‘Oh, nice idea,’ Gwyneth sucked damp custard cream from her fingers. ‘Young Mitzi’s cornered the market in old-fashioned cookery
stuff. She won’t make no mistakes. She’ll be just right for the first of our big astral celebrations. I hope she remembers
to make a proper St Bedric’s cake. With green cheese.’
Mitzi Blessing, Zillah thought, hadn’t simply cornered the local foodie market, although of course there were still those
who were a bit reluctant to indulge in her kitchen-witch dishes thinking that some of the more, well, magical results after
eating them smacked of paganism; Mitzi had also cornered the Life After Fifty market too.
Zillah and Mitzi, being much of an age, had become good friends, and Zillah envied her not only the up-and-coming herbal cookery
business, but also her ability to sort out other people’s lives – not to mention her gorgeous and much younger lover.
As far as Zillah was concerned, Mitzi had it all.
‘I’m sure she will. Timmy says she’s got it all in hand.’
Zillah still looked slightly mutinous. ‘Although why there was so much fuss about his kebabs last year, I can’t imagine.’
‘Because it weren’t traditional food, that’s why.’ Ida guzzled the dregs of her tea. ‘We’ve always had green cheese for St
Bedric’s. It don’t do to tamper with the old ways. And giving people things on sticks when they’ve ’ad a pint or two is a
recipe for disaster. I’m surprised they didn’t ’ave someone’s eye out. You can’t go messing about with the old traditions.
Mind, you wouldn’t understand, being a newcomer.’
‘I’m not a bloody newcomer. I’ve lived in Fiddlesticks since 1976.’
‘Newcomer, as I say,’ Ida sniffed. ‘You has to be able to trace your ancestors back to the thirteenth century like we can
before you can say you really belong.’
‘Ida!’ Gwyneth shook her head. ‘Zil’s part of this village just like we are. No one bothers with all that old feudal stuff
any more.’
‘Well, they should,’ Ida huffed. ‘The moon and the stars don’t never change, do they? Year in, year out they’re always the
same. St Bedric was the first one to point that out round here. And it’ll be a full moon on Saturday which is just how it
should be. It’s what St Bedric’s Eve is all about, after all.’
‘Is it?’ Zillah raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought it was like all the other things we do here under the guise of celestial celebrations
– an opportunity to get roaring drunk and behave badly. And maybe I can’t trace my family back through the Fiddlesticks charters,
but I intend to have a good time on Saturday night anyway.’
Well, as long Amber stayed as far away from Lewis as possible.
Big Ida replaced her cup on the tray. ‘Course you will, my love. We all will. And even if you don’t
belong
here as such, me and Gwyneth are damn lucky to have you as a neighbour … Now I’m off to feed me chickens and see if they’ve
provided me with an egg for me dinner.’
They watched as Ida lumbered through the delphiniums and stepped heavily over the tumbledown fences towards her own garden.
‘Was that an apology for calling me an incomer?’ Zillah squinted at Gwyneth.
‘About as close as Ida gets to one, I reckon. She really should think before she speaks – but like her being careful with
her money, she ain’t going to change now. Her heart’s in the right place.’
‘So’s yours. And I’m lucky to have both of you. I wouldn’t have coped when I first came here without you.’
Both she and Gwyneth sat silently for a moment, remembering.
‘Ah, yes duck, but things have changed so much since those days, haven’t they? You’re fine now. And Lewis has—’
Zillah didn’t want to talk about Lewis. Not any more. And she certainly didn’t want to think about the past, and the awfulness
of her life when she’d arrived in Fiddlesticks. Not today. Not when everything was going so well.
She stood up quickly. ‘It’s time I was getting ready for work, anyway. It’s going to be another scorcher. Pity I’ve got to
be shut in the pub for hours.’
‘Get away with you.’ Gwyneth rolled the newspaper round the pea pods and reached down for the colander. ‘You love your job.
And your boss loves you.’
Zillah pulled a face. ‘Oh, please don’t start that again.’
‘You could do a lot worse than Timmy Pluckrose. He’s got a lot to offer a girl. A nice little pub, a pot of money in the bank
and all his own teeth.’
‘And that last bit is more than you can say about most men in Fiddlesticks. We’re in serious danger of becoming another Eastbourne.’
