Jem was a young-old man, short and bird boned with a pixie face and a shock of dark hair. His eyes were alight with pleasure and – a glint of mischief?
Fern was laughing. ‘No way, Jem! Amber is not going to be the next on his list. She’s just told me that she doesn’t fancy him.’
Jem turned and looked at Amber, shook his head and winked at her.
‘Behave,’ Lewis laughed, sitting beside them and handing Jem a glass of beer. ‘You’re worse than my mum.’
Amber didn’t say anything at all. How could she have got it all so very wrong? How could she have thought Lewis was merely a self-obsessed, sex-mad, drop-dead gorgeous himbo, only interested in notching up yet another conquest?
How could she not adore him even more now? Oh, damn it.
‘Hayfields,’ Fern said kindly, ‘is nothing to do with music. We’re not a Country and Western band –’
Jem put his beer down and played air guitar with a flourish.
Fern flapped his hands away. ‘Give over for a minute, Jimi Hendrix. I need to explain to Amber what Hayfields is all about. She’s a bit – er – confused. Hayfields is a halfway house. It’s what we do. There are a dozen residents and a dozen of us. Martha is the House Mother so she takes over on our days or nights off. Otherwise we live in self-contained flats on a one-to-one basis with the residents. It means they can live normal lives.’
Jem giggled and pulled a face.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Lewis said cheerfully. ‘We have a great time. Even if your cooking is better than mine.’
Jem laughed and made a finger-down-the-throat gesture at Amber.
‘Really?’ she smiled at him. ‘Is his cooking that bad?’
Jem nodded vigorously and pointed at her.
‘Pack it in,’ Lewis said. ‘She’s not going to cook for us. You don’t need anyone else spoiling you rotten.’
‘And neither do you,’ Fern added. ‘You’ve got a queue of ladies a mile long waiting to cook your breakfast.’
Jem sniggered.
‘SLO!’ Constance Motion suddenly roared across The Weasel and Bucket’s garden. ‘Did I see a cigarette glowing over there? Are you SMOKING?’
Slo quickly dropped his cigarette in his beer glass and shook his head. ‘No way, our Con. Of course not. I’m a non-smoker now. You know I am. It was Lewis.’
Jem’s eyes opened saucer-wide in indignation.
‘A bad influence, as always,’ Constance stood up and beckoned. ‘You come over here and join us. I’ve told you before about hanging around with those young people.’
‘Sorry,’ Slo mouthed as he groaned to his feet.
‘It’s OK,’ Lewis grinned up at him. ‘She scares the shit out of me, too. See you later.’
Jem by now was jigging with impotent fury and tugging at his hair.
‘Don’t worry, Jem.’ Lewis touched his shoulder. ‘I don’t mind getting the blame. I’m used to it. What? No, I don’t think so – even though I must admit setting fire to Constance’s wig does have a certain attraction.’
‘Lewis doesn’t even smoke any more,’ Fern whispered to Amber. ‘Slo hides his cigarettes all over the show so that Constance doesn’t find them during the body searches.’
‘But surely no one should be encouraging him to smoke?’
‘Give over! He’s nearly eighty. He’s smoked since he was eleven. When he stopped smoking he was so bloody miserable – and by God he has enough misery living with Constance and Perpetua – what extra harm can it do him now? And anyway, Lewis’s is only one of his stashes. Lewis, even though he doesn’t like anyone to say it, is a pretty good guy.’
Jem nodded and held up both thumbs in agreement.
Fern returned the gesture. ‘Anyway, have you got the Hayfields picture now?’
‘Full frame,’ Amber nodded. ‘And I wish someone had told me before.’
‘Sorry, I just assumed Gwyneth had told you – and then it seemed so funny that you thought we were a band.’ Fern peered into the array of empty glasses. ‘Oh dear, we seem to have drunk everything and I’m ready for a refill. Anyone else?’
They all nodded. Amber fumbled in the pocket of her jeans and pushed some notes at Fern. ‘No, please – this really is my round.’
‘OK, thanks – if you’re sure … I’ll just take pot luck.’ Fern scrambled to her feet. ‘Hopefully they haven’t drunk the pub dry – yet.’
