Seeing Stars (17 page)

‘There,’ Mitzi stood in Bertha Hopkins’ back parlour, her head on one side. ‘How does that look?’

‘Perfect,’ Amber agreed. ‘Just right.’

White cloths with black bands, the delicacies all neatly labelled on plain white plates, the tables decorated with dark roses
and ivy and tall black candles in silver sticks. Piano music tinkled tastefully in the background.

‘I usually bring the CD player and have suitable music playing softly,’ Mitzi said. ‘It breaks the ice when they get back
from the churchyard. Sometimes the family request the dear departed’s favourites. Today, fortunately, I was given a free hand
so I’m sticking with Brahms. I did one recently to a backing track of The Black and White Minstrels.’

Music. Amber nodded. Good idea. That was the thing she’d thought was missing from the Fiddlesticks’ shenanigans.

The village green celestial celebrations would surely be just the place for suitable, lively music? And of course, since the
previous evening and the discovery of Zillah’s soul collection, she’d been unable to remove the greatest hits of Otis Redding
from her subconscious. Dock of the Bay was becoming seriously irritating. It was too late to suggest music for Cassiopeia’s,
of course, but maybe she should mention it for one of the later ones.

Which reminded her.

‘Er – exactly how well do you know Zillah Flanagan?’

‘We’re good friends – I’ve known her for a few years. We’re much the same age. I like her a lot – we have a giggle when we
get together. Why? Oh, she’s your neighbour now, of course.’

Amber nodded. ‘Her cottage is amazing. And she’s lovely – but, well, I think she’s lonely – and now that everyone is trying
to convince me that astral magic really works, I was thinking about Cassiopeia and the lost love thing and ’

‘For God’s sake, whatever else you’re thinking of, don’t try to star-wish her and Timmy Pluckrose together!’ Mitzi shuddered.
‘A match made in hell. Smashing people, both of them, but totally wrong for each other. And I’ve already told Zil never to
settle for second best.’

Amber refrained from saying that she had very different plans for Timmy Pluckrose. ‘Oh, no – it was nothing like that. Actually,
I was wondering if you knew anything about Lewis’s father?’

‘Nothing at all. Zillah’s never mentioned him. I think he may have been a youthful mistake, maybe not even a longstanding
boyfriend, just a fling – or maybe he was married – whatever, it’s always been a no-go area. Oh crikey, Amber, you’re not
going to
dabble,
are you?’

‘No – no, of course not. But everyone has been telling me how the stars can make impossible things happen, so I thought I’d
put it to the test.’

‘OK,’ Mitzi perched against a rocking chair. ‘Now let
me give you a bit of friendly – very friendly – advice. This magic stuff, whether herbal or astral, is not to be taken lightly.
It’s not a game. You have no idea what you may unleash. And seriously, if you’re thinking of trying to conjure up some man
from Zillah’s past who she clearly wants to forget, simply as an experiment, then I must warn you against it, love. Honestly.
And then there’s Lewis to consider …’

As Amber hadn’t considered much other than Lewis since they’d first met this wasn’t difficult.

‘No, really,’ Mitzi obviously saw the gleam in Amber’s eyes. ‘He’s grown-up, clearly extremely happy and well adjusted, with
just Zil. He may have all sorts of issues about his long-lost father turning up.’

‘He has,’ Amber admitted. ‘He got quite angry about it. He says he doesn’t want to know.’

‘There you are then, best leave it well alone. You can certainly wish that Cassiopeia will make some wonderful man come along
and sweep Zillah off her feet and make her as happy as she deserves to be, but please lay off asking for Lewis’s father to
make an appearance, or pairing Zil with Timmy, OK? Too dangerous. Anyway, love, lecture over – and just in time. Looks like
the funeral’s over, too.’

As Amber circulated with plates and napkins and a suitably sympathetic expression, it became clear that Bertha Hopkins had
left no close relatives and that the assembled crowd in the back parlour were either friends of an age to enjoy a good funeral,
or distant nephews and nieces all keen to get a share of the pickings, such as they were.

Slo, looking sombre and exactly like a Central Casting funeral director, helped himself to a Wild Endive Whirl from her piled
plates. ‘Not a bloody tear from one of ’em. Disgusting. Me and the girls –’ he nodded his head in the direction of Constance
and Perpetua who were also dressed top to toe in Edwardian black outfits complete with veils ‘–worked the crowd as ’ard as
we could – gave ’em the real
tear-jerkers, all the dirges and that – and not so much as a snuffle. Bloody disgusting. We felt right failures, I can tell
you. It ain’t a proper funeral unless the congregation is all prostrated with grief.’

