by Liz Berry
Chapter 13
“Do you fancy a day out tomorrow?” Frances asked that evening.“I need some nursing supplies, and Sarah McKinnon left prescriptions for Mr Aylward.”
“Where would I go?” asked Clare, surprised.
“Well, there are buses to Wells and Bath, but if you want to go further, there’s a special bus from the village tomorrow to Salisbury for market-day. You’d like Salisbury, it’s an interesting city.”
“All right,” said Clare, without enthusiasm.
She had been intending to help Mai in the China Garden, and she felt cool towards her mother, and disinclined to help. They had hardly spoken to each other over the evening meal. Clare was finding it difficult to forgive Frances for not telling her the truth about her name. She felt uncomfortable with her too. It was as though her mother had turned into a stranger, with whole areas of her life and experience a mystery.
But for Mr Aylward she was prepared to put herself out quite considerably. It surprised her that she liked him so much. Despite their differences and his autocratic manner she wanted to talk to him again.
The next day there were four women waiting to board the Salisbury bus outside the Sun and Moon Inn. They greeted Clare politely, and said what a fine day it promised to be when the morning heat mist lifted:
She was uneasily aware that there was a strange note in their voices—respect, reverence almost, and when the bus came she went quickly to the back seat and looked out of the window.
It was a long and interesting drive. The bus threaded the narrow lanes and wound in and out of villages and small towns, picking up cheerful, chattering shoppers.
The bustle and crowded liveliness of Salisbury’s market-day came as a shock to her after the tranquility of Ravensmere. Clare grimaced. She had always thought of herself as a big city girl, but only a few days at Ravensmere had turned her into a hayseed.
“Four o’clock return, ladies,” said the bus driver.“Not a moment later. I’m off sharp, remember. Last bus back, four o’clock.”
She saw the chemist almost at once, and handed in the medical prescriptions with her mother’s list of urgently required nursing supplies and they promised to have them ready for her to collect after lunch.
The market-place was alive with traders and stalls, and Clare wandered around the shops, enjoying the timbered fronts leaning over the pavements, the narrow alleys full of ancient shops stocked with modern goods.
She tried on a pair of spectacular jeans which fitted her like a dream. But every penny she had saved from her Saturday job at the bakers was needed for university. Besides, she didn’t wear jeans now, did she? Adrian didn’t like them. He thought she should sharpen up her image as a future businesswoman with smart dark suits.
She looked at herself in the mirror wistfully. The jeans felt so comfortable and free after her tight skirt, and Adrian wasn’t here anyway. Now that she was away from him she realized that she had often felt uneasy about his opinions. She was fed up with his sulkiness, and having her own ideas derided and dismissed. There was nothing to stop her deciding for herself now. She could be herself. She wouldn’t be seeing Adrian again. If he wrote to her she wouldn’t answer.“I’ll take them,” she said to the assistant.
“They look good on you. Long legs. They’re a good buy.”
“I’ll keep them on,” said Clare,“But could you give me a bag for my skirt?”
She sauntered out of the shop and caught a glimpse of herself in another shop window with satisfaction. She looked good and felt free and alive. No more being pushed around like a timid mouse, because she was afraid he would dump her. She was the one doing the dumping, and never again would she allow any boy to tell her what to think and what to do, no matter how good looking and popular he was.
Down a narrow street under an ancient town gate Clare-discovered a sign which said ‘Museum’. It was irresistible. As a history buff—her best friend said history nut—she had always loved museums.
She followed the path, staring at the splendid old mansions surrounding the Close until she became conscious of something behind her and turning, lost her breath. Across the grass was the gigantic cathedral, with its towering spire like a spaceship rearing up into the space above it. She stared at it disbelievingly. She had forgotten that Salisbury had a cathedral. There it was, just like the print of the Constable painting on the school library wall. But in real life it was so much bigger and higher and grander, almost frightening.
