The Moon Spun Round (12 page)

‘Perhaps it’s best not to say anything unless she brings it up herself,’ says Ruth. ‘We should give her a chance to move on from all that, get back to some sort of normality. Just make her welcome as we would any other newcomer, then we’ll get on with our evening as usual.’

‘Yes, I expect you’re right. Still, it gives me the creeps, what happened to him. I mean, just thinking about it.’ She gives a shudder. ‘I’ve seen her around
the village a few times. Looks very smart, bit posh for Hallowfield. God knows what she’ll think of us.’

‘She’ll have to take us as she finds us. Now, have we put enough chairs out? Better pull up a couple more, I think we’re expecting a full house tonight. Except for Claire—she sends her apologies. Is the room warm enough?’

‘All eager to meet the new member, eh Ruth?’ says the man in the cardigan. ‘Sure it’s not morbid curiosity?’

‘Course not. Besides, she’s very nice and I’m sure she’ll fit in fine. If we all behave properly, that is. She might be just what we need, bit of fresh air. Now, if we’re going to have an extra round of tea I’d better put some more biscuits out.’

Ruth darts back and forth and fusses with the table while people continue to arrive. The room is alive with conversation by the time Abbie opens the door and ushers Sally in. There’s an instant hush. Ruth hurries forward to make Sally welcome.

‘Come on in, love. That’s right, pop your coat up there, then come over and I’ll introduce you to everyone. I think we’re all here now except Fran.’

‘Fran’s the vicar’s wife, Sally,’ whispers Abbie as they remove their coats. ‘And whatever image that conjures up for you, I can assure you it’s wrong. She’s always the last to arrive, likes to make an entrance.’

‘Everyone, I’d like you to meet our new neighbour.’ Ruth turns to face the gathering, now all fully focused on the newcomer. ‘This is Sally Crawford. Recently moved to Wicker Lane. She’s a guest for tonight, but we’re hoping she might consider joining us as a regular member.’

Sally does the round of handshakes, names forgotten as soon as they’re spoken, except for the cardigan, who appears to be in charge and is called Harry. The only other males are a retired bank manager and a serious-looking young man with acne. Ruth and Abbie she already knows, of course, and there’s the local librarian whom she has already met several times. In addition to the young woman with the teeth, there are three other female members she hasn’t met before, although one of them could be the woman she encountered coming out of her gate. If it is her, she gives no indication of recognition, and this is hardly the circumstance in which to challenge her about it.

They all settle around the table and tea is served, the biscuits passed around with suitable compliments to the baker. Harry explains how the club is run.

‘We alternate, you see, month by month. One month it’s a new book from the bestseller list—there, we’re obviously guided by the current reviews. The next month we choose something more established in the literary world, perhaps one of the classics, or it could be something more recent, like a prize-winner or the like.’

‘It’s a good system,’ adds the girl with the teeth. ‘It makes us broaden our reading range. This month we’ve been reading
Kiss of a Stranger
, Martin Phelps. Last month it was
To Kill a Mockingbird
. What do you usually read, Sally?’

Sally is saved from answering that question by the door being flung open, and a blast of icy air sweeps in the last-awaited member.

‘God, it’s bloody freezing out there! Sorry I’m late, folks, damned car wouldn’t start again.’ The woman shakes herself out of a motley-looking sheepskin jacket. Underneath it she’s wearing a full-length, Indian-patterned skirt and a matted woollen jumper with holes at the elbows. She heads across to the table, hugging Abbie and kissing Ruth on her way around to Sally. ‘Hi, you must be the new girl? Lost your husband in that awful car crash, didn’t you? Ghastly business.’

There are several muffled gasps around the room. Oblivious of the reaction, the latest arrival wraps her arms around Sally’s shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You poor wee lamb.’

‘And this is Fran, Sally. No doubt you’ll be seeing a lot more of her,’ Abbie says, visibly cringing, then mouths ‘sorry’ from behind her hand.

‘Should have paid you a visit sooner. Parish duties, that sort of thing. Still, you don’t need that, do you? Enough on your plate without the God squad on your doorstep trying to drum up business. Any of that tea left in the pot?’ Fran pulls a chair up to the table and grabs a handful of biscuits. Beads and bracelets jangle as she moves, her long, grey hair tumbling loose from a collection of tortoiseshell combs stuck, seemingly at random, into her hair. She has the bone structure of Katharine Hepburn and, despite the boarding-school accent, all the grace and charm of a building-site navvy. Sally is trying very hard not to giggle.

