Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  Amber had smiled and smiled and smiled, and the names – Mona Jupp, Billy Grinley, Mr and Mrs Tuttle, Bernie Someone, Jackie Someone-Else, Dougie Patchcock, Constance and Perpetua Motion, and a thousand others – slipped through her memory like quicksilver.

  ‘There, duck!’ Gwyneth tapped Amber’s shoulder as the crowds fell away for a minute. ‘Look! There’s Zil. Outside the pub. She’s our other neighbour – lives in Chrysalis Cottage – I told you about her, remember? She’s really looking forward to meeting you tonight.’

  Amber squinted. She could just make out a woman with a lot of dark hair and a long green dress busily arranging food on the tables outside The Weasel and Bucket. Her heart sank. Gwyneth had said Zillah, the other neighbour, was a youngster: Amber had hoped for someone of her own age to play with. Zillah must have been as old as her mother. At least. Still, that was probably positively juvenile to Gwyneth.

  ‘Oh, hello, Ida.’ Gwyneth’s voice was raised above the roar again. ‘Wondered where you’d got to. Don’t you look chipper?’

  Big Ida Tomms, who lived in Butterfly Cottage at the end of the row and who had terrified Amber the previous day when she’d loomed like a monolith over the garden fence, tramped across the green, elbowing people out of her way, beaming at them both.

  ‘’ello Gwyneth. Young Amber. You looks lovely.’

  ‘So do you,’ Amber said quickly because to be honest the sight of Big Ida, dressed from head to toe in a far-too-tight, far-too-short, bottle–green, panne velvet with her pudding basin hair tucked into an acid–green, satin snood, was truly jaw-dropping.

  ‘Thanks,’ Big Ida preened. ‘Borrowed this off one of my godsons. The all-in-one, I mean. Even they don’t wear snoods. Is that a nightie you’ve got on?’

  Amber shook her head. The green-beaded, chiffon, baby-doll top was one of last year’s cast-offs which had somehow accidentally found its way into her luggage. She’d teamed it with a pair of down-and-dirty green ripped jeans which she wouldn’t have been seen dead in back home. No doubt, down here, the ensemble would be considered cutting-edge catwalk.

  To be honest, her wardrobe was causing her some concern. Due to the lack of space, she’d relegated most of it, still unpacked, to Gwyneth’s garden shed and was hoping to exist on what the fashion pages always referred to as ‘capsule’. It was going to take forever to get used to only having one of everything.

  ‘Its very à la mode.’ Ida scratched beneath her snood.

  ‘And the green flippy-floppies are lovely.’

  ‘I found her those,’ Gwyneth burst in proudly. ‘Didn’t I, duck? In the shed. From me jumble buys. Just the ticket.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Amber assured her as they were suddenly buffeted by a crowd of villagers heading towards the rustic bridge. ‘Oh – what’s happening over there?’

  ‘That’s just Goff getting ready for ’is big moment. He ’as to stand on a trestle being a bit of a short-arse and hopefully someone will have given him a microphone this year. He was ’oarse for a fortnight after last St Bedric’s …’

  Gazing at the gibbet-like structure being erected beside the stream, Amber still doubted that any of this was happening. It was just too surreal. She couldn’t wait to phone her friends and give them all the gory details. In fact once she’d recharged her mobile she’d probably admit that they were right and she’d been wrong and could they come and rescue her as soon as possible.

  The dearth of electricity in Moth Cottage meant that the phone had taken a bit of a back seat – the hair straighteners and television got first dibs at the socket until she’d managed to buy an adaptor – and she was also mindful of Gwyneth’s electricity bill. She really must remember to charge the phone in the morning and discuss finances with Gwyneth again. There was no way she was going to live with Gwyneth without contributing something to the coffers.

  Mind you, if tonight was anything to go by she wasn’t going to be staying long – definitely not for the whole summer – but even so, she’d have to pay her way. Which might prove difficult as she had no income and her savings were probably even less than Gwyneth’s.

  ‘Crikey Moses! Don’t the Hayfields’ youngsters look lovely?’ Big Ida boomed. ‘Look at Fern! She’s even dyed her hair green this year! And is that Lewis with her?’

