In her younger days, she had missed out on being chosen May Queen for the day by the narrowest of margins, and had long since mourned the fact. Still, such disappointments hadn’t stopped her from cheerfully ruling the roost on the May Day Committee for the last twenty years.

It was her job to see that the May Day Procession, including all the infants and juniors from the school went like clockwork, with the flower-festooned ‘crown’ and four lances being allocated to only the most responsible (and strongest) children to carry. It was she who organised the village ladies who would be producing the food for the afternoon picnic, traditionally held around the village duck pond. And, naturally, it was her responsibility to ensure that the village maypole, a permanent structure erected in pride of place on the village green nearly two centuries ago, was ready for the maypole dancing by all the village maidens under the age of eighteen, which would start promptly at noon.

Margaret puffed a bit as she crossed the lane in front of the school, and looked across to check the time on the church clock opposite – barely 7 a.m., so she was well on schedule. Nevertheless, she was mentally making a list of all the things she still needed to do as she turned the corner that would take her past the duck pond and on to the village green proper.

She only hoped, she thought with a scowl, that Sid Fowler had remembered to secure the ribbon-bedecked wooden crown on top of the maypole before it got dark last night. For whilst the stone maypole itself was left in situ to withstand the weather all year round, the wooden piece at the top, with multiple slats carved into it through which the long, colourful ‘ribbons’ were secured, was always kept stored in the school shed.

Sid wasn’t the most reliable of men, though, and she had the spare key to the school shed in her pocket, just in case. She had delegated Rose Simmonds, the barmaid of the village pub, to make sure that all the many ribbons, traditionally the seven colours of the rainbow, had been cleaned and would be bright and sparkling for when the children began their dances.

As a child who had once danced around the maypole herself, weaving and ducking around her fellow schoolmates in order to create the intricate patterns so iconic of the maypole, she knew how much better it all looked when the ribbons were bright and fresh. Spider’s Web and Gypsies’ Tent were her favourite dances, but the Twister …

At that moment in her reverie, Margaret looked towards the maypole to check all was as it should be, and stopped dead in her tracks. For a second or two, she merely stood and blinked, not really sure that she was seeing what she thought she was seeing.