It didn’t work.
A group of youngsters from the art therapy booth arrived at the café. Fluttering like butterflies as they found places to sit, things to say. Searching for clues as to who they were in the faces of other people.
Berta knew who she was. She had made peace with it a long time ago. In fact, she knew a great many things. It was her job, after all.
Inevitably, the butterflies flitted her way, no doubt to “keep her company”.
Emily was the first to arrive at Berta’s table, followed quickly by Sable and Noah.
For reasons she would never understand, a woman in her fifties taking a work break alone, to drink in a little fresh air and a cup of tea, was an immediate cause for concern. As if, left unattended, she might spontaneously break a hip or fall into a deep depression, mired by the weight of her years. In fact, Berta was in excellent health, and believed herself to have the energy and constitution of a woman half her age. She didn’t dislike other people. She had Goldie and Reg. Her brother, Freddie. And Andrea, although Andrea was her apprentice and she didn’t like to blur lines. That was, as far as she was concerned, quite enough.
“So,” said Emily (because young people didn’t seem to say ‘hello’ these days). “How was your morning?”
“Hot,” said Berta, and sipped her tea, refusing to make eye contact.
“It’s a real scorcher, isn’t it?” said Emily. “Proper Yorkshire summer. I was just saying to Sabs…”
Berta popped her listening face on, and tuned out. Their voices washed over her like background music, while she attended to the deeper, more important things. It suited everyone: they didn’t want to listen, they wanted to speak, so excited by the full and enormous knowledge they thought they held that they had an overriding impulse to share. Constantly.
They knew nothing.
The courtyard was paved with repurposed concrete slabs, cracked at the joins to allow moss and tiny plants to grow. Through it Berta could feel the hum of the earth, the pull of gravity. The pressure of a coming storm filled her ears, and through it all she smelled jasmine, green tea, and fear. A river in full flow, smashing through tree roots and churning silt.
Berta snapped her attention back to the butterflies.
“Which one of you is it?” she said, cutting Emily off in mid-flow.
“I’m sorry?” Emily looked offended. Never mind. She’d get over it.
“One of you knows something wrong. Bad. Hidden and forbidden. You may as well own up, secrets like that never end well.”
The three of them looked at each other in confusion, their sweet, smooth brows temporarily wrinkled.
Emily was the first to come up with a response. “Oh, would you like to give us a reading? I’ve always wanted to—”
Berta stood up. They flitted back, as if she’d startled them. She drained her cup, and turned it upside down in the saucer. Because that’s what they always used to do at Grana’s house, and it’s the oddest traditions that stick.
“Child, I do not do ‘readings’. People are not books. They are a chaotic mixture of hormones, emotions and information fighting for domination of one small, fragile soul. I look into that soul and find the truth, however dark or terrifying it may be. Do you really want me to do that to you?”
She scanned their faces, tempting any to break their mask, to let the truth come to the surface and be named. But none of them did. All she saw was the usual mix of fear and confusion that her gifts tended to put in people.
“Have a lovely afternoon,” she said. She picked up her bag and walked away with a loud, messy sneeze. Knowing played havoc with her membranes.
***
Berta stretched out her legs, and crossed them at the ankles. She looked out across the valley of White Water: to the forest in the distance, the jumble of cottages and workshops of the village below, and the gleaming silver line of the river that separated the two. Berta had never fancied living more than two floors up herself, but Andrea’s apartment certainly had a stunning view. They sat side by side on the balcony, surrounded by the smell of earth and growing things from the plants that swarmed over the exterior of the building. The evening was very warm, but thankfully too dry for the midges. A bullfinch hopped about to Berta’s right, his eye on the juicy buds of the forsythia bush in the corner of the balcony. Finally he took the plunge, dived in close, and tucked in to his supper, just a few inches from Berta’s elbow.
“Such tiny hearts,” Berta murmured. “Such courage.”
