Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  ‘Hmmm,’ Timmy snorted. ‘Not that I can blame him – you look good enough to eat.’

  ‘Oh, come on! At my age I’d be far too tough and gristly for him,’ Zillah smiled gently. ‘Or anyone else for that matter. I’m way past my best-before date.’

  ‘You haven’t even reached it yet. You’re the funniest, kindest, most beautiful woman in the world and why some man hasn’t snapped you up I have no idea. Well –’ he paused in slicing a lump of buffalo mozzarella ‘– apart from the fact that your heart clearly belongs elsewhere, of course.’

  Zillah smiled at him. If only he knew.

  Timmy was such a nice man. He’d make her Mrs Pluckrose tomorrow, she knew that. He’d give her a wonderful life. Shame there was no spark whatsoever. Shame that he was spot on about her heart.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?’ He looked at her in concern. ‘Is that a rash on your arms?’

  Smiling, Zillah shook her head. Big Ida’s ministrations in removing her from the spandex had left large swathes of her skin looking and feeling like sunburn. She felt it might inflame Timmy’s latent passions a touch too much if she told him about it. ‘Probably just a bit of prickly heat. Now let’s go and feed the starving hordes before Constance stomps back in here and starts quoting the Trades Description Act.’

  As she walked outside, the midday sun momentarily blinded her. The heat rushed up from the parched grass and almost choked her. It felt like being immersed in a bath of hot treacle. Across the road the cottages slumbered, the village green shimmered in the broiling heat, and the stream which usually gurgled and bubbled through it before roaring under the road to reappear in a crystal torrent along the front of The Weasel and Bucket, was sluggish and slothful.

  All the Fiddlestickers were huddled beneath the huge umbrellas, clutching their glasses and staring across the green.

  Sliding three plates of sandwiches in front of the Motions, Zillah caught an eye-watering whiff of Marlboro Full Strength emanating from Slo’s Fred Perry tank top. As he’d promised Constance and Perpetua that he’d given up smoking on New Year’s Eve she was amazed that neither of them seemed to have yet sussed his secret. Maybe it was working with all that embalming fluid, she thought. It probably deadened the olfactory nerves.

  The Motions ignored the sandwiches and remained, well, motionless, their eyes all fixed on the green.

  Zillah, long past expecting anyone to say thank you, smiled at them anyway and wove her way between the trestles, kicking up little clouds of dust from beneath her sequinned flip-flops.

  ‘Pasty, Mrs J.’ Zillah slid the plate in front of Mrs Jupp who was sharing her rustic bench with four other villagers including the one-eyed churchwarden, Goff Briggs. ‘I’ll just make a bit of room …’

  None of them spoke or even acknowledged her as she cleared a space among the glasses. She simply sighed and after pushing strands of wayward hair back into her various combs and fanning her face, Zillah picked up a double handful of empties.

  ‘I ain’t quite finished with that, duck.’ Without taking his eye from the green, Goff Biggs snatched back his glass and guzzled the dregs. Only then did he look first at the table then at Zillah, his head, by necessity, askew like a parakeet. ‘Ah, that pasty smells good. Is that for Mona?’

  Zillah had always thought Mrs Jupp was aptly named.

  She nodded. ‘Timmy can do you one if you like.’

  ‘Ah, it’d go down a treat with a bit of piccalilli, thanks Zil, love.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She paused. ‘What on earth is going on out here? Why is everyone watching the green? Have I missed something?’

  Goff gave a throaty chuckle and closed his one eye in what passed for a wink. ‘Ah, you could say. We’re just waiting to see what happens next.’

  ‘What happens next where?’

  ‘Over the road. At Moth Cottage.’ Goff crinkled his eye. ‘Goodness me, gel – with that snazzy city piece who’s moving in next door to you. With Gwyneth. Lewis has just dropped her off – and enough luggage for a good dozen people.’

  So that’s what Perpetua had reminded Constance about. Amber’s arrival. Of course, that would be Breaking News in Fiddlesticks – an event not to be missed.

  Zillah shivered suddenly. ‘And, um, what did she look like? And, er, did Lewis, um …?’

