Seeing Stars

by Christina Jones

  Amber laughed. ‘Jem lives in hope, too, apparently. I think we’re both probably going to be disappointed … Oh, look – right on cue …’

  Lewis, looking even more like a hippie love-god, with the sun radiating in golden splendour behind him, carried the glasses over to the table.

  ‘Is anyone going to let me in on the joke?’

  They all shook their heads, still smiling.

  ‘Sod you, then,’ he said affably, sliding his long legs on to the bench alongside Amber. ‘So, what’s next on the agenda?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ Amber said, nodding towards the village green where large crowds were already gathering. ‘What exactly goes on at this Plough Night thing?’

  ‘Firstly, it’s nowhere near as much fun as Cassiopeia’s,’ Lewis stretched his legs under the table. His trainer rested against Amber’s sandal. Neither of them moved. ‘Although I think there’ll be a lot of off-the-record rain-wishing tonight.’ He moved his foot slightly, closer, not away, and smiled. ‘However, the main idea is to ask the Plough, when the constellation appears in the sky, to bring rude good health to the villagers and prosperity to their undertakings, and of course, a hearty crop to their gardens and fields. Goff does the public incantations as usual, and then we have a lot to drink and usually something earthy like jacket potatoes to eat and that’s about it …’

  Amber returned the pressure of his foot. ‘So when would be the best time to show Freddo around?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later,’ Lewis said, looking innocent. He moved his foot away. Slowly. ‘As soon as we’ve finished these drinks – if that’s OK with you, Freddo, we’ll go and take a stroll.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Freddo drained his pint of Hearty Hercules in record time even by Fiddlesticks’ standards. ‘It’s only on the green, isn’t it? The others will be able to find us?’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Ah, the band’s been playing a couple of local gigs. They’re free tonight, staying over in Newbury. I issued an open invite to any of them that are sober enough to make it – hope that’s OK?’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ Lewis grinned, finishing his own pint and standing up, helping Jem to his feet. ‘As you can see, there aren’t any restrictions.’

  They wandered across the green, bathed in the last spectacular pink-gold glow of the sun as it disappeared behind the Hazy Hassocks hills, Jem holding Amber’s hand.

  She looked up at Lewis as they crossed the rustic bridge. ‘What was all that about – the footsie thing?’

  ‘What footsie thing? If your size eighteens got in the way back there then it’s hardly my fault, is it?’ He ruffled her hair fleetingly. ‘Seriously Amber – I’d never play games with you.’

  Feeling suddenly very hot, Amber looked down at the parched grass. Was this a seminal moment? Was it –?

  Bugger.

  Sukie, the Irish witch, along with several of her friends, was skippetying towards them through the crowds.

  ‘Hi,’ she flashed white teeth at Lewis as she passed. ‘We must get together for that drink sometime.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lewis grinned. ‘We must. I’ll give you a ring.’

  Jem frowned at Sukie and then at Lewis and squeezed Amber’s hand very tightly. She squeezed it back. She really wished she could squeeze Sukie’s neck.

  Fortunately the murderous moment was interrupted by a familiar voice.

  ‘Amber! Amber – over here! Look who I’ve brought to see you!’

  Mitzi and her family were out in force, and Amber, leaving Jem with Lewis and Freddo, spent ages cooing over Sonny, delighted to see him in the flesh at last, and chatting to Mitzi’s two pretty daughters and their partners and exchanging north-western banter with Joel, the to-die-for dentist.

  ‘Jace and Lezli phoned this afternoon,’ Mitzi said. ‘The Broughton-Pogges. Apparently Fanny and Helly, the nightmare twins from hell, have been extremely subdued and dutiful since the party. They added a bonus to our fee and have asked us to go back and cater for their wedding party next year. As we seem to have done very well out of our – er – my recent mistakes, maybe getting the ingredients wrong should be something we make a feature of in future recipes …’

  ‘Please, no,’ Amber laughed. ‘I don’t think I could take it.’

  She ran to catch up with the others. Freddo was in deep conference with Goff Briggs.