Andrea looked up from her laptop. “Are we talking about people, or something else?”
“Birds,” said Berta. “People are spineless.”
“It’s still bothering you. The thing from yesterday with the art therapists.”
Berta fixed her eyes on the rail and the thermo-conductive ivy that wound its way through real twists of clematis, almost, but not quite, blending in. “What thing?”
“You should look into it, if it’s bothering you.”
Berta folded her arms across her chest, and shrugged. “None of my business. I only mentioned it as a point of instruction. ‘Don’t go where you’re not invited,’ that’s what I say.”
“Yes, I know, but don’t you think that sometimes people invite you at a subconscious level? They might have thrown that truth your way because they needed to, without even realising it.”
“In which case, it’s still none of my business. I only deal with conscious requests, from conscious people, in full control of their faculties. It’s called consent.”
“I’m not saying you should rush in without permission. But you could ask. Isn’t it a bit like a cry for help?”
“The only cries for help I listen to are the ones where people look me in the eye and say ‘help me’.”
Andrea opened her mouth, hesitated, closed it again.
Andrea was a clever girl. As well as being Berta’s apprentice in the Knowing, Andrea was the main accountant for the whole of the West Riding. She kept tabs on the exchange of credits, transaction records, trading between communities. Berta had little interest in such things, but she was proud of Andrea for being able to focus on numbers when her talent was still on the raw, untrained side. Berta was well aware that she’d been a nightmare in the early stages of her own apprenticeship, all wild emotion and barely a logical thought in her brain. Andrea was approachable, too. Kind. Respectful of the human fragilities that Berta found frustrating.
“Excellent,” said Berta. “I’ll get the kettle on.”
***
The Village Hall was near the south bank of the river. The building nestled under a meadow-roof that currently sprouted a swathe of cornflowers, harebells and teasel dotted with bright scarlet poppies. Its concertina windows opened out onto a terrace that was bordered by a vibrant country garden. These borders were tended by any who had time to spare, including Berta. She pottered among the perennials, plucking a blown bloom here, pinching out an over-eager stem there. It put a song in her heart, one that often burst out in the form of a purring, contented hum. Occasionally, she would whistle, and Goldie would tease her for it. She took no notice. The garden was bursting into the full glory of summer right in front of her, an orgy of flowers and fruit, insects and birds. If that wasn’t worth singing about, Berta didn’t know what was.
She picked a couple of handfuls of ripe strawberries from beneath the bee-covered borage, and sat down to share them with Goldie.
“African daisies are looking good, Bert,” said Goldie. He sprawled in his deckchair, dressed in fuchsia-pink shorts and crop top that revealed a lot of saggy cleavage and wrinkled belly, the silvery line of an old Caesarean scar, and a fresher, shorter one just below his rib. Marks of honour, he called them.
“Daisies look after themselves, mostly,” Berta said.
“Trick of good gardening. Ecosystem balancing, they call it.”
“If you say so. I just don’t put things in if they take much effort.”
“Hey, is that your girl? Ann, is i
t?” Goldie pointed at a figure on the path.
“Andrea. So it is.” Berta popped another strawberry in her mouth.
Andrea waved as she approached. She was carrying a basket full of fabric and ribbon.
“What’s that for?” said Goldie. “Doing some dressmaking?”
“Bunting. For Midsummer Festival.” Andrea put the basket down and took the seat next to Berta’s. “That breeze is delicious.”
It was. It carried the scent of the river, fresh-cut grass and the meadows.
“I’ll go see if Reg has got the tea urn on.” Goldie stood up with the customary grunt of the achy-jointed. “He gets distracted.”
Berta watched Goldie go into the Hall.
“I saw Emily today,” said Andrea.
“That’s nice,” said Berta.
“She’s in love with Noah.”
“Ah. Told you it was a whole load of nothing. Teenagers. Pfft.”
“She’s really upset.”
“Best she spoke to you, then.”
