Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  Lewis nodded, wiping his fingers on his jeans. ‘Yeah, OK. I can do tactful. And I hate falling out with her – but I said some awful stuff to her – she’ll probably never forgive me.’

  ‘She’s your mother. Nothing’s that unforgivable with your mother. Once she’s got over the anger and the hurt she’ll be OK. You’ll see. And as for my part in the Timmy thing, I’m really sorry about that. I sort of gathered that it wouldn’t go down too well – but what else could I do?’

  ‘Not a lot, as I told Ma. Don’t worry about it – she’ll have told him no by now. But she might still have some tart words for you.’

  ‘I can take tart,’ Amber suddenly grinned. ‘I’ll have to apologise to her, too. Look – shall we change the subject? I’ve got something that might take your mind off your problems for a bit – you’ll never guess where I’ve just been… And I know you probably don’t want to hear about my irrelevant girlie stuff, but honestly, today has been so funny …’

  ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘You’ve listened to me. And it helped. Thanks for that. I can see you’re bursting to tell me and I could do with something cheerful.’

  Lewis, seemingly mildly disinterested at first, eventually started to smile as she told him about the HHLL, then he laughed. A lot. And he carried on chuckling as she told him about Freddo, too.

  ‘So –’ she looked hopefully at him ‘– as I’ve been invited to watch The JB Roadshow perform at a party, I wondered if you were free …?’

  ‘Are you asking me out?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘Nah. Just to come with me as a mate. And I’d really welcome a second opinion about this band – before I persuade Fiddlesticks to take them on for Harvest Moon. So, if your diary is free of Sukie or anyone else a week next Saturday …?’

  ‘I’ll check and let you know.’ Lewis stood up. ‘But right now it sounds perfect. I can’t think of anything better than gate-crashing some party to listen to a batch of wrinklierockers who were failures the first time round.’

  ‘Is that a yes, then?’

  ‘With one proviso.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That you agree to make it a threesome.’

  Amber’s heart sank. Sod it. She really, really didn’t want to share either Lewis or the JB Roadshow with Sukie, the Irish witch.

  Lewis grinned. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll leave it.’

  ‘Whatever. But Jem’ll be really disappointed to miss it…’

  Chapter Twenty

  Under the Moon of Love

  For Amber, the next few days passed in a sort of blur: the temperature soared, days and nights were heavy, hot, humid and headachy; the Fiddlestickers grew ever grumpier about the lack of rain and the lack of sleep; Hubble Bubble became a daily solo routine because Mitzi was now the burstingly proud grandmother of a little boy, Sonny, and spent every spare minute getting under the new parents’ feet; Fern was lit up with love; Zillah wasn’t.

  As for Lewis, Amber hadn’t seen him at all since the soul-baring in Winterbrook.

  ‘If it’s like this for Plough Night,’ Gwyneth puffed early one morning as she fed and watered Pike in the shady bit of Moth Cottage’s back garden, ‘we’ll all be out in our swimsuits.’

  Amber, having collected eggs, given the cats their breakfast, and made a pot of tea to go with their porridge – ‘Don’t matter what the weather, duck, you can’t beat a bowl of oats to start the day off proper’ – set the table under the trees, and sank into one of the deck chairs. There was nothing but the sound of the birds, awake for hours as Amber could testify, still chirruping their multitudinous choruses to the new day.

  She exhaled. Despite only wearing the minimum to preserve her modesty – a pair of white shorts and a midriff-skimming yellow vest – she was already extremely hot. She’d been about to say they could do with a good storm to clear the air and stopped herself just in time. That might be a Fiddlesticker homily too far.

  She watched Gwyneth stroke the cats and fuss Pike again. Gwyneth was so lovely, always doing things for other people, never grizzling about anything. And after the successful kitten rescue mission – the kittens all being looked after and waiting for rehoming with the local Cat Protection lady – she and Big Ida’s next animal welfare sortie involved a pet shop in Winterbrook with, they felt, inadequate caging facilities for their rabbits and guinea pigs.

  Having made sure her beloved animals were eating up, Gwyneth toddled up the garden and beamed at Amber. ‘You OK, duck? Not too hot?’

