Seeing Stars (7 page)

Beneath the trees, Amber was delighted to see two deck chairs set on either side of a very elderly table with odd legs. Real
deck chairs like she used to slide into on sand-encrusted childhood seaside holidays, slung with faded striped canvas on splintery
wooden frames and those strange notch contraptions that her Dad used to have so much trouble putting up.

How long ago all that was. When she had been very young, before Coral and Topaz had been born, and a week in Blackpool was
as alluring as Mecca and twice as exciting. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lowered herself gratefully into the seat.

Kicking off her sandals, she wriggled her toes in blissful freedom. Oooh, but it was so hot. Hotter than ever. Even hotter
than it had been on the train – God, how long ago that seemed too. Was that really only this morning? It could have been in
another lifetime.

Wearily, Amber leaned her head back and allowed the drowsy warmth to wash over her, while the pungent scent from the herbs
and flowers soothed her more effectively than any essential oils. One of the cats jumped onto her lap and she stroked it idly,
as the other curled on her bare feet. The sky was vividly blue through the dappling of the trees, the sun almost directly
overhead smothering the riotous rainbow of the garden in molten gold, dazzling and dizzying.

She’d have to text her friends and her parents later – which was another thing: there was only one single electrical socket
in her bedroom so charging her mobile would prove tricky if she needed to dry her hair or watch telly or listen to music at
the same time – and tell them that she’d arrived safely, and about Lewis of course, and about this strange antiquated village,
and how lovely Gwyneth was even if she did look like an elderly
matryoshka,
but right now all she needed was food and drink and sleep.

‘Here we are, duck – no, shove over, Pike, it’s not for you – I’ve brought you animals some water and some more Bonios. And
I see the cats like you – that’s a really good sign.’ Gwyneth trotted from the dim quarry-tiled kitchen, ducking beneath the
overhanging branches, and placed a massive tray on the table. ‘I hope this will be all right. We’ll have to sort out your
likes and dislikes later. Plenty of time for all that.’

Amber opened her eyes, struggling to sit upright without disturbing the cats, and blinked at Gwyneth. ‘Oh, wow. Thank you
so much. This looks wonderful.’

‘Mostly from the garden,’ Gwyneth said proudly, pouring lemonade from a jug clunking with ice cubes. ‘Well, the salad and
peas and potatoes. And as I don’t eat meat, the goat’s cheese came from Mona Jupp at the corner
shop – we always do a trade: I get milk and cheese from her goats, she gets eggs from my hens. There’s a lot of the old barter
and swap mentality here in Fiddlesticks. Go on, duck, dig in.’

‘Thank you – I don’t know where to start. It’s all fantastic.’ Suddenly extremely hungry, and having moved the cats, who now
swished grumpy tails, Amber happily piled her plate. ‘And you’ve got hens? Chickens? Here?’

‘At the bottom of the garden. The run’s behind the trellis. I’ll introduce you to them later on. Me and Ida – she lives in
Butterfly Cottage, the third in the row – we’ve always kept hens. Our girls are all good layers.’

‘And you’re a vegetarian?’

Gwyneth nodded through a mouthful of salad. ‘Mmmm, yes. Me and Big Ida are very involved in various animal charities. I love
animals, duck. All animals. Animals is better than most people. You won’t mind not eating their flesh while you’re here?’

‘No … Not at all. Do you know I’d never thought of it like that. Eating animals, I mean … I suppose I should have done. But
the stuff we had at home, well, it just never seemed to have ever belonged to something alive.’

It was like a whole new world. No meat. Eggs that came from real hens and not just in neat little boxes. Vegetables straight
from the earth.

At home, all food appeared from the weekly supermarket shop, most of it ready processed to be microwaved as and when needed,
because everyone in the family worked and socialised at different times, and they never sat down to eat together except on
Christmas Day. And at home the garden was a triumph of decking and gravel and a few easy-to-tend shrubs in strategically placed
pots. At home both cooking and gardening were looked on as irritating necessities to be dealt with as quickly and easily as
possible.

At home … feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Amber swallowed her goat’s cheese quickly and put down her knife
and fork. Home no longer existed. She had to forget about home right now. She’d have to do a Scarlett O’ Hara and deal with
it later.

‘OK, duck?’ Gwyneth leaned across the table and patted her hand.

‘Mmmm, oh, I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful – it probably sounds daft, but I was just feeling a bit homesick.’

