Her Name Was Lola

27 Ursa Major, Lesser Minor

21 March 1997. Morning of the vernal equinox. Max is waiting on his front steps with a sleeping bag and a small rucksack. At ten o’clock Lola pulls up in a seriously green E-type convertible with a black top. ‘Hi,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ says Max. ‘Nice ride.’

‘Birthday present from Daddy. It’s a ’62, three point eight litre. They made them with bigger engines later but Daddy says this one’s a Stradivarius and it does a ton without breathing hard.’

‘I’m breathing hard just looking at it,’ says Max.

‘This colour is British Racing Green,’ says Lola.

‘A fast colour,’ says Max.

‘Nothing illegal today,’ says Lola. She notes the sleeping bag and smiles. ‘Expecting to get lucky?’

‘You never know,’ says Max.

‘Put it in the boot with mine,’ says Lola. The picnic hamper takes up most of the boot but Max jams his things in and sinks into the leather upholstery beside Lola. They kiss good morning, the Jaguar roars and they’re off. Up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. Motorway miles moving towards them, passing under them, the Jaguar purring sweetly at seventy and sometimes more. ‘When is your birthday?’ says Max.

‘Today,’ says Lola. ‘I’m a vernal-equinoctial kind of girl. My first quarter-century.’

‘You never told me,’ says Max. ‘I’d have got you a present.’

‘You’re my present,’ says Lola. She kisses her fingers and touches them on his lips.

‘We’re heading west,’ says Max. ‘Where to?’

Lola smiles and says, ‘You’ll see.’ The Jaguar swallows the miles as the names of towns grow large in front of them, small behind them. Exits beckon here and there with forceful arrows. Max and his mind are working on what he’ll say to Lola. O God, she’s so beautiful, so aristocratic, so deep, so wild at heart, so everything he longed for just a short time ago. Longs for still but …

‘Lola,’ says his mind as he rehearses possible openings, ‘I don’t know how to say this but I guess the simplest way is the best. Lula Mae is pregnant and I’m the father.’

‘You’re very quiet,’ says Lola.

‘I fall into a travel trance sometimes,’ says Max.

‘Me too,’ says Lola, ‘except when I’m driving.’ She’s humming that Dusty Springfield song. ‘But if you stay,’ says her humming, ‘I’ll make you a day like no day that’s been or ever will be …’

‘Lola,’ says Max’s mind, ‘the days and nights I’ve had with you have been like no other days and nights I’ve ever known …’

‘Sickening,’ says Max. ‘Brutal was better.’

‘ … the pebbles according to size,’ says Lola.

‘What?’ says Max.

‘Chesil Beach,’ says Lola. ‘Ever been there?’

‘No. I’ve read about it though — it’s a shingle storm beach where the waves sort the pebbles according to size.’

‘That’s what I just said,’ says Lola. ‘It’s not far from Dorchester. Did you know about Veästa?’

‘No.’

‘Chesil Beach sea monster, last seen in 1995.’

‘There’ll always be monsters,’ says Max. ‘God made them along with Virginia Mayo and … Chesil Beach.’ He was going to say Lula Mae Flowers but stopped in time.

‘Events,’ says Max’s mind, ‘sort people according to size. It seems I’m one of the smaller ones.’

‘What events are you talking about?’ says Lola.

‘Was I speaking out loud?’ says Max.

‘Unless I’m hearing voices,’ says Lola. ‘I say again, what events?’

‘Just reviewing my life,’ says Max, ‘as a drowning man might do.’

‘Max, are you drowning?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Max.

‘How’s the writing going?’ says Lola.

‘On the novel front,’ says Max, ‘I may or may not have a protagonist but so far no Page One. On the children’s side there’s Charlotte Prickles waiting for a new story which I haven’t got. That’s two No Page Ones.’

Lola puts a sympathetic hand on Max’s thigh. ‘That’s happened before though, hasn’t it?’

‘Many, many times,’ says Max.

‘And you always work through it and you manage to live pretty well off your writing,’ says Lola.

‘Thanks to Charlotte,’ says Max. Sudden vision of her lying flattened in the road. No, no, please.

‘Those books still bring in royalties!’ says Lola.

‘Oh yes, I’ve done seven and they’re all alive and well. That’s how I can afford to write novels. This is the first time you’ve asked me about my finances.’

‘Well, you know, one day I might want to introduce you to my parents and I’ve got to be prepared.’

‘I’ve seen photographs of your father in The Times,’ says Max. ‘He looks like the last days of the Raj.’

‘Somewhat to the right of that, actually,’ says Lola.

‘And I’ve seen photos of your mother in Tatler, so I know where you got your looks.’

‘The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ says Lola.

‘Speaking of fruit, I could use an apple or a banana right now,’ says Max.

‘No snacks,’ says Lola. ‘We don’t get to have the picnic until we’re on top of where we’re going.’

‘Maiden Castle?’ says Max.

‘Right,’ says Lola. ‘Have you been there?’

‘Not yet,’ says Max. ‘It’s one of those things I’ve seen in dreams but not in real life.’

‘What kind of dreams?’

‘All I remember is wideness and greenness and the wind.’

‘By day or by night?’

‘Always by day, in the golden light of late afternoon.’

‘Never in the morning?’

‘Not that I remember.’

