Seeing Stars (6 page)

‘No idea,’ Zillah blew strands of hair away from her sweating face as she heaved at the Pegasus Pale pump. ‘But whatever it
was it seems to have caught on …’

As the Pegasus Pale foamed merrily over the top of the glasses, Timmy and Zillah watched as at least a dozen customers, gathering
up their drinks and snackettes, followed the Motions and headed for the beer garden.

Mrs Jupp’s nose wrinkled like an inquisitive kitten’s as she paid for her two pints. ‘I’ll just go and find out, shall I?
I quite fancy having me lunch in the fresh air. I’ll have one of your pasties, Timmy, if you don’t mind. Zil can bring it
out when she fetches the sarnies for the flaming miserable buggers.’

‘Yes, milady,’ Zillah muttered as Mrs Jupp clattered out of the door.

Timmy paused in the kitchen doorway. ‘When you’ve got a minute, Zil …’

‘Sometime next year, then,’ Zillah hissed as she attacked the next order of three pints of Andromeda, a half of Hearty Hercules
and a bitter lemon with a dash of Worcester sauce.

In fact it was about ten minutes before all the customers had been served, by which time Timmy was just putting the final
prettying touches to the lunches arrayed across the kitchen table.

The Weasel and Bucket’s spotless kitchen was the only part of the pub that had been dragged into the twenty-first century.
Timmy was very proud of his granite and stainless steel and multitudinous gadgets, not to mention his lunchtime snacks and
rather more adventurous evening menu. Not that the Fiddlestickers had ever really got to grips with blanched leeks, sweated
onions, sun-dried tomatoes, balsamic vinegar or lemon-drizzled sea bass, being steak and kidney pie and chips people to a
man, but vis-itors from Hazy Hassocks and Bagley-cum-Russet, or even Winterbrook, certainly appreciated them.

Timmy looked at Zillah with some concern. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? If you’re feeling off-colour you know you can go home.
I can manage.’

‘I told you I’m fine,’ Zillah slid the plates of sandwiches up her left arm and took Mrs Jupp’s pasty in the other hand. ‘It
was just a simple mistake. It’s so damn hot and you know what Billy’s like – can’t keep his eyes or his hands off the merchandise.’

‘Hmmm,’ Timmy snorted. ‘Not that I can blame him – you look good enough to eat.’

‘Oh, come on! At my age I’d be far too tough and gristly for him,’ Zillah smiled gently. ‘Or anyone else for that matter.
I’m way past my best-before date.’

‘You haven’t even reached it yet. You’re the funniest, kindest, most beautiful woman in the world and why some man hasn’t
snapped you up I have no idea. Well –’ he paused in slicing a lump of buffalo mozzarella ‘– apart from the fact that your
heart clearly belongs elsewhere, of course.’

Zillah smiled at him. If only he knew.

Timmy was such a nice man. He’d make her Mrs Pluckrose tomorrow, she knew that. He’d give her a wonderful life. Shame there
was no spark whatsoever. Shame that he was spot on about her heart.

‘Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?’ He looked at her in concern. ‘Is that a rash on your arms?’

Smiling, Zillah shook her head. Big Ida’s ministrations in removing her from the spandex had left large swathes of her skin
looking and feeling like sunburn. She felt it might inflame Timmy’s latent passions a touch too much if she told him about
it. ‘Probably just a bit of prickly heat. Now let’s go and feed the starving hordes before Constance stomps back in here and
starts quoting the Trades Description Act.’

As she walked outside, the midday sun momentarily blinded her. The heat rushed up from the parched grass and almost choked
her. It felt like being immersed in a bath of hot treacle. Across the road the cottages slumbered, the village green shimmered
in the broiling heat, and the stream which usually gurgled and bubbled through it before roaring under the road to reappear
in a crystal torrent along the front of The Weasel and Bucket, was sluggish and slothful.

All the Fiddlestickers were huddled beneath the huge umbrellas, clutching their glasses and staring across the green.

Sliding three plates of sandwiches in front of the Motions, Zillah caught an eye-watering whiff of Marlboro Full Strength
emanating from Slo’s Fred Perry tank top. As he’d promised Constance and Perpetua that he’d given up smoking on New Year’s
Eve she was amazed that neither of them seemed to have yet sussed his secret. Maybe it was working with all that embalming
fluid, she thought. It probably deadened the olfactory nerves.

The Motions ignored the sandwiches and remained, well, motionless, their eyes all fixed on the green.

Zillah, long past expecting anyone to say thank you, smiled at them anyway and wove her way between the trestles, kicking
up little clouds of dust from beneath her sequinned flip-flops.

