Perfectly Correct

by Philippa Gregory

  At midday on the dot, the first of the two vans lumbered up the track from the common, honked at the field gate and then pulled into Andrew’s field and started unloading. Andrew, Miriam and Louise went down to watch. A couple of cars from Wistley village came up the lane and half a dozen people got out and set to work helping unload the big speakers from the vans and spooling out cables. After them came a lorry with scaffolding for a little stage, and planking, and great rolls of tarpaulin. From the track over the common came a lorry with stage lights and gantries and rigging.

  The field was a dry flat meadow two fields distant from the house. Andrew had only just cut the hay and the grass was soft and dry underfoot. The organiser of the rave, in an exquisitely pale purple Armani suit with an earring in his left ear, greeted Andrew as an old friend, and slid an interesting-looking brown envelope containing a large cheque into his hand. A second cheque, as deposit against damages, followed the first. Andrew tucked them carefully in his shirt pocket and winked at Louise.

  ‘This is Dr Louise Case and Ms Miriam Carpenter – Steve Flood.’ He leaned towards Louise. ‘Here’s our honeymoon money,’ he whispered.

  Steve shook hands with a warm dry grip. ‘Pleased to meeetcha,’ he said. His accent was Buxton, Derbyshire, come Brixton, come Bronx, but his smile was authentic. ‘We are going to party!’ He turned to Andrew. ‘Had much trouble locally?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘Nothing to mention,’ he said. ‘Did you get through all right?’

  ‘We followed the map you sent us. We pulled off the road last night and they thought we was camping up. They didn’t bother to watch us through the night so we just went quietly round by the lanes and then up over the common.’

  ‘You drove over the common?’ Louise asked.

  Steve nodded. ‘It was bumpy but it was OK.’

  Louise looked at Andrew. ‘I thought it was only footpaths. Pedestrians only.’

  He smiled. ‘There’s a coffin path,’ he said. ‘A coffin path is one where a coffin has once been taken. That establishes the right of a road to be used for wheeled vehicles and a procession, a funeral procession, not more than once a year. Not a lot of people know that.’

  ‘Because I doubt it’s true,’ Miriam said promptly.

  Andrew’s smile was particularly sweet. ‘Twenty years ago we used to have harness racing on the common,’ he said. ‘The gypsies would come and race their trotting ponies. Fifty years ago they had a big horse-fair after every harvest, people would come from miles around and stay for a week. Two hundred years ago it was common land with common rights for the Wistley villagers and no-one owned it at all – it belonged to the village to use as we wished. I don’t see how it can suddenly become private land where you’re only allowed to walk on a footpath.’

  ‘Power to the people,’ Steve said absently, taking a thread off his Armani suit. ‘Power to the people right now.’

  Andrew chuckled suddenly and turned away. ‘You can run those electric cables into my barn. There’s a row of points up on the wall where I do the shearing. Is there anything else you need?’

  Steve shook his immaculately cropped head. ‘You’re OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll just get this rigged.’ He took off the exquisite jacket and laid it reverently on the seat of the lorry and then strode off across the field to where the crew were laying out scaffolding poles and planking in orderly lines and bolting pieces together.

  ‘I want to turn some hay,’ Andrew said, squinting up at the sky. ‘Will you feed the hens and fetch the eggs, Louise?’

  ‘And the pigs,’ Louise reminded him.

  He quickly caught her to him and kissed her. ‘Don’t ever forget the pigs.’

  The stage and the lights grew and grew until by four o’clock there was a recognisable building, anchored firmly to the ground by wire hawsers and tent pegs. They started to stretch the tarpaulin over the lights and sound equipment. All the time there was a constant stream of traffic coming up the lane, and sometimes entering the farm from the little track which stretched out to the common. Steve Flood had set up two mini ticket offices at the two gates into the field. Louise and Andrew took the collie and with him yapping and snapping at the big animals’ heels, moved the Charolais cows again so that a gate to the common could be safely left open. The first-comers selected the best sites, deafeningly close to the speakers, and the later vans and trucks and little commercial lorries set up in a wide circle around the stage.

