The Moon Spun Round (20 page)

‘Things haven’t changed much then?’

‘Season of Misrule, it used to be called in the Middle Ages. Time to loosen up, turn the world on its head. Enough of a morale booster to get them through the misery of the next three months. By the time the food finally ran out they could see spring was on its way.’

‘What’s this?’ Sally holds up a strange-looking gadget, steel blades enclosed in a ring of plastic.

‘Called an auto-chop, I think. It’s for cutting vegetables. Used to be all the rage thirty years ago. Find one in every second-hand shop. Now what about this blouse? Looks your size.’

‘I don’t think lime green’s my colour. Where do you get all this stuff?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised what people give away. Some of it hardly used. But we also get given a lot of rubbish that doesn’t go on sale. Have to maintain standards, you know.’

‘So what’s the money used for?’

‘Well, there’s the Women’s Refuge, they’re always short of cash. Lots of the clothes and toys go there, too. Women often arrive in the middle of the night with just the kids and what they stand up in.’

‘Sounds awful.’

‘It is. Then there’s things like the panto outing. Bit of Christmas cheer to get them through the winter. Same principle. Pantomime, that’s all part of it, a leftover from the mummers’ plays. You know, twelve days of Christmas and all that.’

‘So what happens at this thing of Naomi’s tomorrow? She said come to lunch and something about a ceremony before we eat.’

‘That’s right. A little ritual to mark Yuletide. Don’t worry. Naomi will do the business part of it. We just watch. Then we all tuck into a good lunch and get pissed as rats if we want to. She told you to bring some food and a bottle, did she?’

‘Yes. So you’ve done this before?’

‘Oh yes, every year as far as I remember. Well, since she came to Hallowfield, that is.’

‘Fran, do you mind me asking you something?’

‘What’s that, my love?’

‘Well, why are you in Hallowfield? I mean, I know you’re married to the vicar, but you don’t seem, well…’

‘What you mean is, when someone is referred to as the “vicar’s wife” I’m not exactly what comes to mind?’

‘Well, that’s not quite, I mean…I’m sorry, this is so rude of me. You must think I’m awful.’

‘Not at all. I’ll take it as a compliment. I tell you what, do you fancy a quick sherry? I keep a bottle handy this time of year in case anyone pops in. Even got some proper sherry glasses here somewhere. Don’t worry, I have washed them.’

The sherry is very sweet and not very good, but it somehow complements the smell of the shop. Fran pulls up a couple of chairs behind the makeshift counter where a one-bar electric fire takes the chill off their feet.

‘Sure I’m not keeping you from your shop work?’

‘I’m hardly overrun with customers. It’s January, when the Christmas bills come home to roost and the kids have grown out of their school clothes, that’s when this place is full. Cheers, Happy Christmas.’ She takes a hefty swig from her own glass. ‘So, what’s someone like me doing in a place like this?’

‘Yes, that’s what I was trying to ask.’

‘Often ask myself the same question. You want the whole story?’

‘Yes, if you’d like to tell me.’

‘Well then, Edward and I met when we were both up at Oxford—I was reading history and he was at theological college. Joined the same action groups, protests, sit-ins, that sort of thing. It was what students did then: flower power, the dawning of a new social era, Age of Aquarius and all that. We were all searching, I suppose, looking for new meanings. I’d joined a Buddhist meditation group. Like a lot of people I was turning to the philosophies of the East, looking for my own personal guru. Then suddenly there was Edward, afire with the spirit and not bad-looking with it. It was a new sort of Christianity he was preaching, something about real people, real life. Like me, he wanted to spread love throughout the world. Sounds daft now, doesn’t it? But we’d all been to see
Jesus Christ Superstar
, hadn’t we? So I bought the whole package. Ah, such dreams we had then, such dreams.’ Fran tops up her sherry glass.

Sally shakes her head when offered the bottle. ‘What sort of dreams?’

‘Oh, a mission in India, the starving millions, working beside the Peace Corps. We planned to set out hand-in-hand to save the world. Being Edward’s wife was more than an adventure: it was a crusade. Anyway, I got my degree and he got ordained. Only it wasn’t India he got sent to, but the East End of London. Broken-down old church, congregation numbers swelled to half a dozen on a good night. Only temporary, we said, somewhere to start and at least we’d be doing some good. And there was certainly plenty to get our teeth into. We worked in day centres, did soup runs; I helped set up one of the first women’s centres in the city. And time went, as it does, and eventually I began to realize why we’d never made it to India.

