by Mavis Cheek
Hilary rang to say that at last she had full and final confirmation that the carving of the stone was no earlier than the very late 1590s – probably 1598 or 99 and definitely not before that date. The Calligraphy and Wordiform Society made a very thorough job of the research and they could say, absolutely firmly, that they were right. They had no idea why it was carved beyond the fact that it had all the hallmarks of a datestone to mark a death. And they, too, confirmed that the carved devices were those of the Duchy of Cleves.
‘Which we knew anyway,’ said Flora, half to herself. So there was no respite from the mystery after all. The stone was placed there forty years after Anna’s death but with the date 1557.
‘They also confirmed that it’s an expensive job. Classy. So it was done by someone of rank. Or at least, someone with money and a knowledge of the arts, and Italian art in particular.’
‘Well, thanks, Hilary, that’s confirmed that the date is still a difficulty anyway. Now to try to find out why. I’ve drawn a complete blank so far.’
‘I’d keep reading your way through Dad’s stuff,’ said Hilary with complete confidence. ‘I’m sure he will have found the reason for its being there . . .’
‘Mmm,’ said Flora a little queasily. ‘Possibly.’ ‘Oh certainly,’ said Hilary, and rang off.
That afternoon she sat in the garden looking out over the sunny paddock and sipped her tea and ruminated on what she knew. And largely that was negative. Hardly anyone who knew Anna in her lifetime in England would be alive forty years on, unless they were a child when she arrived. Something bounced around in Flora’s head – to do with Henry’s daughters. Mary had buried Anna with all due pomp and her tomb was still there in its position of honour by the high altar at Westminster Abbey. Grand enough. But that was on her death in 1557 – so what was the connection with something happening so much later? Elizabeth was on the throne by then – and she probably would have a memory of Anna – but why would she do such a thing? Elizabeth was old then, very old. Something must fit but for the life of her Flora could not think what. More reading was required. She settled herself with a book about the last years of Elizabeth’s reign. There might be something in there to stir the feeble brain cells.
Later, her reading having tailed off in the balmy air and golden light, Flora rang Ewan at his office, judging that he would soon be leaving, and suggested that he call in to Lodge Cottage on the way home.
‘Hilary has had the carving properly dated,’ she said. ‘And I’m no further forward in knowing why it’s there. Come and see if you can throw any light on the mystery.’ It was as good an excuse as any. And flattering, of course.
Even before he stepped over the threshold Flora was offering him some elderflower cordial, several times and very loudly, so loudly that he actually winced. Women, he felt, could invade you from all sorts of angles with the most simple of enquiries about drinks when they put their minds to it. He was still astonished about the silver flask. Women had such small livers, after all. Apart, it seemed, from Dilly.
‘What I could actually do with,’ he said, as he sat down in the garden in the shade of the old stone wall, ‘is a cup of tea. Cora Prout seems to have something against leaving a tea-bag in for longer than it takes to take it out again. I mean, I know I’m careful about stimulants but I don’t mind the odd shot of caffeine.’
Flora made it strong enough to stand a spoon up. She was beginning to make a list of things that Ewan liked and a strong cup of tea was now included. How manly. How ordinary.
‘I continue to thank you for that yellow sweater, by the way.
Very nice and bright. Cheers me up.’
‘I thought it matched those startling trousers of yours.’
‘Oh really?’ He laughed. ‘Does it?’ He laughed again. ‘Did you make . . .?’
‘It’s handknitted,’ said Flora. Equivocation was easy if you were plain – people expected you to be truthful.
‘You’re a woman of many talents, then, Flora.’ There was a certain amused air of admiration about the statement. She put aside the uncomfortable idea of taking pleasure in being complimented on knitting of all things, and the even more uncomfortable idea that she couldn’t actually knit, and smiled in a curtsying sort of way.
‘Actually,’ she said, truth being sensible wherever possible, ‘I’m much better at sewing and embroidery.’
‘And you still won’t join The Players?’
‘I’ll get this history project finished first. Then let’s see.’