Amber looked at the crowd round the table. They were all chatting merrily as if they were at a birthday party, drinking non-stop
and laughing immoderately. It didn’t seem right.

‘Ask young Mitzi to slip ’em all one of the specials,’ Slo lowered his voice. ‘She makes ’em for us just in case it looks
as if we ’aven’t done our job proper. And –’ he looked over his shoulder ‘– if our Constance or Perpetua asks, you ’aven’t
seen me, OK?’

He sidled round the outside of the room and sloped off into the garden.

Doing as she was told, Amber found Mitzi deep in conversation with two elderly ladies dressed in drooping frocks and crocheted
cardigans and – surely not – cycle helmets draped in black crepe.

‘My neighbours.’ Mitzi introduced them with a gentle smile. ‘Lavender and Lobelia Banding. Lav, Lob – this is Amber Parslowe.
My new assistant.’

They all shook hands, hampered more than somewhat by the Bandings having towering pyramids of food on two plates each, and
Amber gathered from Mitzi’s eye-language that mentioning the cycle helmets was a no-go conversational area and she’d make
explanations later. Lavender and Lobelia, she explained, had been at school with Bertha Hopkins, hadn’t seen much of her since,
and were at the funeral simply to celebrate them outliving yet another contemporary.

Trying hard not to look at the cycle helmets, Amber passed on Slo’s message about the specials.

Mitzi nodded. ‘Ah, my Teardrop Explodes. They never fail. Such innocent ingredients to the untrained eye – peach, sage and
sunflower – but lethal in the correct combination. You’ll probably need them in the future so watch and learn,
Amber, love. Watch and learn.’

Amber did. Emptying out some rather pretty little orange buns onto a plate, Mitzi circulated among the partying mourners,
insisting that they should each have one at least.

Within minutes there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Sobs and gulps and sniffles had completely replaced the raucous laughter and off-colour jokes.

‘Blimey.’ Amber shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it …’

Mitzi laughed. ‘Nor did I, the first time. But you will, love. You will. Like I said, it doesn’t matter which magic you’re
using, it’s damn powerful stuff – so use it with care …’

Still shaking her head, and handing out napkins for Bertha’s nearest and dearest to weep into, Amber was crossing the room
when she was stopped in her tracks by Constance Motion.

‘Did you give him a cigarette? Our Slo?’ Constance’s brassy and exuberant curls were escaping wildly from beneath the brim
of her top hat. She blocked out the light. ‘Is that why he’s gorn outside?’

Amber shook her head and raised her voice above the wailing. ‘Not guilty. I don’t smoke. If he’s outside he probably just
needs some fresh air. It’s very hot, after all.’

‘Ah, that’s his excuse,’ Constance’s chins wobbled. ‘I’m not daft, you know. Coming back in the hearse he gave me all the
old baloney about the smell of smoke coming from the crematorium.’

‘Well, maybe it did,’ Amber said as the Bandings caught up with her and snatched several Cherry and Camphor Cries from her
plate and stuffed them into their pockets before scuttling back towards Mitzi. ‘It must be an occupational hazard.’

‘At a
churchyard burial?’

Constance stomped away into the garden.

Through the tiny, much-curtained window, Amber watched Slo look over his shoulder in terror and beetle away into the shrubbery.
Constance, her black riding habit
billowing, had sighted her quarry and bored her way through a particularly unrelenting syringa. It was like a huge determined
crow bearing down on a helpless piece of would-be carrion.

‘Our Slo been caught with a ciggie, has he?’ Perpetua, grey and wispy beneath her bonnet, popped up at Amber’s shoulder. ‘Silly
boy. It’ll kill him.’

‘Does it really matter? I mean – at his age …?’

‘Bless you, it won’t be the fags that finish him off. It’ll be our Constance.’ Perpetua trotted after Amber as she returned
to the table and collected two dishes of Weeping Willow Waffles. ‘Slo has to stop smoking. Because of that business with Gertie
Bickersdyke’s funeral.’

‘Oh dear,’ Amber said politely. ‘Was she an avid anti-smoker, this Gertie – er –?’

‘Bickersdyke,’ Perpetua finished. ‘I’ve no idea, but the family were very big noises in Winterbrook and they wanted her ashes
scattered on the little ornamental pond they were having constructed in the Bickersdyke Memorial Garden.’