  ‘They’re just deciding the best place for the stage and the power cables and the security and safety stuff,’ Lewis said. ‘And Jem’s sulking.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Sukie said she wanted to go for a drink and because I said I was going to ring her, I gather. I’ve tried to tell him I was using polite-speak-code for “I had a great time with you, and I like you very much, but I won’t be seeing you again”.’

  Amber suddenly did mental handstands across the green.

  ‘I also told him that I have so many girls’ numbers in my little black mobile that I’d never settle for just one.’

  The handstands collapsed in an undignified heap.

  The rest of the evening passed in the usual Fiddlesticks manner: lazy conversations with friends, raucous laughter, and a fair amount of drinking.

  As the sky eventually darkened, Goff, his neck garlanded with woven corn like some ancient pagan leader, stalked towards the centre of the green, a potato in one hand and a clump of earth in the other.

  The crowds parted to allow him through until he reached the little hillock beside the rustic bridge. Much to Jem’s enjoyment, several children, rather unwisely in Amber’s opinion, trotted behind him and stood on either side of the stream, holding blazing torches aloft like miniature Olympic flames. She supposed, should the worst happen, the kiddies could always be dunked quickly in the water to douse the resulting inferno.

  Over to the right, just visible through the willows in the deepest gloom, Gwyneth and Big Ida were furtively holding their own little ceremony involving a watering can, a few runner beans, a candle and a length of hosepipe.

  ‘This is truly scary shit, duck,’ Freddo muttered beside her as Goff started his nature’s bounty spiel. ‘Spooky. Give me a nice bit of transcendental meditation any day. Now that I understand.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to the pub?’ Lewis asked. ‘Get a head start in the queue for the jacket spuds?’

  ‘No way,’ Amber said. ‘Sorry Jem – I know you’re probably starving, as ever, but I’m sure there’ll be plenty. No, if you don’t mind, I want to watch this …’

  Goff was now holding the potato and the clod of earth aloft towards the skies. The majority of the crowd seemed to be mumbling.

  ‘He’s offering them up and asking the Plough to give Fiddlesticks a plentiful crop,’ Lewis informed them. ‘Those with a vested interest in farms and gardens make their own earthy-fertility wish now, too.’

  ‘Stone me,’ Freddo shook his head. ‘I’m getting spooked and no mistake.’

  Amber giggled.

  Lewis moved nearer to her. ‘Can you see the Plough? Up there?’

  Call her a pushover, but she loved this bit of the astral ceremonies. The standing close and pointing.

  ‘Trixie dog, you mean?’

  ‘I told you it was best not to mention that,’ Lewis laughed softly. ‘And certainly not here and not now. There are those who may think you were mocking.’

  ‘Would I mock? Moi?’ Amber squinted upwards at the deep purple sky, now alight with scattered silver sequins. ‘Um – yes, I think I can see it. Yes – yes, I can – I think. Over there, isn’t it? Oh – but what’s the other one? The smaller constellation right next to it with the really, really bright star?’

  ‘Actually,’ Lewis said, his face close to hers, his breath warm, ‘although I hate to say this, your thing about the Plough looking like a dog isn’t that far out. The Plough is also part of a larger constellation called the Great Bear. The bright star you can see is the Pole Star, which is part of the Little Bear—’

  ‘Only needs b
leeding Goldilocks to round the fairy story off nicely,’ Freddo muttered.

  Lewis laughed. ‘Legend has it, that there once was a beautiful princess – what? Yeah, Jem, just like Amber – well, Juno, who was queen of the gods, was so jealous of this princess that she turned her into a bear. Juno’s son was out hunting and was about to shoot the princess-bear when Jupiter, the king of the gods, turned him into a bear as well and swung both animals up into the sky by their tails – the reason both constellations have long trailing stars – so they could live together safely and happily ever after.’

  ‘Bugger me,’ Freddo sighed. ‘I wish I was smoking what you were smoking. I haven’t heard anything quite so trippy since 1969 … oh, hi guys! You found us then. Isn’t this the weirdest set-up ever? Our gig here’s going to be a blast.’

  Amber turned to see a smattering of the JB Roadshow – the singer, and one of the guitarists, and the drummer, or maybe it was the keyboard player – standing beside them in the musky darkness looking totally bemused.

