Monday (daytime)
Once upon a time, May Day in Titfield had been much like everywhere else. Not many people who were alive now remembered those days, though; certainly not her parents, or Henry’s.
Nobody was quite sure when or why a cherished, if unremarkable, folk holiday had taken on such a different character in this lone village, although there were a fair few articles and even some academic studies which said as much in great detail. Some theorised it was due to a postwar drive to greater frugality and communality, along with better access to public transport, causing the people of Ellsdale to congregate in Titfield as a kind of ersatz urban centre; others pointed to wealthier middle-class families starting to take weekend breaks in rural areas under Douglas-Home and his ‘prosperity government’ in the late Fifties. Others claimed Titfielders had clung to their May Day celebrations in the face of wartime strictures, and when the traditions had begun to die out elsewhere after the war the town had instead doubled down, making theirs even grander. Some theories even went back before the war, citing a visit by the first ever ‘BBC Election Express’ along the Darling Buds Line over May Day weekend in 1936 as being the crucial spur. There was even one theory that posited as the original spark a local group of fascists putting on a pageant for the New Labour leader, Oswald Mosley.
Laura didn’t like to give that particular theory too much credence; it made her feel awfully guilty for enjoying herself. She took comfort in her parents’ exhortations, whenever the subject was raised, that there’d hardly been any New Labour voters in Titfield, never mind fascists; but that was tempered by the reminder that, well, they hadn’t been there, had they? She wasn’t sure she believed it, herself, but she could never quite bring herself to discount the possibility. After all, she was a journalist; healthy skepticism was all part of the job.
Henry, she knew, liked to talk about geography and demographics and how Titfield was just the right kind of isolated and had just the right rate of population change at just the right times. Personally, she kind of liked nobody really knowing. It felt more like a proper folk tradition that way.
They smelt it before they saw it – the mingled aromas of steam and oil, livestock and fair-food, coal-smoke and the odd ozone scent of electric engines, a great mingling mass of humanity borne on the breeze blowing up the valley, taking the edge off the scorching sun and bringing down the petals of the occasional cherry-blossom trees in flurries. Laura stopped for a moment under one, and stretched out her hand to catch a tumbling pink ellipse. For a moment, she saw in her mind’s eye the cascades of petals that would be lining the streets of the city on a day like today, and she felt her heart catch ever so slightly. But it felt different than it might have done before; the tension she felt, between the twin gravitational pulls of Titfield and the city, was not upon her but was part of her. The sudden emotional insight, raw and unrefined and cheesy as all hell, took her aback, and she looked up, blinking, as though reborn.
Henry had stopped a step ahead of her, dappled sunlight from the swaying branches playing across his face and shirt, and she was struck with wonder that he was still there – despite the vast distances between them, despite the vagaries of a long-distance relationship he had never signed up for, he was still there. They had so much to talk about, she could hardly wait; but he had been waiting for her goodness knew how long, so she could wait a little longer. She smiled, and kissed him softly and quickly on the lips.
“What was that for?” he asked, smiling.
She shrugged happily. “Just because.”
He smiled and took her hand.
As they turned the corner May Day was laid out before them. The steam fair on the common was in full swing, with the merry notes of the carousel organ mingling with the screams from the waltzer and the octopus and the workmanlike chugging of the traction engines. Various members of the parish council were watching from the stage which had been erected at one end as workmen fiddled around with the microphones, one of which kept feeding back; from the bandstand at the other end could be heard the parps and glissandos of the Argleton & District Brass Band warming up for their first set of the day. The assorted vehicles could be seen preparing for the parade along the High Street that afternoon in the square by the station. And there in the middle was the great may-pole, its multicoloured ribbons dangled outwards, tent-like, in readiness for the dance.
It was just like Laura remembered it, only more so.
She felt the slightest twinge of sadness, remembering the morning’s conversation. “I wish Jo were here,” she murmured.
“She wouldn’t have come anyway,” said Henry. “She’s not really been keen on going out in public since Bertie left her. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“I wasn’t…” It was a statement, not a rebuke, and she turned to him to see he saw that. “Did you speak to her before she left?”
“Aye. I take it you did too?”
“Yes.”
