I slammed the car door and squelched my way through the rain towards the house.
"Oy watch it! Yer dripping all over the bleedin' floor," Uncle Hobart greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. Picking up the tea towel from the back of the chair, I dried my hair. "Wouldn't do that if I were you," Uncle Hobart told me. "I've just cleaned up a load o' spilt fat with that." He smiled, clicking his dentures in delight. "Anyhow," he continued, "what's up with yer? Yer look like yer've got a pineapple stuck up yer rear-end."
I sighed heavily and sat down at the table. "Car's on the blink again," I told him. "The windscreen wipers are sticking. I had to keep getting out to free them all the way home, now I'm soaked to the bloody skin."
"I'll 'ave a look at 'em later. Probably just need a drop o' oil or some'at," Uncle Hobart reassured me.
Pulling my wet jumper over my head, I swore as the fat on my hair transferred itself to the expensive garment. It had been a present from a friend in Saudi.
"Said yer shouldn't 'ave used that tea-towel, didn't I?" Uncle Hobart told me smugly. Curling my fingers into fists at his infuriating habit of stating the bloody obvious, I resisted the urge to curl them around his throat. Placing his beer can on the table, Uncle Hobart moved it around in small circles and I felt that familiar feeling start up in my stomach. He dropped his bombshell quietly. "Rented the back field out for a Rave, ain't I?"
My breath caught at the back of my throat. "You've done bloody what! A Rave?" Shaking my head in bewilderment, I stared at him in wide-eyed amazement. "Do you know what a Rave is, for Christ's sake?" Carefully raising his can to his lips, he took a long pull, then studied me with his faded blue eyes and shrugged. "Didn't you even think of asking?" I persisted.
"It were money, Peter boy," he said, sotto voce. "It were too good a deal ter ignore. It don't grow on trees yer know."
Leaning my elbows on the table, I cradled my head in my hands and sighed. "When?" I asked him.
"Eh?" he responded.
"When?" I shook my head in despair. "When are we going to be visited by this bloody disaster?"
"What're yer making so much fuss about?" he asked. "It's only a bleedin' dance, when all's said and done. A couple o' tents, some bloke playing the piano, and a few young 'uns prancing about. That's all. No big deal."
I felt tears of frustration forming in my eyes and lowered my forehead onto the cool surface of the kitchen table. "A couple of tents and some bloke playing the piano," I mumbled into the wood. "And some bloke playing the piano," I repeated in a half-sob, not really believing that even Uncle Hobart could be this bloody stupid.
As I looked up at him, he smiled at me. "Aye, that's right," he agreed. "And surely yer can put up with a couple o' 'ours o' someone knocking out the Lambeth Walk fer the money they're going ter pay us?"
I leant across the table, grabbing him by the ears, then speaking in a slow, distinctive voice, shaking his head from side to side in time with each syllable, I said, "Now listen very carefully Uncle Hobart, and make sure you get this into that pathetic excuse you have for a brain. You're going to pick the phone up right now and tell whoever it was that talked you into this craziness, that you've changed your mind, okay?"
Uncle Hobart screwed up his face, pulling my hands away. "Ruddy 'ell, Peter boy!" he exclaimed, delving about in his left ear with a grubby finger. "Yer've loosened all the wax in me bleedin' ear'ole now."
I pushed back my chair, standing up, looming over him. "Phone! Now!" I snarled menacingly.
Shaking his head no, Uncle Hobart looked away, then back again. "Can't exactly do that, can I?" Sticking a grubby hand into his pocket, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper, he held it out to me. "Yer see, they sort o' made me sign this, like."
"Give me that!" I said, snatching it from his hand, my heart sinking as I realised it was a contract. Placing it on the table, I carefully smoothed out the crinkles, scanning the print. Reading it through again, I saw there was no way out of it. "How the hell could you have done this to us, Uncle Hobart?" I moaned. "This not only lets the organisers have a Rave in our field, but gives them permission to hold a rock-concert as well." I tapped the contract, emphasising every word. "They'll be here for a bloody fortnight at least!"
Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures at me, looking somewhat contrite. "Well, 'e said 'e were in an 'urry and 'e didn't give me time ter read it proper, did 'e?"
I slowly screwed the contract into a small, tight wodge. "Well, maybe this'll teach you to read things properly in the future," I said, tilting his head back, forcing the ball of paper into his mouth and pouring his beer in after it. Scrunching up the can in one hand, I strode from the room, feeling better. Much better.
*
Looking from the mud-splattered car to my watch, seeing I could just about make the car wash if I left right away, I jumped into the car. Slamming the door and turning on the ignition key, I swore under my breath as the driver's window began snapping up and down like a demented Venus fly-trap. Thumping the controls, I grunted in satisfaction when the window ceased its hysterical movements, even though it was now jammed half-open. Trying to start the car again resulted in the windscreen wipers flopping backwards and forwards, the dry rubber squealing across the insect encrusted windscreen, setting my teeth on edge. Cursing Uncle Hobart's attempts at car electrics, waggling furiously at the wiper stalk, only succeeded in making the wipers move twice as fast. In a mounting fit of pique, I thumped the stalk with my fist, which was a mistake, because it snapped off, taking a chunk of my ear with it, as it catapulted over my shoulder. Losing my patience completely, I lunged out of the car, caught my foot under the rubber mat and went sprawling into the mud in a tangle of arms and legs. Regaining my feet, wiping the mud from my face, I looked at my watch, torn by the knowledge that if I didn't leave right now, I'd be too late. The pleasure of ramming the broken indicator stalk up Uncle Hobart's left nostril would have to wait until I got back!
