The Garden of Stars (2 page)

 There were foxes and rabbits and we even spotted a badger once when we were sitting very quietly, taking a moment's reflection under a big oak tree. Sometimes it was possible to catch a glimpse of fallow deer in the dark of the forest as they carefully stepped out to bask their backs in the sunlight. My favourites, though, had to be the otters, timid but captivating little creatures down by the river.

It was down at the water's edge where I finally got to talk to the vicar. We had seen him many times before during our long, quiet walks. He was a small man with rounded features and a shiny bald head. Each time he seemed troubled, stopping every so often to look up at the sky then resuming his stroll again. The first time I saw him I followed his train of view, expecting to see a bird or a butterfly, but there was nothing. I realised he was probably talking with the Almighty and decided it would be dreadful if he thought I was spying on him so, with some deliberation, I went over to say hello. He passed vague pleasantries then made his apologies and scuttled away. We started to see each other regularly on our walks, all of us waving but not stopping.

 Then one grey afternoon, around two weeks after our arrival, Barbara kindly invited Rosie to Ben's ninth birthday party and ushered me off to ‘enjoy a little time to myself'. It was strange not to have my little girl by my side. But I decided to take a walk through the forest just like I normally did with Rosie. I saw the vicar down at the edge of the river. I went and sat on the riverbank, and he immediately edged behind a tree so I could not see his face. I had a feeling he wanted to talk.

 ‘It's admirable how Bill and the Sullivans and everyone fight so hard to keep this town traditional,' he said. His voice had a nervous, rasping lilt that made him sound like he was gasping for air as he spoke.

 ‘Only with your help,' I said.

 There was a pause, and I got the impression he had clasped his head in his hands. His voice quivered further as he whispered: ‘I'm in a real mess. You see I've made a deal. I've made a deal with the … the mayor.'

 It was like we were in a confessional box only our roles had changed. I had never been to confession so I didn't know if I should speak. I remained silent, listening.

 ‘The bishop told me that this town, due to its ageing population, was getting too small to warrant its own vicar. The young people don't want to stay and the older generations are, well, passing on. I was told the neighbouring vicar of Windhook, the next town down from here, would preside over both towns.

 ‘I was devastated. They said they would no longer pay for me or my house, and had great plans for me in another blossoming town some hundred miles south.

 ‘But Ivory Meadows has a hold over people. It got to me and I couldn't face leaving. The mayor, Mr Johnson, was aware of my dilemma and said he wanted me to stay for the sake of the town. He offered to pay my rent for me at the vicarage, saying it was his way of serving the Lord. I was embarrassed but I could see no alternative. He's a wealthy man, so I accepted. The bishop seemed happy enough that I was being funded by charitable donation, and pretty much left us to it.

 ‘A couple of months later, Mr Johnson visited me at home. He said he'd done a lot for me and now it was time for me to do something for him in return. I was so indebted to him for all his kindness, I agreed unquestioningly.

 ‘He told me he was being paid by developers to bring Ivory Meadows to a close so the town could be bulldozed and turned into an area of executive riverside apartments and chain stores. The plans included hacking down half of the forest to make way for plush residential estates.

 ‘And,' his voice trembled and he muttered in a barely-audible whisper, ‘he said that I was to help him.'

 I sat back on the bank, dumbfounded, but before I could say anything, he continued, ‘I refused, of course, saying it went against everything I believed in, everything the town stood for, everything I thought he stood for.

 ‘He said, “Who do you think has paid for the new roof on the church? And who do you think is paying for your house?”

 ‘I was horrified. I was so ashamed I felt sick to my stomach. The mayor threatened to tell everyone in the town I had been paid off by the developers unless I worked with him to try to convince the local people that development was the way forward and that we should start flattening some of the old buildings to make way for the new.

 ‘He threatened to tell my wife. I love my wife. I couldn't break her heart by letting her know I wasn't the man she thought I was.'

 I felt a lump in my throat. I could relate to that.

 ‘What could I do?' he added. ‘I began to spread the word that it was God's will for Ivory Meadows to change. But Bill, the Sullivans, and Gillian the florist, especially Gillian, they only hear what they want to hear and they twist my words to make it sound like I'm saying the opposite. The local people here lead a simple existence. They don't understand.'

 ‘But what about the welcome home party?' I asked.

 ‘Oh, that.' He sighed. ‘It was an amazing thing for them to do for me and I was really grateful. At the same time I was ashamed because I didn't deserve it. My wife couldn't understand my reaction but I saw the mayor in the crowd when I got out of my car and I knew I had to get out of there.'

