The Moon Spun Round (42 page)

Or the fact that she wished she had?

F
RAN IS LOOKING FORWARD
to her morning break when Sally comes through the door looking pink-cheeked and windswept. Doesn’t she look well?, Fran thinks. Nothing like that whey-faced city waif who turned up here a few months back. But as she approaches, Fran sees that Sally’s eyes are shadowed.

‘Hello there, you look tired.’

‘Yes. Sorry I wasn’t there when you rang last night, but I got your message. Something about the local newspaper? No, I haven’t seen it. Why, what’s happened?’

‘Well, I’ll show you if I can find a copy.’ Fran starts rummaging behind the counter. ‘Late night, was it?’

‘Fairly, yes. Dinner with a new client. Runs a tour company in Cambridge.’

‘Oh, really?’ Fran peers over the counter top, eyes bright with sudden interest. ‘And what’s he like?’

‘Utterly charming. And so are his wife and three teenage children.’

‘Oh well, never mind. Ah, I’ve found one. Here: read it for yourself.’

‘What am I looking for?’ Sally turns the pages then gasps, scanning the words beneath the photograph. She looks up at Fran, her mouth open in shock.

‘Yes, it took the wind out of my sails, too.’

Sally studies the picture more closely. The crumpled mess makes sense only when explained by the article next to it. His name is there and a description of the vehicle, a black BMW. And the time the accident occurred. ‘I don’t believe this.’

‘I know what you mean. No matter how much faith you have, when this
stuff actually starts to work…’ Fran shakes her head.

‘What, you think this is to do with the ritual we did at new moon?’

‘Of course. I think this may only be the beginning.’

‘It says he wasn’t hurt.’

‘No. Apparently walked away without a scratch. Miraculous escape, they’re calling it. If only they knew the real story.’

‘It says he’s been charged with drink-driving.’ Sally is reading through the article again.

‘Now there’s a surprise.
And
driving a car that wasn’t insured. That’s the bit that threw Claire.’

‘She’s seen this then?’

‘Yes, it was Claire who spotted it. She’s in the café kitchen. Why don’t you go and have a word with her?’

Claire is heaping whipped cream between layers of sponge cake, humming a tune between licking her fingers. She looks up as Sally comes in. She seems different, taller somehow, more in charge of herself.

‘Though I say it myself, that carrot cake is good.’ Claire points to a huge, dark confection frosted with sweet, creamy cheese. ‘Grab a plate and cut yourself a slice.’

‘You look as if you’re having a good time.’

‘The best. And I’ve got another job lined up too. A few hours on Sunday mornings selling plants at the local nursery.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Don’t sound so enthusiastic.’

‘Sorry. I’ve just seen the paper.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Yes, that.’

Claire is suddenly serious. She leans her hands on the back of a chair, hangs her head for a moment, then looks into Sally’s face. ‘You know, I just didn’t realize how much I hated him until I read that. He loved that car, you know. It was almost like another woman in his life. He treated it in a way he never treated me. He gave it…’ She searches for the words. ‘Time. That’s it: he gave the car his time.’

‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Jonathan had one of those.’

‘It’s working, isn’t it? The ritual?’

‘You think so?’

‘Oh yes, not necessarily how each of us might have envisaged it. We asked the Goddess for truth and justice. He’ll get what he deserves. Not for us to say what that might be.’

‘Or how it happens?’

‘Or how it happens.’

‘Fran said something about the insurance.’

‘Now that’s odd. You see the insurance premium should have been paid by the bank, that’s how Ayden arranged all the domestic bills. He bought the car last year, a sort of Christmas present to himself. As it was a few days before Christmas, the insurance arranged a temporary cover and sent a direct debit for the year’s payment to the bank at the beginning of January. The same thing was supposed to happen this year. In fact I remember receiving the advice note from the company during Christmas week, saying they would debit the sum on…um…I think it was the third of January.’

Sally considers those dates for a moment. ‘You remember what happened on the
second
of January, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Fran and Abbie cleaned out your joint account.’

