The white tents billow on the village green like sailing ships straining to be free of their moorings. Maggie feels surprisingly good in the yellow dress Lillian has loaned her, but she is glad she has tempered the look with her Converse sneakers and thought to fix the straw hat firmly to her hair with a few extra pins. The warm wind tugs at it playfully like a young boy attempting to pull it from her head and toss it away. The air carries with it the sweet scent of spun sugar and trampled grass as well as the rising squeals of children being entertained by an old-fashioned puppet show. ‘That’s the way to do it!’ screams a hook-nosed puppet. Lillian tuts. ‘Dreadful show,’ she mutters under her breath as they pass by. ‘Can’t believe they wheel it out, year after year.’
Maggie pushes her grandmother in the rickety wheelchair around the fete stalls, where they peruse the tables of plants and cushions, candles and cakes. They’ve already taken a turn around the exhibition tent, admiring the displays of local produce, the prize-winning entries of flowers, fruits and vegetables, both pleased to see that Jane has taken the red ribbon for her green tomato chutney. They stop briefly at the raffle where Maggie wins a pink plastic heart-shaped picture frame, then they watch as a heavily tattooed man takes another turn at the ring toss. As she turns, she spots Will standing a short distance away, chatting to an older couple beside the hoopla stall. Away from Cloudesley, he looks different, somehow. Less familiar – taller and tanned – and very handsome. He says something to the couple that makes them laugh, and as he glances round he spots her watching him across the crowds. Maggie waves and Will holds her gaze for a moment, then nods and turns back to his companions. Maggie blushes, unsure why she should suddenly feel so hot and unsettled. It is a very warm day. She should get Lillian into the shade.
Nearby, the vicar is shouting over the PA system, trying to drum up entries for the egg and spoon race, his voice having to compete with the raucous dance music blaring from a nearby fairground ride. Beside him, an inflatable bouncy castle bends and lurches under the pressure of the children leaping on it.
Maggie is looking around for the tea tent when the vicar’s voice bellows out over the PA again. ‘Roll up, roll up. Over at the stocks it’s just one pound for three sponges. Now’s your chance to hit Gregory where it hurts.’
She sees Gregory Wells, the florid-faced publican at the Old Swan being locked into the stocks for the sponge-throwing competition. He is hamming it up for the growing audience in fantastic, pantomime fashion.
‘I’m sure there are many of you out there who’d like to hurl things at this man and I know I don’t need to remind you that it’s all for a good cause. All proceeds go to helping us fix the church roof.’
Maggie isn’t planning on going anywhere near the stocks and is pushing Lillian resolutely past with her head down when she hears Gregory call loudly, ‘Well, well . . . if it isn’t Maggie Oberon. Surely we can tempt you to step up and have a go? You always used to like a lock-in.’
Maggie stops dead in her tracks, her hands clenching the grips on her grandmother’s chair, aware of the curious glances of the crowd. She glowers at Gregory, willing him to shut up.
‘Oh, if looks could kill.’ He chuckles. ‘I see you’re here with your grandmother, the lovely Lillian Oberon. How are you, deary? Feeling better?’ he calls loudly and slowly, as if to a very senile person.
Maggie looks down at Lillian in desperation.
‘Come on, ladies,’ goads Gregory. ‘Don’t be shy. It’s for a good cause.’
Her grandmother gives her an imperceptible nod, reaches into her handbag and pulls out a five-pound note. ‘I’ll pay. You throw.’
Maggie hesitates, already feeling far too conspicuous for her liking.
‘You heard the vicar,’ says Lillian. ‘Hit him where it hurts.’
Maggie sighs. ‘I’ll try.’
Gregory is still grinning and goading her as she takes up the first sponge from the bucket of water and hurls the dripping mass at the wooden frame. It hits Gregory on the corner of his chin, sending water spraying across his face and generating a low rumble of appreciation from the crowd. Her second sponge hits his left temple while the third brings a rousing cheer as she scores a direct hit to the bridge of his nose. Gregory rolls his eyes in a mock swoon, making the crowd laugh even louder. As she turns back to Lillian her grandmother gives her a satisfied nod. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea?’
