The Moon Spun Round (44 page)

Abbie’s alone in the stable building, except for four horses, a foal, an unknown number of mice, and Cat. Actually there aren’t nearly as many mice as there used to be: Cat seems to be doing an excellent job of reducing the population. Abbie can hear her now, rustling about in the straw. The horses don’t mind Cat wandering in and out of their stalls, and she seems to know instinctively
when to get out of the way of their hooves. Abbie is sitting on a bale of straw, applying conditioning oil to a saddle, a routine task that she enjoys. It forces her to sit down and have a quiet moment, and right now she needs some space to think.

Brian McPherson had called in earlier and, inevitably, the subject of the documentary came up yet again. And again she said no. After he left, she went to wash her hands and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Another grey hair, well, there’s bound to be a few now—but it made her realize that time is slipping away. The boys are almost gone, and what happens next? Empty nest syndrome? Still, she has her other children: the horses. But what has she achieved? Oh, there’s the riding school, of course, but…

And then Claire turned up. Abbie had just settled down again to work on the saddle when the horses snuffled and shifted in their stalls, a sign that someone was outside. A moment later Claire came through the door, bundled up in her heavy coat with a woollen hat and scarf.

‘
Brrr!
What a morning. That stable yard’s like an ice rink, nearly fell on my butt coming over.’

‘They reckon there’s more snow on the way. Here, come and thaw out.’

Claire removed her gloves and crouched down to warm her hands in front of the two-bar electric fire that was subsidizing the background heating of the stable. ‘Can’t stay long, I’m on my morning break. But I finished that bottle of jollop you gave me—’

‘Herbal infusion.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, it seems to be doing me good, and you did say you’d let me have some more when it ran out.’

‘Certainly I did, but I don’t think it’s all down to my tonic.’

Claire looked up and smiled. ‘It takes a lot of getting used to, you know.’

‘What does?’

‘Being happy.’

‘I’m sure you’ll learn to cope.’ Abbie stood up, pulled her key chain from her pocket and went through to her office and the carved wooden dresser. ‘How’s Naomi?’ she called through the door.

‘Oh, fine. At least, she was until this morning.’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’

‘Well, she was a bit quiet. Said she hadn’t slept well, but I have the feeling something happened last night while I was at the shop.’

‘Oh?’

‘She was doing some ritual work.’

‘Yes, of course, it was Oimelc.’ Abbie came back, carrying a large bottle of
muddy-looking liquid. ‘You think it has something to do with that?’

‘Could be. I’ll try and find a quiet moment later, see if I can get her to talk about it.’

Abbie resumed work on her saddle, spreading another layer of conditioning oil with a dry cloth. ‘How is it working out, you and Naomi living together?’

‘If you mean am I aware of how Naomi feels about me: yes. Seems everybody knew about it except me, but I’m beginning to get the message. It’s the way everybody keeps asking how we’re getting on while pretending they’re looking at something else.’

Abbie looked back at Claire. ‘So, now that you
are
aware of the situation, how do you feel about it?’

‘Oh, God, I don’t know. I mean, it’s not a problem. Whatever’s going on for her, she’s worked hard at keeping it from me.’ Claire stood up and brushed straw from her coat. ‘What I had with Ayden was never what you’d call a partnership. I’ve got a lot to learn about living with someone, even as friends. Anything more than that? I’ve never even thought about going down
that
road.’

‘Perhaps you both need to be more open about your feelings if you intend to make the arrangement permanent. It hardly seems fair on Naomi. Better to let her down now than allow her to set up false hopes.’

‘Yes, though I’m reluctant to cause waves at the moment. Being a bit selfish. As I said, I’m not used to being happy. But, no, you’re absolutely right, the longer we go on like this, the more hurt she’ll be if I have to let her down.’

She is now buffing the leather to a soft shine. The door opens, a cold blast of air, and Sally comes in.

‘You’re my third visitor this morning. Claire’s just left and before that Brian McPherson was here.’

‘Haven’t seen him since New Year’s Eve,’ says Sally.

‘He was talking about you. Quite a lot, actually. I think he’s working up to asking you for a date.’

‘Oh dear. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. In fact, I’m not sure what I think about having a man in my life full-stop.’

‘Sounds a bit drastic.’

‘Oh, it is. I like to think of myself as being self-possessed. You know, modern woman, career-orientated, independent, all that sort of thing. But when it comes to men, I fall to pieces. I get so caught up with their relationship to
me
that I lose sight of what I’m getting, or not getting, from
them.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘Well, like with Jonathan. I was so amazed that he’d actually wanted to marry me that I turned a blind eye to the fact that he was a two-faced lying skunk. Well, of course I knew really—I’d have to be stupid not to—but I wouldn’t acknowledge it, even when I had my nose rubbed in the evidence.’ She sits down on a straw bale. Cat jumps up and turns around on Sally’s lap to find a comfortable position for washing. ‘I think Cat here has the right idea. Never see her chasing a tom.’

‘No, only mice—and you don’t want one of those. Didn’t you say your father abandoned your mother?’

‘That’s right. Mind you, she did drive him batty. But, yes, he left us, me and my sister and Mum. He went off to live happily ever after with Mavis.’

‘They say we do tend to marry our fathers.’

