To You The Stars

by Wendy Cartwright

  * * * * *

  ‘Good morning, Taffy,’ I said when I called round at daybreak. ‘What else can I say apart from thank you and would you like a doughnut? I was about to say you have no idea what this means to me, but, of course, you have. Whoever you are, you have surely been a Godsend to me.’

  I then tidied up on the grave for a while, then came home and cleaned my house in preparation for a celebration. The women of Mercury Phosphorus were going to get Peter, at long last.

  Peter?

  Yes, you know: ‘to you the stars, narcissi fields and music.’ Peter.

  I already knew by then, of course, who Peter was. The vicar told me. But I’ve been keeping it under my hat. Oh, but you’ll want Peter first, I suppose. Oh, all right then, fair enough. Not a soldier, not a stalker, not her husband, lover, priest. Ever heard of Peter Pook? Oh, surely not, I hear you saying; surely Beloved Dorothy wasn’t carrying on an affair with Edith’s husband, Peter Pook?

  ‘No, that’s right, she wasn’t. Edith’s husband was named William. Peter was the nickname he gave his wife - as I had found out when I rang her nephew: -

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said, chuckling, ‘that’s exactly the kind of thing she used to write in her letters. It was her nickname, given to her by my uncle. They all called her Peter in their circle. You know, Peter Pook.’

  Well of course, I didn’t know. I’d never heard of Peter Pook. But I didn’t want to sound ignorant, so I said, ‘Oh, yes, of course. Peter Pook. Ha, ha.’

  So, there you have him. Or, rather her. And here they are both: Dorothy Browning. Taffy. July 11th 1946. To you the stars, narcissi fields and music. Peter (Pook)

  * * * * *

  ‘I like it,’ said Annie, breaking the silence. ‘It’s not what I was expecting but it’s growing on me, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I rather like it too,’ said Evelyn.

  ‘Well, I don’t like at all,’ said Cassie. ‘It all sounds very dodgy to me.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Daphne asked.

  ‘Positive,’ I replied. ‘Peter was definitely Edith – Edith Pook. Now, I’m not sure why her husband gave her that nickname. There’s a book by Kipling, ‘Puck of Pook’s Hill,’ but the children in that are called Dan and Una, so maybe it was a private joke. Then again, it may have been descriptive of her character. She dabbled in painting and writing verse, and her nephew described her as rather fey. ‘It’s not a word we use much nowadays, is it,’ he said, ‘fey?’ Did I know what it meant? Oh yes, I replied, I know the meaning of fey.’

  ‘You certainly do,’ said Moira, resuming her knitting. ‘Yes, very puckish – the whole thing.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Evelyn. ‘But I must say, Gwendolen, I’m sorry we didn’t spot it when you showed us your Horary Chart. I’m afraid none of us saw that coming.’

  ‘Oh, I did.’ Annie reached for another slice of Victoria sponge. ‘I remember now. Uranus in Aquarius in the Seventh. I told Gwen she was in for a shock, and she got one. And, of course, Edith was an Aquarius. Same as me.’

  But Cassie still had reservations: ‘I wouldn’t be too happy about my husband’s mistress writing the inscription on my headstone. If anything would bring me back, that would. How can you be sure that’s not what you were meant to find out?’

  ‘She wasn’t his mistress,’ I replied.

  ‘They lived together didn’t they?’

  ‘Not while Dorothy was alive.’

  ‘So when did Edith’s husband die?’

  ‘After Dorothy: 1949. Really, Cassie, there wasn’t any funny business going on. Well, not that kind of funny business. Edith and Dorothy were friends. Their husbands fought together during the War, which was how they got to know each other. They kept up after the War and their wives became friends.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand it,’ said Moira. ‘And they understood platonic love in those days. I should think they came to some sort of arrangement between friends. Dorothy knew she was dying so she asked Edith to keep an eye on Wilfrid after she was gone.’