PUDDLETOWN, says a sign. An arrow points to WEYMOUTH and Lola turns as directed. At Maumbury Rings she gets on to the road that takes them to MAIDEN CASTLE. ‘Mai Dun is the old name,’ she says as they pull into the car park. And here it is. Not looming very high but very wide, happed in ancient grasses green and brown and tawny. Sheep graze on the layered years. The wind sighs, the ghosts also. Max and his mind as well. The day is bright and sunny but on the cool side with a fresh breeze blowing.

Although this is the beginning of the weekend there aren’t too many cars in the car park. There are information boards and Max wants to read them but Lola pulls him away. ‘Facts will just get between you and it,’ she says. ‘Mai Dun is beyond facts.’

Carrying hamper, sleeping bags and blanket, Max and Lola start up the brown path to the access track. ‘Why is this day different from other days?’ says Max’s mind.

‘You know why,’ says Max.

‘You could have called off this trip after you saw Lula Mae,’ says his mind.

‘I didn’t know how,’ says Max.

‘This day is different from other days,’ says Lola.

‘I know,’ says Max. There are little white daisies and small yellow flowers by the track. ‘What do you call this yellow one?’ says Max.

‘Primula,’ says Lola.

They climb to the inner rampart and feel the sky around them. Looking south past the outer ramparts and ditches they take in the tree-lined fields and meadows undulating in easy sweeps to the blue distance. ‘This is the place,’ says Lola.

‘That’s what Brigham Young said,’ says Max’s mind. ‘Women were no problem for him.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ says Max. ‘Be quiet.’

They spread their blanket and open the hamper which is full of good things including three bottles of Cristal in icy sleeves. At a nod from Lola, Max uncorks the first bottle and Lola takes it from him and pours a little on the ground. ‘Absent friends,’ she says.

‘They’re probably used to something a little less expensive,’ says Max. He pours two glasses and he and Lola drink to each other.

Lola takes the ribbon from her hair, ties it to a long stem of grass where it flutters like a tiny banner. ‘They’re all around us,’ she says, ‘the ones who lived here on Mai Dun thousands of years ago. The wind that’s blowing my ribbon blew the smoke of their fires. Nothing goes away. I chose this day to come here because it’s the vernal equinox, the first day of spring when the night and the day are the same length.’

‘The light and the dark equal,’ says Max as his mind gives him that image: light on the left, dark on the right.

The hamper now gives up its contents: melon and prosciutto, ciabatta and roast peppers, pâté and salami, ripe Camembert and oat crackers. Max uncorks the second bottle which goes down even more smoothly than the first. The third follows in due course.

There are only a few other people, some with dogs, all with cameras taking pictures of the ramparts and ditches, the views and one another. Lola and Max take out their cameras and photograph each other and their picnic spread. ‘I want to stay here till midnight,’ says Lola. She and Max press close to each other as the afternoon grows colder. Evening comes and they’re alone with the sky all around them. They zip the sleeping bags together, take off their clothes, get inside and make each other warm. Max’s rucksack provides a bottle of Courvoisier which dissolves any vestigial chill. Evening becomes night and they lie listening to the speaking of the earth and the wind in the grasses of Mai Dun. Noah’s Ark appears, stranded in Max’s mind from his father’s memory of long ago. The raven flies out, loops the loop once, and is gone. ‘What does this mean?’ Max asks his mind.

‘I can only tell you what I know,’ says his mind, ‘and I don’t know what this image means or why it haunts us.’

The almost-full moon rises and looks down on the banks and ditches of the hill-fort, the labial configurations at either end meant to baffle invaders or possibly honour the white goddess. Despite the paling of the sky the stars are clearly visible, brighter than in London. Burning and flickering, they send their light from before the age of dinosaurs, the Babylonian exile, the fall of Rome, the sack of Jerusalem. ‘See the Great Bear?’ says Lola. ‘Ursa Major?’

‘The Big Dipper,’ says Max, ‘and the North Star.’

‘Polaris,’ says Lola. Gripping Max’s hand, she murmurs rapidly, ‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’

‘What was that?’ says Max.

‘The names of the seven stars of Ursa Major. Say them after me: Alkaid.’

‘Alkaid.’

‘Mizar.’

‘Mizar.’

‘Alioth.’

‘Alioth.’

‘Megrez.’

‘Megrez.’

‘Phecda.’

‘Phecda.’

‘Merak.’

‘Merak.’

‘Dubhe.’

‘Dubhe.’

‘Max and Lola,’ says Lola.

‘Stop,’ says Max’s mind. ‘This is a serious ritual. What are you doing?’

‘Lola and Max,’ says Max. He thinks he might faint.

‘That’s it then,’ says Lola. ‘That’s us with the seven and the absent friends. And Hale-Bopp says yes.’

‘Who’s Hale-Bopp?’

‘The comet. It’s up there in the northwest between Andromeda and Cassiopeia. Very bright, although you can see the tail better on moonless nights.’ She takes Max’s head in her hands and aims him at the comet. ‘See it?’

‘Got it. You seem to be good friends with the stars.’

‘Yes,’ says Lola, ‘good friends with the stars. I’m pregnant.’

When Eve first said those two words to Adam she watched his face closely. Lola’s doing the same with Max.

‘Wow,’ says Max.

‘Say more,’ says Lola.

‘Speechless,’ says Max. Big hug, big kiss.

‘So you’re happy about it?’ says Lola.

‘Like crazy,’ says Max.