The Garden of Stars (10 page)

Chapter Ten

Mary Metford arrived while I was running around in a frenzy.

 ‘What on earth is the matter with you, girl; have you gone crazy?'

 ‘Not yet, Miss Metford, although I think I must be nearing it. I'm trying to write a press release and I've got to get these original leaflets and posters to the printers in the city. It will close in two hours and we can't afford to waste a whole weekend. I can't get a train there in time. Why on earth did I get involved in all this?'

 ‘Calm yourself, Vivian, you're being ridiculous,' sighed Miss Metford. ‘You were sent here for a purpose. And you're damn well going to fulfil that purpose if it's the last thing you do. Leave that paperwork now, I'll take you into town.'

 ‘How?' I asked, half-expecting her to pull out a broomstick.

 ‘In my car, of course.'

 ‘Your car? You can't drive, surely?'

 ‘I stopped driving a long time ago because I decided there were already too many silly old fools on the road causing accidents without me joining them. But just because I don't doesn't mean I can't.'

 ‘Do you think it will be safe?' I asked, thinking how every single time I saw her she shocked me further.

 ‘It strikes me, my dear, you don't have much choice. And a risky witch like you, too? Can't believe you have the audacity to ask such a question.'

 With that she stormed off up the path.

 I was left torn. Should I risk both our lives by being driven by an eighty-six-year-old battleaxe in a beaten-up old banger? Or did I risk irreversibly losing precious days needed to secure the success of the campaign?

 I didn't have long to ponder. After a few minutes, there was an almighty roar at the end of the path. Grabbing my coat and scarf, I ran down to see what was going on.

 There stood the most beautiful, immaculate, shiny Bentley I'd ever seen.

 ‘Jump in, girl,' shrieked Miss Metford, flicking her cigarette ash out of the window, ‘what are you standing around waiting for?'

 The journey into the city was eventful to say the least. It seemed Miss Metford had clean forgotten about the concept of gears, so we groaned most of the way there in first or second. When I kindly pointed this out to her, she snapped at me, then realising I was right, said, ‘Oh yes, I remember, couldn't quite work out why I was going so slowly.'

 After that I wished I'd left her growling along in first, as we sped into the city at full speed, with Miss Metford failing to even take her foot off the pedal when we came to traffic lights, which incidentally she thought were for wimps. We drove the wrong way down one-way streets, evidently no entry signs had not been invented the last time Miss M was behind the wheel. For my part, I found it easier to hang on to my seat for dear life while closing my eyes so I couldn't see what was ahead of us. We got there in record time, although it did take a few minutes to convince Mary to come in to the printers with me rather than ‘doing a few laps round the block' as she had proposed.

 ‘What marvellous fun, my dear,' she exclaimed as we walked through the doors, me shaking and she straightening her hat. ‘Can't believe I've left it so long.'

 Fortunately for us the printers were not very busy so, although the man behind the counter grimaced at the thought of printing five hundred leaflets so late on a Friday afternoon, he did concede to getting on with the job at a cost.

 ‘Don't worry about that now, dear,' said Miss M as I nervously handed over the money, ‘you'll get it back in time. Right, we've got an hour to kill, where's the nearest pub, laddie?'

 The printer pointed out an exclusive-looking wine bar over the road. It was full of fashionable young things sipping cocktails. I was just about to ask about a café, when Mary grabbed my hand, saying it was ‘Just the ticket'.

 Two cocktails each later, she'd managed to convince everyone in there they simply had to visit the darling little Ivory Meadows and that they really must tell their friends. I was concerned Miss M was too squiffy to drive us home but she rebuked me, saying, ‘You do talk some frightful bilge, my dear, it's all for the cause.'

 We picked up the leaflets, asking the printer to display one in his window and dropping a few over the road to the newly converted bar staff, then bravely returned to the Bentley. I think the cocktails had given us both a little Dutch courage. I tried to tell Mary we really were in no rush this time, but she told me that was an idiotic thing to say to a woman of eighty-six who had infinitely too much to cram into too little time. She told me she'd keep the leaflets in the boot of her car, promising me the mayor wouldn't dare darken
her
doors, but then screeched the car to a halt.