  Then the police arrived. Andrew went out to the yard gate to greet them, an inspector flanked by a couple of sergeants with two cars of uniformed officers behind him, and, Andrew imagined, a hundred other officers checking their riot gear at the police headquarters.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘I see you have some trouble here.’

  Andrew glanced behind him to the sunlit yard where a small flock of hens and a couple of squat guinea fowl were scratching over the midden heap. ‘Trouble? No.’

  ‘I meant there.’ The inspector gestured rather irritably to the field where the lighting gantries were experimenting with strobes and lasers and each piercing beam of light was greeted with an ironic cheer from the two hundred or so people who were sitting on the grass or setting up camp.

  ‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘I have no trouble here. Do you have trouble here?’

  ‘I take it you have permission from the relevant authorities? That your papers are in order? That you carry full insurance and that these vehicles are taxed and registered? I take it that there are no illegal drugs or forbidden substances being trafficked on these premises?’

  Andrew blinked doltishly. ‘I just rented them a field,’ he said artlessly. ‘They seemed all right to me. Is there any law which says you can’t rent a field, have a little party?’

  The inspector looked sharply at Andrew’s blank bucolic expression. ‘Mr Miles, you know perfectly well that you are within your rights to rent out your fields. But I assume that you don’t wish to be host to trouble-makers and druggies and hippies. And yes, indeed there are laws, specific laws banning impromptu parties such as this one. Laws which I could invoke.’

  ‘If you want to,’ Andrew said doubtfully. ‘Then you could move them on and they’d be milling all over the county instead of settling down nice and quiet in my hayfield. They’re insured, they’ve paid me. They’re just people wanting a good time. You’re not going to come wading in and causing a lot of stress and tension?’

  ‘There have been complaints about lorries driven across the common.’

  ‘Well, how d’you expect them to get here when you’ve blocked off the roads?’

  ‘And about thefts in Wistley.’

  ‘Would that be Mrs Frome’s nightdress?’

  The inspector looked uncomfortable. ‘Theft is theft,’ he said shortly.

  Andrew nodded. ‘Well, you can’t come in here without a warrant. And a couple of lorries on the common and a missing nightie isn’t worth a warrant.’

  ‘I think you’re making a big mistake,’ the inspector warned ominously.

  ‘Ah, so what?’ Andrew exclaimed with sudden impatience. ‘I can’t go on worrying about Captain Frome’s wife’s nightdress, and the neighbourhood watch wanting us to win the Best Kept Village award.’

  ‘I hope they leave as quickly as they came, that’s all,’ the inspector warned. He was nettled that he had not known about the tracks across the common. His map showed dotted tracks of footpaths and a tracery of little bridleways. He had not realised that the lorry carrying the lighting gantry could quietly cruise up the sandy paths between the sprouting heather. ‘If they’re still here in a month’s time you will be coming to us for help, you will be begging for help.’

  ‘Maybe it depends whether the roads are clear,’ Andrew said. ‘If you block all the roads and move them on from all the sites then they might well want to stay. If they can’t get out then they’ll have to stay.’

  The inspector nodded. ‘Stay in touch, Mr Miles,’ he
said grudgingly. ‘We’ll be very near, and if I have any information that there is drug trading here then I certainly will have that warrant and my men will certainly move in.’

  Andrew nodded and leaned on the gate, watching while the inspector went back to his car, reversed up the drive to the lane, and then drove away.

  ‘Bother?’ Steve asked, appearing at Andrew’s elbow.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘No trouble as long as there are no drugs going round.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘Bound to be some, but I’ve got a good crew on the gates. There’ll be no big dealers here at any rate.’

  Andrew nodded. ‘I’ll have my dinner then. D’you want some?’

