‘Of course he will. He’s a nice boy.’
‘Hardly a boy.’ Zillah raised her black eyebrows. ‘He’ll be thirty next year.’
‘He don’t look it though, does he? Bless him. Such a handsome lad. Thirty … my, my – where does the time go? It seems only five minutes ago he was a babe in arms. Mind, in my day any young fellow worth his salt would’ve been married and fathered at least half a dozen kiddies by the time he was thirty.’
‘Lewis’d run a mile from the first and has probably already achieved the second.’ Zillah stared up at the flax flower sky. ‘What would I know?’
‘There, there. Don’t get upset.’ Gwyneth balanced the colander on her knees and leaned down to pat Zillah’s plump shoulders. ‘He might be a bit flighty, but you know underneath it all Lewis is honest and hardworking and friendly and always kind and helpful and—’
‘Mmmm. Very helpful. Especially today. You didn’t have any trouble persuading him to collect her, did you? This Amber? From the station?’
Gwyneth machine-gunned an entire pod of peas into the colander with scary accuracy. ‘I asked him if he’d mind and he said he was free and he’d be pleased to do it. Why? Have you got a problem with that, young Zillah?’
‘No.’ Zillah quickly shifted the cats and picked at a threadbare patch on her long skirt. ‘No, of course not. If she hasn’t got a car it’ll be murder trying to get here by bus, and a taxi would cost a fortune from Reading – but, well … she’s young, free and single, isn’t she?’
‘Ah, the last two as far as I know. And youngish. She was twenty-seven last birthday.’
‘Oh, God. And is she pretty?’
Gwyneth shook the remaining empty pea pods onto a sheet of newspaper among the tumbled nasturtiums at her feet. ‘I’ve never met her, have I, Zil? Mind, if she takes after her Gran she’ll be a real stunner. Jean broke umpteen hearts when she was a lass. And little Amber was a bobbydazzler when I last saw a photo.’
Zillah groaned. ‘And when was that?’
‘’Bout twenty-five years ago.’
They laughed together. Gwyneth’s laughter rang more true.
‘Have I missed a joke?’ Big Ida emerged from the doorway of Moth Cottage, carrying a tray with three mismatched cups, an earthenware bowl of water and two plates of biscuits.
‘No, duck, only young Zil here getting herself into a panic that Lewis will decamp with Amber en route from Reading.’
Big Ida handed round the teas and placed the bowl of water and Bonios in front of the slumbering dog. ‘Crikey Moses – that’s a definite in my book. Lewis is a bit of a gigolo, after all. Don’t know why you asked him to collect her from the station. Asking for trouble, that is.’
‘Don’t be daft, Ida,’ Gwyneth said quickly. ‘Zillah don’t want to hear that sort of thing. Did you bring out any custard creams? Ah good, there’s nothing better for dunking, I don’t think.’
Pike crunched Bonios at the speed of light then slurped messily at his water bowl, and the cats shoved their heads under his dripping jowls to join in. Silence reigned as custard creams were dunked and devoured.
‘And what time is … is Amber actually arriving?’ Zillah took a swig of tea and asked the question with a nonchalance she was far from feeling.
Gwyneth wiped her mouth. ‘Could be anytime now, I reckon. But you know what the trains are like.’
They all nodded. Not that any of them really knew from experience. Late-running trains were like motorway gridlocks and binge drinkers causing weekend mayhem, and unfaithful footballers – something they heard a lot about on the news and read about in the papers. All a bit exciting and rather pleasant in a safe voyeuristic way as none of it had actually reached Fiddlesticks yet.
Zillah really, really wanted to change the subject away from Amber’s arrival even if it meant discussing a doubtful saint and his ludicrous centuries-held beliefs. ‘So, apart from my costume, are we all ready for St Bedric’s, then?’
Big Ida eased custard cream crumbs into her mouth with a large grubby forefinger. ‘Ah, all done. Should be a good ’un this year if this weather holds. We needs a clear sky to get the full effect.’
‘No worries on that.’ Gwyneth creakily put down her colander and her mug and stretched. ‘We’re in the middle of an Azores high according to the wireless. Oooh, I’m getting stiff. Maybe I should join the Hazy Hassocks keep fit class …’
Despite her misgivings, Zillah grinned at the idea of Gwyneth – four foot ten in her stockinged feet, and about as broad as she was high – leaping and stepping and stretching and skipping.