‘At least,’ he said, ‘I’ve given Pauline Pike her marching orders. Or rather Giles, as membership secretary will do so, at my suggestion. Very odd. He seemed ecstatic at the thought of telling her himself. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I’ll do it and glad to,” he said. So if you do join you won’t find her there to embarrass you.’
Loyalty. How precious it was. Maybe more precious than love?
Flora breathed out. ‘Good of Giles. And you. Thank you,’ she said, and because she could not help herself for the sheer wickedness of it she said, testing him, ‘I think she drinks, Pauline. Do you?’
He was still a solicitor and at first he did not rise. She waited. Eventually he said quietly, ‘You might be right.’ Which told her all she wanted to know.
They both sipped their tea. ‘Edward and Giles liked a drink.’ ‘Did they?’ Ewan looked anxious.
‘Well – Edward liked good wine – he and Giles enjoyed showing off about it and they sometimes drank too much together – but not drink, drink – not like –’
But if he was going to open up with her, it was not today. ‘That’s a bit different,’ he said, and looked at the very interesting ground as if it might yield up the secret history.
She kindly changed the subject.
He looked up from the very interesting ground gratefully. ‘Now about this stone,’ she said firmly. ‘Two things interest me about the carving. One, obviously, is the date – which is definitely anachronistic.’ Good to use the right word. She’d been calling it an anomaly until Hilary corrected her.
Ewan pursed his lips and nodded and looked very ponderous. ‘So it’s definitely an anomaly then?’ he said. Which made her laugh and him look perplexed. The path to ruin was not a smooth one.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t laughing at you only – oh well – it doesn’t matter – let’s say it’s an – um – anachronistic anomaly.’ They both looked at each other and went ‘Hmm’.
Flora longed to say – Your turn: It’s an anachronistic anomaly and acutely anticipatory. Edward usually pulled a face if she tried anything of a witty or jocular nature and – to cite a rather tasteless cliché in the circumstances – her attempts to amuse her husband usually went down like a lead balloon.
‘I do know that the date on it is the date of Anna’s death – 1557 – she was only forty – but why the style of carving is a good few decades on from that hasn’t been answered by anyone. There must be an answer somewhere, mustn’t there?’
‘Ah yes,’ nodded Ewan, only half listening. ‘How nice.’
Is it? thought Flora. But he looked so content that she hadn’t the heart to go on trying to be intelligent about stones or dates or anything at all. Maybe she did not need to impress him. Maybe a friendly welcome was enough. If this was the way to a man’s heart and his other bits, she thought, bring it on.
He sipped his tea. ‘There is something very pleasant about coming here,’ he said. ‘Very peaceful – no tensions.’
Which implied that there was no peace and much tension at Little Beeches. Suddenly she hoped he wouldn’t say any more. Despite this being the right moment for him to shuffle his chair a bit nearer to hers and say that his wife did not understand him, Flora hoped he wouldn’t. If he did, she knew that, even though she would try to avoid it, he would sink in her estimation. Loyalty was something she always longed for and never got from Edward and she always admired it.
‘I sometimes feel quite useless at home,’ he said to his
teacup. And then he smiled at her with sad resignation. ‘I probably am.’
‘It’s peaceful here without Edward, that’s for sure,’ she said, half amused.
‘Oh Flora,’ he said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
There was the moment. All Flora had to do was lean across and place one of her hands on his, tell him that she understood and pucker up. And she might have done so – indeed – her hand began to twitch in her lap – when he said suddenly, out of nowhere, and quite jovially, ‘Well, well – mysterious even from the grave this Flanders Mare, then.’
Grit teeth, no use taking umbrage again, better fight Anna’s corner. ‘She was actually rather beautiful, I think.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’ He laughed. ‘Ah,’ said Flora, ‘you just wait and see.’
More tea was drunk, more talk of the village and other local news was exchanged and the afternoon began to slide into evening.
‘We ought to go if we’re going,’ said Flora. ‘Before it gets too dark . . .’
