Astrid was at a crossroads in her life – but was her festival dream a step too far?
BY CAROLINE DAY
She tapped her bank card on the reader. “It’s not, though.” She gave him a stare. “What’s not what? Sorry?” He looked confused. “Not free. How can you call yourself Free Spirits when a drink is a fiver?”
He lifted a bottle with a silver pourer.
“It’s cheaper than most pubs, and . . .”
“Yes, but not free.”
“Lemon? Cucumber?”
“Please. I’m new. My stall is Astrid’s Kanelbullar. I don’t call it Free Kanelbullar and charge three-fifty.”
“Kanelbullar?”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
He handed her the cup.
“It’s just a name. Free Spirits. They’re free of impurities. I make the tonic syrups myself. Totally organic.”
It was still misleading, but . . .
She took a sip. Gosh. Strong, but the elderflower and – lavender?
“That’s gorgeous,” she said.
“Thanks.” He smiled. Gentle eyes.
She turned to go.
“You take my point, though?”
“Loud and clear.”
Her wellies shlip-shlopped back past a falafel stall, burger van and coffee stand. The rain stopped and she heard music and cheers. She really was here. She breathed in food, wet grass, wood fires.
She walked against the flow of people in plastic ponchos or flamboyant outfits.
Astrid had noted landmarks: turn by the wonky tree, cross the stream. This side was calmer. Her pitch was between a smoothie stall and a vegan pancake stand called The Crêpe Escape.
“Festivals?” Her daughter had scoffed. “Won’t you hate all that –” Astrid had waited. Hate what? Excitement? Chaos? Mud?
“Unpredictability?” Carla had said. “I love you, Mum, but you’re not the most spontaneous of people.”
“Nonsense,” Astrid had replied.
She’d researched trailers, and fallen for a blue vintage VW called Maggie.
Astrid hadn’t anticipated so many checks, licences or contracts. Naively, she’d imagined sewing some bunting, learning a bit about hygiene and rolling up. Still, here they were, her and Maggie.
She’d opened at seven am. Passers-by had stopped to take photographs, though she’d only sold nineteen rolls.
Astrid unlocked Maggie, breathing in the aroma of childhood summers in Sweden with Mormor, her grandmother, days spent baking or out on the boat.
Astrid pulled a gingham apron over her head. The smoothie bar had a queue.
People who want
