Seeing Stars (8 page)

Zillah reached for the ice bucket. She was delighted that Mitzi’s business was such a success; that she was so ecstatically
happy in her new relationship. It proved that there was life – and love – and hope for the over fifties. Maybe it would be
her turn next.

Mitzi peered at her. ‘You’re looking a bit down, though. How’s everything going? Really?’

‘With St Bedric’s?’

‘With Timmy. With Lewis. With life in general.’

‘The first still proposes on a daily basis. The second spends a lot of time avoiding me in case I say something he doesn’t
want to hear. The third is about as humdrum as ever.’

Mitzi giggled.

‘Fine for you to laugh.’ Zillah expertly foamed soda over a heap of ice cubes with one hand while dispensing lime juice with
the other. ‘Your life is about as good as it gets.’

‘True … oh, thanks, Zil – that’s great. What? On the house? Thanks even more, then.’ Mitzi gulped at the glass. ‘Oooh, that’s
better. I thought I was going to melt. And yes, OK, my life is great now – but this time last year I was really stuck in the
doldrums: divorced, living alone, doing a job I’d done since I left school. Same old routine, with no chance of any of it
changing anywhere on the horizon … But you never know what might happen – look at me now.’

‘Hmmm.’ Zillah propped her elbows on the bar. ‘Maybe
I should eat some of your “Find Me A Man – Quickly” cakes or something.’

‘Just say the word.’

Zillah’s dark eyebrows shot upwards as rapidly as a pair of homesick angels. ‘No way! I was only joking. I had enough dabbling
with that sort of thing in my hippie youth in the seventies, thank you very much. And anyway, you know I don’t believe in
all that hokum.’

‘Oh no,’ Mitzi smiled, ‘that’s right. I forgot. Being a Fiddlesticker you only believe in the stars granting wishes and the
moon making magic, don’t you?’

‘I don’t believe in any darn magic. Like luck, you have to make it for yourself. There aren’t any herbs or sprites or incantations
that can give me what I want. I gave up wishing and hoping a long time ago … Oh, don’t take any notice of me. Most of the
time life is rosy. I’m just a misery at the moment.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Zillah decided that Mitzi really didn’t want to hear about her nebulous worries over Amber’s arrival in the village. ‘Not
really. Nothing important. Just something that’s cropped up that reminds me of mistakes I made a long time ago really … Sort
of afraid of history repeating itself … Brought back things I’d rather forget. Just silly stuff.’

Mitzi looked concerned. ‘Want to talk about it? Properly, I mean. A girls’ night out sometime?’

‘Maybe,’ Zillah nodded. ‘Yes, that’d be nice – although I’d probably bore you to tears because what I said earlier is true.
I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting something I can’t have – and nothing you could concoct, or calling on all the celestial
goddesses at the same time, can make it happen. One day I’ll simply accept that this is all there is to the rest of my life
and make the best of a bad job.’

‘And would that include accepting Timmy’s proposal?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then don’t.’ Mitzi finished her drink and placed the glass on the counter. ‘Don’t ever settle for second-best. It’ll never
be good enough. And not fair to either of you.’

‘We can’t all be as lucky as you.’

‘Luck had sod all to do with it,’ Mitzi said robustly, sliding from the bar stool. ‘As you just pointed out – we make our
own luck. However, magic – now that’s a different thing all together. Just say the word my dear, and I’ll fetch me cauldron
round and me pointy ’at and me magic wand and a few toads and newts and—’

‘Get out, you daft bat!’ Zillah laughed, chucking a bar towel at Mitzi.

Mitzi stooped to pick up the towel and chucked it back. It missed Zillah and draped itself artistically round the Andromeda
Ale pump.

They both shrieked with laughter.

‘Girls, girls …’ Timmy stuck his head out of the kitchen door. ‘What unseemly behaviour! Remember, neither of you will see
your first half century again …’

‘Bugger off, Timmy,’ Mitzi said cheerfully. ‘At least we’re young at heart – and we’ve both still got all our hair.’

‘Ouch,’ Timmy grinned. ‘I must remember to tell that man of yours tonight that he’s got himself involved with a very cruel
and heartless woman.’

‘He’d never believe you,’ Mitzi smiled. ‘And we’re not going to be here tonight. Joel’s taking me to dinner in Cookham Dene.
It’s our anniversary.’

‘Is it?’ Zillah restored the bar towel to its rightful place. ‘I thought you two only met in autumn last year?’

‘Oh, we did. It’s not that sort of anniversary … Far more intimate … See you …’

Zillah watched as Mitzi practically undulated out of The Weasel and Bucket’s door. Lucky, lucky cow, she thought wistfully.

