It Was You Page 10

  I smiled. ‘I fully understand and—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting Alice actually fights, Barry,’ said Val. ‘She could just hold the pike and be in costume and that way she can be a character and sit with us. Otherwise she’ll be on her own all day and that won’t be any fun.’

  ‘But would she really want to dress as a man?’ Barry asked. ‘She doesn’t want to be plodding round wearing heavy boots, a helmet and a breast plate. And the pikes are very heavy.’ I found myself warming to Barry. ‘That’d be very unpleasant for the girl.’

  Tina’s eyes glistened dangerously. ‘I think you mean woman, Barry,’ she interjected, ‘and of course it wouldn’t be a problem. We might be re-enacting a 17th century battle but we’re living in the 21st century.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You’d do well to try to remember that from time to time.’

  Barry lowered his eyes and I could, to my horror, see him weakening in the face of a feminist onslaught. Tina pressed home her advantage. ‘What do you think, Alice?’ She turned to me. ‘You don’t look one bit like a lipstick and fancy nails kind of woman to me.’

  Feeling slightly crushed by this assessment, I scrambled for an avenue of escape from the situation. ‘Well,’ I said, turning to Barry, who remained my one, slim hope, ‘if you’re sure there are no health and safety… or insurance… or legal problems…?’

  Barry shook his head sadly. ‘None that I can think of,’ he said, ‘so long as you don’t actually join in a fray.’

  I turned to Val. ‘And Ken won’t mind? Isn’t his costume quite precious to him?’

  Val laughed. ‘Even if it was, he can’t get off the loo right now, so he won’t notice it’s missing.’ My face dropped. ‘Oh, I’m only joking, Alice,’ she said, rubbing my arm. ‘Don’t you worry about him, love. He’s not that unwell. He just needs to sleep.’

  ‘That’s sorted then,’ said Tina briskly. ‘Disaster averted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barry, looking, I thought, as defeated as I felt.

  I forced a smile. ‘Well, thank you for sorting that out for me. I’m sorry to have been such a bother.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Tina. ‘It was our fault and our problem to put right. All’s well that ends well and Ken’s costume will fit you a treat. You’re actually a very similar build.’ Her eyes lingered disconcertingly on my chest. ‘Lovely and slim,’ she added kindly.

  Barry sighed. ‘Right, well, I shall leave you ladies – you women,’ he corrected himself hastily, ‘to sort all that out. I’m off to check the artillery.’

  ‘See you later then,’ said Tina, kissing him lightly on the cheek. ‘And don’t worry, I know you’re a new man really.’

  He smiled fondly at her, raised a hand to the rest of us, and headed off in the direction of a gathering group of men, each of whom was carrying a large musket. Behind them, a second group was busily engaged in manoeuvring a large cannon out of a truck. Despite my reluctance to be there, and my growing horror regarding participation, I had to admit to myself that it was all rather fascinating.

  ‘Right then, Alice,’ said Tina, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Let’s get you over to Ken’s caravan. He’s got his wife Lorraine with him, so she’ll sort you out – we won’t have to disturb him. We’ll just grab the costume and then you can change in my motor-home. Don’t want you catching Ken’s bug. That wouldn’t be any fun, would it?’

  I looked at this kind woman and momentarily considered confiding that, actually, vomiting into a bucket in the privacy of a caravan was actually a more appealing prospect than spending the next five hours dressed as a man. But, instead, I restricted myself to what I hoped resembled an excited smile. There was a pause, during which I think both women expected me to speak. However, fearing that any attempt to vocalise might result in tears, I simply broadened the grin.

  ‘You know what,’ said Tina at last, taking my arm, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite so excited about a re-enactment.’ She turned to Val. ‘Have you?’

  Val shook her head. I continued to grin. And off we went.

