The Garden of Stars (4 page)

 I sat down on the step, eyes wide, open-mouthed, watching.

 Polaris danced like a woman who thinks no one is watching, Aries the ram sat steely-eyed stalking a shoal of Piscerian fish, Capella the goat was caught by Auriga, the charioteer as he raged against the wicked Cerberus, the terrifying three-headed monster. The Gemini twins smiled down, hand in hand, gently flickering that all was well in the night sky. Corvus squawked a shrill crow's cry before diving onto the scorpion Scorpio. Oblivious to all this, the lustful Aquarius hardly noticed as she poured gallon after gallon of water into the black seas of night, her mind elsewhere with her lover.

 Planets, shining steadily and bright, unlike their elusive twinkling friends the stars, wandered from one constellation to another, just as we humans move from one life to another. Had my new start been a success? Was it time to start thinking about moving on again, for Rosemary's sake as well as my own?

 Being a mother doesn't mean you always make the right decisions, even though it may appear to your children that there was never any choice. Perhaps Miss Metford was right about my own mother, whose peculiar beliefs so readily filtered into my everyday thoughts, my everyday life. I knew, when I was growing up, that our neighbours thought Mum was crazy, maybe even dangerous, but she was always wonderful in my eyes. We never had much money so she did what she needed to survive. If that meant boiling up bits of hedgerow for dinner then so be it. I traced my finger around my mother's locket, the only thing I had of hers. I wore it sometimes when I felt I needed her courage. Here, Rosie and I did have a choice. It was just that sometimes there seemed there were too many stars and not enough sky.

 I gently padded my way around the garden, cat-like, not wanting to disturb her from her nightly engagements. For a garden does not rest like we do at night. It's when she comes alive. Enjoying the peace of the birds' gentle slumber, the garden breathes huge sighs of relief, great waves of liberation, opening up each blade of grass to dance freely in the moonlight, unafraid of getting trampled. The trees sing softly in the breeze, a seldom-heard song of distant memories as they reminisce on how things used to be. The leaves on the path rustle excitedly, waiting to be swept up by the bountiful wind as she guides them on her wing to pastures new. And the moon herself, so round and sanguine, showers the whole garden in silvery, Utopian light.

 Suddenly everything was still, waiting and watching. Then it came. Nature's own therapy: healing, cleansing, life-restoring, renewing, invigorating rain. At first it teased with individual droplets chasing each other down the path and into the pond. Then the droplets multiplied into drizzle, the sound echoing around the garden in sheer release, proving there need be no stillness in perfect tranquillity.

 There was magic in this garden, just as there is in every garden. The fact that the flowers knew exactly when to bloom, that the birds knew precisely when to mate, that the bees knew how to spread exquisite colour throughout the garden by lavishing their pollen loads in just the right places.

 The greatest spell of all was bestowed by the magnificent magnolia tree which stood in the centre, queen of the garden, clinging onto her precious buds until it was absolutely safe for them to open, just as a mother holds onto her children. Mother Magnolia knows her petals cannot shine if she hangs onto them for too long. Then all her watching, waiting, nurturing will have been worthless.

 There would come a time when I would have to let Rosie go so that she too could grow and blossom and shine. How would I be wise like Mother Magnolia, knowing the precise moment to set my little girl free?

 Everywhere I looked in the silvery mist, I saw magic. I saw it in the house, too: every time a tin of flour, eggs, butter and sugar rose into a light fluffy cake. Every time a log and match united to fill my cottage with a warm, amber glow. Every time a woman popped into the mirror to tell me how I looked. Every time I realised I'd been hiding the sun himself inside my cupboard as I cracked open the shell of an egg.

 By now my hair was drenched and my skin tingled with pleasure with each gentle drop of rain. I felt cleansed, healed, just like the garden of stars.

 I realised I must have been in a trance and glanced around for Mary Metford.

 But she was gone.

 Suddenly a cold chill took over my body. Shivering, I ran into the house. The kitchen was calm and peaceful, just as we'd left it, with one glowing, half-empty bottle of gin on the table, and two glasses beside it.

