Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  She hadn’t seen him since he’d dropped her off at Tarnia Towers. Annoyingly, at the end of the night Mitzi had bundled her, Gwyneth, Big Ida and Pike into her mini for the rather squashed return journey.

  His eyes now flickered over her in a friendly appraisal but held nothing more than amusement. If she’d been expecting him to exclaim loudly and publicly about her appearance she was obviously going to be disappointed. Ah well.

  However, every woman in The Weasel and Bucket, Amber noticed, no matter what their age, was staring at Lewis and having a discreet preen.

  Each time she saw Lewis, Amber thought dreamily, was like the first time. The sheer breathtaking male beauty of him – the tight, faded jeans, the T-shirts, the tousled hair … Oh, dear.

  She pulled herself together very swiftly.

  Goff, Slo, Dougie and Billy reluctantly all made their excuses and left.

  ‘I see you’ve already captured the attention of the Geriatric Degenerates. You only needed Timmy to complete the set.’ Lewis laughed. ‘What can I get you to drink? Another glass of wine?’

  ‘Please – thanks – I think it’s Chardonnay.’

  ‘House white then. A good choice. The red would dissolve squirrels’ nuts. Won’t be long.’

  And he wasn’t.

  ‘Thanks.’ Amber took the glass. ‘How’s Jem?’

  ‘Mad as a wet hen at being left behind. He’ll probably add sennapods to the lasagne out of spite. He likes you. A lot.’

  ‘I think he’s great, too. And – well, you and him – what you do … I think it’s wonderful.’

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s the best job I’ve had since I qualified, and the one I want to do for as long as possible – but I’m no Mother Theresa. It just works well with me and Jem – and yes, maybe some people do have misconceptions about social workers. But Jem is a real person, not a statistic, and his quality of life is as important as anyone’s. The Hayfields set-up means that he can remain as independent as possible – and the fact that we’re really good mates is a bonus.’

  Amber took a mouthful of wine. Lewis was still about as far removed from her idea of a social worker as it was possible to get.

  ‘He’s made you a present,’ Lewis continued. ‘Which he’s going to give you next weekend when we do Cassiopeia. It’s a surprise, he says – but as he works at the Winterbrook Joinery it’s probably a safe bet to say it’ll be wooden.’

  ‘I didn’t realise that he went to work – I mean … Sorry, I don’t want to say the wrong thing.’

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t worry about being PC,’ Lewis smiled. ‘I never do. He works part-time, supervised of course, but Jem’s a stickler for detail and he’s learned to do the most amazing fretwork … So – what else do want to know?’

  Amber almost choked on her wine. Too much … far, far too much.

  ‘About the star stuff?’

  ‘About the star stuff,’ Lewis agreed. ‘I don’t answer questions about my private life.’

  Bugger.

  ‘All of it, I suppose. I know it’s part of the village tradition, and that life here is very different – I mean, I’ve even been writing letters instead of phoning, can you believe that? And I haven’t bought a glossy mag since I got here, and as for shopping or clubbing … but worshipping the heavens just seems, well, so odd.’

  ‘Why? Rural communities have lived by nature for centuries. The mystery of the changing seasons impacted on their religious ceremonies, and as the moon and stars changed at the same time they were regarded as gods ruling the heavens and earth. Because it couldn’t be explained, it was considered magical – and some of it has just stuck. Simple.’

  Amber leaned back in her chair. She really didn’t care too much about the history; she just wanted to sit there, looking at him, listening to his voice. ‘Um, right – and yes, even we in the civilised world know about it being bad luck to look at the new moon through glass, and turning your money over on a full moon, and making wishes on the first star in the sky – but it’s only like wishbones and lucky four-leafed clover and things. A bit of a laugh …’

  ‘And it still is,’ Lewis smiled slowly. ‘It’s basically all fun these days. But truly, some of the old magic remains. There are things that still can’t be explained rationally. Come on.’

  He’d stood up. Amber frowned. Was that it? Five minutes max?

  ‘I’ll show you the sky,’ Lewis said. ‘And yes, I know you’ve seen the sky before, but this is different. Bring your drink – you might need it.’

  She smiled and followed him outside.

  The night was almost dark, still, warm, sensuously scented with honeysuckle and jasmine and unseen roses.

  The trestle tables outside the pub were all occupied and Lewis crossed the road onto the village green. Couples sat by the stream, the dog-walkers were out in force, and teenage shrieks and laughter echoed from beneath the rustic bridge.