Jem waved happily as Fern picked her way across various prone Fiddlestickers, then nudged Amber and pointed at the moon.
She leaned towards him. ‘I made a green-cheese wish tonight – did you?’
Jem nodded, then gestured towards her with a thin and twisted forefinger.
‘What? Oh, what did I wish for? Am I allowed to say?’
Jem nodded vigorously.
Amber, aware that Lewis was watching the interchange with interest, grinned. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure what I should wish for. I mean I’ve only just arrived here and I didn’t really understand about St Bedric – but even though I felt pretty silly doing it, I made a wish that my life would get sorted out. Here. In Fiddlesticks. Does that make sense?’
Jem nodded again.
‘Not that any of this makes much sense to me. I’ve never seen anything like it. Everyone talking to the moon. Completely barmy …’
Lewis looked at her over the rim of his glass. ‘Well, it figures. Where do you think the word lunacy comes from?’
Clever sod, Amber thought, before smiling at Jem again. ‘OK, so I’ve told you my wish. What about you two?’
‘No way,’ Lewis said. ‘My wish stays secret.’
Jem frowned at him and shook his head.
Amber shrugged. ‘Never mind him then. What about you, Jem? Did you wish for something nice?’
Jem nodded and turned his head to stare at the crowds outside The Weasel and Bucket. He studied the groups carefully, then pointed at a family of mother, father and two children sitting at one of the tables.
Amber knew she mustn’t get this wrong. She felt she’d managed OK so far. ‘A family? You want to be part of a family?’
Jem shook his head and hugged Lewis’s arm.
‘Ah, OK – Lewis is your family. So …’
Jem pointed at Lewis, then again at the family group, moving his finger through the air until it reached the man. Then he smiled at Lewis.
Amber bit her lip.
Lewis sighed and came to the rescue. ‘Jem has never known his parents. And don’t flinch like that – I’m not being brutal. It’s a fact – Jem knows about his past. He’s happy with it. We get on so well because we’re honest. For as long as we’ve known each other Jem has been fascinated by family stories – you know, cosy groups, continuity, happy ever afters …’
Jem beamed broadly and nodded.
‘Sounds great,’ Amber said softly. ‘I like those sort of stories myself. And having a family is pretty important as I’m just discovering. You take them for granted but then when they’re not around …’
Jem patted her hand gently in sympathy. Amber returned the gesture.
‘What Jem wished for,’ Lewis shrugged, ‘wasn’t for him. He reckons he’s got everything he wants. He wished for me. The same St Bedric’s wish he’s wished for the last three years. Ever since we’ve known each other even though I tell him not to bother.’
Jem smiled and indicated that Lewis should continue.
‘What he wished for was that I could find my father. He knows Zillah is my mother and can’t understand why I don’t have a dad like in his favourite stories.’
‘Oh, right … And is that likely? I mean –’
‘About as likely as hell freezing over.’
‘But surely, if you want to meet him, can’t Zillah, your mother … I mean –’
‘Zillah won’t even tell me his name,’ Lewis said coldly. ‘I doubt if she knows it. She’s always refused to tell me anything about him at all. Apart from Zillah, I have no family at all. And, whatever Jem thinks, I have no interest in knowin
g about them. Especially not about my father. Not now, not ever. And I hope, if you intend staying here and getting involved in the village gossip, you’ll remember that.’
Chapter Eleven
Midsummer Moon Madness
Midsummer morning dawned hot and gauzy, still and silent. Watering the drooping plants in her front garden before the heat of the sun scorched them further, Zillah thought Fiddlesticks looked like a film set.
Such a shame the rest of her life couldn’t have been scripted to match: with high passions, nail-biting moments and a crescendo of cliff-hanging tension before the final satisfying dénouement, leading, of course, to the happy-ever-after ending.
Ah well, she thought, chucking the final silver arc of droplets across the multicoloured star petals of the mesembryanthemums, she’d had some of it, hadn’t she? Even it was years ago. Most of it, in fact. All played out in glorious Technicolor and surround-sound.
Honestly, if truth be told, the only bit missing from her personal epic was the happy-ever-after. And how many people really got those?
