HHLL were Hazy Hassocks Literary Ladies. A writers’ circle, they apparently met monthly in one another’s homes to discuss
their work in progress, the latest literary gossip, and, most importantly, those unfortunate members of the HHLL who weren’t
in attendance that day.
‘Put the food in the conservatory, dear,’ today’s hostess, a vision in lime-green Tricel, her pepper and salt hair held up
in a scary number of diamanté slides, had looked down flared nostrils at Amber. ‘We’ll be in the library until eleven. There
are only four of us owing to holidays. A small but select gathering of our finest writers. You make coffee for four, and we’ll
come through for the nibbles when we’re finished. You were told about serving us coffee at eleven, weren’t you?’
Amber hadn’t been, but she nodded.
‘I must say I’m rather annoyed that Mitzi sent an underling. I’m the first of our little group to bring in outside caterers
– quite a coup – and I had hoped for the organ grinder, if you get my drift.’
Amber had already explained about Mitzi’s happy and unexpected domestic crisis. The HHLL seemed to be of the opinion that
Doll should have kept her legs crossed.
Now it was nearly half past eleven; coffee, which Amber had made in the DIY flat-pack kitchen, had been served in the library
– a very small annexe to the living room with three bookcases, which was probably the dining room in real life – and still
the HHLL hadn’t appeared for nibbles.
The conservatory, a south-facing lean-to with a corrugated
plastic roof, was like a sweat-box. Amber huddled into the one patch of shade, perspiration trickling under her T-shirt,
praying that her deodorant was up to the job.
The Angelica Angels were wilting; the Saffron and Lemon Lumps had run into a dung-coloured mush; the Bronte Buns (Mitzi’s
interpretation of her grandmother’s wisdom-giving recipe especially for the literary occasion) simmered.
So did Amber.
It was one of those moments when she wished she smoked. It would give her something to do with her hands. The insulated cool
box which held Mitzi’s pièce de résistance with a scribbled note:
‘Ginger Janite Cake – this has been rechristened and reworked for the occasion. It was originally meant to produce total honesty
and loosen inhibitions, but hopefully it’ll simply enhance their literary prowess, although I may have overdone the bodhi
leaves. Time will tell … To work properly they’re supposed to chew the cake then spit it out but best not tell them that as
it could lead to misunderstandings and a mess. Leave this right until last – and only give them a very small slice each –
it’s very powerful’ –
had several ice packs. Amber knew that if the HHLL didn’t show up soon she’d nick a couple of them and shove them down her
T-shirt.
Amber surprised herself with the ease with which she now almost accepted that Mitzi’s recipes might well have magical properties.
Surely there were ancient tribes who still brought on hallucinatory experiences and mass trances simply by chewing leaves?
Wasn’t this the same sort of thing on a Berkshire basis?
She’d watch the effects of eating the Ginger Janite Cake on the HHLL with interest. The proof of the pudding might just sway
her.
The sweat was now making her scrunchied hair itch, little rivulets trickled and settled under Jem’s wooden pentangle, and
beads of moisture had gathered malevolently on her upper lip. She scrabbled irritably in her bag for a
tissue. God – what the hell had she got in here? Receipts and shopping lists and reams of paper but not a single tissue.
Ordinarily she’d use one of the Hubble Bubble dark-green paper napkins but Mitzi had warned that this batch were of an inferior
quality and left a nasty stain when damp. It’d have to be kitchen roll pinched from the flat-pack kitchen, then, and plenty
of it. Maybe it would be considered unprofessional, but it was all the HHLL deserved for keeping her in this sauna.
Then she grinned. One of the bits of paper, dragged from last night’s jeans and pushed into her bag, had all the contact numbers
for the soul bands she wanted to contact for Harvest Moon. If only she’d charged her mobile she could get that out of the
way while she was waiting for the HHLL to emerge.
Oh, damn – now she’d have to wait until she got back to Fiddlesticks and she really wanted something to get her teeth into,
especially as Lewis was no doubt romping at this very moment with the delectable Sukie. She needed something, well, challenging,
to take her mind off that particular image – and hmmm … Amber remembered, as well as paper towels, there’d been a telephone
in the kitchen, hadn’t there?
Oh, what the heck.
Darting out of the patch of shade and through the intense heat of the lean-to, Amber poked her head round the library door.
The HHLL didn’t break stride.
‘… and of course we all know how she got published, don’t we?’
