.

Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing and getting on with it. The air was thick with the crackle of walkie-talkies, the hurdy-gurdy music of the roundabouts, and the occasional burst of rock music as someone checked a sound system. And all the time the picture grew: more vans, more tents, more colour, more stalls. It was astonishing, rather like watching someone doing a giant jigsaw. God, Abi was a wonder. She’d masterminded all of this without any of the histrionics Georgia had brought to it, just got on and done it. William was a lucky chap; she hoped he knew it.

“Oh … William!” she said, realising he was behind her. “Hi.”

“Hi. Everything all right? Abi gone to find Ted?”

“Yes. I … think so.”

“Great. Sorry I can’t look after you properly, Emma. If you want a coffee, the site manager’s cabin’s got a kettle and stuff …”

“William, I don’t need looking after. Did you get the power problem sorted?”

“No, not yet. And that van’s causing chaos. God. If only this bloody rain would stop …”

“I think it is stopping,” said Emma, “actually. Well, it’s much lighter, more of a sort of drizzle, don’t you think?”

“No,” said William, looking up at the lowering sky, “I don’t. Oh, good, here comes Ted now. No, it’s not … it’s Barney. What the hell is he doing driving my tractor? Barney, you wanker, get out of that, for God’s sake; you’ll do the most terrible damage …”

“Piss off, William,” Abi shouted above the din. “Barney’s fine; he can drive this perfectly well, and you’d better get up to the cowshed—that calf’s a breach, and the vet needs help.”

“Where’s Ted?”

“Seeing to another calf. Go on, William, for God’s sake.”

William roared up the track in the Land Rover, with another agonised yell at Barney of, “You break my tractor, Fraser, I’ll have your goolies off.”

“You know what they say,” Abi said, grinning at Emma. “You wait ages for a calf and then they all come at once.”

“You’d think they might have waited another day,” said Emma. “So inconsiderate—they must have known what was going on. Abi, would you agree with me that the rain’s much lighter? Almost stopped?”

“Mmm. Not sure,” said Abi, and then, “God, good old Barney, he’s doing wonders with that thing. I hope that cow’s all right; we lost one last week; can’t afford another.”

Emma looked at her, her respect growing by the minute.

“Are you Abi? Security sent me over.” It was a girl dressed totally unsuitably in high-heeled red sandals and white trousers. “Tessa Stan-dish, Wiltshire Radio.”

“Oh … God. Yes. Cool. They said you might be coming. Let’s go over to the arena. Have you got any other shoes?”

“No. So stupid, but I wasn’t expecting to come this morning.”

“Tell you what,” said Abi. “We pass the welly stall. You can be our first paying customer. Here, look. Rainbow-coloured, madam? Spotted? Or even a pair of Hunters?”

• • •

Georgia was driving down the M4 just before one when she heard Tessa Standish: “Coming to you from In Good Company, the music festival based at Paget’s Farm, just off the M4 near Bridbourne. And I can tell you, if you’re thinking of coming you’re in for a treat. It looks fantastic, incredible array of stalls, wonderful bands on the programme, lots of them local, great camping area, stuff for the kids to do, and the most amazing setting. It could have been purpose-built for the occasion, a sort of natural amphitheatre … and don’t be put off by the weather, because the rain’s stopping here now, and there’s even a bit of sun fighting its way through. Now the headline band is BroadBand, playing at eight, but there are loads of others, starting with a folk band called—what are they called?—oh, yes, Slow-mo. They’re on at three. And it’s all for charity, in aid of the victims of the M4 crash last August and St. Marks Hospital, Swindon, so you’ll be doing some majorly good work if you come.”

It was awful to be so late; she’d wanted to be down first thing, really make herself useful, but the second on the new film had suddenly called her and said they needed rain to film a scene, and here it was, most obligingly; could she get over right away? So she’d had to get over.

Georgia had had a pretty amazing three months since
Moving Away
had gone on to the nation’s television screens. She had had rave notices—been proclaimed by various critics as “an incredible new talent,” and giving a “near perfect performance” and “exquisitely touching” and “a superbly intuitive actress.”

“I don’t understand it,” she’d said to Linda. “I know I wasn’t that good; I just know it. I’m not daft.”

“Maybe, but the thing is, darling, the camera loves you. It isn’t just models you hear that of; there are certain actors it’s true of too. It found more in your performance than you know was there, maybe than actually was there. Frankly, Georgia—and I’ve always been one of your biggest fans—I didn’t see you getting notices like this. You’re a one-in-a-million screen actress, and you should thank God fasting for it. And don’t come running to me after a bit saying you want to play Juliet at Stratford, you don’t feel fulfilled …”

“Of course I won’t,” said Georgia.

“Darling, you’d be surprised how many do. Just enjoy this. It’s great.”

Georgia’s face was everywhere; apart from the arts pages,
Vogue
had used her for a fashion shoot, she’d appeared in the style section of the
Sunday Times
, and in the
Guardian
as their close-up spread in the Monday fashion slot. She’d been interviewed just about everywhere—and wonderfully had been able to plug the festival several times—and most important, had a part in a new BBC series, filming in the autumn, and after that in a main feature film, a screen adaptation of a new novel set against the background of what the publicity called “Thatcher’s Britain.” Georgia couldn’t actually see that it was that different from present-day Britain, although her mother inevitably could, but it was going to be a great movie, and she had a great part.

She had moved out of her room in Jazz’s house and bought a minute flat in Clapham; she had bought a ton of clothes from Top-shop and TK Maxx and a couple of dresses from Stella McCartney, for special occasions, and one of the new Minis, and she and Merlin were going on holiday to Thailand for a week when the BBC film was finished. Life had changed a bit, as she said to Abi, but she felt exactly the same. “Just as worried about everything, just as insecure, just as—”