The Garden of Stars (11 page)

At 3 p.m., a cheer rose as a spectacular brass band came marching over the bridge into the town, marking the start of the carnival procession. Then the first truck was spotted, with two schoolchildren dressed as Mary and Joseph and a ‘baby' in a manger at their knees. Loud ‘aaahs' could be heard from the crowd as they passed. They were followed by a truck bearing hobby horses dressed as reindeer, and another full of white-clad snowmen, dressed in top hats and dancing animatedly to a ghetto blaster blaring out Christmas tunes. There was a winter scene, with robins and squirrels made out of papier-mâché, which the children and their teachers had laboured over for hours at school.

 A fairy float followed, with Rosie and her schoolfriends waving wildly from the top. More music filled the air and there was even a bleating of sheep to be heard as Mr Taverner, the local farmer, brought some of his livestock on the back of his favourite truck. It had been so very kind of him to let us use his vehicles, and his barns to hide away our floats.

 Last, but definitely not least, came Father Christmas, stood at the top of an exquisite chimney, made out of cardboard. That had been Gillian's pride and joy. She'd spent days painstakingly painting on bricks and wrapping ivy around it to make it look realistic. The more people cheered and whooped, the more Father Christmas waved and bellowed ‘ho, ho, ho'. I just hoped he didn't overdo it and cause the chimney to topple over! I could see Rosie standing on her float, loving every moment. She clearly had no idea who the smiling, rosy-cheeked man was behind the costume.

 As his float reached the church, the music softened and the cheering lulled in anticipation. Then Barbara piped up: ‘Ten, nine, eight …'

 Everyone counted down until we got to one when, magically, all the fairy lights of the town came on, from the huge star on top of the Christmas tree to the lights strung from one lamppost to another. There was a slight delay in getting the lights to switch on across the bridge but no one minded; everyone was happy to repeat the countdown once again. Then there were gasps of delight as the lights' reflection danced in the river below.

 A competition to crown Ivory Meadows' beauty queen was won by a bashful Janice, the library assistant, who managed to trip up as she went to collect her garland.

 Apart from those very minor hiccups, the day ran smoothly. Everywhere I looked people were smiling, tucking into toffee apples, riding the carousel and Ferris wheel, laughing at the clowns and stilt walkers.

 We all joined together to sing carols around the tree, each clasping a mug of mulled wine. There was a winter garland for every visitor, provided by Gillian, and many people were enjoying Mr Shaw's historical tours of the town, which he made slowly yet steadily on his stick, pausing to reflect on the remains of his own scorched house but happily revealing his pride in his new abode. Later, children played hopscotch while their parents huddled together round my stall, chatting as they soaked up my warming cherry gin and fairy cakes. I had ginger biscuits, hedgerow wine made with wild blackberries, walnut cake, flapjacks, pound cakes and scones, all the local delicacies Miss Metford had told me about, bar of course the infamous pigeon pie and stewed eels. I kept a look out for Mary but she didn't show. I thought, just maybe, she might have ventured into town for a celebration like this. I knew she would be proud of the result.

 The carnival closed with an impressive acrobatic display by members of the travelling circus, and a grand finale by the brass band. I packed up my stall and Rosie and I sang all the way back up the hill to our home. We were delighted by the carnival, and the fact the town was really ours again. I had been so desperate to save it, to make something right in our lives at last.

Chapter Twelve

Rosie and I tumbled into our little cottage, both caked in icing sugar and me slightly merry on mulled wine. We snuggled up on the sofa in the kitchen with cups of hot tea and countless stories of the day. We talked animatedly about all that we'd seen, heard, smelt, and tasted, both of us high on adrenaline from our incredible adventure. After half-an-hour, I dragged myself away, telling her I really must change for the ball and that she ought to wash her face before Miss Metford arrived for babysitting duties.

 I rushed upstairs to take another look at my dress. It was more stunning than I'd remembered it, hanging there shimmering and delicate, like a true princess gown.