‘Understandable, duck, I know. But you’ll soon settle in. Have you ’ad enough to eat? ’ere have some more peas.’

Amber sighed. She was being pathetic again. ‘Sorry, yes and thank you. This is all so delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had
real peas before.’ Amber picked up her fork again.

‘That’s a good girl, you eat up. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat and drink and a bit of a sleep.’

While they ate, Gwyneth chattered about her youthful friendship with Amber’s Gran, and about the village and its seemingly
zillions of inhabitants, and about various upcoming social functions and a lot about the moon and stars, and strangely about
someone called St Bedric.

Amber let it all drift over her in a contented way. There’d be plenty of time to meet the Fiddlestickers in the next few weeks.
She’d never remember the names anyway.

‘… so, have you got anything green to wear for Saturday night, then Amber, duck? I really should ’ave checked before you arrived
’cause I know you’ll want to join in.’

Green? Green was
so
last year.

‘We all have to wear green on St Bedric’s Eve,’ Gwyneth continued. ‘Saturday night, it is. St Bedric’s is always fun. Luckily
you’ve arrived bang in the middle of the really good astral celebrations.’

For the first time Amber felt a slight pang of unease. So far Gwyneth had seemed so – well – normal. But despite her apparent
youthful outlook, she was after all extremely old. Could she possibly be suffering from some sort of dementia?

‘Have I?’ she said carefully. ‘That’s lovely. But I’ve never heard of St whatever his name is.’

‘St Bedric’s our patron saint and he was the first person to point out the moon is made of green cheese.’

Oh, pul-ease. Amber laughed. ‘But it isn’t.’

‘No,
we
know that. We’re not daft, duck. But ’undreds of years ago people didn’t know that, did they? They were scared stiff of the
moon and its powers. People and animals are still affected by the moon, even now, but then it was regarded as an all-powerful
deity. Everyone was terrified. Scared for their very lives. St Bedric was a kindly soul who took the fear away. Made people’s
lives happier. That’s why we celebrate ’im and why we wear green. To honour him and the cheese thing.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Amber said. ‘I think … But surely, what with space exploration and everything, no one these days can possibly
believe that the stars and moon can harm them or make any difference at all to their lives, can they?’

‘Don’t you sound so doubtful, duck. Everyone in Fiddlesticks knows that the moon and stars can change things. Make things
happen. You wait and see.’

Amber smiled kindly. She didn’t want to upset Gwyneth. ‘Er – right. I’m not sure I’ve got anything green to wear, though –
but I’ll have a look when I unpack.’ And if the whole village was going to be skipping around like something out of the
Faery Queen
come Saturday then Lewis might be there too which would be a mega plus. ‘Um, does everyone get involved in these starry things,
then?’

‘Ah. Everyone. All through the summer right up to September. There’s Cassiopeia’s Carnival, and Leo’s Lightning and Plough
Night and oh, loads of them. Then at the end we have a right old shindig come the Harvest Moon – which sets us up proper for
the winter.’

Amber tried not to laugh. Her friends simply wouldn’t believe it. Or maybe they would. They’d warned her that life would be
very different Down South, hadn’t they? Maybe though, she thought drowsily, she wouldn’t tell
them that in two days time she was going to be baying at the moon. She’d keep that bit of information to herself. She’d simply
go along with the partying and try not to giggle.

After all, there was no chance that the moon and stars could make one jot of difference to her future, was there?

Blue Moon

Annoyingly for Zillah, despite living next door and her best spying efforts, she didn’t actually get to meet Amber until St
Bedric’s Eve.

Admittedly it was a mere thirty-six hours since Amber had arrived in Fiddlesticks, but the damn girl had been kept more firmly
under wraps than a royal wedding dress.

Gwyneth, with, it seemed to Zillah, quite unnecessary determination, had explained that Amber was tired after her long journey
and needed to unpack and settle in and adjust to her new surroundings, and that she’d have enough time to explore the village
and meet everyone come St Bedric’s.

‘But I’m not everyone,’ Zillah had protested. ‘Come on, Gwyneth. You’ve been like a mum to me ever since I moved in and we’ve
always shared everything. I only want to say hello …’

‘Sorry, duck. I wants to let young Amber take this at her own pace. I may not ’ave ’ad a lot to do with youngsters but I like
the lass, and I want ’er to be ’appy here. I want her to stay – and right now I reckon this is the last place on earth she
wants to be. She’s not only homesick – although she’s trying ’ard not to show it – but this is like living on another planet
to her. From what she’s told me it seems city living is light years away from what goes on
here.’ Gwyneth had grinned at this point. ‘Mind, she’s taught me ’ow to text. Fiddly job that is, and all. It took me ages
but I sent a message to ’er mum and dad en route to Spain to say she’d arrived safely. Ain’t that amazing?’