 A raven cawed loudly in a nearby tree. It made the vicar jump and he turned and looked at me for the first time. He had tears in his eyes. He mumbled something about saying too much and got up with a start.

 ‘Oh, I forgot to say,' he added, turning back, ‘there was a man in the town this morning asking for a woman who sounded just like you.'

 I know he saw me flinch, I couldn't help it.

 ‘I told him I was very sorry but I didn't know of any woman who matched his description. I hope you'll repay me the same favour?'

 ‘Thank you,' I said. ‘And don't worry, I won't breathe a word of our conversation to anyone.'

 And with that he scuttled away across the field into the distance.

 I couldn't believe what I'd just been told. Everyone in the town would be devastated if they knew the truth.

 Then it hit me like a blow to the head … ‘a man was asking for you.' I felt the blood drain from my body then I panicked. Rosie. What if he'd already got to her?

 I ran towards Barbara's flat, gasping for breath, my mind a blur.

Chapter Two

Rosie was there in Barbara's kitchen, playing, just where she should be. I stood in the hallway, peering in at the brightly lit room where she was messily making pizza with the boys, and I was filled with an overriding sense of emptiness. My life would have no meaning, my existence would be unnecessary, if she weren't here. Stepping into the kitchen, I picked her up and held her close. She hugged and kissed me back for a moment, then struggled to be released. I couldn't show her my fear. So I put her down, straightened my hair, and composed myself.

 ‘They've arrived,' she said, mischievously.

 I froze to the spot. ‘Who has?' I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

 ‘The fairies. The toadstools appeared this morning in the garden. That's their home,' she said, hands on hips, ridiculing me for not already knowing.

 ‘Oh,' I said, relieved, ‘let's see when we get home.'

 By the time we'd helped Barbara clean up, and said our goodbyes and thank-yous, it was getting late. We made our way back up the hill, Rosie recounting how Ben's dough became too sticky and how Barbara's eldest son, Scott, had turned up late, after being out with his friends, then showed off by making an excellent pizza, topped with ‘olives and everything'.

 ‘He's sixteen, you know,' she said, as if she was the most grown-up girl in the world to be friends with someone so old.

 She was not about to let me forget the toadstools so we waded through the damp overgrown grass down to the weeping willow tree at the bottom of the garden. As we approached, the moon seemed to illuminate the toadstools, making them shine like bright white balls of cotton wool. They were nestled together in a cluster, as if they were hatching a plan, and hiding it beneath their umbrella-shaped heads. Each had a ring of flesh around its stem that looked like a medieval cuff. It gave them an air of grandeur. I could see why Rosemary thought they were fairy homes; they did have a magical element to them.

 I gathered her in my arms and cuddled her tight, watching the first stars of the night appear in our enchanted garden: ‘Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.'

The following week the sun shone continuously over Cherrystone Cottage, compensating for the unusually gloomy summer we had endured.

 It was Rosie's seventh birthday and I put all thoughts of what I'd been told by the vicar out of my head to mark the celebration with her.

 ‘Lucky seven,' I told her, planting a kiss between her eyes. She danced round the garden in a strange hopping, jumping, excitable manner until I grabbed her hands and we spun round and round until we both fell on the grass in a big bundle of laughter and love. We had jelly and ice-cream all down our dresses and cake crumbs in our hair but it didn't matter. We were happy. Looking back, it was like the calm before the storm.

Getting ready for winter, I baked and baked, filling the house with smells of ginger cake, apple pie, beef stew, chicken casserole, fruit cakes, damson wine, elderflower cordial, blackberry wine, and vegetable soup. There were jars and jars of black cherry jam, bottles of cherry wine, and tins and tins of cherry cake and cherry tarts from our garden's harvest. The scent of the cooking seemed to waft down the path and into the town, such was the intensity of my baking. I don't know why I did it. But instinct told me to stock up on sunshine flavours for the larder and the freezer as it was going to be a hard winter.

 My mother had taught me to cook, and to sew, skills I'd forgotten I had in my busy city life. Now it was like I was driven to cook, to be in my kitchen, by some external force, to the extent that my hands were stained black with cherry juice and I could barely keep my eyes open for lack of sleep. But oh, how I loved it! It was like an addiction. I'd forgotten how good it felt to be creative, to create not destroy.