‘Well, seeing that she can’t string two words together it has to be a bung …’
‘Bung? Her agent’s sleeping with her editor, darling!’
‘But they’re both female.’
‘Precisely.’
’Excuse me,’ Amber interrupted bravely. ‘How long do
you think you’ll be? Only the food is out and it’s very hot in the lean-to—’
‘Conservatory!’
‘Er – yes, well – and I just wondered …’
‘We’re creative,’ a miserable woman with a little girl ponytail, sparkly jeans and a Barbie pink T-shirt which would have
looked lovely on someone four decades younger, said mournfully. ‘You can’t rush creativity.’
‘Er – no. I don’t suppose you can.’ Amber gave what she hoped was a charming smile in the direction of the HHLL hostess. ‘Um
– please – would it be OK if I used your telephone for a moment? I’ll pay, of course.’
‘Oh, you most certainly will. And yes, if you must, but do use the kitchen extension – I don’t want you
prying.
There’s a box on the shelf for the purpose of money – and none of the foreign currency like that bloke who came to check
the drains diddled me with, thank you very much. But don’t you have a mobile? Is it urgent?’ Pausing for breath, the HHLL
hostess drew her lips up to her nostrils. Affronted, they sprang apart. ‘Vital? Local?’
‘No. Yes. Yes again, and absolutely.’
The last one wasn’t true but Amber no longer cared. Two out of three and all that.
‘Very well, but make it brief and don’t forget to pay and don’t spend all day out there. We’re nearly finished here and we’ll
expect you to circulate with the nibbles. I’ve paid for waitress service and I expect to get it.’
Amber smiled her thanks and backed out of the room, but not before she caught the next slice of HHLL invective.
‘Anyway, you do know that she’s up for an award with her latest, don’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve got it on the best possible authority that her connections paid a fortune to the judges, of course.’
‘Well, they’d have to. It couldn’t get there on merit. But – surely it isn’t the one where—’
‘Yes it is – four hundred pages of badly written crap about expat in-breeds conveniently living the life of Reilly on fresh
air, for heaven’s sake – not a job among ’em! – on a remote tropical island and they all have some sort of disability or terminal
illness and half of them are related but they still all fall in love and then die in the most gruesome circumstances – and
– and then she has the
temerity
to market it as a romantic comedy …’
The scorching midday sun shimmered across a still hungover Fiddlesticks as Zillah made her way towards The Weasel and Bucket.
She felt truly awful. Doubly so now since she’d had the row with Lewis. Oh, God. How had it all got so out of hand?
Her long skirt dragged through the grass, the remaining moisture at the roots soaking the purple hem and making her toes slide
inside her flat sandals. She couldn’t remember ever falling out with Lewis before. Not over something major like this. He’d
been such an easy child, they’d always been friends, there’d never been any of the real bust-ups which other mothers seemed
to have experienced with their children. Not even when he was a teenager. Of course, there had been moments – but nothing
like this.
Oh, why hadn’t she been honest with him from the start?
Why had she assumed that he’d understand about his father? Why had she always thought it best that he hadn’t known? Simply
because she’d chosen to wipe it out of her life, she’d assumed that he would be happy with her decision. And it was one of
those things – the longer you left it, the bigger it became, the more difficult to talk about.
Now, she realised, he’d been harbouring all the wrong impressions, seeing her as the villain of the piece. The dumper rather
than the dumpee. Seeing her possibly as some sort of flighty floozy who couldn’t, or wouldn’t stay the relationship course.
He’d probably built up this picture of his father, heartbroken at Zillah’s defection, weeping nightly over an ancient dog-eared
photograph, when of
course it had been exactly the other way round.
‘Hiya!’ Fern, bare legged in a short tight white skirt and an even tighter black T-shirt, bounced up beside her. ‘I’ve been
trying to catch you up ever since Hayfields. Have you been to see Lewis?’
Zillah nodded. She didn’t want Fern’s exuberant, vital company at the moment.
‘Thought so.’ Fern continued to grin, all big teeth and bursting-with-vitality glow. ‘He had a face like a smacked arse when
I passed him just now. Have you had a row?’
‘No,’ Zillah sighed. ‘Not really. Look, Fern, I don’t really want to talk about it, OK?’
‘Whatever,’ Fern beamed. ‘Was it about him and Sukie? Because if it was—’
‘Fern!’
