F, whose ex-husband used to laugh at her refusal to sign petitions, watches the news with a glass of wine and the smug satisfaction of one whom history has proved right. (She was also right, let the record reflect, about the living room walls.)

U and I watch the Newsnight special, with increasing unease.

Dawn breaks on a snow plain in the east, revealing a silver whistle, a few drops of blood (see how bright the red against the white and silver!), a petal of garlic peel, an efficient absence of footprints.

‌Beltane

The hedgerows are bright with may along the Portsmouth Road. Melanie gets out the flask from the bag at her feet and gingerly pours black coffee.

‘Don’t drink it all,’ says Pete.

Cold air rushes in from the window, not unpleasantly.

‘Let’s stop for a minute,’ she says.

Pete sits with the door open and a leg sticking out, drinking coffee and checking the printout of directions. Melanie stands outside eating a croissant. She licks the crumbs from her fingers and crouches to wash her hands in the dew, then her face.

The daisies have woken. Mel picks a few, then reaches up to snap off an umbel of elder, tucking it behind her ear.

‘You’ve smudged your eyeliner,’ says Pete, pulling back onto the road.

Melanie shrugs. She peers in the vanity mirror to repair it a little, then strings her daisies, holding them at elbow length like a grandmother threading a needle.

Pete glances over at her.

‘What? I don’t need reading glasses.’

*

Off the A3 there is nothing but fields and sky. White blossom everywhere. Twisting roads. Waxed-jacket territory. Stretchy clouds.

They park a short way away and walk up a mud track. They can hear music (bagpipes, even?) distantly. There is no security or gating, which surprises them.

As they round the corner into the field they see a procession approaching from the woodlands at the far end, maybe a hundred people, winding a slow path down towards them, with chants and percussion and yes, bagpipes, a stout blonde in a long white dress at the head of it. The processants appear to be carrying a maypole.

Along the boundary, an advance party of small children is hitting the hedges with sticks. Pete raises an eyebrow.

Nearby and to their right is a first-aid tent, and what looks to be a drinks marquee. Further up, a row of Portaloos. The field is otherwise empty, except for a bunch of people in the middle capering about on hobbyhorses.

They make for the drinks marquee – above the entrance, a hand-painted sign saying ‘Cakes and Ale’.

‘Welcome,’ says a bearded crusty in a jester’s hat and motley, some kind of pelt across his shoulders. ‘Have you come far?’

‘London,’ says Mel.

‘Twice welcome. First time?’

They nod. His voice has a Hampshire burr.

‘Try the local brew?’

‘Go on then,’ says Pete.

‘I’ll have a cake too,’ says Mel, pointing.