The Garden of Stars Read online

  I couldn’t believe I’d left myself and Rosie so exposed to discovery and vowed to keep my head down from that point on. At the end of the day, it was our lives I was trying to protect, not the rest of the town.

  I spent the next three days moping around the cottage. No one from Ivory Meadows came to see me, and I couldn’t help but feel I was perhaps just making the situation worse for myself by steering clear of the community. As far as I was concerned I had nothing to hide but I knew my absence would be viewed as an admission of guilt.

  I had not given Rosie the full details of why I was at home, and keeping her off school. I told her I was feeling sick and didn’t want to see anyone. She was delighted as it meant we had more time to spend together. But somehow I really didn’t feel like playing games, dancing, and laughing like we normally did. Fortunately, Rosie’s previous interrogation had now ceased and she was back to being my lovely, caring daughter again, doing all she could, once again, to look after her mum and make her feel better.

  I kept myself locked away during daylight hours, only stepping out in the cool crisp moonlit nights for a breath of fresh air, and to try to come to terms with the gravity of my situation. I barely slept in any case. Tonight, outside in the cold night air, an eldritch light glowed all over the cottage, illuminating its white-washed walls. I looked up to see the moon but the sky was dark and hazy. The light seemed to come from something else, something strange and unearthly. It made the trees look like eerie figures, with long spindly fingers outstretched over the house. Were they protecting or attacking us?

  I rebuked myself for getting caught up in Miss Metford’s meddlesome delusions. Surely it was just my eyes playing tricks with me.

  Or was Miss Metford, and indeed the mayor, right after all? No, that was just a drunken, crazy night, and to be honest I’d been quite flattered by the fact she thought me capable of magic. It felt nice to be a ‘couple of silly old witches’ but I only went along with it because it felt good to be part of a team again. The reality was that what she had said was nonsense. For all that I rather liked Miss Metford’s robust eccentricity, I couldn’t help but feel it wouldn’t do Rosie or me good to spend much time with her now.

  I looked back up again and the cottage and the gruesome trees had gone back to normal once more. Rosie was staring down at me from the upstairs window. Her pale face looked doll-like with her golden hair tied back behind her head. It looked as though she’d stepped into an ancient sepia photograph. Unnerved, I ran back indoors to check on her.

  I was upset. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was afraid to even cook anything as my mother had always told me only to cook when you feel happy because your mood will always come through the food. I’d tried making an egg mayonnaise sandwich but, without thinking, undercooked the eggs and their yolks had spilled everywhere. I sat with my head in my hands. I was crying over spilled eggs and there was nothing I could do to stop. Maybe I should have stayed in London and gone back to my old job in PR. At least there I was successful; I was wanted.

  There was a knock at the door. It made me jump. No one had ventured near me since the day I’d retreated home. I was all of a panic, not knowing what to do. Before I’d even had the chance to work out my actions, the door was opened and Miss Metford flounced in.

  ‘Hello, Viv dear, thought you might need a little tot of gin and some pigeon pie,’ she said, waving a bottle in front of my face.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said, both relieved that it wasn’t the press, police, or vicar but frustrated as I no longer wanted to associate myself with the old witch on the hill; it had caused me enough trouble as it was. How had I been so careless as to leave the door unlocked?

  ‘Well that’s nice,’ she said, plonking herself down on a chair next to me and lighting a cigarette. ‘I go to all this trouble cooking, I don’t normally cook you know, and that’s the thanks I get.

  ‘Don’t try to interrupt me, Vivian. I know you’ve been advised to stay away from me, but I’ve been watching you and frankly I think you could do with a friend. And a decent supper.’

  At this, she pulled a dead bird out of her bag and emptied the rest of the contents onto the work surface. Just at that moment, Rosie raced into the kitchen, coming to an abrupt halt as soon as she saw what Miss Metford was proposing for dinner.

  ‘You’re surely not going to cook that here, are you?’ I asked, barely believing my eyes.