  ‘Or,’ said Cassie, deploying her Scorpio again, ‘it was the only way she was going to see her name in print. She couldn’t get her poems published. Oh, well, she thought, my mate, Dorothy won’t mind.’

  Eleanor, for some reason, found this highly amusing. ‘I always told Mum,’ she said. ‘I always told her Peter would turn out to be Dorothy’s friend.’

  This earned her a round of applause.

  ‘So, what do you make of it now?’ Evelyn asked when we were alone in the kitchen. ‘Are you happy with it?’

  ‘I am. It was well done.’

  ‘And Bill?’

  ‘Oh, he said he already knew.’

  ‘He didn’t, though, did he?’

  ‘Well, he did in a way,’ I replied. ‘He did say it would turn out to be one of the Key Players – someone I already knew. But he didn’t tell me it would turn out to be a woman!’

  ‘Now, who could have predicted that?’

  Looking back, it seems my brother came closest to the truth when he suggested that Dorothy probably wrote the inscription herself and got one of her, ‘wacky women friends,’ to make sure it was done - only the friend, being, ‘arty and impractical,’ got the date wrong - while poor old Wilfrid footed the bill and didn’t even get a mention. Whether this was the case, whether Wilfrid footed the bill, or had anything to do with the inscription whatsoever, I was never able to discover. For me, he remains a shadowy figure and I was never able to track down any of his paintings. Indeed, after speaking to Edith’s nephew, I came to doubt that he had painted at all. As far as he had been aware, Browning, as he called him, had made detailed, intricate pen and ink drawings of insects, which were very good, very accurate. Not that he could vouch for their quality personally, because he hadn’t seen any of his drawings either, in the days when he had visited his aunt. He had the impression he may have been Royal Academy, but he couldn’t be sure. I didn’t follow this up. I felt I had come to the end of my search. Wilfrid Browning began his working life as an artist, fought in the trenches, came home, made intricate drawings of insects and ended his days as a security guard at Her Majesty’s Treasury. Edith looked after him because she was loyal.

  During the last years of her life, Dorothy Browning may - or may not - have returned to Oxford to visit the nuns who shared a house on Magdalen Road. She did return to the churchyard where her father, too, lies buried.

  Edith - no, Peter - died in 1972. It wouldn’t have been too long after this, I imagine, that Dorothy’s grave fell into a state of neglect until I, while wandering, stopped there, lifted my foot and entered another world: my story beginning as hers had ended with Neptune at the point of the grave.

  Do stories ever end? I doubt it.

  I now know the reason I found Dorothy’s grave and although I still can’t remember the date, it no longer matters. It wouldn’t have been too long after my father died. I found Dorothy’s grave because I needed to see for myself and trust my own vision. I needed to see how I had been hurting myself and let it go. And the beauty of it is this: now that I trust my own vision, I no longer feel so alone or afraid. My skin has cleared up, my health has improved, and I look forward to my 45th birthday feeling stronger than I have ever felt. I was looking for a friend that day. I found one, thank God.

  Epilogue

  After I finished my book, I made various attempts to find a publisher only to be told that the relationship between the Astrologer and the Philosopher wasn’t properly resolved, which amused Bill no end.

  ‘Confirmation’ he said. ‘Confirmation from the World of Publishing!’ (This will have been during one of our ‘off’ periods.)

  During our ‘on’ periods, he would nag me to do something about it. ‘You can’t just accept rejection from two publishers;’ or: ‘How many publishers did J.K. Rowling send Harry Potter to? Twelve.’ Or even: ‘Your mother would be disappointed.’

  But I didn’t think my mother would be disappointed. True, I hadn’t heard from
her of late, but I didn’t suppose she was occupying her time in the Afterlife, worrying about my failure to find a literary agent. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to ‘resolve’ the relationship with the Philosopher. I rather liked it the way it was. So, after a while, I packed up my manuscript, wrapped it in tissue paper, and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. And there it remained, gathering dust, over the passing years and through all our comings and goings: - through Eleanor leaving home, Bill selling his house, my brother returning to Oxford; me mending Bill’s socks, sending him packing, opening the door again.

