Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  Big Ida, nearly six feet tall and built like John Wayne, had apparently done a Charles Atlas body-building course in her youth and the rudiments were still with her some six decades later.

  Ida sounded as though she was all ready halfway up the stairs. ‘I only popped round to say we’re putting the kettle on for elevenses in Gwyneth’s. We thought you’d like a cuppa before you go to work – and anyway, Gwyneth’s like a hen on pins over this Amber arriving today and you know you always manage to calm her down.’

  Zillah pulled a face which owed nothing to the vicelike grip of the spandex. Gwyneth Wilkins, her other octogenarian next-door neighbour, had talked about nothing but Amber for days now. For her own reasons, Zillah really, really didn’t want to hear any more about Amber’s imminent arrival in the village. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘Zil? Can you ’ear me?’

  ‘Yes …’ Zillah puffed. Forget Amber, she told herself, there are more urgent and immediate problems to address here. Oh, sod it, she’d have to risk the skinning. ‘Ida, be a dear and – errumph-oooh – give me a hand here. I’m in the bedroom …’

  Big Ida wasted no time in thundering up the stairs.

  ‘Blimey, Zil. What do you think you look like?’

  ‘Probably like an overweight middle-aged woman stuck in a stretchy thing. Don’t laugh … Ow … It’s not funny.’

  ‘I ain’t laughing. It ain’t no laughing matter, duck.’ Big Ida, looking for all the world like Les Dawson in drag, hitched up her massive bosoms beneath her floral wrap-over pinafore and pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for that sort of get-up? Is it for work?’

  ‘Whooomph … yes to the first, no to the second. Gwyneth picked it up at a Hazy Hassocks jumble sale. She said – ooooph – that as everyone has to wear green on St Bedric’s Eve she thought it would be lovely with one of my long skirts over the top, but – oomph …’

  Big Ida shook her head. Her steel-grey pudding basin hair didn’t move. ‘That outfit weren’t meant for someone of your size, Zil. You shouldn’t ’ave even tried to squeeze yerself into it, duck. You know how Gwyneth tends to lose ’er head when she thinks she’s got a bargain. That’s like trying to get a quart into a pint pot. If you ain’t careful you’ll cut off your circulation.’

  ‘Thanks so much. I’ve managed to undo the poppers but now I’m really stuck. Look, do you think you could just grab the sleeves while I sort of tug it over my head because it hasn’t got a zip or anything and – ouch!’

  ‘Stand still,’ Big Ida grunted. ‘Brace yerself against the dressing table and don’t be such a baby.’

  Zillah braced. There was a brief undignified and extremely painful tussle.

  ‘You-didn’t-use-talc-first-did-you?’ Ida panted.

  ‘Nooooo – ouch. And how do you – ow! Blimey –careful! – know about talc?’

  ‘My godsons told me,’ Ida gritted her teeth for the final heave. ‘They had a bit of a thing for spandex last Christmas. It’s crushed velvet this year. Catsuits. Nice.’

  Zillah nodded. Big Ida’s godsons were always at least one dainty step ahead of the fashion police.

  With a wrench and a squelch, Zillah and the bodysuit finally parted company.

  As Ida, still clutching the lime-green spandex, rocketed backwards with the propulsion, Zillah whizzed forward into the dressing table with a clatter. Owing to her now being practically naked, this hurt. A lot. And her eyes and nose were running and every inch of her generous flesh smarted as if she’d been body-waxed.

  ‘Thanks, Ida,’ she sniffed, blindly rummaging for her dressing gown. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.’

  ‘You know me, duck.’ Ida picked herself up from the bed and adopted a pious smirk. ‘I ain’t no tittle-tattler.’

  Yeah, right, Zillah thought, still sniffing. It’d be all round Fiddlesticks by lunch time.

  It didn’t even take that long.

  By the time she’d showered – very gingerly – and dressed in one of her trademark long flowing skirts and a baggy T-shirt, and fastened her damp hair up with a haphazard collection of combs, and stepped over the broken-down fence which separated her cottage from Gwyneth’s, the bodysuit incident had already passed into rural myth territory.