 But, closing the door, I spotted a card. I lunged forward, humming to myself as I picked it up, thinking Miss Metford must have dropped something.

 To my horror, it was a calling card from the mayor. How long had he been here, and how much had he seen and heard? 

Chapter Four

The plan was this.

 Maureen Sprockett was head librarian. Her job would be to research what community events used to be held in Ivory Meadows in bygone days so that we could work to bring them back, as a living, working, old-fashioned town.

 Once she'd come up with some ideas, she would hang a sign on the church notice board. It would say: ‘Come and Find Out More About What's Going On In Your Local Library'. This would be the signal to Gillian. She would go and choose some books to borrow then Maureen would slip an extra book into her collection at the counter. This book would contain a piece of paper with all her ideas listed on it.

 Gillian was good at art and design. It was her job, being a florist. She would design two leaflets and two posters, telling people all about the forthcoming events in Ivory Meadows. I would come up with some words detailing why the town was under threat and why it had to be saved. I told her I would drop a piece of paper containing all those details into her grocery bag next time she came into the shop.

 When Gillian's posters were complete, she would wrap them, pattern side inside, around four bunches of flowers, which Dennis would collect on his and Barbara's wedding anniversary on October 13, just under a month's time. Barbara would be delighted by her ‘surprise' gift, put the flowers into water, then hide the leaflets and posters.

That day they would close the shop for the afternoon so they could go for a long, leisurely celebration lunch. At this Dennis had complained about it being bad for business, but Barbara had rebuked him for being selfish and told him he could book them into The Mason Arms, then winked at me. Having a weekday afternoon free gave me an excuse to catch the train into the city, supposedly sightseeing, but really to take the leaflets and posters to the printers.

 Mr Morris, the hardware shop owner, said he was friends with the printer and would have a quiet word beforehand, not only to alert him to the highly secret nature of what he was about to receive and ask him to be discreet but also to enquire about a discount.

 Once back from the printers, I would pin a ‘Lost Cat' sign to the fabulous old oak tree at the bottom of the hill just on the edge of town. The last digit of the telephone number would be to let George the bargee know how many days it would be before the leaflets were ready. At this point, he was to collect them, stowing them like contraband goods into the hidden compartments between the boat's base and its living area.

 The next day George would make a big fuss in the butcher's shop, saying he had a problem with his boat's rudder and could Bill help him out? That night Bill was to drive his van down to the water's edge at Deanon's Brook, away from the lights of the town, and they would load the delivery into the back of the truck.

 Bill would then hang another notice on the tree, this time saying ‘Cat Found, Many Thanks' which would be a signal to Jeremy, the choirmaster, that it was time for him to pay a visit to the butcher. There Bill would give him several bags of meat, packed with leaflets and posters around the sides, carefully wrapped to keep them safe.

 Jeremy would hide his stash inside the choir stalls and within the bell tower, which the vicar had made redundant since his embarrassment on returning from honeymoon.

 I told them it was perfect as, if the vicar was getting suspicious, it was the last place he was likely to look.

 We also needed to reach the press. Fortunately Barbara knew everyone so I said I would compile a couple of press releases and suggested she could drop them into the newspaper offices in the city after the leaflets had arrived, on the way to visiting her mum for tea so nobody would think it unusual.

 We would hold meetings every Sunday afternoon, under the guise of astrology and yoga classes so that everyone could discreetly discuss their ideas or alert us to any potential problems. Maureen and Gillian were worried they would not be able to gather all the information and put together the posters in such a short space of time but I insisted to everyone we really had to move fast if we were to save the town. They nodded solemnly in agreement.

Barbara had been very encouraging when I arrived for work the day after the meeting. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice I was nursing a sore head as a result of Miss Metford's shenanigans. She said she'd never seen the people of Ivory Meadows react so positively to new ideas or to new people, for that matter. She said they were normally suspicious of new folk, and to be a single mother as I was, well that was practically unheard of. It was clear they didn't count Gillian in that equation and I didn't like to ask what had happened to her other half. But Barbara said they felt the plan was so carefully devised, it might just work and that my heart was in the right place, which was the most important thing. And, she joked, that she was delighted she got an anniversary meal out of it to boot!

