Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  ‘Not that one!’ Zillah said sharply. ‘Amber – leave it! Please!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Amber quickly dropped the dusty LP back into its hiding place. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Zillah’s voice was slightly husky. ‘Sorry … I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just that some of those records are – er – have long been deleted. They’re collectors’ items. I’m sort of hoping they’ll be my pension one day …’

  Lewis, with Pike now dry and very large and fluffy on his lap, was looking about as puzzled as Amber felt. ‘What was it, then? An original by Aretha or something? Is it going to be my inheritance?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Zillah said, not looking at him, her fingers tracing the pattern on her long frock. ‘Not important. Now, anyone want more coffee?’

  Amber nodded, turning away from the shelves. ‘Yes please, that would be lovely …’

  What was it, she wondered, about ‘Summer and Winter’ by Solstice Soul, that meant Zillah kept it not only hidden, but also clearly a secret from even her own son?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Walking on the Moon

  Next morning, the Hubble Bubble premises proved to be more or less what Amber had been expecting. The shed beside the library, as Mitzi had described it, had a corrugated tin roof, breeze block walls, a solid bottle green door and two small windows.

  The only bit of light relief was the sign: chunky, irreverent and immensely colourful, it shouted Mitzi Blessing’s Hubble Bubble Country Cooking in fluorescent pink lettering like three-dimensional seaside rock, the length and breadth of Hazy Hassocks High Street.

  Hoping that her tied-back hair and outfit of black skirt, black T-shirt, opaque black tights – despite the temperature again soaring headily into the eighties and a pair of secondhand black Mary-Jane shoes donated by Gwyneth from her jumble finds, would pass muster for Bertha Hopkins’ send-off, Amber pushed open the door with trepidation.

  ‘Hello – can I help you – oh, hi Amber.’ Mitzi, also dressed in black, looked up from the laptop on the big white-scrubbed table and smiled in welcome. ‘Goodness you’re early – you should have phoned – I’d have come to collect you. Oh, lordy … you didn’t come on the bus?’

  Amber nodded. ‘It was fine. Only took a few minutes. Some of the passengers were a bit odd though.’

  ‘They would be. A lot of them get on in Winterbrook in the morning and spend all day going round and round the villages. They look on it as a mystery tour. And they can be very territorial about strangers. Gwyneth should have warned you.’

  ‘She couldn’t say much. She’s had her mouth done. She just gave me the bus timetable and pointed a lot.’

  Mitzi pushed the laptop away. ‘She’s had what done?’

  ‘Her mouth. And her eyebrows. And her nails and some other stuff which she couldn’t tell me about because she’s had her mouth done last night. Lip filler or something, I think it was.’

  Mitzi laughed. ‘Before we get into “There’s A Hole In My Bucket” territory, are you saying Gwyneth has been beautified? At home? Oh dear – not by The Harpy? Oh, sorry, the second Mrs Blessing?’

  Too late Amber remembered what Zillah had said about the connection between Mitzi’s ex-husband’s second wife and the beauty therapy business. ‘Oh, no – by someone called Sukie.’

  ‘Hmmmm. From Bagley? Yes, I know her. She’s friendly with my daughters. Nice girl. Shame she’s chosen to hitch her star to Jennifer’s wagon. No – sorry, mustn’t be bitchy. But why on earth would Gwyneth want to be tarted up?’

  ‘I don’t think she did particularly, nor did Big Ida or Mrs Jupp – they just offered themselves as guinea pigs. I’m sorry, I forgot that the beauty therapy business was run by your – er husband’s – um …’

  ‘Oh, please don’t worry about that. It’s not a problem. They’ve been together for years and years. Being bitchy about her is just a bad habit, not a truly felt emotion any more. Jennifer’s OK really, but she only decided to start her own business because I had. I’m amazed she didn’t call it Copy Cat.’ Mitzi chuckled.

  Amber had been rather surprised that she hadn’t felt the urge to offer herself up for experimental treatment. Not very long ago she’d have killed for a proper facial or a decent manicure. Now, with her skin tanned from the sun rather than a spraying booth, and her nails cut short because it was easier, and her hair silky from washing it in soft downland water and letting it dry naturally in the gentle summer breeze, the temptations of the salon had receded into Her Other Life, along with the mobile and the need to shop for the latest must-haves every Saturday, or get legless on vodka kicks every Friday night.