‘Pasty, Mrs J.’ Zillah slid the plate in front of Mrs Jupp who was sharing her rustic bench with four other villagers including
the one-eyed churchwarden, Goff Briggs. ‘I’ll just make a bit of room …’

None of them spoke or even acknowledged her as she cleared a space among the glasses. She simply sighed and after pushing
strands of wayward hair back into her various combs and fanning her face, Zillah picked up a double handful of empties.

‘I ain’t quite finished with that, duck.’ Without taking his eye from the green, Goff Biggs snatched back his glass and guzzled
the dregs. Only then did he look first at the table then at Zillah, his head, by necessity, askew like a parakeet. ‘Ah, that
pasty smells good. Is that for Mona?’

Zillah had always thought Mrs Jupp was aptly named.

She nodded. ‘Timmy can do you one if you like.’

‘Ah, it’d go down a treat with a bit of piccalilli, thanks Zil, love.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She paused. ‘What on earth is going on out here? Why is everyone watching the green? Have I missed something?’

Goff gave a throaty chuckle and closed his one eye in what passed for a wink. ‘Ah, you could say. We’re just
waiting to see what happens next.’

‘What happens next where?’

‘Over the road. At Moth Cottage.’ Goff crinkled his eye. ‘Goodness me, gel – with that snazzy city piece who’s moving in next
door to you. With Gwyneth. Lewis has just dropped her off – and enough luggage for a good dozen people.’

So that’s what Perpetua had reminded Constance about. Amber’s arrival. Of course, that would be Breaking News in Fiddlesticks
– an event not to be missed.

Zillah shivered suddenly. ‘And, um, what did she look like? And, er, did Lewis, um …?’

‘Lewis helped her with her bags and stuff,’ Mrs Jupp joined in at that point. ‘As you’d expect, him being a proper gentlemen
even if he does look like one of them flaming scruffy long-haired rock and roll people. Then he jumped back into the van and
took off. Anyway, Zillah, we’re not interested in Lewis – even if you are – so don’t interrupt.’

At least Lewis hadn’t hung around. Zillah clung desperately to this morsel of comfort.

‘But what did she – Amber – look like?’

‘Phwoar!’ Goff’s eye watered lasciviously. ‘Legs up to ’er armpits. A little skirt no more than an inch wide – and boots!
Pink boots! And long blonde hair – blimey … She looked like that Middle-Eastern woman.’

Zillah shook her head in non-comprehension.

‘He means Jordan,’ Mrs Jupp spat in disgust. ‘Silly old devil. And no she doesn’t. She’s much, much prettier than that. She’ll
turn a few ’eads in Fiddlesticks and that’s for sure.’

‘Bet young Lewis has got her in his little black book already,’ Goff gurgled, helping himself to a hefty chunk of Mrs Jupp’s
pasty in his excitement. ‘He’ll be all over her come St Bedric’s Eve, you mark my words.’

Mona Jupp, so intent on not missing a thing across the road, didn’t even notice her pasty had mysteriously diminished.

‘Zillah!’ Constance’s voice screeched imperiously across the solid, broiling, dizzy dazzling garden. ‘Could we have some more
mustard for Slo, please?’

Zillah, tearing her eyes from Moth Cottage, turned back towards the pub like an automaton, and completely ignored her.

Fly Me to the Moon

‘There you go then, duck,’ Gwyneth said happily, stepping over the sprawl of bags, cases and holdalls. ‘This is your room.
All your other stuff arrived yesterday. Big Ida got it all upstairs – you can arrange it as you wish.’

‘Oh, it’s lovely. Really lovely,’ Amber peeped over Gwyneth’s head at the top of the narrow, twisty, dark-green staircase.
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble for me – thank you so much – it’s a wonderful bedroom.’

And it was: cream and pale blue and girlie, exquisitely pretty, with a low sloping ceiling and a glorious panoramic view of
Fiddlesticks’ village green through the sash window.

And very, very tiny.

Which figured.

Amber had been stunned at how small Gwyneth was – almost as broad as she was high with her head not quite reaching Amber’s
shoulder – and how minute the cottage’s downstairs rooms were, so she really should have been prepared for her bedroom to
be on a similar scale.

But of course she hadn’t been.

Where on earth was she going to put her mountains of clothes and bags and shoes and make-up and CDs and DVDs and magazines
and books and stereo and portable tv-
cum-dvd player and ceramic hair straighteners and other vital life-paraphernalia?