  Amber immediately stopped worrying about high finance and peered into the gloom for some sign of a rock band – or, to be honest, the luscious Lewis and, she supposed, Jem. It was always a good idea to size up the opposition. The peering was hampered by the heat haze now being accompanied by swirling piquant smoke from a series of small bonfires along the edge of the green, and the crowds alternately appeared and disappeared from view.

  There was no sight of anyone even slightly resembling Jim Morrison.

  ‘Are we having music?’ Amber said hopefully. Well, even if it was Country and Western it would be something. ‘From Hayfields?’

  ’Shouldn’t think so,’ Big Ida chuckled. ‘There ain’t one of ’em as can hold a note let alone a whole tune.’

  Definitely Country and Western then.

  ‘And what are all the little fires for?’ Amber bent down to Gwyneth’s ear. ‘Are they barbecues?’

  ‘No, bless you.’ Gwyneth yelled back. ‘They’re all part of the ritual. We sets fire to green broom and bracken on St Bedric’s. They drives away any bad sprites.’

  Of course they do, Amber thought. Silly me.

  ‘Here we go!’ Big Ida bellowed. ‘Just in time!’

  The throng, as if choreographed by Busby Berkeley, flowed into place round the stage and gibbet. Goff Briggs, green polo shirt, green cords, his head askew beneath a green baseball cap, clambered up and clutching a chalice in one hand, raised his arms aloft. Everyone cheered and clapped.

  Blimey, Amber thought, it’s like something out of The Wicker Man.

  ‘We call on St Bedric,’ Goff bellowed, ‘to smile down upon his children.’

  ‘No microphone again,’ Gwyneth muttered. ‘Poor bugger.’

  Goff held the chalice towards the moon and howled something about Emerald Elixir, the bringing of good luck and the granting of wishes.

  Silence fell as he glugged at the chalice, swayed a bit, and his head dropped forwards.

  Crikey, Amber thought, has he been poisoned?

  ‘What’s in that goblet?’ She asked with some concern. ‘It’s not lethal, is it?’

  ‘Depends on your idea of lethal,’ Gwyneth hissed. ‘Crème de menthe, chartreuse and lime juice – all green, see duck? Emerald Elixir …’

  ‘Purges the pants off you,’ Big Ida added thoughtfully. ‘I never touch it.’

  Goff, his face now as green as his ensemble, slowly raised his head again, and wiped slurry-coloured froth from his lips.

  There was another round of applause, then Goff kicked off again, more unsteadily this time, shrieking various strange incantations and lots of thank yous – much like a late-night radio phone-in – and then launched into what sounded like an epic poem.

  Amber caught the words ‘Bedric’ and ‘thee and thou’, ‘green’ and ‘cheese’, ‘fear’ and ‘no fear’ and ‘wishes’ and ‘thank you’ again a lot and that was about it. Nothing rhymed. The villagers seemed to know it all off by heart and droned along in unison.

  Everyone, simply everyone, was staring up at the moon.

  Amber simply stared at Goff Briggs.

  He only had one eye! She hoped someone whose green-cheese wish wasn’t answered wouldn’t rush at him in a fit of pique and gouge out the other one.

  ‘Now bring on the Lucky Cake!’ Goff yelled. ‘Let’s all make our wishes!’

  Yet more foot stamping and clapping and hollering followed this announcement.

  Amber shook her head. It was the maddest thing she’d ever seen. Quite, quite insane.

  A tall, thin, bald man was wheeling a huge green cake across from the pub on what looked like an operating trolley. A knife glinted in his hand.

  Maybe this was the time for the sacrif
ices?

  With less than ruthless efficiency, Goff staggered down from his podium, seized the knife, and started hacking at the cake. Everyone surged forward, holding their hands out for a sliver.

  ‘Ida’ll get ours,’ Gwyneth informed her. ‘She’s great at barging ’er way through. You should see ’er on pensioners’ bargain day at Big Sava in Hazy Hassocks.’

  Even though she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol – yet – Amber began to feel quite intoxicated. Maybe the scent of the burning broom and bracken was making her squiffy? It seemed a mere matter of moments before everyone had a piece of green cake and amid a great deal of laughing and shrieking, quite sensible-looking people were lifting their slices towards the moon and making wishes. Out loud. Without looking the least bit embarrassed.