Mrs Lovell has clearly had her way with the fifties-style theme for the event, but Maggie has to admit that the tea tent looks lovely, decked out in pastel bunting, floral tablecloths and her own flower arrangements sitting on the tables. In the far corner a string quartet plays a sedate waltz. The tent is awash with blue-rinses and walking sticks. Maggie parks Lillian at a table then queues for tea and cucumber sandwiches. The lady serving gives Maggie a long, hard stare as she takes her money and Maggie can still feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she carries their refreshments back to Lillian.
‘Hello there, dear,’ says a grey-haired woman who has appeared at Lillian’s side. ‘I was just telling your grandmother how lovely it is to see her out and about. I can’t remember the last time we saw her at a village event.’
‘I couldn’t keep her away,’ says Maggie, giving Lillian a wink.
‘We heard you were in hospital,’ says the woman. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Oh no, still very much alive, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ says the woman, startled, ‘I didn’t mean . . . yes, well . . . I’m sure we’re all delighted to see you up and about. There were rumours you might be thinking of selling Cloudesley now. Unless of course Albert is back to take the place on?’ the woman asks slyly.
‘Albie’s away on business.’
‘Of course he is,’ says the woman in an overly understanding tone that makes even Maggie bristle.
‘Well, I’m sure I’m not the only one in the village who would love to see the house returned to her former splendour,’ continues the woman. ‘It’s been years since you opened up the gardens or hosted an event. It used to be de rigueur.’
‘Yes, and didn’t it also used to be de rigueur that you’d throw yourself at any new man who arrived in Cloud Green?’
Maggie stares at her grandmother, unsure whether to laugh or reprimand her.
The woman seems to take the insult on the chin. She turns to Maggie. ‘And how are you getting on, dear? It’s good to see you back in Cloud Green, holding your head high. I know there are some round here who didn’t think you’d have the gall to show your face after that sad business with the Mortimers, but I knew you’d return. Nerves of steel, you Oberon women.’ The elderly lady smiles sweetly, as if she has just delivered a generous compliment.
‘Oh, be off with you, Susan,’ says Lillian impatiently. ‘Go and bother someone else with your sly gossip and nasty digs.’ She waits for the woman to huff away across the tent before she turns to Maggie. ‘Always was a terrible busybody, that Susan Cartwright.’
They drink their tea in silence, Maggie feeling a dreadful anxiety well up. This is exactly what she’d been afraid of, everybody knowing her business. Glancing about the tent, she’s certain she can see furtive looks and stares, nudges in her direction. Then she realises why. Mary and David Mortimer stand across the tent, deep in conversation with friends. Sweat trickles between Maggie’s breasts and she wants to reach up and remove the hat that had felt stylish earlier but now makes her feel like a try-hard, drawing attention in a way that she’d rather it didn’t. ‘Are you still hungry?’ she asks Lillian.
‘A little slice of cake wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘I’m on it,’ says Maggie, grateful for the opportunity to move, even if it does mean circulating through the crowds again.
She skirts her way around the edge of the tent, head down, taking a circuitous route to avoid the Mortimers, then waits in the cake-stall queue to order two slices of chocolate cake. As she turns to leave, she crashes into someone crossing her path. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, realising she has smeared chocolate icing on their white shirt, then lets out a long breath. ‘Oh God,’ she says, pulling back. ‘It’s you.’
Gus stares at her, equally confounded. ‘Hi,’ he says, after what feels like a very long time.
‘You’re here.’
‘Yes. So are you.’
She shrugs, the flimsy paper plates wobbling dangerously in her hands. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’ He looks fine. Very fine, with his tanned skin and his brown hair shaved close to his scalp. She’d forgotten how blue his eyes are, piercingly clear like a calm sea on a summer’s day. ‘You?’ he asks, though she can tell from his darting eyes that he’d rather be anywhere but standing there with her.
