The Moon Spun Round (13 page)

‘I’ve been wanting to meet you. I was thinking up an excuse to call round when Abbie told me about your new business.’

As Naomi approaches her, Sally’s certainty grows. Yes, it
is
her—the hair, the long-limbed flex of her body. That’s the other reason why Sally is rendered speechless—Naomi is the woman in the moonlight; the one who emerged from the trees and crossed the lawn.

‘I’m sure Sally will be able to help,’ says Abbie. ‘She’s full of wonderful ideas.’

‘I certainly hope so.’ Naomi touches Sally’s arm. Her fingers are long and slender. ‘Guitars I understand, but with computers I’m out of my depth. Oh, I have one, of course, and I can word-process and do the email thing, but I can’t get into all that complicated stuff. It’s the website that’s the real problem. It seems I’m going to have to take that on if I want to expand my business and deal with orders from overseas. I’m getting a lot of inquiries from America. Look, I’ve got masses of good photographs if we could use them. And what about credit card payments? Can we make that happen online?’

‘Well, yes…er…’

‘Oh, Sally, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to charge at you like that. It’s just that I’m so excited about this. You don’t know what a relief it is to have someone come and sort it out for me! Let me make us some coffee and I promise I’ll slow down a bit. Or would you prefer tea? I’ve got all sorts of herbal stuff.’

‘Tell you what,’ says Abbie, ‘why don’t I put the kettle on while you show Sally round the workshop?’

‘That sounds like a good idea.’ Sally finds her voice. ‘I need to get an understanding of exactly what it is you do before we can begin to think about commercial presentation.’

‘Yes, of course you do. Well, this is it.’ Naomi sweeps her arms wide to encompass her studio. Light sparks in her dark eyes, and her hair shimmers with the slightest movement as if it has a life and energy of its own. ‘I’m a luthier. I make musical instruments. Guitars, mandolins, bouzoukis—here, let me show you.’ She takes down a guitar and hands it to Sally, who takes
it as if were priceless porcelain. ‘This one is finished. The new owner will be collecting it tomorrow. It’s my usual design of body and neck, my sort of personal signature if you like. But he wanted this particular blue pearl inlay, and the carving of a bird on the head instead of a scroll. It’s a hawk—his name, you see, Edmund Hawk.’

‘What? Not
the
Edmund Hawk? And he’s coming here tomorrow?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Wow. So these guitars must be something special.’ Her hands caress the polished surface and run down the neck of dark ebony gashed with silver frets.

‘I like to think so. Go on, try it. You can play, can’t you? I can see by the way you’re holding it.’

‘Oh, no. I only learned three chords. That was years ago when I was going out with a would-be rock star. I’d love to hear you play, though.’ She holds the guitar out to Naomi, who instantly draws back, pushing her hands in her pocket.

‘No, I don’t play.’

‘You don’t? Oh, yes, I remember Ruth saying—Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’ Colour flushes Sally’s neck and face. She is mortified. ‘I just wasn’t thinking—’

‘It’s all right. No big deal.’ Naomi takes her left hand from her pocket, twisting the wrist to display the middle and ring fingers. They are withered and misshapen like dried twigs. ‘An accident. Long time ago now, I was a child. I can’t make music myself, so I let others play for me. Go on, make a chord.’

‘I don’t think I can remember…’ Sally’s fingers hover above the neck, hesitating, then find the shape. She holds down the chord while her right hand strokes the strings. The sound is warm, like honey. ‘That’s extraordinary. It’s soft and at the same time it’s loud. And so clear.’

‘That’s how a good instrument is judged. Clarity of tone and stability of the tuning. A lot of it is to do with the wood. That’s cedar. It’s wonderful to work with and I love the smell.’

‘But surely you don’t intend selling something like this over the Internet?’

‘Oh, heavens no. I hoped the site would be like a show window, you know, a first point of contact. I prefer to see the customer in person or, at the very least, talk to them over the phone several times as the work progresses. Even an off-the-peg instrument has to be carefully chosen to suit the new owner. But I need to see some sort of cash before I go shipping stuff abroad, and I thought that a credit card payment would hurry things along. Also I’ve started stocking a range of high-quality accessories—strings and tuners and stuff—that could be bought and paid for online. All helps to raise an awareness of my name, and a small order for a leather strap may lead to a commissioned instrument.’

