The Switch(84)

‘Basil picked it up after the scuffle with Cliff,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve been working my way through it as best I can. Sorry the maypole is wonky, I couldn’t convince Roland it wasn’t straight, and then I lost the will.’

‘You … Oh, Mum, thank you,’ I say.

She smiles at me. She’s pulled her hair back in a loose bun, and her eyes look brighter. I’m so very grateful not to be angry with her, so glad to look at her and feel nothing but love, that I pull her in for a spontaneous hug. She laughs.

‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she says.

I kiss her on the cheek. Behind us, someone knocks on a Portaloo door from the inside, and a voice that I’m pretty sure is Basil’s shouts, ‘Hello? I’m stuck!’

I make a face at Mum. ‘Back to work, eh,’ I tell her. ‘Will you be joining the parade?’

‘I hear they’ve still not found a May Queen yet,’ she says, lifting an eyebrow.

‘Oh, God, I’m going to have to do it, aren’t I?’ I look hopeful. ‘Unless you fancy it?’

Mum gives me a very motherly look at that, one that says, Nice try, Leena. ‘Saving the day like you did this morning … that May Queen’s crown belongs to you,’ she says. ‘Now. Are you going to let Basil out of the toilet, or shall I?’

*

Now that I’m actually in it, this May Day outfit looks less Queen Guinevere and more … bridal.

I adjust the bodice nervously, loitering in the doorway of Clearwater Cottage. The dress is high-waisted, falling in soft white chiffon from just below the bust, and Penelope has helped pin flowers in my hair, around the May Queen crown. I feel a bit ethereal. This is very new for me. I’m not usually the ethereal type.

I reach into my bag for Grandma’s phone and send Betsy a quick text to tell her everything is going well. Arnold has taken Cliff home for now, on stern orders not to return to the fete, so I thought we might be able to bring Betsy back for the procession. But when she called to say she’d settled in at Nicola’s, she sounded so wobbly I didn’t even suggest it. It’s easy to forget that Betsy’s not Grandma: she’s six years older, for starters, and though she’s full of steely determination, she doesn’t have Grandma’s energy.

I’m not sure anyone else has that, actually. These last two months have reminded me of quite how remarkable my grandmother really is.

I smooth my dress with clammy palms. Out on Middling Lane, the procession awaits me. There was no selection process for joining the May Day procession – it pretty much includes anybody who wasn’t busy doing something else, plus anyone Betsy would openly ostracise if she found out they didn’t take part. My mum’s there, laughing at something Kathleen says, and I can see the Neighbourhood Watch: Dr Piotr’s bald head bowed as he speaks to Roland, Penelope winding a string of flowers around her neck and down her arms like a feather boa.

Then there’s the kids. All thirty-eight of the children who attend the Hamleigh-in-Harksdale primary school are here, and they’re gathered around Jackson in a circle, their faces turned up to his. They’re holding bags of confetti, ready to throw rose petals out into the crowds, and they’re dressed in white, like me, though most of their outfits are definitely made from bedsheets.

Well, all but one of them are dressed in bedsheets. One very special little girl is dressed as a satsuma.

‘Easter bunny lady!’ Samantha calls, breaking ranks to dash over and hug me around the legs. She bashes into me with an oof, bouncing off; Jackson steadies her. He looks up at me then, and I watch him double-take as he sees my white dress, my bare shoulders. His mouth opens a little, and then he’s staring, really staring, can’t-help-himself staring. I bite my lip, trying not to smile.

‘You look like a queen!’ Samantha says.

‘Oh, thank you!’

‘Or a ghost!’ she says.

Hmm. Less good.

Jackson clears his throat. ‘Ready to travel in style, as promised?’ he asks, nodding behind me.

I turn. Parked up in front of Arnold’s house is Jackson’s pick-up truck, so heavily garlanded in ribbons and flowers that you can hardly see Arnold in the driving seat. He winds down the window, beheading a carnation in the process.

‘Your carriage awaits!’ he calls.

‘Taking part in the May Day procession?’ I call back. ‘But Arnold, what about your reputation as the grumpy village recluse?’

‘Go on with you, up in the back before I change my mind,’ says Arnold.

Jackson kisses Samantha and sends her to join the other kids before helping me climb up into the back of the truck. We stand side by side and look at one another, the wind in our hair. I feel gladness, mostly – glad to be here, glad that I made this mad choice and stepped into my grandmother’s life for a little while, glad that Jackson’s smiling so broadly both his dimples are showing. There’s excited chatter from behind us as everyone gets settled into position, then Jackson taps twice on the truck’s roof and we’re off, trundling along the glittering path ahead at three miles an hour, with a motley, merry May Day procession behind us.

*

I haven’t been drunk in … I can’t remember the last time I was drunk. Goodbye drinks for Mateo when he left to go to McKinsey? And even then, I was too tired to really do the drunk thing properly; I just necked two Long Island iced teas then fell asleep on the tube, and nothing sobers you up like a long and expensive journey home from High Barnet.