She parked the bike against a tree and walked in through the stone arch.
Three men, including Hedge and Michael the baker, sat on the other side of the fire playing a selection of ancient musical instruments. A long pipe thing, a concertina, and a stringed instrument like a flat mandolin. The music was like nothing she’d ever heard before. The closest she could think was Renaissance folk dances.
And people were dancing. Several couples came together, then apart, in what looked like a quadrille.
The smell of roasting meat filled the air; several joints were turning on spits over the flames. Also corn cobs, pumpkins, and a large pot with bubbling liquid. A woman tipped it to the side to fill a jug then went around pouring a little into people’s cups.
There was no sign of Gabriel though. She looked around the edges in case he was there taking photographs, but he wasn’t. She checked her phone. He hadn’t answered her message; the double ticks were still grey, so he hadn’t even seen it.
She decided to put the time to good use and look around. There was a table with stacks of cups and plates. A woman in a red wool gown and red ribbons braided through her hair stood behind it, handing out cups.
“Hiya, Pierre,” she said from behind the table.
Pierre did a double-take. Doris, but not as Pierre knew her. No longer the dowdy middle-aged woman in the post office, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. “Have something to eat.” She waved at the table groaning with bread loaves, platters of cakes, baskets of dried fruit, and nuts.
“Oh my God, I forgot I was supposed to bring something.”
“They already sent something from the Hall.” Doris indicated a basket lined with greaseproof paper and filled with sausages. A man was skewering them on long wooden sticks then arranging them over the fire.
“Who brought these?” It must have been Gabriel.
“Cook dropped ‘em off earlier. They always send from the Hall.” Doris’s eyes kept roaming the crowds. Pierre wondered if she had a sweetheart. It explained the red dress and ribbons.
“You look gorgeous, Doris.”
A huge grin broke over her face. “You think so?” She touched the ribbons in her hair and smoothed a hand over her red full skirt. “This used to be my mum’s when she and Da got engaged.”
Definitely a man in the picture. Who was it? There were several unattached men of the right age, but mostly they were helping out with the roasting meat. Two women weaved among the crowd with steaming jugs.
“Is Emmet here?”
The question drew Pierre back to Doris.
“Hedge said he was definitely going to come.” A shy look had come into her eyes.
“Doris!” One of the women with the jug came over. “Go and join the dancing, love.” She gave Doris an encouraging shove towards a young man. A very young man; couldn’t be a day over seventeen. He offered Doris his arm in the awkward politeness of someone who’d been told what to do.
“My son,” the woman told Pierre. “He’ll make sure Doris is looked after.”
“He’s very sweet to do it,” Pierre said distractedly as she watched them join the dancing line. It dawned on her this must have been part of an old mating ritual. The lines of girls and boys stepped closer then apart. Doris, nearly fifty years old, still danced with great enthusiasm.
The woman sighed. “Poor Doris, she can’t hold her drink. Every year, she gets sleepy and tired after a couple of ciders and someone has to walk her home.” She gestured at Pierre’s empty cup. “Want some cider?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She held out her cup and the woman filled it with something that smelled spicy and sweet. But Pierre’s mind went back to Doris’ question about Gabriel. Could it be that she’d taken his charming apology yesterday the wrong way? In which case, she was waiting for him.
If he ever came.
She took a sip and was instantly glad it was only a sip. What kind of lethal brew did they make here? She sucked in a little air through her lips.
The woman laughed. “Yeah, it takes a bit of getting used to. It starts with apple cider o’course, then all sorts. We’re supposed to add something from every house, mulling spices, honey, and any kind of drink, usually whisky or brandy, just a little, to show respect.”
“Respect?” Getting a lot of people drunk on a cold night was an odd way to be respectable.
“To the land,” The woman explained then moved on to serve others.
Pierre took her cup and went to sit on a log near the fire. She didn’t feel like dancing.
