Letty Albin, Mayor of Burton
 

 

A massive unlit bonfire towered at the end of a processional path of cardboard Llamas. A rowdy gaggle of students were heaving a massive wicker hoop upright, while another excited group steered an unstable wheelbarrow full of waste wood towards the ceremonial pyre.

Myrtle and I were squirty lemony fresh Bleacho  into the dubious looking camper toilet inside Lowell Cree’s vintage motorhome, also known, by my friend at least, as ‘the rust bucket’.
I really wasn’t sure if festivals were ‘my thing’. An occasional venture into an easy going rock and roll radio station would be enough to keep me entertained for a year. The idea of being blasted by enormous speakers, and wading around in mud had not appealed in the slightest.

 

‘Will you STOP moaning,’ Myrtle moaned, ‘The Burton festival isn’t really about music anyway.’
I couldn’t disagree with her. Hairy Pete’s Experimental Electric Banjo Tunes, which were floating towards us from the folk stage really didn’t qualify as a recognisable melody.

Lack of sleep was a factor in our quarrelling. I had been claustrophobic lying in the overcab bed, and my friend had been unable to organise the dinette cushions in a way that didn’t involve zips, gaps and lumps sticking into parts of her that preferred a proper mattress.

I slapped a pair of enormous headphones onto my ears, to block out any obnoxious noises, and we went in search of a hot drink, hopefully somewhere more civilised.

 

‘What’s a Legbut Rainbow beer Tent?’ Myrtle enquired.
I didn’t care, it looked quiet and out of the wind.
We sulked at a wooden table, staring at our soy based vegan Ovaltine.

‘As soon as Stacy and Thea do the hoop thing we’re gone,’ my friend decided.

I agreed wholeheartedly.

Mayor Albin floated past wearing an enormous grin and a ‘Rainbow Ally’ t-shirt.
A group of people were gathering at one end of the tent.

‘Please no more singing,’ I whispered to myself, hiding my head under an organic embroidered cushion.

 

‘I am honoured to welcome to the stage,’ announced Letty Albin, ‘two well known faces who will appreciate your support this evening at the bonding ceremony.’
A small ripple of applause followed.  

‘We’re being haunted,’ exclaimed Myrtle, wrenching me out of my upholstery nest.
Neil Fairbanks and Augustine Osbourne stood awkwardly holding hands on the raised platform, acknowledging a somewhat muted cheer from the audience.
 

‘Well that’s a surprise,’ cackled Myrtle, ‘I was convinced that Augustine bloke was a vampire, hanging round tombs and disappearing at night like he did, when he was actually just slipping away to bed down wherever that slimeball Fairbanks hangs out.’
I was too exhausted to comment.

Fairbanks was holding a sheaf of papers, and looking towards the rear of the tent.
‘I rather thought that my father might be.. well never mind..’. He donned a pair of half-moon spectacles and opened his mouth to begin.

Whatever speech the chief government advisor had prepared, however, was drowned out by a hysterical flurry of barking and minor explosions just outside the tent’s canvas wall.
‘Fluffy McD!,’ we both shouted in unison, leaping to our feet, and racing outside, followed by a relieved crowd of Legbut patrons, who seemed glad not to have their supportive instincts tested to the limit by the reading out of twenty pages of closely typed text.

Our furry friend, towing a desperate Lowell Cree behind him, like a water-skier on mud, was throwing himself alternately at the a platoon of FemLegUh Feminine Fitness Role Models, in their pink knee-length modesty bloomers, and the Church Ladies’ tambourine chorus, all of whom were ducking and diving to avoid mini fire-crackers which were spraying out of a rotating tin box.

Myrtle threw herself on top of FluffyMcD like a mother hen protecting her chick, and the resulting change of momentum sent Mayor Cree cannoning into a large plastic recycling bin which overturned to reveal Bob ‘the grease’ Pit clutching at his electric organ, and a quivering Stanley Green, financial advisor for Magnasanti, shaking his head and saying ‘I never touched it, I only looked at it! Over and over again.