Henry nodded. “She’s doing the right thing. I’m a lot less worried about her now than I might’ve been. She’ll be fine.”
Laura nodded, smiling in agreement, and Henry smiled back.
“Now no more worrying. Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.”
It was the perfect day. They gorged themselves on fried meat and potatoes, all salt and fat, revelling in the willful unhealthiness of it; they danced rambunctiously with the crowd during the maypole dance, whirling each other around with the kind of carefree abandon and lack of regard for dignity that can only be achieved with a particular kind of folk music; they rode the waltzer, yelling with gusto as the man set their car spinning as they passed, and then the carousel, laughing and whistling along to the organ’s melodies, then the ferris wheel, joking about getting stuck at the top and feeling slightly disappointed when it didn’t actually happen.
Not long before the parade was due to set off, they found Toby outside the Cartographers’ Arms; as if by magic, he had a table of three to himself and two pints of shandy awaiting them.
“How do you do it?” she asked him, dumbfounded.
“I’m just that good,” he answered with a shrug.
“Well, whatever witchcraft you’ve been using, I’ll drink to it,” said Henry, clinking glasses with them. “Cheers!” He and Laura took a deep draft of their drinks, only to heave simultaneously as they imbibed twin mouthfuls of warm, flat ale and lemonade.
“Although, I admit, those drinks have been there for over an hour now,” Toby winced. Laura shot him a Look, and he practically jumped out of his seat (to her private delight; she had begun to fear her Looks were losing their potency). “I’ll get you fresh ones,” he called, hurrying to the bar.
Toby had picked a good spot; they were right by the street, and by surreptitiously dragging the table forward a few feet they could prevent anyone trying to stand in front of them and blocking their view. It was almost enough to forgive him for the shandies.
“I’ve missed this,” she said, reclining against the table and ignoring the filthy glances of a middle-aged couple wearing identically ill-advised clothes.
“Me too,” said Henry, turning on his stool. “It’s really not been the same, the past few times without you…”
She looked away, out over the fair, smiling; she was only half-in the here and now, so that what he said next caught her off-gaurd.
“We really should have the talk before you go back, though.”
“What?” She snapped round to look at him; he didn’t seem vexed, but there was something in his expression she couldn’t quite read.
“Well…” he shifted in his seat, pulling himself upright. “I don’t think – now we’ve brought it up – that we should just leave this long-distance thing to lie. I mean, I don’t think we’re going to get it sorted completely-”
She laid a hand on his arm, smiling; he stopped, understanding.
“Later,” she said, quietly.
“I wish we had more time,” he replied.
“We’ll have some time, at least. But for now, let’s just enjoy it.”
Now it was his turn to kiss her. It might have gone on for a while, but they were interrupted by Toby coming back with the drinks.
“How on earth did you manage that so quickly?” asked Henry, flabbergasted. “It must be absolutely rammed in there!”
Toby just smiled enigmatically. “I have my ways.” He sat back down again. “Now drink up, the parade’s starting.”
The parade was led, as ever, by the head of the parish council in his rather ostentatious chain of office, bearing a red pendant – some homage to the flagmen of old who had to walk before road vehicles in the olden days, if Laura remembered correctly. Behind him was the winner of last year’s competition for the best-presented participant; she recognised the traction engine she’d seen the other day, the gold and green winner’s flag fluttering from the footplate. After that, it started to pall slightly; Henry and Toby managed to give a running commentary, but it seemed more for their own benefit than anyone else’s. She just enjoyed the sun and the spectacle.
An unfamiliar puttering sound roused her; looking around, she recognised the yellow Rolls-Royce she’d seen racing the train back on Friday (it felt months ago now). The roof had been folded down, and its three occupants could be seen more clearly. One of them, a huge barrel-chested man with curly grey hair that he somehow seemed too tall for, was bickering with his companion, a short fellow all too reminiscent of an over-energetic puppy. The driver, insofar as his face could be seen behind his floppy hair, looked rather fed up. She couldn’t hear much of their bickering over the racket of the engine, but she could have sworn she heard one of them refer to one of the others as ‘Hamster’ as they passed; then suddenly there was a blast of fumes, foul-smelling and oddly euphoric, and she found herself spluttering.
