The Moon, the Stars, and Madame Burova
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Synopsis
From the wildly popular bestselling author of The Keeper of Lost Things—an uplifting, slightly magical story about how it’s never too late to find out who you really are.
"Ruth Hogan is the queen of uplifting fiction and Madame Burova reminds us why. The writing crackles with humor and warmth. I can't imagine a better book in which to lose yourself at the moment. Stunning, immersive and absolutely wonderful." --Annie Lyons, author of The Brilliant Life of Eudora Honeysett
Madame Burova—beloved Tarot reader, palmist, and clairvoyant—is retiring and leaving her booth on the Brighton seafront.
After inheriting her mother’s fortune-telling business as a young woman, Imelda Burova has spent her life on the Brighton pier practicing her trade. She and her trusty pack of Tarot cards have seen the lovers and the liars, the angels and the devils, the dreamers and the fools. Now, after a lifetime of keeping other people’s secrets, Madam Burova is ready to have a little piece of life for herself. But she still has one last thing to do—to fulfill a promise made in the 1970s, when she and her girlfriends were carefree, with their whole lives still before them.
In London, it is time for another woman to make a fresh start. Billie has lost her university job, her marriage, and her place in the world when a sudden and unlikely discovery leaves her very identity in question. Determined to find answers, she must follow a trail…which leads to Brighton, the pier, and directly to Madame Burova’s door.
In a story spanning over fifty years, Ruth Hogan has conjured a magical world of 1970s holiday camps and seaside entertainers, eccentrics, heroes and villains, the lost and the found. Young people will make careless choices which echo down the years….but it’s never too late to put things right.
Release date: September 21, 2021
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks
Print pages: 304
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The Moon, the Stars, and Madame Burova
Ruth Hogan
Madame Burova was a woman who knew where the bodies were buried. She had spent a lifetime keeping other people’s secrets, and her silence had come at a price. Some revelations—forbidden affairs and minor indiscretions—had been easy enough to bear. Like feathers on the wind. But others, dark and disturbing, had pricked her conscience and been a burden on her soul. She had seen the lovers and the liars, the angels and the devils, the dreamers and the fools. Her cards had unmasked them all, and her cards never lied. Madame Burova knew the killer, the victim, and the murder weapon.
Outside, the warm, late-summer twilight was smudged with soft thumbprints of light from the illuminations strung along the promenade. High season was coming to an end, but for now the screams and squeals of excitement from the funfair still carried on the wind, soprano notes duetting with the baritone of the waves booming onto the beach and rattling the pebbles as they slunk back into the sea. MADAME BUROVA—TAROT READER, PALMIST, AND CLAIRVOYANT proclaimed the painted sign on the front of the booth where she had been dukkering, as her Romany mother always called it, for more than fifty years. Today had been her swan song. Madame Burova was retiring: reluctantly, sadly, but inevitably. Her mind was still sharp and her gift as infallible as ever. But she was weary of other people’s lives—their questions, their problems, and their secrets. She needed rest and a little piece of life for herself while she still had the chance. She sat down in a chair beside a small, round, velvet-covered gypsy table that had once belonged to her great-grandmother, where her crystal ball stood next to a silver-framed photograph of her long-dead, beloved borzoi, Dasha. The rings on her fingers flashed and sparkled as she picked up two brown envelopes. She had been entrusted as their guardian and had kept their secrets safe and silent for all these years. She turned them over in her hands. The hands that had held countless others and read the futures in their palms. The envelopes held a secret that had troubled Madame Burova more than most, and now the time had come for her to open them and fulfill a promise made long ago.
1972
Imelda Burova checked her appearance in the bedroom mirror and was satisfied. So was Rod Stewart. “You wear it well,” he sang, his voice rasping out from the small radio sitting on her dressing table. The dress, a green velvet midi with a fitted bodice and balloon sleeves, was Biba and had been bought especially for today on her last trip to London with her mother, Shunty-Mae. Today was Imelda’s first day as proprietress of the family’s dukkering booth on the promenade. Shunty-Mae had taken it over from her own mother, and it was there that she had taught Imelda to read palms and tarot cards, and to fathom the past and future from the depths of a crystal ball. Various Romany aunts and cousins had helped out for a summer season here and there, but the booth belonged to Shunty-Mae and now she was handing it over to her only daughter. Today, Imelda became Madame Burova—Tarot Reader, Palmist, and Clairvoyant. She drew back the curtains to let the early-morning sunlight stream in. Shunty-Mae was in the back garden by the open door of her caravan smoking a cigarette and cursing. Now in her early seventies, she was still an extraordinarily striking woman, with sea-green eyes and only whispers of silver in her long black hair. She had left her traveling life behind when she married Imelda’s father, Alexei, but had flatly refused to give up her traditional gypsy vardo and insisted on keeping it in the garden. Whenever she and Alexei fought, she stormed off to the vardo and often slept there.