‘Don’t you laugh, young lady,’ Gwyneth said sternly.
‘You know me and Big Ida have already had a go at kick boxing and Tai Kwon Do and we did OK. I’ll have you know at eighty I’m fitter than most people half my age, but sitting in one position for any length of time just plays ’avoc with me knees. Maybe I’ll pop into Winterbrook and see about buying meself a leotard.’
Zillah bit her lip and said nothing.
‘I’d join you,’ Ida said, ‘but they never do ’em in my size. I’d have to wear me vest and knickers. Anyway, more importantly, the pub’s doing the food for after, on Saturday, is it? Timmy Pluckrose ’as got the message this year, has he? Proper St Bedric’s Eve food – none of that foreign stuff on sticks he tried to fob us off with last year? Even if it were green it weren’t right.’
‘I’m sure Timmy’s got the message, yes,’ Zillah said shortly. ‘He’s contracted the catering out to Hubble Bubble. You know, Mitzi Blessing and her herbal stuff, in Hazy Hassocks, this year.’
‘Oh, nice idea,’ Gwyneth sucked damp custard cream from her fingers. ‘Young Mitzi’s cornered the market in old-fashioned cookery stuff. She won’t make no mistakes. She’ll be just right for the first of our big astral celebrations. I hope she remembers to make a proper St Bedric’s cake. With green cheese.’
Mitzi Blessing, Zillah thought, hadn’t simply cornered the local foodie market, although of course there were still those who were a bit reluctant to indulge in her kitchen-witch dishes thinking that some of the more, well, magical results after eating them smacked of paganism; Mitzi had also cornered the Life After Fifty market too.
Zillah and Mitzi, being much of an age, had become good friends, and Zillah envied her not only the up-and-coming herbal cookery business, but also her ability to sort out other people’s lives – not to mention her gorgeous and much younger lover.
As far as Zillah was concerned, Mitzi had it all.
‘I’m sure she will. Timmy says she’s got it all in hand.’
Zillah still looked slightly mutinous. ‘Although why there was so much fuss about his kebabs last year, I can’t imagine.’
‘Because it weren’t traditional food, that’s why.’ Ida guzzled the dregs of her tea. ‘We’ve always had green cheese for St Bedric’s. It don’t do to tamper with the old ways. And giving people things on sticks when they’ve ’ad a pint or two is a recipe for disaster. I’m surprised they didn’t ’ave someone’s eye out. You can’t go messing about with the old traditions. Mind, you wouldn’t understand, being a newcomer.’
‘I’m not a bloody newcomer. I’ve lived in Fiddlesticks since 1976.’
‘Newcomer, as I say,’ Ida sniffed. ‘You has to be able to trace your ancestors back to the thirteenth century like we can before you can say you really belong.’
‘Ida!’ Gwyneth shook her head. ‘Zil’s part of this village just like we are. No one bothers with all that old feudal stuff any more.’
‘Well, they should,’ Ida huffed. ‘The moon and the stars don’t never change, do they? Year in, year out they’re always the same. St Bedric was the first one to point that out round here. And it’ll be a full moon on Saturday which is just how it should be. It’s what St Bedric’s Eve is all about, after all.’
‘Is it?’ Zillah raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought it was like all the other things we do here under the guise of celestial celebrations – an opportunity
to get roaring drunk and behave badly. And maybe I can’t trace my family back through the Fiddlesticks charters, but I intend to have a good time on Saturday night anyway.’
Well, as long Amber stayed as far away from Lewis as possible.
Big Ida replaced her cup on the tray. ‘Course you will, my love. We all will. And even if you don’t belong here as such, me and Gwyneth are damn lucky to have you as a neighbour … Now I’m off to feed me chickens and see if they’ve provided me with an egg for me dinner.’
They watched as Ida lumbered through the delphiniums and stepped heavily over the tumbledown fences towards her own garden.
‘Was that an apology for calling me an incomer?’ Zillah squinted at Gwyneth.
‘About as close as Ida gets to one, I reckon. She really should think before she speaks – but like her being careful with her money, she ain’t going to change now. Her heart’s in the right place.’