They both looked out over the old paddock to the part of the wall that was visible beyond. The sun had turned it pink and gold. ‘I like to think it looked just the same in Anna’s time,’ said Flora.
‘You’re a romantic,’ he said, but kindly. ‘Now take me to this famous stone.’ And they set off.
A romantic. It was the nicest thing he could have said.
The meadow grass was uncut and high, and full of celandines, greater and lesser, poppies, clover and daisies. Their feet made a shushing noise as they walked side by side. Flora had a longing to slip her hand through the crook of his arm, or take his hand in hers, but she managed to control it. All those years ago on that cycle ride to Hever she had mistaken the situation and forced the issue and look where it got her married and widowed and never really being loved and just putting up with it because even that was more than she might expect with a bun for a face. So she kept her hands firmly by her sides but hoped that he might suddenly turn and clasp one or both – of hers – and make a declaration. Oh dear, she was a romantic all right. Too many Victorian novels. They walked on and he did not clasp anything.
‘The paddock looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you could keep it after all.’
‘Thanks to you.’
When they reached the part of the wall and the stone Ewan took off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket and bending low he began running his hands over each section of wall, each string of uneven stonework. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Weathered and coloured and softened by time.’
Flora copied him – the stones felt warm to the touch – oddly comforting. Weathered and coloured and softened by time – he could have been describing her, really. She wished, at that precise moment, that she was a course of weathered old stones that had his hands roving so affectionately over her knobbly bits. In any case she was smiling and could not stop. Well, if he didn’t like the way she looked when she smiled, too bad. ‘Yes, they are.’ She said. ‘Nice to think some old things can be called beautiful.’
He laughed too.
She knelt down – a little gingerly – next to him and pointed to the stone. ‘It’s here. See the carved figures – 1557 and the initials A and C intertwined and her swan below the ducal coronet of Cleves. There’s been some fancy carving, too, but most of it has been covered up or worn away.’
‘Marble,’ said Ewan. ‘Lovely veining.’ It was a relief for Flora to stop crawling – the knees were now hinting at strike action – and Flora was grateful for the lovely veining which kept them in one place for at least half a minute of knee recovery time. ‘Very odd place to put it isn’t it?’ she said eventually, with just a hint of reproach. ‘Right down low. Just above knee level. That’s the other mystery. Why put it there?’
Ewan stared at it for a moment or two. Then he nodded. ‘It occurs to me,’ he said, ‘that when Dilly and I went to Egypt –’
‘Oh when was that?’
‘For our honeymoon,’ he said, very curtly. ‘Or part thereof.’ He might have added, from the tone of his voice, and that’s an end of it.
Flora thought that Ewan knew how to stop being ordinary when it counted. Egypt for a honeymoon. How wonderful. An image of rain and the Isle of Wight swam into her mind – and was swiftly let out again by the back door.
‘What about Egypt and this wall, then?’ she asked, as matter-of-factly as she could.
His good-natured smile returned. ‘When we were going round some of the ancient places the guides pointed out that though the walls looked as if they were only a few feet high, they were originally much higher – much, much higher – and a lot of their original structure had been covered up by time or by other buildings or by making way for other buildings. In the same way, this wall must have been considerably higher when it was originally built.’
Suddenly Flora remembered Anna’s letter to Henry citing ‘the fruition of your noble presence which I shall esteem for a great benefit . . .’ There was a lesson there. So she clasped her hands and said, ‘Oh how clever of you. Of course. That will be it. The stone would have been higher once. You are wonderful.’
Ewan looked pleased.
Well, she did think it was clever.
Now he was running his hands over the surrounding stones and nodding. ‘Look,’ he said.
She looked.
‘See the curve.’ She saw the curve. ‘It’s been a lodestone.’
She nodded. ‘So it has.’
He smiled. ‘Do you know what a lodestone is?’
She smiled back. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ she said contentedly. He kindly explained.
