To You The Stars

by Wendy Cartwright

  At first, it felt hateful, this nothing: thick, black, dense, oppressive; but after a while, I got used to it. So, that was that then: nothing. And, after a while, I felt okay. I felt the same inside, and the same way about everyone else. So that was that then. Back to life. I got up; went to the bathroom, washed my hair and brushed my teeth. I went downstairs, took Eleanor shopping; visited my mother, and returned to school. And then, one day towards the end of September, I took a bunch of flowers down to Dorothy’s grave. I didn’t feel much like talking. I hadn’t got any news. I just tidied things up a bit then returned along the pathway behind the church.

  A side door in the vestry was open, and, as I approached, a priest came out. He popped out, scratched his head, and popped back in again. By then, it was beginning to dawn on me, so I waited.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, when he reappeared. ‘Are you the vicar?’

  ‘I am. May I help you?’

  ‘Are you the new vicar - or are you just visiting?’

  ‘I am the new vicar, yes. Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘There is,’ I replied. ‘Though it might strike you as rather odd.’

  If it did strike him as odd, he showed no sign, but replied in a business-like manner. One of his first tasks, upon taking over the incumbency, had been to sort the registers out. He could therefore assure me that they were all present and correct. Meanwhile, he was rather busy, preparing for Evensong, but if I were to return in an hour or so, I could browse at my leisure.

  We returned, self and Eleanor, at 5.30 p.m. I had asked her to accompany me, thinking she might like to participate in this historic event; and, on reflection, I can only say that it’s a good job she agreed - because it was Eleanor who found Dorothy. As usual, I had been looking in the wrong place. I’d been looking in the register of burials for 1947. But Dorothy Margaret Browning had died the previous year.

  ‘Here she is,’ she announced, ‘July 11th 1946. Right body, wrong date.’

  So, we had solved our mystery; yet we were never able to discover how the parish register, deposited in the County Archive two years before had made its way back to the Church.

  ‘Not young then,’ said Eleanor, taking my arm as we walked back down the aisle.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t call forty-five old.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you. Still, never mind, you’re not there yet.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Funny her having the same middle name as you though.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘It’s a common enough name, Margaret. Anyway, it’s your middle name as well.’

  ‘I know, don’t remind me. I don’t know why you had to give me such old-fashioned names.’

  ‘You’re an old-fashioned girl.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Come on, Mum. What is it?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Well, we’ve found her but you don’t seem very pleased.’

  ‘Oh, I expect I’m just tired. After all, it has been rather a long haul. I should think it’s just a bit of an anti-climax. But, well done sweetheart. You did really well. Of course I’m pleased.’

  ‘You’ll be able to send off for her Death Certificate now; that should cheer you up.’ I laughed, but somehow I didn’t think it would. I had the feeling I already knew how she had died.

  Later that same evening, I drew up the chart for this moment of discovery. Uranus has just risen with the fateful South Node of the Moon while Pluto culminates at the Midheaven: - something buried comes to light.

  Saturn

  This is going to be a very short chapter because Saturn limits things. He also rules everything cold, hard, bitter, barren and bleak. Oh, but I should look on the bright side, for it occurs to me now that anyone who perseveres with this chapter will surely be constellating true grit: monks, martyrs, miners and monogamists - read on.

  The first thing I did upon opening Dorothy’s Death Certificate was to draw up the chart for the moment I had received it. In this kind of chart, the person who acts or enquires is symbolised by the planet ruling the Sign on the Ascendant; the other party by the planet ruling the Sign on the Descendant, the opposite point. So, here I am, Saturn, ruler of the Capricorn Ascendant; and here is Dorothy, the Moon ruling Cancer on the opposite point. And here we are together. We are in this plot together: Saturn conjoining the Moon at the Nadir, the point of the grave.

  Am I about to peg it – was my first thought. Had she come to warn me? Was this the reason I had found Dorothy’s grave – because I needed a Cosmic Medical Reminder? In fact, should I not get myself off to the Health Centre right now before it closed? Yet somehow I couldn’t quite envisage the following scenario (though I’m sure I did my best).

  ‘Hello, Dr Robbins.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Gwendolen. Now, what can we do for you today? I’m afraid we haven’t heard from Dermatology yet. How are those hands and feet?’

  ‘Oh, not too bad, you know, Doctor. Still hobbling. But it’s not my skin I’ve come to see you about today. I was wondering whether you could arrange for me to see a gynaecologist.’

  ‘Oh yes? Any particular reason?’

  ‘I have just discovered that the woman whose grave I’ve been tending for many a long and lonely year died of the same thing as me.’

  ‘Really? Do you know, I don’t recall certifying you as dead? Perhaps it was one of my colleagues. We’re very busy at the moment, of course, and struggling to keep on top of the paper work.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that. I blame government initiatives, don’t you? We get exactly same thing to contend with at school so I can sympathise. And, believe me, I’m reluctant to add to your workload: it’s just that I was wondering: could you arrange for me to have a scan, just in case?’