 I took a long bath, painted my nails, and pinned back my hair, trying to tame my unruly dark locks, which I normally wore loose. They had grown in the time I'd been here, and I hadn't had chance to visit a hairdresser. I put on far more make-up than usual, I think because I knew no one would see it beneath my mask. It gave me confidence. I hadn't slept last night but didn't feel tired at all.

 Gently I took the dress off its hanger and carefully climbed through the nets, wools, silks, cottons, and lace of the skirt before gingerly buttoning up the bodice. I had made it strapless. Normally I never exposed my shoulders but then this wasn't really me tonight.

 I looked in the mirror, wondering if I'd overdone it. But the dress smiled back at me. ‘If I've made so many other people happy,' she whispered, ‘how could I make you sad?'

 Slipping on my pink heels, I tottered down to Rosie's room to pick up my mask. The gown made me feel like a lady. I stood in the doorway and said, ‘What do you think, Rosie?'

 ‘Mummy,' she exclaimed, stunned, ‘you look like the prettiest thing I've ever seen.'

 I felt myself blush as I stroked her hair and put her to bed, telling her I wouldn't be home late.

 ‘
Fais de beaux rêves
,' I said, kissing her gently on her cheek.

 ‘Have fun, Mummy,' she sighed, sleepily.

When I got downstairs Miss Metford was at the door, waiting to be let in.

 ‘Little one asleep?' she whispered, and I nodded.

‘Good, I can get on with reading my book. I take it everything went well today?'

 ‘More marvellous than I could have possibly imagined,' I cooed as I swanned out the door, turning to wave as Mary rolled her eyes.

 Putting on my mask, I made my way down the hill. Tonight I would be someone else from the moment I stepped foot out of the door. I would be Cleopatra, Desdemona, Juliet, Lady Chatterley, Holly Golightly all rolled into one. By the time I reached the town it was getting late. There was an eerie smell of fire and sulphur in the air. The fairy lights had been moved from the bridge to the gates of the town hall. They danced in the dark sky, like entertainers in a ballyhoo, twinkling: ‘come in, come in'.

 A large banner had been put up outside. It read: ‘Ivory Meadows Masked Ball. Come As You Are If You Please, But As Somebody Else Is Better!' Next to it were huge torches burning bright, throwing fighting punches into the moonlit sky.

 I blushed at the thought I might be the only feline in a gown. Then I glanced inside. Everywhere I looked there were strange creatures. Birds with great beaks, lions, tigers, wolves, foxes, a pelican, another cat, butterflies, eagles, owls, and even a unicorn. Some were strange souls of the underworld, creatures I had never seen before with eyes and ears in the wrong places, covered in glitter and feathers. There was even an elephant and an enormous, menacing bear. There was an exotic peacock with feathers all around her head and a pink flamingo, balancing on one leg.

 The dancing had already begun; the tired wooden floorboards of the old town hall transformed into a glamorous dance floor. Elaborate gowns swirled round and round like crinoline ladies on a mechanical jewellery box. The blur of colour, movement, and music was breathtaking.

 Most of the masks were outrageous handmade creations, made from cereal boxes, paint, and string. But by the flicker of the candlelight, they looked eerie and surreal. There were feathers, sequins, tiaras, wands, and long, satin gloves.

 I had only been there five minutes when I was approached by an eagle. He looked sinister and all-powerful as he took my shawl and whisked it away to the cloakroom without a word. There was something wildly attractive about this silent, masked man. As he returned I tried to get a better look at those piercing eagle eyes while hiding behind my own cat's eyelashes and whiskers. I recognised them but couldn't place them. They were hazel with sharp black lines around the iris, which made them look big and bold. I blinked bashfully as we danced round the dance floor, my dress making wonderful swishing noises and movements and turning from pink to azure to gold in the soft flickering light. Everyone around us seemed to stop and stare. Suddenly I didn't want to speak, didn't want to look him in the eye for fear he'd mistaken me for another pussycat and this wonderful moment was about to come to an abrupt end. I so wanted to be the lucky kitten.