‘Yes, fine. I’m here with Lillian,’ she adds, gesturing towards the corner of the tent.
He nods but his gaze still can’t quite seem to settle on her face. ‘Nice hat,’ he says after another moment. ‘Suits you.’
‘Thanks.’ She clears her throat. ‘I saw your mum.’
‘She said.’
Maggie chews her lip. ‘Listen, do you think we could perhaps sit down sometime and talk about everything? I’d like to try and expl—’ She stops, suddenly aware of the petite woman in a pretty lace dress sidling up behind Gus and sliding an arm about his waist.
‘Look what I just bought,’ she says, holding up a crocheted dream-catcher dangling brightly coloured feathers. ‘There’s a truly ancient gypsy woman selling them at a little caravan over there. She offered to read my palm but I’m not sure I’m up for that.’ She turns to Maggie with a bright smile, awaiting an introduction. ‘Hello.’
Gus clears his throat. ‘This is Camilla. Cam,’ he says, gesturing towards Maggie, ‘this is Maggie.’
It takes a moment, but Camilla’s eyes widen so suddenly it’s like the aperture of a camera adjusting. Yes, Maggie wants to say: that Maggie. ‘I’d shake your hand but . . .’ She gestures unnecessarily towards the two paper plates. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She wishes the ground would open and swallow her whole.
‘Oh, yes . . . Maggie. Hello.’ Camilla turns to Gus. ‘Gosh,’ she stutters, ‘you two must have a lot . . . would you . . . I can go—’
‘No,’ interjects Gus. ‘Maggie was just leaving.’
‘Yes,’ she says, shrinking even further into herself. ‘That’s right. I should get back to Lillian.’ She begins to back away. ‘I’m so sorry – about your shirt,’ she adds, though they both know the apology she owes him is for things far greater than a little icing smeared on a shirt.
Maggie turns and darts away through the crowd, her cheeks burning, hoping that the sudden burst of laughter erupting from a nearby group isn’t at her expense. She finds her grandmother exactly where she’d left her, slumped in her chair wearing a pained expression. Maggie dumps the cake on a nearby table and reaches up to pull the hat from her head, barely feeling the hairpins as they wrench through her hair.
‘Oh good,’ says Lillian. ‘You’re just in time to save me from a slow and painful death by school choir.’ Lillian is smiling, but her eyes narrow when she sees Maggie’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Gus is here . . . with his girlfriend.’ She grips the back of the chair beside Lillian and lets out a long breath.
Lillian purses her lips. ‘I see.’
‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Lillian shakes her head. ‘Nonsense. You can’t stay shut away at Cloudesley for the entire summer.’
‘It might be for the best.’
Lillian eyes her sternly. ‘How long are you going to punish yourself?’
Maggie doesn’t answer.
Lillian sighs. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eighty-six years, it’s that there’s a time for tea and cake, but this, my dear, is most certainly not it. Come on.’
‘What? Where are we going?’
‘Stop talking and start pushing.’
Maggie studies Lillian. ‘If I’d known getting out of the house would revitalise you like this, I’d have insisted we do this weeks ago.’
They take a haphazard route through the various fete stalls, Maggie muttering and cursing and bumping the wheelchair over the rutted grass, until they come to a halt outside a smaller tent. ‘In here,’ says Lillian.
‘The beer tent?’
‘Yes. I happen to know they sell some of the very best elderflower wine. We’ll consider it medicinal.’
Maggie queues up at the trestle table masquerading as bar for two glasses of elderflower wine. She hands them to Lillian, intending to push the wheelchair over into the shade where they will be partially hidden from the crowds, but Lillian has other ideas, pointing to a row of striped deck chairs lined up along the main thoroughfare. ‘Just there.’
‘I don’t think—’ begins Maggie.
‘We’re going to sit here and hold our heads high. Take a sip,’ she orders. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Maggie puts the plastic cup to her lips and drinks. The wine is cold and sweet, fizzing slightly on her tongue.