  ‘I’m fine – but even I’m beginning to think rain might be a good idea. Didn’t you and Ida make some sort of early plea to Leo?’ Amber spooned up porridge and golden syrup – something she’d never have touched in a million years in her previous life – with enjoyment. ‘For a storm?’

  Gwyneth slid into her deck chair, practically disappeared from view, and had to haul herself back to the edge before she could tackle her breakfast. ‘We was going to, yes. But it don’t do to tamper with the right dates or traditions really, duck. See, there’s plenty in the village as’ll curtsey to a sickle moon and ask for rain – but not me. I’d never ask the moon for rain unless she had ’er five misty-rainbow rings round ’er.’ She shovelled porridge into her mouth with relish. ‘Asking for trouble, that is. Same as trying to invoke Leo’s Lightning afore ’e’s ready. Dangerous stuff. More tea?’

  ‘Please,’ Amber passed her cup across the table. She wasn’t going to venture an opinion on anything celestial. Not this morning and probably never again. After what had happened with Fern and Timmy following the Cassiopeia- wishing, she’d be very careful to mock anything she didn’t understand.

  Was it astral magic at work? She had no idea, but there was absolutely no rational earthly explanation for Timmy’s volte-face. It was totally inexplicable.

  Arriving back from that amazing day with the HHLL and Freddo and Lewis, and prepared to turn herself inside out with apologies to Zillah for her part in the love-nest search, Amber had found Chrysalis Cottage empty and had approached The Weasel and Bucket with trepidation.

  Late afternoon, the pub had been closed for at least an hour and the trestles were deserted. Zillah, she knew, usually stayed behind to help Timmy with the clearing and cleaning and preparation for the evening’s onslaught.

  It might be a good time to try and justify her actions – at least she could apologise without an avid audience.

  Surprisingly, it was Fern, her face glowing, her curls awry and wearing a melon grin, who had bounced through the beer garden to greet her. ‘Hiya! Can’t stop! Got to go and collect Win – but you’ll never guess what’s happened!’

  It being Fiddlesticks and this being Fern, Amber wouldn’t even try to hazard the wildest conjecture. It was bound to be wrong. ‘Go on then – I can see you’re bursting to tell me.’

  ‘Can’t. No time.’ Fern glanced at her watch. ‘But Cassiopeia is a star. A real star. Oh, God – Amber! I’m soooo happy.’

  ‘Jesus, Fern – you can’t just leave it at that. What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘Earth’s got sod all to do with it.’ Fern waved her arms towards the sky. ‘This miracle is all down to the heavens.’

  ‘Have you been dabbling? Taking Win’s medication? Sniffing something?’

  ‘Nah – I’m high on love. High as a kite. As a star …’

  ‘You’re bladdered, aren’t you? Have you been indulging in after-hours drinking? Why are you in the pub this late in the afternoon, anyway?’

  ‘Nag, nag, nag,’ Fern had giggled. ‘I’m not here to drink. I’m here for a far, far more important reason – and no, can’t say any more. Win needs collecting. Catch up with you later. ’Byeeee!’

  And still beaming, Fern had skipped away in the direction of Hayfields.

  Amber had still been staring after her when Zillah had stomped out of the pub with a tray to collect the last straggling empties.

  They’d looked at one another. Zillah had smiled first. It hadn
’t reached her eyes.

  ‘I’ve – er – just seen Fern leaving,’ Amber said. ‘Is she drunk?’

  ‘Only emotionally,’ Zillah had scooped up half a dozen empty pint pots by their handles and screwed up crisp packets with a deftness that came from years of practice. ‘Timmy’s given her a part-time job – and yes, I know. I was gobsmacked, too. He’s always said she’d be useless, and then with no reason at all, he’s welcoming her in here like she’s Barmaid of the Year.’

  ‘Blimey …’ Amber had exhaled. ‘But – why?’

  ‘Heaven knows.’ Zillah had bent down with lithe fluidity to collect some plates from the grass. ‘And she’s as ditzy behind the bar as she is in front of it, but give her her due, she’s tried hard and she’s worked like a dervish. The customers love her, of course, which helps – and she’s so unremittingly cheerful.’ She’d straightened up easily. ‘I’m afraid we’re closed…’

  ‘I didn’t want a drink – I was looking for you, actually.’