“They were raised next door to each other. Best friends all through school. Dated for a few months, over the winter just gone. Then he dumped her.”
The corner of Berta’s eye twitched.
“Didn’t even give the poor kid a reason,” said Andrea.
“She’ll get over it,” Berta said. “Fancy a strawberry?”
***
A silver-grey cat frequented the Wellness Centre most afternoons, strolling casually through the entrance and stopping first at Berta’s booth. She called him the Gentleman, because he was a stately, well mannered creature, with a white throat that reminded her of an Edwardian cravat. He radiated confidence and had a big, rumbling reassurance of a purr. She scratched him behind his ears, and ducked through the bead curtain into her booth. He followed her in.
The air inside was heavy with the accumulated impact of years of incense-burning, persistent sandalwood and rose. Her booth was festooned with rich silks and baubles: red drapes, gold fringes, tiny glass beads suspended from the ceiling on spider-threads. In front of her was a crystal, spiky and polished, sparkled with fragments of gold. Well, it was probably gold. She’d never really looked into it.
Her power was nothing to do with the crystal. But some people felt better thinking it did.
The Gentleman hopped up onto a cushion on the bench beside her. Evidently even he was finding the sun too hot this morning. He set about washing, getting stuck into the nooks and crevices of his fluffy feet.
The bead curtain rustled, and Sable’s head poked through. Emily’s friend. There was a smear of clay on her cheek. “So,” she said. “You busy, Dr. Berta?”
“Good morning.”
“Andrea said you had a prob with your air-con?”
“Did she?”
Sable stepped into Berta’s booth. She had a screwdriver in one hand and what looked like a set of cogs in the other. “Yep. She said you might be okay for a trade.”
“I might not.”
“’S okay. I’ll do it anyway. No clients for sculpture this morning and I had these parts printed up last night just in case.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s kind of complicated. I hope you don’t take offence.”
Berta looked at the Gentleman, who opened one eye, sighed, and closed it again.
“Try me.” The girl had the good sense to blink at Berta’s tone.
“Uh… she said she’d give me a session, if I did this for you. Because she owed you for a job you were going to do for the Midsummer Festival.”
“I am unaware of any such transaction. So the whole arrangement unravels. Don’t you think?”
“I… guess? Do you still want the air-con fixed or not?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Sure.” Sable waved the screwdriver dismissively. “I went to engineering workshop last winter. My folks run the mill upstream at Flyling Moor.”
Berta took a moment to consider. It was very hot, and showed no sign of easing off. Furthermore, she had an appointment with Cid that afternoon. They didn’t call him Sweaty Cid for nothing. All the incense in the world would count for nothing in the face of his armpits on a hot day.
“I suppose you could take a look.”
“Sure!”
Berta watched Sable as she worked. The girl tickled her fingers over the rounded sides of the unit like she was petting a dog. She found a release catch Berta hadn’t even noticed and the control panel came loose. Sable peered inside. “Aha!”
“Yes?” said Berta.
“I was right. The gears on the solar converter’s melted. Have you ever had this serviced?”
“I’m sure I did. Once.”
“A lot of folks are having the same issue right now. I’ll have it up and running in two shakes.”
“Appreciate it,” said Berta, with a kind pat to Sable’s arm. “Don’t you worry. I’ll settle with the accountant.”
***
Berta was enjoying her deliciously cool booth at the end of the day when Andrea came through the bead curtain and sat in the client chair.
“Afternoon,” said Berta. She pulled a flask out from under the table and poured tea into two china cups. “Rosehip. Tell me what you think.”
Andrea breathed in the steam, gave it a good look, and took a cautious sip. Then another. Then a third. “Mmmm. That’s actually pretty good. One of your Grana’s recipes?”
“Maybe. What did you find out from that sculptor-therapy-mechanic girl?”
“Sable. You are perfectly aware of her name.”
