by Lucy Lord
I try desperately to think of something that might make little Kestrel feel better. Looking around, I spot the rock-’n’-roll diner, which, as its name might suggest, serves burgers and milkshakes to a soundtrack of Fifties rock ’n’ roll.
‘How’d you like a chocolate milkshake, while we wait for your mummy to get back?’ I say, and Kestrel looks ever so slightly more cheerful.
‘I like chocolate milkshakes.’
‘Well, that’s great then, isn’t it?’ Mark nods at me, giving upraised eyebrows of approval. ‘We’ll all have a nice chocolate milkshake, while we wait for your mummy.’
Kestrel looks suspicious. ‘Mummy says I shouldn’t go with strange people.’
‘Mummy’s completely right about that,’ I say, ruffling his hair. ‘But we’re not going anywhere, we’re staying here. I’ll just pop in there and get us all a milkshake.’
When I emerge from the diner with three chocolate milkshakes, Mark is still carrying Kestrel, making him giggle as he points out all the silly-looking people jiving to ‘Chantilly Lace’.
I sing the few words that I remember at Kestrel, putting my hair into a ponytail with my hands and then letting it hang down. He stares at me for a second, then buries his face in Mark’s shoulder again. Fuck, I’ll have to do better than this. I stroke his curly hair, trying to focus my addled brain on making him feel less scared. I must say that Mark seems to be doing a far better job than I am. He’ll make a great dad one day, I surprise myself by thinking.
‘Don’t worry, darling, Mummy will be back soon,’ I say hopefully.
‘Tell you what, mate, you’re quite a big boy and I’ve had quite a long day,’ says Mark, winking at me. ‘How about we all sit down on the grass to drink our milkshakes?’
Kestrel nods and we sit down cross-legged in a circle.
‘Why do you have that on your head?’ he asks Mark, pointing at his headdress.
‘Because I’m a Red Indian, and this is my woman, the lovely Moon Rising,’ says Mark, putting his arm around my shoulder. I smile, feeling as though I’ve wandered into the pages of a Hunter S. Thompson book.
‘Mummy says we have to say Native American,’ says Kestrel seriously.
‘Oh of course, sorry,’ I say. ‘Do you want to play cowboys and Native Americans?’
He giggles and puts his right hand into a gun position.
‘Bang bang, you’re dead, you Native American punk and your Moon Rising ho!’
I fall back on the grass as if I’ve been shot and Mark puts his arm out to grab Kestrel, who has started to run around us, air-shooting.
‘I’m Kestrel the Kid, catch me if you can!’
‘I’ve gotcha, Kestrel the Kid.’
Kestrel wriggles in his grasp but Mark holds on to him tightly. ‘Stop it, mate. What if you get lost again, and then your mummy comes back? That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?’
‘S’pose so.’ He sits down sulkily, then starts sobbing his little heart out again.
After what seems like forever, my phone rings.
‘Belles, we’ve found his mum,’ says Poppy. ‘She was at the information tent, asking them to put out a tannoy message. She was absolutely hysterical but she’s calmed down a bit now. We’re on our way back.’
‘Oh, thank God for that. We’ve found your mummy,’ I say to Kestrel, who smiles broadly.
Now he’s feeling safe again, he becomes quite chatty, telling us how Mummy let him stay up past his bedtime as a special treat as she wanted to see the rest of the festival and none of her friends wanted to stay back at the tent to look after him. Mark is getting more and more stony faced as this story unfolds, and by the time Kestrel’s mother turns up he can hardly bring himself to look at her. Probably a couple of years older than me, with plaited strawberry-blonde hair, flared jeans and a slight air of otherworldliness about her, she swoops on Kestrel with tears running down her face.
‘Oh Kes, darling, my baby. Are you all right?’ she cries. ‘Thank you so much for looking after him,’ she says to me and Mark, her eyes shining. I can’t help but notice how enormous her pupils are.
‘That’s OK, we’re just glad you’ve found each other again,’ I say. ‘We’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t we, Kes?’
‘The nice lady and man gave me a yummy chocolate milkshake and we played cowboys and Native Americans,’ he solemnly informs his mother. He really is a dear little boy.