  Hmm, no, I couldn’t quite see that request going down too well with the hard-pressed clinicians at the Health Centre. They already had enough difficulty treating my eczema without having to work their magic on posthumous complaints. Best not, I thought. Best deal with it myself.

  Closing my eyes, I slipped my hand inside my skirt and moved it across my abdomen, tracing the jagged outline of the old scar. No, I couldn’t feel anything, no unusual lumps or swelling. Nothing to worry about there. So, why was I sweating, and feeling increasingly nauseous? After a cup of camomile tea and a walk in the garden did nothing to calm me down, I telephoned my astrological pen friend, Richard.

  ‘I’m sure you’re fine,’ he said. ‘It’s an odd thing but I wouldn’t dwell on it. She died, you didn’t. Leave it at that.’

  ‘But, Richard, I nearly died. And you know I’ve always been terrified of anaesthetics. I was four hours on the slab.’

  ‘Never mind, you’re not on it now. You lost your ovary; she lost her life. You survived, that’s the point.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve always had this fear that they were lying to protect me when they said it was benign – because they couldn’t bear to tell a young girl the truth and crush her hope of life.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘That’s the kind of thing you do. I’m quite sure this wasn’t the case. By all means, go and get yourself checked out if you think it’ll help, but I’m sure you’ll find nothing wrong. Now, if I were you, I’d go out and get some fresh air. Better still, do something creative. How about doing some painting?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I wailed, ‘my hands.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, never mind. Put some gloves on, and go and do some gardening. You love your garden, I know. Or go out and do something you’ll enjoy with Eleanor. Hmm, now, that’s thought. Did Dorothy have any children?’

  ‘I don’t know. My feeling is she didn’t. But why? Do you think that’s relevant?’

  ‘It was just a thought. But then you’ve got Eleanor. You had Eleanor against the odds, that’s the point; so don’t dwell on it, Gwen. Leave it in the past where it belongs - and do the same with Bill.’

  I sighed. ‘That’s easier said than done.’

  ‘Even so, you mu
st do it.’

  ‘Did I tell you they’re getting married?’

  ‘You did, the last time we spoke.’

  ‘He asked Eleanor to be their bridesmaid.’

  ‘So you told me. And she refused, didn’t she, which is all that need concern you. Put it behind you now, and leave them to it. It’s not your karma. This is about your future, not your past. You’ll be all right, I’m sure.’

  ‘I, I don’t really think it’s coming back.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘I just needed to tell someone, you know, what I feared - get it out in the open.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, thank you very much.’

  ‘Put it behind you, now, Gwen. Go out and get some fresh air in the sunlight. That’s the best antidote to Saturn.’

  Well, that was very good advice, I thought, as I replaced the receiver; and I had every intention of following it; but then just as I went to put the certificate away, something else caught my eye.

  Dorothy had been married; but not to Peter!

  She had been the wife of Wilfrid, George, Brunet, Browning, to be precise.

  So, where was the Peter, I wondered, on July 11th 1946? Not to mention the next day, when Wilfrid Browning registered Dorothy’s death? Come to think of it, where was Wilfrid when Peter cast the inscription? Perhaps, by then, he, too, was dead; for surely had her husband been alive, he would not have allowed another man to cast such a personal inscription? Unless Peter was their son - an unusually poetic son.

  The plot thickened. The plot thickened darkly as my mood plummeted further: for, if Wilfrid had been Dorothy’s husband, and Peter had been her lover, then she had not been the Innocent I had imagined, which meant that for all these years I had been loyally tending the grave of a woman who had failed to keep her vows. Even worse, I’d involved my mother in it. And it struck me, there and then, that the Universe was enjoying a very black joke at our expense. How Bill would have enjoyed the irony. I could almost see him nodding sagely then breaking into a sardonic smile because if there was one thing, apart from religion, that he and I could be guaranteed to argue about, it was morality. He had never believed my protestations that I was the Faithful Type.

  ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ I recalled him saying. ‘And indeed, your choice of language makes me suspicious; your use of the word ‘attachment,’ in particular. This suggests something extra, that your beliefs have been added on from outside. You are ‘attached’ to the idea of Fidelity. Now, where might that idea have come from?’

  ‘It comes from me. I know what I’m like. When I love someone, I’m not interested in sleeping with anyone else. I am the Faithful Type, a One Man Woman.’

  ‘Oh yes? And how many lovers was it at the last count?’

  ‘Nowhere near as many as you. And none of mine were married. And I have never been married.’

  ‘No, and it’s precisely because you have never married that you cannot judge. Nor should you, of course. But I must say, I do find it interesting that you have never married. After all, it’s not as though you’ve never been asked - and many times by your own account. Could it be that you’re reluctant to put your principles to the test; that you’re unwilling to take the risk, because then you might discover what you’re really like, and what you do believe for yourself, and you might be surprised.’

  I hadn’t thought so. I hadn’t thought so then and saw no reason to change my mind now on the off chance that Dorothy had a lover. I might still desire Bill, but I could no more sleep with him now that he was engaged to be married than take off in an aeroplane or go to bed without pulling out the plugs.

