The Arrival of Missives by Aliya Whiteley Page B

like a parrot stuck to its perch, squawking, awkward. I can't envisage this life of which he dreams. Perhaps I need him to speak of love, or marriage. I need it to have a shape.
    'No, I mean, yes, but—' His mouth opens and closes. I stand on the stile, and wait.
    He gives up. He shakes the reins, and the horse clatters off at speed, the cart bouncing behind it. I feel strong. I feel separate from him, and his plans. Why does he need me to lead his way to Taunton? He should be the one to lead. He is the man. If he wanted us to marry, and go to Taunton, I would think on that carefully. I might even say yes.
    This seething sense of victory sings in my veins, and stings my eyes. I am crying because I have turned quickly on the stile and caught my skirt in the hedge, and now it is torn.
    *
    I wake late, and lie still. It is the first Monday of May, and I will be crowned Queen.
    It is beyond me to be calm, even though this is a ridiculous piece of whimsy that I did not care for just a mere week ago. But no. No, I cannot call it whimsy now I am at the heart of it. There are deep roots to May Day, stretching back through the centuries. I find I have a taste for power in all its forms, on the rare occasions when it is allowed to me, and what is more powerful than a Queen? Particularly one who is the living embodiment of the spring, the soil, the seeds. I feel newborn as a lamb, as old as the rocks themselves.
    I am taking this too seriously, I know. I do not care. I have so many tasks to perform today. It all starts with a knock on my bedroom door, and my mother's excited face (all our disagreements forgotten) as she says, 'The assistants are already here, come along, come along!'
    I perform my ablutions, and then the white dress is brought in by the three girls who will assist me today. They are all younger than me, and sit on the other side of the classroom, but I know Gladys, Esme and Jill well enough to giggle with them as they help me into the dress, pinning it in places where it does not fit. Then my mother arranges my hair, loose over my shoulders, ready for the crown to be affixed.
    But where is the crown? It is at the village green, waiting for me. I am placed upon Nellie, bedecked with flowers on her saddle and reins, and walked down the road with the assistants tripping along after. It is a fine day, bright and clear, and I smile as we pass the smithy, and The Three Crowns, waving at all I see. We arrive at the green, the maypole standing high in the centre, the open tents arranged around, and there is already a crowd of familiar faces even though it is still morning. This promises to be a wonderful day.
    My mother helps me down from Nellie, and leads me across the green, to the side nearest the church, where my throne awaits. It is a wooden chair covered in a white sheet and strewn about with flowers, and a blanket has been placed on the ground around it for my assistants. But we cannot sit and oversee the festivities yet. First I must be crowned.
    And here is Reverend Mountcastle to crown me, insistent on doing the job even though he disapproves. He steps forward as fiddle music starts up, and he is flanked by my father and Mr Redmore. The three of them observe me and nod, as if I have passed a test. But then the Reverend puts the crown – white flowers and green leaves intertwined – upon my head, and it does not matter what they think of me any more. I have been raised above them.
    I step up to my throne and take my seat with all the dignity I can muster, and the crowd cheers.
    The rest of the day is a series of moments like lanterns, strung together by the endless, spinning music, fiddle and drum, and the food and drink that is constantly brought to me by so many people I know; but they present their gifts with aplomb as if currying favour. I nibble, and watch, and sway upon my throne.
    The children make a good effort at the dancing, although the little ones often forget when they should be weaving out instead of