  The sky, so much bigger here than in the city, was darkly clear and studded with stars.

  ‘You know something about the constellations? The Plough? The Bear? The Pole star?’

  Amber nodded. ‘I’m no Patrick Moore, but yes, they’re all words I know.’

  ‘OK, then, our main celestial celebrations in Fiddlesticks – at least, during the summer months – are for St Bedric, Cassiopeia, the Plough and the Harvest Moon. Cassiopeia’s over there …’

  ‘Oh, yes – right …’ Amber held her breath. He was very, very close as he pointed upwards.

  ‘And the Plough – over there. See?’

  Obediently, she followed his finger to the next constellation.

  ‘Mmmm, yes, now that one I do recognise. I always thought it looked like a dog when I was a little girl. I used to call it Trixie.’

  Lewis smiled at her. ‘I’d keep that scrap of information to yourself if I were you. That sounds a bit heretical to me.

  Of course there are zillions of stars, millions of constellations, but this isn’t supposed to be an astronomy master class. It’s to do with Fiddlesticks’ customs.’

  Amber nodded. She wanted him to tell her about every one of the stars. In minute detail. Anything to keep him standing beside her for as long as possible, so close, almost touching.

  He moved away.

  ‘And, anyway, then there’s the Harvest Moon shindig – which takes us into the autumn and winter skies, but we won’t worry about them right now.’

  Oh, damn.

  ‘So –’ she sipped her wine ‘– what happens on each of the ones you’ve mentioned? The Fiddlesticks ones?’

  ‘Cassiopeia’s Carnival is for lost lovers really. It’s like Valentine’s night only more manic. There’s a lot of hearts and roses and stuff – and lots of people wishing they could be reunited with other people; there have been several quite spectacularly awful pairings as a result … The myth goes that Cassiopeia was banished to the heavens for eternity by Poseidon because she was very vain and declared herself to be even more beautiful than his daughters. So she was left up there, alone, for ever.’

  Oh, dear, poor girl.

  Amber peered up at the sparkling cluster again. ‘Er – she – it – doesn’t look much like a beautiful woman to me.’

  ‘No, well, you do need a bit of imagination. But you’re supposed to be able to see her chained up there, sometimes upside down, swinging around the pole and—’

  ‘What?’ Amber spluttered through her drink. ‘She’s a celestial pole-dancer? How cool is that? She definitely gets my vote.’

  Lewis laughed. ‘Yeah well, after her, I guess Plough Night is pretty mundane – although earthy – and possibly self-explanatory. And Harvest Moon is a huge party to celebrate the end of the summer and stoke up a bit of astral warmth for the longer nights ahead.’

  ‘And everyone gathers out here on the green for all these, do they?’

  ‘They’re the biggies in Fiddlesticks, yes – but there are all sorts of minor astral myths also observed on a more individual basis.’

&n
bsp; ‘In the privacy of your own home or back yard?’

  ‘We tend to have gardens down here rather than yards.’ Lewis’s grin was cheerfully mocking. ‘We’ve never even heard of ginnels. But yes. There are those who put their faith in Pegasus who was supposed to let the moon sleep on his back, or Andromeda who was rescued by Perseus, or Hercules who sounds like a mass murderer to me, or Leo who always brings rain, or the Seven Sisters and oh, loads more. Anyway, is it a bit clearer now? Astral magic?’

  ‘I think I can understand the why, although the how is still a bit of a blur.’

  ‘That’s all down to unshakeable belief and something else that simply can’t be explained. Magic … something way beyond our understanding.’

  Amber nodded slowly. ‘You mean it’s a bit like Catholics asking the saints for favours – you know, St Jude and St Catherine and so on?’ And at least now she understood why Fern would be wishing for Timmy on Cassiopeia’s. ‘Ancient religion? A time-honoured belief in something unseen and more powerful than mere mortals can rationally justify?’

  ‘By George, I think she’s got it!’ Lewis laughed, draining the last of his beer.

  ‘And the St Bedric’s thingy is repeated for Cassiopeia, the Plough and Harvest Moon here in summertime – although the wishes and rituals are different. Is that right?’

  ‘Spot on,’ Lewis grinned. ‘Oh and – ouf! What the hell—?’