  Gwyneth Wilkins, sitting on a kitchen chair outside her front door with two cats on her lap and a large dog of dubious origins snoring across her sandals, and expertly shelling peas into a battered colander at her feet, grinned at her.

  ‘That all-in-one thingy not much good then, duck? Ida said it were like trying to get the peel off a green banana with gloves on.’

  Zillah lowered herself carefully, because of the soreness, onto the front-door step and glared across at Big Ida who was sitting innocently on the worn and weathered bench fastened to the front of Gwyneth’s Moth Cottage and which looked as if it might not quite manage to support Big Ida’s bulk for much longer.

  Judas.

  ‘It wasn’t a great fit, no. I must have put on a few pounds. Sorry, Gwyneth, it was very kind of you to think of me. I’ll have to find something else. Maybe I could wear what I wore last year or dye one of my dresses?’

  ‘Maybe – although you’ve had some disasters with dye in the past, haven’t you, duck? The last time you tried it you didn’t add enough salt and it ran all down your arms and legs and everyone thought you’d got some lurgy. Still, as long as it’s green. You know it has to be green for St Bedric’s.’

  Zillah nodded. She knew. On account of St Bedric’s assertion that the moon was made of green cheese. Of course.

  ‘I’ll go and get the tea, shall I—’ Big Ida peered at them from beneath her steel grey, pudding-basin fringe ‘– now that young Zillah has finally joined us?’

  Gwyneth nodded. ‘You know where everything is. Oh, and bring a bowl of water out for Pike, will you, duck?’ She indicated the dog. ‘And some biscuits – for us as well as ’im. The cats have got their stuff in the shed.’

  Big Ida eased herself to her feet. The bench instantly sprang back to horizontal as she lumbered into the depths of Moth Cottage.

  ‘Why is it always you that has to do elevenses?’ Zillah hissed at Gwyneth. ‘Ida’s so tight. She never offers tea when we’re in hers – and after all, she only has to step over the fence.’

  Gwyneth shrugged and whizzed another podful of rattling peas into the colander. ‘Zil, duck, Big Ida and me have lived next door to one another for the best part of sixty years. She’s always been careful with the pennies. She ain’t going to change now, is she? And she only has her pension to live on.’

  ‘So do you,’ Zillah said quickly. ‘Well, apart from your little jobs on the side – and we all know you get paid peanuts for them. Still, having a lodger will help out with the finances a bit, won’t it?’

  Gwyneth looked shocked. ‘Eh? What lodger?’

  ‘This, um, your friend’s granddaughter.’ Zillah rolled the name round her mouth then spat it out like a bad taste. ‘Amber.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be asking young Amber to pay for her keep – wouldn’t dream of it. How could I, Zil? She hasn’t got a job and being a youngster I doubt if she has any savings. No, the invite to stay here weren’t never financial. It was because the poor lass really didn’t have anywhere else to go and I thought she might enjoy a bit of a change from city living.’

  Zillah gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fiddlesticks’ll certainly be that – but I really think you should take some money from her. You’re far too soft. You can’t afford to feed both of you and all the animals on your pension.’

  ‘I’ll have to take on some more little jobs then, won’t I?’

  ‘You’ll kill yourself if you do. You’re over eighty. Get this Amber to earn her keep. She’s not coming here on holiday, is she?’

  Gwyneth smiled gently. ‘No, of course not. And I’m sure she’ll look for work when she’s settled in. Give her a bit of time, Zil. She’s bound to find it all a bit strange to start with. After livi
ng in the city this may come as a bit of a shock.’

  Shock? Zillah stared out into Gwyneth’s narrow front garden, a tumble of head-high lupins, foxgloves and delphiniums leaning together in a haphazard rainbow arch almost hiding the path. Opposite the gate the rest of Fiddlesticks arranged itself neatly round the village green, which was scorched to dusty gold and shimmered beneath the sun.

  The green was criss-crossed with sandy pathways, dotted with willow trees, and had a rustic bridge over a fat brown-bedded stream. Apart from the distant disembodied voice from someone’s radio and the constant flute of bird song, Fiddlesticks was silent and sleepy in the heat of a perfect June morning. Butterflies preened themselves on the abundant buddleia bushes as bees bumbled and fumbled in and out of the blossoms, heavy and drowsy with pollen-dusted legs.