 Rosie clearly followed in her grandmother's footsteps, too. She was a natural in the kitchen. Each time we put something new on the stove, the house seemed to fill with laughter, every time a dish went into the Aga, the cottage became so warm and cosy it glowed. After nearly a week, the vegetables seemed to chop themselves and the cakes rose perfectly without us having to keep checking them. The oven hummed as if it were singing its favourite song.

 Rosie was convinced it was fairies at work in the house. I sometimes joked along with her. Things certainly did seem to happen more easily here than anywhere else we'd been. Maybe Rosie was right. Maybe there was some kind of spirit in the house. It was over two hundred years old, who were we to expect nothing to have happened here before we arrived? Who were we to tamper with what was already there?

The time soon came for Rosie to start school. Barbara had kindly passed on some hand-me-downs from one of the mums at school who'd been having a clear-out over the summer. She looked pretty as a picture in her grey skirt, white shirt and socks, and navy cardigan, even though the sleeves had to be rolled back. She settled in well at school, saying Ben and Charlie had introduced her to lots of their friends in the playground. I was glad, however, that she did seem to keep herself to herself. I was so proud of how well she'd coped with our upheaval that I took her to the charity shop in the town for a treat. We spent ages trying on clothes and laughing at ourselves in the mirror. Eventually, finding three winter outfits each and coats that fitted us well, together with some warm scarves, hats, gloves, and boots, I parted with my hard-earned cash and we made our way back home with bags full of clothes. At least this went some way towards filling our empty wardrobes.

Once Rosie was in the swing of country school life, I knew I could no longer put what the vicar had told me to the back of mind. I'd spent many sleepless nights deliberating over his words and finally decided it was time to take action, despite my promise to him.

During my next shift at work, I asked Barbara if she thought the local people might like to come to a coffee morning up at Cherrystone Cottage.

 ‘They'd jump at the chance,' she said, as she unpacked a box of ripe blackberries. ‘Folk have been wondering about you, and most of them had never even heard of Cherrystone Cottage before you arrived. They wouldn't say as much to your face but curiosity would get the better of them and they'd all turn up.'

 ‘The only thing is,' I said, lowering my voice, ‘the vicar and the mayor mustn't know about it.'

She gave me one of her knowing looks.

 ‘Better make it early this Sunday, then. I happen to know Mr Johnson's away for the weekend and Mr Baker – well he always spends all morning in church composing himself for the day's service. People will all want to go to church, though, so don't be upset if they all up and leave before eleven.'

 ‘That's perfect,' I said. ‘Invite everyone you know to come up at ten.'

As it approached 10 o'clock the following Sunday morning, I started glancing nervously out of the window. I knew I was betraying my promise to the vicar. But hadn't he already been dishonest himself? I was grateful to him for not revealing my address but the way he said it sounded like a threat of blackmail. I was not about to be caught up in the very trap that had got him. Besides, I felt strong enough to face whatever came my way. How the local community reacted would be another matter altogether.

 The floors were scrubbed, the tablecloth starched and spread, and the table was laden with ginger slices, fruit cake, banana loaf, and black cherry tarts. It did look pretty and I felt myself blush with pride. I'd allowed Rosie to take her pick then carry them up on a tray to her bedroom, asking her to quietly read her book there for an hour. Amazingly, she'd agreed.

 Now it was just a matter of whether anyone would turn up. Barbara would, although if one of her sons was playing up even she might cry off. I was just wishing I'd had a telephone installed when I saw people starting to amble in through the clearing and up the side path that led to the kitchen door. 

 Mr Morris from the hardware store arrived first, perfectly polished as ever in a brown, pin-stripe suit, bow tie, and oil-slicked moustache.

 I opened the door, perhaps a little too extravagantly, and welcomed him in. There was coffee on the stove so the room smelt as inviting as it looked as they walked in out of the blustery September weather.

 Gillian, the florist, had brought her daughter Patricia who looked as sour-faced as her mother. It didn't add to my confidence to see they both looked like they'd have much preferred to be elsewhere. However, I'd learnt from Barbara that Gillian had to be at the epicentre of any gossip, even though she always made out it was beneath her to be in the slightest bit interested. They plonked themselves straight down on the only two comfy armchairs and blankly refused any offer of cakes or biscuits, somehow finding preening their nails far more interesting.