Imelda could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and her father whistling in the kitchen downstairs as he prepared to cook breakfast. He had a fiery temper that was easily a match for Shunty-Mae’s passionate outbursts, but whereas his anger was quickly spent and soon forgotten, his wife’s could sometimes smolder like hot coals and flare again at the slightest provocation. Alexei was a successful tailor with his own shop, but a gorger, a non-Romany, and Shunty-Mae’s family had objected vehemently and vocally when their courtship was discovered. The pair had eventually eloped, and faced with a fait accompli, the Romany relatives grudgingly accepted the marriage. Their love for each other was immutable, but their life together a volatile alliance of disparate cultures and traditions.
There was a groan from beneath the rumpled covers of Imelda’s bed, and a long, pointed nose appeared.
“Get up, you lazy hound!”
Two soulful brown eyes and a pair of furry, floppy ears emerged, followed by a wriggling body on gangly legs with a crazily wagging tail. Imelda had found the puppy a few weeks ago, scavenging in the bins along the promenade. He was painfully thin, and his feet were sore and bleeding. But his sorrowful gaze was irresistible, and Imelda was instantly smitten. She took him home. Shunty-Mae had not been happy, but Alexei had been delighted.
“He’s a borzoi!” he had declared. “A fellow Russian!”
“It’s a dog!” Shunty-Mae had objected. “It’s probably got fleas!”
Imelda rarely crossed her mother, but when Shunty-Mae had told her to get rid of the puppy, she had been adamant.
“If he goes—I go with him!”
Shunty-Mae had eventually yielded, fearful of losing her daughter and knowing that this was a battle she would not win. But she attempted to dignify her capitulation by disguising it as oblivion. She refused to acknowledge Dasha’s existence by ignoring him completely. Shunty-Mae had given birth to four sons before her longed-for and only daughter eventually arrived, and it was clear from the start that Imelda had inherited her mother’s independent spirit and stubborn streak. The first word she had spoken was “no.”
Imelda hurried downstairs followed closely by the now-wide-awake puppy, who skittered into the kitchen and immediately sat down at the feet of Alexei, who was frying eggs for Imelda’s breakfast.
“You need a good meal inside you, Melda. It’s a big day.”
Imelda poured herself a mug of tea and sat down at the table.
“Why’s Mum in the vardo?”
Alexi served her two eggs on toast and smiled.
“I told her not to go to the booth today. To let you have your first day as the queen bee in peace.”
Dasha had squeezed underneath the table and was nudging Imelda’s knee with his nose. She slipped him a small piece of toast.
“I take it she didn’t welcome your advice, Papa?”
Alexei sat down opposite her and took a deep draft from his mug of tea.
“She said that I obviously thought she was an ugly, interfering old woman of no more use to anyone, and that next I’d be plotting to have her put in a home, and then I’d run off with some gorger floozy floozie.”
“I said cheap gorger floozy floozie!”
Shunty-Mae was at the back door listening. She walked over to her husband and looped her arms lovingly around his neck before planting a kiss on the top of his head.
“But now I forgive you. If you cook me some eggs.”
Imelda glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was eight o’clock and time for her to leave. She wanted to be at the booth early and savor every moment of her first day of sovereignty. She fed a final piece of toast to Dasha while her mother struggled valiantly not to notice, and then grabbed her bag, coat, and puppy and swept off down the hallway. Madame Burova was on her way!
JEANIE PEERED INTO the mirror and wondered if she could get away with a bit more eyeshadow. For once, she decided not to push it. Her dad would be waiting downstairs to see her to the bus stop, and she didn’t want a row to spoil today. He preferred a more natural look to what he called Jeanie’s “full face of slap,” and he even thought that her skirts should be below the knee! She had eventually resorted to taking her lipstick and eyeliner with her and applying it on the school bus, and rolling up her skirts at the waistband after she’d left the house. Honestly—she was sixteen! But he treated her as though she were still a kid, even though today she was about to become a working woman. She was already planning how to spend her first paycheck after she’d given her dad some rent money. He hadn’t wanted her to pay him anything at all, but she was adamant. For as long as she could remember, it had just been the two of them. He had always looked after her and put her first, and now she wanted to contribute. Maybe he might be able to buy himself something nice for a change. Top of Jeanie’s list were some new nail polish and a Billie Holiday LP. She might not share her dad’s views on fashion, but their taste in music was much more harmonious. Ray had raised his daughter on the greats: Etta James, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, and, of course, Billie Holiday. Jeanie scrabbled through her jewelry box, pulled out a simple gold band on a chain, and fastened it around her neck. It had been her mum’s wedding ring and she wanted to feel that her mum was with her today. For luck.
“Jeanie! What the bleedin’ hell are you doing? Do you want to be late on your first day?”