‘Morning, Zil!’ Billy Grinley leaned from the cab of his bin lorry and flashed a lascivious smile. ‘Hot enough for yer? I’ll be finished by eleven this morning. See you in the pub?’
‘Oooh, let me see – yes, probably – unless someone rich, famous and gorgeously handsome makes me a better offer in the meantime.’
‘Can’t do the famous,’ Bill leered, ‘but I’ve got a nice bit salted away in the Nationwide and the ’andsome bit goes without saying. I’d show you a good time, Zil love. Just say the word.’
‘The word being no?’
‘Get away with yer! I’d make you smile a lot more than that long streak Timmy Pluckrose! You think on it, duck. You could be the third Mrs Grinley this side of Cassiopeia if you plays your cards right.’
Zillah watched the lorry choke away in a cloud of dust. Mrs Grinley? Mrs Pluckrose? She certainly wasn’t short of offers. Billy was a non-starter of course, but maybe she really should think about accepting Timmy, despite Mitzi’s exhortations to the contrary.
No … she shook her head. How could she? How could she marry anyone? Ever?
With her long skirt swishing the tops of the scarlet geraniums, she headed back towards her front door and the first boring task of the morning’s boring housework.
Fiddlesticks was yawning and stretching and coming to life all round her, although next door the curtains were still pulled in Amber’s Moth Cottage bedroom even though Gwyneth had been up since first light as usual.
‘She’ll still be asleep, duck,’ Big Ida loomed across the box hedge, a muck-and-straw-encrusted egg in each hand. ‘Them city girls don’t keep country hours like we do. She’s a lovely lass, though, don’t you think? Even if she does go a bit heavy on the powder and paint. Fitted in nicely with the youngsters, I thought.’
Zillah nodded. Amber had certainly done that. Since St Bedric’s Eve, Amber seemed to have fitted into the village very nicely indeed.
‘You were a bit hard on her, Zil, I reckon. And you was wrong about her becoming Lewis’s latest fancy – ’e don’t seem interested in ’er at all.’
No, he didn’t. Zillah grabbed a crumb of comfort from that. And she refrained from reminding Big Ida that it was in fact she who had first said Amber wouldn’t be safe within a mile of Lewis’s lecherous clutches.
‘Timmy got a bit of a do on tonight, ’as ’e? At the pub? For Midsummer?’ Big Ida started to walk up her path. ‘Or is he saving it for the next lot of proper star magic on Cassiopeia’s?’
‘Probably,’ Zillah shrugged. ‘There’s nothing official planned for tonight. Fiddlesticks doesn’t do a lot for midsummer, does it? Not like some places. Not so soon after St Bedric’s. I doubt if many’ll turn up so hopefully I’ll have a quiet night.’
Ida looked as though she was about to juggle the eggs, then thought better of it.
‘Me and Gwyneth won’t be ’aving a quiet one – and that’s a fact. We’ve got a bit of a animal rescue job on this morning – cats kept in cages out Bagley way – buggers probably selling the poor little things on for breeders or worse; then we’re doing the security and car parking over in Hazy Hassocks tonight, remember? Tarnia Snepps is ’aving one of her parties. Not for midsummer mind, a bit of a celebration after ’er Marquis making it on to the birth-day honours for ’is so-called charity work – at bloody last.’
Zillah grinned. Everyone in the area knew how hard Hazy Hassocks’ odious self-appointed lady of the manor Tarnia, and her even more odious husband, had smarmed and blagged to claw their way into the realms of the regally honoured. It had come as something of a relief when the news had finally been broken.
Tight fisted as a street fighter, Tarnia Snepps employed pensioners at a pittance to carry out the menial tasks at her thrashes. Gwyneth and Big Ida were usually top of her list.
‘Must get on. I’m all behind the cow’s stump this morning,’ Ida nodded. ‘Mind, I’m surprised to see you here today, young Zil. I thought as you’d ’ave been off with the rest of them old ’ippies last night.’
‘Last night?’
‘Ah – they went off in droves from Winterbrook, so Goff Briggs said. Down to Stonehenge. For the sunrise this morning. You know – the Summer what’s-it-called – oh, yes – solstice.’
Solstice.
Zillah felt the shiver snake along her spine. God – it was still there. After all these years.
