The Garden of Stars (3 page)

 ‘Yes, maybe a Santa special riverboat cruise?' offered Dennis. Barbara patted his arm, a broad smile across her face.

 ‘Ghost hunts?' whispered Janice, blushing further.

 ‘Christmas karaoke?' said Ian, the landlord of The Mason Arms, at which everyone laughed.

 ‘How about gourmet festive food evenings, and maybe even cookery classes?' suggested Mick, the restaurateur.

 ‘A Christmas carnival at the start of advent?' said Gillian.

 I beamed at her enthusiasm. She scowled as if she'd never meant to open her mouth.

 Before she changed her mind, I continued, ‘And we'd let people outside the town know by producing leaflets and posters about everything we have to offer.

 ‘Then, in the New Year, we'd carry on doing all the activities in different themes to match the seasons.'

 ‘Then the mayor would never get permission to bulldoze Ivory Meadows!' shouted Barbara, triumphantly.

 ‘So you're in?' I asked, looking around me.

 Everyone was nodding, excitedly.

 ‘It's a bit of a leap of faith,' said the elderly lady, ‘To turn our backs on the vicar in favour of the mad woman on the hill.'

 ‘Mrs Donaldson always speaks her mind,' said Barbara, gently, ‘take no notice, Vivian.'

 ‘I hadn't finished,' said Mrs Donaldson, taking her stick and pointing it at me. ‘I like this girl's style. She reminds me of myself when I was a young girl. Just try stopping me joining your blessed campaign.'

 ‘Me, too,' quipped Gillian.

 ‘Really?' I said, surprised after she'd been so critical earlier.

 ‘There's one thing you can be sure of with Gillian,' said Barbara, ‘and that's that she's always earnest – just not always to one man at a time!'

 The whole kitchen erupted in laughter, even Gillian breaking into a smirk.

 ‘There is one problem,' said Bill, stepping down from the work surface to take to the floor. ‘I don't want to pantomime on anyone's bonfire but the minute Johnson gets wind of this, he'll do everything in his power to stop it.'

 ‘He's right, Vivian.' Barbara frowned. ‘Walls have ears in this town. Ever since he arrived, he made sure he was always one step ahead of everyone else.'

 ‘You mean he's not originally from Ivory Meadows?' I asked, surprised. I had assumed to become mayor of a town like Ivory Meadows you'd have to have lived here all your life.

 ‘Oh no,' several people grunted in unison.

 ‘He's just as much of a newcomer as you,' quipped Mrs Donaldson.

 Barbara continued, ‘It was strange. He just seemed to appear from nowhere. He was a wonderful showman, like some kind of circus ringmaster; people just liked spending time with him.

 ‘He did some great things for this community. Sorted out a lot of our niggles, he did. It was only a few months ago that we realised the reason for his good deeds was not so much for our joint benefit as his own. Within a few days we discovered the man with whom we'd been happy to discuss our hopes and fears for the town knew far too much. I wouldn't be surprised if he knows about our meeting by sunset tonight.'

 ‘Then,' I said, ‘we must become an underground movement.'

 A detailed plan fell from my lips although I had no idea where it came from. Everyone listened hard. They thought it would work, and they wanted to give it a try. More than that, they promised to give it their all.

Chapter Three

When Rosie and I returned home from feeding the ducks on the river later that day, an elderly woman was waiting at the end of the path.

 ‘I've been watching you,' she said.

 ‘Really?' I asked, a little unnerved by her forthright manner. The last thing I needed was a spy. Looking more closely I recognised her as the kind but stern woman who had led us to Cherrystone Cottage on our very first day here. Then she had been covered up in a wax jacket, wellingtons, and a rain hat. Today, hatless, her platinum blonde hair was neatly pinned in place and heavy make-up was etched into the deep lines and furrows of her face.

 ‘Mind if I come in?' she said, more of an announcement than a question as she promptly pushed past me and sat herself down on the chair in the kitchen.

