Seeing Stars (12 page)

Ida looked as though she was about to juggle the eggs, then thought better of it.

‘Me and Gwyneth won’t be ’aving a quiet one – and that’s a fact. We’ve got a bit of a animal rescue job on this morning –
cats kept in cages out Bagley way – buggers probably selling the poor little things on for breeders or worse; then we’re doing
the security and car parking over in Hazy Hassocks tonight, remember? Tarnia Snepps is ’aving one of her parties. Not for
midsummer mind, a bit of a celebration after ’er Marquis making it on to the birth-day honours for ’is so-called charity work
– at bloody last.’

Zillah grinned. Everyone in the area knew how hard Hazy Hassocks’ odious self-appointed lady of the manor Tarnia, and her
even more odious husband, had smarmed and blagged to claw their way into the realms of the regally honoured. It had come as
something of a relief when the news had finally been broken.

Tight fisted as a street fighter, Tarnia Snepps employed pensioners at a pittance to carry out the menial tasks at her thrashes.
Gwyneth and Big Ida were usually top of her list.

‘Must get on. I’m all behind the cow’s stump this morning,’ Ida nodded. ‘Mind, I’m surprised to see you here today, young
Zil. I thought as you’d ’ave been off with the rest of them old ’ippies last night.’

‘Last night?’

‘Ah – they went off in droves from Winterbrook, so Goff
Briggs said. Down to Stonehenge. For the sunrise this morning. You know – the Summer what’s-it-called – oh, yes – solstice.’

Solstice.

Zillah felt the shiver snake along her spine. God – it was still there. After all these years.

One word that could freeze the present and whisk her back to the past: a past more real, more vibrant, than anything that
was happening, could ever happen, now.

One word, a host of memories: like snatches of certain songs and the feel of sun-warmed grass beneath bare feet and the scent
of bonfire smoke on chill autumn evenings and the wonder of night-time snow tumbling from a black sky and dancing naked in
gentle summer rain.

The memory of a laughing voice whispering her name.

The word that could break her heart.

‘… Zil? You OK, duck?’

‘Er? Oh, yes – sorry – miles away …’

And years. In another time. Another life.

Amber mooched round the village shop, smiling at things like hairnets and rain-hoods and packets of American Tan tights and
single glass marbles and little pots of bubble mixture complete with plastic wands. She wondered if Jem might be amused by
one of those, or would he be insulted? Probably, she decided, seeing as he drank pints and liked heavy metal and had a wicked
grown-up sense of humour. And, as Gwyneth had attempted to explain, Amber gathered that Jem’s particular type of cerebal palsy
only affected his growth and co-ordination and speech and physical stuff like that. His intellect, as Lewis had made sure
she understood, was as sharp as hers.

And anyway, would buying presents for Jem be interpreted as a chance to see Lewis? Mmmm, probably.

Putting the bubble mixture down, she then picked up a bottle of own-brand shampoo, a litre of mucous-green bath foam – pine
and tropical wisteria – and an unfortunately
phallic deodorant. She was beginning to accept that Mona Jupp only stocked one of everything. There was no choice. Mona Jupp
held a bigger retail monopoly than Procter & Gamble.

Yes, there was no doubt that she was getting used to the shop, and the pub as the only source of entertainment, and the fact
that the villagers thought the heavens could answer all their problems. Fiddlesticks had a drowsy magic – whether celestial
or more earthy she wasn’t sure – of its own, which meant Amber hadn’t charged her mobile since she arrived and strangely no
longer needed to have her call-fix. Nor had she unpacked her laptop, so her promised emails to her family and friends were
still waiting to be written. The sleepy self-contained attitude of Fiddlesticks was certainly casting a spell on her.

As was Lewis – but she wasn’t going to think about that right now.

It was really odd just picking up shampoo and deodorant without agonising for hours over which one was the latest must-have.
And sort of liberating, and certainly timesaving – although, Amber thought as she queued behind several elderly people in
sturdy sandals, that was something she truly didn’t need to save. She had far too much time on her hands at the moment.