‘You’re right—I’d forgotten about that.’ A smile lights Claire’s eyes and creeps to the corners of her mouth, popping out in a little giggle. ‘And we don’t have an overdraft facility. The bank is fairly tolerant, but that insurance cover cost a fortune—they would never have stood for that. But no, that still doesn’t explain it. Even if you don’t pay on time, insurance companies usually give you a few days’ grace. And surely they would have sent reminders? Besides, that was almost three weeks ago and Ayden transfers money from the business into our private account every week.’

‘Well, something obviously went wrong somewhere. And driving an uninsured vehicle and smashing it up while under the influence, those are pretty serious charges. Let’s be thankful no one else was hurt.’

‘Oh, but somebody was. His beloved car,’ says Claire. ‘And uninsured, it can’t be replaced. Oh, how sad.’ The little giggle erupts again.

Fran comes into the kitchen, carrying a tray of used dishes.

‘Are the next lot of cheese and onion scones ready yet? All of the last batch are sold. Oooh, that looks yummy, Claire!’ She flicks a finger of cream from the mixer. ‘Hey, and don’t forget to take your morning break. I don’t want to wear her out, she’s too good an asset for the business.’

‘You’re taking this shop-minding very seriously, aren’t you, Fran?’

‘You bet. In fact,’ she stops to catch her breath, ‘in fact I think I might take it on full-time.’

‘What? You mean like a job?’ Sally looks astonished.

‘Yes. Why not? Jack’s not hurrying back to work, and I can’t see him ever being the same now Ruth has gone. Shirley’s been great, but she has her own family
to look to. No, what Jack needs is a full-time manager. Matter of persuading him, that’s all.’

‘But what about all the work you do around the village?’

‘’Bout time Edward recruited some of his parish committee to take on more of the social work. Most of the village come in here anyway, so I won’t be missing much.’

‘Well, I think I’ll get a coffee to go with this cake,’ says Sally. ‘Are you joining us, Fran?’

‘Not just yet. Shirley should be here any minute—I’ll have my break when she takes over.’ Fran snatches up a plate of scones, then pauses, looking thoughtful. ‘Tell you what, Sally, can I ask you a favour? After you’ve had your coffee, could you spare ten minutes to go round to the church with me?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘I’d like your opinion on something, that’s all.’ She dives back into the café, leaving both women looking puzzled.

‘What’s that about?’

Claire shrugs. ‘No idea.’

‘Do you think she’s serious? About working here, I mean.’

‘Yes, she might be,’ says Claire, ‘though I hate to think what Edward will have to say on the subject.’

‘You going to join me for coffee?’

‘Yes, go through and order me one, will you? It won’t take a moment to finish this.’

As Sally walks through to the café, she hears Claire humming again. That’s right, it’s an old Nancy Sinatra song. And as she orders their coffees from Zoë, she can hear Claire’s voice drifting in from the kitchen: ‘…one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you’.

They jump into Fran’s old banger of a car and are at the church gate in minutes. There’s something particularly depressing about churchyards in winter, even on a sunny morning like this.

Without speaking, Fran and Sally make their way to Ruth’s plot. The carpet of blooms laid down nearly two weeks ago has died quickly in the frost, but it has been cleared and replaced by arrangements of entwined holly and ivy and some Christmas roses. It looks like Naomi’s work. There are also pots of snowdrop bulbs, their tips showing diamonds of pure white, and a small posy of fresh roses.

‘Never mind, Ruth, it’ll soon be spring. Won’t see the ground for daffodils and hyacinths, eh Sally?’

‘You bet. As soon as the first flowers show we’ll bring them in armfuls.’ She reaches down and touches one of the holly berries, then looks up at Fran. ‘You said you wanted my opinion on something?’

‘That’s right, let’s go inside.’ They follow the path to the side door, Fran striding on ahead. What’s got into her this morning?, Sally wonders. But she follows Fran into the church, shivering as they enter. It seems even colder in here than it is outside. Fran digs her hands in her pockets and walks into the space at the head of the nave. She’s silent for a moment, looking around at the bleak walls.