There, bent low, bathed in pink and gold light, quite hidden by the line of hawthorns and elder, she was given a little lesson in stresses and strains whilst struggling as best she could with her own kneewards version of them. It was intimate and friendly and very, very secret where they were. She shuffled a bit nearer on her knees but the knees were no soldiers of Valentine and objected quite unpleasantly – nevertheless she persisted for it crossed her mind that one day, and not too far off, there would be no more contemplation of a leg-up, or over, or whatever the terminology was because she just wouldn’t be able to – get a leg up, or over – she’d be too old and dilapidated. She might never get a chance to be in such a position, albeit an uncomfortable one, with him again – why, they could be doing anything hidden away here and no one would know . . . But just as she took her courage in both knees and moved towards him – he stood up – tie trailing from pocket like a schoolboy. ‘This is a very beautiful old wall,’ he said. And proceeded to creep along the length of it and round its right angle, pulling at the tussocky grass and peering hopefully as each course of stones was revealed.
Flora followed as best she could. He’s going at a lick for someone of his age, she thought irritably. Flora was getting very concerned now about the way her own joints were reacting to this enforced bending, the ankles weren’t doing too well either. If she didn’t stand up soon she might have to be helped, which would hardly be a sensual moment of delight between the two of them. She shuffled along a little further trying to concentrate on easing herself into a more comfortable position when he stopped. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘It must once have been the top of a gateway. Look at the way these stones are laid.’
‘Well that’s marvellous,’ she said, and stood up, hiding the creakings and her little gasp of relief with ‘Brilliant, Holmes. But how does that help us with the dates?’
They both peered at the span of stones. ‘It doesn’t exactly,’ he said. ‘But it means that the date of her death was built into the old manor at some point and for some reason and in a place of some importance – where it would be seen. It would not have been cheap to do – not a whole new door or gateway.’ Flora nodded. ‘There’s nothing in the records of the place that I can find – nor was anything found out by Joe Farrell or
Edward.’
‘Well – it won’t necessarily be registered anywhere. But there were bo
und to be other changes and improvements over the years – as it passed from hand to hand. I know all about that from conveyancing. Expansions, retractions, new boundaries, settlement . . . Not all of which will be noted – as I know to my clients’ cost sometimes . . .’
‘At least I’ll know what I’m looking for now. A new gateway. Built –’ She considered for a moment. ‘Built – according to the dating of the carvings – when Elizabeth was on the throne – just before she died, in fact. Well – that’s a good enough bit of detective work to start with. And it calls for a celebration.’
Elizabeth again. Her head was buzzing with all the new information. ‘How about another cup of tea?’
Ewan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, and undid another button of his shirt. It was a warm evening. Perfect, in fact, for anything. And back through the deepening light of evening they went. Dilly was not mentioned but as they arrived at the back of the house Flora’s telephone was beeping away. Ewan patted the empty pocket of his jacket, tutted, and then looked at his watch. He made an odd swallowing sound. It was past seven o’clock. ‘I’ve left my phone at the office,’ he said, surprised.
‘Where did the time go?’ He looked at Flora as if she might have the answer and it was to her credit that she did not say how it flew when you were having fun.
‘That’ll be Hilary,’ she said as she put the kettle on. ‘I’ll call her back. She’s so interested in all this.’
He looked relieved. Flora checked the number. It was the Beeches. Oh, have another gin, she thought crossly, and pressed the wipe button.
She felt so pleased with it all that Flora took courage and decided to have a glass of wine instead of tea. ‘I hope you don’t think it’s too early,’ she said cheerfully. At least her knees had settled down again. Age was creeping and she just wasn’t ready for it. She had read recently that red wine could be bad for joints – it was among the pointers to better health in one of those leaflets that make you feel quite ill while waiting at the doctor’s surgery. It seemed that red wine was extremely good for the heart – which was really unfair since there was nothing wrong with hers. Red wine and knees and heightened arthritic acidity – was this all that loomed ahead in her empty nest? Or might she be standing at the threshold of the beginning of a whole new way of life? She turned to say something – anything that might tempt him to look at her stall. It was on the tip of her tongue – and then Ewan said, ‘And how is Hilary?’And it was gone.