‘That was very kind of them. Thank you so much,’ she says to me again, rummaging in her jeans pocket for some cash. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Oh nothing, just happy to have helped,’ I say, embarrassed that Mark is still maintaining his stony silence. When he breaks it, it hardly helps.
‘Well, now you’ve deigned to come back, I’m ready for a drink. Let’s hit the bar, guys. Goodbye, little man. I think he needs his bed now,’ he adds pointedly to Kes’s mother, who looks utterly distraught. We all shake Kes’s hand goodbye and, as we walk away, I turn once to give him a wave. As soon as we’re out of earshot, Mark explodes.
‘How fucking irresponsible can people be? That stupid cow was totally off her tits. Did you see her eyes?’
‘She was also worried sick,’ I say. ‘And who are we to cast the first stone?’
‘We don’t have kids, and she bloody well should have been worried sick. Dragging the poor little sod out in the middle of the night because none of her mates wanted to babysit. She should be fucking arrested. Festivals are no places for kids.’ Mark is absolutely fuming. I’ve never seen him so angry. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry about anything before. I do agree with him about festivals being no places for kids, but it seems a bit rich to be proselytizing about substance abuse on the first night of what is promising to be a very lost weekend for us. Besides, I felt genuinely sorry for Kestrel’s mother. Her obvious terror and subsequent remorse must have been pretty tough to bear.
I open my mouth to respond and Poppy nudges me.
‘Yeah Mark, you’re right,’ she says. ‘Bloody irresponsible behaviour. Now can we please find a bar before I die of thirst? I am absolutely gagging for a drink.’
Chapter 7
I’m dreaming that I’m being slowly roasted in a giant wood-fired oven, like an oversized version of the one in the Ibiza villa. Skinny Alison is taunting me with the fact that I don’t have a proper job, while all my friends laugh and chuck more logs on the fire. Somewhere in my peripheral vision, my father and Ben are having a threesome with Kimberly who is cackling maniacally and saying, ‘Don’t you just love a good roasting, Bella?’
I wake up with a jolt, pouring with sweat in the intolerable sauna-like conditions of my tent. I grab the Evian bottle nearest me and take a huge swig, only to gag and spit it out all over my sleeping bag. Vodka. Why oh why didn’t I label the bottles?
I find the real Evian bottle and pour it down my throat. God it’s good. I turn my rucksack inside out looking for my olive green string bikini, then lie down on my back to get into it. Crawling out onto the grass, pulling my sleeping bag behind me, I see I’m not the only one to have had this idea.
All around people are lying outside their tents, not quite ready to get up but unable to bear another second inside their synthetic hovels-from-home. The fresh air is gorgeous. The sun’s not really that hot yet, though it looks as though it’s going to be another scorcher. I lie down on my front and go straight back to sleep.
When I wake up again, several hours must have passed. People are sitting up and talking now, making breakfast on portable stoves or heading towards the loos for the morning freshen-up. I crawl back inside my tent for my ancient khaki combat-style mini and white vest top, grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and head up the hill towards the facilities. I am in remarkably high spirits considering, and realize I must still be pretty wired, which is all to the good as I don’t want to waste any time on hangovers here. If I can stave them off till I get back, so much the better. Though it will be a humdinger of a comedown.
The less said about the loos the better. I try to hold my breath for the duration, then queue up for the taps outside to clean my teeth. Back at the tent, I clean off yesterday’s make-up with wipes and brush my hair, trying to get some of the grease out with dry shampoo. My armpits are given a good going-over with more wipes. A squirt of deodorant and my toilette is complete. I am just getting out my make-up bag when Poppy emerges from the neighbouring tent, looking staggeringly fresh faced.
She is wearing a red and white striped towelling playsuit – a strapless, hot-pant jumpsuit with a slight blouson effect at the waist. The very short shorts show off her slender brown legs and her hair hangs just above her shoulders in silky blonde plaits. On anybody else this would look ridiculous, hideous or both, but Poppy manages to look incredibly cute, like a Swedish Seventies porn star, pre-shagging.
‘Morning gorgeous. How’re you feeling?’
‘A bit shaky, but nothing a couple of drinks won’t sort out. How ’bout you?’
‘Fine,’ she grins. ‘Long may it last.’
I take a mirror out of my make-up bag and start doing my face.