  ‘You try to stop me, young lady. My father always used to make pigeon pie for us when times were hard. I’ve even dug out his old recipe to follow. Now let me see, “pluck, singe and draw the pigeon”.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Rosie, a look of sheer awe and amazement in her eyes as she watched Mary begin to prepare the bird. The two of them had started to become close over the last few weeks and it seemed a shame to deprive my daughter of a little fun. She’d had to put up with living with a grumpy mum in isolation for too long.

  And I knew Mary was right, I did need a friend.

  Despite Rosie’s many questions and Mary’s rather over-indulgent explanations, I still had to turn away as feathers flew everywhere in the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Mary continued, ‘he doesn’t look too bad, does he, Viv?’ she said, shoving a scrawny, bald bird under my face.

  ‘Shot him on my way down to you so he’s as fresh as morning dew. Right, now “wash under cold running water”. Think I can manage that, eh, Viv? Especially as you don’t have any hot.’

  It was a problem at the cottage I’d been meaning to sort out for weeks.

  ‘Now, “remove flesh”. Where’s your cleaver?’

  ‘I don’t have one I’m afraid, Mary.’

  ‘I’ll have to make do with a normal knife then. Good job I’m a strong old bird myself, eh?’

  Eventually, I turned and watched as she struggled with the poor, decapitated pigeon. Somehow I no longer felt like eating.

  ‘Right, think that’s done it.’ There was a miniscule amount of meat left on the chopping board. I had to smile.

  ‘Just going to boil him up now for twenty minutes while I make the pastry. Where’s your flour?’

  I pointed her in the right direction and within no time the place was covered in white dust, as if it had been left untouched for centuries. Rosie looked like a little street urchin and Mary herself looked as white as a shrouded woman. I had to laugh. It felt good; it was the first time I’d laughed in almost a week.

  ‘Would you like some help, Mary?’

  ‘No, I’m quite capable, thank you, dear. I have cooked in my time, you know. Or at least I did once or twice.’ She shot me one of her devilish grins. There was something irresistibly impudent about her.

  ‘I think that pastry will do,’ she said, trying to run the gloopy mixture between her fingers.

  ‘Is that really how it’s supposed to look?’ Rosie mouthed to me across the kitchen.

  I kept my lips sealed, trying desperately not to erupt into giggles with my daughter, who had her impish grin back again.

  ‘I’ll just dig out your casserole dish, here it is. And, as you can see, I’ve already taken the liberty of trimming some herbs out of your garden. Basil to stimulate your brain, stop you sitting here all weepy, and coriander to beat your apathy. I want to see a bit more vigour in you, girl.

  ‘Sprinkle those on the top with a little of the pigeon stock. Cover with pastry, ummn, like so, and pop him in the oven. There, easy. Now let’s have a drink to our culinary success.’ She poured two large gins. I fetched a glass of milk for Rosie.

  ‘We haven’t tried it yet,’ I sheepishly told her.

  ‘All the more reason for numbing the taste buds first, my dear,’ she said, then cackled with laughter.

  That was it, all three of us laughed until our sides felt sore. Well, not quite as sore as we were likely to feel after we’d eaten her ill-fated pigeon.

  ‘You know,’ said Miss Metford, as she poured another gin after ‘dinner’, ‘I’ve also got one of father’s recipes here f
or stewed eels.’

  This time both Rosie and I screwed up our noses. From what we’d eaten so far, Mary’s meals were clearly something of an acquired taste – and not one either of us really banked on acquiring. That said, Rosie had tucked in wholeheartedly, I think simply because she didn’t want to offend her dear, elderly friend.

  Mary seemed not to notice and instead carried on in her usual oblivious fashion. ‘They’re quite a delicacy, you know and popular in years gone by in this area,’ she told us.

  ‘Father served them with mushrooms, parsley, onions, sherry, Worcestershire sauce, and lemon juice and he topped the whole thing off with slices of hard-boiled egg and pastry.’

  ‘It does actually sound half decent, Mary, but after tonight, I think you should maybe put your culinary endeavours on hold again for another few years. No offence, of course.’

  ‘None taken. Never liked cooking anyway,’ she grunted, and we all laughed again.

