The Garden of Stars Read online

  We had a wonderful wedding, surrounded by all our friends and family, followed by an idyllic Tuscan honeymoon. We were both career-minded and driven, which meant we worked and played hard. Life was for living in our eyes, and we wanted to gobble up every last drop. I had made my way up the ladder to a successful senior role in public relations, handling big brand accounts. He had ventured into marketing, learnt the tricks of the trade from various small companies, and gone on to set up his own business. He loved it; we both did. It gave us a great deal of freedom.

  When Rosemary came along, everything changed. Our reactions to our poorly little baby were so far apart it began to feel as though we existed in different stratospheres. We no longer had the same goals and dreams.

  We both had blood on our hands.

  Chapter Seven

  Much to my relief Halloween passed without event and we weren’t visited by any trick or treaters. I asked Rosie if everything was OK at school and she just shrugged her shoulders, saying it was a bit boring at the moment. I could take boring until the cows came home; that’s what I yearned for: a nice quiet, peaceful, boring life. Barbara laughed when I said this to her at work and suggested I needed to get out more. She’d taken it upon herself to become a surrogate mother to me. She decided it wasn’t healthy for me to be cooped up in my little crumbling cottage all the time and so insisted on babysitting the following Sunday so I could enjoy a walk on my own, to get a bit of fresh air, a bit of ‘me-time’, as she put it.

  Rosie and I had walked together lots at the weekends up until a fortnight ago. Now there was something so liberating about the thought of getting out on my own. It would give me a chance to think about my past and piece together a future for Rosie and myself.

  It was getting late when Barbara arrived on Sunday afternoon, cursing her son Charlie for leaving his school project until the last minute. I promised I’d just take a short walk. The chilly November nights were drawing in earlier with each day that passed and I didn’t want to be out when it was too dark.

  I’d left Rosie playing with Barbara and her toys upstairs in her bedroom. They had come to love their time together, Rosie seeing Barbara as something of a fun auntie. I knew Barbara sneaked a stash of chocolate into my house every time she came but I turned a blind eye. It was nice for Rosie to have an adult friend, someone who wasn’t seven years’ old and at her school. I knew she missed her own family but that was an inevitable peril when you went on the run. For our own safety, I had to keep her away from our old friends and family, no matter how painful that was for me, her, or them. I thought about the campaign and decided it was probably best to leave our lovely posters and leaflets in hiding. What a pity Gillian and everyone else had gone to so much effort for nothing.

  I breathed a long deep sigh, taking in the crisp air and watching my breath linger on the wind in front of me before drifting off elsewhere. The deeper I walked into the forest, the louder the birds sang, high up in the tall fir trees. I loved the fact they gave us a beautiful dusk chorus, celebrating the end of every great day as well as the joy and gratitude they gave us every morning for sun-up. This afternoon it was almost as if they sang:

  ‘It’s dusk, it’s dusk beware

  Everything looks golden

  But soon it will be dark

  And something will give you a scare.’

  I smiled. Wise little birds. I decided to walk only as far as the river today and not to cross the railway bridge over it and into the glade on the other side. In the summer, Rosie and I had enjoyed going over there on the rare sunny days there had been. We’d lie there looking up at the sky. It was calming to put my worries into perspective, seeing just how tiny I was compared to the great big world around me. We’d take it in turns suggesting which clouds looked like they were the shape of an animal or a train. Rosie’s were usually the most fanciful; she often saw mermaids, dragons, unicorns, and other such mythical creatures. I loved her vivid imagination. Sometimes we’d just lie there in silence, making up stories in our heads or closing our eyes and listening to all the wondrous sounds of the meadow so different to the haunting noises in the forest. Here the birds chatted away and the squirrels scampered up and down the tall trees on the edge of the glade, hiding their stash for winter, the bees busily too-ing and fro-ing between the brightly coloured flowers.

