The Garden of Stars (6 page)

 ‘Bill shouted back that it was claptrap and that the mayor was only saying it because it suited his own evil scheme.

 ‘The mayor replied, and I remember this clearly, ‘
My
evil scheme, my boy?' He went onto reveal for the first time why he had come to Ivory Meadows. I must say we were all naturally intrigued.

 ‘It turned out, a couple of years ago, Bill had dropped into an out-of-town pub one evening after making some deliveries. He had taken solace in drink and a stranger's ear, revealing how business was bad because the younger folk were using the supermarkets and the older generation, his only loyal customers, were dying out.

 ‘Unfortunately the man sat next to the stranger was the man who would go on to become our mayor. The seed was planted in his mind, it didn't require a criminal mastermind to bring it to fruition. He and his brother – a major property developer – decided the best way to bring about change was by winning people's trust and, to do that, he would have to become their mayor.

 ‘It seems the project, which the mayor now believes to be unstoppable, will make him and his brother millionaires.

 ‘Bill, as you can imagine, was incensed both at the mayor and himself. He felt he was to blame and had to do something about it.

 ‘Meanwhile, Mr Johnson carried on relentlessly. He was clearly enjoying himself. He said, “The fire was God's way of telling you lot that these old buildings have had their day. They're crumbling round the edges and a terrible fire hazard, as we've just seen. Why, I'll bet that one was hardly fit for human occupation.”

 ‘Bill piped up, “I can't believe what you're saying. What about poor Mr Shaw? You saying he deserved to lose his home and dog?”

 ‘The mayor shook his head.'

 Barbara contorted her face and I could see how the weasel of a man had been enjoying every moment of the whole wretched showdown.

 She continued, ‘The mayor said, “Someone else decided his fate for him, I'm afraid. And if it wasn't God then it had to be the work of the devil.”

 ‘Well, a hushed tremor ran round the room. Though they'd never admit it to your face, Vivian, this community is an old-fashioned lot. They like to pretend they're modern and up with the times but they still believe in idle gossip and old wives' tales. And just the word Lucifer, God bless us all,' she said, crossing her heart, ‘well, you understand, it's enough to upset even the strongest of dispositions.'

 ‘What are you talking about, Barbara?' I asked. I didn't quite follow where all this had come from.

 ‘Bill asked the same thing, love, only rather more aggressively. The mayor smiled. It was obvious he was enjoying it, the horrible fox of a man. He said, “You can't tell me for one moment, young fellow, that you haven't noticed a change in Ivory Meadows in the past couple of months? I can't see that it's the climate or the landscape that's changed but …”' Barbara paused.

 ‘Go on,' I urged her.

 ‘He said, “More a new arrival on the hill.”'

 ‘He's always hated me,' I said, ‘I'm not surprised, but don't worry, he doesn't scare me.'

 ‘No, love, I don't think you quite understand what he meant. Bill grunted at him, “If you mean Miss Myrtle then the only change she's brought to the town is a good one.”' Lots of people nodded and mumbled their agreement.'

 I couldn't help but smile. It was nice to hear my efforts, however small, were appreciated.

 ‘But,' said Barbara, ‘the mayor continued, “You think the fact Peter's cattle caught a disease and had to be destroyed is a positive sign? And the fact most of Mr Parson's orchard turned out to be rotten just a co-incidence? And the fact less and less people are bothering to get out of their beds and turn up to church on a Sunday, I suppose that's just modern-day idleness, is it? And the fact half the town got food poisoning from the lamb you bought in from the farm just up from Cherrystone Cottage?”

 ‘Bill said, ‘Now steady on, I apologised for that and promised I'd never use Bidcup's meats again. All my meat has been perfect ever since. Has it not?' he said, looking round. People nodded but you could see the seed of doubt had been sewn.

 ‘“And this fire,” the mayor carried on like some awful circus master, enthralling the crowd, “fires don't just start by themselves, do they?”