“All right, all right! Keep your hair on, Ernie. What’s left of it!”
What was left of her dad’s hair was hidden under the peak cap of his uniform as he waited impatiently for his daughter at the foot of the stairs. Ray Rogers had been delivering milk for more than ten years, and he loved his job. But since Benny Hill had topped the charts with his song about the hapless milkman, “Ernie,” Jeanie had not been the only one to rib him mercilessly. He clipped her playfully around the ear as she galloped down the stairs and gave him a twirl.
“How do I look?”
Ray shook his head and smiled wistfully. She was the image of her mother at the age when she and Ray had begun courting. “Where’s my little girl gone? You look lovely. And very grown up. Your mum would’ve been proud of you.”
It was exactly what Jeanie needed to hear. Although she would never have admitted it, her excitement was matched by apprehension. It was her first day working as a clerk at a swanky private secretarial college in town—earning her own money and making her own way in the world. Jeanie had big dreams, and this was where they began. Ray gave her a tight hug and a peck on the cheek. “Come along, sweetheart. I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”
“DIDN’T YOU LOOK in the mirror when you got dressed this morning?” Ruby Campbell raised her eyebrows at her eleven-year-old son before pulling him toward her by the lapels of his blazer and releasing him so that she could straighten his crooked tie.
“There! Don’t you look smart? Randall—look at your boy.”
Her husband raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading and grinned.
“He looks like a proper young man. And handsome too—just like his daddy.”
Their son was, in fact, a perfect blend of his parents’ genes. His blond-haired, blue-eyed mother and Jamaican father had produced a striking child with eyes the color of aquamarines. But his good looks had done him no favors with his classmates, and as a new term in a new school threatened, Treasure was wary. He smiled obligingly at his dad, but Ruby saw the doubt in her son’s eyes, and the knot in her stomach that she had been trying to ignore since she woke that morning twisted and tightened just a fraction more. Treasure was a tough little boy—small and wiry, and fast as a hare. But Ruby knew that for him life was not always easy. She remembered the NO BLACKSsigns in the windows of the flats that she and Randall had seen when they were hunting for their first home, and the casually cruel insults they had endured simply for being together and holding hands in public. Treasure wasn’t black, but he wasn’t white enough either. She watched him struggle with a few spoonfuls of cornflakes before pushing his bowl to one side. Ruby wished there was something she could say or do to protect him from the bullies and the bigots, but she knew that he would have to fight his own battles and forge his own armor with whatever resources he could muster. Growing up was hard for anyone, but for kids like Treasure it was always harder.
Randall folded up his newspaper and pushed back his chair from the table.
“What’s in my lunch box today, darling wife?”
Ruby laughed. “The same as usual: corned beef and tomato. The only thing you’ll eat in your sandwiches.”
“Why should I have anything different when I found the perfect filling? Delicious, nutritious, and fulfilling all my wishes!” Randall traded a loving kiss on his wife’s cheek for his packed lunch, and on his way out of the kitchen placed both hands on Treasure’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.
“Good luck, son. Have pride in yourself and you’ll be fine.”
Half an hour later, Treasure stood outside his new school. His stomach churned and his heart beat so hard that he could hear its frantic rhythm pounding in his head. Swept along by the mob of noisy children streaming through the gates, he had never felt so alone.
MADAME BUROVA STOOD in the doorway of her booth and closed her eyes. The sound of waves and swooping gulls and the chatter of passersby washed over her. The late-afternoon sun warmed her face and a salty breeze ruffled her hair. Dasha stood beside her, his black nose twitching and his feet fidgeting—eager for a run. It had been a good day, and the cash box was almost full. A coach party of Women’s Institute ladies on a day trip had kept her busy for a couple of hours, and passing trade had been brisk. When she nipped to the café next door at lunchtime to pick up a coffee and a cheese roll, she had pretended not to notice Shunty-Mae wandering along the promenade with studied nonchalance. She hoped that her mother had seen the queue of customers waiting patiently for readings outside the booth. The crowds were thinning now. Children were making their way home from school, and the owners of shops and cafés were pulling down their shutters. Imelda fetched her coat and bag and clipped Dasha’s lead to his collar before he dragged her outside, heading for the beach. She reined him back just long enough to close the door to her own little kingdom behind them and turn the key in the lock. It had been a good day.
1972
I want you to tell her to stop hiding my baccy!”
Ernest Plumb was one of Imelda’s regulars. He was a short, stocky man with a bellicose air, who trailed a pungent whiff of mothballs and pipe smoke in his wake. Since his wife, Joan, had died, he had come to see her every few weeks to continue the constant bickering that had been the mainstay of their forty-two-year marriage. Imelda had tried explaining to Ernest that spiritual readings weren’t like telephone conversations. She couldn’t simply dial dead people and have a chat at will. Joan was no more cooperative in death than she had been in life. She only came through when it suited her, but today she did have something to say and Imelda struggled to suppress a grin.
