The Moon Spun Round (6 page)

‘It was a big decision to move here.’

‘You’re right. I’m not sure what people will think. Mmm, this is gorgeous.’ Sally flicks cream from her top lip and licks her fingers. ‘That young woman in the shop, she must have thought I was crazy buying this place.’

‘It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It’s what
you
feel that’s important. Even so—Ooh, yes,’ biting into her cake, ‘I think Ruth could lead us into bad habits. Hadn’t you thought of getting somewhere else in London?’

‘No. This was the only place I wanted to be. And no, it’s not because of some distorted need to be near Jonathan. It’s something I felt the first time I walked through the door. I can’t really explain. I don’t understand it myself.’

‘And what about your job? What is it you do?’

‘Graphic designer. I’ve given that up too. At least, I’ve left the firm I was working for, although they said they might put some work my way if I would sub-contract. I thought I’d try going freelance for a while. There must be local companies that need sales leaflets and the like. And I can do websites. But I’m not desperate for money. The flat sold for a small fortune and Jonathan was well insured.’

‘Well, I’ll put some feelers out for you. Maybe some of George’s clients—he deals with a lot of people who are setting up in business. You must come over and meet him soon. Hey, what about Saturday? Sunday’s the fifth of November, so we’re having a Guy Fawkes party the night before. The boys will be home and they’re bringing their girlfriends for the weekend.’

‘No, I’d rather not if you don’t mind. To be honest, I’ve never liked fireworks. It might be better if Cat and I shut ourselves indoors and turn the TV up loud.’

‘OK, I can understand that. What about the following day? Sunday lunch? Oh, do say you’ll come. I want you to meet my family. And I can show you the horses.’

‘Yes, I’d love to.’

‘Oh, that’s good. I was afraid you were going to turn yourself into a recluse.’

‘What? Like old Mad Martha?’

‘No, you’re not in her league. But seriously, you mustn’t shut yourself away. I know Hallowfield seems like the end of nowhere, but it’s a strong community and you’ll soon make friends if you’re prepared to meet people halfway. You ought to join a few things. Are you interested in literature?’

‘Yes, only novels, though. Mostly light reading.’

‘Well, there’s a good book club. We choose a book to read each month and then talk about it, nothing too serious. It would be a good way to introduce you to a few people.’

‘They won’t think I’m strange, a widow living on her own in an isolated cottage?’

‘Look, don’t worry about what people think. They’re bound to be curious at first. But that’s all it is, curiosity, and it’ll soon pass.’ Abbie picks the last crumbs from her plate and rummages in her pocket for a tissue with which to wipe her hands. ‘Besides, this village has always been a place for women.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s the women who are its strength. Or maybe it’s a place where women are able to grow strong. It seems to have a sort of healing quality, something in the atmosphere, or—’

The conversation is halted by the sound of a vehicle engine. Through the window they see a blue van drawing up at the gate.

‘Ah, my worldly goods have arrived.’ Sally opens the door and waves, letting the driver know he has the right place.

‘Looks like you’re going to be busy’ Abbie swallows the last of her tea. ‘Do you need a hand or would I be more help getting out of your way?’

‘Oh, no, that’s fine, I’ll manage. It’s mainly clothes and books and a few pictures. The cottage came fully equipped, but I thought I’d like my own kitchen stuff and linens, that sort of thing. It’s mostly a matter of deciding where to put it all.’

‘OK. Then I’d better make myself scarce. Look, anything you need: just ring. And you won’t forget Sunday, will you? But don’t expect a full roast dinner. It’ll be nothing special—party leftovers probably’ She parks her mug on the draining board and heads for the door. ‘Come over early, about eleven, and then I can give you the full tour. In fact, come over any time if you feel like a chat. Bye.’ Abbie backs her four-wheel-drive out of the way as the deliveryman opens his rear door and heaves down a trolley.

Cat takes one look at what’s going on, then heads off down the garden.

‘Ah, there you are! Well, are you coming in? He’s gone now, it’s perfectly safe.’ A dark shadow emerges from the bushes and slinks along the wall. Sally has been calling from the back door, and growing concerned. Only five o’clock, but already it’s dark and the bitter wind is threatening to bring rain in its wake. No doubt Cat is used to roughing it, but even so Sally hates the thought of her staying out all night. ‘Oh, come on, hurry up. Then I can close the door.’

Cat moves warily, sniffing her way around the unfamiliar cartons. Sally’s precious chinaware is already stowed in the glass-fronted cupboards, but piles of cookery books and cooking utensils litter the kitchen table. Each item is carefully scrutinized, then Cat inspects the rest of the house, following the trail of debris created by the unpacking. Satisfied that Sally’s CD player poses no immediate threat, she rubs it with the side of her mouth, marking it with her own scent and giving it permission to stay.

‘I’m glad everything meets with your approval. Look, I know you seem to make your own arrangement about getting in and out, but I think I’ll get someone in to fit a cat-door. It would save me worrying. And how about a nice cosy cat basket?’

Cat chirrups and jumps up onto the most comfortable-looking armchair, curls around and settles down to wash.

‘Yeah, right, who needs a cat basket? I’ll take the sofa, then.’ Sally flops down onto the cushions, slipping off her shoes and drawing her legs up onto the footstool.

‘Well, Cat, I guess we’re home.’