Apart from a beautiful flounced and sprigged three-quarter bed, there was an elderly single wardrobe and a matching two-drawer
chest, and that was it.

‘Why don’t you have a freshen up first?’ Gwyneth patted her arm. ‘It’s so darned hot and that train journey must have taken
it out of you. Then we’ll have something to eat before you even think about unpacking. The bathroom’s along here. It’s quite
new. We didn’t have indoor bathrooms for ages in these cottages and Dougie Patchcock, he’s the local builder, duck – ’e did
a smashing job on the conversions for us. Mind, we’ve all still got our lavs in the garden.’

Amber performed a sort of pincer movement with Gwyneth at the top of the staircase and another door was opened.

‘It used to be part of my bedroom,’ Gwyneth said proudly. ‘But you’d never know, would you?’

‘Um, no. Not at all …’ Amber blinked again. The bathroom – minuscule sink and Gwyneth-sized bath – was about the size of
a coffin. No loo, no shower, no window other than a skylight in the sloping ceiling directly above the bath. ‘Um … it’s lovely.
And the loo is where?’

‘Downstairs. Just outside the back door, duck. Big Ida’s is still right at the bottom of the garden but I had mine moved into
the old coal house. We’ve got all mod cons here. There’s plenty of hot water in the Ascot. You just turn that knob on there
and make sure the pilot light is on. Like I said, all mod cons. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.’

Half an hour later, having made the most of the miniature bathroom, which had been lovely really as the plentiful hot water
was silky-soft and Gwyneth had left some gorgeous gardenia-scented bath salts and a big fluffy bath sheet, Amber pulled on
a pink vest and short white canvas skirt from her nearest bag and tugged out a pair of sandals.

Then, ducking her head, she carefully negotiated the stairs, trying not to fall over several cats and the large and lolloping
dog.

‘Better?’ Gwyneth beamed in the gloom of the oddly-shaped kitchen. ‘Oh, don’t you look puckie! I’ve made some lemonade, look
– you must be dry as a bone – and the food’s all ready. We can start the unpacking later. This must all seem very strange
to you.’

Amber nodded. Strange and a bit scary. In fact, there had been a moment when Lewis had deposited the last of her luggage at
the top of Moth Cottage’s staircase and leapt back in the Hayfields van with no more than a cheery grin, that she’d wanted
to beg him to take her back to Reading station. Or Heathrow. Or the nearest town. Or anywhere with a bit of twenty-first century
civilisation from where she could return to her friends and/or family and not be left alone in this stunningly pretty but
exceptionally isolated place.

But Lewis, no doubt with the ever-demanding Jem on his mind, hadn’t even given her a backward glance, let alone a chance to
plead for a return trip, and had roared away round the village green’s dusty single-track road and out of sight.

Watching Gwyneth move nimbly around the kitchen, which appeared to have no modern appliances or gadgets whatsoever, Amber
gave herself another mental talking-to. She really had to stop being such a wimp about this. Yes, it was strange and naturally
unfamiliar, but for goodness sake – wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing she’d wanted? She’d never, as her friends had pointed
out, been far away from home except for holidays, and she was rattling towards thirty, for heaven’s sake – surely she had
to make some life-changes, experience different things, before it was too late?

And it was only a couple of months in a southern village after all. It was hardly a solo Himalaya-trek, or moving away to
live on the other side of the world for ever.

‘Go and sit yourself in the garden,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Get
comfy and I’ll bring the dinner out.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, duck – I suppose you’ll call it lunch, but we still mostly have
our dinner midday here, with a bit of tea late afternoon and supper later on.’

Amber smiled. ‘Gran always had her dinner at midday, too. And after all, the people who dished up the meals at school were
called dinner ladies, so dinner is fine by me – but please let me help you.’

‘Won’t hear of it,’ Gwyneth said stoutly. ‘I’ve got it all in hand and you’re a guest. But a word of warning, duck. If you
wants to have a bit of peace for a few minutes, I’d sit out the back rather than the front. Sit in the front and every man
and ’is dog will come and give you the once-over. ’

Knowing that she definitely wasn’t up to that sort of scrutiny just yet, Amber gave a grateful smile and accompanied by the
dog and a posse of cats, ducked out of the back door.

The garden was adorable. Like something out of a picture book. It matched the rest of Moth Cottage exactly. Long and narrow,
with tiny well-worn brick paths wending between raspberry canes, strawberry beds, vibrantly stuffed flower borders and equally
well-stocked vegetable patches, overhung with stunted apple and cherry trees, and with a rickety trellis smothered in fat
creamy roses at the far end.