 After several dances, we moved off the dance floor and the animals around us parted to allow us to walk through. He sat me down at a table for two in the corner while he went to the bar for drinks: beer for him, cherry brandy for me. Maybe I was the chosen feline after all. Eventually I felt I had to speak. The anticipation was full of electricity, I thought I could explode into hundreds of gold and azure sparks at any time.

 ‘You know if a black cat crosses your path, it's supposed to bring you luck,' I whispered.

 ‘I must be the lucky one then,' he said.

 His voice gave him away; I knew it was Bill. He smiled sheepishly. All his might and intrigue seemed to dissolve in a second. The dark stranger was someone I saw every day. I was no longer the hunted woman, I felt spurned. And yet there was still something about him. His thick-set, eagle eyes, his scent. The smell of his aftershave was evocative, reminding me of love and good times.

 ‘Vivian,' he said. My cover was blown; clearly Rosie's disguise had been easier to see through than I'd thought.

 ‘The thing is, Vivian,' he said, awkwardly clasping his hands on his lap, ‘the thing is there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long time.'

 Suddenly it didn't matter that it was trusty old Bill, reliable, kind-hearted, hot-headed Bill, Bill whose great big hands always reeked of raw meat and who didn't care who he offended. Bill, who I loved dearly but had never thought of as attractive, Bill, who was not my type. No, the creature sat before me was a completely different bird. And my feline instinct, in fact every fibre of my body, told me to catch him and gobble him up right now before the candles were blown out and the ball gowns packed away.

 ‘Er, excuse me, Bill,' a sparrow tapped him on the shoulder, ‘you got a second, mate? We need a hand getting another cask up to the bar.'

 The eagle eyes looked hurt. The moment was gone. He apologised and followed the sparrow out of the town hall.

 I sat all alone. For the very first time since arriving at Ivory Meadows, I felt completely lonely. I knew people wondered how I coped in a remote rundown cottage without a husband but I'd always had Rosie and my beautiful house and I had felt no need for anything or anyone else. Suddenly that was no longer enough. I wanted more. And I didn't want to be alone at a ball of dancing, whirling dervishes with fake sequinned faces. I got up to leave, making my way over to the cloakroom to retrieve my shawl.

 Suddenly, I was cornered by a wolf. He came up behind me and, without touching me, forced me away from the throngs of bejewelled and gowned people.

 ‘Hello, Cathy,' he said.

 Cathy? It felt as if I hadn't been called that in years.

 ‘You look amazing, the belle of the ball. You have no idea how pleased I am to see you at long last.'

 My dress felt tight. All its different fabrics became hot and uncomfortable, each fighting to be the most important, the most prominent. I could hardly hear him over the sound of my raging dress. I couldn't breathe. I knew I had to get out so I fled deep into the darkness, back up the hill to the safety of my home and daughter like a hunted woman. I no longer wanted to be the belle of the ball. I wanted to be invisible.

Fortunately the masked man didn't follow.

Chapter Thirteen

I dashed into Cherrystone Cottage and flung the door shut behind me, pushing my body against it to try to block out the gravity of what had just happened.

 It was as if my whole world had rocked then stood still.

 Miss Metford slowly raised her eyes from her book, carefully took out her bookmark and placed it inside. ‘What on earth is the matter, dear girl, you look like you've seen a ghost.'

 ‘He was there,' I mumbled, ‘there at the ball. What am I to do? Rosie, Rosie, is she OK?'

 ‘Rosie, yes, haven't heard a murmur since the moment you left.'

 I raced up to her room, crashing through the door, expecting the bed to be empty, my golden girl to be gone.

