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 several 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.’
‘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?
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 and 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.