  Heartened by the previous night’s meal, or perhaps looking for something a little more satisfying, Rosie went into the freezer the following morning and found a lamb casserole and cherry pie, which she defrosted and stuck in the oven for dinner. The smells of last summer drifted up the winding stairs and into my bedroom, where I had been taking a nap. It stirred all those feelings of love, warmth, and tenderness I’d felt both for Rosie and the town when I’d been baking frantically. Looking back I’d sensed then I was in for a hard winter but had been so caught up in the campaign and controversy, had failed to realise this was it. I wandered downstairs to find Rosie had laid our battered little kitchen table with a pretty rose-print cloth and had placed a bowl of fruit in the centre for decoration. Somehow the room felt warmer than it had done for days and, touched, I took the casserole out of the oven and began ladling big spoonfuls into our bowls. We ate in silence but towards the end I felt my cheeks beginning to burn with vitality and good health. Rosie just smiled her smile of pure sunshine. She seemed very much older than her years in so many ways.

  As we tucked into the sweet but tart cherry pie, I let the juices dribble down my chin, remembering how they’d stained my hands red with the vigour of my cooking endeavours. It had been worthwhile after all. Suddenly Rosie yelped. She’d bitten her tongue by trying to eat too quickly. I touched her cheek and smilingly rebuked her, ‘You must have recently told a lie.’

  She looked at me solemnly, put down her spoon and said: ‘Not me, Mummy, you.’

  ‘What do you mean, Rosie?’

  ‘Mummy, you haven’t been honest with me about why you’re off work and I’m off school. I know when you’re sick because I can feel it in my tummy,’ she said, patting her stomach, ‘and the feeling I have now is much more in my throat. I think you’re sad about something but you won’t share it with me.’

  I bowed my head in shame. How could I have been so foolish as to think I could hide something like this from a child as intuitive as my daughter?

  ‘Rosie, I’ll tell you the truth. The only reason I haven’t before is that I wanted to try to protect you. I realise now I’m probably putting you in greater danger by not letting you know what’s been going on.

  ‘The truth is, love, well, it’s …’

  ‘Just tell me, Mummy, I’m not afraid. Is it about my daddy?’

  Her daddy. I hadn’t even considered him. Because I hadn’t heard anything of him since the vicar first mentioned ‘a strange man’ months ago, I’d thought it was a fluke, or that perhaps Mr Baker was bluffing for his own benefit. For weeks I’d been watching my back, keeping my cards close to my chest in case he showed up.

  But he hadn’t, so I’d decided to turn a blind eye and get on with my life. With Mary Metford onside, I felt I did have someone who might stand up to him for me if push came to shove. But now, everything had changed. I didn’t feel so strong any more. If my face hit the newspapers he’d be sure to find us out and come and grab Rosie. I did, however, know Rosie was finding life difficult and confusing without her father around.

  ‘No, Rosie, this has nothing to do with your father,’ I said, trying to compose myself, ready to tell her the already devastating news I had.

  ‘This is all to do with me. You see, although we’ve been here for a couple of months now, we’re still seen as the new people in town. Some people, like Mr Shaw, whose house recently burnt down, some people like him have families who have been here for generations, for hundreds of years. They don’t take kindly to new blood in the town. They think we’ll disturb their ways.’

  ‘But Mr Shaw has always been really nice,’ interrupted Rosie.

  ‘Mr Shaw was a bad example, he’s just on my mind.’

  I decided to take another tack, I was getting nowhere here. ‘Rosie, some nasty rumours have been spread about Mummy. They have made some of the people here think I’m a … a bad person. These rumours are lies, just made up to try to stop me from doing what I feel is good and right for the town. There’s no need for you to believe anything you hear. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Not really, Mummy, but I’ll let you know if anyone says anything bad. Can I go and play now with Whisper?’

  ‘Of course you can, sweetheart,’ I said, glad my cross-examination was over for today. Fortunately it had mattered more to Rosie for me to understand I couldn’t fool her than for her to sit and listen to her mother complain. For once I was grateful.

