HAY FEVER

I was supposed to be meeting the Minister at half-past twelve. I had an email to say so from his private secretary. So I arrived in the hospitality tent a deferential seven minutes early. It was almost empty. A waitress brought me a glass of cold Cava, apologising for it not being in a flute. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ve got some home-made lemon drizzle cake,’ she offered, breathlessly. ‘That would do nicely,’ I said. She bustled off. I pulled out a magazine at random and took a sip of the Cava.

A slim and attractive middle-aged woman slipped into a seat at the adjoining table and began eating a salad. She gave me a penetrating glance. ‘I see you’re reading Cam, she ventured. Are you a writer?’ I hadn’t yet looked at the title: she seemed better informed than I was.

Indeed, I might have been a writer. This was the Hay Literary Festival after all and the marquee was labelled ‘Artists.’ Whether the Minister was an artist I hadn’t really any idea but I hoped he would be giving a lecture. After all my little organisation was sponsoring him. Thus I explained my presence.

‘I do, though, write a little,’ I think I must have said turning back to my Cava and wondering whom she was, and hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed.

‘What do you write?’ I hummed and ha-ed. She spoke firmly but quietly. Strangers don’t normally take an interest in what I write and she seemed to be doing more than just making polite conversation.

‘Oh...websites,’ I said dismissively. ‘Brussels, European politics.’ Occasionally I write things for fun. Privately. Again I turned away, not really wanting to labour the conversation. Besides the lemon drizzle cake accompanied the Cava singularly well.

Feeling compelled to return the ball, I ventured a couple of polite inquiries - had she come far? - that sort of thing. She was chairing a discussion at 1 o’clock, she said. She’d been helping a couple of old friends. She’d lived in London most of her life; but had recently moved to Nottinghamshire. Her face was deep and intriguing, alert, inquisitive, focused. I felt myself being drawn in.

The non-appearance of the Minister continued, despite frequent glances at my watch. The two of us were still pretty much alone. Except for Ruby Wax who flitted in and out for no apparent reason without saying anything.

Thanks to her persistence rather than mine the conversation at last began to leave its hesitant nursery slopes. Prompted, no doubt by the sparkling wine and the billowing draperies of the hospitality tent we set out along an easy green run on the subject of weddings.

It was silly, I suggested, to invest vast amounts of money in a single day, when anyway it might rain, or on which you might be afflicted by some ordinary and debilitating condition like a cold. To be sure of satisfaction you needed to give your wedding temporal and geographical space. Besides, most newly-weds depart the scene after hardly more time than it takes to change one’s clothing. What did she think then, I offered, of the travelling wedding, which would take place in a sequence of venues each with a different cast of friends and relatives. Would that not be more fun? She seemed to think so.

By now I had quite forgotten my Minister. Whoever might be this stranger with the penetrating eyes I felt the two of us were getting along famously. Indeed, I was on the point of ordering another glass of Cava and perhaps one for her when she stood up abruptly and in the pleasantest way possible, said her goodbyes. It was exactly ten to one.

What now if my Minister didn’t appear? What if he had been waylaid by some terrible crisis, personal or governmental. Might I have to ‘appear?’ If so could I talk about travelling weddings - or my other innovation for the social calendar, practice funerals?

But he did turn up of course, full of apology. ‘No, no, no matter,’ I said. And for once this was heartfelt rather than mere politeness for I was quite sure that his conversation would not have been as interesting as hers nor he as receptive as she to my theme of travelling weddings.

Later I spent hours perusing the programme trying to work out who my stranger might have been; she with the burning intelligence and happy sense of humour. Carefully I went through the lists of all the Chairs and Interviewers at Hay, googling them and looking for their pictures. I drew an absolute blank.

Eventually I found her. Not an interviewer, nor a chair either - at least not primarily so. She was the author, Rose Tremain.