What on earth did everyone find to do all day? Those who didn’t vanish off to Winterbrook or Reading each morning on the single-decker
green and cream bus that looked as if it belonged on a 1950s advertising hoarding. How did Gwyneth and Ida and even youngish
people like Zillah seem fully occupied each day by menial tasks and chatter? Would she ever get used to the laid-back pace
of life in Fiddlesticks?

‘Missing the hustle and bustle of the city life, are you?’ Mona Jupp enquired perceptively, prising the bottles from Amber’s
fingers and playing the till keys with a Liberace flourish. ‘Must seem strange to you. You wants to find yourself a flaming
job.’ Amber blinked. That was pretty
harsh. True, but harsh nonetheless. And where exactly? Certainly not here. Sooner rather than later she’d have to travel into
Winterbrook on the twentieth-century coach, register with an agency and see what happened. Maybe receptionist and admin jobs
here would be more – er – fun than back home?

‘Do you take Visa? I mean, credit cards?’

Mona affected an entrepreneurial simper. ‘I know what Visa is. We’ve taken credit cards for ages – since last year. We’ve
even got chin and pip.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Pip and chin. You know – the latest card security thingy. Now – what else can I do you for? Stamps?’

‘Stamps?’

‘Do you want stamps? For your letters to them up North and your mum and dad in Spain? We even do flaming airmail forms for
them what lives abroad. We’re very New Millennium, you know.’

Stamps? Letters?
Amber didn’t think she’d written a letter since post-birthday and Christmas thank yous as a child. And how on earth did Mona
Jupp know every last detail of her life? The village grapevine was certainly alive and well and living in Fiddlesticks.

Why not write letters, though? Electronic communications had ground to a halt, and she had plenty of time to put pen to paper.

‘Er – yes. OK. Thanks. Ten stamps and a couple of airmail letters, then. And some writing paper and envelopes, please.’

Grinning at this retro step and imagining Bex and Kelly and Emma and Jemma’s reaction when they received A Proper Letter,
she handed her Visa card across the counter and jabbed in her PIN.

Mona Jupp, having punched and swiped in vain, was now brandishing the card in triumph. ‘Won’t flaming go through!’

‘What? It must go through.’

‘Says declined on here,’ Mona beamed. ‘And this machine’s never wrong. Declined, it is.’

Amber, very aware of the Fiddlestickers’ delighted massed gaze on her back, tried to shrink into her hair. Oh, God. Had she
paid off the balance last month? Had she made a payment at all? There had been so much going on before she left home – she’d
last used the card for her rail fare which had been just after the girls’ night out to say farewell.

The perspiration made her palms itch. ‘Er – sorry … Um – I think I might have forgotten to pay it.’

The Fiddlestickers rustled in glee behind her.

‘Have to be another card or flaming cash, then,’ Mona Jupp smiled with more than her share of teeth. ‘This your only card,
is it? You have got cash? Enough cash?’

‘Er – yes it’s my only card because I cut the others up when I left my last temping job and – er – and I think I’ve got enough
money …’

Had she? After a lot of argument and persuasion, she’d managed to get Gwyneth to accept some money for her keep yesterday
and there’d still been money in her purse – hadn’t there? Amber emptied the contents of her purse onto the counter. Mona swooped
down and counted the coins with Fagin-like relish.

‘There – this lot is mine and this –’ she pushed two coins back towards Amber ‘– is yours. Like I said, you’ll have to get
yourself a flaming job.’

Watching as Mona bagged up the purchases in a flimsy pink striped carrier, Amber wanted the floor of the shop to open up and
gulp her into oblivion. How embarrassing was this?

‘Jobs is all on the board,’ Mona Jupp advised almost kindly. ‘Outside. Some of them have been there some time and the best
ones have probably gone. You’ll have to check the dates – I don’t always take the postcards down on a regular basis.’

‘Er – right … thanks …’ Head down, Amber scuttled
past the queue and burst out into the cheerful sunny morning.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Humiliated beyond belief, she squinted at the notice-board. The majority of the advertisements were yellowing and dog-eared
and were business cards for taxi firms or take-aways. There didn’t seem to be an awful lot of jobs on offer unless you wanted
to be an Avon lady or work on commission for various double-glazing firms.

‘Sorry,’ a cheerful voice spoke over her shoulder. ‘Can I just reach over for that drawing pin there? Thanks. Were you putting
on or taking off?’