Pulling into the car wash, I stopped alongside the control box and leant out of the window to insert my token, but was parked too far away and couldn't quite reach. Cursing silently, I wriggled my body out, which allowed me to insert the silver token into the slot, grunting in satisfaction as it tinkled its way into the guts of the machinery. The car-wash rumbled into life and so too, for some unexplainable reason, did the car window, suddenly snapping shut again, trapping me half way out of the car. Struggling desperately, trying to free myself, I managed to wriggle my way backwards into the car, but ended up trapped by my neck on the edge of the glass, hardly able to breath. The car-wash brushes sprang into life, swinging onto the side of the car with a soft thump, quickly gathering speed as they moved down the side of the car towards me. As the whirling brushes drew nearer, my eyes grew wider, and my shouts grew wilder. Stabbing my finger at the window control button, I prayed that something would happen, and it did. The windscreen wipers started up, throwing soapy water into my eyes.
My screams of rage were quickly lost amongst the clanking and whirring of the car-wash as it dutifully washed my car from front to back, then from back to front, my head along with it. The machine completed the wash cycle, then blasted me with hot air. The attendant finally tore his gaze from the girlie magazine he was reading, noticed my predicament and rushed out to help, pushing down the window, releasing my head, for which I was grateful. But he then yanked open the car door, for which I was not grateful because I swept passed him on a wave of bubbling water that an Aussie surfer would have given his right arm to ride. The force of the water carried me halfway across the main road, dumping me astride the white line, and the resultant sixteen car pile up made the national news that evening.
*
"What?" I shouted above the noise. It was the third day of the festival and my third night of sleeplessness. Fortunately I'd managed to get the Rave stopped by whipping up local fears about the event turning into a drunken, drug taking, sex orgy. That got Miss Pinchard started and she quickly raised a protest march, forcing the police to slap a ban on it, in the interests of public safety. The rock-concert however, was given the go-ahead.
My eyes felt gritty, my head pounding in time to the constant, gut-rumbling beat of the thousand watt speakers erected right outside our bedroom windows. The glass had shattered long ago, and now every time a bass note was played, the whole house reverberated. Unable to sleep, Uncle Hobart and I wandered out to watch the festivities, but I'd soon lost interest in the sweaty, half-naked youths, strutting their stuff on stage for the hoards of screaming girls, looking around for something better to do.
Uncle Hobart, who was obviously as fed-up as I was, grabbed my shoulder and pushed his mouth against my ear to make himself heard. "Come on," he shouted, "let's get down ter the Duck and Anvil fer a quick wet. I can't stand much more o' this."
We swapped positions. "No, you go ahead," I shouted back, "I'm going to take a look at the stalls." He gave me the thumbs up, heading off to the pub. I smiled to myself, thinking about the reception that would be waiting for him there, knowing how much the villagers blamed him for all the noise and disruption they were going through.
Stopping at a stall, I bought a small torch - stumbling over the half-conscious bodies of revellers was not only tedious, but getting downright dangerous in the fading light. Then setting off to look around the festival, I was passing a particularly colourful tepee when a girl stuck her head out, calling to me, "Hey! Hey, it's Peter, isn't it?"
Stopping, squinting through the gathering darkness, I saw another head appear; the grinning features of Makis, lit by my torch. "How'sa it going, Petey?" he called.
"Hello Makis," I shouted back. "It's going pretty good. How about you?" I was talking to Makis but concentrating on Jill. She was as gorgeous as I remembered her and I cursed myself for having let her slip through my fingers. Now it was too late, she was married to the big Greek. Moving closer, I breathed in Jill's perfume. "Hi," I said to her, "it's really nice bumping into you like this."
She smiled broadly, showing her perfect teeth. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "I wouldn't have thought this was your sort of thing."
"I live here. Over there," I explained, pointing at the farm.
"You live there?" she asked, frowning.
"Yes, with Uncle Hobart."
Makis' face lit up. "You live here, witha Hobart?" When I nodded, he laughed. "Where's he?"
"Down at the pub, where else?" I answered.
"Whicha way?" Makis wanted to know. "I go see.
I explained how to get to the Duck and Anvil, then watched the Greek's broad back disappear into the darkness, turning to Jill, smiling self-consciously. "Well, it's certainly been a long time," I said, full of such witty repartee at moments like this.
Sliding her arm through mine, Jill hugged it. "Come on Peter, relax. Tell you what, why don't we go and have a look around the stalls?" I nodded eagerly.
We spent the next couple of hours wandering from stall to stall, buying any little knick-knacks that took our fancy, with Jill doing her best to educate me on the niceties of shell jewellery, while I continued using such conversational nuggets as, "So do you go to festivals very often, then?"