‘Well, I can set you up a secure site with a hosting company. The transaction will happen through them and they’ll give you and your customer immediate confirmation that the money has moved.’ This woman has a good instinct for business and has thought through a workable plan for what could be a difficult-to-access niche market. Sally has momentarily forgotten all about the moonlight and the water jar.

‘Sounds great,’ Naomi’s smile is warm sunshine, ‘though you’ll have to teach me how to use it first.’

‘All part of the service.’ Sally tries another chord. ‘I wish I could play. Perhaps I ought to take it up again. Though I doubt I could afford one like this.’

‘Most of my customers are professional musicians. I’m afraid it’s very time-consuming, you see. They’re not all specially made to order, of course, but I always strive for the highest standard, so the off-the-peg models are of the same quality. And quality means using the best materials, which don’t come cheap.’

‘Neither should the expert craftsmanship. So how long would it take you to make something like this?’

‘It’s difficult to say exactly, because I usually have several projects on the go at one time. But it usually takes about six weeks to fill an order.’

‘And what’s the cost?’

‘Here, this is a price list.’ Naomi hands her a photocopied sheet.

‘Whoops. Yes, I see what you mean. Totally out of my ballpark. But I think I can do something about this.’ She flaps the piece of paper. ‘It hardly does your work justice. Do you have a trademark or a name or something?’

‘Well, this is my monogram.’ Naomi points to the head where the silver letters
NCW
are entwined over a crescent moon. ‘It’s embossed on all my instruments. It stands for Naomi Charlotte Walker, and the moon is a sort of personal symbol.’

Her hand reaches for a pendant, a crescent set over a round, milk-threaded moonstone and held at her throat on a silver torque. The stone could be the twin of the one Sally now wears constantly around her own neck. Her fingers trace its contours, drawing Naomi’s attention to it. She inclines her head and looks at Sally with a questioning smile.

Sally, unaccountably embarrassed, looks away. At that moment Abbie returns from the back room, carrying a tray of mugs.

‘Tea’s up. Now I hope I guessed right that you two could do some business together?’

‘Absolutely.’ Naomi pulls some chairs up to a side table and hands the mugs around. ‘You don’t know how relieved I am. Sally, your choosing to move here is a blessing.’

‘Yes, I think so too,’ agrees Abbie.

‘And what about you, Sally? What do you think of Hallowfield?’ Naomi asks. ‘Do you think you’ll stay?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think I will. It’s strange, you know, living here is so unlike everything I’m used to, and yet I feel so at home. It’s only been a few weeks and it seems like I’ve been here forever.’

‘This place has that effect on some people.’ Abbie looks directly at Naomi, and for a moment they hold each other’s gaze.

‘And you’re getting to know the villagers?’ asks Naomi. ‘I heard you went to a meeting of the book club last night.’

‘What? It’s barely mid-morning. How does word get round so quickly?’

‘Fran. She runs the second-hand shop a few doors away. Isn’t she priceless?’

‘Not what I expected of a vicar’s wife. Not that I’ve known many.’

‘She’s one smart cookie. Subtle as a charging rhino, of course, but she knows how to cut through all the crap. You know exactly where you are with her. I expect there was a full house last night, all wanting to meet the newcomer?’

‘No.’ Abbie looks suddenly serious. ‘Claire didn’t turn up again.’

‘I see.’ It’s as if a shadow has fallen across Naomi’s eyes. ‘Do we know why?’

Abbie shakes her head and reaches out to Naomi. But Naomi stands up and moves to the workbench, her back towards them, and snatches up a heavy chisel, turning it in her hand.

Abbie turns to her. ‘There’s nothing we can do, Naomi.’

‘Yes, there is.
I
can. I must do something.’

