The Moon Spun Round (15 page)

Suddenly it’s over. Sally stands breathless, gasping. The music is silent, or was it only inside her head? ‘What the hell am I doing, Cat?’

But Cat, as always, says nothing. She is beside the pool, studying the surface with such intensity that Sally feels prompted to join her. Kneeling on the grass, she pulls off the gloves and dips her fingers into the water. They burn with cold, but she forces her hand to stay, pushing it deeper, up to her wrist. A flash of light. Something glints in the water as if it catches the rays of the moon. And yet the
moon, now almost to the horizon, is hidden from the clearing. But somehow its light still fills the water and somehow it catches on her rings; the wedding band and the solitary diamond Jonathan had given her. Till death do us part, they had said. But it wasn’t his death that had parted them, was it? Not really. And she still wears his rings to remind her.

The moon knows all about what he did.

‘I don’t know what you want,’ she whispers to the moon. ‘Tell me what to do.’

She hears the voice inside her head. It could be a woman’s voice, a voice of kindness.
Let go, Sally
, it says.
It’s time to let go
.

Her hand is cold and wet, the blood drained from her fingers. The rings slip off easily. She drops them into the water, watching them spin to the bottom. Her hand feels suddenly clean and free. It is a sensation that spreads through her limbs and into the core of her.

After a moment, she stands and wipes her hands on her coat, fumbling into her gloves. Cat is already waiting to leave, and they walk back along the trail in silence. As she emerges from the trees, Sally feels lighter. The sky is already growing pale, and across the fields towards the roadway there are pink and purple streaks of light above the hedgerows.

If only she could rid herself of that other thing, the thing about the clock and the rocking chair.

And the cat.

T
HE COTTAGE IS WARM
, which makes Sally aware of how cold she is. She removes her coat and sleeping gear, the trousers of which are now soaking and covered with mud, and wraps herself in a dressing gown, then goes downstairs again and makes a cup of tea. A glance at the clock tells her it has gone seven, so there’s little point in going back to bed. She feels strangely disorientated and out of rhythm with the time of day. What the hell was she thinking of? Probably catch pneumonia—serve her right. Still shivering, she takes her tea over to the Aga and sits in the rocking chair. She goes over what’s happened since she first woke up. Her going out in the cold, the moon…the whole thing makes no sense. Perhaps she’s suffering from some sort of delayed reaction to Jonathan’s death. What are the standard phases of grieving? I’ve been through disbelief, she thinks, denial, anger. Now I’m into dancing in the moonlight and throwing my wedding rings in a pond. Perhaps I’m going round the twist. Yes, that must be it. Although she doesn’t think so. In fact she feels remarkably stable, despite her inability to comprehend the situation. Also she feels—well, sort of clean, as if she has immersed her whole body in the water. A sort of baptism. Yes, going round the twist, definitely. Yet, when she does stir from the chair with the intention of taking a shower, she changes her mind and simply pulls on some clothes. There’s something about the way she feels that she doesn’t want to be washed away too soon.

The morning moves slowly. A bit of house tidying, breakfast for Cat, and some toast and peanut butter for herself. Then she makes more toast, realizing she’s hungry. Freshly ground coffee and a slice of banana cake—very hungry.
Cat also cleans her plate, then curls up on her favourite armchair preparing to sleep until noon as usual. Meanwhile Sally can’t settle to anything. She tries turning on the computer and checking her emails. A few need replies, but they can wait until later. There’s a project she’s working on for a local antique furniture restorer, some house-to-house leaflets, and her old boss has pleaded with her to look after one of her former customers, a national car dealer who particularly requested her services. But she can’t set her mind to anything. Eventually she gives up trying and decides to walk into the village; she might even call in at the shop. Perhaps a little exercise and some normal human contact will put her straight.

The window is framed with strings of coloured lights, the words
Merry Xmas
written across the glass in sprayed-on snow, along with a stencilled sleigh and reindeer. Inside, the shop is fully geared up for the festive season, shelves laden with Christmas goodies, crackers and cards, puddings and mince pies. Every available inch is crammed with extra stock so that customers are obliged to weave through an obstacle course, while above them red and green streamers criss-cross the ceiling and balloons bounce on their heads. This is obviously the commercial opportunity of the year.

Sally puts a few items in the basket and goes to the till. There are already two customers ahead of her, which for Hallowfield qualifies as a commercial rush. Jack, Ruth’s husband, is serving behind the counter, and he nods to Sally as she joins the end of the queue. He’s not as quick as Ruth, but everyone seems happy to stand around and chat: a visit to the local shop is always more of a social occasion. Sally has been cornered by a member of the Women’s Institute who is sizing her up as a potential new member. She’s trying to think of a polite way to decline. Participating in village life is all well and good, but this, she thinks, is where I draw the line. She’s thankful when Abbie comes up behind her.

‘Hi there. Icing the Christmas cake,’ she indicates her basket, which contains a plastic Father Christmas and a gold cake frill. ‘Made the thing ages ago, of course. Was intending to decorate it this morning, but I can’t find the damn decorations. I know I put them away safely last year, but God knows where. Probably find them on Boxing Day. What are you up to?’

‘Came out for a walk really. But I thought I ought to get some Christmas cards organized.’

Abbie looks at the box of assorted cards in Sally’s basket. ‘Robins and snow
scenes, eh? Bad as my plastic Santa. Thought you would have gone for something chic and understated.’