  Now, I can’t be sure when this pattern changed because, by then, I’d abandoned all efforts to be organised and no longer kept a diary. So, you will understand, I’m sure, if the rest reads rather hazy.

  We were in an ‘off’ phase when I received a phone-call from the Receptionist at Bill’s Surgery, which annoyed me. Clearly he hadn’t informed them he‘d removed to College rooms. Well, I thought, I’m not his private secretary, and pushed away worrying thoughts. Yet, overnight, they resurfaced, so that when his sister rang the next morning, I already knew. The next thing I remember, I was standing beside my cat at the Vet’s, watching her slip away, when my mobile rang. It was Bill’s sister, calling from the hospital. The tests had come through: nothing could be done. Eleanor drove back from London, made me a cup of tea, and we buried Spinchey in the garden.

  ‘I don’t think this is a very good sign,’ I told her. ‘She’s gone on ahead of him.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mum. They didn’t get on.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s true.’

  The next evening, I visited Bill in hospital where he gave me a list of instructions. I can’t remember what was on it, but I have a very sharp memory of the look on his face as he leaned forward and grasped my wrist, pressing it into me: ‘You are not to mind.’

  So, I did as I was told and put my feelings on hold. I even went to France with Eleanor for a week during which time Bill returned to Yorkshire in an ambulance. When I returned, I took the train up and found him holding court in his wheelchair; surrounded by devoted students, his sisters in attendance.

  ‘If you haven’t got Leo Ascendant,’ I told him, settling down to the night shift, ‘I’m a Dutchman.’

  He gave a sardonic smile, nodded his head, then nodded off again.

  While he slept, I looked around the room for something to read. I had the choice between, ‘Fludd,’ by Hilary Mantel, and, ‘the God Delusion,’ by Richard Dawkins, both of which I assumed to have been brought as gifts; the former, I supposed, from one of his sisters; the latter from one of his students, fearing he might recant at the last moment and be lost to the Atheist Cause.

  Now, normally I wouldn’t read anything by Richard Dawkins who once wrote an article in the Independent entitled, ‘The real romance in the stars,’ advocating the prosecution of professional astrologers under the Trades Description Act and calling astrology an ‘aesthetic affront.’ But it was going to be a very long night so, after reading, ‘Fludd,’ I turned to, ‘the God Delusion.’

  ‘What did you think?’ Bill asked me in the morning.

  I moved to sit in the chair beside his bed. ‘Well, he’s no philosopher, is he.’

  ‘He is not.’

  ‘You could have done better.’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘I preferred Fludd. He reminded me of you.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’

  ‘He did. A magician.’

  Before I left, I told him I wasn’t going to say goodbye.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘We don’t need to have that conversation.’

  I had just packed my weekend bag ready for my next visit, and was sitting in my garden on his smoking bench when a cloud passed overhead. I shivered and thought: he’s gone.

  He went out with the summer when Saturn opposed my Sun.

  The following spring, I drove up to Yorkshire to receive my portion of his ashes from his sister (who had divided them up) and we drove round the Dales visiting some of his favourite haunts during which excursion I felt strangely detached.

  It seemed to me that, from now on, I would occupy a waiting room in life. The last train had departed. I wasn’t on it. But never mind. And in my dreams during this period, I often saw myself standing on the platform at Oakworth Station, watching steam trains passing through. The passengers were heading somewhere, but I didn’t envy them or feel any inclination to climb on board. And since I had to wait, I thought, why not move to where the views are better than in Oxford? I might as well have something beautiful to look at. I also needed to release some capital, having taken early retirement from teaching. So, I put my house on the market at Whitsun and found a buyer within a week. He couldn’t complete before the autumn, but that suited me fine.