  ‘It’s Pike!’ Amber laughed as the huge shaggy dog loomed out of the gloom and hurled himself delightedly at Lewis. ‘He clearly likes you.’

  ‘And I usually love him, too,’ Lewis said as Pike continued to gallop around them, waggling and snuffling excitedly. ‘But I’d prefer some warning of his approach – oh, hello Ma.’

  Zillah, all floating long Indian print frock, dangly ethnic earrings and flip-flops, appeared from between the willow trees. ‘Sorry, love – oh hi Amber …’ The smile faltered a little. ‘Come here, Pike! Come here! Come – oh, don’t bother then. I said I’d take him for his last run. Gwyneth’s round at Ida’s with Mona Jupp, having her eyebrows threaded.’

  ‘Uh?’ Lewis frowned. ‘What with?’

  Zillah looked at Amber. ‘Men! Hopeless! Not with anything. It’s an alternative to plucking, love.’

  ‘Why, in the name of God, would Gwyneth and Ida and Mona want to have their eyebrows plucked?’

  ‘Threaded,’ Amber and Zillah said in unison and laughed.

  Any remaining ice dissolved in that moment.

  ‘Gwyneth said she and Ida and Mrs Jupp were being lab rats tonight for someone from Bagley-cum-Russet School of Beauty or something,’ Amber said. ‘I guessed she meant guinea pigs.’

  Zillah nodded, then winced as Pike lolloped away into the darkness towards the stream and there was a tidal-wave splash followed by a tirade of four-letter epithets.

  ‘He’s dampened someone’s ardour,’ Lewis said. ‘Poor sods.’

  ‘That means I’ll have to get him dry before he goes back to Moth Cottage,’ Zillah sighed. ‘Still, with Gwyneth being tied up with young Sukie – you know, Lewis, she’s setting up business with Mitzi’s ex-husband’s second wife – from Bagley, who is probably as we speak giving Big Ida’s toenails a French manicure, we might just have time to get the worst off him.’

  ‘Sukie?’ Lewis frowned. ‘Ah yes, I remember Sukie … Dark hair, pale blue eyes, very pretty.’

  Amber decided she hated Sukie with a vengeance.

  ‘Down boy,’ Zillah chuckled warningly. ‘Young Sukie is trying hard to get the mobile side of the beauty therapy business off the ground. She won’t want any distractions of the type you have in mind.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Lewis laughed. ‘And as I recall, the second Mrs Blessing is pretty hot too … Maybe I should consider having my eyebrows threaded. Or do they do full body massaging? Together?’

  Amber added the second Mrs Blessing to her hate-list too.

  ‘You are disgusting.’ Zillah shook her head in mock despair. ‘So, are you two coming back to mine? For coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Amber said quickly. ‘That’d be lovely.’

  Well, it might be. And anyway, it would mean she’d be able to be with Lewis for a bit longer. The celestial celebrations lesson was clearly at an end.

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ Lewis smiled in the darkness. ‘Here Amber, hang on to the glasses. Ma can take them back to the pub tomorrow. I’ll just go and get that reprobate hound out of the stream.’

  They both watched him disappear across the green.

  ‘Have you had a nice evening?’ Zillah asked casually.

  ‘Lovely. I understand more about the astral stuff now. Not that I’m convinced about the magic, but—’

  ‘Me neither,’ Zillah sighed. ‘Mind you, I’ve gone along with it because Fiddlesticks just sucks you into the mindset. But it’s never done anything for me …’

  Amber looked quickly at Zillah. There was a dreamy expression on her face in the drowsy darkness, a sad wistfulness in her voice.

  Was Fern not the only one pining for a hopeless, unrequited love?

  Aha. Amber smiled to herself. Wasn’t this just the sort of opportunity she’d been waiting for? To see if the star magic worked or not? And what about Jem’s wish for Lewis to find his father? Why not have a go at that one, too? Lewis needn’t know anything about it, need he? It wasn’t really meddling, was it?

  Amber felt a flicker of excitement. If only she could find out which of the Fiddlesticks men Zillah was carrying a torch for, she’d give Cassiopeia something to sort out next weekend. Fern, Zillah and Lewis – three wishes – even if finding Lewis’s father, who had to be one of Zillah’s lost loves, might just clash a bit with the current man of Zillah’s dreams – but, hey, Cassiopeia could sort that out, couldn’t she?

  Amber beamed.