‘That’s what they say.’ Sally thinks for a moment, a look of astonishment transforming her face as comprehension dawns. ‘Oh, hell. Is that what it is?’

‘Could be. But I’m no psychologist.’

‘No, that was Jonathan’s role. He was the expert on human behaviour, especially mine. Knew how to pull all my strings. I was overwhelmed by him. I don’t know if I want to go there again. But at the time I suppose I was so afraid he’d run off, like my father did, that I put up with anything.’

‘And after your father ran off your mother died, didn’t she?’

‘That’s right. Oh shit! Hey, you’re good at this, aren’t you?’

‘It’s so obvious when you’re not standing in the middle of it.’

‘So you think I was afraid that I literally
couldn’t live
without a man?’

‘What do you think? You’re the one who’s opting for celibacy.’

‘I don’t know. What
do
I think? Perhaps it’s about time I learned to live with myself. What do I need a man for anyway? I’ve managed without one for the past four months. And there are certain advantages—no shaving stubble in the handbasin, no smelly socks in the laundry basket.’

‘Like a fish needs a bicycle?’

‘Precisely. Besides, I’ve got a perfectly good cat.’

The conversation with Abbie has left Sally uncertain and confused. The moon has a long way to travel before her light enters Sally’s bedroom in the early
hours of the morning, bathing her sleeping body and disquieting her dreams, but direct light isn’t necessary for a meditation: an awareness of the moon’s presence is all that Sally requires. The routine of the casting of the circle and the setting of seals is developing a comforting familiarity. It might not be the right way—Naomi would probably list a line of faults in technique and procedure—but when she repeats the words ‘I create sacred space’, it really does feel as if the world has receded and she’s in a special place that’s hers alone. Except for Cat, of course, who, being a creature of the moon, refuses to leave the room.

Sally invokes the Goddess with a prayer, again choosing to name Isis with whom she is beginning to identify. Is she discovering her own method of working or is she remembering something she already knows? Like she knew about the layout of the cottage and where the river was. Now, there’s an interesting thought. She makes herself comfortable in a chair, back straight, feet together, like Isis herself as she is seen seated in the carvings on Egyptian walls. She folds her hands in her lap, cradling the uncut opal that she always carries with her, rubbing its rough edges between fingers. The candle flame dances above the column of wax until her eyelids are ready to close.

The smell of the incense sticks is light and pleasant. Lotus, it said on the packet. Not that she would know what a lotus smells like, but she likes the sound of it. Lotus—the word evokes things Egyptian: gold and lapis lazuli, a row of dark-haired maidens holding ostrich plume fans, the Goddess herself with outstretched wings. Isis in another form, kneeling this time, her head bearing a crescent moon. Then another Goddess, this one sitting upright on a chair wearing the head of a cat. Diana the huntress, swift-footed in pursuit of a forest deer. Though Diana isn’t Egyptian. Greek, isn’t she? Or was that Artemis? Demeter, lamenting her lost daughter. All these Goddesses. A small statue of clay, a rough female form with huge hips and belly, the first image of the Mother Creator.

As Fran said, women’s god-forms have been taken, forbidden and destroyed. Only God the Father was allowed. The father, the first male image, a divine being for a girl child until she learns that he has feet of clay. But by then the damage is done, the pattern is set. Jonathan. Yes, he just was like my father, and I followed him blindly until he turned out to be another false idol. The Goddess has been here all the time. The images and statues are only a means of finding Her. Inside, that’s where our Goddess is hidden, in the last place we’d think of looking.

Sally’s eyes open and the room comes into focus. It takes a moment for her surroundings to make sense, the sharp edge of the opal cutting into her palm.
She feels as if she’s been away for a long time, although it must have been only minutes. The candle flickers, reminding her that its light must be extinguished and the circle closed. It is as she bends to put out the flame that she remembers doing the exact same thing before. That’s right, she was standing in this room, in this very same place, and she bent over to put out the candle, pulling her long skirt away from the hearth. Long skirt? Yes, a thick, heavy skirt of dark material, a dress with a white collar, her hair bound up and tucked beneath a starched cap. There’s someone with her. Abbie? Though she looks different. This woman is younger and taller. And there’s fear in her eyes.

‘I believe they’re coming,’ she says. ‘It’s of no use. They know we’re here.’ The room glows red in the half-light of the fire. They hold their breath. A noise rocks the house, then another. Heavy blows on the door. Abbie grasps her hand and they wait for what they know must happen.

Sally blinks, tries to clear her head. The image changes. Another darkened room, another hearth, this one blazing. She’s standing in front of a table on which there are several candles casting a yellow circle. The light falls on a huge book over which a man bends his head, quill pen dipping for ink and scratching over the page. Another man stands behind him, his face concealed in the shadows. He’s muttering words she can’t understand, but the writer nods. Sally can’t move. There are people either side of her, hands pinning her arms to her sides. The smells in the room are overwhelming—wood smoke, the burning fat of the candles, the sweat of unwashed bodies. Her own fear. The writer looks up. ‘How do you plead, Mistress Sarah?’ She knows him, even though his face looks different: lined and scarred, as if he has been a fighter. But the eyes, that same cool detachment, and the hair, a streak of white, like a badger. She has sat before him in another time and place, answering endless questions. Only then he was Inspector Rankin.