‘We should probably have some breakfast, or we’ll be feeling like shit later,’ says Poppy, producing some apples, wholemeal rolls and a wedge of cheddar from inside her tent. Damian often has to remind Poppy to eat breakfast – forcing bowls of muesli and homemade smoothies on her as she races out to meetings – but it’s somehow typical that she should remember now, for the purely practical purpose of fuelling our debauchery.
We finish our breakfast, perusing the programme of events and deciding who wants to see what when. It transpires that none of us is really bothered until 4 p.m., when Poppy wants to hit the dance tent, Damian wants to check out some up-and-coming indie band he’s thinking of putting in the mag, Mark is keen to watch the Mongolian deep-throat singers and I’m just happy to see where the mood takes me.
Which means we have three hours to kill.
‘In that case, it must be time for some mushroom tea,’ says Poppy.
‘Fuck yeah,’ says Mark. ‘Do the honours, babe.’
So Poppy sets up a portable stove in the clearing between our three tents and puts a pot of water on to boil.
‘How wholesomely Girl Guide,’ I say.
‘Always be prepared,’ she agrees gravely, tipping the contents of a brown paper bag into the pot.
Down the hill, we can hear excitement growing as the first band of the day prepares to play on the Pyramid Stage. Music has been blaring from the main speakers all morning in a comforting, yes I am at Glastonbury kind of way, but this is the real deal. A kerr-rash of drums, a huge roar from the crowd, and they’re off.
We grin at one another.
‘Vodka anyone, while we wait for our tea?’ I slosh the contents of my Evian bottle into a plastic cup and top it up with Diet Coke.
It’s a unanimous yes, so I pass the first cup to Poppy, then pour three more, balancing them precariously on the sloping grass.
‘Morning,’ says our neighbour, sticking his head out of the tent. ‘Beautiful day.’ He has sandy hair and a Scouse accent and we met him when we got back last night. I cannot for the life of me remember his name.
‘Apparently it’s going to stay like this,’ I say, thinking of the woman at the Tesco megastore. ‘Would you like some vodka?’
‘Now you’re talking.’ I pour another cup. He gets out of his tent and stretches fully, which isn’t very far, as he’s probably around my height. He looks around short-sightedly. ‘Where’d I put my glasses?’
‘Are these they?’ asks Poppy, holding up a horn-rimmed pair lying next to her tent.
‘Too right they are. What are they doing over there? Never mind, thanks,’ he says, good-naturedly. He has a lovely smile. I hand him his vodka.
‘Cheers, love. Cheers all,’ he says, nodding and smiling around.
‘Cheers,’ we chorus. ‘Happy Glastonbury,’ I add.
‘What have you got planned today, mate?’ asks Damian, who clearly can’t remember our neighbour’s name either.
‘My mates are arriving round four. Till then, nothing much. I want to see Primal Scream tonight though.’
‘Ooooh yes, me too,’ I squeak as my friends laugh. It’s a standing joke that after a certain level of drunkenness, Primal Scream will always get an airing at my parties. It reminds me of being a teenager, pre-art college, and I do like getting my rocks off after all.
‘Don’t get her started,’ says Poppy. ‘Could you pass me the cups, Belles? The tea’s boiling.’
‘Don’t say you’ve got shrooms!’ says the Scouser, his lovely smile lighting up his face. ‘You selling?’
Mark goes into some kind of elaborate transaction with him, bartering mushrooms and a bit of K for MDMA as far as I can tell. I let my thoughts drift to Ben for a moment. I wonder what he’s doing now. Then I remember he’s on the Abercrombie & Fitch shoot and put an abrupt halt to that train of thought. He’ll be here in a matter of hours, though, and after that, anything is possible. It’s a shame I won’t be looking my best by then, but that’s the nature of Glastonbury, and I’m certainly not going to sit waiting soberly in my tent for him. Ben’s seen me looking like shit many times before anyway, I think, remembering the Hogarthian gin hag photo. All the same, I make sure my make-up bag and hairbrush are in the mini-rucksack I’ll be carrying around with me today.
