The Icera Stone

They continued arm in arm. Erica had to remind herself that less than an hour ago they had not even met, and yet, to her, Vicky already felt like a trusted friend.

Cottages and shops lined each side of Silver Street. Oriels and bays punctuated the honey stone, which melted into washed out soft white facades. Roofs were swathed in sheets of slate and blankets of thatch. There was a harmony in the curious inevitability of how each form followed the other.

Erica gazed at the garlands of green, still amazed at the magical transformation that had taken place overnight. ‘It’s strange to see all this now, and yet no-one seemed to want to acknowledge the ceremony even existed, before today.’

‘It’s just second nature,’ Vicky confirmed. ‘Monday it’ll all be back as normal.’

Erica nodded. ‘I thought the silence over the festival odd at first, but after a week of knowing about the custom, it seems quite natural.’ She looked slightly fretful. ‘Simon thinks it’s just a load of hocus-pocus.’

‘Folk had to keep quiet about the old religion.’ Vicky’s tone was serious. ‘That’s why the secrecy, especially for those taking part in the procession.’

The explanation left Erica thinking. ‘I’ve read people were persecuted by the Church for their beliefs in the past, but surely, it doesn’t happen any more, after all, the Reverend joined in too.’

‘What do you mean?’ Vicky looked edgy.

‘I just meant he seemed to enjoy it,’ she clarified.

Vicky nodded. ‘He likes being centre stage.’

Erica paused at the one shop without bunting. Flaking purple woodwork told of better days. The roof stooped down at one end, from old age.

Vicky read Erica’s thoughts. ‘Matches her character quite well, don’t you think?’ she chuckled.

‘Why doesn’t Miss Bird join in?’ Erica asked.

Vicky shrugged. ‘She’s a bit of an odd ball.’

The haphazard array of crates of fruit and vegetables piled precariously on the narrow pavement forced the companions to uncouple their arms and step off the kerb. ‘These wouldn’t last long in Streatham High Road,’ Erica joked.

They gazed at Miss Bird’s eccentric window display. A rogues’ gallery of mutated vegetables were set out like an identity parade, next to which she had chalked the word ‘organs’.

Erica looked at Vicky with a wry expression. ‘Do you think she means organic?’

‘Who knows,’ Vicky spoke in hushed tones. ‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of her, Erica, she is about as twisted as one of her parsnips.’

A yellow, wizened face with screwed-up eyes, a pointed chin and thin, crooked lips peered out from the window and grimaced menacingly at them.

Erica and Vicky quickly went on their way. For several paces, they remained silent and then Vicky burst out. ‘Do you think she heard me?’

‘If you get served corkscrewed parsnips next time you are in her shop,’ Erica chuckled, ‘you’ll know why.’