‘Ah, nice …’

‘Should have been. Course, we had to hang on to Gertie in her box back in the chapel of rest until they were ready for her.
Several weeks it took for the pond to be ready – trouble with the pond liner. It didn’t go anything like that Alan Titmarsh
said it would. No sooner did the water go in than it all seeped out again. Trying to cut corners never works. Anyway, Gertie
was with us much longer than we’d expected. Not that we charged extra for the shelf-space, of course.’

Amber’s fixed interest smile was beginning to ache.

‘Anyhow,’ Perpetua continued, her thin lips pursing together like two small slugs having a love-in, ‘come the big day, we
had the local press and the town council and about three hundred members of the Bickersdyke family at the ceremony. And when
our Connie opened the casket and said the prayer and the local kiddies orchestra struck up
“Cast Your Fate To The Wind” – terribly off-key I must add, sounded like a castration – and scattered Gertie’s mortal remains
to the elements it were like emptying a bloody ashtray.’

‘No!’

‘Yes! Dog-ends, dozens of ’em, bobbing along on the top of the pond. It looked like the local lads had had an all-night party.
It only needed a couple of After Shock bottles and a condom.’

‘Oh, dear …’ Amber chewed the inside of her cheeks.

‘So, once the hiatus had been smoothed over and we’d fished the worst out and the Bickerdykes had stopped crying, me and Constance
had to go straight back to the chapel of rest and check the others. Slo’d used all of them as ashtrays. All of them. We lost
no end of business to the Co-Op after that got out, I can tell you. We had to diversify to try and claw our way back into
the good books.’

‘Yes … I can see that you might have to …’

‘So –’ Perpetua fumbled inside a little black lace reticule ‘– we always do a bit of networking at our funerals. We have a
couple of nice limos that can be used for any festive occasion. And, at a push, the hearse is handy for moving furniture.
You might have need of us some time. Have one of our business cards.’

As Amber had no intention of dying, ever, but not wanting to hurt Perpetua’s feelings, she smiled her thanks and watched as
Perpetua wraithed away to spread joy elsewhere in the room.

She flicked the card over before shoving it into her pocket. It had a Hazy Hassocks address and phone number.

Much to the amazement of Bertha Hopkins’ still-sobbing nearest and dearest, Amber shrieked with laughter.

‘Amber? Are you OK?’ Mitzi pushed her way through the mourners.

‘Never better,’ Amber sniffed happily. ‘Honestly. Oh, I love this place. It’s magic.’

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

‘Twinkle, twinkle little star,’ Amber trilled as she pulled on her second best jeans in Moth Cottage’s tiny girlie blue bedroom.

‘You sound happy, duck.’ Gwyneth poked her head round the door. ‘Lovely to hear you singing.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ Amber hopped over her piles of clutter and hugged Gwyneth. ‘I love you. I love being here. You’ve
given me a lovely home, not to mention the best food I’ve ever had in my life, and I’ve made friends with Fern and – um –
well, with Fern, and I’ve got a job so I can pay you for my keep – and I’m going to use Mitzi’s van soon so I’ll be able to
take you and Big Ida out all over the place – and …’ She paused for breath and looked sympathetically at Gwyneth. ‘Your cheeks
are still a bit rosy.’

‘Ah, it’s stopped hurting though. Mind, the nails and that were fine. Even that funny stuff she squirted in our lips was good
once the numbness wore off. Made us look like the Beverly Sisters. All told, young Sukie did a grand job at beautifying –
but we felt the derma-blasting was a step too far for us at our age.’

‘At any age.’ Amber shuddered. ‘Are you putting anything on the sore bits?’

‘Margarine.’

Oh, right.

‘Anyway,’ Gwyneth returned the hug, then perched on Amber’s bed. Her legs stuck out straight in front of her as always. ‘I’m
dead happy that you’re happy, duck. And you’ll have a lovely time tonight. Cassiopeia’s Carnival is allus a good ’un. Shame
young Mitzi isn’t doing some food – that’d make it go with even more of a swing.’

‘Mmm … So would some live music.’ Amber straightened her silver vest, checked her make-up in the tiny mirror, and flicked
her hair silkily over her shoulders. ‘Don’t you think?’

Gwyneth nodded. ‘You ought to ask Mitzi about that, too. I think some of the Baby Boomers she works with formed a chamber
orchestra last year. Or were you thinking of something a bit more modern?’