We finally regained some sense of order, and retreated to the Rust Bucket. Cree, who was obviously in the process of trying to win back his estranged wife, had offered to see if anything could be done with the dinette cushions.
This was a doubly generous gesture, as he himself had spent the night in a leaky old army tent, on my second best air mattress, with the agitated dog tied to his leg.

‘There’s no point, we’re going straight home after the heathen weddings.’ Myrtle objected, but still she went inside the van to supervise his efforts.

 

I decided to take FMcD for a very long walk, well away from the maddening crowds, to see if fresh air, exercise and some peace and quiet would calm him down, and me too if I was being honest.

 

It didn’t take long to leave the smoky campfires, ‘perineal boosting’ chanting, and ill disciplined tambourines behind. I found a narrow muddy path into a small wooded valley. My furry friend and I followed the track along a tumbling stream, until the way was blocked by a delightful waterfall.

 It was the perfect place to sit and relax, and let the soothing sounds of nature take away the corrugations of stress that had gathered in my neck and shoulders. I squeezed through bushes to get to a comfortable looking fallen tree, and was anticipating a nice sit down when FMcD startled and tugged on the lead. I slid sideways down the bank, and landed full square on top of the Vicar.

 

Miss Polanski’s guide to social etiquette, which had been such a reliable source of support in my uncertain teenage years, had much to say about the proper management of relationships with religious officials. She did not however anticipate the situation I had been currently thrown into, merely suggesting that unexpected and awkward encounters could be made more palatable by neutral references to the weather.
I decided that commenting on the likelihood of rain was not an appropriate reaction to being dragged through mud towards the edge of a water course whilst tied to a churchman by an extendable dog lead.
It was obvious that the Rev Cotterall was having similar social difficulties, but one of us had to crack first.

 

 

‘I’m sorry about the dog,’  I gabbled, ‘ He hates being left alone, but isn’t good around people either.’

Cotterall nodded and smiled, ‘Well I know how that feels!’.
‘He just needs a proper home, sensible meals, and someone to take him round the park at midnight after everyone has gone home and the ducks have gone to sleep. He would settle down a treat then!.’

 

Cotterall disentangled himself from the lead and tickled McD under the chin. To my amazement, the dog seemed quite happy with the gesture.

‘Those park ducks can be quite a pain in the neck.’ The Rev laughed,and Fluffy, delighted with the sympathy, rolled over and begged for a tummy rub.

‘You like dogs?,’ I asked.

‘Some of them, yes, some people too,’ he answered, causing me to blush unexpectedly.

 

Having run out of conversation, we walked back towards the festival site together, somewhat awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

A huge crowd had gathered to watch couples leap through the wicker hoop, and I was right at the back unable to see anything.

‘I’m meant to be watching Stacy and Thea,’ I panicked.

‘This is my fault entirely,’ the Rev apologised, ‘please could I?’ He was offering to give me a leg up onto a nearby wall. I decided to ignore my inhibitions and allow the Vicar to help.

 

 

I was just able to see the top of the hoop, but not the couples passing through it, I needed to push to the front of the crowd somehow.

Getting down was not nearly so simple as climbing up. The muddy ground looked a long way off now I looked at it, and I half fell and wound up clutching onto the Vicar’s head with one leg wrapped around his shoulder.

The churchman staggered this way and that. Even the most distracted of festival goers could sense the danger of staying within the range of potential disaster, and a path magically opened up, just as Fairbanks and Augustine jumped timidly through the wickerwork to a round of polite applause.

 

As our unintentional acrobatic act tottered ever closer towards the hoop, a queue of romantic couples featuring all kinds of gender combinations suddenly lost their sense of commitment and scattered in various directions.

 

Upset by the excitement of the crowd, the howling Fluffy McD wrapped his lead like a maypole dancer tightly around the churchmans’ legs. I clutched desperately onto what remained of Cotterall’s hair, dreading the inevitable contact with the ground which must follow. I think I shouted ‘Don’t let Parry Marcelyn operate on me if I break a hip!’ but it was all a blur really.