 Of course, she was lay there, sound asleep, gently sighing in her tranquil slumber. I sat with her for a moment, softly stroking her hair. I had to protect her, she had no idea what we were about to be up against. Frantically, I began to grab a few of her clothes, her favourite toy and book, stuffing them into a bag. It was time for us to move on again, the game was over, we'd been caught; we had to leave. I was devastated. I loved it here; I loved it with every sinew of my body. This was my town now; I deserved the right to live here peacefully with my clever, brave daughter. But it seemed fate had determined that was not to be the case. I suppose I was naïve, simply changing my name, we were bound to be found sooner or later.

 Why is life so very cruel? In saving Ivory Meadows, I'd endangered everything I'd created for myself and my child. If I'd have just stayed quiet, maybe we could have carried on as we were, although then perhaps there would have been no town to carry on in.

 Mary was behind me in a flash. It always took me by surprise how sprightly she was for her age. ‘What on earth are you doing, Vivian?'

 ‘I'm packing, Mary.'

 ‘I can see that, even though I'm still wearing these silly reading glasses. My question is why? Who did you say was back? Was it old Johnson? He's a nasty piece of work but don't worry yourself, Vivian.'

 ‘No, it wasn't Mr Johnson,' I said, moving up into my room, where I grabbed my jewellery and a few photographs of Rosie and threw them into the bag. ‘It was someone entirely more dangerous.'

 ‘Oh,' said Mary, her face dropping, ‘you mean your husband?'

 ‘My ex-husband,' I rebuked her, ‘and yes, he'll be here within minutes so I suggest you get yourself home and safe before Rosie and I take off.'

 ‘You can't just slip away into the night like a pair of shadows.'

 ‘Why ever not? We've done it before, we'll do it again. My job as a mother is to keep Rosemary safe and I've failed miserably. Sounding off my big mouth to save this town has put my precious little girl at risk. I've been a fool, but it won't happen again. You've been a good friend and a great help, Mary, but I need you to go now, move out of my way.'

 She shrugged her shoulders like a petulant child before opening her mouth to speak.

 ‘Now!' I shouted, waking up Rosemary, who came running to my room, asking what was wrong.

 I whisked her into my arms, taking comfort and courage from the smell of her long golden hair, and carrying her downstairs, bundling on her coat and pushing her into shoes.

She sleepily whispered, ‘Not again, Mummy, I thought this was our home, our real, forever home.'

 It broke my heart but I had to stay resolute. ‘No, Rosie, it's time to go, I've got your things, get moving.'

 ‘But I like it here, I've made friends here, everyone is lovely, and what about my cat?'

 ‘Take Whisper with you, my darling,' sighed Miss Metford, returning from the lounge, carrying the cat and placing him gently in Rosie's arms.

 And with that, with no further argument, Mary was gone.

 Pulling my coat over my now-ridiculous ball gown, I loaded the bags onto my back and opened the door. The cold air hit me like a tidal wave, forcing me to face the reality of our situation. Where were we going to go? That didn't matter now – we just had to get out before it was too late. Suddenly I remembered I'd left my mother's locket in the bedroom drawer. Telling Rosie not to move, I dashed upstairs to grab it.

 Returning moments later, everything had changed.

 There he was, stood in my kitchen, holding my little girl in his arms as she nuzzled into his neck. He was no longer a wolf but just – Jack. But he may as well have kept his wolf costume on.

 ‘Put her down,' I screamed at him, clawing at my child, ‘let her go, we're leaving, we want nothing to do with you.'

 ‘Cathy, calm down, let's talk this through, it's taken me so long to find you. I've searched every day since the moment you left. We need to sort things out, make them right, for both of us, and for Lily.'

 ‘There's nothing to sort out,' I bellowed, ‘it's over, you knew that the day you killed our daughter.'

 And, with that, the memories and the enormity of my grief filled every part of my body, every part of the room, so that I could hardly breathe. It all came flooding back like a tidal wave, knocking me off my feet like a heap of old, worn-out fabric in the middle of the floor.