  ‘Mitzi!’ The door flew open again. ‘I’ve lost my earring!’

  Blimey! Amber blinked at the man standing in the doorway. He was totally gorgeous. Tall and craggy, with short cropped black hair, sexy eyes and a sort of dangerously beautiful Vinnie Jones look. And there was something else about him, too.

  ‘Stop panicking,’ Mitzi grinned, fishing in the pocket of her neat black trousers. ‘Here – I found it when I made the bed this morning. I was going to pop it into the surgery later.’

  Open mouthed, Amber watched the handing-over of the diamond ear-stud.

  ‘Thanks, angel,’ the man kissed her thoroughly. ‘I feel naked without it.’

  ‘As you spend most of your time in that state I’m surprised you noticed,’ Mitzi chirruped with laughter. ‘Oh, sorry – where are my manners? Amber – this is Joel Earnshaw.’ She winked. ‘My – er – dentist.’

  ‘You sleep with your dentist?’ Amber was totally confused. ‘Er – well, I suppose it beats the usual ways of waiting for National Health treatment, but—’

  Joel shook his head. ‘Ah, no, Mitzi is a private patient. I have altogether different methods for those on my NHS list.’

  Mitzi grinned. ‘Behave yourself … Amber, Joel is my dentist, but he’s also my live-in lover. Not partner, you understand. Nothing so clinical.’

  Wow! Amber thought. How cool was that? Joel, totally fab, was probably a fair bit younger than Mitzi but they were clearly head-over-heels in love.

  ‘That accent! You come from Manchester!’ She smiled in delight. ‘I knew there was something …’

  Joel nodded. ‘And you?’

  ‘Stockport.’

  ‘Oh lah-di-dah. Very ooop market. But thank the lord for that! At last! Someone who speaks my own language! If I didn’t have a multiple filling waiting in the chair with the Novocain wearing off as we speak, I’d whisk you off and catch up on tales from The Old Country right now. We must make a date to meet up one evening really soon. Arrange it with Mitzi. Please. Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘And you …’

  Joel and Mitzi exchanged a passionate farewell.

  Amber turned away, discreetly, smiling to herself. No need for Cassiopeia’s intervention for Mitzi there, then.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Mitzi looked anything but as Joel disappeared out into the High Street again. ‘Now where were we?’

  Amber didn’t have a clue.

  ‘Maybe I ought to give you a quick guided tour,’ Mitzi said, ‘before we load up the van for today’s function. Oh, and you look absolutely perfect, by the way. I’m so sorry – I should have told you it was a wake.’

  ‘Slo told me last night in The Weasel and Bucket. Do you do many?’

  ‘Too many as far as I’m concerned,’ Mitzi pulled a face. ‘Not that I’ll turn down the business, of course, but I do prefer happier events. Fortunately, I never met Bertha Hopkins so I don’t feel so involved. When it’s for someone that I know I cry all the time – really unprofessional I know, but—’

  ‘I was worried about crying, too.’

  Mitzi chuckled. ‘Oh, good. Another softie. We can weep on each other’s shoulders then while handing round the Mourning Mallows or the Tarragon Teardrops. Now, let me show you what Hubble Bubble is all about …’

  The next half an hour passed in a blur of pots and bags an
d packets and jars of herbs, seeds, nuts, berries and flowers – some fresh, some dried, some frozen – all catalogued and labelled. And details of what each herb was capable of achieving. And a swift browsing of laminated recipes and suggested menus for various occasions.

  Amber was still more than a little baffled – and still not quite able to abandon her scepticism. Old-fashioned stuff, yes; herbal, definitely; but magical …?

  ‘I had no idea …’ Amber shook her head. ‘No idea at all. And all these are – er – magical?’

  ‘So far the effects have always been very – um – pleasing,’ Mitzi nodded. ‘And don’t ask me to explain how I’m just thrilled that they are. For instance, for funerals I use things that assuage grief, bring hope, calm despair – borage, cherry, camphor, valerian, basil, blackberry, allspice – oh, loads of them. All from my grandmother’s original cookery book.’

