The Ned Wood Archive

Joe

Joe rolls out of his bag, pulls on his cargo pants, checks the pockets, stows his phone, selects a another bright festival shirt, and heads out of his tent. He goes through the narrow entrance to the Green Futures field just down the track from their camp site, walks past a couple of the small tent venues, and through the tunnel under the railtrack. This brings him out directly opposite the Greenpeace showers. There’s a line of women, but only a handful of blokes. He must be earlier than usual.

It doesn’t take him long to shower. He hasn’t brought his shampoo or conditioner with him and uses the stuff provided. Sometimes he cheats and uses his own. Greenpeace don’t like it, but he’s got his hair to think about. He dries himself down, dresses, and goes back outside.

He’s sitting on one of the wooden walkways outside the showers combing his hair while staring at his phone which is lying in front of him on the deck. It isn’t making any difference. He knew it when he got dressed, but he didn’t admit it to himself. He didn’t plug the phone in properly the night before. It didn’t charge. He’s done that before. Not plugged the cable in properly. Put the cable between the phone and the case rather than into the socket. That’s not a big deal, cos he can charge it at the tent this morning while he’s waiting for the others. It’s just that he’s more annoyed with himself for messing up. He could always go to the charge tent, too, although that seems like a waste of time. Sitting in a tent when you could be out in the festival.

He takes out his Clashfinder printout and looks at it to remind himself of what he’s doing. Pyramid Stage for the Struts first thing, then over to Peel. Nothing major after that until Mysterines at the Park. He’ll probably do Mysterines not Knee Cap. And then, last thing, he’s spoilt for choice. Probably the Park again, but he’ll see how it goes. See how he feels. That’s often the way Joe does Glastonbury. Picks one or two must-sees and then plays the rest by ear.

“You seeing anyone special?”

He looks up and sees the lass from the conga line. He’s stunned for a minute. He can’t believe his luck. Also, he’s struck dumb. Like a rabbit in headlights. That’s not quite true. What he feels like doing is shouting at the top of his voice. Celebrating. I’ll do graffiti if you sing to me in French. Or speak to me in English. Or do anything, really.

She’s with her mate and, judging by their wet hair, they’ve both just come out of the shower. He should have said something clever like “I am now … I’m looking at someone special” in answer to her question, but he didn’t think of that until a few hours later. He’s nervous but tries not to show it. What he does say, eventually, is what he’d say to Megs or James or Tom if they asked him. Like he’s on autopilot. To bypass his nerves.

“I dunno yet. What do you think? Are you Idles or Fontaines? Or are you Lady Gaga?”

“Fontaines,” says the conga line girl.

“Idles,” says her friend.

“Or maybe Lady Gaga. Abi and Lauren are definitely doing Lady Gaga.”

“No, you’re right Ellie. You can’t miss her really, can you?”

“Not after she’s come all this way, Phoebs” says Ellie.

“Yeah, just to see the four of us,” says Phoebs.

To be honest, Joe had been leaning towards Sharon Van Etten at the Park. Not that he’s still carrying a torch for her. Not any more. Not now he’s come face to face with a younger version of her. A bit. With shorter hair. He discovers some courage and takes a punt.

“Hey, have you had breakfast yet? Do you want to grab something?”

“Yes, why not?” says Ellie.

“You two go. I’m gonna head back,” says her friend. She knows what she’s doing. “Here, let me take some of your stuff with me.”

Ellie sits down next to Joe who’s still got his comb in his hand and his ponytail elastic round his wrist.

“Ellie? Is that right?” asks Joe to check that he’s heard her name correctly.

“That’s right. Short for Elena.”

“I’m Joe,” he says.

“Would you like me to put some plaits in that, Joe?” asks Ellie. “It’ll really make your hair curl.”

She takes the comb and the hairband from Joe and, working from the tips back to his scalp, smoothly and efficiently makes sure there are no knots in his hair. Then she collects three sets of strands in her fingers and, working from the crown down the back, adding more strands as she goes, weaves his hair into a single tight French plait. It is one of the most wonderful experiences of his life.