 Oh yes, I remembered, I remembered those long seven weeks watching her every move. It was the waiting that was the hardest part. While pregnant, I couldn't wait for her to be born. And my impatience had brought on an early labour. As my waters broke, I screamed, ‘It's not time, she's not ready.' My distress, my sheer knowledge that it wasn't our time nearly killed us both.

 For days, Jack watched and waited for either of us to come round, with the dreadful fear he could lose us both. Eventually after three days, he said I awoke with a start, jumped up and said, ‘Where's Rosemary?'

 We hadn't decided on a name, and Jack was amazed I knew it was a girl.

 I hobbled over to see my poor, deformed baby, my child who I'd forced into the world before she'd had chance to finish building herself.

 And yet she wasn't deformed, she was perfect. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes. I longed to pick her up, hold her in my arms. I truly believed I could heal her, just with a mother's touch. I was the one at fault, the one who'd got her into trouble, surely I was the one who could and should fix her? Each time I ventured near the ventilator I was ushered away by nurses. It was my baby, why were they keeping her from me?

 Was I that bad a mother?

 Jack did his best to reassure me but, as the weeks passed, it seemed less and less likely she was going to get off that horrid wired-up machine. In time, I carefully put my hand into the incubator and held her fragile fingers, willing her to live. I needed her to make it. Even though I'd never held her, I already knew I couldn't manage without her. I spent every moment of every day and night sat at her side, cradling the glass, begging her to hold on.

 Jack said it was time to let Rosie lead her own life in another place. That it was time to turn off the machine.

 I ranted and raved. There was no way that could happen, not while I truly believed in my heart of hearts that she was still alive, albeit kept so by machines.

 Jack said what I was doing was wrong, that it was unfair both to Rosie and to him, and to me.

 The doctors sided with Jack. It seemed everyone was against me, everyone except my beautiful little girl who was clearly willing me not to let her go. The doctors suggested we hold a baptism for our baby girl. Our family came but I sat, motionless, in the corner. I felt like this was their way of saying goodbye and I wanted no part in saying goodbye to a baby who was not ready to leave.

One night we argued until dawn. By morning Jack was lying on the floor, blood on his face. To this day I don't know what happened. But as he picked himself up and wiped himself down, I knew there and then it was over.

 I never went to the hospital again. Jack had murdered my baby girl.

 We continued to argue constantly. He told me I was a paranoid, neurotic mother and that I should think of what this was doing to Lily, our six-year-old.

 I thought long and hard about it and decided exactly what I needed to do: leave. That night I picked Lily up from her bed, took the cash from Jack's wallet, and fled into the night. I didn't even take a change of clothes. We jumped on an underground train, taking us to an entirely different district of London. For a while we wandered the streets, searching for an answer. Then we stumbled upon a women's refuge and thankfully they took us in. Speaking to the other women I realised I myself, like so many of them, had been a battered wife, mentally tortured by my cruel, heartless husband.

 After a couple of days one of the women accidentally told me the counsellor at the refuge felt I needed ‘clinical help'. Fearing the worst, I picked up Lily, our clean clothes we'd kindly been given and walked out of the door. That night she slept, fitfully, in my arms in the doorway of a church. I didn't close my eyes for a second, for fear of what would become of us.

 The next morning I took her to a coffee shop so she could have a glass of juice and I could have a cup of tea and think about our future. As I sat there gazing into my cup, it seemed bottomless. There seemed nowhere for us to go apart from back to Jack.

 Resigned to that being our only option, I opened the newspaper and flicked aimlessly through the pages. I came across an advert that had been circled in red pen. It was for a pretty little white cottage for rent in a tiny town called Ivory Meadows. It was called Cherrystone Cottage. I instantly knew it had to be mine. I called from a telephone box outside the café and two hours later Lily and I were on the train on our way to our new home.