‘Good.’ Lillian nods approvingly. ‘We’ll sit here, where we can see everything. We’re not going to hide.’
‘But I feel like the most loathed person in the village,’ says Maggie in a small, self-pitying voice. ‘You heard Susan Cartwright. No one thought I’d have the “gall” to return.’
‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish. I doubt most people know or care what happened between you and that young man last year. And even if you do provide a flutter of interest today, my dear, come tomorrow they’ll have moved on to the next tidbit. You think all these people here don’t have their own messy lives to worry about? Besides, you’ll find people are a little less quick to judge when they have to look you in the eye.’ As if to make her point, a small child with his face painted in tiger stripes wanders past with a helium balloon. He stares at Lillian and her extraordinary feathered hat and she stares back; eventually the little boy smiles and gives her a pretend roar before being dragged off into the crowds by his mother.
‘You’ve had that look on your face ever since you returned home.’
‘What look?’
‘That frown. It’s that same look you got as a child when you knew Albie was about to leave.’
Maggie pulls herself up. ‘I’m not frowning.’
‘My eyesight may not be the best, but I can still tell a frown when I see one.’ Lillian pats Maggie’s hand, softening slightly. ‘Tell me, what was the worst thing that could have happened today?’
‘Bumping into Gus was probably right up there.’
‘And did you survive it?’
Maggie nods. ‘I guess so.’
‘Well there you go. Most anxiety is the fear of something that hasn’t even happened yet, and it’s usually over something we can’t control. The older I’ve grown, the more I’ve realised what a waste of energy it is. We’re sitting here, on this beautiful day, the sun overhead and the grass under our feet, drinks in hand. Let’s enjoy this moment, shall we?’
Maggie looks at Lillian and smiles. ‘I hardly recognise you today. Are you feeling all right?’
Lillian shrugs. ‘You get to my age and you realise all the more keenly how precious are our days. I don’t want you to waste a single one.’
They sit together in the sunshine and sip their wine, Maggie trying to relax. She understands Lillian’s point, but it isn’t that simple. Gus. Will. Her stalled career. Lillian’s health. Saving Cloudesley. There is so much to worry about. She closes her eyes and tries to do what Lillian has suggested; she tries to concentrate on the plastic cup in her hands, her feet resting on the grassy earth, the sound of children laughing and shrieking, the far away strains of the band. She opens her eyes and sees children with painted faces running squealing towards the bouncy castle. A red helium balloon floats away into the blue sky.
They take another quick turn around the fete before Maggie drives them home, the sun a golden orb flickering behind the trees as it sinks towards the horizon. Beyond the church, a swallow swoops from the trees and soars ahead of the car, as if pulling them in its wake. Maggie smiles at the sight of it and turns to point their escort out to Lillian, but Lillian isn’t looking at the road. Her face is tilted towards the open window, the afternoon sun playing on her face, her arm resting upon the window ledge and her fingers splayed as if to catch the passing breeze. Maggie smiles at the sight of her grandmother’s neon-pink fingernails, aware that wherever Lillian is at that moment, she isn’t in the car beside her. She is like that red balloon, cut adrift, floating somewhere far away, lost in a memory.
Maggie thinks of this place – the village, the hills, the house and grounds. She thinks how they echo for her with the ghosts of her own memories. All the places she has lived and loved. The dell where she sledged with Will and Gus as teenagers in winter; the woods where she walked and talked with Gus after their first kiss and they decided to give it a proper go; the village hall where they had officially ‘outed’ themselves as a couple at a Christmas fair. Each passing place connects with a moment from her past, bringing it into the light.
It must be the same for Lillian, she realises, but tenfold. Perhaps one day Maggie will take a car ride beside a grandchild and find herself transported back to a memory of this day with Lillian. And for the briefest time, Maggie sees her life clearly: all the moments, large and small that have been, and all the ones yet to come, connected by some long, silvery thread, strong yet invisible, like a spider’s web. She feels this singular moment joining to all the rest and finds the thought strangely comforting.