“Ah. Getting over-involved, are we?”
“It’s called compassion, Berta.”
She would have thrown just about anyone else out of the booth for that. But Andrea Knew. She was just making a point.
“Very well. In your compassionate opinion, Andrea, what’s going on with Sable?”
“Thankfully little. She’s a happy little soul. Everything goes into her pottery, I think. She’s done a beautiful set of herb jars for the Hall.”
“So it’s the boy then.”
“Interesting thing there. She slept with him.”
Berta’s eyebrow shot up.
“Around the time he split up with Emily, by the sounds of it. Didn’t hurt her. But perhaps it hurt him. Perhaps he left Emily because he liked Sable, and now he’s heartbroken because Sable isn’t bothered?”
“May the magic of the wild places save me from a teenage love triangle,” said Berta.
“And again, Berta, they’re not teenagers. They’re only a few years younger than me.”
“Oh, hark at you, all of thirty years under your belt.”
“Relationships are complicated, however old or young you are.”
“That’s as may be. What I Knew wasn’t as simple as a bad choice of bedfellow. It wasn’t that simple. It was deep. Dark. Tragic. The whiff of the forbidden about it.”
“D’you think Noah intends to hurt one of them?”
“Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on him. You should, too.”
Andrea nodded, and took another sip of tea. “Nice and cool in here.”
“Oh, all right,” sighed Berta. “What d’you want?”
***
White Water buzzed with all the excitement and promise of Midsummer. The Festival went back as far as human history, but since the cataclysm it had found fresh importance. A celebration of survival. Of community. Of respect for nature in all her moods. Grana had told Berta tales of the old times, when the world was one big village and no one had a sense of home. Berta could scarcely imagine living somewhere she didn’t know everyone. It had its problems, for sure, especially if people had secrets to keep. But on days like this, when everyone came together to celebrate the longest day of the year, the sun, the river, the earth and all their gifts, she loved White Water with all her heart.
Berta arranged homemade cakes on a bench that already groaned with food. The cakes were the centrepiece, a tower of sponge and gingerbread, bu
ttercream and ganache.
Andrea came up and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
Berta grunted. “Grana’s recipes.”
Andrea squeezed her around the waist. “Of course.”
Berta rubbed at whatever must have just got in her eye. Grana had loved Midsummer, too. The night of magic and wisdom, she’d called it.
Goldie appeared at Berta’s other side, and put his arm round her as well, crossed over Andrea’s. His breasts squished tight into Berta’s arm as he squeezed her. “You did good, Bert. The old girl would be proud.”
She might just be, at that.
“Look at the pair of you, getting all soppy,” Berta said. “Has Reg got that urn on yet?”
The Hall was a picture, swathed in bunting and strings of fairy lights that twinkled out of the doors, through the garden and down the grassy bank to the river. Most of the village turned out for a picnic tea. They flocked to the stalls to play skittles and guess the number of beans in a jar. The Gentleman wandered around the trestle tables of the hot food stall, ready for any bits of fresh, flaky fish that might enter his domain. A cricket match pottered on for most of the afternoon, and a band sent banjo and guitar riffs rippling down the valley, melodies tripping around each other in an intricate swirl of joy.
Reg and Goldie danced against the backdrop of the slowly setting sun, their skinny shadows stretching across the grass. The heat had yet to leave the air, but Berta noticed clouds to the west, heavy with rain. Never mind. They’d have a few fair hours yet. As the light faded, candles were lit around the Hall. Berta sat with Andrea in the garden. Andrea’s friend Matt brought them huge slices of cake and glasses of last year’s elderflower champagne. A slender young man passed by juggling with fire, and Matt stared at him, clearly besotted. Andrea and Berta exchanged knowing looks.
Then Berta noticed Emily and Sable. They were sitting on a large blanket, surrounded by a crowd of other fluttering youngsters. Including Noah. He looked miserable.
Glass and Gardens Page 25