  * * *

  An hour later and I was again sitting with Val and Tina, enjoying the cup of tea I had just been handed and scolding myself for having been quite so negative about the re-enactment experience. With the exception of the huge, brown, balloon-like plus fours, which were held up under a long leather waistcoat by a piece of thick twine, the rest of my ensemble wasn’t too outsized. The white, collared shirt fitted in the sleeve and Tina had safety-pinned the inside to temporarily take it in. The look was completed by long, grey socks and Ken’s boots. The latter were a couple of sizes too big, but even this didn’t seem too much of a problem, in view of my sedentary role. All in all, I decided, my attire was nothing to grumble about.

  I had, it was true, initially been slightly worried about the accessories: a metal breastplate, secured by leather straps, a Pikeman’s pot – an enormous helmet which fell down over my eyes, rendering me both blind and deaf – and, of course, there was the pike itself. I had had no idea that these were so huge. Having imagined it to be the length of an aboriginal spear, I was astonished to be handed a five metre long pole with a spiked metal tip.

  ‘The thing is, you won’t have to run around with any of that,’ said Val, gesturing at the collection of metal-ware lying on the grass next to me. When you need to be in character, you can just pop it on, stand up and walk a few steps. And, if it feels a bit heavy, I can pop a bandage round your head and you can lie down and pretend to be wounded.’ She took a biscuit from the box which was being passed around our group and then offered me one. ‘Would you like a digestive?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I took a biscuit and looked towards the gathering crowds. ‘How many spectators are you expecting today?’

  ‘Several hundred, I should think,’ said Tina, looking at the sky, ‘I just hope the rain holds off.’

  ‘Will it be cancelled if it rains?’ I asked. I might have come to terms with an afternoon of cross-dressing in dry conditions, but I feared my voluminous plus fours would prove the opposite of comfort wear when damp.

  ‘Not at this late stage,’ said Val. ‘And the BBC are filming for local news.’ She smiled and pointed towards a camera crew on the other side of the large designated battlefield.

  ‘I’ll just check the forecast on my phone,’ I said, reaching into my rucksack.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much,’ she said. ‘A little rain doesn’t usually dampen the atmosphere. Kids love the explosions and clashes whatever the weather, and they don’t even realise they’re being educated.’

  ‘Are the numbers of children ever a problem?’ I asked, whilst experiencing a slight sense of foreboding upon seeing heavy rain symbols spread across the afternoon forecast. ‘Do any of them ever attempt to join in?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s all very secure,’ said Tina reassuringly. ‘We have lots of marshals to prevent anyone from wandering where they shouldn’t. Any injuries are minor – and always restricted to members.’

  ‘So people do get hurt then?’

  ‘Occasionally, but it’s only ever bumps and bruises.’ Val finished her biscuit and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘where’s that young man of yours? Royalist or no, he could come and say hello.’

  ‘Oh, Hugh’s not my boyfriend,’ I said quickly. ‘We’re just friends.’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ said Val, ‘I got the wrong end of the stick there.’

  ‘We don’t know each other that well at all, to be honest,’ I said. ‘We were introduced by a mutual friend, who thought we’d get on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Tina, ‘whether anything comes of it or not, the pair of you will still have had a lovely day out, won’t you?’

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  She returned my smile, patted my arm and then bent down, and picked up my breast plate. ‘What do you say we have a go at putting this on you? See how it feels.’

  ‘OK,’ I laughed, handing my phone to Val, ‘but you must take a pi
cture of me in the complete uniform, or my friends will never forgive me.’

  And then, after an unexpected clap of thunder, it started to rain.

  Chapter 14

  We retreated into a large white tent, where I remained under cover until the last possible moment; eating lunch, chatting and helping with last-minute costume mends. However, at 2.30pm, thirty minutes before the first skirmish, the last of the ladies exited the tent, sat down around a large cooking pot and began peeling vegetables and talking about food and the state of the nation, in an impressively 17th century kind of way. I, of course, felt that I had no alternative but to join them and so, pike in hand, I stepped outside and into the rain.