  Ida handed her a slice, and on inspection, despite its livid colour, it looked like a feather-light cheesecake. Amber nibbled a crumb. Blimey! It was delicious.

  ‘Young Mitzi has certainly got the gift,’ Gwyneth mumbled through her mouthful. ‘She says she’d never cooked before she started this herbal magic stuff – but you’d never know, would you? Go on, duck, eat up and make your green-cheese wish.’

  Amber grinned. Why not? What harm could it do?

  She took another mouth-watering bite and looked up at the moon. Could she really do this? Talk out loud? To the moon? Still, everyone else was, and no one had laughed – yet. ‘OK – not that I believe in any of this stuff for a minute, of course, but – I wish that – oh … I wish that my life could get, well, sorted …’ She stopped. Maybe that was a bit vague. ‘I wish – I wish – that being in Fiddlesticks was meant to be. That being here is the start of the rest of my life and that it doesn’t just keep drifting. Oh, and that something wonderful is just around the corner …’

  Maybe that was far too many wishes. And wasn’t it all a bit me-me-me? Maybe she should have simply wished for world peace and prosperity? Maybe St Bedric wasn’t going to grant wishes to the self-obsessed.

  Not that she had too much time to think about it.

  ‘Amber, duck!’ Gwyneth swallowed the last morsel of her cake and waved. ‘If you’ve finished wishing, I’ve got someone here who wants to meet you.’

  Chapter Nine

  By the Light of the Silvery Moon

  ‘I’ve been so dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Well, I mean, Lewis told us all about you when he’d picked you up – oh, does that sound tacky? Sorry … well, you know what I mean – and then everyone’s been talking about you being here – and to have someone new and young in Fiddlesticks is so amazing that I’m surprised the bloody Winterbrook Advertiser hasn’t got hold of it for the front page.’ The curvy girl with shaggy day-glo green curls, tight green shorts, an Ireland rugby shirt and mile-wide grin paused for breath. ‘I’m Fern.’

  Amber grinned back. ‘I’d almost guessed. Something someone said earlier about the hair …’

  Fern patted her curls. ‘Sprayed on about half an hour ago. Might be all over someone’s pillow in the morning if I get really lucky. Do you fancy a drink?’

  Amber nodded. The evening seemed to be growing even hotter and the thought of something long and cool was irresistible. Everyone else was already stampeding towards the pub. And, not that it mattered of course, but Fern had been with Lewis, earlier hadn’t she? Which meant that he might still be in the pub. And it would only be neighbourly to thank him again for collecting her from the station, wouldn’t it? Even if he was with the ever-present Jem.

  She looked at Gwyneth. ‘Is it OK if I—?’

  ‘Course it is, duck. You run along with young Fern and ’ave a good time. Me and Ida will have a nice cuppa in a minute, but you need to get out and socialise. The door’ll be on the latch if you’re late coming home.’

  Amber smiled her thanks. Coming home … Hmmm. Maybe … Maybe Moth Cottage was going to be home – at least for a little while – anyway it was the only one she had now and she did love it and Gwyneth and Pike the dog who slept on her feet and the cats and the hens.

  Thank goodness her friends couldn’t tune into her thoughts. Barking they’d said she was, and now, having made a green-cheese wish and considered, without a second thought, that dark-ages Moth Cottage was actually home they were probably right.

  Fern linked her arm through Amber’s and led her towards the pub. There were small pockets of people dotted around the green still chatting, laughing, gazing up at the moon, and dozens of children splashing in and out of the stream and dangling over the rustic bridge, their parents smiling on fondly without any hint of nanny-state concern for their safety.

  ‘I bet this all seems odd to you,’ Fern said as they slithered off the green and crossed the road, kicking up puffs of dust. ‘You being a city girl.’