  ‘And you believe in them?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  As it would clearly be new-employment-suicide to laugh, Amber didn’t.

  Mitzi closed the largest refrigerator. ‘Now, what I thought was, if you enjoy it here, and you’re still in Fiddlesticks at the end of September and want to stay, I’ll enrol you at the FE college in Winterbrook to do your Food Health and Hygiene certificate – which means you’ll be able to cook as well. Until then, because I’m pretty snowed under, once you’ve got the hang of it, how do feel about taking on a few parties on your own? We’ll split the smaller ones and do the big ones, like Tarnia’s, together. Does that sound OK?’

  ‘That sounds just brilliant,’ Amber said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  ‘I passed my test years ago and have driven on and off since – but I sold my car ages ago when I was made redundant from my permanent job, and never bought another one.’ Amber still gazed at the jars and boxes and files and folders, wondering if she’d ever remember what did what. ‘We went everywhere by cab or tram at home.’

  ‘You could borrow the van if you like,’ Mitzi said. ‘It’s very tiny and you’ll probably need a bit of practice but you’ll need it when you’re going solo. I should have thought of it before. I’ve got my mini and I bought the van earlier in the year for humping stock around, or when I needed to deliver lots of dishes to lots of places. It sits here doing nothing most of the time. Would you like it?’

  ‘I’d love it! Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll sort out the insurance for you,’ Mitzi nodded. ‘Great. It looks like we’re in business then, Amber my love.’

  Fortunately, the Hubble Bubble routine was to arrive at the home of the deceased while the funeral was in progress and set up the food in time for the mourners’ return. Amber had been absolutely dreading seeing the coffin and the hearse and the flowers and the heartbreak.

  ‘There,’ Mitzi stood in Bertha Hopkins’ back parlour, her head on one side. ‘How does that look?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Amber agreed. ‘Just right.’

  White cloths with black bands, the delicacies all neatly labelled on plain white plates, the tables decorated with dark roses and ivy and tall black candles in silver sticks. Piano music tinkled tastefully in the background.

  ‘I usually bring the CD player and have suitable music playing softly,’ Mitzi said. ‘It breaks the ice when they get back from the churchyard. Sometimes the family request the dear departed’s favourites. Today, fortunately, I was given a free hand so I’m sticking with Brahms. I did one recently to a backing track of The Black and White Minstrels.’

  Music. Amber nodded. Good idea. That was the thing she’d thought was missing from the Fiddlesticks’ shenanigans.

  The village green celestial celebrations would surely be just the place for suitable, lively music? And of course, since the previous evening and the discovery of Zillah’s soul collection, she’d been unable to remove the greatest hits of Otis Redding from her subconscious. Dock of the Bay was becoming seriously irritating. It was too late to suggest music for Cassiopeia’s, of course, but maybe she should mention it for one of the later ones.

  Which reminded her.

  ‘Er – exactly how well do you know Zillah Flanagan?’

  ‘We’re good friends – I’ve known her for a few years. We’re much the same age. I like her a lot – we have a giggle when we get together. Why? Oh, she’s your neighbour now, of course.’

  Amber nodded. ‘Her cottage is amazing. And she’s lovely – but, well, I think she’s lonely – and now that everyone is trying to convince me that astral magic really works, I was thinking about Cassiopeia and the lost love thing and ’

  ‘For God’s sake, whatever else you’re thinking of, don’t try to star-wish her and Timmy Pluckrose together!’ Mitzi shuddered. ‘A match made in hell. Smashing people, both of them, but totally wrong for each other. And I’ve already told Zil never to settle for second best.’

  Amber refrained from saying that she had very different plans for Timmy Pluckrose. ‘Oh, no – it was nothing like that. Actually, I was wondering if you knew anything about Lewis’s father?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Zillah’s never mentioned him. I think he may have been a youthful mistake, maybe not even a longstanding boyfriend, just a fling – or maybe he was married – whatever, it’s always been a no-go area. Oh crikey, Amber, you’re not going to dabble, are you?’

  ‘No – no, of course not. But everyone has been telling me how the stars can make impossible things happen, so I thought I’d put it to the test.’