 ‘Why on earth do you want to take them back to Ivory Meadows in the first place?' she turned to me and asked. ‘Everyone in Ivory Meadows knows about Ivory Meadows.'

 ‘Bill and Dennis want to deliver them to passengers on the train,' I said. ‘They plan to return to the city and hand them out on street corners; they've already worked out what they're going to say to people.'

 ‘Those pair couldn't organise a drunken party in a pub. I always say if you want a job doing properly you should do it yourself.'

 With this the handbrake went on and we rotated full circle in the traffic, driving in the opposite direction to home. Horns beeped all around but we were gone in a big cloud of smoke before anyone could stop us.

 That afternoon and into the night, we visited every pub we could find, posted leaflets through every shop letterbox we stumbled upon, and handed them out to every person who deigned to pass us by.

 ‘What are you doing about the press?' asked Miss Metford, finally.

 ‘I was working on a press release when you arrived. Barbara said she would pass it onto a reporter friend she knows at the start of next week.'

 ‘Next week? I could be dead by next week. We'll do it now ourselves. What time is it?'

 I looked at my watch. It was approaching seven o'clock.

  ‘They're a lazy bunch, the press, so there won't be anyone in the offices now. But, having said that, they do like a drink. Let's find their offices and visit the pub nearest to it.'

 ‘I'm not sure we'll be able to persuade them,' I said, hesitantly, as we drove around and eventually pulled up outside The Lark pub.

 ‘Don't you believe it, they'll be duck soup when I've finished with them!'

 For once, her crazy logic worked. She walked in with great triumph, sought a table of reporters then ordered me to the bar to get everyone a drink. By the time I returned, slightly flummoxed and completely penniless, she had everyone in hysterics and promising they would not only grace their pages with our news but that they would visit themselves to do a live report. I later learnt she'd threatened to strip to her brassiere if they didn't. I must say the mind boggled.

 By the time I managed to drag Mary out of the pub, she could barely stand. She insisted I took the wheel. I hadn't driven in years but the Bentley seemed to purr gently, appreciative of my more gentle touch, and we were back in Ivory Meadows in no time. I collected Rosie, apologising to Barbara for being so late and promising to fill her in on all the details soon. Back at Cherrystone Cottage, Miss Metford seemed to sober up and, promising to take it steady up the lane, she got back behind the wheel. Then she proceeded to roar away at full steam to Metford Manor.

 I carried my beautiful, sleepy girl to bed, kissed her goodnight, then flopped into the armchair, exhausted. I had to admire Mary's spirit, even if she did leave me bewildered most of the time. Thanks to her, the campaign had already begun, and if the small section of people we'd spoken to were anything to go by, it looked as though it might just work.

Chapter Eleven

Sure enough, on Monday, our story was in all the local papers. The mayor was furious, everyone else was elated. They were simply amazed that so much had happened. I realised it wasn't important who did what, the only importance was that they felt it was their campaign and, having been so involved at the start, it was like it was their new-born baby.

 On the Tuesday everyone was excitedly waiting for an influx of people.

 It was deathly quiet, like a ghost town. I wondered if I'd made a grave mistake. I tried to reassure everyone to keep the faith but I had to admit I was a little nervous. What if everything everyone had done had been completely in vain?

 Wednesday was a totally different story. Slowly but surely strangers started to drift into the town. A woman brought her grandson who was mad on trains, a courting couple came for the romance of the river, a young man brought his mother who had apparently been here many years before and fallen in love.

 That night, every shopkeeper stayed late working tirelessly to dress the town with Christmas decorations. By morning, it was as if every shop window had been sprinkled with fairy dust, filled as they were with tinsel, ornaments, and candles. It seemed like a winter wonderland.