  Zillah shrugged. ‘Shock? She’ll think she’s landed in paradise. And right on her feet if you’re going to let her stay for months without paying a penny. She’s, er, going to ring you when she arrives, is she?’

  Gwyneth nodded. ‘Ah, she’s going to ring on her mobile thingy when she gets close to Reading station. It could be any minute now.’

  Zillah sucked in her breath. She wished Amber would never ring. Never arrive. She knew what would happen when she did.

  Still, looking on the bright side, this city-girl Amber might take one look at a horde of villagers dressed in green and eating verdant cheese and singing inebriated praises to a saint who probably never existed, and flee back to where she’d come from.

  Zillah really, really hoped so.

  Chapter Two

  Starlight Express

  It wasn’t anything like Amber had imagined it would be. Of course she was out of practice, probably never having done this for – what? – oh, at least seventeen years, but even so she’d had her memories, her expectations.

  She sighed heavily. Like so much else in her life recently, this had been one huge letdown.

  Having only taken short local commuter trips for years, she’d really been looking forward to this long journey. Those ‘let the train take the strain’ adverts were always full of relaxed, happy commuters reading broadsheets and doing complicated things on laptops in huge comfortable seats with acres of space between them, and a smiley flunky serving coffee and, well, she’d just expected so much more from this rail journey which marked the end of her old life and the start of – well, who knew what.

  ‘Ooops, sorry …’ Amber muttered for the umpteenth time. ‘Sorry.’

  She peeled herself away from a heavily perspiring businessman who was jammed into the airless vestibule alongside her and about 500 other sweaty people as the train rattled relentlessly southwards.

  Of course she should have pre-booked a seat. Her parents, before they’d rolled away from the house for the last time in their piled-high camper van, had said so. Her sisters, Coral and Topaz, dressed in shorts and T-shirts and espadrilles all ready for their new life, had clambered into the back of the van and said that without booking a seat Amber would probably have to stand for the entire journey.

  Overcome by a sudden and unexpectedly violent wave of homesickness at watching her family’s departure, Amber had grinned bravely through her tears and said she’d be fine. Who else would be daft enough to want to spend over four hours on two different trains in the middle of summer heading for the wilds of Berkshire? She’d have the pick of seats. In fact she’d probably have both the entire trains to herself.

  She hadn’t even managed to get into a carriage on either of them. Having stood in the restaurant car corridor all the way from Manchester, she’d been wedged into her current crowded cubbyhole since Birmingham.

  The sweltering confines were made even more uncomfortable by the concertinary bit between the compartments suddenly swaying without warning which meant everyone catapulted together, and also by people who were lucky enough to have seats in some distant carriage selfishly wanting to use the one and only lavatory, which happened to be somewhere behind Amber’s right shoulder and her eight bags and three suitcases and –

  ‘God! I’m really, really, sorry,’ Amber muttered again, trying to unstick her arm from someone’s cheek. ‘Oh, was that your toe? Sorry …’

  If only there was something solid to hang on to. Something that wasn’t fleshy. Something that meant this non-stop colliding of skin-on-skin could be brought to an end.

  The perspiring businessman lurched against her again as a large woman in an even larger T-shirt tried to haul herself towards the lavatory.

  ‘Sorry …’ Amber said again as the large woman elbowed her in the chest. ‘Look, let me just get out of the way and – ouch!’

  The businessman looked innocent. Amber glared at him. God, how much longer was this going to last? She’d been on this train for ever. She hadn’t sat down for hours. Why, oh, why, had she ever agreed to do this?

  The goat shed in Spain began to look really appealing.

  ‘Didcot Parkway!’ A nasal voice intoned across the tannoy. ‘Didcot Parkway next stop!’

  Amber perked up. Didcot Parkway. That sounded pretty. Maybe she’d get a glimpse of countryside there. All chocolate boxy and flowery and green and gentle. What was that poem she’d loved at school? About a country station in midsummer? Adelstrop. That was it … all willow-herbs and billowy haystacks, whatever they were. Didcot Parkway had to be something like that. Rustic and peaceful. With fields and trees. And maybe loads of people would get off there and maybe she’d find a seat and –

  Nope.