 ‘I can see you haven't changed the house much. I like that. Change is a bad thing. Can only bring problems. Unless, of course, the change is a new person, you know.' With this she winked at me.

 ‘So how's your campaign going?' she asked.

 I looked at her, shocked and doubly unnerved; she had not only plonked herself in my kitchen but also seemed to know far too much about me.

 ‘News travels on the wind, my dear,' she said, as if she'd read my thoughts. ‘It echoes around Metford Manor until the noise gets so loud I have to get out and do something about it.'

 Metford Manor. The name rang a bell. I had seen a picture of it, looking like a gothic castle with four turrets and a long drive leading up to it. Age seemed to have turned it black. Barbara told me it was haunted. I hadn't realised anyone actually lived there.

 ‘Yes, Metford Manor is my home.' She sighed. ‘Born and raised there so there's not much point in leaving.

 ‘Miss Mary Metford,' she said, proudly extending her hand. ‘It was my grandfather's grandfather's home – and a fine place to grow up in,' she added. A whimsical look came over her face. ‘I've kept things the same in my father's memory, God rest his soul.'

 I wondered how long it had been since she lost her father. She looked close to a hundred herself.

 ‘Eighty-six, that's my age. Don't feel a day past seventy-six, though, to be honest.'

 A heavy circle of pillar-box red lipstick overlapped her withered lips, giving her a capricious look of a sad clown. ‘Don't need you to feel sorry for me,' she snapped. ‘I'm quite capable of looking after myself on my own up there, thank you very much.'

 ‘I can fully believe that, Miss Metford. Would you like a cup of tea and a piece of cherry cake?'

 ‘Thought you'd never ask. I'll have four sugars in mine and make it a large slice. Mind if I smoke?'

 She'd already lit up before I could answer.

 ‘So how old is Metford Manor?' I asked as I put the kettle on the stove.

 ‘It's pre-Georgian, so it's older and wiser than any other building in this town. It's watched this town grow up, and I should think it'll watch it fall down, too. In fact it's the reason this town got its name, not that anyone would be bothered about that now.'

 ‘I'd like to know,' I said, gently. There was something about her abrupt, forthright manner that I found enormously comforting.

 ‘Metford Manor was originally a riding school which hosted regular shooting parties at the weekends. Did so right up until my pa popped his clogs. Most of the local people's livelihood came from Metford Manor's livery, hence the area was called Livery Meadows.

 ‘It was beautiful when I was a child, surrounded by lush meadows, full of the prettiest flowers you ever saw – primroses, buttercups, and masses of bluebells in the spring. It looked like the whole place was covered in purple carpet. When I was a girl I used to run and play in those bluebells, hiding so my brothers couldn't find me. Anyway, where was I?'

 ‘The town's name?'

 ‘Oh yes,' she said, lighting another cigarette with a large silver lighter. ‘As the town grew a sign was put up – this was before I was born, of course – a sign was put up, saying “Welcome to Livery Meadows” so the hunting folk from further afield could find it for their parties.

 ‘Over time the letter “L” fell off “Livery” and nobody got around to replacing it. People began to refer to it as “Ivery Meadows” and gradually over time it stuck. But “Ivery” didn't sound right, so outsiders naturally assumed it was “Ivory”.

 ‘It's written that way on the ordinance survey maps now so I imagine that's how it will stay – even if everything else about it changes. It seems somehow appropriate now that our town is just as precious and hunted as those beautiful ivory tusks of elephants.'

 She chuckled into her tea and lit another cigarette, stubbing out her last one even though it was only half smoked. Her hard features had faded, and she looked slightly melancholy through the haze of smoke.