 Mick hastily put together his festive cookery classes after being inundated with enquiries, and George put a sandwich board next to his barge with details of his Santa Specials. Jeremy gathered the choir together for a quick rehearsal ready for their grand carol concert on Sunday evening. He also put a quick call into his friend at the travelling circus. Fortunately they hadn't been re-booked after he'd cancelled it earlier in the month and were delighted to be coming to perform in Ivory Meadows once more. They were so pleased for us they even said they'd bring an old-fashioned carousel and Ferris wheel for free. Everything that had been put on hold was quickly resurrected with added vigour and excitement.

 It had been Barbara's idea for Bill to take on the mantle of Father Christmas, arriving on a float made to look like a chimney and being the one to turn on the fairy lights in the town. He begrudgingly agreed, but everyone could see he was secretly delighted to have such a starring role in the festivities. He certainly had the belly for it!

 Earlier that day, he'd mustered all his strength to help the vicar bring in an enormous Christmas tree, which now stood proudly at the front of the church, so that it was the first thing people saw as they walked or drove into town.

 Rosie was coming home more elated every day from school as it seemed all lessons had been put on hold for the children and teachers to work on their plans for the carnival.

 By Friday, people were coming in by the busload. Ian of The Mason Arms had run out of draught beer, Nancy from the café sold out of sausages, and at the greengrocers we were swamped with orders to be picked up the following week.

 Gillian had spent all week helping everyone work on their floats for the carnival. I thought she must be exhausted but, quite the opposite; it seemed her creative mind was going into overdrive. She suggested a masked ball would make a grand finale, not only to a wonderful carnival but also to a fabulous week and long slog of the campaign. It would also whet everyone's appetite for the rest of the festivities the whole town had planned right through to Christmas Eve. But she was quite adamant there were to be no witch costumes as, she said, that would be inappropriate under the circumstances. She said she'd already checked the town hall was free and asked if the band could continue to play there after the carnival was over.

 Everyone thought she was joking at first but I was thrilled at the idea and suggested we should wear ball gowns and dinner jackets. Soon everyone was nodding in agreement. Bill wasn't sure about the ‘monkey suits' as he put it, but he did come round when Barbara told Dennis he'd be wearing one, too. I was rather looking forward to seeing Bill all dressed up. He had been so constant, so kind to me from the moment I arrived.

 My delight at wearing a ‘princess dress' soon turned to panic when I realised I had neither the time nor the money to go into the city to buy one. I resigned myself to having to wear my trusty black dress, pink shawl, and high heels. I knew people were used to seeing me in that outfit but nonetheless I always did look more dressed up than anyone else. Perhaps my favourite outfit would at last fit in and perhaps at last that would mean that I would fit in, too. The pressure had eased immensely since the witch-hunt had been called off, especially after my public apology from the vicar. A good many people had apologised for distancing themselves from me. Maureen went on and on about how ashamed she was of her appalling behaviour. I just smiled sweetly and told them no offence had been taken.

 But then did I really want to just fit in, to just be plain old Vivian Myrtle? I admired people like Miss Metford, people who turned their back on convention and did exactly as they chose. That was a pipe dream. In reality I was just plain old Vivian, who lived in a tumble-down cottage with a cute little girl and baked cherry-flavoured fairy cakes. And really that suited me just fine. My days of being the dark horse were long behind me, it had just taken me a long time to realise that. I was ready for a new start and who knew? Maybe even love. I'd met a lot of good, honest people in Ivory Meadows. They'd restored my faith in human nature, a faith that in all things, good would triumph over evil. Yes, I'd been abused once but everything you do comes back to you threefold. My mother had always told me that. Perhaps my ex-husband was getting his comeuppance now and it was my turn to be set free.