  Once, we lay there silently, only to open our eyes and see a deer, hovering unsure between two trees in the entrance to the woods. When she realised we’d seen her she took off, elegantly cantering back into her darkened den. More recently, we’d ventured over there, wrapped up in our coats, hats, and gloves. Snuggling up together under a tree, telling stories, we’d both drifted off. I opened my eyes to find the glade had gone quite dark around us, and the grass was illuminated by magnificent glow-worms. I had roused Rosie and she looked about her in wonder and delight. We felt the magic of the woods that night as it guided us back home safely, even though our eyes had become redundant in the black of the night.

  But no, I had no fear of needing to steady my step here today because I’d be home long before it got too dark to see. And, in any case, I knew the paths like the back of my hand and could probably get back with my eyes closed.

  As I approached the stream that led down to the river I could hear it gurgling and hissing and popping like a newly opened bottle of home-made lemonade being poured into a glass.

  ‘Glip, glop, go away

  Now is not the time to stay

  Go, go far from here

  If you don’t it’ll end in teeeaaaaaarrrrrss …’

  I chuckled with the stream. I was so used to making up songs for Rosie I heard them even when she wasn’t with me.

  ‘I’ll have to remember that one for next time she’s here with me,’ I said, aloud. My voice sounded strange, loud and somehow alien amongst the undergrowth. It caused a flurry of birds to scatter out of the trees and soar into the air above me. I’d been part of the woods, barely noticeable to the wildlife, until I’d opened my mouth. My voice was the one thing that gave me away, it was so different to the voices of the singing birds, buzzing insects, whistling wind, creaking trees, and rustling leaves dancing around me. Now the whole forest stood still. I stood with it, silently watching and waiting, as it watched me, nervously working out if I was friend or foe.

  It took a couple of minutes. A robin took to the stand. I strained my eyes to see him, not daring to move my head. I was the defendant. He, the judge, sat pompously puffing out his chest in a tall tree looking down on the rest of the forest. A wood pigeon bumbled a coo-coo and promptly fell out of his tree, flapping his wings to steady himself, blatantly pretending he meant to do it all along. The forest erupted into hysterics. The birds cackled away, some cawing, others cawing, and the blue tits snootily tutting in annoyance at the wood pigeon’s stupidity. The squirrel scurried up and down the tree in excitement.

  Finally the robin let out a beautiful rendition of his favourite song and the forest quietened down again. I thought for a moment I was going to get off lightly, thanks to the wood pigeon’s decoy.

  By now, the blackbirds had started to surround me in the twilight. I hadn’t noticed them at first. Two stood next to me on the ground, which didn’t seem too strange, considering they are such sociable little fellows. But, as I watched, another flew down to join his brothers, then another, then another until I was surrounded by blackbirds, like jailers ready and eager to take down the crook. I counted them, silently, nervously trying not to move. Seven. Seven’s supposed to be lucky. Perhaps I would get away with my forest faux pas after all. And yet, in the dusk light there was something terribly eerie about these seemingly gentle birds.

  The robin sang again. He’d jumped down a few branches of his tree and I could see him clearly now. It was as if he were walking down a set of vast courtroom steps to address the low life – myself – below. He was a very handsome chap with a pillar-box red chest, puffed out with pride. The forest hushed again. His song was beautiful, mesmerising. It s
ounded so exquisite I could hardly imagine he was passing a guilty verdict. I looked nervously at the blackbirds. They were slowly backing away, cursing the robin for his decision. The great tits were chirping ‘well done’ while their fellow blue tits were shrugging their shoulders, as if to mutter ‘what had the drama been all about?’ and urging everyone to carry on their business as if nothing had happened.

  I did feel guilty. Bill had been made to carry out 120 hours of community service for assaulting Mr Johnson. I hadn’t attended court. I felt I should have been there, supporting him, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t risk Rosie and me being exposed to the press. If Bill was hurt when I went to see him, he hid it well.

  I looked up at the sky. It was closing in fast on me. I was half tempted to just head straight home, which was the sensible thing to do. But then I was so close to the river, I just had to run down to see her silvery waters flowing fast down into the town. I was there within seconds and I sat on the bank gazing into the river as the sun melted into her and she turned from gold to black.