Inside it seemed empty and vast, the space spreading and soaring upwards. Her eyes were drawn higher and higher. Incredible to think that this place had been built nearly eight hundred years ago, without any of the modern building technology, all the stones cut by hand, carved and built up piece by piece. The sun shone through the great window, pooling the floor with coloured light. She felt surrounded by the space, ever expanding space, and she was a tiny atom, not separate, but part of a whole, a glistening three-dimensional web, full of movement and energy.
She closed her eyes and was suddenly moving upwards, flowing in a silvery substance, not air, not water, but something between the two. She felt the movement, the slow turn of herself in the air, like a dance. She opened her eyes and saw her body far below, tiny, with a woman in a scarlet jacket coming across the floor to stand next to her. Panic swept over her and the next instant she was in her body again, standing on the stone floor and the woman in the scarlet jacket was smiling at her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Speechless, Clare nodded.
“Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.”
“Giddy,” Clare croaked.“Think I’d better get some fresh air.” She walked away stiffly, gratefully feeling the strength coming back into her wobbly knees.
Outside she gulped in the clear air, with its hint of flowers and grass cuttings, and almost in a trance she crossed the green, and found the museum opposite in another old mansion, the King’s House.
Salisbury Museum was just the sort Clare enjoyed most, full of everyday things that people had made and used. As she wandered around the galleries, smiling at the pageant figure of the Salisbury Giant and his companion, a huge cross-looking chicken-like creature called Hob Nob, admiring the costumes, and staring at the stuffed Great Bustards, she began to come to terms with what had happened to her in the cathedral.
If Dr McKinnon was right she must begin to expect these strange happenings. They were uncomfortable, but they didn’t actually harm her, did they? In a way they were even interesting.
She found she was looking at a display of archaeological exhibits, the Pitt Rivers Collection. Where had she heard that name recently? Obediently her mind clicked up the information. Mr Aylward’s grandfather who had written the ten volumes, had been a friend of General Pitt Rivers.
The wooden painted models of excavations done throughout Wessex fascinated her.
On an impulse, Clare asked the attendant about the excavation at Ravensmere.
“In the other gallery. Try in the corner.”
It was there with its photographs and details. ‘Barrow Beacon Hill Excavation, Long Barrow, 1895’, Clare read avidly, amused at the pictures of Victorian gentlemen in their shirt sleeves and waistcoats and long moustaches, staring sternly at the camera from a deep trench of gleaming mud.
The caption said, ‘Lieutenant-General Pitt Rivers with Eldon Edgar Aylward, Sixteenth Earl of Ravensmere, Site Foreman Silas Kenward and estate workers’.
Two of the five burial chambers in the long barrow had been excavated for the first time, revealing seven burials with grave goods, including pottery of a hitherto unknown kind, and astonishingly a large goblet finely carved from quartz crystal, an object which could not possibly have been made by people living at that period. The Earl had then stopped the excavation.
“Inclement weather,” said the letter in the glass case. But the dig never started again. The site had been filled in and despite the General’s appeals, it had never been re-opened. The pottery and the
goblet had been retained in the Earl’s private collection, said the display label.
They might be somewhere in the Etruscan Gallery, thought Clare. She would ask about them. Why had the Earl stopped the dig? Was the quartz crystal goblet the famous Benison?
Clare looked at the carved wooden model again, and saw to her surprise that Ravensmere itself was not shown. According to this model, the House didn’t even exist! Somewhere a clock chimed musically. Clare looked at her watch. If she hurried she just had time to grab a coffee and a bun before she picked up the supplies at the chemist and caught the bus home.
But back in the town centre a small second-hand bookshop tucked away in a narrow street tempted her. She picked out a couple of romantic paperbacks from the box outside—she was entitled to a little fun reading after all that studying. Adrian had jeered at her reading romances. In a dusty corner upstairs she came across a very old dog-eared pamphlet, An Account of a Visit to the Pleasure Gardens of Ravensmere, lately completed by Edmund Aylward, Eleventh Earl of Ravensmere, which the owner sold to her for a pound.