As I sat up in bed, thoughts of tomorrow's carnival and ball flashed through my head like a looped film reel. I found myself gently stroking the patchwork quilt. I'd loved its patterns and textures ever since that very first night I lay under it, wondering what mine and Rosie's future held. I loved the fact it was old and worn. It said a lot about the history of the house. There was a piece of lace that I imagined was once part of an old, beautiful wedding dress; a floral green patch  that could have been maternity wear; a bright blue satin piece that had probably been worn to a party; a white broderie-anglaise circle that must have been a christening gown. As I stroked the wools, cottons, and silks I felt the warmth and happiness of all these precious moments when parts of this quilt had been worn and enjoyed.

 Before I knew it I had scissors in my hand and was cutting it. I cut panels for a tight, strapless bodice and a full skirt to go underneath. As I watched the fragments of history, like pages of a book, fall to the ground I didn't feel shame or remorse. I felt that all those joyous outfits were crying out to be worn again. Through my cutting of the quilt, they were reborn. I would wear a wedding gown, a party dress, a maternity smock, a graduation cape, a going-away outfit, a christening shawl, a favourite coat, a comfort jumper, a baby's first birthday dress, all in one fabulous ball gown.

 Taking my needle and thread, I stitched and sewed until the small hours, creating shape and fluidity, giving new life to these fabrics that had been laid to rest. As the sun rose I tacked off my last stitch and stood back to look at my masterpiece as it hung in front of my wardrobe. The light caught it gently, highlighting one fragment after another. A glimpse of silver stitching here, a chiffon rose there, a gingham square next to a toile de joie picture, a hand-painted daisy, a broad piece of fancy brocade, a delicate floral emblem. There were blues, greens, pinks, lilacs but most of it was azure, the colour of my little girl's eyes. I had never seen that before when it had been a bedspread lying over me. It shone and radiated vitality, good health, and warm feelings. I didn't have to be plain Jane to show the people of Ivory Meadows just who I was and how I felt about them and their beautiful, beautiful town.

 I still felt it lacked something though, and I wasn't sure what. It was magnificent but it didn't quite hang right for a ball gown. The sun came from behind a cloud, lighting up the whole room and turning the azure dress to gold. That was it. I ran over to the window and pulled down the net curtains. They were ripped and brown at the bottom from years of listless hanging. It didn't matter; there was no time for frivolities now. I cut them into two petticoats, making sure none of the tattered net could be seen underneath the gown.

 Very, very gently I took it down from its hanger and carefully climbed into the skirt then fastened the bodice. It felt soft and warm; it still smelt of sweet sleep and wondrous dreams. Closing my eyes, I walked over to the mirror, trembling as I imagined how it might look. Nervously opening my eyes, I saw a woman in the mirror I barely recognised. She looked younger, fresher-faced than me and yet she seemed as though she had the wisdom of all the years the dress had experienced. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but at last they were great big salt wells of relief and utter, utter happiness.

 Excitedly, I ran down the dark corridor to Rosie's room. She was still fast asleep, but I had to show her. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and looked at me as if I was a fairytale character who had just stepped out of her book and into her room. She blinked twice to check she wasn't dreaming then jumped up and threw her arms around me.

 ‘Where did you get that dress, Mummy? I love it.'

 ‘Don't you recognise it, Rosie?'

 She looked puzzled, it was clearly familiar to her but, understandably, she couldn't quite place where she had seen it, for which I was glad as I didn't want people thinking I'd wrapped an old quilt round me to go out. When I told her she looked stunned.

 ‘That old thing? How did you make it so beautiful?'

 In all honesty, I couldn't say what had driven me to make it.

 ‘You realise there's one thing you've forgotten,' said Rosie.

 ‘What?' I asked, thinking I'd left a whole panel out of the back and was exposing myself.

 ‘Your mask.'

 Of course, she was right, I had completely forgotten. I sat on the bottom of her bed, disillusioned.

 ‘Don't worry, Mummy, I knew you'd forget. That's why I took matters into my own hands, and made this for you.'