‘That’s why we need youngsters like you and Lewis to stay on and regenerate the village,’ Gwyneth chuckled. ‘Which is what,
according to you, he’s aiming to do.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’ Zillah, as always amused
that Gwyneth saw her as a mere slip of a girl despite being in her fifties, gathered up her skirts and stepped over the low
rickety fence separating her cottage from Gwyneth’s. ‘Ah well, better go and slap on the barmaid face and sort out yet another
bosom-revealing top – that’s if Ida had left me any skin worth revealing. I’ll, er, pop round later to see if Amber has arrived
safely, shall I?’
‘You mean to give her the once-over? Or more likely to make sure young Lewis hasn’t kidnapped her to add to his harem between
Reading and here?’
‘Something like that,’ Zillah sighed.
‘Zil, love, you shouldn’t worry about—’ Gwyneth stopped and cocked her head towards the cottage’s dark hallway. ‘Oh, is that
my phone?’
They both listened to the shrill trilling echoing from Moth Cottage.
‘Ah,’ Gwyneth raised her eyebrows at Zillah. ‘It is. Blimey O’Reilly, Zil, this could be her, couldn’t it? Young Amber? To
say she’s on her way here. I’ll have to ring Lewis and let him know he’d better make tracks for Reading. Ooooh, mind out of
the way Pike, lad, I’m all of a tither and pop!’
Zillah watched Gwyneth and Pike trot excitedly indoors to answer the phone call, then walked into the cool gloominess of Chrysalis
Cottage with a very heavy heart.
Goodmorning Starshine
Having eventually catapulted stickily from the train and negotiated Reading station’s lifts, stairs, ramps and turnstiles
with the help of a stocky girl with a lot of nose studs and tattooed biceps like Arnie, who had hefted the towering trolley
one-handed, Amber blinked in the dazzling sunshine.
Not for the first time that day she wished she hadn’t left her to-die-for designer sunglasses tucked away in one of the heavily-zipped
holdalls.
Her mountain of luggage had been deposited outside a small newsagents and she perched on the nearest suitcase to wait in a
prominent position at the entrance to the station’s concourse as Gwyneth had instructed.
Some local taxi driver was going to pick her up shortly, Gwyneth had said. Well, no she hadn’t said he was a taxi driver as
such, but that’s what she must have meant. And she’d called him Lewis.
They must refer to people by their surnames down here, Amber thought. Would he be like his namesake, Morse’s sidekick? She
decided he would: a sort of ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged rustic who probably ran the local garage and taxi-service and was the
funeral director as well. With a tweed jacket with leather patches on the
elbows and possibly a cap and a pipe – oh, yes – definitely a pipe.
Well no, maybe not the jacket and cap, Amber rethought, as perspiration started to prickle her scalp. It must be in the 90s.
Even if he was in his dotage and thin-blooded, with these temperatures Lewis would probably be wearing a sweat-stained singlet
and reek of sheep and other strange countrified odours.
During the shouted and rather odd phone call to Gwyneth which she’d shared with the businessman, the large T-shirt lady and
the curry-eaters, Amber hadn’t managed to ask how she’d recognise Lewis. And Gwyneth hadn’t described him at all. She’d simply
asked Amber what she was wearing so that she could write it down and pass it on to Lewis so’s he’d recognise her.
Gwyneth had clearly taken down Amber’s answers then chuckled throatily down the phone. ‘And you’ve got long blonde hair? And
you’re very pretty?’
‘Well, my hair is longish and blondish, yes – but pretty?’ Amber had stopped. She was OK-ish. Passable. With makeup and her
hair done she could almost look glamorous. ‘No … no, I wouldn’t say pretty. Just – well – normal. Like most people …’
‘Don’t be coy, duck,’ Gwyneth had chuckled. ‘If you takes after your Gran then you’ll be a proper bobbydazzler. And believe
me, if you’re wearing, er, let me see, a short denim skirt and a vesty thing and pink suede slouch boots – whatever they might
be and I must say I can’t wait to find out – then Lewis will spot you a mile off, duck. Take care of yourself, and I’ll be
seeing you really soon. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘So am I,’ Amber had muttered, because it would have been rude not to. ‘And thank you.’
So here she was, very hot and very tired, waiting for Lewis the taxi driver like a modern-day David Copperfield, another book
she’d done at school and really loved, and convinced now that he was not only the local
jack-of-all-trades but also some sort of ancient lecher. He was probably going to try and grope her legs and peer lasciviously
down her top and – oh well, Amber sighed. After the intimacies of the train journey, she felt she could cope with anything.
And she’d simply slap him if he got too frisky.
She still wished they’d arranged to have name cards like at airports so there’d be no mistake.