Three doors away Clare found a café. It was small, with a dirty window and a smeared board outside. She looked at her watch again. It was too late to look for somewhere else. The place was empty, and at least she would be served quickly.
The hostile girl behind the counter gave her a cup of scalding, near-black coffee and a piece of wrapped fruitcake, and Clare took them to a table in the corner by the window.
The cake was stale. But even this was not enough to dent Clare’s feeling of cheerful well-being as she sat staring out of the window. It was a long time since she’d enjoyed a day as much, even though she had been on her own. Perhaps it was because she was alone, with no critical Adrian following her around. She could just imagine him looking at the cathedral and saying loftily,“Well, of course, it’s not bad—if you haven’t seen Rheims or Chartres that is...” Grinning, she wondered what he would say about her recent psychic experiences, and realized that a heavy weight had gone from her life. It had all been a mistake. She could admit that now.
The door swung back, bashed against the wall, and five huge bikers boiled into the cafe, a frightening mass of black leather and silver studs. They were laughing and shouting at the girl for cans of Coke and hamburgers.
Clare slid down in her seat, her heart jerking unpleasantly, annoyed with herself. Of all the cafés in Salisbury, why on earth had she picked a bikers’ hang out? She quickly swallowed her piece of cake and pushed the coffee away. She would get out now, before they noticed her and started something.
It was too late. Even as she reached for her carrier bag, they spread themselves over the surrounding tables, penning her into her corner.
“Well, well, see who I’ve found.”
Clare’s heart sank. She looked around for help, but the girl behind the counter was giggling and being chatted-up by the bikers’ leader, and wouldn’t help anyway.
She pretended to look out of the window. Perhaps if she ignored them they might find something else to interest them, but the next moment one of them leaned across her line of vision and said in a posh falsetto,“Excuse me, darling. Can you tell me the time?” and started to laugh like a maniac.
Clare was forced to look round. They were all staring at her, grinning. She stood up.“Excuse me, I’ve got to catch a bus.”
“You’re a long way from home, darling,” he said and stretched one leg across the space between the tables, blocking her exit. He was a burly youth, with a red face, a button nose and a thatch of tow-coloured hair.
“There you are, Pete, I told you it was her,” said one of the others. He was the shortest, with a sharp nose and too-close eyes.
“I said I’ve got to get a bus. Are you going to let me pass?” Clare said tersely.
But Pete didn’t move. He just continued to stare at her, mocking and grinning. A wave of anger flowed over Clare. She tried to step over his leg and then tripped as he moved his other foot swiftly to curl round her ankle. He caught her shoulder and tipped her back into her chair.
“Careful, darling. You’re not leaving us already? Not without saying hello.”
“Don’t want to know us peasants,” sneered the foxy-faced one.“Stuck up.”
“What are you on about?” Clare said, furiously.“I’ve got to catch the bus. And I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you be ...” Her voice died away. It wasn’t true. She had seen them before. Yesterday. Through the Third Moon Gate. She could feel her hands trembling.
“You know my gran,” said Pete.“Mrs Anscomb up at the House. We’re all from Stoke Raven. That’s Foxy. That’s Zonk, because that’s what he says all the time—`I’m zonked out’—and that’s Blackhead. You can see why. And,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to his leader at the counter,“That’s Mark. Mark the Bastard, because that’s what he is.” He raised his voice,“Hey, Mark, look who I found.”
Their leader finished his conversation and sauntered casually over to their table. He was very tall, well over six feet, with wide, powerful shoulders, and dark hair nearly touching his shoulders.
There was a pause. A tense silence. Clare lifted her head slowly, reluctantly, and looked into the darkest, coldest eyes she had ever seen. Except that now she could see they were a dark emerald, and they weren’t cold, but glowing with a darker fire, burning like ice.