‘You see, Edward lacks a certain kind of compassion. No tolerance for those who make different choices. He would never have survived in an Eastern culture. I hadn’t realized it, up too close I suppose, but his superiors obviously had. Then things got worse. Suddenly it was the ’eighties, Thatcherism, unemployment, urban decay. The more we worked to put it right, the more the world fell apart around us. I was so full-on with my own projects that at first I hadn’t noticed that Edward wasn’t coping. I mean seriously not coping. Oh, we’d left those ideals behind long ago. But a new sort of reality was creeping in. Violence, drugs, Aids, teenage rent-boys. Early every morning I used to go down with a bag to clear the used syringes from the church porch. Edward couldn’t hack it. Eventually the stress got to him and he had a sort of breakdown.’

‘So, what happened? What did you do?’

‘They sent us to a retreat in Scotland for six months. Then the Church recommended he take on something less demanding. And that’s how we ended up at Hallowfield—1988 that was. Again we both said it was temporary. But I knew by then that all the fight had gone out of him and he was ready to slump into the comfort of middle age. We still talked about India, but I knew that, for Edward, talk was all it had ever been. Now it’s all about saving the church roof while I organize the OAPs’ bingo evenings. This country village—this monument to mediocrity—is his reality. And it could have been my living death.’

‘But it wasn’t, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t. Because, from the moment I entered the place I felt as if I’d come home. And, of course, there were Abbie and Ruth. Oh, the house was awful, of course: old, damp, draughty, as most vicarages are. But it was the village itself. By then, of course, I was thoroughly disillusioned with the Church. But I was used to working hard. Bags of energy and looking for somewhere to use it, that’s me. And you don’t have to go to India to help people, or to a city slum. Poverty and loneliness find their way in everywhere, even a little
community like Hallowfield. Oh, at first I was angry, I suppose, resentful and bitter, but somehow I mellowed into the habitual old cynic you see here. And there’s hope, there’s always hope—it’s a blessed curse sometimes. Then I learned about your place, the spring water.’

‘Yes, they told me what you do with the church font.’

‘It’s a small act of sabotage, but an effective one I believe. As far as I’m concerned, the Church and I parted company a long time ago. Oh, I support Edward to some extent with his parish duties. Yes, I know I tend to put the boot in where I can. He knows all about it and I know how much it annoys him. It’s turned into a sort of game, if we’re honest.’

But you’re not being honest, are you? thinks Sally. Not with yourself anyway. She has learned enough from Jonathan about the rudiments of psychotherapy to know that Fran is playing the game to avoid facing up to a lot of unpleasant truths. ‘Did you never think of leaving him?’

‘Vicars don’t get divorced—it’s bad form.’ Fran lifts her glass up, as if studying the light through the liquid. ‘Actually, that’s not true. Divorce rate is very high. Neglected wives being used as unpaid secretaries and social workers. I can’t say I didn’t think about it at one time.’

‘You never had children?’

‘No, no children. I had a baby once. A girl, stillborn. Came too early. After that it just didn’t happen, even though we tried hard enough. Well I did, I’m not sure about Edward. I went for tests and things, but he would have nothing to do with it. Said it was God’s will. And then Naomi came.’

‘Abbie said you two are very close.’

‘She’s just about the age my daughter would be if she’d made it. Of course Edward took up arms against her straight away. Only he got quite worked up about it, got it all out of proportion, even whipped up some supporters among the congregation, sort of vigilante group. Fortunately they all backed off when he started preaching hellfire and damnation. Scared me a bit, I can tell you. I thought he was going to have another breakdown. I suppose initially I flew to her defence just to spite him. But you can’t be with her for long before you grow to love her. In some ways she’s such an innocent. It makes her vulnerable to people like my husband, and at the same time it’s what protects her. Naomi’s my family now. Then Claire arrives and now you’re here. So I’m blessed. You sure you won’t have another sherry?’

‘Yes, quite sure. You’re into astrology, aren’t you?’