  Everyone exchanged pleasantries, and Jem, scenting jacket potatoes, tugged at Amber’s hand and gestured impatiently towards The Weasel and Bucket.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ Lewis laughed, ruffling Jem’s hair with the same brotherly affection he’d used earlier in ruffling Amber’s. ‘The show’s all but over. Let’s go and find the food. And there’s still time for some serious drinking.’

  Freddo and the JB Roadshow residue – still looking, Amber reckoned, very fit for their ages in their faded denim and surfer-boy shirts – perked up considerably at this, and they all made a beeline for the pub. It did her ego no end of good, Amber thought, being seen in the company of such a bevvy of male beauty.

  The JB Roadshow members – Tiff Clayton, Clancy Tavistock and Ricky Swain, as Freddo had reintroduced them – were all very complimentary about the village and the forthcoming Harvest Moon booking, and diplomatically polite about the strangeness of the Plough Night celebrations.

  ‘I like all the old traditions myself,’ Tiff Clayton said to Amber, giving her a practised look from beneath his dyed blond fringe as they crossed the rustic bridge. ‘Like kissing under the mistletoe and the best man getting first dibs at the bridesmaids.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ Clancy Tavistock, who was walking just ahead of them with Freddo and Lewis, turned and grinned. ‘He’s all talk and no action these days.’

  ‘Ah, maybe,’ Tiff sighed. ‘But I’ve still got my memories and my dreams.’

  ‘Dreams, perhaps,’ Clancy laughed over his shoulder.

  ‘The memories have all been embellished by age or eroded by recreational substances.’

  The others laughed. Ricky Swain was walking on the other side of Amber, humming a tune, explaining scales and riffs to an adoring Jem.

  They were nice blokes, Amber thought as they crossed the road towards The Weasel and Bucket. Nice blokes, immensely talented, and pretty damn cool.

  ‘This is my shout,’ Freddo said, as they forced their way through the beer-garden throng. ‘What’s everybody having?’

  Despite the majority of Fiddlestickers still being out in force on the green, the usual suspects were perched at the bar. Timmy was obviously in the kitchen cooking up a veritable storm of jacket potatoes, and Zillah, looking radiant in the rose-sprigged dress, her hair all tousled, smiled across at them as they walked in.

  ‘Is it all over, then? Fiddlesticks guaranteed healthy crops for the next twelve months? I thought Goff looked a bit of a twerp in his – oh my God …’ Zillah clutched the bar, her heart going into overdrive. Taking huge gulps of air, she tried to steady herself, but the pub and the customers were growing dark and swirling dizzily round and round and round.

  ‘Zil? Zillah?’ Billy Grinley slid from his stool and ran behind the bar, rapidly followed by Dougie Patchcock. ‘Quick, Lewis! Quick! I think your ma’s fainted!’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I Was Born Under a Wandering Star

  It was Zillah’s final year at university. A year in which her tutors and her parents confidently expected her to get an upper second, if not a first, in history. A year in which she realised she wanted to be free.

  Free from studying, free from being the model student, free from being a dutiful daughter, free from doing what everyone else wanted and expected, free from conforming, free from – oh, just free!

  It made not a jot of difference how many times her friends, all diligent students, told her that once the finals were over she could be as free as she liked. Once the finals were over, and the three years of hard work had resulted in a qualification that would enable her to take whichever path she chose, she could let her hair down, take a year out, anything. Anything she wanted. Only a few more months to go.

  A few more months! A few more days would have been too long.

  What she wanted was to be free. Now.

  Dropping out was all the rage, of course. But all the dropouts from Zillah’s college seemed to have wealthy, indulgent parents who really didn’t mind what their offspring did and who looked on university as simply three years of socialising; or were born into inherited silver-spoon money; or had family firms which would suck them up after they’d returned from wandering the hippie trail, turning on and discovering themselves in Marrakech or Kashmir.

  Zillah’s parents had nothing. Just a bursting pride that their only daughter had made it to Oxford – a word they always spoke in hushed and awed tones, and somewhere they’d never visited because they didn’t have a car and the train fare from their Cornish fishing village was way, way beyond them – and was the first in the family to ever go on to further education, let alone to one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and would probably become a school teacher.