  It was time for me to leave my beloved little cottage and face the world again. The house itself felt like such a safety blanket, a barrier protecting us from the rest of the world and whatever horrors lay there. But I couldn’t stay here forever. It was Halloween in a couple of days’ time, and I couldn’t risk any more rumours of witchcraft due to my absence. Lord only knew what the local people might think I was up to that night if they didn’t see me out and about.

  Besides, there was work to be done. There was only just over a month before we were due to start our old-fashioned Christmas festivities. Although I was scared, I knew I couldn’t just let Mr Johnson and his brother destroy Ivory Meadows. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realised the likes of Barbara and Bill shouldn’t just give up. I had no idea whether they had got any of the posters put up or leaflets delivered while I’d been holed up in Cherrystone Cottage. Either way, there was a town to save and, witch or no witch, I was going to make sure it was saved if it was the last thing I did. I needed to make something good; I needed to be able to save something good in my life, having lost so much already.

  I knew I had a battle on my hands. After all, the bloodshed hitting the newspaper meant Ivory Meadows was no longer a town nobody had heard of but the place on everyone’s lips. It was a disaster. As the mayor was still recovering I knew it would be in bad taste to try to rally people round again to fight against his plans, even though it was clear now they would go on with or without him, thanks to his brother.

  I would just try to go back to normal. It was the only way I stood a chance of survival in this old-fashioned town. I was determined, but it was a terrifying prospect.

  I returned to work the following Monday and was welcomed back with open arms by Barbara and Dennis. Barbara whispered that the posters were still in hiding and, just as I’d suspected, nothing had been done to further the campaign in my absence. We were busy for the rest of the day so I didn’t have a chance to talk to her any further. I myself spent much of my time trying to fend off the suspicious looks that kept coming my way from the customers.

  Glad it was the end of the day, I decided to pop round to see Bill on my way to fetch Rosie from school. I was touched by what he’d done for me, even if it was a little heavy-handed and had landed all of us in trouble. He was busy out the back of his shop, chopping meat, when I arrived. He had enlisted the help of Scott, Barbara’s eldest son, who was running the front of the shop until, as Barbara said Bill put it, ‘the stink died down’.

  Even from behind, he looked different, more vulnerable somehow. Something about his hunched shoulders made me want to rea
ch out and touch him. I didn’t. Instead I called out his name gently and he spun round on the spot.

  ‘Oh, Vivian, you made me jump,’ he said, blushing.

  ‘How are you, Bill?’ I asked.

  ‘I guess you’ve heard what happened? Don’t like anyone speaking out of line about anyone, especially when it’s the pantomime mayor,’ he said, his features hardening as he retold his version of events.

  ‘Blabbing on he was; someone had to stop him. I just hope I haven’t put a spanner in the works for you and your campaign,’ he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. He seemed like a little, lost puppy dog.

  ‘Not at all, Bill,’ I mumbled, embarrassed. I’d hoped we’d be able to simply brush off what had happened and carry on as before. Clearly that wasn’t to be the case. Resolutely, I grabbed his hand.

  ‘What you did for me was incredible, Bill. No one has ever stood up for me that way before. I came here today to say thank you.’

  He held my gaze for a moment, and I was surprised to feel a spark of electricity between us.

  ‘Now I must go,’ I said, ‘it’s time for me to collect Rosie from school. I’ll see you around. Take care of yourself, Bill.’ And with that I turned and fled. I tried to put all thoughts of Bill out of my mind. I couldn’t possibly fall for him.

  I still wasn’t over Rosemary’s father. He had been the love of my life. We’d met when we were young. He was in his final year of college when I joined as a naïve fresher. I thought he was a bit of a god. I’d never really believed in love at first sight, thinking it was the stuff of trashy romantic novels, but the chemistry between us was amazing. He had long red hair and eyes that I could sink into, like pools of water. They seem to dance, and to change colour from hazel to green in the light. He quickly became my knight in shining armour, rescuing me when my car broke down, if I got too tipsy on a night out with the girls, or if I needed help when I started my first job as an office junior.