‘Want to come and inspect the food?’ Timmy asked, patting her hand. ‘The cake is out of this world.’

‘OK.’ Zillah gently removed her hand from his. ‘Why
not? I might even gorge myself on a huge chunk tonight and do a bit of moon-wishing.’

‘You don’t need to,’ Timmy looked at her. ‘Say the word, Zil, and I’d make all your wishes come true.’

Bad Moon Rising

The dusk hung heavily over Fiddlesticks in a lilac heat haze. The lights from the pub and surrounding cottages fanned out
across the village green, causing leaping shadows to turn the willow trees and benches and rustic bridge into slumbering prehistoric
beasts.

The moon, the reason for the village’s excitement, was suspended in a perfect white-cold circle against a black sky, reflected
in perfection in the darkly sluggish stream and adding a wide swathe of silver to the illuminations.

Amber took one look at the apparently zillions of people gathered on the village green and almost turned tail up Moth Cottage’s
path. If it hadn’t been for Gwyneth standing sturdily behind her, she might well have managed it.

It wasn’t just the vast crowd of strangers, or the fact that they were actually going to be doing something really odd concerning
the moon, not to mention an ancient myth, and worship someone who probably hadn’t ever existed – although all that smacked
of acid-fuelled paganism in her book – it was the ocean of unrelenting
green
that was really scary.

Everyone, absolutely everyone, was dressed in some verdant shade. It simply wasn’t normal.

‘OK, duck?’ Gwyneth whispered somewhere beneath Amber’s shoulder blade. ‘No need to be shy. I’ll introduce you to everyone.
You stick close to me and you’ll be fine.’

Gwyneth was wearing a green paisley shirtwaister – well, shirtwaister was a bit of a misnomer due to Gwyneth being box-shaped
with no discernible ins or outs – a green beret and a pair of green leather gloves. None of the greens matched.

‘Um, what exactly do we have to do?’ Amber asked as Gwyneth shepherded her across the dusty road and into the middle of the
crowd. ‘Is there a sort of programme?’

‘No, duck. Well, not really. Once the formalities is over it’s just a big free-for-all. A party, you know? Eating, drinking,
chatting, meeting old friends.’

OK, Amber thought, a party I can cope with. I think. ‘And the formalities?’

‘Well, Goff Briggs raises his glass of Emerald Elixir to the moon and does the usual thank yous to St Bedric for freeing us
from fear for another year, then ’e throws it open to the floor so to speak. You can have a go if you like. Well, if there’s
something you want sorted special like.’

Amber blinked. ‘Sorry? You mean
talk?
Out loud? To the
moon?’

‘Ah now, you may scoff but you just wait. There’s a lot of people, people who live in the twenty-first century and hold down
all manner of responsible jobs and that, who still aren’t averse to ’aving a big bite of Lucky Cake and making a green-cheese
wish for summat they need on St Bedric’s Eve. Sometimes, when life ain’t going the way you want, there are
other methods,
if you gets my drift.’

Amber nodded. Paganism and ritual sacrifice and all sorts of things she shouldn’t be dabbling in, as she’d thought. Green-cheese
wish for pity’s sake!

‘And this Goff person? Is he your, um, vicar?’

Gwyneth shook her head. ‘Churchwarden, duck. The vicar from Hazy Hassocks, he oversees us in Fiddlesticks and six other rural
parishes and ’e always says ’e’s too busy
to do St Bedric’s. Between you an’ me, I don’t think ’e approves.’

And who could blame him?

Much to Amber’s relief, there were several pockets of people on the green who looked as though they may be under pension age.
And several who were definitely young. Sadly they all had rather old-fashioned hairstyles and the green outfits let them down
badly, but it was reassuring to know she wasn’t the only person under thirty in the whole of Fiddlesticks. Maybe she’d meet
some of them in the pub later. Maybe Lewis would be there.

There was a sudden roar from the direction of The Weasel and Bucket followed by a thunder of applause.

The first virgin meeting her doom?

‘Timmy and Zillah bringing young Mitzi’s food out,’ Gwyneth said reassuringly. ‘It always goes down well. Oh, watch out, duck
– ’ere comes the ’ordes.’

There was then a really weird few moments when masses of odd-looking old people, all dressed in green, of course, swarmed
round them and shook Amber’s hand and told her she was a proper little bobby-dazzler and right puckie and a little sweetheart
and how quickly she’d settle into village life and wasn’t she excited about St Bedric’s and wasn’t it lucky that she still
had lots of astral festivals to look forward to through the summer.