 The librarian, Mrs Sprockett, and her helper Janice rushed up the path, making her apologies for being late, even though she was one of the first to arrive. Mrs Sprockett was red-faced and buxom, pulling her ever-so-slightly too small cardigan tightly across her chest as she happily made a bee-line for the largest black cherry tart on the table, hurriedly telling Janice that one little cake wouldn't upset her diet.

 An elderly couple slowly made their way towards the door, leaning heavily on walking sticks. I'd seen them come into the grocers but knew little else about them.

 Soon there were more people than I could count. Then I saw Bill the butcher bringing up the rear. I was glad he was here. I felt I could rely on a reaction and a desire to fight back from him.

 Most of them were dressed in their Sunday best, even Bill had shed his tatty T-shirt and jeans for a crisp-ish shirt and tie.

 Five minutes later the kitchen was so full, people had to lean against the door. Bill lifted himself up and plonked himself on the work surface. I smiled. It helped me relax to see people felt at home here. Other men followed suit and soon there was just me left standing in the middle of them all. I knew time was pressing on. It was now or never. I glanced over to Barbara and could have sworn I saw her nod.

 I cleared my throat but everyone was talking animatedly and didn't hear. Taking a little spoon, I gently tapped it on the edge of my teacup.

 ‘Hullo, everybody. Thank you all for coming here so early on a Sunday morning. My name, for those who don't know me, is Vivian Myrtle. I invited you all here firstly to introduce myself and to get to know you better. But … there was another reason, too.'

 I took a deep breath and slowly started to tell them what the vicar had told me, trying to keep any trace of scandal out of my voice. The story was bad enough without needing to exaggerate. When I came to the end, I looked around. Blank faces. Dumb-founded, I thought. Then Bill started to laugh.

 ‘Is that it, Viv? We've known about that for months. Barbara overheard a conversation between Mr Baker and old Johnson outside her shop not long before you arrived. It didn't take long for us to put two and two together.'

 ‘But what about the welcome-home party?' I blurted out, flustered.

 There was mass sniggering.

 ‘Oh that,' said Bill, ‘That was our little way of embarrassing the vicar and, more importantly, rubbing Johnson's nose in it. Bit of one-upmanship you could say.'

 For a moment I couldn't think of a word to say. I'd dragged them all up here for nothing. No, more than that, to make myself, the newcomer, look like a fool. I couldn't believe I'd been so naïve to think they wouldn't already know this vital information.

 I backed against the stove, my optimism shattered. I was already small in stature, just like my little girl. Now I felt even smaller, faced with all these strangers in my kitchen. The warmth of the Aga penetrated my skin through my pink cotton dress and I thought I heard a little hiss from inside. It made me think of Rosie and her little fairies.

 Resolutely, I stood tall in the room again. ‘Well, then,' I said, ‘something needs to be done about it.'

 Everyone stopped in their tracks.

 ‘You suggest we take on the two most powerful people in town?' asked Gillian. ‘It would be like battling against the good Lord and the establishment in one blow. We wouldn't stand a chance.'

 ‘And I for one want to make it to heaven,' said the little old lady, whose name I still didn't know. She was sat at the table cowering over a battered old walking stick, her grey hair covered by a scarf. She was dressed from head to foot in black. I'd have thought she was a widow had her poor, downtrodden husband not been perched at her side.

 ‘Hear Vivian out,' said Barbara, willing me on. It was only then that I realised she'd worked out my plan from the start.

 I cleared my throat. ‘The mayor's development plans will not only turf out all of us but they'll jeopardise the beautiful natural world that envelops and protects Ivory Meadows,' I said, my voice quivering ever so slightly. Barbara nodded, urging me to continue.

 ‘This town has a lot to offer. We just need to let people outside it know that it exists. We need to re-invent it as a tourist attraction while maintaining its traditional charm as its selling point.'

 ‘You're no better than the mayor,' snarled Gillian, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder, ‘you just want to make money out of us, too.'

 Bill butted in. ‘Listen, Vivian has a point. We can't survive as we are. We all know the community isn't getting any younger, and young lasses like Janice here rarely want to stay once they've passed their teens.'

 Janice blushed at the mention of her name.

 He continued, ‘If we do what Vivian says, we'll be able to develop Ivory Meadows but on our terms rather than them pantomime flattening it and making it faceless.'

 ‘That's exactly it,' I said, spurred on by his lead. ‘And the way to do it is to think of new ways of bringing life to the town. We could offer nature trails and craft workshops, perhaps even a festive market in the run-up to Christmas. We could make Ivory Meadows
the
place to visit to get into the good old-fashioned spirit of the season!'