  A school teacher was the most respected of professions as far as Zillah’s parents were concerned. It was what they wanted for her: to come back to Cornwall with her degree and teach history at one of the girls’ grammar schools in say, Truro or Bodmin. To pass on her knowledge and education and enthusiasm to other local girls who then might have the same academic opportunity, thanks to Zillah. It was their dream.

  It had never been hers.

  And now, weary of studying a subject she no longer enjoyed; exhausted from hours and hours of reading words that simply floated through her brain; tired – oh so tired – of the academic life; mentally battered and physically shattered, Zillah wanted to be free.

  Her head was crammed with facts, her brain bursting with sifted, selected, assimilated information. Blackwells Bookshop and the Bodlian Library became her places of daily worship. Facts, facts and more facts. The only fiction was in her weekly letter – there was no phone at home – to her parents.

  ‘Give it a little break,’ her tutor advised. ‘You’ve no need to cram, Zillah. You’re an excellent student. You have a natural intelligence, a gift for learning, a talent for imparting all that you know. You’ll gain an extremely good degree. You’ve studied hard, worked hard ever since you arrived – don’t burn out now. Take a couple of weeks for yourself, go home, relax …’

  Zillah didn’t want to go home. If she went home she’d never return to Oxford. Never get away again. Going home wasn’t the answer.

  ‘Well, have some fun, then,’ her tutor laughed. ‘Go out and party. Dance ’til dawn. Enjoy yourself. Goodness – this is the antithesis of what I normally have to tell my students!’

  But Zillah had done parties and dances and punting and Commem Balls; she’d not been overwhelmed by the hectic and varied social life on offer in Oxford – it simply hadn’t really interested her. And after getting drunk a few times in The Eagle and Child and The Turf Tavern and several rowdy nights where Town and Gown mixed in the sinisterly dark corridor of White’s Bar, Zillah had resumed her studies, her essays, her total immersion in her history course.

  None of it was what she wanted.

  ‘You haven’t been made to feel – well – unwelcome?’ her tutor enquired kindly. ‘There is an awful lot of sno
bbery here and however hard we try to stamp it out …’

  And Zillah said, no, her soft Cornish accent and humble background had not once been a problem. She’d found the students, all the students, accepted her as she did them. Class, colour, creed – none of those had ever been an issue.

  ‘And there’s no man involved? This isn’t an affair of the heart gone wrong?’

  Zillah shook her head. There was no man. There had been boys, several boys, fellow students – and they’d had fun, and exchanged kisses and inexpert fumbles, but that was as far as it had gone. There had been no lover. Not ever. Her virginity, like her heart, was intact.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ her tutor smiled gently. ‘I can only advise you to take things easy for a while, enjoy yourself, forget about the finals.’

  And Zillah had.

  She would never be able to explain the blissful freedom she felt on that spring morning, leaving Oxford, everything she needed for her new life packed into a single haversack, her hair, like her skirt, long and blowing wildly in the breeze.

  Walking away, with no regrets, from everything everyone had ever wanted for her.

  She told no one she was leaving; hadn’t left a note. Just tidied her room in her digs, stacked up the few belongings she couldn’t take with her, left enough money to pay the residue of her rent, and walked away from the dreaming spires’ stifling prison.

  With no idea where fate would take her, she reached the outskirts of the city and stuck out her thumb.

  The first driver took her as far south as Winchester. Students hitching lifts were normal, there were few questions asked, and no danger. Solitary drivers were simply pleased to have some company.

  After Winchester, where she’d had coffee and a doughnut, Zillah hitched a further lift. In a lorry. This one took her towards the New Forest, stopping at the Cadnam round-about.

  Zillah watched the lorry drive away and lifted her face to the sun. Ahead the New Forest spread in wildly glorious green and gold splendour, the wind-born scent of broom and ferns and mouldering pine needles, a balm. Ahead lay the future: a nebulous future – no longer shaped by rigid timetables and other people’s expectations. A future in which she would, for the first time, take control of her life.