Her first thought was relief that the figure on the hill had not been a ghost after all. And then the deeper recognition came. She knew him. She had an age-long, bone-deep knowledge of him. She had never spoken to him before, but she knew the way he thought, his impatience, his recklessness, his humour, his courage, and that dark, secret, closed part of him.
And physically she knew him too. The way his hair grew round his ears, the shape of his long hands, his great strength and energy. She had lain in his arms and felt the imprint of his body on hers.
The blush flooded scalding up her neck into her face.“What’s your name?” His voice was unexpected. Clear, deep, a beautiful voice.
She said, reluctantly, half-hypnotized,“Clare.”
“Clare? What’s your other name?”
“Clare Meredith, if it’s any business of yours.” The blush had begun to fade.
“No second name? Like Rosie, for instance?”
She stared into his eyes, startled, then after a moment she said, firmly,“No second name.” And knew he knew she was lying. She got up and found herself too close to him.
He continued to stare deep into her eyes, not letting her look away. He said, so softly she could hardly hear,“Hello, Rosie. You took your time getting here.”
She swallowed.“I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled, slowly, allowing his eyes to move over her face, down her neck to her breasts.
Clare said, huskily.“I’ve got to go. I’ve got to pick up something from the chemist.”
He stroked his knuckle gently down the side of her face, and touched her bottom lip lightly with his thumb. Clare felt the whole of her body react.
“You haven’t drunk your coffee.” His voice sounded slurred, drugged.
“No ... It’s too strong.”
Without looking around he said to the girl behind the counter,“Give her another coffee. More milk.”
Clare said, desperately,“No! I mean, no thanks. Honestly, it’s all right. I don’t want any more. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get something. I’ve got to catch the bus...”
He moved his head slowly from side to side, pulling down the corners of his mouth, mournfully mocking.“Nowhere to run now, Rosie.”
“But it’s the last one. Besides, I’ve got to ...”
They were all shaking their heads now, solemnly, trying not to laugh.
“You’ve missed the bus, darling,” said Pete, and Mark held his wrist-watch under her nose. The bus had gone five minutes ago.
“Oh no, what’ll I do?” She was dismayed and then furious with them. They had delayed her deliberately.
&nbs
p; “I’ll give you a ride on my bike, of course. I’ll take you back to Ravensmere.”
The idea appalled her.“Oh ... no. No thanks.” She backed towards the door, desperate to get away from him, desperate to get herself under some sort of control and back to normal.“I’ll make my own way home. Thanks for the offer.” She felt shaky and unreal. In the space of a few minutes her whole life had been turned inside out.
“Not very friendly, is she?” said Foxy.
“Miss Black Ice,” sneered Zonk.
“Trouble is, Mark, she don’t like you,” Pete said, judicially.“You’d rather come along with me, darling, wouldn’t you? You don’t want to truck with Mark the Bastard.”
Clare glanced quickly at Mark, and saw his eyes narrow. He went on smiling, but his eyes glittered dangerously. He said mildly,“The name is Winters.”
“Don’t trust him,” Pete said confidentially.“He’s a Bad Man. Come on darling, I’ll give you a good time.”
“She don’t like you, Mark,” said Foxy.
“She’s just shy,” said Mark.“You’re shy, aren’t you, love?” He put his fingers under her chin and forced her to look up. He smiled down at her. She felt herself blushing and jerked her head away.“Leave me alone!”
“Don’t sound as though she’s shy. Sounds as though she don’t like you.” Foxy’s voice goaded him. The other bikers laughed.“Maybe she likes Pete better.”
“Yeah,” Pete said,“That’s right! You come along with me, darling. I’ll show you Barton Quarry.”
Their laughter rose again.
Clare swallowed and looked around. There was no break in the circle. They were all on their feet, towering above her. There was no chance of walking away.
“But she’s coming with me,” Mark said, very gently.“Aren’t you, Rosie?” The underlying menace in his voice made her shiver. She realized suddenly that under the banter and joking his status in the group was being questioned. He was into some sort of trial of strength with Pete and she was just a pawn in the game.