  ‘Were you? Any particular reason?’

  ‘I ran into Lewis this afternoon. In Winterbrook. I was – er – working for Mitzi and he was collecting Jem from the joinery,’ Amber had explained quickly in case Zillah thought she’d been stalking her son. ‘We had a chat.’

  ‘Did you?’ Zillah’s voice had been sharp. ‘And?’

  ‘I know you’ve had a fallout, but that’s none of my business—’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘No, but I just wanted to apologise to you – about the Internet stuff … the holiday places … Timmy … Timmy asked me to do it and I couldn’t say no, could I? If I could have I would have – believe me. I—’

  Zillah had rested her hip against one of the trestles. Amber noticed that the hem of her long purple skirt was stained with damp and there were strands of dried moss clinging to her bare toes. Had she been paddling?

  ‘Amber, what you know, or think you may know, about my relationship with Timmy again isn’t any of your business. Any more than my private disagreements with Lewis, OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I know that, but—’

  Zillah had sighed. ‘Sorry, love. I sound like a right mardy cow, don’t I? No, don’t answer that. It’s not been a good time for me. And thanks for trying to explain – but there’s no need. Timmy seems to have changed his mind about taking me away for a – er – romantic break.’

  ‘He has?’

  Zillah had nodded. ‘Don’t ask me how or why? But from straining at the “Let’s Spend the Night Together” leash last night, he’d become Mr “Let’s Take This Nice and Easy” this morning. Hardly given me a second glance – been all over Fern.’

  ‘What?’

  Amber felt as though someone had punched the breath from her lungs.

  Ohmigod! It had worked! She’d made a merely halfhearted, jokey, celestial incantation to Cassiopeia – and it had bloody worked!

  Never, ever again would she mock this star-wishing stuff. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Fiddlesticks’ astral-magic than met the eye?

  Ohmigod!

  ‘So?’ Zillah had asked casually. ‘How was Lewis?’

  ‘Uh?’ Still stunned by the Timmy-Fern news, Amber had to drag herself back to the matter in hand. ‘Oh, tired. Very. Hot. Upset. Miserable.’

  And still heart-stoppingly beautiful and sexy and gorgeous despite it all, Amber thought, remembering how Lewis had looked – like some hippie love god, sitting mournfully on that boring, boring rockery – and how every other female in the park had clearly agreed with her.

  Zillah had moved away from the trestle and sighed. ‘Poor boy. I know the feeling. Maybe I ought to give him a ring.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ Amber had nodded. ‘I think that would be a good idea. And, Zil, I’m sorry. For interfering …’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Zillah had smiled. Properly. ‘You’ve no need. None of this is your fault. I should be the one to apologise. And I do. Unreservedly. Friends?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Amber had sighed happily. ‘And I promise never to meddle in your life again.’

  Staring down into Gwyneth’s back garden from her bedroom in Chrysalis Cottage, Zillah grinned. Gwyneth and Amber, sitting in the deck-chairs having breakfast with Pike and the cats dancing attendance, were chatting and laughing together as if they’d always shared a home.

  Amber had made so much difference to Gwyneth’s life, Zillah realised. Amber had made a difference to Mitzi, and to Fern and to Jem. Maybe even to Lewis although he refused to be drawn on the subject and still never treated her as anything other than a casual friend.

  She watched as Amber helped Gwyneth to her feet from the depths of the canvas chair and they hugged one another, giggling over something Gwyneth had just said. With a pang, Zillah wondered what on earth Gwyneth would do should Amber decide to move on at the end of the summer. Both Gwyneth and Big Ida, although ridiculously fit, were one day going to need someone younger to keep an eye on them. Zillah had always been more than willing to take this on – after all Gwyneth and Ida had taken her under their wing when she’d arrived in Fiddlesticks and it wouldn’t have occurred to her not to repay the love. But how would Gwyneth cope without Amber in her life?

  ‘I love her like me own, duck,’ Gwyneth had confided. ‘She’s like a daughter and a granddaughter and a friend all rolled into one. A proper gem.’

  The proper gem, Zillah noted with a shard of middle-aged jealousy, had stood up and stretched unselfconsciously: slender in her skimpy second-skin clothes, beautifully tanned now by the sun instead of that awful spray-on salon orangeness that she’d arrived with, her untamed hair almost silver.