It was so hot. The sky was brazen. The sun bounced relentlessly from the rooftops, dazzled from shimmering cars, and scorched
the ground. Amber wondered if she could leave her heap of worldly goods and nip into the newsagents for a bottle of water.
No, on second thoughts, probably not. She really hoped Lewis wouldn’t be long.
Reading, or what she could see of it from the station’s entrance, looked promising though. Everyone was dressed glossy-mag
fashionably, and there seemed to be a mass of shopping opportunities along the not-too-distant maze of city centre streets.
If Fiddlesticks really proved to be the end of the world then Reading would definitely offer some salvation. There was clearly
shopping and possibly clubbing to be had, and maybe, when she’d fully recovered from Jamie being a two-timing spineless commitmentphobe,
there may even be men, or at least
a
man, who might make her forget all the heartache.
Blimey! Talk of the devil.
The man thrusting his way through the crowds towards the station was absolutely stunning. Amber peered into the quivering
brilliance. Was he real? Surely not. Maybe he was a mirage? After all, she’d been standing here for ages in the broiling sun.
Mind you, he looked real enough.
Amber smiled to herself as he came closer. Yep. Definitely real. If this was an example of Reading’s male population, then
Jamie’s memory would be wiped out in
a nanosecond. She squinted again, unable to believe her eyes.
This devastating vision of male beauty was a true havoc-maker.
All female – and a few male – heads turned as he walked across the mock cobbles towards the railway station’s entrance.
Tall, lean, tanned, tousled layers of longish brown hair, huge dark eyes … Amber drank him in. If only Jemma and Emma and
Kelly and Bex could be here now. They’d rate him way, way off their male-lust Richter scale.
His T-shirt was much washed and thin and couldn’t disguise his superb body; his faded jeans were second-skintight and torn
in a sort of well-worn way that not even the top designers could achieve.
Blimey again – he was fit!
It was exactly as if her mother’s long-adored Jim Morrison poster had come to glorious living, breathing reality.
And – blimey yet again! – he was walking towards her!
‘Hi,’ he grinned at her, his eyes flicking over her in a practised way. ‘You must be Amber. Gwyneth said you’d be waiting
outside the shop. Jesus! Is all that luggage yours? How long do you reckon on staying?’
Amber opened her mouth but no sound emerged. His voice was deep and warm and hinted at laughter. It was also soft-edged and
southern. What on earth would she sound like to him? Foreign? Harsh? Northern-shrill?
‘I’m Lewis Flanagan,’ he held out a slender brown hand. ‘I think you’re expecting me.’
Oh no she wasn’t. Far, far from it. Too stunned by his beauty to remember the niceties, Amber ignored his hand and tried to
kick-start her brain. Her accent was the least of her problems right now.
‘Er – um – yes. That is … No … I mean … This is my luggage – er, the heavy stuff, like the telly and things, went separately
and, er, yes, I’m Amber Parslowe.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Lewis grinned again. His teeth were very white and – endearingly – slightly crooked. ‘I can manage the
suitcases in one trip – do you want to hang on while I bring the truck down here for the rest?’
‘I, er, think I’ll be able to carry them.’
‘Great. It’s not far. If you take the holdall and those squashy ones, and all your glossy magazines and –’ he laughed ‘– that
industrial size vanity case thing. I’ll do the heavy stuff. OK?’
Amber nodded. Intelligent words seemed to be way beyond her capabilities. Instead she watched as Lewis made short work of
hefting her bulging suitcases away up the cobbled incline, her heart sinking to the bottom of her pink suede slouch boots.
She might fancy Lewis like mad, but there had been no reciprocal spark in his eyes, his smile or his body language.
He’d been friendly and polite – and totally disinterested.
Maybe he was gay, Amber thought, as she heaved the holdall strap on to her shoulder and followed him beneath the glare of
the unrelenting sun. And then again, maybe he wasn’t.
Oooh, damn. There was nothing more humiliating than being rebuffed before you’d even got past the opening flirt.
The truck, parked at the top of the cobbled incline in a no-waiting area, turned out to be a sort of minibus painted in bright
primary colours and with the words ‘Hayfields Tribe On Tour’ embossed across the sides.
Amber looked at it in trepidation. Was it some sort of tour bus? Was Hayfields the rustic equivalent of Cold Play? Clearly
Lewis’s resemblance to Jim Morrison wasn’t merely a coincidence. She was probably going to make her entrance to Fiddlesticks
knee-deep in discarded groupies.