  ‘The catering truck will be along soon,’ Steve said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  In the end, Andrew was right; and Louise, Captain Frome and the unhappy inspector were all wrong. It was a big party, there were about two thousand people dancing under the brilliant lights, reeling from the noise of the massive speakers. At the back of the vans there was a little trading in forbidden substances but no big dealers had arrived. A couple of young men, driving an elegant Mercedes, were recognised by the crew on the gates and turned away. A wide range of vehicles were parked in the fields from yuppie BMWs to beat-up 2CV vans, and people were camping in anything from deluxe explorer tents to Indian blankets.

  Louise and Andrew danced under the bright lights and admired the laser show playing against the darkening sky. Louise had someone read the tarot cards for her and was promised a major change in her life and an opportunity for growth. Andrew paid a crystal healer to cure his backache brought on by years of heaving bales of hay. The woman rubbed him all over with aromatic oils and then walked barefooted up his spine. She then sold him a remarkably expensive crystal to keep in his pocket. He came out of her trailer looking flushed and guilty. Louise accused him of enjoying his treatment far too much for a nearly married man. They ate hot dogs, squashy and sweet, from the catering truck and drank organic mixtures of lemonade and cochineal which they were assured would enhance the alpha rhythms of the brain. Andrew put his hand in his pocket and brought out a handful of small green tablets. ‘D’you want to try one of these?’

  Louise recoiled. ‘Andrew, for God’s sake what are they?’

  In the darkness his grin was mischievous. ‘Cattle feed pellets,’ he said. ‘I could be making my fortune if I weren’t an honest man.’

  Miriam danced alone, circling her own bobbing shadow, sometimes hand-linked with others, sometimes in her own space. Her hair, loosed from the ugly rubber band, flowed around her shoulders. Earlier in the day she had gone into one of the vans and had her hair plaited with ribbons and beads into half a dozen locks with little bells tied on the end, so that when she shook her head there was a faint tinkling noise. She had thrown off her jacket and her baggy shirt flowed loose over her jeans. She was barefoot, dancing barefoot in the grass, with a strange concentration.

  Louise went up to her and touched her elbow. ‘Miriam, are you all right?’

  Miriam smiled at her and she was the old reckless irresponsible Miriam of their undergraduate days. ‘I’m dancing it off,’ she said.

  ‘Dancing it off ? What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’m dancing off the boredom and the anxiety. I’m dancing off the responsibility and trying to get things right. I’m dancing off my dreary bloody husband and being politically correct. I’m going to be free.’

  ‘Have you taken anything?’ Louise asked like an anxious mother, thinking of cattle feed supplement and lemonade and cochineal.

  ‘Yes,’ Miriam said and smiled her wide larky grin. ‘I’ve taken my life into my own hands. I’m going to be free.’

  Sunday

  THERE WAS NO POINT in going to bed to sleep, the drum beats and the bass pulsed too loud and too deep, and the laser lights stabbed the sky almost as far as the stars, paling the moon and puncturing the blackness. But Louise and Andrew went up to their bedroom at about four in the morning and made slow leisurely love and then dozed. When they awoke it was golden and morning and the party had wound down to a quieter reflective mood. The catering truck was serving bacon sandwiches and hot coffee; many people were sprawled out on the soft grass, warmed by the sun, dozing. Miriam was in the corner of the field, resting against the gate in a nest of blankets. Her eyes were closed, she was fast asleep and she looked more contented and serene than Louise had seen for years. The DJ on the little platform was nodding over the turntables and playing ’60s hits. Louise smiled to hear The Flowerpot Men singing ‘Let’s go to San Francisco’ out into the blue horizon of Wistley common. She realised that she did not want to go to San Francisco, nor back to the ‘60s. For the first time in her adult life she wished to be nowhere but here and now.

  Andrew checked his watch. ‘Morning chores,’ he said. ‘And I promised I’d go and see Rose at midday.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Louise said. ‘I need some things from my cottage.’

  He slid his arm around her waist. ‘Inseparable, eh? Rather nice, isn’t it?’

  Louise leaned back into the firm warmth of his shoulder. ‘Yes.’