  I was so engrossed I didn’t notice footsteps behind me.

  ‘Here, talking to yourself again, Ms Myrtle? What will the townfolk say?’

  I turned with a start. It was the vicar. Here we were again, back in the place where it had all started. He seemed more weasel-like every day. I knew he was just a hatchet man, carrying out the unpleasant assignments given to him by the mayor. It didn’t suit him to act the way he was doing.

  ‘Hello, Vicar,’ I said, composing myself. ‘How’s Mr Johnson?’

  ‘Better, but no thanks to you. You do realise if he’d have passed, God bless his soul, that you would have blood on your hands?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vicar, I wasn’t even there.’ I was getting tired of this accusation. Even though no one in the town had said this to me directly before, it was written all over their faces.

  The vicar leaned heavily on his Malacca cane; he was showing signs of ageing. I felt sorry for him at that moment. How had the poor man been so foolish as to get involved in such blackmail? I decided to appeal to his lighter, more devout side.

  ‘How’s your wife, Vicar? I’d heard she was feeling a little under the weather. I’ve made some cherry cakes and was thinking of dropping one into her for you both to share.’

  This caught him off guard. He looked confused and wearier than before. In some ways he reminded me of my father. I felt saddened that, had we met in kinder circumstances, we may have been friends.

  He composed himself, taking on the devilish composure of the mayor once more.

  ‘I’ve heard how you talk to the animals in the forest,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you, every time you step foot out of that rundown shack of a house you call home, I’m there watching you. You should have watched your step, Vivian. You should have heeded the advice I told Dennis to give you: to lock yourself away up there and not come out.’

  Dennis had said that but Barbara, as usual, had just pooh-poohed everything he said. But surely that was for my own good, wasn’t it? Was he just twisting what he’d seen to suit his own vindictive means or had he actually asked Dennis to tell me that? Dennis was a churchgoer but then I’d always thought he was on my side. Who would have thought this awful racket could have brought us so low as to have sides?

  ‘Yes, Ms Myrtle, I’ve been watching you. And at the request of the congregation, I shall be reporting back to them. I’m afraid you leave me no choice. I’ve tried to be patient. I shall have to tell them if you’re not a witch then you’re clinically insane.’

  Insane. The words struck an awful chord with me, whisking me straight out of the forest, away from the safety of Cherrystone Cottage back to my dangerous, vicious husband. I felt dizzy, my head began to spin.

  ‘You know I’m right don’t you, Vivian?’ cackled the vicar, noting my reaction.

  I tried to steady myself. But all I could see was abuse, arguments, tantrums, sadness, and patronising doctors in white coats.

  ‘They’ll take you away, you do realise that?’ said the vicar. ‘They’ll take you away from here.’

  By now his voice was distant, echoing and rattling around in my ears: they’ll take you away, away from Cherrystone Cottage, away from Ivory Meadows, from the campaign, from Bill, Barbara, Miss Metford … from Rosie?

  The vicar continued, his voice now quieter, kinder, less like he was enjoying himself, ‘It’ll be for your own good, my dear. It’ll make you feel better. You’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. It’ll calm your over-heightened senses, steady your nerves.’

  I could see his lips moving but they didn’t correspond with the words that seemed to be floating around me in the night air. I could see them spelt out, illuminated like the glow-worms in the glade: ‘feel better’, ‘steady’, ‘witch’, ‘senses’, ‘nerves’, ‘own good’.

  I could see them but they didn’t make any sense, they jumbled in my mind as I desperately tried to work out what they meant. My own thoughts became illuminated next to the words in the air: ‘take away Rosie’, ‘leave Cherrystone Cottage’.

  ‘Of course, if you were to just leave of your own accord, the town could go back to normal and everyone would be happy once again. It doesn’t do to yearn for things that are simply out of one’s reach. Far better to be satisfied with one’s lot.’

  Satisfied with our lot. Those were the words of my ex-husband, Jack. A picture of him flashed up in my mind. I began to feel sick. I could feel my whole body starting to tremble just at the thought of him.