‘What can you feel?’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Sally.

‘In here. What do you feel?’ There’s a hard edge to Fran’s voice. She has turned to face the altar, her back towards Sally, who can see only the tense jut of her shoulders.

Sally looks around for some clue as to what Fran’s talking about. It’s an ancient building but of no particular historical interest. Dampness has seeped up through the walls and down through the ailing roof to stain the crumbling plaster, and there’s that perpetual smell of furniture polish mingled with decay that clings to the air even in the hottest of summers.

‘Cold,’ says Sally. ‘The place feels as if it will never warm up.’

Fran nods. ‘Is She here? The Goddess?’ Fran sounds anxious, almost irritated. ‘You’ve felt Her, haven’t you? At the Solstice and beside the water? Tell me, can you feel Her here?’

‘I don’t…’ Sally shakes her head. ‘I don’t feel anything. But that doesn’t mean…This is a Christian church, isn’t it? I’m not even sure I believe in a God. Or a Goddess, for that matter. In fact I’m not even sure I know what it means. I never went to Sunday School. My father didn’t approve of organized religion. Do you think there’s a God, Fran? Or is it only the Goddess you believe in?’

‘I think it’s too abstract a concept to grasp. We need a god-form, something we can visualize, talk to. I think we invent what we need to believe in. You can tell a lot about folk by studying what they worship.’

‘And this church was built by people who believed in a male creator.’

‘Yes, any society where women are relegated to second-class citizens is bound to have an all-powerful male as its ideal.’ Fran moves to the lectern, running her hand over the head of the brass eagle. Its outstretched wings hold up the huge Bible with its silk bookmarker—lovingly embroidered, no doubt, by some daughter of the church—to mark where Edward will read the lesson.

‘What about the Goddess?’ asks Sally. ‘Where does She come in?’

‘Once upon a time God was a woman, did you know that? Makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s the women who give birth; therefore, the world and everything in it must have been brought about by a female creator. Oh, I know She appeared in all sort of guises, but the principle was always the same. And there was none of this “My God’s better than your God” nonsense. Historians tend to dismiss it as a collection of fertility cults but, as most early historians were men, anything to do with pregnancy and birth would be far too sordid to be of any spiritual significance. But it’s a fact. The Goddess really was worshipped throughout the world for thousands of years.’

‘So what happened? Where did it all go?’

‘Times changed. The new religions were about power and domination, and it all got mixed up with politics and the state. The Law told people what to do and the Church told them what to think and feel. None of this going around worshipping whatever you like. No, keep the people in poverty and ignorance and fill their heads with hellfire and damnation. The old religion was outlawed.’

‘But what about the women, those who practised the old ways? Why would they allow that to happen?’ Sally asks.

‘The same way any civilization is overthrown. Look at what the British Empire did in India and Africa, the Spanish Conquistadors in South America. Same principle. First, you send in the army and beat the crap out of them. Women are still being beaten into submission—we don’t have to look far from home to see that. Then you send in the missionaries, and the gods of the old religion become the demons of the new. Promise love and forgiveness, instil guilt and terror, and back it all up by an act of parliament.’

‘Wow, when you put it like that…So where does that leave us?’

Fran turns to face the rows of pews. ‘We’ve forgotten who we are. We need something to relate to. We need our Goddess—She’s been denied to us for too long.’

‘But not now. Surely things are changing, at least in this part of the world?’

‘Still a long way to go, but yes, She’s coming back to us.’

‘And have you found Her?’

‘Oh yes, I think we both have. I discover Her every day, one way or another. She’s there every time I watch the young mums push the swings in the park and whenever the old dears come into the shop for their packet of biscuits. She was working through Abbie that night when she dressed Claire’s wounds, and She pitched her tent alongside those women at Greenham Common. She was there when my daughter was born, even though she didn’t live long enough to draw a breath. Oh yes, She’s there all right.’