Seeing Stars by Christina Jones Page B

Topaz had been born, and a week in Blackpool was
     as alluring as Mecca and twice as exciting. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lowered herself gratefully into the seat.

    Kicking off her sandals, she wriggled her toes in blissful freedom. Oooh, but it was so hot. Hotter than ever. Even hotter
     than it had been on the train – God, how long ago that seemed too. Was that really only this morning? It could have been in
     another lifetime.
    Wearily, Amber leaned her head back and allowed the drowsy warmth to wash over her, while the pungent scent from the herbs
     and flowers soothed her more effectively than any essential oils. One of the cats jumped onto her lap and she stroked it idly,
     as the other curled on her bare feet. The sky was vividly blue through the dappling of the trees, the sun almost directly
     overhead smothering the riotous rainbow of the garden in molten gold, dazzling and dizzying.
    She’d have to text her friends and her parents later – which was another thing: there was only one single electrical socket
     in her bedroom so charging her mobile would prove tricky if she needed to dry her hair or watch telly or listen to music at
     the same time – and tell them that she’d arrived safely, and about Lewis of course, and about this strange antiquated village,
     and how lovely Gwyneth was even if she did look like an elderly
matryoshka,
but right now all she needed was food and drink and sleep.
    ‘Here we are, duck – no, shove over, Pike, it’s not for you – I’ve brought you animals some water and some more Bonios. And
     I see the cats like you – that’s a really good sign.’ Gwyneth trotted from the dim quarry-tiled kitchen, ducking beneath the
     overhanging branches, and placed a massive tray on the table. ‘I hope this will be all right. We’ll have to sort out your
     likes and dislikes later. Plenty of time for all that.’
    Amber opened her eyes, struggling to sit upright without disturbing the cats, and blinked at Gwyneth. ‘Oh, wow. Thank you
     so much. This looks wonderful.’
    ‘Mostly from the garden,’ Gwyneth said proudly, pouring lemonade from a jug clunking with ice cubes. ‘Well, the salad and
     peas and potatoes. And as I don’t eat meat, the goat’s cheese came from Mona Jupp at the cornershop – we always do a trade: I get milk and cheese from her goats, she gets eggs from my hens. There’s a lot of the old barter
     and swap mentality here in Fiddlesticks. Go on, duck, dig in.’
    ‘Thank you – I don’t know where to start. It’s all fantastic.’ Suddenly extremely hungry, and having moved the cats, who now
     swished grumpy tails, Amber happily piled her plate. ‘And you’ve got hens? Chickens? Here?’
    ‘At the bottom of the garden. The run’s behind the trellis. I’ll introduce you to them later on. Me and Ida – she lives in
     Butterfly Cottage, the third in the row – we’ve always kept hens. Our girls are all good layers.’
    ‘And you’re a vegetarian?’
    Gwyneth nodded through a mouthful of salad. ‘Mmmm, yes. Me and Big Ida are very involved in various animal charities. I love
     animals, duck. All animals. Animals is better than most people. You won’t mind not eating their flesh while you’re here?’
    ‘No … Not at all. Do you know I’d never thought of it like that. Eating animals, I mean … I suppose I should have done. But
     the stuff we had at home, well, it just never seemed to have ever belonged to something alive.’
    It was like a whole new world. No meat. Eggs that came from real hens and not just in neat little boxes. Vegetables straight
     from the earth.
    At home, all food appeared from the weekly supermarket shop, most of it ready processed to be microwaved as and when needed,
     because everyone in the family worked and socialised at different times, and they never sat down to eat together except on
     Christmas Day. And at home the garden was a triumph of decking and gravel and a few easy-to-tend shrubs in