‘So’s yours. And I’m lucky to have both of you. I wouldn’t have coped when I first came here without you.’
Both she and Gwyneth sat silently for a moment, remembering.
‘Ah, yes duck, but things have changed so much since those days, haven’t they? You’re fine now. And Lewis has—’
Zillah didn’t want to talk about Lewis. Not any more. And she certainly didn’t want to think about the past, and the awfulness of her life when she’d arrived in Fiddlesticks. Not today. Not when everything was going so well.
She stood up quickly. ‘It’s time I was getting ready for work, anyway. It’s going to be another scorcher. Pity I’ve got to be shut in the pub for hours.’
‘Get away with you.’ Gwyneth rolled the newspaper round the pea pods and reached down for the colander. ‘You love your job. And your boss loves you.’
Zillah pulled a face. ‘Oh, please don’t start that again.’
‘You could do a lot worse than Timmy Pluckrose. He’s got a lot to offer a girl. A nice little pub, a pot of money in the bank and all his own teeth.’
‘And that last bit is more than you can say about most men in Fiddlesticks. We’re in serious danger of becoming another Eastbourne.’
‘That’s why we need youngsters like you and Lewis to stay on and regenerate the village,’ Gwyneth chuckled. ‘Which is what, according to you, he’s aiming to do.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’ Zillah, as always amused that Gwyneth saw her as a mere slip of a girl despite being in her fifties, gathered up her skirts and stepped over the low rickety fence separating her cottage from Gwyneth’s. ‘Ah well, better go and slap on the barmaid face and sort out yet another bosom-revealing top – that’s if Ida had left me any skin worth revealing. I’ll, er, pop round later to see if Amber has arrived safely, shall I?’
‘You mean to give her the once-over? Or more likely to make sure young Lewis hasn’t kidnapped her to add to his harem between Reading and here?’
‘Something like that,’ Zillah sighed.
‘Zil, love, you shouldn’t worry about—’ Gwyneth stopped and cocked her head towards the cottage’s dark hallway. ‘Oh, is that my phone?’
They both listened to the shrill trilling echoing from Moth Cottage.
‘Ah,’ Gwyneth raised her eyebrows at Zillah. ‘It is. Blimey O’Reilly, Zil, this could be her, couldn’t it? Young Amber? To say she’s on her way here. I’ll have to ring Lewis and let him know he’d better make tracks for Reading. Ooooh, mind out of the way Pike, lad, I’m all of a tither and pop!’
Zillah watched Gwyneth and Pike trot excitedly indoors to answer the phone call, then walked into the cool gloominess of Chrysalis Cottage with a very heavy heart.
Chapter Four
Goodmorning Starshine
Having eventually catapulted stickily from the train and negotiated Reading station’s lifts, stairs, ramps and turnstiles with the help of a stocky girl with a lot of nose studs and tattooed biceps like Arnie, who had hefted the towering trolley one-handed, Amber blinked in the dazzling sunshine.
Not for the first time that day she wished she hadn’t left her to-die-for designer sunglasses tucked away in one of the heavily-zipped holdalls.
Her mountain of luggage had been deposited outside a small newsagents and she perched on the nearest suitcase to wait in a prominent position at the entrance to the station’s concourse as Gwyneth had instructed.
Some local taxi driver was going to pick her up shortly, Gwyneth had said. Well, no she hadn’t said he was a taxi driver as such, but that’s what she must have meant. And she’d called him Lewis.
They must refer to people by their surnames down here, Amber thought. Would he be like his namesake, Morse’s sidekick? She decided he would: a sort of ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged rustic who probably ran the local garage and taxi-service and was the funeral director as well. With a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and possibly a cap and a pipe – oh, yes – definitely a pipe.
Well no, maybe not the jacket and cap, Amber rethought, as perspiration started to prickle her scalp. It must be in the 90s. Even if he was in his dotage and thin-blooded, with these temperatures Lewis would probably be wearing a sweat-stained singlet and reek of sheep and other strange countrified odours.
During the shouted and rather odd phone call to Gwyneth which she’d shared with the businessman, the large T-shirt lady and the curry-eaters, Amber hadn’t managed to ask how she’d recognise Lewis. And Gwyneth hadn’t described him at all. She’d simply asked Amber what she was wearing so that she could write it down and pass it on to Lewis so’s he’d recognise her.