‘I was just explaining to Sally how we operate.’ Harry is obviously trying diversionary tactics. ‘How did people get on with
Kiss of a Stranger
?’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ laughs Fran. ‘Don’t even get one from the milkman these days.’

Suddenly everyone is talking at once as various copies of the Martin Phelps’s paperback are produced and laid on the table. As it happens, Sally has read the book recently and is able to participate in the ensuing lively debate. This isn’t at all like the literary discussions she’s used to with her London friends, mostly regurgitated cant of the critics, what’s hot and what’s not. Much to her surprise, these people do seem to have read the book thoroughly and have managed to form their own opinions. Several have marked certain passages they particularly enjoyed, or not, as the case may be. These are read aloud and evaluated in terms of literary style and furtherance of the plot, and
analysed in the broader context of human behaviour. Despite the discussion being heated, and at times personal and full of hidden agendas, by the end of an hour Sally is determined to read the book again, this time from a more informed perspective.

‘We’ll have another tea break now,’ says Ruth, ‘then decide on next month’s selection.’

‘Perhaps Sally would like choose next month’s book?’ says the young man with the acne. ‘If you’d like to join us again, that is.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I’d love to.’ Sally’s enthusiasm surprises even herself. She looks around the table at the odd assortment of characters. A few months ago she wouldn’t have imagined herself spending one evening in such company, let alone enjoying it and coming back for more. The discussion was certainly stimulating, but it’s not that alone which intrigues her. She can feel all the undercurrents of sufferance and empathy, power jostling, and petty jealousies that are fostered in a close and closed community. There are lines here that run back generations, deep tracks formed by friendships and loyalties. It’s like a huge, extended family.

More tea is poured, and people get up from the table, stretch their legs and move about the room, talking in small clusters. Sally, aware of the natural curiosity she’s bound to attract, hovers close to Abbie. Now might be a good time to say something to the water carrier. On second thoughts, maybe it’s best to just leave it. There might be God knows how many more of them, and there are other ways of getting to know people.

The library woman approaches. ‘I’m so glad you could join us. Do try one of these before I finish the lot. I’m trying to cut down, but…’ She offers the plate of biscuits and Sally obliges. ‘And how are you liking village life, Sally? Must be very different from the city.’

‘I’m enjoying the peace, the slow pace.’

‘Not much in the way of night life, I’m afraid.’ The girl with the teeth hands her a cup of tea. ‘Still, we’re not far from Cambridge, and of course Norwich has an excellent theatre. With Christmas coming up there’s bound to be something on worth seeing. You made any plans for Christmas, Abbie?’

‘Just the family as usual. That’s enough to cope with.’

‘And what about you, Sally? Do you have any family?’ The girl goes red to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, gosh, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘No, that’s all right.’ Sally places a hand on her arm for reassurance. ‘I hadn’t really thought about Christmas. Our parents split up several years ago, you see. Now there’s only my sister. I suppose I could always invite her to come for a few days.’

‘You know you’re always welcome to join us,’ says Abbie. ‘Your sister, too, if she’s here.’

The conversation flutters around the street decorations in town and the issue of plastic as opposed to real Christmas trees, all safe, impersonal subjects. Eventually the others drift off and Fran takes the opportunity to catch Sally and Abbie alone.

‘There, that wasn’t too bad was it, Sally?’ she asks. ‘What sign are you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What sign? You know, when were you born?’

‘Oh, the twenty-second of April, Taurus.’

‘Only just, though: right on the cusp. Enough of Aries in there to lighten the load. Still, Taurus is good, lots of patience.’

‘You’re interested in astrology?’ Sally sounds surprised.

‘Yes, any reason I shouldn’t be?’

‘No, only I thought…I mean…. does the Church approve of that sort of thing?’

‘Hardly, but it’s only one item on a very long list. Don’t confuse me with my husband, my dear. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough.’ Then, turning to Abbie, ‘Claire not here again?’

‘No, apparently she rang earlier, didn’t she, Ruth?’

Ruth moves over to join them. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper, moving in to close a small circle with Abbie, Fran and Sally. ‘Said she’s not feeling too good. Again.’

Fran and Abbie say nothing, but a certain look is exchanged.

‘That wouldn’t be Claire Drayton, would it?’ asks Sally.