One word that could freeze the present and whisk her back to the past: a past more real, more vibrant, than anything that was happening, could ever happen, now.
One word, a host of memories: like snatches of certain songs and the feel of sun-warmed grass beneath bare feet and the scent of bonfire smoke on chill autumn evenings and the wonder of night-time snow tumbling from a black sky and dancing naked in gentle summer rain.
The memory of a laughing voice whispering her name.
The word that could break her heart.
‘… Zil? You OK, duck?’
‘Er? Oh, yes – sorry – miles away …’
And years. In another time. Another life.
Amber mooched round the village shop, smiling at things like hairnets and rain-hoods and packets of American Tan tights and single glass marbles and little pots of bubble mixture complete with plastic wands. She wondered if Jem might be amused by one of those, or would he be insulted? Probably, she decided, seeing as he drank pints and liked heavy metal and had a wicked grown-up sense of humour. And, as Gwyneth had attempted to explain, Amber gathered that Jem’s particular type of cerebal palsy only affected his growth and co-ordination and speech and physical stuff like that. His intellect, as Lewis had made sure she understood, was as sharp as hers.
And anyway, would buying presents for Jem be interpreted as a chance to see Lewis? Mmmm, probably.
Putting the bubble mixture down, she then picked up a bottle of own-brand shampoo, a litre of mucous-green bath foam – pine and tropical wisteria – and an unfortunately phallic deodorant. She was beginning to accept that Mona Jupp only stocked one of everything. There was no choice. Mona Jupp held a bigger retail monopoly than Procter & Gamble.
Yes, there was no doubt that she was getting used to the shop, and the pub as the only source of entertainment, and the fact that the villagers thought the heavens could answer all their problems. Fiddlesticks had a drowsy magic – whether celestial or more earthy she wasn’t sure – of its own, which meant Amber hadn’t charged her mobile since she arrived and strangely no longer needed to have her call-fix. Nor had she unpacked her laptop, so her promised emails to her family and friends were still waiting to be written. The sleepy self-contained attitude of Fiddlesticks was certainly casting a spell on her.
As was Lewis – but she wasn’t going to think about that right now.
It was really odd just picking up shampoo and deodorant without agonising for hours over which one was the latest must-have. And sort of liberating, and certainly timesaving – although, Amber th
ought as she queued behind several elderly people in sturdy sandals, that was something she truly didn’t need to save. She had far too much time on her hands at the moment.
What on earth did everyone find to do all day? Those who didn’t vanish off to Winterbrook or Reading each morning on the single-decker green and cream bus that looked as if it belonged on a 1950s advertising hoarding. How did Gwyneth and Ida and even youngish people like Zillah seem fully occupied each day by menial tasks and chatter? Would she ever get used to the laid-back pace of life in Fiddlesticks?
‘Missing the hustle and bustle of the city life, are you?’ Mona Jupp enquired perceptively, prising the bottles from Amber’s fingers and playing the till keys with a Liberace flourish. ‘Must seem strange to you. You wants to find yourself a flaming job.’ Amber blinked. That was pretty harsh. True, but harsh nonetheless. And where exactly? Certainly not here. Sooner rather than later she’d have to travel into Winterbrook on the twentieth-century coach, register with an agency and see what happened. Maybe receptionist and admin jobs here would be more – er – fun than back home?
‘Do you take Visa? I mean, credit cards?’
Mona affected an entrepreneurial simper. ‘I know what Visa is. We’ve taken credit cards for ages – since last year. We’ve even got chin and pip.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Pip and chin. You know – the latest card security thingy. Now – what else can I do you for? Stamps?’
‘Stamps?’
‘Do you want stamps? For your letters to them up North and your mum and dad in Spain? We even do flaming airmail forms for them what lives abroad. We’re very New Millennium, you know.’
Stamps? Letters? Amber didn’t think she’d written a letter since post-birthday and Christmas thank yous as a child. And how on earth did Mona Jupp know every last detail of her life? The village grapevine was certainly alive and well and living in Fiddlesticks.
Why not write letters, though? Electronic communications had ground to a halt, and she had plenty of time to put pen to paper.
Seeing Stars Page 9