Green? Green was so last year.
‘We all have to wear green on St Bedric’s Eve,’ Gwyneth continued. ‘Saturday night, it is. St Bedric’s is always fun. Luckily you’ve arrived bang in the middle of the really good astral celebrations.’
For the first time Amber felt a slight pang of unease. So far Gwyneth had seemed so – well – normal. But despite her apparent youthful outlook, she was after all extremely old. Could she possibly be suffering from some sort of dementia?
‘Have I?’ she said carefully. ‘That’s lovely. But I’ve never heard of St whatever his name is.’
‘St Bedric’s our patron saint and he was the first person to point out the moon is made of green cheese.’
Oh, pul-ease. Amber laughed. ‘But it isn’t.’
‘No, we know that. We’re not daft, duck. But ’undreds of years ago people didn’t know that, did they? They were scared stiff of the moon and its powers. People and animals are still affected by the moon, even now, but then it was regarded as an all-powerful deity. Everyone was terrified. Scared for their very lives. St Bedric was a kindly soul who took the fear away. Made people’s lives happier. That’s why we celebrate ’im and why we wear green. To honour him and the cheese thing.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Amber said. ‘I think … But surely, what with space exploration and everything, no one these days can possibly believe that the stars and moon can harm them or make any difference at all to their lives, can they?’
‘Don’t you sound so doubtful, duck. Everyone in Fiddlesticks knows that the moon and stars can change things. Make things happen. You wait and see.’
Amber smiled kindly. She didn’t want to upset Gwyneth. ‘Er – right. I’m not sure I’ve got anything green to wear, though – but I’ll have a look when I unpack.’ And if the whole village was going to be skipping around like something out of the Faery Queen come Saturday then Lewis might be there too which would be a mega plus. ‘Um, does everyone get involved in these starry things, then?’
‘Ah. Everyone. All through the summer right up to September. There’s Cassiopeia’s Carnival, and Leo’s Lightning and Plough Night and oh, loads of them. Then at the end we have a right old shindig come the Harvest Moon – which sets us up proper for the winter.’
Amber tried not to laugh. Her friends simply wouldn’t believe it. Or maybe they would. They’d warned her that life would be very different Down South, hadn’t they? Maybe though, she thought drowsily, she wouldn’t tell them that in two days time she was going to be baying at the moon. She’d keep that bit of information to herself. She’d simply go along with the partying and try not to giggle.
After all, there was no chance that the moon and stars could make one jot of difference to her future, was there?
Chapter Seven
Blue Moon
Annoyingly for Zillah, despite living next door and her best spying efforts, she didn’t actually get to meet Amber until St Bedric’s Eve.
Admittedly it was a mere thirty-six hours since Amber had arrived in Fiddlesticks, but the damn girl had been kept more firmly under wraps than a royal wedding dress.
Gwyneth, with, it seemed to Zillah, quite unnecessary determination, had explained that Amber was tired after her long journey and needed to unpack and settle in and adjust to her new surroundings, and that she’d have enough time to explore the village and meet everyone come St Bedric’s.
‘But I’m not everyone,’ Zillah had protested. ‘Come on, Gwyneth. You’ve been like a mum to me ever since I moved in and we’ve always shared everything. I only want to say hello …’
‘Sorry, duck. I wants to let young Amber take this at her own pace. I may not ’ave ’ad a lot to do with youngsters but I like the lass, and I want ’er to be ’appy here. I want her to stay – and right now I reckon this is the last place on earth she wants to be. She’s not only homesick – although she’s trying ’ard not to show it – but this is like living on another planet to her. From what she’s told me it seems city living is light years away from what goes on here.’ Gwyneth had grinned at this point. ‘Mind, she’s taught me ’ow to text. Fiddly job that is, and all. It took me ages but I sent a message to ’er mum and dad en route to Spain to say she’d arrived safely. Ain’t that amazing?’
‘Absolutely bloody incredible,’ Zillah had muttered, slamming the door to Chrysalis Cottage behind her.
Even Big Ida, the fount of all gossip, hadn’t had a great deal to add.