Finishing my hotdog, laughing at the blob of ketchup that Jill somehow managed to get stuck on the end of her nose, I found myself tilting her head back, gently licking it off, until suddenly our lips locked together in a heady taste of ketchup, sweat, and perfume. As our tongues got to renewing old friendships, her body pressed tight to mine, with me praying a certain portion of my anatomy wasn't making my enthusiasm too damned obvious.
At the end of the kiss we were both breathless and stood looking at each other for a long moment, until Jill finally broke the tableau, frowning at the ground. Raising her gaze, she studied me through long lashes and I felt my throat restricting. "I'm married Peter," she whispered.
"I know," I answered through dry lips.
"And I intend staying faithful to Makis."
I nodded, exhaling deeply. "I know," I repeated forlornly.
Jill suddenly giggled girlishly. "Come on then, race you back to the tent." And before I could make a move, she was off into the night.
I followed at a more leisurely pace and by the time I arrived back at the tepee, Jill had lit a small gas lamp and set out a couple of canvas chairs. Taking the can of beer she offered, I sat, trying to be witty and off-key with my conversation. But it kept coming out wrong, so in the end I gave up, and just sat listening to the music thudding across the field.
"So how's Hobart these days?" Jill asked some time later.
"Oh, he's fine. Up to his usual tricks." I made a sweeping gesture. "He's responsible for all this as it happens."
Her eyes widened. "Hobart set this up? You're pulling my leg."
I smiled at her. "Jill, as much as I'd like to pull one of those fantastic legs of yours, I'm afraid it's true."
I was halfway through a long explanation of how Uncle Hobart had signed the contract when a voice cut across me. "Well, I'll be damned. If it isn't Jilly."
Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the speaker was a tall, rather handsome looking, blond guy. Holding his hand was a slim dark-haired girl, whose coffee coloured skin told of a foreign origin.
"Tim! Donna!" Jill squealed in delight. "God I haven't seen you two since university. Still together then?"
Donna leant forward, replying in a husky, conspiratorial tone, which accentuated her accent. "No one else would put up with him."
"Come on, sit down," Jill instructed, pulling a couple more cans of beer from the plastic wrap. They sat crossed legged on the grass and as they began reminiscing about their time at university, I began to feel left out. Settling back into my canvas chair, I allowed the conversation to fade away, studying the way Jill's lips move as she spoke.
*
Someone shook my shoulder, I opened my eyes. Jill was smiling down at me. "I was going to get us all something to eat," she told me. "Do you know if any of the stalls sell rolls?"
Shaking myself awake, I stood up. "I've got some back at the house," I told her. "I'll go and get them if you like."
"Great," she replied. "You do that and I'll start the bacon and sausages."
I was making my way back to the tent, clutching a bag full of rolls, when I tripped over somebody in the dark, swearing loudly as I landed on my hands and knees. The bag ripped open, spilling rolls all over the grass.
"Hey man! Why don't you look where you're going!" a voice grumbled from the darkness.
Struggling to my feet I looked at the middle-aged hippie who was chastising me. He was wearing a brightly patterned shirt with flowing sleeves that, even in the dim light, made me want to shade my eyes. A set of shell beads rustled around his neck and a red headband proclaimed he'd been to Glastonbury. Mumbling my apologies, I began collecting the rolls, while the hippie crouched down again to continue picking at something in the grass.
My curiosity got the better of me. "What're you doing down there anyway?" I asked him.
"Picking me some mushrooms, man." He giggled girlishly. "Like, for an early breakfast." Winking at me, he got to his feet and made his way unsteadily towards the tent area.
"Hey!" I called after him. He stopped, looking back over his shoulder, swaying gently, peering owlishly through his metal-framed spectacles. "You alright?" I called.
He waved a hand, giggling again. "Travelling high man. Travelling high. You have a beautiful time now, you hear?"
He was soon swallowed up by the darkness and I looked at the ground thoughtfully. Then stooping down, I began picking mushrooms. They'd go nicely with the bacon and sausages that Jill was cooking.
*
I awoke to the beat of some demented rock band doing its best to hammer its way into my skull. I could feel the heat of the body laying against my back in the confines of the sleeping bag, smiling to myself in a smug, self-satisfied way, recalling the fry-up Jill had done us, the talk, the monumental amount of beer we had drunk. Makis had staggered back about three in the morning, collapsing into the tepee with a grunt, out cold. Visions of Jill faded in and out of my mind, even though I was finding it difficult to remember exactly what had happened. She cooked the sausages, bacon and mushrooms, I remembered that alright, and gave me a large bottle of cider, which I promptly drank. I seemed to remember dancing at some point, but what happened after that I couldn’t quite remember. I gave up on the conundrum. Why worry when the object of my desires was snuggled tightly against my body? Turning over, I slid my hand along her warm body until it cupped her breast, leant over and kissed the tip of her ear, the nape of her neck. She murmured something low and husky, turning her head to look at me.
My eyes widened in horror. "Oh hell!" I swore, sitting bolt upright.
"Good morning, Peter," Miss Pinchard murmured in her tight, prissy, voice.