Read The Moon Spun Round Online
Authors: Elenor Gill
The Moon Spun Round
For the women who have died for their beliefs and for those who continue to suffer persecution because they dare to seek for truth by the light of a different candle.
Blessed be.
THE CHANGING PHASES OF THE MOON
The cycle begins with the
new moon
, a slim crescent of light which, in approximately one week, waxes to a half-disc. The next phase is known as the
first quarter
, during which the ripening body swells to a full circle. During the third phase, the
full moon
, the orb immediately begins to wane. In the
last quarter
, her light recedes to a narrow arc, mirroring the line which first appeared. These are the four phases of the moon—although, strictly speaking, there is a another phase, those few days at the end of the last quarter, before the new moon appears, when her face is completely shadowed by the Earth. This period is known as the
dark of the moon
.
Astronomers tell us that lunar phases, as seen from Earth, are determined by the portion of the moon’s surface visibly illuminated by the sun. It is this that makes the moon appear to wax from new to full, then wane again into darkness. Long before there were scientists to provide explanations, men were aware of the effect but knew nothing of its cause. In innocence, they watched and trembled as their Goddess died and was reborn.
Part One
One
The cat went here and the cat went there
,
And the moon spun round like a top
,
And the nearest kin of the moon
,
The creeping cat, looked up
.
‘The Cat and the Moon’
W.B. Yeats
Mid-September 2006
T
RY NOT TO FEEL
too disappointed, my love,’ he says. ‘I’ll get away first thing, no matter what. Absolutely. Promise. Be with you before lunch.’ And then he hangs up.
‘Try not to feel too disappointed,’ she mimics his voice. ‘Or, if you’re disappointed, don’t tell me about it—isn’t that what you mean? Well, I’m not exactly disappointed, Jonathan. More like bloody pissed off.’ And something else, but best not to go there. Sally pushes her fingers through her hair. Jonathan would say she was being irrational as usual. So where in the marriage contract does it say anything about rational? Probably in the small print. Always read the small print, Dad used to say.
‘He’s right, of course, we’re both mature adults. These things happen in most marriages, if people are honest. And I’m trying to be honest—well, one of us has to be. So what’s wrong with a few hysterical outbursts, anyway? Perhaps it’s my way of coping. That’s what you therapists call it, isn’t it, Jonathan?
What’s all that other psycho-shit you’re always throwing at me? Something about learning to move on? Taking responsibility for your own feelings? Look, I’m trying, aren’t I? I said I’d come on this lousy weekend. I’ve driven all this way,
and
found us some supper. The least you could do is turn up.’
She realizes she’s been shouting at an empty room. Who else is going to hear her? Well, only the woman from the house at the corner, and that’s several hundred, mud-clogged yards away. She’d been loading straw stuff onto a truck when Sally had stopped to ask the way. Nice woman. What was her name? Abbie? Said she might call in after she’d seen to the horses. And what would she be greeted with? Some maniac yelling at the walls.
Sally walks back through the hall to the kitchen where she’d dumped the box of groceries on the table.
So why did he wait till I got all the way here? What’s wrong with the mobile? We could both have stayed at home and come up together in the morning. This was all his idea, anyway. ‘Let’s have a quiet weekend in the country, just the two of us. Make a fresh start, put the whole incident into perspective.’
She rummages in her bag and retrieves her mobile. Yes, it seems to be working. No messages. Defeated, she struggles out of her coat, throwing it over the back of a rocking chair, rubs at the mud splatters on her new skirt and succeeds in making the stains worse. Then she makes a quick inventory of the room and lets out a long, low whistle.
‘You’ll have no trouble finding it.’ He’d sketched out a map. ‘It’s straight out of London, up the M11, turn onto the A11 and the Newmarket bypass, heading for Bury St Edmonds. Hallowfield village is just over the Suffolk border, about two miles past Newmarket on the left. It’s well signposted—you can’t miss it. You can get settled in and I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ll get away as soon as the meeting’s over. You know what Friday afternoons are like. Don’t worry, you’re going to love it.’
He was certainly right about her not being able to miss it. As she turned off the main road, the Hallowfield sign seemed to leap out straight in front of the car. She’d had to swerve sharply and slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into it. Stupid place to leave a signpost. It was obvious from the chipped bricks on the base that she wasn’t the first motorist to be ambushed. Then a painted sign politely informed her that Hallowfield welcomed careful drivers.