 I told Miss Metford I must check on Rosie. She'd scampered up to play in her room the moment we got home. It all seemed unusually quiet as I made my way up the creaky staircase. I opened the door to her room and there she was sound asleep on her bed, flat on her back and still fully dressed. Down at the river that afternoon she'd insisted on running from one spot to another, making sure no single duck, goose, or swan was left out at feeding time, giggling to herself as she threw them crumbs of bread and clearly assuming I had no idea about the sneaky morsels passing between her own lips. It must have quite worn her out. It wore me out just watching her. Now, gently sighing and smiling in her sleep, she looked so pretty, so peaceful. I pulled the bedcovers over her, gently kissed her forehead, and tiptoed back down the stairs.

 ‘I've bought some old damson gin for you to try,' said Miss Metford, abruptly, as I walked back into the kitchen.

 With that she hauled a dusty bottle out of her bag.

‘Father made it. It had been a family tradition for years – suppose they had no other use for all the damsons in the garden so they decided to get squiffy on them instead.

 ‘Thought all this had been drunk but I was clearing some space the other day and found ten bottles. Corked forty odd years ago, they were. I guess they'll be like rocket fuel now but I could think of no one better to try them with so I bought 'em down 'ere.'

 I took it as a compliment and bought out two glasses. I guessed this wasn't the type of gin to mix with tonic.

 ‘All right,' sighed Miss Metford, ‘Let's pop the old bird open and see how she sings!'

 She filled both glasses. ‘Down the hatch, m'dear. 'Fraid that was always the only way with father's brew – first bottled or forty years on.'

 I glanced over at her, she grimaced, and we both crooked the back of our necks and swigged the heavy liquor.

 It was as if it hummed in my blood, a humming so loud it shrieked and rattled in my ears. And yet the sweet damsons made it taste so good. It was clear Miss Metford could see how I felt because she grinned, broadly and wickedly.

 ‘The only other way with father's brew was to have another straight after. Kind of numbs the senses as it were.'

 We both took another slug and I felt my head hit the kitchen table. ‘I don't think I can drink anymore,' I said.

 ‘Don't be silly girl, the night's young, you'll want more once the initial shock has subsided.'

 She began to talk of how her father had spent many years cultivating the damson trees until they grew fabulously large fruit. Only at that point did he realise he didn't actually like damson pie or jam.

 ‘All those years of hard work, of love and dedication to those spindly branches of his turned into a taste he quite despised. Instead, he decided to put the humble, vile-tasting damson to better use, turning its fruit into alcohol.

 ‘My father liked a tipple but he begrudged paying large sums for bottles of whisky. Suddenly here was an opportunity to brew his own. He simply couldn't resist.'

 Apparently his new passion became all consuming. Every day he would check the temperatures, corks, fruit, and sugar levels.

 ‘It got to the stage we hardly ever saw him.' Miss Metford said. ‘That's why it wasn't strange when he went missing for a few days. Everyone just assumed he was down in the cellar with his damsons in distress. Of course, he was. But unfortunately he was dead.'

 I nearly choked on what I'd just drunk. Dead man's damson gin? Seeing that melancholy look in Mary Metford's eyes again, I grabbed the bottle and poured us both another.

 ‘Thank you, m'dear. He certainly did a good job with this one. He'd have been proud of this.'

 At this point Whisper came sauntering into the room, purring and weaving his tail around my legs. I was quite glad of the distraction.

 ‘Ah yes, Whisper,' sighed Miss Metford.

 ‘Is that actually his name? Rosie told me that was what he was called but I assumed she'd just made it up. Told me something about the cat knowing lots of secrets.'

 ‘Whisper is my cat.'

 I felt a shiver run down my spine. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry. I haven't been feeding him, he came here of his own accord.'

 ‘Yes, I know. I sent him here. The first day I met you I thought it looked like you could do with a friend.'

 She smiled. Despite her external appearance, which frankly showed itself as being a bit of a battle-axe, she now had the look and warmth of a sweet, tender old lady. In many ways she reminded me of my own mother.

 ‘Tell me about your mother,' she said.