‘Absolutely bloody incredible,’ Zillah had muttered, slamming the door to Chrysalis Cottage behind her.

Even Big Ida, the fount of all gossip, hadn’t had a great deal to add.

‘I ain’t seen much more of her than you ’as, Zil. Just a quick glimpse when I snook round to borrow a cup of proverbial sugar
… What’s she like? Well, she seems friendly – and she’s pretty enough, the little bit I’ve seen of ’er. Very brown. Uses fake
tan, Gwyneth said. Gawd knows why, mind. And she wears ever such short skirts. Like the kiddies wear. No more’n a few inches
long.’ She’d pursed her lips. ‘Didn’t young Lewis tell you all about her, then?’

‘Not a lot, no. I … I haven’t seen much of him. He came into the pub last night but we were busy and he – he – didn’t say
anything about Amber really. And I, er, didn’t want to pry. Didn’t want him to think – well … you know. Mind you, he was with
Fern and Jem, and of course when he’s with Jem no one else gets a look in.’

Big Ida had snorted loudly. ‘That may well change if Amber sets ’er cap at him. She’s a right little glamour puss. She’ll
turn a few ’eads and no mistake. Funny voice, though. Like Coronation Street. Doubt if that’ll put ’em off, though. Young
Lewis, with ’is reputation, could be heading the queue. Anyway, we’ll all get to see a bit more of her tomorrow night, won’t
we? Gwyneth says she’s really looking forward to celebrating St Bedric’s.’

Everyone, Zillah thought darkly, was probably looking forward to meeting Amber more.

And now it was St Bedric’s Eve morning in The Weasel and Bucket, and Zillah, having found a long floaty green dress circa
1972 in the ‘can I bear to part with this?’ heap at the bottom of her wardrobe to take the place of the lime-green spandex,
was deciding if she should wear her hair up
or down, and which of her pairs of dangly earrings would look best with the hippie frock.

The pub was empty. It really wasn’t worth opening up at all in the day time on St Bedric’s Eve. Not even the regulars put
in an appearance. Everyone was saving themselves for the evening.

Timmy Pluckrose was in the pub’s kitchen with Mitzi Blessing from the neighbouring village of Hazy Hassocks, unloading the
St Bedric’s Eve food and there was a lot of laughter escaping through the open doorway.

Mitzi, Zillah’s age and very sparky, made everyone laugh, Zillah thought as she tidied the pristine bar top for the umpteenth
time. Mind you, she’d probably laugh if, like Mitzi, she was lucky enough to be sharing her life with a drop-dead gorgeous
man several years her junior.

Zillah paused in realigning a row of Paris goblets which had never been used in all her years in the pub and smiled as Mitzi,
looking like a teenager in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, emerged from the kitchen. ‘All sorted?’

‘Yep, all under control. Timmy’s happy with the spread. Enough traditional herbal-based goodies in there to intoxicate the
whole of Berkshire and a few neighbouring counties as well – and all livid green, as ordered. But blimey, it’s sooo hot.’

‘Have a drink before you go. You look as though you could do with one. You must have been up all night cooking that lot. Something
long and cool?’

‘Thanks, Zil.’ Mitzi hauled herself onto one of the high bar stools. ‘I really should be getting home to clear up the debris,
but a lime and soda with an entire floating iceberg would be lovely.’

‘Coming up. Can’t you get someone to help you now your Hubble Bubble Country Cooking thing has taken off so well? What about
your daughters? Couldn’t they lend a hand?’

‘Both too loved-up to be any use at all.’ Mitzi tucked some strands of streaked red hair behind her ears and
grinned. ‘Can’t prise either of them apart from Brett or Shay long enough to hold a decent conversation, let alone get them
to do any work. No, seriously, Doll’s still working at the dental surgery and her baby is due in two months, and Lulu is about
to take her RSPCA exams, so I wouldn’t dream of asking them to take on anything else – but you’re right about needing help.
I’ve got more bookings than I can handle. I’ll have to advertise – especially if I’m going to be doing food for all your astral
shindigs this summer as well.’