  ‘Got him and he’s bloody soaking,’ Lewis trudged back across the green, with Pike trotting unabashed by his side. ‘And he’d clearly put an end to a rather uncomfortable coupling under the bridge.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Zillah pushed her cloud of hair behind her ears. ‘A nice juicy snippet I can pass on to Gwyneth and Ida?’

  ‘Not really. Hardly love’s young dream. A couple of chavs from the bungalows on the Hazy Hassocks road. Very rude – especially the girl – about Pike, very spotty and stark naked apart from their baseball caps. Not sexy. Not sexy at all. And bloody angry at the disruption. Come on then.’ He fondled Pike’s dripping ears. ‘Let’s get you home …’

  Chrysalis Cottage was a revelation. Amber looked around in amazement. It was exactly the same shape and size as Gwyneth’s cottage, of course, but that was where the similarity ended. Moth Cottage was overcrowded, stuffed full of very large, very old dark furniture and fat chairs and cabinets covered in photos and knick-knacks and the memorabilia from Gwyneth’s long life. Now that retro décor was so hot, Zillah’s home would have had the lifestyle supplements slavering.

  It was like stepping into a 1970s time warp.

  The living room was all earthy, beige and chocolate brown, with rough hewn hessian and sequinned tapestries, and Indian rugs on the original polished floorboards. There was a long, low sofa smothered in embroidered throws and cushions in a mishmash of natural textures, and several bean bags and huge squashy floor cushions, and wooden beaded curtains in all the doorways, and the only illumination came from wine-bottle table lamps.

  ‘It’s fabulous,’ Amber shook her head. ‘Absolutely amazing …’

  ‘Is it?’ Zillah carried the cream and orange coffee set into the tiny living room. ‘Crikey. It’s how it’s been since I moved in. I’ve never wanted to change it. It wasn’t the happiest time for me when I arrived in Fiddlesticks, and I poured everything into the cottage. It eventually became my nest, my sanctuary, the only place I felt safe … I suppose I sort of atrophied back then. I tried to recapture the happiness I’d had – um – before. I mean …’

  Quickly, Lewis stood up from the sofa where he’d been sprawled with Pike and severa
l large towels and took the tray from his mother.

  He gave Amber a sort of ‘please back off’ look. ‘I’ve always loved it, too. I think it’s cool. I hated leaving it to go to college. I was born here; it was the only home I’ve ever known – even now, the flat with Jem isn’t my home. It’s his. This is home.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s lovely. Er – is it okay if I have a look at your photos and your record collection?’ Amber asked, really not wanting to rake over emotions Zillah would clearly rather forget. ‘You’ve got millions …’

  ‘Help yourself,’ Zillah nodded, thankfully looking less upset and relaxing onto a beanbag. ‘I’m a bit of a hoarder. You won’t find anything catalogued in alphabetical order, though, I’m afraid.’

  Amber took her tiny coffee cup and saucer and wandered round the room looking at the photos. Zillah hadn’t really changed much; her hippie mode of dress now was simply a copy of her earlier style. God – she was beautiful, though. Like some wild gypsy princess. Oh, and Lewis had been soooo cute! There were pictures of him throughout babyhood, childhood, schooldays, and – wow! – looking suitably embarrassed, but still undeniably rock-star-sexy, in cap and gown at his graduation.

  There were no pictures of anyone who could be considered Zillah’s current love or Lewis’s father or any men at all. No clues to give Cassiopeia a bit of a head start. Damn it.

  Amber moved on to the vast record collection. All vinyl. Probably worth a fortune now.

  ‘I’m trying to get then all on CDs,’ Zillah said. ‘My ancient stereo system will give up the ghost one day and I’d hate to lose them. The memories …’

  Amber carefully looked at the LP covers. They were all late 1960s and early 1970s soul bands, some by people she’d heard of, like Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, Wilson Pickett, but most of them by obscure, at least to her, British groups: Simon Dupree and the Big Sound, The Alan Bown Set, Robert Plant’s Band of Joy, Ebony Keyes, The Chris Shakespeare Movement.

  Amber gently flicked through the shiny sleeves. ‘I’d love to listen to these one day … I used to go to a lot of Northern Soul clubs back home. It’d be great to hear the originals sometime … Oh, look there’s one here stuck at the back of the shelf. It looks as though it’s been here for years. It must have slipped down and got caught. I hope it’s not damaged.’