‘Neither,’ Amber said sadly. ‘Just grazing.’

‘More in hope than expectation, then,’ the pretty fifty-something woman in the faded jeans and yellow T-shirt with hair in
vivid red layers beamed at her. ‘Mona Jupp isn’t exactly up to speed on employment matters. Money is a different matter though.
She’ll be after my fifty pence for this like a shot.’

Amber watched as she pinned her postcard neatly over one advertising chiropody for all in the comfort of your own home, dated
1998.

Amber removed the card and grinned. ‘Er – do I need to phone?’

‘You’re interested in the job?’

‘Very.’

‘Oh, right – how, um, handy. Actually I’ve never employed anyone before so I don’t know what I’m supposed to ask you.’

‘I’ve never worked in catering before either so I’m not sure what I have to do,’ Amber said reassuringly. ‘But I’m hardworking
and honest and clean and I do so need a job.’

‘And I do so need an assistant,’ Mitzi nodded. ‘Could you start immediately?’

‘This minute.’

‘Shall we go over onto the green?’ Mitzi shot a glance at the knot of Fiddlestickers who had emerged from the shop and who
were now clearly intending to add this conversation to their morning’s entertainment. ‘And sit on one of the benches for some
privacy?’

They did. It was gloriously hot, and the willow trees hardly shivered their drooping silver foliage. The stream ran like crystal
over its soft brown bed, and children were paddling and clutching fishing nets.

Amber sat on the nearest bench and wondered again why everything in Fiddlesticks looked like an advertisement for The Perfect
Life in the mid-twentieth century.

‘That’s better.’ Mitzi kicked off her espadrilles and wriggled her bare toes in the sun. ‘So, do you know anything about what
I do?’

‘Only that you’re a friend of Zillah’s, and you did the food for St Bedric’s and it was fantastic although I never tasted
it except the green cheesecake because it had all been snaffled and everyone giggled a lot afterwards. And that several people
have said you cook from old-fashioned recipes using herbs and things and that it might involve some sort of – well – witchery.’

‘That about sums it up,’ Mitzi chuckled. ‘And yes, my grandmother’s recipes do have some surprising results. Although before
it scares you off completely, I am definitely not a witch … well, not a nasty, cackly, old hag-type, anyway.’

Hmmm, Amber thought. So there might be an element of witching involved somewhere, then? Not, of course, that she believed
in any of it – and she really, really needed a job. ‘Er – do you know anything about me?’

‘Only that you’re staying with Gwyneth for the summer and you’re from up north and that Gwyneth was your gran’s friend.’

They smiled at each other. It seemed enough to be going on with.

‘Right then,’ Mitzi smiled happily. ‘How are you fixed for tonight? I’m doing a big party in Hazy Hassocks and I desperately
need some help.’

‘With cooking or waitressing?’

‘Neither tonight. Just setting stuff up, making sure the waiting staff Tarnia has employed take the right dishes out at the
right times, keeping the plates heaped, all that sort of thing.’

Amber nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sort of menial? Great, I can do that – although I’ll be happy to tackle cooking and waitressing
as well.’

Mitzi smiled. ‘I’ll certainly need you to help with both in the future, and preparation and deliveries – but I’ve got everything
in hand for this one. And I didn’t know how to cook until I started Hubble Bubble so don’t worry if you don’t know Job’s tears
from grated cyclamen bulb – all the recipes are written down and you’ll soon pick it all up. Will the minimum wage do until
we see how you get on?’

‘Perfectly, thanks.’ Amber wasn’t sure if she could manage on the minimum wage – it would be far less than she was used to,
but her lifestyle was so curtailed in the village that she’d damn well have to cope, wouldn’t she? At least, for now.

And this was just so opportune. It had been meant. It really had. She’d asked St Bedric to sort her life out and he had. Maybe
the village
was
weaving some kind of magic around her – it must be – because she actually wanted to stay. She stopped. She was clearly getting
far too comfortable with the Fiddlesticks mindset of allowing celestial magic to take control. This would have happened anyway.
It had nothing to do with green-cheese wishes – or did it?

‘Shall we say a month’s trial on either side?’ Mitzi
continued. ‘I don’t know how long you’re intending to stay here, of course and—’