‘Only in a general sort of way. I know just about enough to work out a natal chart and do a basic interpretation. But I’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘What does Edward think of that?’

‘Work of the Devil, he reckons. Like Buddhism. I still go on meditation weekends, though. But of course having anything to do with Naomi means I’m a lost soul anyway, according to him.’

‘Naomi talks about the Goddess.’

‘The old religion. The Creator always was female, you know, worshipped for thousands of years before these new men-only religions turned up. Interesting how people are turning back to the old ways. Perhaps it’s because women are finding their own strength and need a female deity to relate to. Our understanding of the purpose of life is different—well, it would be, wouldn’t it? I don’t honestly believe the creator and sustainer of the universe gives a pig’s piss about the church roof. But if this world was created out of love, then He—She—does care about Mrs Jeffries’ bad hip, and that the Wilson kids go to school with no breakfast because their mother’s too drunk to get out of bed.

‘Good Lord, look at the time.’ Fran tosses back the last of her sherry. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to throw you out, my love. Time to shut up shop, and I promised I’d call in at the village hall with some decorations for the kids’ party.’ She gathers up the glasses and bottle. ‘I say,’ she calls from the kitchen doorway, ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a lift, could you? It’s not far out of your way.’

‘Sure, no problem.’

‘Oh, good. You’re an angel. We might as well take some of the presents over with us since you’ve got plenty of room in your vehicle. They’re through here—that’s right. If you could carry that lot out, I’ll bring the rest.’

S
ALLY AND
R
UTH ARRIVE TOGETHER
at the private entrance next to Naomi’s workshop. The door is hung with a wreath of holly, decked with red ribbons and gold-painted pine cones. The door has been left ajar, so they enter and call to the upstairs flat. Naomi’s head appears over the banisters.

‘Come on up, you two. Food goes in the kitchen. We’re in the sitting room.’

Upstairs is surprisingly spacious and is filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. The kitchen is large and old-fashioned, a clutter of what look like hand-thrown ceramic pots and jugs. Nothing matching, nothing there by design, except the tidy bunches of what must be flowers and herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry. The worktops are already overflowing with piles of misshapen rustic loaves and bowls of salads.

‘I can guess who made the chocolate cake,’ says Sally.

‘Always rely on Abbie for anything to do with chocolate,’ says Ruth. ‘I brought sausage rolls and a glazed ham—not very imaginative, I know, but I baked and dressed it myself.’

‘Looks yummy. I made a salmon mousse, I hope that’s all right. And here’s a few canapés. Looks like chicken in those tortillas.’

‘That will be Claire’s contribution. She must be here already.’

‘Merry meet, you two.’ Naomi comes into the kitchen, carrying a large glass of something spicy with bits of fruit floating on the top. Dressed in black and purple, she’s all movement with her long hair loose and swirling like her skirt. Around her neck, in place of the usual moonstone, is a five-pointed star set in a
silver circle. She gives Sally a hug. ‘Merry meet, and Happy Solstice.’

‘Merry meet. The food looks wonderful. You must be the bread-maker?’

‘And that punch smells wonderful, too,’ says Ruth, coming forward to hug Naomi. ‘Merry meet, my love, and Happy Solstice.’

‘Come through and I’ll get you both a drink. Abbie and Claire are here already; we’re only waiting for Fran.’

They follow her into a comfortable, sprawling room of floor cushions and sagging sofas draped with hand-dyed batik prints. The walls are festooned with swathes of holly, ivy and mistletoe. A dozen candles burn on shelves, and in the wrought-iron grate a log fire is roaring and sparking. Claire is sitting on a cushion next to the fire, her legs curled under her, her face flushed by the warmth of the flames. She gets to her feet as they come in, ready to give what is obviously the customary greeting.

‘Merry meet, Sally, Ruth. I’m so glad you’ve joined us, Sally. It was strange us meeting that time, and I wanted to get to know you properly.’ In the light of day she looks brighter and healthier, certainly less tense. And she’s smiling. She’s younger than Sally had first thought, perhaps mid-twenties. There’s still an aura of fragility about her, and she’s indeed very pretty in an ethereal sort of way.

‘Excuse me if I don’t get up.’ Abbie is sprawled on a sofa, her feet up on a cushion. ‘First chance I’ve had to catch my breath. Been up most of the night.’