‘I ain’t seen much more of her than you ’as, Zil. Just a quick glimpse when I snook round to borrow a cup of proverbial sugar … What’s she like? Well, she seems friendly – and she’s pretty enough, the little bit I’ve seen of ’er. Very brown. Uses fake tan, Gwyneth said. Gawd knows why, mind. And she wears ever such short skirts. Like the kiddies wear. No more’n a few inches long.’ She’d pursed her lips. ‘Didn’t young Lewis tell you all about her, then?’
‘Not a lot, no. I … I haven’t seen much of him. He came into the pub last night but we were busy and he – he – didn’t say anything about Amber really. And I, er, didn’t want to pry. Didn’t want him to think – well … you know. Mind you, he was with Fern and Jem, and of course when he’s with Jem no one else gets a look in.’
Big Ida had snorted loudly. ‘That may well change if Amber sets ’er cap at him. She’s a right little glamour puss. She’ll turn a few ’eads and no mistake. Funny voice, though. Like Coronation Street. Doubt if that’ll put ’em off, though. Young Lewis, with ’is reputation, could be heading the queue. Anyway, we’ll all get to see a bit more of her tomorrow night, won’t we? Gwyneth says she’s really looking forward to celebrating St Bedric’s.’
Everyone, Zillah thought darkly, was probably looking forward to meeting Amber more.
And now it was St Bedric’s Eve morning in The Weasel and Bucket, and Zillah, having found a long floaty green dress circa 1972 in the ‘can I bear to part with this?’ heap at the bottom of her wardrobe to take the place of the lime-green spandex, was deciding if she should wear her hair up or down, and which of her pairs of dangly earrings would look best with the hippie frock.
The pub was empty. It really wasn’t worth opening up at all in the day time on St Bedric’s Eve. Not even the regulars put in an appearance. Everyone was saving themselves for the evening.
Timmy Pluckrose was in the pub’s kitchen with Mitzi Blessing from the neighbouring village of Hazy Hassocks, unloading the St Bedric’s Eve food and there was a lot of laughter escaping through the open doorway.
Mitzi, Zillah’s age and very sparky, made everyone laugh, Zillah thought as she tidied the pristine bar top for the umpteenth time. Mind you, she’d probably laugh if, like Mitzi, she was lucky enough to be sharing her life with a drop-dead gorgeous man several years her junior.
Zillah paused in realigning a row of Paris goblets which had never been used in all her years in the pub and smiled as Mitzi, looking like a teenager in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, emerged from the kitchen. ‘All sorted?’
‘Yep, all under control. Timmy’s happy with the spread. Enough traditional herbal-based goodies in there to intoxicate the whole of Berkshire and a few neighbouring counties as well – and all livid green, as ordered. But blimey, it’s sooo hot.’
‘Have a drink before you go. You look as though you could do with one. You must have been up all night cooking that lot. Something long and cool?’
‘Thanks, Zil.’ Mitzi hauled herself onto one of the high bar stools. ‘I really should be getting home to clear up the debris, but a lime and soda with an entire floating iceberg would be lovely.’
‘Coming up. Can’t you get someone to help you now your Hubble Bubble Country Cooking thing has taken off so well? What about your daughters? Couldn’t they lend a hand?’
‘Both too loved-up to be any use at all.’ Mitzi tucked some strands of streaked red hair behind her ears and grinned. ‘Can’t prise either of them apart from Brett or Shay long enough to hold a decent conversation, let alone get
them to do any work. No, seriously, Doll’s still working at the dental surgery and her baby is due in two months, and Lulu is about to take her RSPCA exams, so I wouldn’t dream of asking them to take on anything else – but you’re right about needing help. I’ve got more bookings than I can handle. I’ll have to advertise – especially if I’m going to be doing food for all your astral shindigs this summer as well.’
Zillah reached for the ice bucket. She was delighted that Mitzi’s business was such a success; that she was so ecstatically happy in her new relationship. It proved that there was life – and love – and hope for the over fifties. Maybe it would be her turn next.
Mitzi peered at her. ‘You’re looking a bit down, though. How’s everything going? Really?’
‘With St Bedric’s?’
‘With Timmy. With Lewis. With life in general.’
‘The first still proposes on a daily basis. The second spends a lot of time avoiding me in case I say something he doesn’t want to hear. The third is about as humdrum as ever.’
Mitzi giggled.