  ‘Lewis helped her with her bags and stuff,’ Mrs Jupp joined in at that point. ‘As you’d expect, him being a proper gentlemen even if he does look like one of them flaming scruffy long-haired rock and roll people. Then he jumped back into the van and took off. Anyway, Zillah, we’re not interested in Lewis – even if you are – so don’t interrupt.’

  At least Lewis hadn’t hung around. Zillah clung desperately to this morsel of comfort.

  ‘But what did she – Amber – look like?’

  ‘Phwoar!’ Goff’s eye watered lasciviously. ‘Legs up to ’er armpits. A little skirt no more than an inch wide – and boots! Pink boots! And long blonde hair – blimey … She looked like that Middle-Eastern woman.’

  Zillah shook her head in non-comprehension.

  ‘He means Jordan,’ Mrs Jupp spat in disgust. ‘Silly old devil. And no she doesn’t. She’s much, much prettier than that. She’ll turn a few ’eads in Fiddlesticks and that’s for sure.’

  ‘Bet young Lewis has got her in his little black book already,’ Goff gurgled, helping himself to a hefty chunk of Mrs Jupp’s pasty in his excitement. ‘He’ll be all over her come St Bedric’s Eve, you mark my words.’

  Mona Jupp, so intent on not missing a thing across the road, didn’t even notice her pasty had mysteriously diminished.

  ‘Zillah!’ Constance’s voice screeched imperiously across the solid, broiling, dizzy dazzling garden. ‘Could we have some more mustard for Slo, please?’

  Zillah, tearing her eyes from Moth Cottage, turned back towards the pub like an automaton, and completely ignored her.

  Chapter Six

  Fly Me to the Moon

  ‘There you go then, duck,’ Gwyneth said happily, stepping over the sprawl of bags, cases and holdalls. ‘This is your room. All your other stuff arrived yesterday. Big Ida got it all upstairs – you can arrange it as you wish.’

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely. Really lovely,’ Amber peeped over Gwyneth’s head at the top of the narrow, twisty, dark-green staircase. ‘You’ve gone to so much trouble for me – thank you so much – it’s a wonderful bedroom.’

  And it was: cream and pale blue and girlie, exquisitely pretty, with a low sloping ceiling and a glorious panoramic view of Fiddlesticks’ village green through the sash window.

  And very, very tiny.

  Which figured.

  Amber had been stunned at how small Gwyneth was – almost as broad as she was high with her head not quite reaching Amber’s shoulder – and how minute the cottage’s downstairs rooms were, so she really should have been prepared for her bedroom to be on a similar scale.

  But of course she hadn’t been.

  Where on earth was she going to put her mountains of clothes and bags and shoes and make-up and CDs and DVDs and magazines and books and stereo and portable tv- cum-dvd player and ceramic hair straighteners and other vital life-paraphernalia?

  Apart from a beautiful flounced and sprigged three-quarter bed, there was an elderly single wardrobe and a matching two-drawer chest, and that was it.

  ‘Why don’t you have a freshen up first?’ Gwyneth patted her arm. ‘It’s so darned hot and that train journey must have taken it out of you. Then we’ll have something to eat before you even think about unpacking. The bathroom’s along here. It’s quite new. We didn’t have indoor bathrooms for ages in these cottages and Dougie Patchcock, he’s the local builder, duck – ’e did a smashing job on the conversions for us. Mind, we’ve all still got our lavs in the garden.’

  Amber performed a sort of pincer movement with Gwyneth at the top of the staircase and another door was opened.

  ‘It used to be part of my bedroom,’ Gwy
neth said proudly. ‘But you’d never know, would you?’

  ‘Um, no. Not at all …’ Amber blinked again. The bathroom – minuscule sink and Gwyneth-sized bath – was about the size of a coffin. No loo, no shower, no window other than a skylight in the sloping ceiling directly above the bath. ‘Um … it’s lovely. And the loo is where?’

  ‘Downstairs. Just outside the back door, duck. Big Ida’s is still right at the bottom of the garden but I had mine moved into the old coal house. We’ve got all mod cons here. There’s plenty of hot water in the Ascot. You just turn that knob on there and make sure the pilot light is on. Like I said, all mod cons. I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.’