  ‘OK,’ Mitzi perched against a rocking chair. ‘Now let me give you a bit of friendly – very friendly – advice. This magic stuff, whether herbal or astral, is not to be taken lightly. It’s not a game. You have no idea what you may unleash. And seriously, if you’re thinking of trying to conjure up some man from Zillah’s past who she clearly wants to forget, simply as an experiment, then I must warn you against it, love. Honestly. And then there’s Lewis to consider …’

  As Amber hadn’t considered much other than Lewis since they’d first met this wasn’t difficult.

  ‘No, really,’ Mitzi obviously saw the gleam in Amber’s eyes. ‘He’s grown-up, clearly extremely happy and well adjusted, with just Zil. He may have all sorts of issues about his long-lost father turning up.’

  ‘He has,’ Amber admitted. ‘He got quite angry about it. He says he doesn’t want to know.’

  ‘There you are then, best leave it well alone. You can certainly wish that Cassiopeia will make some wonderful man come along and sweep Zillah off her feet and make her as happy as she deserves to be, but please lay off asking for Lewis’s father to make an appearance, or pairing Zil with Timmy, OK? Too dangerous. Anyway, love, lecture over – and just in time. Looks like the funeral’s over, too.’

  As Amber circulated with plates and napkins and a suitably sympathetic expression, it became clear that Bertha Hopkins had left no close relatives and that the assembled crowd in the back parlour were either friends of an age to enjoy a good funeral, or distant nephews and nieces all keen to get a share of the pickings, such as they were.

  Slo, looking sombre and exactly like a Central Casting funeral director, helped himself to a Wild Endive Whirl from her piled plates. ‘Not a bloody tear from one of ’em. Disgusting. Me and the girls –’ he nodded his head in the direction of Constance and Perpetua who were also dressed top to toe in Edwardian black outfits complete with veils ‘–worked the crowd as ’ard as we could – gave ’em the real tear-jerkers, all the dirges and that – and not so much as a snuffle. Bloody disgusting. We felt right failures, I can tell you. It ain’t a proper funeral unless the congregation is all prostrated with grief.’

  Amber looked at the crowd round the table. They were all chatting merrily as if they were at a birthday party, drinking non-stop and laughing immoderately. It didn’t seem right.

  ‘Ask young Mitzi to slip ’em all one of the specials,’ Slo lowered his voice. ‘She makes ’em for us just in case it looks as if we ’aven’t done our job proper. And
–’ he looked over his shoulder ‘– if our Constance or Perpetua asks, you ’aven’t seen me, OK?’

  He sidled round the outside of the room and sloped off into the garden.

  Doing as she was told, Amber found Mitzi deep in conversation with two elderly ladies dressed in drooping frocks and crocheted cardigans and – surely not – cycle helmets draped in black crepe.

  ‘My neighbours.’ Mitzi introduced them with a gentle smile. ‘Lavender and Lobelia Banding. Lav, Lob – this is Amber Parslowe. My new assistant.’

  They all shook hands, hampered more than somewhat by the Bandings having towering pyramids of food on two plates each, and Amber gathered from Mitzi’s eye-language that mentioning the cycle helmets was a no-go conversational area and she’d make explanations later. Lavender and Lobelia, she explained, had been at school with Bertha Hopkins, hadn’t seen much of her since, and were at the funeral simply to celebrate them outliving yet another contemporary.

  Trying hard not to look at the cycle helmets, Amber passed on Slo’s message about the specials.

  Mitzi nodded. ‘Ah, my Teardrop Explodes. They never fail. Such innocent ingredients to the untrained eye – peach, sage and sunflower – but lethal in the correct combination. You’ll probably need them in the future so watch and learn, Amber, love. Watch and learn.’

  Amber did. Emptying out some rather pretty little orange buns onto a plate, Mitzi circulated among the partying mourners, insisting that they should each have one at least.

  Within minutes there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  Sobs and gulps and sniffles had completely replaced the raucous laughter and off-colour jokes.

  ‘Blimey.’ Amber shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it …’

  Mitzi laughed. ‘Nor did I, the first time. But you will, love. You will. Like I said, it doesn’t matter which magic you’re using, it’s damn powerful stuff – so use it with care …’