The next morning, I dug out a plot near to the kitchen door and planted a herb garden. I sensed a battle ahead and knew I needed every weapon I could lay my hands upon. I created an apothecary of colours, fragrances, textures, and tastes. I planted basil to stimulate the brain, lemon balm to lift the spirits, mint to calm the nerves, coriander to beat fatigue and apathy, lavender for peace of mind, and rosemary for prosperity and friendship. I'd named my daughter after my favourite herb. The moment I'd first laid eyes on her I saw she was delicious, potent, medicinal, magical. Our surname was just coincidence but I loved the fact that, put together, her names symbolised friendship and love.

 I also made a note to buy in cloves to comfort and cheer and nutmeg for confidence. If we were to take on the government and the church, a little help from Mother Nature wouldn't go amiss.

I enlisted Rosie's help in making bright, colourful posters advertising weekly yoga and astrology classes I proposed to run at Cherrystone Cottage.

 ‘All welcome!' the poster read, ‘Come and enjoy some relaxation and exercise for your body and mind. Suitable for any level. 3-4, Sunday afternoons. £1 each.'

 We'd agreed the weekly ‘fees' would help to cover the printing costs of the leaflets and posters.

 Some of Rosie's posters became a little over-artistic with wild pictures of horses and fairies all over them. Still, at least they would be noticed.

 Proud of our work, Rosie and I sat in the garden to have a well-earned cup of tea and slice of cherry pie. As the sun began to set over the hills, the entire sky turned a magnificent glowing pink. It was so beautiful, so full of hope and joy that we stayed there in the garden, watching until the first stars of the night appeared.

On my way to work the next day, after dropping Rosie off at school, I hung the posters all over the town. I even stuck one in the church vestry and on the notice board in the town hall. I asked all the shopkeepers to stick one in their windows, to which they promptly agreed.

 Barbara told me the vicar had already received news of our meeting and was apparently furious we had dared to hold such an event on the Sabbath. She said the fact he had no idea what it was about made it even worse.

 ‘Let battle commence,' she said, rolling up her sleeves.

 I wasn't so jubilant, and just hoped my posters might bluff our rivals into thinking we were meeting for exercise. I had loved taking yoga classes when I worked in public relations in London. Before having Rosie, they were my twice-weekly salvation, two hour-long sessions where I had time to myself to be still and calm in the frenetic PR world of the city. I had even begun to take lessons on how to teach yoga myself but I gave them up when work became too busy, such was my whim. I just hoped I could remember a little of what I had been taught so I could share it with those who came this weekend.

 At exactly 3 p.m. on Sunday, thirteen people arrived on my doorstep. It was not as many as the week before but it was enough. Barbara and Dennis brought along their youngest son, Ben, to keep Rosie company, leaving their eldest two, Scott and Charlie, engrossed in front of the TV. Rosie was delighted to see him and immediately the pair raced up to her bedroom to play. The Donaldsons came too, along with Maureen Sprockett, the librarian, and her assistant Janice, Gillian the florist, Bill, Mr Morris, from the hardware shop, and his daughter, Joan. Mr Morris apologised for the absence of his wife Yvonne, who had a cold and had decided to give today's class a miss. I gave him an elderflower blossom, with strict instructions to hang it up in a net and let it dry before giving it to Yvonne as a tea to clear her chest. The other two were the unwelcome additions of the mayor and his accomplice, the vicar.

 I had to make this realistic.

 ‘Right,' I said, trying my hardest to keep the jangle of fear out of my voice, ‘let's get started with some breathing exercises. This is called pranayama. Prana means life, energy, and vitality while ayama means regulation and control. Together they form a practice of regulating the flow of energy through the body using the breath. Pranayama is life-giving, it's what connects our inner energy with our outer energy. What we need to do is concentrate on breathing in, holding the breath, then breathing out and holding that breath. Everyone lie on the floor and breathe with me.'