“Joan says that she’ll stop hiding your stinking tobacco when you stop living like a filthy pig and wash the net curtains at the sitting room window. And she wants you to stop smoking your pipe in the house. She says that’s what your bloody shed is for.”
“It’s not like he uses it for anything else,” Joan grumbled. Imelda could see her standing behind Ernest with her hands on her hips. “He’s no gardener—he wouldn’t know a daff from a dandelion. And as for DIY—he’s never so much as changed a light bulb. And he needn’t think I didn’t know about those mucky magazines he kept in there. Health and Efficiency my—”
“Perhaps if you just gave the curtains a quick wash and opened the window when you lit your pipe?” Imelda’s suggested compromise was not well received by either party.
“Those nets need a damn good boil wash, and when I say outside, I mean outside!” Joan was not to be swayed.
“I won’t be dictated to by a dead woman! It’s my house and I’ll smoke where I like.”
Imelda was pretty sure that he wouldn’t. Not if he wanted a quiet life.
Once Ernest had paid and left (and promised to return in a couple of weeks), Dasha leapt from the blanket where he had been snoozing, hoping for a walk. Imelda opened the door a crack and peered out. It was raining heavily, and on the distant horizon the sky and sea were almost indistinguishable from each other. Dasha tentatively poked his nose outside, only to have it battered by a barrage of raindrops. He swiftly retreated to his blanket, where he lay down with an exaggerated sigh. Imelda followed him and knelt beside him. He had been her constant companion since she had rescued him from a life on the streets, and never before had she loved a living creature so easily and utterly. She took his head in her hands and kissed his wet nose.
“Never mind, my boy. We’ll go later. How about I fetch you a sausage roll from the café?”
Dasha gently wagged his tail. Maybe the rain wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
NEXT DOOR TO Imelda’s booth, the café was heaving with both regular customers and day-trippers taking shelter from the inclement weather. The holiday season was over now, but coach trips and tourists kept coming for most of the year. The café was owned and run by Ruby Campbell’s sister and brother-in-law, Diamond and Jack, and Ruby was sitting at the counter drinking coffee and sharing the gossip from Larkins Holiday Park, where she worked as assistant to the newly appointed general manager.
“It seems like a daft time to appoint a new manager right at the end of the season,” said Jack as he drained some more chips from the fryer.
“The whole park’s being given a revamp, and Marty has been brought in to oversee the work.”
“Ooh, it’s Marty now is it? That’s a bit familiar,” Diamond teased her sister.
Ruby was excited by the changes. The holiday camp had grown tired and shabby, and guest numbers had dwindled over the past few years. Marty had ambitious ideas, including plans for a whole new program of entertainment. He had already booked a Wall of Death stunt motorcyclist for next season and had asked Ruby to help him seek out other new acts. She was both flattered and proud that she had been given more responsibility.
“I’ve found three sisters who do a mermaid act,” she told Diamond. “They perform synchronized swimming to music in an aquarium, and their costumes are gorgeous!”
Jack could barely contain himself. “Shame there’s not four of them. They could call themselves Diana Bass and the Sardines!”
Diamond threw a tea towel at him, but he wasn’t finished yet. “Maybe I should offer my services. My Tom Jones impersonation is legendary. Our Gareth says I could moonlight as a professional doppelgänger!” he said, swiveling his hips.
“Your Tom Jones impersonation is only legendary for sounding nothing like him and our son is as tone deaf as you are!” countered his wife as she took two plates of eggs and chips from him and served them to one of the tables.
“There is someone in the family who can sing, though.” Diamond returned with a stack of empty plates and passed them over the counter to Jack, along with a chit for a new order of two bacon rolls and a pot of tea. “Jeanie’s got a lovely voice and she looks more like her mum every day.” Jeanie was their niece and the daughter of their late sister, Emerald. “She’s doing ever so well at her new job, according to her dad. Not sure how long she’ll stick it, though. She’s a live wire that one, and the secretarial college sounds a bit dull if you ask me.”
Ruby checked her watch and drained her coffee cup. Her lunch break was almost over. Diamond handed her a large slice of chocolate cake in a paper bag. “Here. Take this to have with your afternoon tea.” She winked cheekily at her sister. “You can share it with Marty!”
Ruby took the cake from Diamond, but she wasn’t going to eat it. She would save it to give to Treasure when he came home from school. He hadn’t said anything to her, but then he didn’t need to. She was his mother. She knew that something was wrong.
The bell above the door rang and Jack waved at the young woman who rushed in from the rain.
“Now this is exactly who you need to keep your guests entertained at Larkins!” he told Ruby. “Let me introduce you to the amazing Madame Burova—tarot reader, palmist, and clairvoyant!"
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