‘I probably would have, but they only seem to stock overstated and retro,’ Sally whispers. ‘I think these are rather kitsch, but they might set a new trend. God, it’s cold out this morning.’

‘Not as bad as it was at six o’clock. This time of year I wonder why I ever took up horse riding. I envy you—tucked up in your bed until after eight, I bet’

‘Well, no, actually I was outside early too. Have you got a minute?’

‘Yes, sure. You look worried.’

‘Not really, it’s just—I feel like a chat’

‘Right Let’s get this lot paid for, then go next door for coffee.’

Suddenly Sally finds herself at the front of the queue and Jack is smiling at her. ‘Morning, Mrs Crawford.’ As he speaks her name, it jars through her head like a knife scraping on china.

‘No, it’s Lavender. Sally Lavender.’ As the words come out, Sally is as surprised as Jack and Abbie. ‘I…I’ve decided to revert to my maiden name. But, Jack, please call me Sally. It feels friendlier.’

‘Certainly, Mrs…er, Sally. Do you need some stamps for these?’

‘That would be great. About twenty should do it. No Ruth today?’

‘She’s next door,’ Jack smiles at Abbie, winks and taps the side of his nose, ‘serving tea.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Abbie, in turn, gives him a knowing look. ‘Well, we’re going in for a coffee, but we won’t disturb her if she’s busy.’

Most of the tables in the teashop are taken, but they find one that’s unoccupied, probably because it’s set apart, tucked in a corner to one side of the counter. Almost immediately a girl with spiky hair and a metal ring through her eyebrow comes over to say hello to Abbie and take their order. That done, Abbie turns her attention back to Sally.

‘What’s all this about you changing your name?’

‘Not changing it really, just going back to who I was.’

‘Sally Lavender? It’s unusual. I like it, although…Only, well I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but women often revert to their maiden name after a divorce. It’s not customary for widows to drop their husband’s name.’

‘Bit of an impulse, really. But to be honest I never felt comfortable with Mrs Crawford. Sounds very starchy. Whereas Sally Lavender sounds…’

‘Like something out of a storybook?’

‘Yes, I suppose it does. But it’s easy to remember, so I think it’s a good move professionally.’

The girl returns, bringing them coffee and apple strudel.

‘So, what’s Ruth up to, if I’m allowed to ask?’ Sally tucks into the pastry as if she hasn’t eaten for a week.

‘She’s over there with a client.’ Abbie nods to the far corner where, seated at a small table, Ruth is deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman. ‘We’d better not interrupt her.’

‘A client? What sort of client?’

‘Oh, you probably don’t know, do you? Ruth is a clairvoyant. She reads tea leaves.’

‘She does
what?
’

‘Reads tea leaves. Well, of course she doesn’t actually read the leaves, they’re only a prop. Ruth’s exceptionally gifted. But you know how strange people are: women who wouldn’t dream of going to a psychic counsellor think nothing of having their tea leaves read. I suppose it’s because if they don’t like what they hear they can persuade themselves it was just a bit of fun.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sally puts down her fork, ‘but you’re going to have to run all that past me again. You say Ruth is a clairvoyant?’

‘That’s right. Do you know anything about clairvoyance?’

‘Sort of. Fortune telling, isn’t it? Palmistry, crystal balls, all that sort of thing.’

‘More or less. Only, most of those things are just a means of focusing the mind. Usually a good clairvoyant doesn’t really need them, but somehow it helps the client to feel more comfortable with the reading. People who are new to this get really spooked if the reader suddenly starts relaying information out of thin air. But, for some strange reason, the idea of their Mr Right appearing in the bottom of a teacup seems perfectly acceptable. I know that’s not logical, but most people aren’t, are they? Logical, I mean.’

‘And she gives readings to the customers? Here in the café?’

‘Not always. She does take private appointments, but some people find that a bit daunting. It’s easier to call in casually for a cup of tea and ask her to do a reading.’

‘So, the performance with the teacup is just to impress the customers?’

‘Not entirely, no. I think, to some extent, it must help Ruth to sort of tune into the client’s wavelength. You’ll have to ask her about it.’

‘But Ruth knows everything about everyone. She’s the biggest gossip in the village.’

Abbie smiles. ‘Yes, that’s what she likes everyone to think. It’s all an act, of course.’

Sally shakes her head in disbelief. ‘The first time I walked in here I was met by a barrage of questions. She knew all about me within five minutes.’

‘Yes, but did you actually answer any of those questions? In fact, have you ever told her anything about yourself? No, I bet you haven’t. Ruth talks a lot, she knows a lot, but she asks questions, then answers them herself. And she never listens to gossip. It’s very clever, the way she does it.’

Sally has to think about this. While she sips her coffee she takes surreptitious glances at Ruth, who is turning the teacup in her hands while her client nods her head. A thought occurs to her.

‘Abbie, you know the spring and the pool in my garden? You said that several of the village women go there. I know about Naomi, that she takes the water and what she uses it for. She said that Ruth goes there, too. Why does Ruth need the water? What does she use it for?’

‘As I think I told you, the water seems to have healing properties, for the mind at least—maybe for the body as well. People usually go for psychic counselling when they’re troubled. That’s what the water’s for. She uses it to make the tea.’

‘Oh.’ Sally looks down into her cup.