 It was like she'd read my thoughts.

 ‘My mother? Well she was just my mum, quite fabulous to me really, but just my mum.'

 ‘Every girl's mother is fabulous in her daughter's eyes. The trouble is most daughters have absolutely no idea just how dangerous a creature a mother can be.'

 ‘Dangerous? I don't understand.'

 ‘No, you wouldn't. Few daughters have the faintest clue how much power her mother has over her.'

 ‘No, my mum always had the right idea. Right from the start she said my husband wasn't right for me.'

 The gin whirred in my head. I hadn't a clue why I was telling a stranger about my love life but I couldn't quieten my words. They seemed to spill out of my mouth without my knowing. ‘Mum said he was a low achiever, that he would stray, and that he wouldn't have my best interests at heart.'

 ‘And that was right?'

 ‘Well, he owned his own successful marketing company and he never had any affairs as far as I know, but he did abuse me in the end.'

 ‘How did he abuse you?' She poured us both another. We drank.

 ‘It was just after Rosemary – Rosie – was born. He couldn't accept that she was a helpless little child who needed every second of my attention. I think he felt, in some way, cheated by the fact I didn't have so much time to devote solely to him. I think he felt that I neglected him, he told me I was an overzealous, paranoid mother. He wanted me to go for nice meals out, and just forget about Rosie.

 ‘How could I do that? She's my own flesh and blood. He had no idea of my feelings for her. And it seemed he had little or no feelings of his own.'

 The bottle glugged as Miss Metford poured us both another. I noticed it was half-empty but it didn't matter. It was good to talk. The blood-coloured gin seemed to dance, to sing in my ears, making me say things I never thought would leave the murky depths of my mind. It was like a mysterious potion that had a strange, tongue-loosening spell cast upon it.

 ‘You see there were complications with Rosie. My pregnancy was fine but for some reason she decided to come into the world too early. I haemorrhaged during labour and Rosemary was whisked away from me into intensive care.

 ‘For three days, I was unable to leave my bed to see her and, poor mite, she was not fit to be brought to me. When I finally made it to her side, I saw she was the most beautiful, most precious little girl I'd ever seen. Her perfectly formed nose, fingers, and toes didn't explain why she couldn't breathe for herself. I vowed that moment, there and then, never to leave her side again.'

 ‘Let's have another drink,' said Miss Metford, slurring her words and spilling half of it on the table as she tried to look earnestly into my eyes. I don't think she could focus.

 By this time my head was already spinning but the gin seemed to call my name. Vivian, Vivian, Vivian …

 ‘Do you know my father made this?' she said, hiccupping.

 ‘I know, you told me,' I slurred, smiling at her mistake.

 ‘Did I?'

 ‘Yes.'

 We both collapsed into fits of giggles.

 ‘You know, Mary, can I call you Mary?'

 ‘It is my name.'

 ‘Well, Mary if I didn't know you better, which I don't really but I will. Anyway, if I didn't know you better, despite the fact I hardly do at all. Where was I? Oh yes, I would say you've cast a spell on me.'

 ‘What makes you think that?'

 ‘This,' I said, raising my glass and swishing its contents over the side, ‘this is a magic potion.'

 And with one last gulp, my glass was empty.

 ‘A witch can't cast a spell on another witch.'

 ‘What do you mean?'

 ‘You, Vivian, you are a witch just like me.'

 ‘Arrgh, get off, I'm drunk just like you.'

 ‘Come with me,' she said, signalling to the door.

 Outside the air felt crisp and cool. It hit me like a tidal wave, nearly knocking me clean off my feet.

 ‘Look up there,' said Mary, steadying my balance.

 I drew my cardigan closer to me and gazed up at the sky.

 ‘This is no ordinary garden, my dear,' chuckled Mary, ‘this is the garden of stars. An extraordinary show of patterns, light and explosions take place above your head every single evening. And you don't even have to buy a ticket to see it.'