T
HE PYROTECHNICS START
even before it gets dark. Of course that had been going on since the boxes of fireworks started to appear in the shops—the occasional volley of explosions, kids on their way home from school. But this is Saturday and most bonfire parties will happen tonight. As Sally draws the curtains, a few early rockets whiz skyward, exploding over the new housing development in showers of coloured rain, but they are far enough away not to bother her too much. She’d grown increasingly apprehensive during the week as the pyramid of wood scraps and domestic debris increased in the field next door. Abbie had assured her that, although they would be using the far side of the field next to Sally’s place as it was well away from the stables, they would also keep a safe distance from her cottage. The horses have been taken in early and safely bedded down for the night. Sally is intending to do the same. She has locked the new cat-door to keep Cat inside with her. ‘It’s so you don’t get frightened,’ Sally tells her. Cat is unconvinced.

It’s now seven o’clock and the bonfire is fully ablaze. Even at this distance, Sally can hear shouts and sudden bursts of laughter. Part of her longs to join them and she knows she would be made welcome, but she isn’t that enthralled by the pretty lights, and the loud bangs terrify her. She takes an occasional glance through the window, and can see figures silhouetted against the fierce blaze and the sudden blooming of incandescent flowers as the men light blue touch-paper and stand well back. Funny, she thinks, how it’s always the men who enjoy playing with fire.

Cat isn’t being much comfort. As soon as the artillery fire began, she slouched under the coffee table, uttering deep, throaty growls. Nothing Sally says can
coax her out, although she seems more annoyed than afraid. Curled up on the sofa, Sally turns up the volume on the television and settles down to watch a documentary about prehistoric mammals in Britain. Astonishingly, bones of sabre-toothed tigers have been found in a gravel pit at Barrington, just the other side of Cambridge. ‘Look, Cat, they’re probably your ancestors.’ This doesn’t impress Cat, who continues to mutter obscenities.

Sally enjoys her solitary glass of wine, which is becoming an evening ritual, and after a while she’s absorbed in a television drama. In fact she barely notices that the explosions have subsided until Cat slinks out and joins her on the sofa. The next time she looks out, the bonfire has died down and the party has moved back into the house for a fireworks supper. Abbie said it was a family tradition: mugs of tomato soup and hot dogs with mountains of fried onions, a relic of the boys’ childhood.

By the time Sally is ready for bed, all of the lights in Abbie’s house are ablaze and music is bouncing over the treetops. The last thing she does before going upstairs is to unlock the cat-flap.

‘Go on, it’s safe to go out now.’

Cat, who has mastered the technique surprisingly quickly, flips the door open and disappears into the night.

Sally shifts from deep sleep to full wakefulness in an instant. It’s probably the silence that has alerted her. It takes some getting used to, sleeping in the country, when you’re programmed to the background roar of traffic and a constant barrage of noises thrown up by the city night. Here, the solitude seems to rise up out of the fields and engulf the house; only it’s not really silent, not completely. Wind slips through the trees and carries with it unexpected sounds, the snapping of a twig as some creature stalks its prey, the swoop of a wing, the bark of a fox, all magnified beyond logic and reason. A car door slams; some teenager out long after curfew? It can be heard three fields away.

Sally had fallen comfortably asleep to the boom-box music of next-door’s post-fireworks revelry. But that must have died down hours ago. She’s completely alert, listening to the empty air and gazing at the mystery of her bedroom, which is bathed in cool, white light. Why is the room so bright? It can’t be morning, surely? Morning is grey and soft and creeps in gently, lifting shadows from the corners. This light is stark and still, as if a streetlamp had been left on all night. Only, the nearest lamp is at the corner of Wicker Lane, and the limp puddle of yellow it throws out is useless beyond a few feet. This is a white beam, a
searchlight, a spotlight, something theatrical that penetrates the curtain and illuminates her bed like a stage set.

The clock reads five. She slides from the covers and moves cautiously to the window. The curtains are thin muslin and barely conceal what’s on one side of the glass from the other. Though why so cautious? Is it Sally who needs to be hidden or something out there? She pulls the drape to one side, an inch, a handbreadth. And there it is, directly outside her room, poised above the horizon.

The moon.

And such a moon. A moon she has never seen before.

Oh, she’s always known it was there, had caught glimpses of it from time to time. ‘See the moon, my love,’ her father would say, carrying her perilously on his shoulder and pointing at the bottle-top disc suspended between the smoke and the rooftops. And there was always proof of it in the nursery books. Hey diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle. A crescent of white in a night-sky puddle set against the printed page. And there had been other moons when she was old enough to explore the night. Small moons, tossed high above the cityscape, made pale by the flare of neon and sodium and the glare of oncoming traffic. Timorous moons, always coming or going but never the same. Moons that rhymed with June but had little to do with the flowering of first love. But beneath the gaze of this awesome presence there would be no innocent fumble in the back of anyone’s car. No cow would dare to jump over this luminary.

No, she has never seen a moon such as this. A Titan moon, magnified by the curving of the Earth, its nearness beyond the comfort of knowledge or belief. It hangs—no, it doesn’t hang, or float or glide—it has established its position above the trees, taking command of the night sky and the land below. Its roundness is near perfection; creamy gold like an antique pearl, its surface scoured and pitted by the ravages of space. It seems to shed no light from overhead—the sky is the colour of mussel shells, or at best an indigo mist—yet the fields and hedgerows glow with a phosphorescent whiteness, a light that bestows only kindness on what it touches. The banished darkness coalesces in even blacker shadows, throwing furrows into sharp relief, detailing each stone, each stubble blade.