 At this, she whisked a dazzling cat mask out of her wardrobe. It looked decidedly like Whisper, only the eye holes were surrounded by pale pink glitter and there were elaborate swirling patterns painted onto the cheeks and huge soft whiskers coming from either side of a pretty pink nose. It was cut away under the nose, to allow me to talk and drink. I knew I had the perfect pastel pink lipstick to finish off my feline fabulousness.

 ‘It's amazing, Rosie. How did you do it?'

 ‘You were so busy running around yesterday, doing everything for everyone else, I knew you wouldn't remember your mask and that you wouldn't really notice if I spent a bit more time in my bedroom than usual. Miss M gave me the glitter, cardboard, elastic, and pens.'

 Miss M. I knew she had to be involved. I loved my little girl and wondered if others were as thoughtful as she.

 ‘Thank you, thank you, my darling. Come on then,' I said, playfully tapping her on the bottom, ‘we've got things to do.'

 ‘But it's still early, Mummy.'

 ‘I know but I'm making pancakes and cherry sauce for breakfast then you and I are heading down into town early for the carnival.'

 ‘Yes, pancakes and the carnival,' shouted Rosie, jumping up and down. She'd been looking forward to it all week.

When we arrived in town, wrapped up in our hats, gloves, and scarves, it was already bustling with people putting up their stalls and making the finishing touches to their floats. It felt like there was magic in the air; it was going to be a great day after all.

 The carnival was officially opened by the vicar; the mayor sadly had been unable to make it. During his address Mr Baker revealed news he had received in a letter that morning. The council had refused planning permission for new development in Ivory Meadows on the grounds that it was an area of historical significance.

 We were stunned: we had actually done it. We had saved our beloved town. Everyone cheered and hugged each other. Barbara and Gillian came running over to me, tears running down their faces.

 ‘We did it, Vivian, we did it!'

 We all danced around the streets, clapping and cheering. Men punched their fists in the air in delight. Visitors, who had read about little Ivory Meadows in the newspapers and travelled from far and wide to come to the carnival were coming up and shaking our hands.

 It was a spectacular moment.

 The vicar gradually quietened everyone down again.

 ‘Not only that, everyone,' he added, with a smile, ‘the council has decided to issue a grant for further tourism developments in the town, too, so that the beauty of the original Ivory Meadows can be restored and enhanced for all to enjoy.'

 There were further whoops and screams. The whole place seemed to come alive with jubilation. Mrs Donaldson hobbled over to me, her husband in tow.

 ‘I knew I was right about you at the very start, Ms Mrytle,' she said. ‘You're a good girl.'

 ‘Come here,' laughed Maureen Sprockett, clutching me to her chest, ‘As I said before, I'm sorry I got swept up in all the stories. We're so thrilled with everything you've done.'

 ‘I think we all make a pretty good team.' I smiled, grateful for their kindness and acceptance once again.

 The news couldn't have come at a better time.

 This meant we could host the train rides, the markets, the nature trails, ghosts hunts, riverboat cruises that we'd dreamed of all those months before. At last visitors would come, not to see the accused butcher working in his shop, or the charred remains of the timber house, but to enjoy the town for what it really stood for.

 We had done it, we really had.

That afternoon, Ivory Meadows became busier and busier. There were throngs of people, many with different accents, proving our message had been spread far and wide. The whole place seemed to buzz with excitement. Elderly people reminisced as they tucked into minced pies, tourists chatted to locals about what was going on in the town. Children danced and twirled, led of course by my own beloved Rosie, to the old-fashioned fairground organ that Jeremy had convinced one of his circus friends to bring along. Each of the shopkeepers put up a market stall outside their shop, offering Christmas gifts, food, wrapping paper, and handmade cards. The air was filled with the smell of roasted chestnuts and tiny silver bells sang a playful tintinnabulation in the breeze. Mistletoe hung from the trees and red, green and gold bunting zig-zagged across the streets. Gillian had a wonderful eye for detail when it came to making the town sparkle. She had come up with most of the ideas for the carnival floats too, and had spent yesterday afternoon visiting each and every one to add her finishing touches.