  Intending to move to Yorkshire, I placed an offer on a weavers’ cottage in the Pennines because I liked the look of the fireplace. It was a great huge fireplace, with a slab of stone on top, so big you could almost move into it. I could be happy here, I thought; I wouldn’t have to wash my hair or change my clothes and no one would be any the wiser, but the vendor changed her mind so I decided to go and live with my brother instead as a stop gap. Eleanor was working abroad at the time so Joanna came up from London the night before to help me move.

  We packed throughout the evening, ordered a take-away curry, and carried on packing for much of the night. In the morning, she nodded towards the glass jar on the mantelpiece which had once contained his favourite Putanesca pasta sauce.

  ‘Are we taking Bill to Bampton, Gwen?’

  ‘I should think so, yes.’

  ‘Only I wouldn’t have thought it was his kind of place.’

  ‘No, no; it’s a lovely place.’

  ‘Bit rural, though, isn’t it, for Bill?’

  ‘No, he liked the countryside. He didn’t like to spend too much time in it, but he liked it.’

  ‘All right then. Shall we just leave him where he is for now while we do the kitchen floor?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  So, off we went again, scrubbing and mopping, while the removals men filled the van. By mid-morning, we were all done and dusted. The men drove off to store my belongings - just as my solicitor rang to say that key documents had failed to materialise.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said.

  Joanna shook her head in disbelief. ‘Which documents are these?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. I could with a cup of coffee, could you?’

  By now, of course, we had sent into storage all kitchen equipment, so we decided to go for a brew at the local café which had a reputation for excellent coffee and a variable clientele. Sandwiched between a lettings agency and an off licence, it had been owned by the same proprietor since the early 1970s and the décor hadn’t changed since then - as neither had the staff. A white-haired waiter shuffled back and forth on the chequered linoleum floor, while a dapper man wearing a nylon maroon blazer (who could just as easily have been found cutting hair in the barber shop round the corner) operated the hand-pumped Astoria machine.

  ‘This is where I met the Stonemason,’ I told Joanna, as she slid warily onto her cracked vinyl seat.

  ‘I thought you met him in the churchyard?’

  ‘Yes, this is where I met him afterwards - on Dorothy’s birthday - when Bill said: ‘His name is Peter,’ and I nearly shot out of my seat. That one, over there.’

  Turning her head, she followed my gaze to a corner booth where a middle-aged couple shared a milky coffee beneath a faded mural depicting produce unavailable on the menu: bunches of grapes, thick red peppers and various fruits de mer. ‘Well, it’s certainly got an air of unreality, this café. So, did you ever hear from the Stonemason again?’

  ‘I did. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Oh. Oh well, I must have forgotten.’ Removing my specs, I wiped the lenses in my scarf. ‘Yes, I did meet him again: in the churchyard, after I’d finished my book. It was three ye
ars to the day, funnily enough, that my mother had her stroke. Richard was with me and the narcissi were in bloom. And just as we were standing there talking about it, the Stonemason appeared. He was walking on the path behind me with a friend and a couple of dogs.’

  ‘Do you think he may have been sleeping rough?’ Jo asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I did wonder about that, but then again, he may have just been going to a festival. He had a sleeping bag. Anyway, he was glad to see me. He’d been hoping for the chance to meet me again, he said. He wanted me to know why he hadn’t restored the headstone. He had tried. The vicar wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘I suppose the vicar may have thought it might have been – well- too much for him?’

  ‘He may have done,’ I agreed. ‘Although he said he couldn’t allow it because I wasn’t a relative - if he made an exception for me, they’d all be wanting their headstones done up.’

  She gave a wry smile then reached for the menu. ‘So, how about Madeleine? Any more news of her?’

  ‘Not since she refused to allow their daughter to visit when he was dying. She wasn’t having her daughter visiting a dying man.’

  ‘She wasn’t his twin then.’

  ‘No.’

  When we got back, my buyer was waiting on the pavement. A young Chemistry Fellow with a shock of yellow hair, bouncing with enthusiasm, he couldn’t wait to move in.

  Joanna placed her hand on my arm as I fished for my keys. ‘You can’t let him in, Gwen, the money hasn’t arrived.’