 ‘A gasp went round the room, Vivian, I'll tell you. The mayor continued, relentlessly, like a dog with a bone, only now probably for the first time since learning of his ulterior motive, people actually wanted to listen to what he had to say. They were intrigued. He said, “She spends all her days pretending to be a normal greengrocer's assistant. Then, at night, she's cooped up all alone in that tatty old cottage with just her daughter. We all know she spends too much time with that old battleaxe, Miss Metford. It's not right, a woman of her age, to be without a husband. Who knows what she does there? I know she holds astrology classes, filling people's minds with mumbo-jumbo, and she grows plants and herbs for spells.”'

 ‘Poppycock,' I interrupted, ‘everyone else, bar Johnson and the vicar, know exactly what those classes are and that they're nothing to do with astrology.'

 ‘Yes, I know, dear, and I thought the same but what he said made it worse. He said, “Those classes she holds up at her house, don't you realise they're not astrology? She's brainwashing each and every one of you so that when she cast a spell that would burn Mr Shaw's house to the ground nobody would think it was her, would they? No one but the only two people who haven't been brainwashed – myself and the vicar.”

 ‘These were his words: “She's pure evil, the vicar has seen it, I've seen it, but you've all been too blind to see for yourselves.”'

 I was speechless, gasping for breath with tears welling in my eyes.

 Barbara kindly touched my hand and stroked my face the way my mother used to. She nodded at me and tilted her head just enough to show me she didn't believe the wicked words of the mayor.

 ‘Get the poor girl a glass of water, will you, Dennis? I'm afraid there's worse to come yet, dear. Brace yourself.'

 Worse yet? What could be worse than rumours being spread that I was a witch? In an old-fashioned town like this, they'd drown a woman for less. I gulped the water, took a deep breath and asked Barbara to tell me what happened next.

 ‘It was Bill. He was enraged. You see, I don't know if you've ever noticed it, you've been so busy with the campaign and Rosie, of course. But since the day you first arrived, he's always had a soft spot for you.'

 I blushed, I couldn't help it. I had no idea. How could I have been so blind? I guess I'd just shut out all thoughts of advances from men.

 ‘He couldn't bear to hear such things being said about you. He slowly got up out of his seat and walked over to Johnson. The mayor had turned and was brashly asking who was going to buy him a drink. He didn't see Bill approach. Before we knew it Bill had punched him with such force, he knocked him clean off his feet.

 ‘At first people applauded and cheered. But then Johnson didn't get up. They waited, some people shouted at him to stop being such a drama queen, but there was no movement whatsoever. He was out cold, unconscious, and blood was streaming rapidly from his head where he'd hit the bar on the way down.

 ‘I jumped up. I knew however much I hated him, someone had to do something. Bill had punched him on the back of his neck. Had the mayor been facing the other way it might not have been so drastic. Bill didn't know he'd hit the weakest part of the skull. I remembered that from the First Aid training I'd done as a girl.

 ‘Johnson was still out cold and the blood was getting worse. It had saturated the pub carpet, turning it from light green to putrid brown. I looked around me. Everyone was rooted to the spot. Bill had already fled in a rage. I doubt he had any idea just how seriously he'd injured the mayor. People were whispering “Is he dead?”

 ‘I checked for a pulse. It was still there. Just. I screamed for an ambulance and, as if lifted from a trance, they all sprang to action. It was sheer chaos. Everyone on top of each other, and Ian, the landlord, trying to calm everyone down, reassuring them the ambulance was already on its way.

 ‘It seemed to take forever for the paramedics to arrive. But I suppose it was really only five or ten minutes. They checked his pulse, lifted him onto a stretcher, and hurried him off to hospital.

 ‘Back in the pub, it was like the calm after the storm. Everyone returned to their tables and drank silently. It was like everyone knew this one small but almighty act had changed the town, changed it forever. They were clearly weighing up who was right, who was wrong, and, I'm sorry to say, whether there was any truth in the mayor's vicious rumours. You see, if there was, then that meant everything they believed in, everything they were fighting for, was wicked, cruel, and unjust.