  Our shelter outside the tent consisted of a brown tarpaulin, draped and secured over four thick wooden poles, each about two metres high, creating a covered area about the size of a large market stall. The ladies sitting in the middle of the space, near the pot, kept relatively dry. However, things were cramped and a combination of the fact that I was standing towards the edge of the tarpaulin, plus a slight side-wind, meant that within ten minutes, my plus fours were soaked and resembling the sort of attire worn by Billy Smart’s clowns. They had also doubled in weight and were now seriously challenging the ability of my string belt to keep them aloft. My helmet, although excellent for keeping not only my head, but also my shoulders dry, had the acoustic qualities of a tin drum whenever hit by a drop of rain and, in the end, I was forced to remove it and carry it under my arm. Members of the public ambled past us, hoods up and smiling at the historically accurate conversations of my companions. And whenever I was questioned about my role or uniform, usually by a small child fascinated by my pants, one of my fellow re-enactors would helpfully fill in any details I was unable to supply.

  After twenty minutes of standing in the rain and fielding trouser enquiries, I realised I was increasingly desperate for a toilet break. I cursed myself for not thinking to go earlier.

  ‘I’m afraid I need the loo, Tina,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, because it’s all due to start soon, isn’t it?’

  She waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter at all,’ she said kindly. ‘The queues for the Portaloos will be shorter at the moment, so it’s actually probably the best time to go. Pop your pike down there and I’ll keep an eye on it.’

  I smiled my thanks, lay my pike on the ground and hurried off in the direction of the row of green, plastic cubicles, which lay the other side of the battleground. A marshal lifted the red rope, giving me access to the short-cut, and I reached the toilet queue of just four people, in under five minutes.

  ‘I like your hat,’ said a small girl of about six or seven, who was standing with a woman immediately in front of me in the queue.

  ‘Oh,’ I smiled, looking at the Pikeman’s pot under my right arm. ‘Do you know, I hadn’t realised I’d brought that with me.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Looks very heavy,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not too bad,’ I replied, ‘but it’s rather noisy in the rain.’

  ‘You’re a girl soldier,’ said the child.

  ‘That’s right.’ I sighed inwardly and then waited for the inevitable follow-up question. It came within seconds.

  ‘Why are your trousers like that?’ she asked.

  I looked at the woman, who appeared as eager for my explanation as the child.

  ‘Well, things weren’t really made-to-measure in those days,’ I said. The girl looked at my legs, clearly doubtful that, even in the 17th century, clothes were so poorly fitted.

  ‘The other soldiers’ trousers aren’t like that,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t they?’ I sighed again, this time audibly.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Theirs are like…’ she paused, ‘trousers. Yours are like two big sacks.’

  I looked at the woman who, instead of clamping her hand across the child’s mouth as Miriam would have done, was actually nodding along in solemn agreement.

  ‘…and yours are falling down.’ The girl pointed at the string hanging below my jerkin. ‘Is that your skipping rope?’

  ‘No, it isn’t my skipping rope,’ I said. ‘It’s a special Pikeman’s…’ I racked my brain for a plausible term, ‘…binding braid. We all wear them and look,’ I continued quickly as the woman appeared intrigued and opened her mouth as if to join the conversation, ‘a toilet is free now.’ I pointed over the girl’s shoulder. ‘So that’s good isn’t it?’

  Despite the rain, both mother and child looked disappointed that the close encounter with the poorly-dressed female Pikeman was at an end, and moved reluctantly towards the vacant Portaloo, before squeezing inside and latching the door behind them. A second toilet then became free and I hurried inside.

  A few minutes later and I was hastening back to my station as fast as I could, although my progress was now hindered by heavyweight pants, a poorly re-tied belt and Ken’s boots, which were proving very difficult to walk in, in the increasingly muddy conditions. With one hand holding up my trousers and the other cradling my helmet, I lolloped towards the battlefield, in the manner of a very wet Quasimodo, focusing determinedly upon the ground, in order to avoid both puddles and eye contact. I eventually reached the edge of the crowd gathered to watch the first skirmish, and then proceeded, with some difficulty, to squeeze my way through the rows of spectators. By the time I reached the red rope and a marshal, my trousers were precariously close to descent, my ‘belt’ having come almost completely undone.