 They looked at me cynically but, urged by Barbara, they each found a spot.

 ‘Right,' I continued, gaining confidence now they weren't all staring at me, ‘gently close your eyes and enjoy this moment of relaxation. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold.'

 After ten minutes, the atmosphere changed in the room. The scepticism and defiance seemed to drift away, people actually seemed to be enjoying it. I was amazed. Even Mr Johnson's face had altered; I think I even saw a real smile rather than a smirk. Encouraged, I got them up on their feet and led them through a series of simple poses. The dog pose on all fours, the kneeling child pose, the mountain pose stood on both feet, the lunging warrior pose.

 I concluded the yoga session after twenty minutes and moved on to astrology. I didn't want to overexert anyone, although they seemed disappointed it had come to an end so quickly.

 ‘OK,' I said, feeling much more positive and capable than half an hour ago, ‘everyone please gather round the table in a circle.'

 They did as they were told instantly.

 ‘Here before me is an almanac, it lets us know which are auspicious days for each of us. It is governed by the moon, the stars, and our birth dates. I can read each person's individual horoscope over the course of the next few weeks but I shall only be able to do one person's at a time. Tonight I feel it's important for me to read Maureen Sprockett's. I shall perform the astrological reading in front of everyone, if that is acceptable to you, Maureen?'

 Maureen nodded.

 ‘Let us commence. Please feel free to ask any questions as we're going along. What is your date of birth, Maureen?'

 ‘September 23, 1955,' she said. The date was actually irrelevant. I had no idea how to read full astrology, only the bare basics my mother had taught me and, in this instance, I wouldn't even be using that because all I wanted was to find out how she was getting on with the research.

 ‘Maureen, according to Saturn's alignment with Jupiter, you are looking for something. Is that right, Maureen?'

 She nodded.

 ‘I feel more than that, I feel like you're searching. This has something to do with your history, your background, am I right, Maureen?'

 She nodded, once more.

 ‘Does this search leave you feeling bewildered, confused or unable to cope?'

 Maureen shook her head. That was good.

 ‘Ah, so the search into one's self is a positive one in this instance. How close do you feel you are to finding all that you are looking for?'

 ‘Very close,' said Maureen, solemnly.

 ‘That's good. Is there anything you feel you're lacking in this search?'

 ‘Yes,' said Maureen, ‘I'm struggling to correlate all the information …'

 ‘In your mind,' I jumped in. I didn't want her blowing our cover by being too direct. ‘I see. Perhaps it would help to physically write down what you're finding, I'm feeling a strong sense someone in this room could help you with that. And that person is Mrs Donaldson. Do you think you could offer some assistance, Mrs Donaldson?'

 Mrs Donaldson nodded. In fact she looked delighted. I could see she understood and would call into the library at the first opportunity she had. It was obvious that try as they might Maureen and Janice could not physically get through all the volumes of historical reference in the library between just the two of them.

 ‘Good. That concludes the end of today's reading. We shall look at someone else's next week. Thank you all for coming; please do feel free to bring a towel or blanket to lie on next time so that you can feel as comfortable as possible.'

 Everything seemed to be going to plan. While I was afraid the mayor and vicar may have enjoyed the yoga a little too much and be keen to return next week, I had little doubt they were so confused by the astrology session they would write off the whole thing as claptrap.

 Meanwhile, Maureen had managed to communicate her problems to me and we had been able to resolve them without giving anything away. It seemed, with a little luck, everything was on schedule. I just needed her to remember to put up the sign on the church notice board when everything was ready but I had little fear she would forget.

I watched as they made their way back down the hill, arm in arm, until all I could hear was the odd chuckle in the distance.

I was right about the mayor. He never showed up to class again and Barbara said she'd heard him telling the vicar's wife what nonsense it was as he convinced her not to attend.

 Mr Baker himself, however, needed a little more convincing. And yet, the beauty was, he found the second yoga session even more relaxing than the first and dozed off at the end, leaving us a little freer to talk during the ‘astrology' session.