 ‘You see you, me, and Bill, we know Johnson's game, we know there's no witchcraft behind the magic you create up at that little cottage. Don't stop me, Vivian, you know yourself there's something magical about what you're doing, what you've achieved. But the rest of the town – they're an old-fashioned, God-fearing lot – even the mere suggestion of devil-worshipping and they'll turn and run a mile.'

 My mind drifted back to Miss Metford. Those were the exact words she'd used when she'd warned me to be careful last time I saw her.

 ‘And the insinuation that they themselves have been following a cult,' Barbara continued, ‘frankly it doesn't bear thinking what reaction they might have.'

 ‘And what about Bill?' I asked, drifting back into reality.

 ‘Ah, Bill. I was just coming to him. The police went straight round to his house. They arrested him late last night and he's been locked up in a cell ever since. People are saying Mr Johnson is in a coma. Everyone who was at the pub has been questioned and I expect you'll receive a visit later today. They're waiting to see what happens to the mayor as to whether they charge Bill for murder or attempted murder.'

 ‘Dear God,' I said, throwing my head into my hands. This was all too much. Not only was Mr Shaw's house a charred shell and his dog dead, now a man lay in a coma, Bill was being branded a murderer, and I was in the middle of a witch hunt. I felt horribly responsible for everything that had happened. Much as I hated Johnson, I would never have wished him dead.

 I hadn't realised I was crying. Great big tears were rolling down my cheeks, causing a well of salt on my blouse.

 ‘There, there,' comforted Barbara, ‘I'm so sorry to upset you but I felt you ought to know.'

 ‘I'm grateful that you did. It's all my fault; how could I have been so stupid? I must go and visit Bill and, of course, Mr Johnson in hospital.'

 ‘You'll do no such thing, young lady. You mustn't go anywhere near Bill. You could make his case much worse, and you could even go down with him. You need to lay low for there's one more thing I have left to tell you.'

 ‘Not more,' I cried. I didn't think my heart could take any more.

 ‘Be strong for me for one more moment, Vivian,' she said, clutching my hands in hers.  ‘I have to tell you this for your own good. Somehow the press has got hold of the story.'

 With this, she revealed the front page of
The Herald
. It read: ‘Butcher Bloodbath – Allegations of Witchcraft Following Attack on Town Mayor .'

 ‘How did they hear about this?' I asked, bewildered. ‘Why are they interested in a little pub brawl in Ivory Meadows?'

 ‘You have to see, love, they're blowing the whole thing out of proportion. It reads lower down that they've had an anonymous tip-off. It could be anyone but it strikes me there's only one man, who's not in a coma, that would want to spread this evil gossip about the town. That's God's own preacher. It means, Viv love, that you must be very careful who you talk to. Mention some triviality to a stranger and it'll end up as hocus-pocus in the papers. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?'

 I nodded.

 ‘And it would do you no harm to keep away from Miss Metford. Whether she's a hermit, an eccentric, or a witch doesn't matter to most people. All they see her as is trouble. I'm just saying, if you don't want your finger burnt, don't play with fire.

 ‘Now, Dennis is going to walk you home. Take this box of groceries with you, and lock yourself in. Don't come out until things have calmed down a bit, I'll come and visit you in the morning.'

 I picked up my coat and hat to go, and Dennis steadied me with his hand.

 ‘Oh, and remember, don't go opening your door to any strangers.'

We fetched Rosemary from school early then walked blindly into the bitingly cold air. It stung my face where I had been crying. The police were on their way to my house. What on earth could I tell them about this, and about my own skeletons?

Chapter Six

The police were with me within half an hour of my returning home. I sent Rosie to play in her bedroom with Whisper while I made the officers a cup of tea, my head swimming as the kettle boiled.

 Fortunately they said the mayor was fine. He hadn't been in a coma at all, it was just that the scandal had grown way out of proportion through word of mouth. Bill had been released but the mayor was pressing charges.