 When I spoke to the woman at the other end of the phone, I told her my name was Vivian Myrtle and that I had a daughter called Rosemary.

 I have no idea where such a strange name came from but it stuck and it seems much more my own now than Catherine Mills ever did. Why I gave my poor elder daughter the name of my tiny deceased baby, I'll never know. But she never complained, she never questioned what I was doing, just went along cheerfully for an adventure with Mummy where we each took on the name of fairy princesses. She very rarely mentioned her little sister, only when we found the tiny skull in the garden and again when she was delirious with fever. I never brought her up in conversation, although I realise now I probably should have done. It was a subject I found far too difficult to talk about, especially on a level that a seven-year-old could understand. Lily did, however, often wonder about her father, thoughts I'd try to lightly bat away as if we were on some jolly holiday.

  ‘Cathy, talk to me,' said Jack, shaking me out of my reverie. ‘You can't just keep running away. I need you, I miss you.

 ‘I've looked everywhere for you. I even thought I'd traced you to Ivory Meadows a couple of months ago but the vicar convinced me there was no one here that matched your description. You don't know, you don't know what it has been like, not knowing where you were, whether you were alive, even?'

 ‘I've been so worried about you.' He sighed, his voice breaking softly. ‘How are you, Cathy? How's Rosie?'

 I cast him a look.

 ‘Don't worry. Your friend Miss Metford has kindly told me all about how you two have been getting along. I understand a lot more than I used to now.'

 ‘But …'

 I tried to speak yet the words wouldn't come. Aftershave. It was the same as earlier, I knew I'd recognised it on Bill. How strange they should both choose the same scent. It smelt good, reminding me of happier times when I'd loved and been loved in return.

 ‘But …'

 I felt if I didn't say it my whole body would explode.

 Jack looked caringly into my eyes, willing me to speak. I could see he wasn't an abuser, a torturer, a liar or a murderer. How had he become such a villain in my mind? How had those seeds of doubt placed by the women in the hostel, the real victims, grown so far out of proportion? He had only ever wanted the best for me. All those years I'd loved and cared for him came flooding back. How he'd wooed me with flowers, wine, and trips to Paris. Not that I'd needed much persuasion. As soon as he'd held the door open for me that very first day, our eyes had met and his hand brushed my shoulder and that was it. I was hooked. He was hooked.

Even when our poor baby girl lay helpless in her incubator in hospital, Jack was only trying to get me to leave her bedside occasionally, just to eat and to sleep. I'd seen it as a slap round the face when he'd accused me of suffering from post-natal depression. I'd become angry, animated, roaring at him like a wild animal about the fact he had no idea how I felt. Actually, now I could see, he had been right all along. It hadn't been an accusation at all, merely a suggestion, borne out of kindness, not hostility. And it must have taken courage to say those words, words that had been for my benefit, our benefit. Everything had been for us, as a family. Why had I not seen that before?

 ‘But …' I tried again, ‘but Rosie had to go. It wasn't her time. In switching off her life-support machine, you weren't evil or cruel, you were just doing what was right for you, me and Lily. And for Rosie, too.'

 With that my whole body deflated. It felt as if I was left swimming in an enormous flood of tears that seemed to run across the kitchen tiles and through the door, creating a pool in the garden.

 It was pure and utter relief.  I had been hiding for too long, pretending there was a sort of magic in our cottage that was protecting us, building up a defensive barrier against the cruel truth of our past. I could see now I'd developed a whimsical way of seeing things to shelter Lily, and indeed myself, from our harsh reality. The guilt and grief I had felt was so huge, it left me void of anything but despair. I should have been the adult, the parent, sharing my role with Jack equally in the decision to switch off Rosie's life support machine. Instead I'd shied away from the reality of our situation, throwing out my own accusations like daggers across the room and ranting like a child deprived of its toy. I was filled with a kind of madness, I can see it now, when I look back.