I’m sure the spiritual leader of Saint Muldyke’s, one Geoffery Cotterall, has in one of his many sermons, reached out and affected the odd parishioner here and there, but he could not possibly have, in whole career, experienced the effect that he would have on the youthful crowd, of suddenly appearing in his muddied up Church of Ballina regalia illuminated by the ring of torch-light behind the bonding hoop, with a purple haired woman wearing tartan bondage trousers, and effecting a kind of flying parachute roll through the bedecked mystic circle, accompanied by a baying, one and a quarter eared hound.
 

The scream of delight that went up from the assembled throng was electrifying. Camera flashes blinded us, roaring students competed with the outraged ranks of church women. Through it all I could hear Myrtle, screaming at the top of her voice.
‘You upstaged Fairbanks!’

 

Lying in the wet grass, part dazzled by camera flashes, I made out the blurry figures of two gentlemen in brown GUM overalls, wearing dark glasses. They made towards us, but hesitated, realising that their only free path lay through the bonding circle. An uncomfortable pause followed when they avoided looking at each other while weighing up the strength of their loyalty to whatever dark forces employed them.  A simultaneous collective decision was made to run off in opposite directions.

 

Having completed a survey of my fallen body, and concluded that nothing had been too far damaged, my brain allowed me to realise that I had, somehow managed, to accidentally marry the Vicar. Glancing sideways, I noted that Geoff had reached the same startling conclusion.

 

Thankfully a new incident arose as a welcome distraction from our  predicament.

Sally, the most civilised of the helpers at the Boll Road Sheltered Housing Centre, was shouting for assistance.
‘Somebody help, Mrs Rorshach is being crushed by a boa constrictor!’.

A rush of onlookers hurried towards the overflowing car park. I noticed Alice, with an unusually empty carrier bag, exchanging a thumbs up with a top-hatted stilt walker. A group of Firefighters were prising a window out of the excursion coach and directing their hoses at the site of the reptilian attack. It seemed that this was their stock response to any emergency.

 

 

I thought I could hear the distant panicked voice of Roy, Fairbank’s brother, trying to rescue his pet from the torrent of water.

 

‘Some days I think Alice goes too far,’ Myrtle had appeared behind me. ‘Mind you, that Rorshach woman sulking in the bus when there’s all this fun going on, it probably serves her right!’.

‘Ooh I forgot to say, Thea and Stacy aren’t coming, she’s got morning sickness and didn’t want to travel.’

This last piece of information, with Myrtle’s trademark inclusion of previously undisclosed information was so infuriating that I stormed off, without really knowing where I was going, hopefully somewhere that made more sense.

 

What I found was the small sad looking Neil Fairbanks with his father Mortimer Green, at the quiet end of the Legbut tent.
‘I was hoping she might come after all, Mother you know,’ said Neil.

 

Dr Green patted his son on the shoulder. ‘Hilda can be difficult, when she doesn't get her own way. She never has accepted your divorce from Pamela.’

 

The Mayor of Deighton Augustine Osbourne, Neil’s newly wed partner, returned to their table. ‘They don’t sell alcohol I'm afraid. It is only a beer tent in the metaphorical sense, apparently.’
He sat down heavily on a flimsy folding chair, and stared at the tray of bamboo beakers he had balanced on his knee, each filled with floating vegetable matter.

 

The family group suddenly noticed me hovering, mouth hanging open, so I took off my scarf, and acted waitressy by wiping their table with it.

‘I’m sorry your Mother didn’t come to your wedding,’ I blurted out, to my own surprise as much as anyone.

Neil grabbed both my hands and said ‘thank you’ a little tearily.

Little brother Roy arrived just then, and pushed past me carrying a writhing rainbow sack while complaining about ‘yet more vet bills’, so I took the chance to escape.

 

I had no idea what to do next, so I went outside and sat down beside the fireworks controller. A little light on the side was flashing and I spotted what looked like a tiny camera lens and leaned down to investigate. I was startled when an electronic voice activated.

 ‘Welcome O-Val-Tine Family Member Two, thank you for purchasing a quality product from Magnaprime software, how can I assist you today?’