“Perhaps it’s for the best they don’t allow many of those on the roads,” said a voice by her ear. She jumped in her chair, and turned to see Ollie crouching beside her; a rather perky straw boater was perched awkwardly on his head.
“Ooh! Hello!” she exclaimed, and embraced him as enthusiastically as possible.
“Sorry for surprising you,” he laughed, shrugging her off. “Having a good weekend?”
“Yes, thank you!” It wasn’t entirely true, but she was hardly going to give Ollie the full nine yards, not now. “Aren’t you working today?”
“Technically, yes,” he replied, biting his lip, “but there’s no train scheduled back down the valley until well into this afternoon, so me and the boys are enjoying ourselves.” He beckoned across the road, to where Tom and Percy and a man she vaguely recognised as the stationmaster at Argleton were clustered; the enginemen looked comically surly, especially next to the terminally jovial Mr Montague. All three wore straw boaters; the ribbons around their crowns were navy blue, edged in red. Laura glanced back at Ollie’s hat; his ribbon was twin bands of fetching purple and gold.
“How come you’ve got a different hat, Ollie?” she asked.
“Party colours, isn’t it,” replied Ollie smartly.
Laura sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “When are you going to let this ‘Eurocongress’ fad go, Ollie?” she chided good-naturedly.
“When there’s no borders from one Galicia to another,” he shot back, grinning. This was an old conversation; neither of them expected to convince the other, and neither considered it worth breaking the friendship for.
“Come home, Ollie. Labour’s waiting. Take off that daft neo-Hapsburg symbol and do what’s right by your fellows.”
“Ah, but until we eradicate the centuries of strife that have shattered our continent I’m not doing right by my fellows, am I?”
“But what about the fash, Ollie? The fash!” Laura was grinning ear to ear now; Ollie was as far from a fascist as it was possible to be without starting to come back around again, but it was part of the ritual. As was his response.
“Oh, so Ossie Moz never advocatedv for a national health service, did he?”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and they giggled.
“Right, I’d best make a move,” he replied as the last vehicle – a steam wagon in British Railways colours, carrying what looked like a shed on wheels on its flatbed – passed. “Give my regards to your hopeless excuse of a boyfriend,” he joked.
“See you tomorrow, Ollie,” Laura called. Ollie smiled and made to leave, but spun around on his heels.
“Oh – I saw your friend Joanne waiting at the station when we got in. She had a lot of stuff with her; where’s she off to?”
So she’s going already? Said a voice in Laura’s head; there was another twinge of sadness, but it was replaced with a surge of gladness that her friend really was following up on what she said.
“A better place, I think,” she replied. Ollie’s eyebrows raised quizzically, but he knew better than to ask; he raised a hand in parting, and with a smile disappeared into the crowd.
“Ollie says hello,” she said, turning back to the two men at her table.
“Ollie was here?” grunted Toby. “He could’ve at least stopped and said hi, he left without saying goodbye the other morning.” As Henry and Laura looked at each other wide-eyed, he drained his glass. “I’ll get the next one in.”
“Toby, after that stunt earlier you’re getting all of them in…”
The sun was starting to set by the time Toby stood up and stretched in they way that meant he was ready to go; he had to do so very carefully, because there were a lot of glasses in front of him (although Laura and Henry had, diplomatically, switched to soft drinks after their second shandy).
“Well, I’m just about done,” he announced.
“I think we’d best get going too,” replied Henry. “What do you say, lassie?”
“Sounds good to me,” Laura said, “though I wouldn’t mind getting something to eat on the way home…”
“Sure!”
“Take care of yourself, kids,” drawled Toby, slinging his jacket around his shoulders, “now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a certain guard I think needs to explain himself to me.” He waved languorously at them, and sauntered off in the direction of the station.
Laura wrapped her arms around her boyfriend and cuddled him softly. “Anything you fancy?” she whispered in his ear.
“Well, I was just thinking about food, but if you’re offering…”
“I was talking about food, you twerp,” she laughed.
“Oh, well in that case I’m not fussed,” he replied, grinning. “But on the way home, I want us to talk about this ‘city’ place you live in…”
Laura smiled, and hugged him tighter; in the golden light of sunset, she felt as though she was gleaming.