Tall hedgerows flanked the roadsides and autumn sunshine sprayed the trees with gold. There must have been some recent rain. Puddles at the roadside
snatched blue from the sky, and muddy tyre tracks traced the path of farm vehicles across the road as if giant snails had crawled out of the fields. Sally wound the window down. Fresh air and that sour tang of decay that told of Harvest Home and stubble rotting back into the earth. It made her think about school days and the morning assembly table laden with fruit and harvest loaves. All is safely gathered in.
She drove on. A scattering of old houses dozed in the afternoon sun and a postman, wobbling on a bicycle, waved as she passed. When you live in London you start to believe that’s all there is, a vast unending city. It’s easy to forget this other world beyond the M25. This is how most—well, a lot of—English people live. Perhaps Jonathan was right. They needed some space, needed to breathe.
The road suddenly divided, opening up around a triangle of grass. The village green? Yes, with a duck pond and an ancient oak tree. Some sort of tree, anyway, big and old. She pulled into the kerb outside a row of shops to take another look at Jonathan’s piece of paper. According to his map she would have to see a church. Yes, there it was, its tower rising up behind the shops and no obvious way to get to it. No sign of Wicker Lane: she’d have to ask directions. Perhaps one of the shopkeepers?
It was a basic assortment. A general grocery store next door to a teashop, then a post office, a hardware store and a Chinese takeaway, its neon window signs incongruous under the sagging thatched roof. Most of the buildings were of flint stone, like large, flaked pebbles stuck in cement, with red brick to edge the corners and ancient wooden beams woven into the stone to support windows and doorways. A film-set village, straight out of an advert for real ale. A pub? Of course, there it was across the road—the Green Man. And another one further along. Well, two pubs and a Chinese takeaway, that takes care of the nightlife. There was no one around, as if all the villagers had seen her coming and gone into hiding. Sally decided to try the general store: at least the door was open and there was a light on inside.
The directions she was given were easy to follow and she found where Wicker Lane ought to be, only it wasn’t a lane, just a muddy track clogged with long grass. The woman loading the straw outside the corner house assured her Stonewater Cottage was only a few yards further on. Her renewed optimism began to deflate when the car nearly sank into the mud. That’s how she ruined her new skirt, looking to see how far down the wheel had gone. But the car had moved and the lane had curved and suddenly there it was and she had forgiven the traffic, the signpost, the mud. And she’d nearly forgiven Jonathan. Nearly.
There was a large gravelled lay-by outside the fence, enough to take several
cars and still allow space to turn around. There hadn’t been much time to admire the outside. As she struggled with the box of groceries and the key, a telephone started ringing somewhere deep inside the house. She never could ignore a ringing telephone, had some vague fear about it being the one call that would change the rest of her life. Only who was going to call her here? She hadn’t been the least surprised to find that the front door opened straight into the kitchen and managed to dump the shopping on the table before running to the telephone, which was, of course, in the hall. The caller turned out to be Jonathan.
Now she’s in the kitchen again. It’s an enormous room, and all that provincial stripped pine is a little overstated but straight out of the glossies. Her admiration sags slightly when she spots the shiny, black, wood-burning stove, then remembers Jonathan saying that it’s actually a gas-driven Aga that supplies all the hot water and heating. She moves instinctively through the central hallway and into the living room, her hands caressing polished wood and latticed glass cupboards set against white painted walls. The low, dark-beamed ceiling lends a softness to the room, making the billowing sofas and tapestry cushions even more inviting. Everything looks new and fresh, untouched.
‘I think I could live here.’ Sally’s aware of a subtle seduction and is ready to collude with it. She allows herself to be led into the back room, ignoring another door she knows to be a broom cupboard. Yes, this little room would make a perfect office. There’s space for her desk and computer, and her drawing board could stand in the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun. She could learn to arrange dried flowers in cracked vases and plant spring bulbs. ‘Hey, now, come on. We’re only here for the weekend.’ She checks the other door and it
is
a broom cupboard. Another glass-panelled door leads from the hall to the outside. Through it she can see the ragged remains of a garden.