‘Sorry.’ She looked anything but. ‘Off to work, are you?’
Zillah nodded.
‘Likely I’ll be your first customer, then. I’m going to quench my thirst, too. The Motions have just collected Win so I’ve
got a few hours free. It’s her work day for cleaning their brass this morning – you know how much she loves cleaning. She’d
do it for nothing, but we don’t let the Motions know that, of course. Miserable as sin because she had too much to drink last
night. I thought I’d be wrecked too, but I feel great – maybe Cassiopeia will answer me this year … Er – and perhaps I shouldn’t
be saying anything about it … Still, I had a great time. Did you? Oh, sorry again – you really don’t want to hear all this
do you?’
‘Not really.’
The Weasel and Bucket was waking up as they approached across the green. Timmy was unfurling the umbrellas over the trestles
and looked up, grinning at them both.
‘A sight for sore eyes! My two favourite ladies! Cassiopeia must have been working overtime last night.’
Zillah groaned quietly.
Fern giggled. ‘You must have read my mind, Timmy
Zillah looked at her – did Fern fancy Timmy, then? Surely not. He was an entire generation older than her and she’d never
given any indication … Well, she was always in the pub, of course, but that was because she had a healthy appetite for Andromeda
Ale and anything else alcoholic, and it was the village meeting place and – Fern? Fancying Timmy? No, surely not.
Well, it certainly wasn’t reciprocated, that was for sure. Poor Fern, poor Timmy, poor her – not to mention Lewis – what a
stupid mess this love stuff was.
Zillah watched Timmy as he straightened up, surveying the tables, checking that everything was shipshape for his lunchtime
clientele. Oh why, oh why couldn’t she be going to give him the answer he wanted.
‘OK, Zil?’
‘Fine,’ she tried to smile, to look natural. ‘Just tired.’
‘Not surprised,’ Timmy grinned. ‘It was a late finish. Good night, though.’
‘Timmy – can we talk?’
‘Course. Look, come on through to the kitchen and I’ll pour you something awash with ice cubes before the ravening hordes
start arriving.’ He stared up at the sky. ‘Forecast is for temperatures in the nineties today. Can’t be far off that now.’
‘Any chance of a quickie before you disappear?’ Fern chuckled.
‘That would be liquid refreshment, would it?’ Timmy beamed at her. ‘You wouldn’t be propositioning me, by any chance would
you?’
Fern blushed. ‘Me? Er – no – I mean, no – of course not. Er – I just thought if you and Zil were going to be talking I’d like
to get my drink in first and—’
‘Damn,’ Timmy gave a mock sigh. ‘For one minute there I thought my luck was in.’
Zillah frowned. Was he
flirting?
With
Fern?
What the heck was going on?
In the stiflingly hot kitchen, Amber replaced the telephone receiver, slipped far more coins than were necessary into the
gruesome shell-encrusted money box – a present from Teignmouth – and sighed.
Well, that was that, then. Every one of the agents she’d telephoned, who represented the old soul bands on her list, had told
her their clients were either dead, in detox, in prison, or ludicrously expensive to hire. Mona Jupp and Goff Briggs would
never fork out even the merest fraction of the cheapest fee she’d been quoted for live music on Harvest Moon.
‘What you want, doll,’ the last nasal voice with the irritating, rising-last-syllable inflection had informed her, ‘is a tribute
band? We can do you a nice line in soul tributes? How d’you fancy Beano Dashington and the Flim-Flam Band?’
‘Er – not a lot … Who are they tributing?’
‘Geno Washington and the Ram-Jam Band, doll? For heaven’s sake!’
Ah, yes, she’d heard of them. They were on her list culled from Zillah’s LP collection. She’d already phoned their contacts.
Still alive and touring but way, way too expensive. And she couldn’t, really couldn’t, inflict Fiddlesticks with someone who
wasn’t anyone calling themselves Beano.
‘They’re very good, doll?’ The nasal voice said inquiringly. ‘Beano is off the sauce now. And you can hardly notice his surgery.
And the rumours about the drummer and the all-girl marching band in that caravan at Cleethorpes were exaggerated. What do
you say?’
She’d said thanks but no thanks and hung up.
So, that was it. There was one number left on her list – but it was local. Winterbrook. Surely any entertainment agency working
in a backwater couldn’t offer anything better than those in London? She could hear the HHLL still
chattering shrilly in the library. Oh, why not.?