Gwyneth had clearly taken down Amber’s answers then chuckled throatily down the phone. ‘And you’ve got long blonde hair? And you’re very pretty?’
‘Well, my hair is longish and blondish, yes – but pretty?’ Amber had stopped. She was OK-ish. Passable. With makeup and her hair done she could almost look glamorous. ‘No … no, I wouldn’t say pretty. Just – well – normal. Like most people …’
‘Don’t be coy, duck,’ Gwyneth had chuckled. ‘If you takes after your Gran then you’ll be a proper bobbydazzler. And believe me, if you’re wearing, er, let me see, a short denim skirt and a vesty thing and pink suede slouch boots – whatever they might be and I must say I can’t wait to find out – then Lewis will spot you a mile off, duck. Take care of yourself, and I’ll be seeing you really soon. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘So am I,’ Amber had muttered, because it would have been rude not to. ‘And thank you.’
So here she was, very hot and very tired, waiting for Lewis the taxi driver like a modern-day David Copperfield, another book she’d done at school and really loved, and convinced now that he was not only the local jack-of-all-trades but also some sort of ancient lecher. He was probably going to try and grope her legs and peer lasciviously down her top and – oh well, Amber sighed. After the intimacies of the train journey, she felt she could cope with anything. And she’d simply slap him if he got too frisky.
She still wished they’d arranged to have name cards like at airports so there’d be no mistake.
It was so hot. The sky was brazen. The sun bounced relentlessly from the rooftops, dazzled from shimmering cars, and scorched the ground. Amber wondered if she could leave her heap of worldly goods and nip into the newsagents for a bottle of water. No, on second thoughts, probably not. She really hoped Lewis wouldn’t be long.
Reading, or what she could see of it from the station’s entrance, looked promising though. Everyone was dressed glossy-mag fashionably, and there seemed to be a mass of shopping opportunities along the not-too-distant maze of city centre streets.
If Fiddlesticks really proved to be the end of the world then Reading would definitely offer some salvation. There was clearly shopping and possibly clubbing to be had, and maybe, when she’d fully recovered from Jamie being a two-timing spineless commitmentphobe, there may even be men, or at least a man, who might make her forget all the heartache.
Blimey! Talk of the devil.
T
he man thrusting his way through the crowds towards the station was absolutely stunning. Amber peered into the quivering brilliance. Was he real? Surely not. Maybe he was a mirage? After all, she’d been standing here for ages in the broiling sun.
Mind you, he looked real enough.
Amber smiled to herself as he came closer. Yep. Definitely real. If this was an example of Reading’s male population, then Jamie’s memory would be wiped out in a nanosecond. She squinted again, unable to believe her eyes.
This devastating vision of male beauty was a true havoc-maker.
All female – and a few male – heads turned as he walked across the mock cobbles towards the railway station’s entrance.
Tall, lean, tanned, tousled layers of longish brown hair, huge dark eyes … Amber drank him in. If only Jemma and Emma and Kelly and Bex could be here now. They’d rate him way, way off their male-lust Richter scale.
His T-shirt was much washed and thin and couldn’t disguise his superb body; his faded jeans were second-skintight and torn in a sort of well-worn way that not even the top designers could achieve.
Blimey again – he was fit!
It was exactly as if her mother’s long-adored Jim Morrison poster had come to glorious living, breathing reality.
And – blimey yet again! – he was walking towards her!
‘Hi,’ he grinned at her, his eyes flicking over her in a practised way. ‘You must be Amber. Gwyneth said you’d be waiting outside the shop. Jesus! Is all that luggage yours? How long do you reckon on staying?’
Amber opened her mouth but no sound emerged. His voice was deep and warm and hinted at laughter. It was also soft-edged and southern. What on earth would she sound like to him? Foreign? Harsh? Northern-shrill?
‘I’m Lewis Flanagan,’ he held out a slender brown hand. ‘I think you’re expecting me.’
Oh no she wasn’t. Far, far from it. Too stunned by his beauty to remember the niceties, Amber ignored his hand and tried to kick-start her brain. Her accent was the least of her problems right now.
Seeing Stars Page 3