  Andrew fed the cows and checked the sheep while Louise stirred up a disgusting pailful of mix for the hens consisting of garbage and hot water. They recognised her now and came running, scolding and clucking, when she came out into the yard. Louise led the way to their coop and poured the mix into the long low troughs. She went outside and opened the little flap doors to the nesting boxes and put a cautious hand into the warm straw to bring out the eggs and put them into the pail. She jumped back in fright when she touched a hen, determinedly sitting, blind and deaf to the temptation of the feeding trough, obsessed with maternity. The hen stared at Louise with stubborn yellowrimmed eyes. ‘There, there,’ Louise said uncertainly, reaching a hand towards her. The head turned like lightning and stabbed at her with open beak. Louise whipped her hand out of the way and glared at the hen, who glared back with quite as much resolve. The contest of wills lasted only a moment. ‘Oh, hatch the damn things then,’ Louise said.

  She carried the pail carefully inside, and stacked the new eggs on the correct shelf in the scullery. Later in the day she would box them for Andrew to take to the shop. The cracked ones she dropped into the big enamel bowl for the dog’s dinner. Brownie the collie watched her with alert eyes and grinned his broad grin as if to persuade her to give them to him at once.

  Mrs Shaw was in the house hoovering. Louise went in, put the kettle on and sat to drink her coffee, looking out over the fields towards the common. She could see Andrew’s tractor driving up and down the rows of cut hay, the tines of the rake turning the windrows so the hay dried in the warm wind. She smiled at the thought of him, high in the cab, with the upper-class modulated voice coming over his Walkman: ‘Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her …’

  In the nearer fields the sheep and lambs seemed unperturbed by the men pulling down the stage and folding the billowing canvas. The lambs jumped about, playing in sudden races and then stopping on all four feet and leaping in the air. On the field of the rave, Steve’s crew were pacing the perimeter with large black rubbish sacks picking up every scrap of litter. Louise watched them with what she realised was a proprietary air. She wanted no litter left on her fields. She wanted no damage to her farm.

  The little tractor pulled in to the side of the field and Andrew jumped down from the cab and started walking towards the farm. Louise poured another cup of coffee and set out the biscuit tin. She heard the outer door open and close and Andrew shuck off his Wellington boots with a gentle word to his dog before he came in.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, pushing his mug towards his place.

  He took it with a nod of thanks and a handful of biscuits. He ate the biscuits quickly and gulped down the coffee. ‘Ready to go down to
the cottage?’ he asked.

  Louise nodded.

  ‘We’ll take the tractor and the trailer down later and you can pick up all your things,’ he said.

  Louise smiled at him. ‘You are the most persistent man I know. I haven’t decided what I want to do with the cottage yet. I won’t decide any quicker for you insisting on having my furniture here.’

  ‘But it’s such nice furniture. I’ve had my eye on it from the start. It’s all I ever wanted really.’

  ‘Don’t rush me,’ Louise warned.

  ‘But we are going to marry,’ Andrew reminded her. ‘I will go and post the banns tomorrow. You’ll come into Chichester too and we can buy a ring. I’ll take you somewhere posh for dinner if you like. And later we could have an engagement party.’

  ‘It is awfully quick,’ Louise said.

  Andrew stopped teasing with disconcerting speed. ‘If you’re not sure you should tell me now. If you don’t want me …’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

  Louise shook her head. ‘I’m sure,’ she said. ‘I’m scared and I’m amazed at what I’m doing, and I’m full of doubt and anxiety about it. But I’m surer than I’ve ever been of anything that I want to live here with you.’

  Andrew took up her hand from the table and kissed it. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Nothing comes with guarantees, but I’ll quarrel more comfortably with you if I know we’re married. I wouldn’t be able to settle with you otherwise.’

  ‘You want to be married so we can quarrel?’

  He frowned as he tried to puzzle out what he meant. ‘I want to know that you’re here to stay,’ he said eventually. ‘I want to teach you about farming, I want you to teach me about books. I want us to be able to quarrel and know that it’s not the end of everything. I want you to be able to march out of the house in a temper and yet me know that you’ll come back. I want us to be … bespoke.’

  ‘You’re awfully old-fashioned,’ Louise said happily.