“Joe.”
“Do you?”
“Yes! Okay? Yes, I love you! I love you! I love you! But . . .”
She didn’t get to finish her very sensible next sentence, because he leaned in and kissed away her protests. He didn’t stop kissing her as he pressed her down onto the sleeping bag. Nor did he stop as he undid the clips on her dungarees and expertly divested them both of their underwear. It was a cold afternoon. But inside the tent of intent, Joe and Maggie found a way to keep themselves warm. Twice.
27
Belinda was seated in the front row of chairs in the village hall on Monday evening, her purple glitter Dr. Martens just visible below the hem of her black cassock. She gave the sisters an enthusiastic thumbs-up and whisper-shouted “Loud and proud!” as they took their seats on the stage.
Star picked nervously at her nails as the last few stragglers found chairs and got settled. Despite only having put the word out yesterday, they had a full house. Betty was sitting in the middle row surrounded by a few of the WI—Women’s Institute—members; others she recognized were sitting with their husbands and significant others. The Cussing Crocheters huddled together in a row near the back, and when Star gave them a tentative wave they stood, each holding aloft a piece of crocheted granny-square bunting that read GIVE ’EM HELL AND GIVE NO FUCKS in red and green wool. She’d say this for Rowan Thorp: there was no shortage of strong women in residence. She liked to think that maybe her ancestor Patience North had started the trend. Since returning to Rowan Thorp, Star was finding it easy to fill her daily magic quota.
The crowd began to quiet down.
“Right, remember what we’re going to say,” whispered Maggie.
Star instantly needed the toilet. “I can’t do it,” she said.
“Neither can I,” Simone agreed.
“You have to!” hissed Maggie. “I’m not doing it by myself.”
“We’ll stand next to you.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!”
Her oldest sister pushed her shoulders back and gathered herself up and Star wished she owned that kind of can-do attitude. In fairness they were all out of their depth: a greengrocer, a physiotherapist, and a wandering hippie, none of them used to public speaking or asking for help.
Only her sisters would notice the slight tremor in Maggie’s fingers or the telltale quickening of her breath that belied her nerves as she looked out into the sea of faces smiling back at her. Most of these people had known them since they were kids—some had grown up with them.
“Ahem.” Maggie cleared her throat, and the microphone that Sonja had insisted she use reverberated with a deep boff! sound, followed by a high-pitched whistling. She jumped and looked helplessly over to Brian Moorhen, who was sitting in the wings and had adjusted the dials on the amp. He motioned for her to continue. “You probably all know by now that as per our dad’s final wishes, we are reinstating the winter solstice festival in Rowan Thorp.” The audience clapped in encouragement. “You probably also know that the three of us are way out of our depth on this. We stand before you today to ask for your help. I don’t know why the solstice celebrations stopped. Perhaps it simply fell out of favor, as old-fashioned things do . . .”
“Same thing happened with vinyl,” piped up Ron Docherty. “And now it’s all the rage again! My grandkids are asking for vinyl records for Christmas!”
This was met with murmurs of agreement from the audience.
“And Polaroid cameras!” came another voice, to further agreement.
“And double denim!” called someone else.
“Doesn’t make it right, though, Peter!” heckled one of the Cussing Crocheters, giving him a knowing look. Peter unapologetically flicked up the collar of his denim jacket and straightened the denim shirt, which was tucked into stonewashed denim jeans with stiff creases ironed down the middle.
Maggie cleared her throat again. “Yes, well, like those things, our dad obviously felt it was time for us to bring back the winter solstice festival.” She looked down at her speech notes with shaking hands. Star slipped her arm around her waist and squeezed, earning her a grateful smile.
“Augustus had a deep love of this village and the people in it. I have asked myself why he tasked my sisters and me with reinstating the winter solstice festival, and aside from because he wanted to be a pain in the bum, I think it is because he didn’t want us to drift as he did. I think he wanted us to be ensconced in this community. What better way to ensure Rowan Thorp continues to be a supportive, tight-knit neighborhood for years to come than to install a festival into our village calendar, one that makes us come together every year and join in celebration, like our ancestors did before us? If you can help us make this happen for our community and for our dad, then us North girls will be forever grateful.” She let out a shaky breath and stuffed the note cards into her dungarees pocket.
Simone and Star each linked an arm through hers. Star rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder, and Simone, who was taller, mirrored the image by resting hers on top of Maggie’s head.
“You were amazing,” Star whispered.
“I’m so proud of you,” echoed Simone.
The response in the hall was overwhelming. The clapping began and seemed like it would never stop. People got up out of their chairs in a standing ovation. Whoops and whistles—the loudest coming from Belinda—and a stamping of feet vibrated through the wooden floorboards all the way up onto the stage. When the applause began to abate, Belinda climbed the steps, cassock swinging, and took over the microphone. The sisters gratefully sank back into their plastic chairs.
“Right, then, you motley lot!” the vicar boomed into the mic. “You’ve heard the North girls’ plea, now let’s hear what you’ve got and see if we can make this thing happen.” Star watched as Artemis weaved in and out of the chairs in the hall, as though joining Belinda in chivying the crowd along. “To my mind, God and Mother Nature are one and the same—and both female, obviously.” Belinda gave a wink that earned a few disgruntled noises from some of the octogenarian men in the hall. “So let’s honor them both by celebrating the winter solstice!” She punched the air like a dog-collared rockstar, and Star marveled at her ability to work the crowd. If this was the kind of energy Belinda brought to the pulpit every Sunday, it was no wonder St. Swithun’s had seen an uptick in attendance. “I’ll start proceedings by saying I’ve got a mate who rents out marquees for festivals. I’ll tap him up and see if I can wrangle us one. Who’s next?”
The Myerses were the first to raise their hands. Gerry had retired with a golden handshake after being something big in the city and these days haunted the local golf club. Parminder Myers was manager of the Rowan Thorp library and what she didn’t know about Rowan Thorp wasn’t worth knowing. “As soon as we heard about your father’s will . . .” Parminder began.
Someone in the audience—possibly Troy—quipped, “Approximately fifteen seconds after it was read.”
Parminder gave a little side nod and a wry smile in acceptance of the probable truth of the statement.