‘But not in anger. That’s not the way it works, you know that. Besides, we still don’t know exactly what’s going on. When we do—when she asks for our help—that’s the time.’

‘I have a bad feeling. Something’s going to happen.’

‘To Claire, you mean?’

‘No. Yes…I don’t know. But there’s something…’ She slams the chisel down on the bench. ‘I’m sorry, Sally. I didn’t mean to inflict this on you. But you’ll meet her soon, if you haven’t already, and you’re bound to realize what’s going on. Claire’s a very special person and she’s in trouble. We’re all worried for her.’

‘No, I haven’t met her yet. But I did have a run-in with her husband.’

‘George sent him round to fix Sally’s computer. Can you imagine?’

‘Oh God.’ Naomi sits down again and folds her hands around her tea mug. ‘Don’t worry, Sally, we’ve all been there.’

‘I felt threatened. Helpless. But it was more than that. To be honest, he gave me the creeps.’

‘Yes, well, I expect you only saw his good side.’

‘If Cat hadn’t attacked him, I don’t know how I would have got him out the house.’

‘Your cat did what?’

‘You didn’t tell me about this.’ Abbie sits forward, eager.

‘It was just a scratch. But enough to get rid of him.’

‘Well, good for her.’ Abbie visibly gloats.

‘At least someone has the guts to stand up to him.’ Naomi’s hand moves to the moonstone where the beat of her pulse is visible at her throat.

‘It’s not just the womanizing and the bruises,’ Abbie explains. ‘He seems to have some sort of hold over her. Oh, I know that’s always a part of a violent relationship. But it’s more than that. It feels—whatever it is he’s doing to her—it feels almost sinister. The problem is that Claire won’t talk about it. God knows we’ve tried, haven’t we, Naomi? But she insists nothing’s wrong and that she can handle him. And I know there are lots of women in her situation and they do somehow manage to hold their lives together.’

‘Yes, and lots of women end up in hospital, or worse.’ Naomi drains her tea and rises from her chair, reaching for the other mugs. ‘You must forgive us, Sally. Much too soon to involve you in our problems. Besides, that’s not what you came here for.’

‘And I’ve got a riding lesson in half an hour. I’d better let you two get back to business.’ Abbie buttons up her coat and heads for the door, pulling gloves out of her pocket. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

The doorbell clangs as she leaves, and the room is suddenly silent. Sally is aware of the sweet, spicy scent of wood and sharp, winter sunlight glancing off the rows of tools. She lays her hand on a block of seasoned spruce, breathing in the tang of its resins.

‘Perhaps we should photograph some grain patterns in the raw wood. That would make an interesting background. And it says something about the handcrafting process. But we’ll start with your logo and decide on a distinctive colour scheme that can run through all the brochures and letterheads. I think I’m going to enjoy this. Now, what about business cards?’

An hour passes before they decide to put the kettle on again. In that time they have both learned a great deal about each other’s work. They’re comfortable
together, like old friends meeting again after many years and having a history to catch up on.

Sally has recognized the same thing in all these Hallowfield women—Abbie, Ruth, Fran, and now Naomi—they’re not strangers. Naomi asks her about the company she worked for in London, and naturally the conversation moves around to Jonathan and what had happened that day.

‘I still can’t remember it all,’ says Sally. ‘It’s like there are some pieces missing around the time of the accident. Something about being in the kitchen, and looking at the clock. Cat was on my lap. I know it’s important but I can’t…It’s always just out of reach.’

‘I doubt if it’s anything to worry about. You were in shock that day, and probably for a while after. The mind does some pretty strange tricks to protect itself. Apparently, if you’re involved in a serious accident your mind can blank it out completely, including the fifteen minutes leading up to it.’

‘I hope that’s true, for Jonathan’s sake. But I didn’t know about it until several hours later. I can remember the knock at the door, the policewoman standing there. She must have brushed past the shrubs as she came in the gate as there were leaves caught in her hair. I can still see them quite clearly. As she was talking, I wanted to pick them off. So why can’t I remember what happened in the kitchen that morning? And why do I feel so guilty about something I don’t even remember? It makes no sense.’