‘Fine for you to laugh.’ Zillah expertly foamed soda over a heap of ice cubes with one hand while dispensing lime juice with the other. ‘Your life is about as good as it gets.’
‘True … oh, thanks, Zil – that’s great. What? On the house? Thanks even more, then.’ Mitzi gulped at the glass. ‘Oooh, that’s better. I thought I was going to melt. And yes, OK, my life is great now – but this time last year I was really stuck in the doldrums: divorced, living alone, doing a job I’d done since I left school. Same old routine, with no chance of any of it changing anywhere on the horizon … But you never know what might happen – look at me now.’
‘Hmmm.’ Zillah propped her elbows on the bar. ‘Maybe I should eat some of your “Find Me A Man – Quickly” cakes or something.’
‘Just say the word.’
Zillah’s dark eyebrows shot upwards as rapidly as a pair of homesick angels. ‘No way! I was only joking. I had enough dabbling with that sort of thing in my hippie youth in the seventies, thank you very much. And anyway, you know I don’t believe in all that hokum.’
‘Oh no,’ Mitzi smiled, ‘that’s right. I forgot. Being a Fiddlesticker you only believe in the stars granting wishes and the moon making magic, don’t you?’
‘I don’t believe in any darn magic. Like luck, you have to make it for yourself. There aren’t any herbs or sprites or incantations that can give me what I want. I gave up wishing and hoping a long time ago … Oh, don’t take any notice of me. Most of the time life is rosy. I’m just a misery at the moment.’
‘Any particular reason?’
Zillah decided that Mitzi really didn’t want to hear about her nebulous worries over Amber’s arrival in the village. ‘Not really. Nothing important. Just something that’s cropped up that reminds me of mistakes I made a long time ago really … Sort of afraid of history repeating itself … Brought back things I’d rather forget. Just silly stuff.’
Mitzi looked concerned. ‘Want to talk about it? Properly, I mean. A girls’ night out sometime?’
‘Maybe,’ Zillah nodded. ‘Yes, that’d be nice – although I’d probably bore you to tears because what I said earlier is true. I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting something I can’t have – and nothing you could concoct, or calling on all the celestial goddesses at the same time, can make it happen. One day I’ll simply accept that this is all there is to the rest of my life and make the best of a bad job.’
‘And would that include accepting Timmy’s proposal?’
‘Probably.’
‘Then don’t.’ Mitzi finished her drink and placed the glass on the counter. ‘Don’t ever settle for second-best. It’ll never be good enough. And not fair to either of you.’
‘We can’t all be as lucky as you.’
‘Luck had sod all to do with it,’ Mitzi said robustly, sliding from the bar stool. ‘As you just pointed out – we make our own luck. However, magic – now that’s a different thing all together. Just say the word my dear, and I’ll fetch me cauldron round and me pointy ’at and me magic wand and a few toads and newts and—’
‘Get out, you daft bat!’ Zillah laughed, chucking a bar towel at Mitzi.
Mitzi stooped to pick up the towel and chucked it back. It missed Zillah and draped itself artistically round the Andromeda Ale pump.
They both shrieked with laughter.
‘Girls, girls …’ Timmy stuck his head out of the kitchen door. ‘What unseemly behaviour! Remember, neither of you will see your first half century again …’
‘Bugger off, Timmy,’ Mitzi said cheerfully. ‘At least we’re young at heart – and we’ve both still got all our hair.’
‘Ouch,’ Timmy grinned. ‘I must remember to tell that man of yours tonight that he’s got himself involved with a very cruel and heartless woman.’
‘He’d never believe you,’ Mitzi smiled. ‘And we’re not going to be here tonight. Joel’s taking me to dinner in Cookham Dene. It’s our anniversary.’
‘Is it?’ Zillah restored the bar towel to its rightful place. ‘I thought you two only met in autumn last year?’
‘Oh, we did. It’s not that sort of anniversary … Far more intimate … See you …’
Zillah watched as Mitzi practically undulated out of The Weasel and Bucket’s door. Lucky, lucky cow, she thought wistfully.
‘Want to come and inspect the food?’ Timmy asked, patting her hand. ‘The cake is out of this world.’
‘OK.’ Zillah gently removed her hand from his. ‘Why not? I might even gorge myself on a huge chunk tonight and do a bit of moon-wishing.’