‘Earth to Bella!’ Poppy waves at me and hands me another plastic cup. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’
‘Thanks.’ I balance it on the grass next to my vodka and drag myself back to the present. ‘Can we go and see Max after this? I’m dying to see his yurt.’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Poppy takes a swig of her tea and grimaces. ‘Yuck, that’s foul.’ She washes it down with some vodka and Coke.
I pick up my phone and dial Max’s number. He answers on the first ring.
‘Hey Belle, how’s it going?’
‘Oh, it’s all wonderful! Last night I won at poker – I had FOUR ACES – how cool? We also reunited a lost little boy with his mother, quite the Good Samaritans. Now we’re having the first drink of the day and some mushroom tea. How ’bout you? How are the yurts?’ My words are toppling over themselves, such is my excitement.
‘Sounds like you’re having fun,’ Max laughs. ‘The yurts are pretty cool actually. There are some absolute knobs in here, of course, but my yurt itself is a definite improvement on our childhood tent, I have to say.’
‘Which in itself is a definite improvement on the tent I had last year,’ I laugh. ‘Are you going to be hanging around there long? It’s just that there’s nothing any of us really want to see till around four, so we thought the yurts were as good a place to start as any.’
‘And I can’t wait to see you either,’ says Max drily. ‘You flatter me, sis. Yeah, I’m having a lazy start – come on over. Should be here for at least an hour.’
‘Cool – see you soon,’ I say, and hang up.
Around forty-five minutes later we are ambling through the Green Fields, vaguely, we hope, in the direction of knobs in yurts. Rainbow-coloured peace flags flutter overhead, wind generators churn gently in the breeze and the tips of thousands of teepees fill the skyline.
‘Aren’t those yurts?’ asks Mark, pointing at them.
‘They’re teepees, fool,’ says Poppy. ‘Yurts are more squat. You know – circular wooden lattice frames, covered in felt made from yaks’ wool.’ Mark’s look of bemusement is suddenly highly amusing. The mushrooms are having the desired effect.
We amble some more, passing stalls offering all manner of mystical claptrap, from astrology to chakra diagnosis to crystal healing. A batik and ‘legal highs’ stall is playing ‘I Am the Walrus’, so we sit down on the grass next to it and sing at each other.
The song seems to go on for hours but nobody’s complaining as the lyrics are great and it’s comfortable on the grass here, the lovely sun warming us right to the depths of our souls, it seems. I am having A Moment. The mu
sic changes to ‘Here Comes the Sun’ and my pleasure levels shoot right off the barometer.
‘Beatle heaven man,’ says Dave, for that’s what our Scouse neighbour is called. ‘Let’s hear it for the ’Pool. I love you guys.’
‘We love you too, man,’ I grin back at him, any semblance of urban cynicism I might once have possessed having been swept away on a rush of hippy drugs, feel-good music and sunshine. Poppy tries to look superior but fails, relaxing with us into the deeply uncool but utterly blissful moment.
A man in top hat and tails with purple hair rides past on a unicycle. He looks about nine foot tall.
I wave up at him, singing along to George Harrison.
He waves back. ‘Look, no hands!’ and cycles round and round in circles in front of us. Damian looks at me, laughing.
‘Is this really happening?’ he asks.
‘Not quite sure,’ I respond. ‘Fun though, isn’t it?’
We hang out with the beardy batik people for a while, sampling their legal highs, which are, frankly, useless, so we give them some mushrooms instead. We’re enjoying a companionable joint – not saying much, just basking in the sunshine, marvelling at the brightness of the colours – when Mark says, ‘Weren’t we meant to be looking for a yurt?’
‘Oh bugger, Max,’ I say.
‘He’d have called if he was moving on somewhere,’ says Poppy. ‘Check your phone.’
I delve into my mini-rucksack, which has its own unique take on the infuriating handbag tardis tendency, to see a missed call and a text.
‘Bet you waylaid. Gone to get fags. See you at yurts at 3. Max,’ I read out.
‘You don’t happen to know where the yurt field is, do you?’ Poppy asks Beardy No. 1 with her most winning smile. He doesn’t know, but seems to have taken a shine to her, as he walks round the various neighbouring stalls asking. He returns with a map.
‘Look, not far at all. Just go to the other end of this field, turn right, then a sharp left and you’re there. Can’t miss it,’ he says, pointing it out to her.