Magnaprime was owned by Neil’s Mother, Hilda Fairbanks wasn’t it? Suddenly a lot of things started slotting into place and I wondered if the electronic assistant  really could help me. So I started asking questions. It was completely dark by the time I had finished.

 

FluffyMcD spotted me first, and jumped up and down at the end of his long lead, which had been tied to the Motorhome.

‘I told you she would be back,’ Myrtle’s voice floated through the surrounding haze of burning campfires and other substances I tried not to think about.

Geoff hovered uncertainly.

‘I’m so sorry, it was all my fault, I’ll ask the Bishop for an annulment as soon as his office opens tomorrow.’ he blurted out.

‘No you won’t,’ I said, more calmly than I felt, and then I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed him.’

 

It was hard to say who was most astonished, though I would argue myself to the top of the list given a chance.

‘Fluffy and I are going to come and live at the Vicarage, and I will cook you some proper dinners, and we are going to stop Ballina turning into a district of Hilda Fairbank’s Magnasanti together.’

Myrtle handed me a steaming mug of our favourite drink.

‘With Myrtle’s help of course,’ I added, diplomatically.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ my friend replied, ‘I was thinking it couldn’t be Neil doing all this, he is as much of a bumbling fool as the rest of the males in his family, he just hides it better under that veneer of smarm.’

 

Talk about Mortimer Green becoming the default pattern for Magnaprime’s facial recognition system, or how the liquidated stock from Hilda Fairbank’s previous novelties and garden statuary business had been sold off illegally to Gustav’s after the fuss about psychotropic substances in novelty biscuits, and conversations about the secret spies that were sent out to protect her favourite son, all these topics could wait for a suitable rainy day.

 

Bob ‘the Grease’ Pit was playing a tango rhythm arrangement of the Nutcracker suite, and a hearty band of students were busy tossing cardboard Llamas onto their huge bonfire down in the wedding field. It would be a shame to miss any of it.

 

 

Later, while trying to digest Lowell’s blackened bbq meats, my new husband turned to me thoughtfully.

‘Vicar’s wife, are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ he asked, ‘It’s,’ he hesitated, ‘a lot of being polite and refereeing between warring parties, it might drive you barmy.’
‘Well,’ I answered,’you can do it that way, or you can follow my Mother’s plan, which was to be equally rude to everyone except the Bishop, it was a very efficient system.’

 

Geoff looked at me for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

I squeezed his hand, and FluffyMcD barked and jumped up and down for joy, or possibly in an attempt to get more cindered sausages off the charcoal grill.

 

 

Myrtle slid beside me, passing out steaming mugs of her favourite brew.

‘I might have been wrong about the Vicar.’ she said neutrally, as if admitting to being wrong was something she did everyday, ‘You should have heard what he said to that FemLegUH lot when they came complaining about his lack of moral example!’
She fished into her capacious handbag and brought out a promotional leaflet about dog flea treatments, which had been covered in any unprinted areas by her scrawling handwriting.

 

‘I wrote it down,’ she said, propping her rarely seen reading glasses on the end of her nose, ‘He said, I am proud to get married in this company, what I am embarrassed about, is when committed couples ask to be joined in my church, and I have to say no because of outdated rules based on the small minded prejudices of higher officials.’ 

 

Lowell leaned over conspiratorially, ‘Then Fluffy McD took a fancy to chewing on those stupid athletic bloomers and they positive role modelled away at high speed. It was a shame you missed it really.’ he chuckled.

 

‘I might have to forgive Cotterall for the mix up with the bingo calling. I do hold a grudge sometimes, and I’m not one to ignore my own faults,’ said Myrtle, adopting a holy expression and looking upwards for a moment, ‘and at least he has civilised tastes in hot drinks’ she smiled, tilting her head towards the unexpected bridegroom, who was now sipping Ovaltine out of a plastic camping beaker and reading the bits of the Simnation Times that FMcD had not already chewed over.

 

I just nodded happily in response, because I know that she likes to have the last word.

 

‘