  Half an hour later, having made the most of the miniature bathroom, which had been lovely really as the plentiful hot water was silky-soft and Gwyneth had left some gorgeous gardenia-scented bath salts and a big fluffy bath sheet, Amber pulled on a pink vest and short white canvas skirt from her nearest bag and tugged out a pair of sandals.

  Then, ducking her head, she carefully negotiated the stairs, trying not to fall over several cats and the large and lolloping dog.

  ‘Better?’ Gwyneth beamed in the gloom of the oddly-shaped kitchen. ‘Oh, don’t you look puckie! I’ve made some lemonade, look – you must be dry as a bone – and the food’s all ready. We can start the unpacking later. This must all seem very strange to you.’

  Amber nodded. Strange and a bit scary. In fact, there had been a moment when Lewis had deposited the last of her luggage at the top of Moth Cottage’s staircase and leapt back in the Hayfields van with no more than a cheery grin, that she’d wanted to beg him to take her back to Reading station. Or Heathrow. Or the nearest town. Or anywhere with a bit of twenty-first century civilisation from where she could return to her friends and/or family and not be left alone in this stunningly pretty but exceptionally isolated place.

  But Lewis, no doubt with the ever-demanding Jem on his mind, hadn’t even given her a backward glance, let alone a chance to plead for a return trip, and had roared away round the village green’s dusty single-track road and out of sight.

  Watching Gwyneth move nimbly around the kitchen, which appeared to have no modern appliances or gadgets whatsoever, Amber gave herself another mental talking-to. She really had to stop being such a wimp about this. Yes, it was strange and naturally unfamiliar, but for goodness sake – wasn’t this exactly the sort of thing she’d wanted? She’d never, as her friends had pointed out, been far away from home except for holidays, and she was rattling towards thirty, for heaven’s sake – surely she had to make some life-changes, experience different things, before it was too late?

  And it was only a couple of months in a southern village after all. It was hardly a solo Himalaya-trek, or moving away to live on the other side of the world for ever.

  ‘Go and sit yourself in the garden,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Get comfy and I’ll bring the dinner out.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, duck – I suppose you’ll call it lunch, but we still mostly have our dinner midday here, with a bit of tea late afternoon and supper later on.’

  Amber smiled. ‘Gran always had her dinner at midday, too. And after all, the people who dished up the meals at school were called dinner ladies, so dinner is fine by me – but please let me help you.’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ Gwyneth said stoutly. ‘I’ve got it all in hand and you’re a guest. But a word of warning, duck. If you wants to have a bit of peace for a few minutes, I’d sit out the back rather than the front. Sit in the front and every man and ’is dog will come and give you the once-over. ’

  Knowing that she definitely wasn’t up to that sort of scrutiny just yet, Amber gave a grateful smile and accompanied by the dog and a posse of cats, ducked out of the back door.

  The garden was adorable. Like something out of a picture book. It matched the rest of Moth Cottage exactly. Long and narrow, with tiny well-worn brick paths wending between raspberry canes, strawberry beds, vibrantly stuffed flower borders and equally well-stocked vegetable patches, overhung with stunted apple and cherry trees, and with a rickety trellis smothered in fat creamy roses at the far end.

  Beneath the trees, Amber was delighted to see two deck chairs set on either side of a very elderly table with odd legs. Real deck chairs like she used to slide into on sand-encrusted childhood seaside holidays, slung with faded striped canvas on splintery wooden frames and those strange notch contraptions that her Dad used to have so much trouble putting up.

  How long ago all that was. When she had been very young, before Coral and Topaz had been born, and a week in Blackpool was as alluring as Mecca and twice as exciting. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lowered herself gratefully into the seat.

  Kicking off her sandals, she wriggled her toes in blissful freedom. Oooh, but it was so hot. Hotter than ever. Even hotter than it had been on the train – God, how long ago that seemed too. Was that really only this morning? It could have been in another lifetime.

  Wearily, Amber leaned her head back and allowed the drowsy warmth to wash over her, while the pungent scent from the herbs and flowers soothed her more effectively than any essential oils. One of the cats jumped onto her lap and she stroked it idly, as the other curled on her bare feet. The sky was vividly blue through the dappling of the trees, the sun almost directly overhead smothering the riotous rainbow of the garden in molten gold, dazzling and dizzying.