 I told them my version of events, how I wasn't there and didn't know what they were talking about with regards to strange meetings. I told them I realised yoga was a little new-age for Ivory Meadows but that I felt the locals could cope with it. They chuckled so I brought out the cake tin and, encouraged, began to chat to them about how good it is for your health and how they should try it.

 The female officer did ask why had I come to Ivory Meadows and where I had come from, which almost made me choke on my cake crumbs, but I explained I'd been made redundant from my last job in the city and that, as a single mum, I decided it was time for a new start for Rosie and myself in the country. I then began rambling about fresh air and wholesome food and we were soon well off the subject.

 They finally left, bellies full of cake and tea, and happy that the whole debacle had been a silly misunderstanding.

 I sank down onto the floor behind the door as soon as I'd closed it. The last thing I wanted was for the police to go digging into my past. I didn't mention the skeleton and I laughed off any amorous feelings I might have for Bill. After all that was ridiculous, the last thing I needed in my life right now was a man, even though I was touched he had stuck up for me.

 The next knock at the door was a journalist. Fortunately I asked who was there and refused to open the door so they weren't able to get a picture of my face. After all these months of hiding, I would certainly be discovered if my picture was in the local rag. After many attempts at persuasion, the reporter finally went away. Thank goodness no one in the town had ever taken a photograph of me, otherwise my face would have surely graced the pages of the newspaper.

 I couldn't believe I'd left myself and Rosie so exposed to discovery and vowed to keep my head down from that point on. At the end of the day, it was our lives I was trying to protect, not the rest of the town.

I spent the next three days moping around the cottage. No one from Ivory Meadows came to see me, and I couldn't help but feel I was perhaps just making the situation worse for myself by steering clear of the community. As far as I was concerned I had nothing to hide but I knew my absence would be viewed as an admission of guilt.

 I had not given Rosie the full details of why I was at home, and keeping her off school. I told her I was feeling sick and didn't want to see anyone. She was delighted as it meant we had more time to spend together. But somehow I really didn't feel like playing games, dancing, and laughing like we normally did. Fortunately, Rosie's previous interrogation had now ceased and she was back to being my lovely, caring daughter again, doing all she could, once again, to look after her mum and make her feel better.

 I kept myself locked away during daylight hours, only stepping out in the cool crisp moonlit nights for a breath of fresh air, and to try to come to terms with the gravity of my situation. I barely slept in any case. Tonight, outside in the cold night air, an eldritch light glowed all over the cottage, illuminating its white-washed walls. I looked up to see the moon but the sky was dark and hazy. The light seemed to come from something else, something strange and unearthly. It made the trees look like eerie figures, with long spindly fingers outstretched over the house. Were they protecting or attacking us?

 I rebuked myself for getting caught up in Miss Metford's meddlesome delusions. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks with me.

 Or was Miss Metford, and indeed the mayor, right after all? No, that was just a drunken, crazy night, and to be honest I'd been quite flattered by the fact she thought me capable of magic. It felt nice to be a ‘couple of silly old witches' but I only went along with it because it felt good to be part of a team again. The reality was that what she had said was nonsense. For all that I rather liked Miss Metford's robust eccentricity, I couldn't help but feel it wouldn't do Rosie or me good to spend much time with her now.

 I looked back up again and the cottage and the gruesome trees had gone back to normal once more. Rosie was staring down at me from the upstairs window. Her pale face looked doll-like with her golden hair tied back behind her head. It looked as though she'd stepped into an ancient sepia photograph. Unnerved, I ran back indoors to check on her.

I was upset. I didn't know what to do with myself. I was afraid to even cook anything as my mother had always told me only to cook when you feel happy because your mood will always come through the food. I'd tried making an egg mayonnaise sandwich but, without thinking, undercooked the eggs and their yolks had spilled everywhere. I sat with my head in my hands. I was crying over spilled eggs and there was nothing I could do to stop. Maybe I should have stayed in London and gone back to my old job in PR. At least there I was successful; I was wanted.

