Free Seeing Stars by Christina Jones Page B

Mitzi’s food out,’ Gwyneth said reassuringly. ‘It always goes down well. Oh, watch out, duck
     – ’ere comes the ’ordes.’
    There was then a really weird few moments when masses of odd-looking old people, all dressed in green, of course, swarmed
     round them and shook Amber’s hand and told her she was a proper little bobby-dazzler and right puckie and a little sweetheart
     and how quickly she’d settle into village life and wasn’t she excited about St Bedric’s and wasn’t it lucky that she still
     had lots of astral festivals to look forward to through the summer.
    Amber had smiled and smiled and smiled, and the names – Mona Jupp, Billy Grinley, Mr and Mrs Tuttle, Bernie Someone, Jackie
     Someone-Else, Dougie Patchcock, Constance and Perpetua Motion, and a thousand others – slipped through her memory like quicksilver.
    ‘There, duck!’ Gwyneth tapped Amber’s shoulder as the crowds fell away for a minute. ‘Look! There’s Zil. Outside the pub.
     She’s our other neighbour – lives in Chrysalis Cottage – I told you about her, remember? She’s really looking forward to meeting
     you tonight.’
    Amber squinted. She could just make out a woman with a lot of dark hair and a long green dress busily arrangingfood on the tables outside The Weasel and Bucket. Her heart sank. Gwyneth had said Zillah, the other neighbour, was a youngster:
     Amber had hoped for someone of her own age to play with. Zillah must have been as old as her mother. At least. Still, that
     was probably positively juvenile to Gwyneth.
    ‘Oh, hello, Ida.’ Gwyneth’s voice was raised above the roar again. ‘Wondered where you’d got to. Don’t you look chipper?’
    Big Ida Tomms, who lived in Butterfly Cottage at the end of the row and who had terrified Amber the previous day when she’d
     loomed like a monolith over the garden fence, tramped across the green, elbowing people out of her way, beaming at them both.
    ‘’ello Gwyneth. Young Amber. You looks lovely.’
    ‘So do you,’ Amber said quickly because to be honest the sight of Big Ida, dressed from head to toe in a far-too-tight, far-too-short,
     bottle–green, panne velvet with her pudding basin hair tucked into an acid–green, satin snood, was truly jaw-dropping.
    ‘Thanks,’ Big Ida preened. ‘Borrowed this off one of my godsons. The all-in-one, I mean. Even they don’t wear snoods. Is that
     a nightie you’ve got on?’
    Amber shook her head. The green-beaded, chiffon, baby-doll top was one of last year’s cast-offs which had somehow accidentally
     found its way into her luggage. She’d teamed it with a pair of down-and-dirty green ripped jeans which she wouldn’t have been
     seen dead in back home. No doubt, down here, the ensemble would be considered cutting-edge catwalk.
    To be honest, her wardrobe was causing her some concern. Due to the lack of space, she’d relegated most of it, still unpacked,
     to Gwyneth’s garden shed and was hoping to exist on what the fashion pages always referred to as ‘capsule’. It was going to
     take forever to get used to only having one of everything.
    ‘Its very à la mode.’ Ida scratched beneath her snood.

    ‘And the green flippy-floppies are lovely.’
    ‘I found her those,’ Gwyneth burst in proudly. ‘Didn’t I, duck? In the shed. From me jumble buys. Just the ticket.’
    ‘Perfect,’ Amber assured her as they were suddenly buffeted by a crowd of villagers heading towards the rustic bridge. ‘Oh
     – what’s happening over there?’
    ‘That’s just Goff getting ready for ’is big moment. He ’as to stand on a trestle being a bit of a short-arse and hopefully
     someone will have given him a microphone this year. He was ’oarse for a fortnight after last St Bedric’s …’
    Gazing at the gibbet-like structure being erected beside the stream, Amber still doubted that any of this was happening. It
     was just too surreal. She couldn’t wait to phone her friends and give them all the gory