  She’d have to text her friends and her parents later – which was another thing: there was only one single electrical socket in her bedroom so charging her mobile would prove tricky if she needed to dry her hair or watch telly or listen to music at the same time – and tell them that she’d arrived safely, and about Lewis of course, and about this strange antiquated village, and how lovely Gwyneth was even if she did look like an elderly matryoshka, but right now all she needed was food and drink and sleep.

  ‘Here we are, duck – no, shove over, Pike, it’s not for you – I’ve brought you animals some water and some more Bonios. And I see the cats like you – that’s a really good sign.’ Gwyneth trotted from the dim quarry-tiled kitchen, ducking beneath the overhanging branches, and placed a massive tray on the table. ‘I hope this will be all right. We’ll have to sort out your likes and dislikes later. Plenty of time for all that.’

  Amber opened her eyes, struggling to sit upright without disturbing the cats, and blinked at Gwyneth. ‘Oh, wow. Thank you so much. This looks wonderful.’

  ‘Mostly from the garden,’ Gwyneth said proudly, pouring lemonade from a jug clunking with ice cubes. ‘Well, the salad and peas and potatoes. And as I don’t eat meat, the goat’s cheese came from Mona Jupp at the corner shop – we always do a trade: I get milk and cheese from her goats, she gets eggs from my hens. There’s a lot of the old barter and swap mentality here in Fiddlesticks. Go on, duck, dig in.’

  ‘Thank you – I don’t know where to start. It’s all fantastic.’ Suddenly extremely hungry, and having moved the cats, who now swished grumpy tails, Amber happily piled her plate. ‘And you’ve got hens? Chickens? Here?’

  ‘At the bottom of the garden. The run’s behind the trellis. I’ll introduce you to them later on. Me and Ida – she lives in Butterfly Cottage, the third in the row – we’ve always kept hens. Our girls are all good layers.’

  ‘And you’re a vegetarian?’

  Gwyneth nodded through a mouthful of salad. ‘Mmmm, yes. Me and Big Ida are very involved in various animal charities. I love animals, duck. All animals. Animals is better than most people. You won’t mind not eating their flesh while you’re here?’

  ‘No … Not at all. Do you know I’d never thought of it like that. Eating animals, I mean … I suppose I should have done. But the stuff we had at home, well, it just never seemed to have ever belonged to something alive.’

  It was like a whole new world. No meat. Eggs that came from real hens and not just in neat little boxes. Vegetables straight from the earth.

  At home, all food appeared from the weekly supe
rmarket shop, most of it ready processed to be microwaved as and when needed, because everyone in the family worked and socialised at different times, and they never sat down to eat together except on Christmas Day. And at home the garden was a triumph of decking and gravel and a few easy-to-tend shrubs in strategically placed pots. At home both cooking and gardening were looked on as irritating necessities to be dealt with as quickly and easily as possible.

  At home … feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Amber swallowed her goat’s cheese quickly and put down her knife and fork. Home no longer existed. She had to forget about home right now. She’d have to do a Scarlett O’ Hara and deal with it later.

  ‘OK, duck?’ Gwyneth leaned across the table and patted her hand.

  ‘Mmmm, oh, I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful – it probably sounds daft, but I was just feeling a bit homesick.’

  ‘Understandable, duck, I know. But you’ll soon settle in. Have you ’ad enough to eat? ’ere have some more peas.’

  Amber sighed. She was being pathetic again. ‘Sorry, yes and thank you. This is all so delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had real peas before.’ Amber picked up her fork again.

  ‘That’s a good girl, you eat up. You’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat and drink and a bit of a sleep.’

  While they ate, Gwyneth chattered about her youthful friendship with Amber’s Gran, and about the village and its seemingly zillions of inhabitants, and about various upcoming social functions and a lot about the moon and stars, and strangely about someone called St Bedric.

  Amber let it all drift over her in a contented way. There’d be plenty of time to meet the Fiddlestickers in the next few weeks. She’d never remember the names anyway.

  ‘… so, have you got anything green to wear for Saturday night, then Amber, duck? I really should ’ave checked before you arrived ’cause I know you’ll want to join in.’