  ‘I shall advise the congregation we’ll be asking the doctor to come round to do some tests. It will make you feel good about yourself again, Vivian. I have been so worried about you.’

  Worried about you, those were Jack’s words too, when he was having a nice moment. Rosie, Jack, the cottage, our journey to Ivory Meadows, Miss Metford, Bill, everything flashed before me. It was like I saw my whole life in black-and-white pictures within the space of a couple of seconds.

  ‘Are you all right, Vivian? I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  I felt myself starting to fall. It felt like a relief to start with, my weight, the weight of the world, being taken from me. Then I realised I couldn’t steady myself. The vicar lunged forward to grab me but I backed off. I fell and fell, everything spinning before me like a whirlpool of my life.

  ‘Vivian, no …’ he screamed.

  The water cracked like an enormous sheet of glass when I hit it. I went under, grateful to the murky depths for catching and cradling me in her arms. I sank lower and lower, passing fish, weeds, broken bottles and bits of rusty cars. Here everything was calm and tranquil, dark and motherly. The voices had gone.

  Then I tried to breathe.

  I gulped and gasped in horror, taking in mouthfuls of dirty, polluted water. I tried to scramble my way up to the top but a reed had caught my ankle and was pulling me down further. I could see a light shining brightly at what I assumed was the top of the river but it felt like it was a hundred miles away.

  I struggled and managed to free my leg. Now I was moving, twisting and turning in the fast-paced river.

  I swam desperately towards the light, trying to stop the panic from making me swallow too much water. I reached the top and broke free with an almighty crash, smashing the smooth surface of the water with my head and gasping desperately for air. The water was moving fast and was as cold as ice. I looked over to the bank. The vicar was waving and holding out a branch for me to grab hold of. He was screaming that he was sorry and he had only been saying those things to try to get me to leave for my own good; that he didn’t mean it and was only carrying out Mr Johnson’s wishes from his hospital bed. But he was too far away. I tried to swim back, against the current, to reach the branch. I was a strong swimmer but my dress, coat and shoes weighed me down. I glanced again at the bank. The vicar had gone. I prayed it was to get help. Surely a man of the cloth couldn’t be so wicked as to abandon me to drown.

  Drown.
As the word came into my mind I realised that was exactly what I was doing. I panicked and went under again. The still calmness of the murky underwater felt easy and comforting. But I couldn’t give up; I had to get back to Rosie.

  I tugged at the buttons on my coat and tried to rip it off my back. It clung to me like a dead weight. I battled with it and eventually it came free and floated to the surface. I gulped another mouthful of air and then kicked off my shoes. Less weighted down, I found I was able to keep my head above water. I swam, desperately searching for something to grab hold of, something to take me back to the safety of the riverside. Back to the sanctuary of my home and daughter.

  By now, it was pitch black and virtually impossible to see. I was shivering violently in the inky black water. Suddenly I saw lights ahead. The town. I felt a surge of energy soar through my blood, turning it into fire. My body grew hotter and I felt strength in my bones. I would survive. I lifted my right arm and pushed it through the water. I did the same with my left. It took such great effort. As I neared the town, helped by the current, the light illuminated a branch overhanging the river.

  Right arm, left arm, right arm, left arm.

  I started powering towards the branch. I couldn’t let the river take me past it. It was my only hope. Mustering all my strength, I leapt out of the water and grabbed the branch but it was wet and slimy and my hands slid straight off it. I turned to grab it again but it was too late. The river had already swept me beyond it.

  This is it, I thought, I’m going to die here in this watery grave. I was too exhausted to save myself, even for Rosemary’s sake. Maybe the vicar was right, maybe she and the people here were better off without me. I started taking in more water. Big gulps of mucky brown liquid. It tasted foul but perhaps this was the last supper I deserved. I’d clearly not been a good enough wife, I was a lousy mother, and I’d brought disrepute, brawling, fire, and scandal to a tiny town where nothing normally happened. My just desserts were that my body would be bloated with disgusting soapy scum and there was nothing I could do about it.