Seeing Stars by Christina Jones

details. In fact once she’d recharged
     her mobile she’d probably admit that they were right and she’d been wrong and could they come and rescue her as soon as possible.
    The dearth of electricity in Moth Cottage meant that the phone had taken a bit of a back seat – the hair straighteners and
     television got first dibs at the socket until she’d managed to buy an adaptor – and she was also mindful of Gwyneth’s electricity
     bill. She really must remember to charge the phone in the morning and discuss finances with Gwyneth again. There was no way
     she was going to live with Gwyneth without contributing something to the coffers.
    Mind you, if tonight was anything to go by she wasn’t going to be staying long – definitely not for the whole summer – but
     even so, she’d have to pay her way. Which might prove difficult as she had no income and her savings were probably even less
     than Gwyneth’s.
    ‘Crikey Moses! Don’t the Hayfields’ youngsters look lovely?’ Big Ida boomed. ‘Look at Fern! She’s even dyed her hair green
     this year! And is that Lewis with her?’
    Amber immediately stopped worrying about high finance and peered into the gloom for some sign of a rock band – or, to be honest,
     the luscious Lewis and, she supposed,Jem. It was always a good idea to size up the opposition. The peering was hampered by the heat haze now being accompanied
     by swirling piquant smoke from a series of small bonfires along the edge of the green, and the crowds alternately appeared
     and disappeared from view.
    There was no sight of anyone even slightly resembling Jim Morrison.
    ‘Are we having music?’ Amber said hopefully. Well, even if it was Country and Western it would be
something.
‘From Hayfields?’
    ’Shouldn’t think so,’ Big Ida chuckled. ‘There ain’t one of ’em as can hold a note let alone a whole tune.’
    Definitely Country and Western then.
    ‘And what are all the little fires for?’ Amber bent down to Gwyneth’s ear. ‘Are they barbecues?’
    ‘No, bless you.’ Gwyneth yelled back. ‘They’re all part of the ritual. We sets fire to green broom and bracken on St Bedric’s.
     They drives away any bad sprites.’
    Of course they do, Amber thought. Silly me.
    ‘Here we go!’ Big Ida bellowed. ‘Just in time!’
    The throng, as if choreographed by Busby Berkeley, flowed into place round the stage and gibbet. Goff Briggs, green polo shirt,
     green cords, his head askew beneath a green baseball cap, clambered up and clutching a chalice in one hand, raised his arms
     aloft. Everyone cheered and clapped.
    Blimey, Amber thought, it’s like something out of
The Wicker Man.
    ‘We call on St Bedric,’ Goff bellowed, ‘to smile down upon his children.’
    ‘No microphone again,’ Gwyneth muttered. ‘Poor bugger.’
    Goff held the chalice towards the moon and howled something about Emerald Elixir, the bringing of good luck and the granting
     of wishes.
    Silence fell as he glugged at the chalice, swayed a bit, and his head dropped forwards.
    Crikey, Amber thought, has he been poisoned?

    ‘What’s in that goblet?’ She asked with some concern. ‘It’s not lethal, is it?’
    ‘Depends on your idea of lethal,’ Gwyneth hissed. ‘Crème de menthe, chartreuse and lime juice – all green, see duck? Emerald
     Elixir …’
    ‘Purges the pants off you,’ Big Ida added thoughtfully. ‘I never touch it.’
    Goff, his face now as green as his ensemble, slowly raised his head again, and wiped slurry-coloured froth from his lips.
    There was another round of applause, then Goff kicked off again, more unsteadily this time, shrieking various strange incantations
     and lots of thank yous – much like a late-night radio phone-in – and then launched into what sounded like an epic poem.
    Amber caught the words ‘Bedric’ and ‘thee and thou’, ‘green’ and ‘cheese’, ‘fear’ and ‘no fear’ and ‘wishes’ and ‘thank you’
     again a lot and that was about it.