  The run-in to Didcot Parkway looked like Beirut on a bad day and there were another six million people on the platform clearly all expecting to squeeze on to the train.

  The doors opened allowing a gust of hot air into the tiny corridor. A stampede of sticky humanity billowed in after it.

  The doors slammed.

  ‘Reading next stop!’ The nasal voice sang happily through the tannoy. ‘And please stand well away from the doors!’

  Amber pulled a face. One out of two wasn’t bad. She was pressed right up against the door, true, but she definitely wasn’t standing. Now wedged between the businessman and a couple of lads in baseball caps and Man U shirts who’d clearly had more than their fair share of recent vindaloos, her feet were at least six inches off the ground.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Amber yelled at the businessman who now had more bits of his body pressed against hers than Jamie had ever achieved in daylight. The noise from the concertinary bit of the train made normal conversation impossible. ‘How long before we get to Reading?’

  The businessman was glistening all over like a disco ball and managed to drag his eyes but not the rest of him from her cleavage as he yelled back. ‘About fifteen, twenty minutes, I’d say …’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hallelujah. She might just survive after all. ‘Oh, sorry – excuse me, I just need to get my phone out of my bag and – bloody hell!’

  ‘Sorry …’ the businessman looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t expect you to fumble down there.’

  ‘I was not fumbling,’ Amber hissed, trying not to breathe in too much of the second-hand curry fumes to her right. ‘I was putting my hand into my bag. Just because your groin got in the way doesn’t mean – oh!’

  ‘Sorry …’ the Man U curry-eaters grinned sheepishly at her from beneath the peaks of their caps and shoved their hands deep into their pockets.

  Jesus. This was worse than that lap-dancing club she’d accidentally stumbled into with her friends after a night on the town and too many tequilas where several drunken stagnighters had mistaken her for the star turn.

  She managed to push her hand into her bag without arousing anyone else and after a lot of rummaging clutched her mobile and the post-it note with Gwyneth’s phone number on it. The businessman, the curry-eaters and the large T-shirt lady all watched her with interest as she held the phone above her head and started to punch out the numbers.

  Chapter Three

  Full Moon Fever

  Outside Moth Cottage
, Zillah tried hard not to strain her ears for the phone ringing. It was ridiculous, she knew it was, but Amber arriving in Fiddlesticks could be the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Well, almost the worst thing. The second worst definitely.

  She knew it was silly to worry, but the arrival of a new woman, especially a young one, in Fiddlesticks, was bound to attract everyone’s attention – especially Lewis’s – wasn’t it?

  ‘Er… sorry,’ she looked across at Gwyneth. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that’s something I’m really looking forward to.’

  ‘What? Sorry, Gwyneth, I was miles away.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ Gwyneth chuckled, shaking the empty pea shucks on to a sheet of newspaper. ‘I was just saying I’m looking forward to having young Amber here with a mobile phone. I’ve never had a go on one. I want to learn to text.’

  ‘You have to text someone else with a mobile,’ Zillah said gently. ‘And you don’t have any friends with one, do you?’

  ‘No. Bugger. Don’t know why you ain’t got one. I could text you, then.’

  ‘I only live next door, and why would I want a mobile phone? Everyone I want to talk to is within shouting distance.’

  ‘To be honest, why does anyone want one, duck? Who do they talk to? And why? It’s a mystery to me. You can’t tell me all those people you see with ’em clamped to their heads in Hazy Hassocks and Winterbrook used to spend that long on the phone at home or down the call-box.’ Gwyneth paused in her shelling to peer at a handful of peas. ‘Thought they might be maggoty, but they’re not … Ah, and yes, I do know someone with a mobile, so there. Lewis has got one, hasn’t he? I could text him.’

  Zillah sighed. Oh yes, Lewis had a mobile phone. And probably every woman in Berkshire had his number.

  She nodded. ‘Of course you could. He’d probably love it. Mind, you’ll join the long, long list of females sending him strange and clearly exotic messages by the way he hides them from me when I’m at his place, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear from you.’