 There was a knock at the door. It made me jump. No one had ventured near me since the day I'd retreated home. I was all of a panic, not knowing what to do. Before I'd even had the chance to work out my actions, the door was opened and Miss Metford flounced in.

 ‘Hello, Viv dear, thought you might need a little tot of gin and some pigeon pie,' she said, waving a bottle in front of my face.

 ‘Oh, it's you,' I said, both relieved that it wasn't the press, police, or vicar but frustrated as I no longer wanted to associate myself with the old witch on the hill; it had caused me enough trouble as it was. How had I been so careless as to leave the door unlocked?

 ‘Well that's nice,' she said, plonking herself down on a chair next to me and lighting a cigarette. ‘I go to all this trouble cooking, I don't normally cook you know, and that's the thanks I get.

 ‘Don't try to interrupt me, Vivian. I know you've been advised to stay away from me, but I've been watching you and frankly I think you could do with a friend. And a decent supper.'

 At this, she pulled a dead bird out of her bag and emptied the rest of the contents onto the work surface. Just at that moment, Rosie raced into the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt as soon as she saw what Miss Metford was proposing for dinner.

 ‘You're surely not going to cook that here, are you?' I asked, barely believing my eyes.

 ‘You try to stop me, young lady. My father always used to make pigeon pie for us when times were hard. I've even dug out his old recipe to follow. Now let me see, “pluck, singe and draw the pigeon”.'

 ‘Cool,' said Rosie, a look of sheer awe and amazement in her eyes as she watched Mary begin to prepare the bird. The two of them had started to become close over the last few weeks and it seemed a shame to deprive my daughter of a little fun. She'd had to put up with living with a grumpy mum in isolation for too long.

 And I knew Mary was right, I did need a friend.

 Despite Rosie's many questions and Mary's rather over-indulgent explanations, I still had to turn away as feathers flew everywhere in the kitchen.

 ‘Let's see,' Mary continued, ‘he doesn't look too bad, does he, Viv?' she said, shoving a scrawny, bald bird under my face.

 ‘Shot him on my way down to you so he's as fresh as morning dew. Right, now “wash under cold running water”. Think I can manage that, eh, Viv? Especially as you don't have any hot.'

 It was a problem at the cottage I'd been meaning to sort out for weeks.

 ‘Now, “remove flesh”. Where's your cleaver?'

 ‘I don't have one I'm afraid, Mary.'

 ‘I'll have to make do with a normal knife then. Good job I'm a strong old bird myself, eh?'

 Eventually, I turned and watched as she struggled with the poor, decapitated pigeon. Somehow I no longer felt like eating.

 ‘Right, think that's done it.' There was a miniscule amount of meat left on the chopping board. I had to smile.

  ‘Just going to boil him up now for twenty minutes while I make the pastry. Where's your flour?'

 I pointed her in the right direction and within no time the place was covered in white dust, as if it had been left untouched for centuries. Rosie looked like a little street urchin and Mary herself looked as white as a shrouded woman. I had to laugh. It felt good; it was the first time I'd laughed in almost a week.

 ‘Would you like some help, Mary?'

 ‘No, I'm quite capable, thank you, dear. I have cooked in my time, you know. Or at least I did once or twice.' She shot me one of her devilish grins. There was something irresistibly impudent about her.

 ‘I think that pastry will do,' she said, trying to run the gloopy mixture between her fingers.

 ‘Is that really how it's supposed to look?' Rosie mouthed to me across the kitchen.

 I kept my lips sealed, trying desperately not to erupt into giggles with my daughter, who had her impish grin back again.

 ‘I'll just dig out your casserole dish, here it is. And, as you can see, I've already taken the liberty of trimming some herbs out of your garden. Basil to stimulate your brain, stop you sitting here all weepy, and coriander to beat your apathy. I want to see a bit more vigour in you, girl.