  ‘Odd doesn’t come close,’ Amber grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’

  ‘Get used to it. We have all sorts of get-togethers like this through the summer nights. Personally I reckon most people just join in for the eating and boozing, but in the olden days, well, they really did worship the stars and the moon. And –’ Fern paused and looked at Amber almost seriously ‘– things have happened here, you know. And not just in the past. Recently. As a result of the star-wishing and moon-baying.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘No, really. Some really impossible things have happened with no rational explanation after Fiddlesticks astral parties. I don’t reckon anyone should scoff. There’s more stuff going on out there –’ Fern gestured vaguely above her head ‘– than any of us understand.’

  ‘You mean little green men – oh, ha-ha, very appropriate for tonight – and all that?’

  ‘No,’ Fern giggled. ‘But seriously weird things have happened. Oh, maybe some of them would have happened anyway, without the intervention of Cassiopeia or Andromeda or St Bedric or whoever – but until someone proves that it’s all hokum then I’ll happily go along with it.’

  ‘As long as all your dreams come true?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Fern laughed. ‘And you’ll get used to it. I promise. By the Harvest Moon shindig at the end of September you’ll be calling on all the ancient goddesses to make things happen and be as addled as the rest of us.’

  By the Harvest Moon shindig, Amber thought, I probably won’t even be here.

  ‘Maybe …’ She looked at Fern. ‘And as you clearly believe in all this, did you make a green-cheese wish tonight?’

  ‘Course. The same one as last year and the year before that and the year before and … St Bedric must know it off by heart by now. Ah well, maybe one day the damn man’ll come to his senses and realise that there’s more than one woman in the bloody world.’

  Aha, Amber thought. Another Lewis-devotee. Another Jem-rival.

  She recollected that Fern had been on the phone to Lewis during the van journey from Reading station. She’d mentioned Jem a lot during the calls. She’d also mentioned Hayfields. Maybe Fern was part of the band? The Dolly Parton lookalike singer? She certainly had the chest for it.

  Goodness, there was so much to catch up on.

  The Weasel and Bucket was packed to the doors. Outside, villagers had taken all the trestle tables and benches and most of the parched grass. The food tables had a four-deep crowd on each side. Just as well, Amber reckoned, that thanks to Gwyneth’s substantial tea she wasn’t feeling peckish. Every so often someone emerged triumphant from the scrum with a plate piled high with green goodies and scuttled off to a vacant space.

  The roar of splintered conversations rose and fell in the drowsy heat. Huge moths bumbled and fumbled round the illuminated pub sign and hundreds of white fairy lights were threaded through the trees.

  It was ridiculously pretty.

  ‘Grab a patch of grass if you can find one,’ Fern advised. ‘Spread yourself out a bit. I think we’ve missed out on the food but I’ll go and barge my way through for the drinks. What are you on? Spirits? Minerals? Wine or beer?’

  Amber
looked at the crowd in the pub. If Fern ever got served at all it’d be some sort of miracle. ‘Whatever you’re having as long as it’s alcoholic – twice … Not that I’m an alkie dipso, you understand, but it might be a good idea to stop having to go back in there again. And whatever you get, can I have lots of ice, please. Here, I’ll pay.’

  ‘No way. My shout. I got paid my monthly pittance today. And you’re a sort of guest. And my new best friend.’

  Within a nanosecond Fern’s day-glo curls had disappeared into the throng.

  Amber found a vacant bit of grass and sank onto it, drawing her knees up to her chin. Fern considered they were friends, did she? After less than half an hour? This was something new for her: all Amber’s previous friendships had been formed through years at school or work. She’d never made an instant friend before. Still, she could certainly do with a friend right here and now in Fiddlesticks, and Fern was certainly – er – friendly.

  But Fern wasn’t like any of her friends back home.

  While the St Bedric’s Eve costume could simply be an aberration and the rest of Fern’s wardrobe might well drip with Names, Amber somehow thought not. And she clearly didn’t give a fig about dieting or exercising, and her hairstyle was about two decades out of date – she’d probably never heard of ceramic hair straighteners and she had no streaks or highlights or anything remotely stylist-created beneath all that green – and her smudgy eye make-up was very last year, and her nails clearly had never seen a French manicure.

  And yet … Amber nodded slowly – and yet there was more life, more vitality, more natural beauty, more down-right earthy sexiness to Fern than anything she and her city friends could concoct with all the salons and glossy magazines and glamour aids in the world.

  How very weird.