  ‘Am I still OK to cut across the field?’ I addressed the marshal, eyeing and envying his head-to-toe waterproofs.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, they haven’t started without you, love.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman Pikeman before. Good on you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I panted, ‘can you hold my hat, while I re-tie my string?’

  ‘Sure.’ He laughed and took the helmet from me. ‘Where’s your pike?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone’s looking after it for me,’ I replied, untying the twine and re-securing it as best I could around my soaking trousers. ‘Thanks so much,’ I said, and made to duck under the rope.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘don’t forget this.’ He raised the helmet, as if to place it on my head.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll carry it,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit big.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be safer with it on?’ he asked.

  I looked down at my trousers. He was right. Better that I kept a tight hold on them with both hands. I could always push my helmet back every now and then to check I was going in the right direction. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘could you pop it on for me and do it up?’

  ‘No problem,’ he smiled. ‘Ah, here’s the…’ He continued to talk but all conversation was lost to me, as the helmet fell over my ears and the rain began to drum on it.

  ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Thanks again.’ I struggled under the rope and began to trudge across the field.

  I had gone approximately a hundred metres when the sound of what I thought was a clap of thunder penetrated my helmet. It was quickly followed by a second and I tightened my grip on my trousers and attempted to quicken my pace, as much as I was able in Ken’s boots. I became suspicious at the third clap and at that point decided to stop hobbling, and get my bearings. The helmet was now fastened under my chin, but I could still tilt it back far enough to afford a decent view of the field.

  My first sight was of the happy spectators straight ahead of me and my attention was drawn in particular to one small boy. He was looking to his left, smiling broadly, with his hands over his ears. I followed the direction of his gaze and, to my horror, saw, and then heard, a fast-approaching crowd of men in leather hats, whom I guessed to be Royalists. When I turned to look the other way, I realised that I was now standing just in front, and slightly to the left, of an amassed regiment of Roundheads, striding purposefully towards the opposition. I screamed, allowed my helmet to drop and started to stagger blindly, and as fast as I could, in what I hoped was t
he direction of the grinning boy.

  Expecting at any moment to be squashed, like a tomato in a juicer, between the two advancing groups, it was to my immense relief that I realised from the cries behind me that I had avoided the clash. I maintained my speed-hobble and managed approximately twenty metres before stopping, exhausted in equal measure by fear and by Ken’s boots. After three or four huge gulps of breath, I was unable to resist looking over my shoulder at the apparent mayhem behind me. In the centre of the field, a large group of men were engaged in what looked like an armed, fancy dress, rugby scrum. The noisy group surged backwards and forwards with, every now and then, a member collapsing to the floor and writhing whilst clutching some limb or other. Here and there, pairs broke away from the main throng to perform pre-choreographed hand-to-hand battles. Even though the dodged punches and light wrestling of these staged fights had been described to me in mind-numbing detail by Hugh on the journey up, as I watched now, in such close proximity and with my heart threatening to explode through my chest wall at any moment, the violence looked terrifyingly real.

  I bent double, clutching my pants with one hand and holding my helmet up with the other, and desperately tried to calm down. I had just decided to turn and walk the remaining fifty metres or so towards the spectator ranks, when I found myself no longer looking at the grass, but instead lying flat on my back, staring up at the sky. The rain pelted my face and I blinked in confusion, as my brain attempted to compute the sudden shift from a vertical to a horizontal plane.

  A man with long, clearly synthetic, hair and a burgundy hat, stood astride me. He quickly fell to his knees and, it seemed to my addled brain, embraced me affectionately before rolling onto his back, so that I was now lying on top of him.

  ‘Aaagh!’ He yelled. ‘The devil take ye, scum!’