  Sure?

  Quite sure.

  Not even to outshine her?

  No. Though, of course, I could - if I wanted to. She hadn’t looked that hot to me. Quite the opposite in fact. She’d looked cold and raw-boned, dressed from top to tail in black. Of course I could, if I wanted to. I might even enjoy it. Yes, just for the hell of it. Oh, I knew him all right; I knew his Achilles Heel. Ah, but it wouldn’t be worth it. It wouldn’t be worth all the guilt and agonising and self-recrimination afterwards (on his part not mine). No, I couldn’t be bothered. Not even to outshine her. I had better things to do with my time.

  But who was I kidding? Of course he wouldn’t be back, not now he’d met his twin. The truth was; he no longer needed me. I was redundant. I had been rendered invisible; driven underground. No wonder I identified with a dead woman.

  Dead: - but not quite. She still had something to say. I looked at the certificate again before filing it away. Odd that I should have overlooked her occupation. Somehow, I hadn’t imagined her having one. She had been an artist.

  The Sun

  ‘Well, this is a bit more cheerful, isn’t it, Dorothy - an artist, eh. Good for you. This definitely merits a celebration. I’ve brought you some bleach. It’s about time your headstone stood out from the crowd.’

  Turning to Eleanor, I handed her a pair of Marigolds. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ she said. ‘Oh, what did I do to deserve such a mad mother? Do I have to wear them?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied emphatically. ‘I don’t want you catching anything unpleasant. Now, just see if you can get rid of that horrible green slime. You scrub away and I’ll chuck the water on. I’m sorry, Eleanor, I’d do it myself -’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, your hands. So, after I’ve finished, can I go over to Milly’s?’

  ‘I should think so, yes, as long as her mother brings you home by nine. Now, as your reward, I thought I’d treat you to a trip to London at the weekend. You could invite Milly, if you like. We could go to the Imperial War Museum.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, do we have to? We’ve been there loads of times. I really don’t think Dorothy did any artwork for the War Effort.’

  ‘No, I think there’s a very good chance she did. People with skills were expected to use them during the War; and I’m sure Dorothy wasn’t the type to sit at home doing nothing. She’ll have wanted to do her bit.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure somebody gave her plenty of work to do. All right then, so what am I supposed to do with this wire wool?’

  ‘Just see if you can get inside the letters. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just spruce it up a bit. Yes, that’s the idea. Your Nana would be proud of you.’

  ‘No she wouldn’t; she’d call Social Services.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Eleanor. You know how she feels about Dorothy’s inscription. Yes, wouldn’t it be nice if we could get hold of one of Dorothy’s paintings, or a print or something, to show Nana. She’d love that, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘She might. But then she’s never been very keen on your paintings, so I don’t see why you think she’d be that fussed about Dorothy’s. She’s not an Art lover.’

  ‘She liked that portrait I did of you.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the only one. I wonder if Dorothy painted portraits. I expect you’re hoping she did.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that!’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her while we’re here, see if she can arrange for you to see a self-portrait?’

  I laughed, ‘Come on, speed it up a bit. Less chat, more elbow grease.’

  And off she went. She did a grand job, I must say, and by the time she’d finished, Dorothy was gleaming in the afternoon sun. Pronouncing myself highly-satisfied, I drove Eleanor to her friend’s house, then sped off to the library, intent on tracking down some evidence of Dorothy’s artistic career.

  With any luck, the archives would yield - if not a portrait - a nicely-composed still life executed in a figurative style. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Dorothy as an Abstract Expressionist or Conceptualist; dismembering pregnant cows, urinating into a bottle, or even winning a glittering prize for her astonishingly luminous and thought-provoking collage: ‘Yesterday’s Knickers with Ten French Letters and a Twisted Bra Strap.’ It was always possible, of course, that Dorothy had been ahead of her time. She certa
inly seemed to have a peculiar relationship with time; but I had no reason to suppose that she had been a Futurist before she died. True, I did not yet have her Horoscope; but I would have been very surprised had it yielded the signature of, say, a Jackson Pollock or a Damien Hurst. Had it done so, of course, it would have made life a lot easier because then she would have been famous, and I could have downloaded her from the Internet instead of bothering poor old Martin, the Friendly Librarian, yet again. Not that the badge he wore pinned to his chest said, ‘Martin, the Friendly Librarian.’ It just said, ‘Martin.’

  ‘It’s a management initiative,’ he said giving me a wry smile.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We’re supposed to be dispelling the public image of librarians as dysfunctional introverts.’

  ‘Oh, is that the public image of librarians? Oh, well, Martin; my name’s Gwendolen, I’m a dysfunctional introvert and I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  Smiling, I held out my be-gloved hand. I liked Martin. He had a gentle familiarity which wasn’t intrusive. He had a calm and sympathetic outer manner. He probably had Libra Rising and was either happily married or gay.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You’re the woman with the mysterious grave, although I must say, you don’t strike me as particularly introverted - especially not in that hat.’