Amber had smiled and smiled and smiled, and the names – Mona Jupp, Billy Grinley, Mr and Mrs Tuttle, Bernie Someone, Jackie
Someone-Else, Dougie Patchcock, Constance and Perpetua Motion, and a thousand others – slipped through her memory like quicksilver.

‘There, duck!’ Gwyneth tapped Amber’s shoulder as the crowds fell away for a minute. ‘Look! There’s Zil. Outside the pub.
She’s our other neighbour – lives in Chrysalis Cottage – I told you about her, remember? She’s really looking forward to meeting
you tonight.’

Amber squinted. She could just make out a woman with a lot of dark hair and a long green dress busily arranging
food on the tables outside The Weasel and Bucket. Her heart sank. Gwyneth had said Zillah, the other neighbour, was a youngster:
Amber had hoped for someone of her own age to play with. Zillah must have been as old as her mother. At least. Still, that
was probably positively juvenile to Gwyneth.

‘Oh, hello, Ida.’ Gwyneth’s voice was raised above the roar again. ‘Wondered where you’d got to. Don’t you look chipper?’

Big Ida Tomms, who lived in Butterfly Cottage at the end of the row and who had terrified Amber the previous day when she’d
loomed like a monolith over the garden fence, tramped across the green, elbowing people out of her way, beaming at them both.

‘’ello Gwyneth. Young Amber. You looks lovely.’

‘So do you,’ Amber said quickly because to be honest the sight of Big Ida, dressed from head to toe in a far-too-tight, far-too-short,
bottle–green, panne velvet with her pudding basin hair tucked into an acid–green, satin snood, was truly jaw-dropping.

‘Thanks,’ Big Ida preened. ‘Borrowed this off one of my godsons. The all-in-one, I mean. Even they don’t wear snoods. Is that
a nightie you’ve got on?’

Amber shook her head. The green-beaded, chiffon, baby-doll top was one of last year’s cast-offs which had somehow accidentally
found its way into her luggage. She’d teamed it with a pair of down-and-dirty green ripped jeans which she wouldn’t have been
seen dead in back home. No doubt, down here, the ensemble would be considered cutting-edge catwalk.

To be honest, her wardrobe was causing her some concern. Due to the lack of space, she’d relegated most of it, still unpacked,
to Gwyneth’s garden shed and was hoping to exist on what the fashion pages always referred to as ‘capsule’. It was going to
take forever to get used to only having one of everything.

‘Its very à la mode.’ Ida scratched beneath her snood.

‘And the green flippy-floppies are lovely.’

‘I found her those,’ Gwyneth burst in proudly. ‘Didn’t I, duck? In the shed. From me jumble buys. Just the ticket.’

‘Perfect,’ Amber assured her as they were suddenly buffeted by a crowd of villagers heading towards the rustic bridge. ‘Oh
– what’s happening over there?’

‘That’s just Goff getting ready for ’is big moment. He ’as to stand on a trestle being a bit of a short-arse and hopefully
someone will have given him a microphone this year. He was ’oarse for a fortnight after last St Bedric’s …’

Gazing at the gibbet-like structure being erected beside the stream, Amber still doubted that any of this was happening. It
was just too surreal. She couldn’t wait to phone her friends and give them all the gory details. In fact once she’d recharged
her mobile she’d probably admit that they were right and she’d been wrong and could they come and rescue her as soon as possible.

The dearth of electricity in Moth Cottage meant that the phone had taken a bit of a back seat – the hair straighteners and
television got first dibs at the socket until she’d managed to buy an adaptor – and she was also mindful of Gwyneth’s electricity
bill. She really must remember to charge the phone in the morning and discuss finances with Gwyneth again. There was no way
she was going to live with Gwyneth without contributing something to the coffers.

Mind you, if tonight was anything to go by she wasn’t going to be staying long – definitely not for the whole summer – but
even so, she’d have to pay her way. Which might prove difficult as she had no income and her savings were probably even less
than Gwyneth’s.

‘Crikey Moses! Don’t the Hayfields’ youngsters look lovely?’ Big Ida boomed. ‘Look at Fern! She’s even dyed her hair green
this year! And is that Lewis with her?’

Amber immediately stopped worrying about high finance and peered into the gloom for some sign of a rock band – or, to be honest,
the luscious Lewis and, she supposed,
Jem. It was always a good idea to size up the opposition. The peering was hampered by the heat haze now being accompanied
by swirling piquant smoke from a series of small bonfires along the edge of the green, and the crowds alternately appeared
and disappeared from view.