The Ned Wood Archive

Sam

Lyn noticed the tears in Sam’s eyes while he was watching the event at Scissors.  She worked out that he was thinking about Jackie and whether he’d be lucky enough to see her do something similar.

“You never know, Sam,” she says.  “One day, you’ll be giving your daughter away.”

“You never know,” he echoed.

“Call her,” said Lyn. “Get in touch.”

He went with them to the Park for Christine and the Queens and stayed for a while, but, truth was, he wanted to spend some time on his own.  He strolled over to the far end of the Green Crafts field and sat amongst the trees.  It’s one of his favourite places.  So peaceful.  Sam always comes up here on the Sunday evening.  Sometimes at twilight.  Sometimes later. Part of his way of celebrating the end of the festival, even when he’s working the week after.  The crafts folk have stopped crafting.  The carvers have stopped carving.  The metal workers have stopped hammering.  The weavers have stopped weaving.   All are winding down.  Some sit around fires chatting.  Some start the break, but only half-heartedly.  They don’t want to invest the energy this evening.  A handful of kids run around, making the most of their freedom.  Just by where Sam’s sat, there’s a sacred spiral, about twenty, twenty five foot wide cut out of the turf.  The turf has been replaced with sand and on top of the sand at regular intervals are night lights burning.  Bright little candles, each sheltered from any breeze by their own protective dish.  It’s magical.  Everything seems right with the world.        

Sam’s looking at his phone.  He debates whether to turn it on and, when he finally decides to, he debates whether to email his daughter, Jackie.  He’s only got an email address for her.  Not a number.  He can’t call or text.  He stares at his phone some more, then opens up email.  He hasn’t checked it for about a week, so he gives himself twenty good karma points and goes to the top of the class.  Absent-mindedly, he deletes a couple of spam messages then notices there’s an email waiting for him.  From Jackie.  Only a couple of days old.  The first thing he’s heard from her for about a year and a half, so those two days shouldn’t matter, but he kicks himself for not picking it up sooner.  She says she’s back in the country now although Sam didn’t know she’d been away.  She wants to get in touch.  Sam replies, telling her he’s at Glastonbury and hadn’t been checking his email.  He’d love to talk.  He’d love to see her.  He sends her his number to prove it.