  Zillah groaned at her own dimpled and wrinkled flesh reflected harshly in the mirror, and wearily accepting the unchangeable, continued to dress in her long Indian print frock with the glass beads and sequins zigzagged through the organdie. Pushing her hair into its combs and slotting in large multicoloured dangly earrings, she paused only for a quick final coat of mascara and hurried downstairs.

  There was just time for a cup of coffee and a whisper of Radio Two in the garden before the daily routine kicked in.

  This morning the early morning ritual of communal cottage tea-sipping had been abandoned. Big Ida was spending a couple of days with her godsons in Newbury, and Amber – free from Hubble Bubble duties for the day – was taking Gwyneth and Pike out in the van for a picnic at Christmas Common.

  Zillah was delighted to have some time alone to think. There was plenty to think about.

  Fern was still at the pub, learning quickly, enjoying herself. Timmy, amazingly, seemed delighted with her. And with her company. Timmy and Fern seemed to find any number of reasons to be in the cellar at the same time or grab the same beer pump, and grin soppily at one another. Timmy was revelling in it and Fern – well, Fern was like a teenager in love.

  Surely, Fern didn’t reciprocate Timmy’s feelings, did she?

  It was all most peculiar.

  And – and, obtusely, Zillah still wasn’t sure if she was entirely happy with the situation or not – Timmy seemed to have forgotten all about the sharing of the Fowey love-nest. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten that for years he’d been trying to persuade Zillah to share every aspect of his life. True, he was still charming and warm and friendly towards her, and seemed ecstatically happy. But he’d – well – sort of cooled towards her.

  It was a relief not to be pursued so relentlessly, of course, but even so, a girl didn’t want to be totally ignored.

  Lewis, when she’d told him, had laughed uproariously and told her she was still a crazy mixed-up flower-child who didn’t know on which side her bread was buttered.

  Oh – she sipped her coffee as Radio Two played something wistful by Bread – whatever else was wrong with her life, it was lovely to be on laughing terms with Lewis again. The making-up, on that hot afternoon after Amber had talked to her outside the pub, had been one of the most difficult moments in their relationship.

  ‘I was going to ring you la
ter,’ Lewis had said, his voice weary, his eyes strained, opening the door to his Hayfields flat to her for the second time that day. ‘Come in.’

  Immediately after her chat with Amber, Zillah had decided to take the bull by the horns and apologise to her son. After all if Lewis, who was usually so guarded with every aspect of his personal life, had unburdened himself to Amber, their row must have hurt him deeply.

  And yes, he’d said some awful things – patently untrue things – to her in the heat of the argument, but now, having had time to mull it over, Zillah had realised the fault was hers. All hers. If only she’d been honest with him years ago.

  ‘We’re just going to have dinner,’ Lewis had said. ‘Jem’s cooking something that might or might not turn out to be jambalaya.’

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt you. This won’t take long,’ Zillah stepped into the flat. ‘Hi, Jem – that smells lovely …’

  From the kitchen, Jem had waved a wooden spoon at her in greeting. His smile was edged with Cajun sauce.

  The living-room windows had been opened to the early evening sun, and Hayfields’ grounds undulated in tie-dye shades of green and gold. Several of the Hayfields residents were having a noisy barbecue on the lawn.

  ‘Jem won’t bother us in here,’ Lewis had said. ‘He’s too immersed in his cooking.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be watching him?’

  ‘You know he doesn’t need constant supervision. I’ve done the stuff he finds difficult – lighting the gas, lifting the pans – he’s on stirring. Stirring is one of his favourites.’

  ‘As is tasting?’

  There was a flicker of warmth in Lewis’s eyes then. ‘Yeah – he does tasting to Olympic standard. Anyway, I’m sure that discussing Jem’s culinary prowess wasn’t why you came to see me … Would you like a drink? We’ve got some cans in the fridge.’

  And Zillah had declined the drink and plunged in and apologised, a lot, and said it was her fault for making such a huge mystery about Lewis’s father, but – and then Lewis had interrupted and apologised for jumping to conclusions and for saying the things he had which he’d had no right to say, especially to her, and they’d talked over one another, and apologised again, and eventually laughed.