‘Yes. Why, do you know her?’

‘No, but I met her husband. Ayden, is it? Came round to fix my computer.’

‘George’s idea,’ says Abbie.

‘And?’ says Fran, ‘No, it’s OK, we can all guess the rest.’

‘I think he said his wife works for you, Fran. Some sort of charity shop?’

‘That’s right. Helps out for part of the week. Nearest he’ll let her get to a proper job.’

‘He did say something about her suffering from her nerves.’

‘I bet he did. And did he tell you she also has a strange habit of walking into doors and falling down steps?’

‘Look Fran, we don’t know—’

‘Oh, get real, Ruth. Of course we know. Everybody knows.’

‘But unless she’s willing to talk about it,’ says Abbie, ‘there’s really nothing anyone can do.’

‘Bastard ought to be castrated.’ Fran speaks a little too loudly.

‘Who are you thinking of castrating now, eh, Fran?’

‘Relax, Harry, it’s not you.’

Harry joins the women. ‘So, Sally, what do you do at this cottage of yours? I heard you were starting some sort of business.’

‘I’m giving it a go, anyway.’ Sally explains about her work and her growing list of clients.

‘Oh, yes, that reminds me,’ says Abbie, ‘I might have another customer for you. Naomi. I don’t think you’ve met her yet, have you?’

‘Is she thinking of advertising?’ asks Ruth.

‘Been getting lots of inquiries from abroad recently, she was saying. Talking about setting up a website. Probably needs brochures as well. Look, if you’re free tomorrow morning, Sally, I’ll take you round and introduce you. Should have thought of that before. I think you two would really hit it off.’

‘Yes, sure. What does she do?’ asks Sally.

‘Makes guitars. What is it she calls herself? A luthier or something?’

‘Should be interesting, I’ve never worked for a musician before.’

‘Oh no, she doesn’t play them herself,’ says Ruth, ‘only makes them. It’s her hand, you see. Slight disability.’

At an unspoken signal, the members drift over to the counter where the empty cups are stacked, then make their way back to the table and take up their seats for the second half of the meeting. Sally moves to follow suit, but Fran detains her a moment, laying a hand on her shoulder. She leans close, whispering in Sally’s ear. ‘There’s something else you ought to know about Naomi, Sally.’

‘Oh really, what’s that?’

‘Naomi is our local witch.’

I
T’S OBVIOUS, FROM THE FULL-SIZED FRONT WINDOWS
either side of the central door, that at some time the old terraced house has been used as a shop. More recently the glass has been blanked out by swirling patterns of purple and violet paint. There are two front doors, the discreetly unmarked one presumably leading to the upstairs flat. The other door is ornately lettered in gold with a name, Naomi Walker, and underneath that the word Luthier. An old-fashioned bell chimes as Abbie pushes the door open and she and Sally enter. Their shoes stir the fragrance of scattered wood shavings as they step down. The first impression Sally has is of utter disorder. A huge, central bench, littered with tools and curls of wood, dominates the workshop. Further tables on either side are piled with chunks of timber and pots of glue and varnish, and the walls tacked with posters, diagrams and hand-scrawled notes on scraps of paper. But then she sees rows of bright steel implements arranged on racks in order of size. Along one wall hangs a procession of partly constructed instruments, their bodies of raw wood, outlined shapes with no backs, dismembered necks, inlaid with mother of pearl; a line of unborn infants awaiting full-term. Sally gazes around the room, enthralled by the familiar lines and curves and the strangeness of their unfinished state. It’s not until Abbie speaks that she realizes there’s someone else in the room.

‘Hi, we’re not too early, are we?’

‘No way.’ The woman working at the bench rises and comes forward to greet them. ‘Come in and welcome. And you’re Sally.’

Sally gasps, then tries to speak but can’t find any words. There are two
reasons for this. First, Naomi is—what? Beautiful? Stunning? She’s what Sally’s London friends would call drop-dead gorgeous, but, faced with this dark siren, that phrase sounds cheapening and irreverent. Naomi is tall and lean and, as she turns to face them, she moves like a panther. A swirl of long, dark hair traces the pattern of her motion, coming to rest in a swathe around her shoulders. She’s wearing loose-fitting pants and a soft linen shirt nipped in at the waist with a leather belt, a style that emphasizes her slimness and easy grace. Her skin is olive, betraying some exotic ancestry, eyes dark onyx.