‘You don’t need to,’ Timmy looked at her. ‘Say the word, Zil, and I’d make all your wishes come true.’
Chapter Eight
Bad Moon Rising
The dusk hung heavily over Fiddlesticks in a lilac heat haze. The lights from the pub and surrounding cottages fanned out across the village green, causing leaping shadows to turn the willow trees and benches and rustic bridge into slumbering prehistoric beasts.
The moon, the reason for the village’s excitement, was suspended in a perfect white-cold circle against a black sky, reflected in perfection in the darkly sluggish stream and adding a wide swathe of silver to the illuminations.
Amber took one look at the apparently zillions of people gathered on the village green and almost turned tail up Moth Cottage’s path. If it hadn’t been for Gwyneth standing sturdily behind her, she might well have managed it.
It wasn’t just the vast crowd of strangers, or the fact that they were actually going to be doing something really odd concerning the moon, not to mention an ancient myth, and worship someone who probably hadn’t ever existed – although all that smacked of acid-fuelled paganism in her book – it was the ocean of unrelenting green that was really scary.
Everyone, absolutely everyone, was dressed in some verdant shade. It simply wasn’t normal.
‘OK, duck?’ Gwyneth whispered somewhere beneath Amber’s shoulder blade. ‘No need to be shy. I’ll introduce you to everyone. You stick close to me and you’ll be fine.’
Gwyneth was wearing a green paisley shirtwaister – well, shirtwaister was a bit of a misnomer due to Gwyneth being box-shaped with no discernible ins or outs – a green beret and a pair of green leather gloves. None of the greens matched.
‘Um, what exactly do we have to do?’ Amber asked as Gwyneth shepherded her across the dusty road and into the middle of the crowd. ‘Is there a sort of programme?’
‘No, duck. Well, not really. Once the formalities is over it’s just a big free-for-all. A party, you know? Eating, drinking, chatting, meeting old friends.’
OK, Amber thought, a party I can cope with. I think. ‘And the formalities?’
‘Well, Goff Briggs raises his glass of Emerald Elixir to the moon and does the usual thank yous to St Bedric for freeing us from fear for another year, then ’e throws it open to the floor so to speak. You can have a go if you like
. Well, if there’s something you want sorted special like.’
Amber blinked. ‘Sorry? You mean talk? Out loud? To the moon?’
‘Ah now, you may scoff but you just wait. There’s a lot of people, people who live in the twenty-first century and hold down all manner of responsible jobs and that, who still aren’t averse to ’aving a big bite of Lucky Cake and making a green-cheese wish for summat they need on St Bedric’s Eve. Sometimes, when life ain’t going the way you want, there are other methods, if you gets my drift.’
Amber nodded. Paganism and ritual sacrifice and all sorts of things she shouldn’t be dabbling in, as she’d thought. Green-cheese wish for pity’s sake!
‘And this Goff person? Is he your, um, vicar?’
Gwyneth shook her head. ‘Churchwarden, duck. The vicar from Hazy Hassocks, he oversees us in Fiddlesticks and six other rural parishes and ’e always says ’e’s too busy to do St Bedric’s. Between you an’ me, I don’t think ’e approves.’
And who could blame him?
Much to Amber’s relief, there were several pockets of people on the green who looked as though they may be under pension age. And several who were definitely young. Sadly they all had rather old-fashioned hairstyles and the green outfits let them down badly, but it was reassuring to know she wasn’t the only person under thirty in the whole of Fiddlesticks. Maybe she’d meet some of them in the pub later. Maybe Lewis would be there.
There was a sudden roar from the direction of The Weasel and Bucket followed by a thunder of applause.
The first virgin meeting her doom?
‘Timmy and Zillah bringing young Mitzi’s food out,’ Gwyneth said reassuringly. ‘It always goes down well. Oh, watch out, duck – ’ere comes the ’ordes.’
There was then a really weird few moments when masses of odd-looking old people, all dressed in green, of course, swarmed round them and shook Amber’s hand and told her she was a proper little bobby-dazzler and right puckie and a little sweetheart and how quickly she’d settle into village life and wasn’t she excited about St Bedric’s and wasn’t it lucky that she still had lots of astral festivals to look forward to through the summer.
Seeing Stars Page 6