 ‘Sprinkle those on the top with a little of the pigeon stock. Cover with pastry, ummn, like so, and pop him in the oven. There, easy. Now let's have a drink to our culinary success.' She poured two large gins. I fetched a glass of milk for Rosie.

 ‘We haven't tried it yet,' I sheepishly told her.

 ‘All the more reason for numbing the taste buds first, my dear,' she said, then cackled with laughter.

 That was it, all three of us laughed until our sides felt sore. Well, not quite as sore as we were likely to feel after we'd eaten her ill-fated pigeon.

 ‘You know,' said Miss Metford, as she poured another gin after ‘dinner', ‘I've also got one of father's recipes here for stewed eels.'

 This time both Rosie and I screwed up our noses. From what we'd eaten so far, Mary's meals were clearly something of an acquired taste – and not one either of us really banked on acquiring. That said, Rosie had tucked in wholeheartedly, I think simply because she didn't want to offend her dear, elderly friend.

 Mary seemed not to notice and instead carried on in her usual oblivious fashion. ‘They're quite a delicacy, you know and popular in years gone by in this area,' she told us.

 ‘Father served them with mushrooms, parsley, onions, sherry, Worcestershire sauce, and lemon juice and he topped the whole thing off with slices of hard-boiled egg and pastry.'

 ‘It does actually sound half decent, Mary, but after tonight, I think you should maybe put your culinary endeavours on hold again for another few years. No offence, of course.'

 ‘None taken. Never liked cooking anyway,' she grunted, and we all laughed again.

Heartened by the previous night's meal, or perhaps looking for something a little more satisfying, Rosie went into the freezer the following morning and found a lamb casserole and cherry pie, which she defrosted and stuck in the oven for dinner.  The smells of last summer drifted up the winding stairs and into my bedroom, where I had been taking a nap. It stirred all those feelings of love, warmth, and tenderness I'd felt both for Rosie and the town when I'd been baking frantically. Looking back I'd sensed then I was in for a hard winter but had been so caught up in the campaign and controversy, had failed to realise this was it. I wandered downstairs to find Rosie had laid our battered little kitchen table with a pretty rose-print cloth and had placed a bowl of fruit in the centre for decoration. Somehow the room felt warmer than it had done for days and, touched, I took the casserole out of the oven and began ladling big spoonfuls into our bowls. We ate in silence but towards the end I felt my cheeks beginning to burn with vitality and good health. Rosie just smiled her smile of pure sunshine. She seemed very much older than her years in so many ways.

 As we tucked into the sweet but tart cherry pie, I let the juices dribble down my chin, remembering how they'd stained my hands red with the vigour of my cooking endeavours. It had been worthwhile after all. Suddenly Rosie yelped. She'd bitten her tongue by trying to eat too quickly. I touched her cheek and smilingly rebuked her, ‘You must have recently told a lie.'

 She looked at me solemnly, put down her spoon and said: ‘Not me, Mummy, you.'

 ‘What do you mean, Rosie?'

 ‘Mummy, you haven't been honest with me about why you're off work and I'm off school. I know when you're sick because I can feel it in my tummy,' she said, patting her stomach, ‘and the feeling I have now is much more in my throat. I think you're sad about something but you won't share it with me.'

 I bowed my head in shame. How could I have been so foolish as to think I could hide something like this from a child as intuitive as my daughter?

 ‘Rosie, I'll tell you the truth. The only reason I haven't before is that I wanted to try to protect you. I realise now I'm probably putting you in greater danger by not letting you know what's been going on.

 ‘The truth is, love, well, it's …'

 ‘Just tell me, Mummy, I'm not afraid. Is it about my daddy?'

 Her daddy. I hadn't even considered him. Because I hadn't heard anything of him since the vicar first mentioned ‘a strange man' months ago, I'd thought it was a fluke, or that perhaps Mr Baker was bluffing for his own benefit. For weeks I'd been watching my back, keeping my cards close to my chest in case he showed up.