‘Obviously not in a binding of that quality – try harder.’
‘There are four squares to a page, each with four interior lines, running top to bottom, six if you include the edges, and in each square just one small circle on one of the interior lines. The circles come in four colours. Each colour appears once on each page, but the positions are always different between pages.’
He has thought long and hard about this, reflected Valourhand, with the kind of driven logic that once attracted me.
‘Just as I remember it.’
‘There are creatures in silhouette on the left – and always a composite on the right, always grotesque – except for the last page, which has no creatures at all, just ordinary people on both pages – a jester, a soldier, a bishop, a nun. Maybe it’s a primitive musical notation? A cycle of songs about mythical beasts, with a homely last verse?’ Not that he believed this, but he felt the need to say something.
‘Why don’t we take a closer look together?’ Valourhand said cheerily.
Strimmer hesitated, fatally, and Valourhand pounced. ‘You haven’t got it any more.’
‘Who says?’
‘Where is it then?’
‘I loaned it.’
‘To whom?’
‘An expert in old books.’
They exchanged glances. Strimmer knew she knew.
‘You’ve been to the Manor. Whatever he paid you, you don’t know whom you’re dealing with. You shouldn’t give a Rotherweird book to an outsider.’ Suddenly she felt uncomfortable; Strimmer looked too smug. ‘Let me help you get it back.’
‘No need,’ he replied.
She changed tack. ‘Who put you on to the observatory?’
‘Flask said there must be a room in the eaves of the roof, so I looked.’
Valourhand cast her mind back. Flask had told them both about the scientist who first lived in the Manor, and how Snorkel was desecrating his memory by handing over the place to a
multi-millionaire to line his own pockets. This titbit he had saved for Strimmer alone.
‘People never tell you everything they know,’ added Strimmer with a grin.
His egotistical smugness disgusted her. ‘You’re a selfish bastard,’ she said.
As she turned back to her work, Strimmer thrust his hands into the waistband of her jeans and yanked her into his groin. ‘You know you miss it,’ he whispered in her ear.
She elbowed him in the stomach, but Strimmer was ready, abdomen clenched for the blow. Hands still down the back of her trousers, he kicked her feet away and she hung there, flailing, before he dropped her on the floor like a bag of refuse, an act of dominion.
‘Valour . . . hand . . .’ he sneered, before leaving.
Had she had a knife, she would have used it.
Bruised in body and spirit, she contrasted Strimmer’s values with the eccentric chivalry of her new companions. Weak and unfocused they might be, but she could not fault their decency. It was decision time – Strimmer must have no dominion.
She went late to the premises of The Polk Land & Water Company. A sequence of explosions from the top floor of Boris’ lodgings echoed around the courtyard. Valourhand rang the bell of his front door, wondering why the inventor should conduct such dangerous experiments in his living quarters rather than one of the numerous outhouses. The upper windows were covered in canvas, presumably destroyed by an earlier blast.
Boris eventually appeared, face smeared with oil and soot. ‘The bubbles are bubbled,’ he said.
‘And I’ve a message for that pigeon of yours,’ she replied.
7
Of Stones and Tiles
Two nights after the Escutcheon Place meeting, Oblong suffered a crisis of morale. He cursed himself for not having asked Valourhand how to contact her sister. In cold blood he found the physicist unapproachable, not least because she resolutely avoided him. Only art could muster relief, and he needed something deeper to earth his grief than The Ballad of the Midsummer Fair. His search for a muse in Grove Gardens had delivered only a dead body.
A nocturnal ramble along the Rother could hardly do worse. The gates did not close until midnight. He passed through at half past ten, crossed the bridge and followed the river as it skirted the Island Field. The usual metaphors assailed him: time’s flow, the river’s inexorable progress to the sea, men as flotsam and jetsam; and similes equally worn: reeds like spears, rocks like knuckles. His struggle for original insight lasted until the furthest corner of the Island Field.
‘It’s Obbers!’
The welcome – or was it a warning? – drifted round the bend of the river. Oblong gingerly crossed the raised stepping-stones over the Island Field stream. From close to the far bank, under an overhanging willow, splashing alternated with silence and suppressed laughter. A man had called, but he could hear a woman too.
Oblong scrambled down the bank as a dark shape detached itself from the curtain of the tree and headed towards him, underwater. Cries of ‘no’ and ‘don’t’ from the shadows could only have encouraged the swimmer, such was the giggling in between.
Gregorius Jones broke the surface like a porpoise and with enough vigour to reveal that he had not a stitch on. He strode out of the river. Mud stained his thighs, which he instantly slapped.
‘Togs off, Oblong,’ he cried, ‘this is the time, this is the place – one to remember in the old rocking chair!’
From beneath the trail of the willow, Miss Trimble’s head appeared. She swam towards them before veering upstream, close enough for Oblong to glimpse a back view worthy of Rubens. She too was naked.
‘For God’s sake,’ added Jones, ‘the crayfish won’t mind.’
The spontaneous warmth of the invitation conquered Oblong’s considerable inhibitions. He backtracked to a large bush, undressed and coyly threw himself into the pool from which Jones had emerged.
Jones followed. ‘Follow our Leda,’ he yelled, a classical pun that Trimble caught, despite a vigorous crawl. Such a bewildering man –
the closet classicist – and, though drawn to her, he always held back, though not, she felt, out of shyness. Perhaps he had fled from a shrew of a wife when going native in Rotherweird Westwood? She determined to break down the barriers, however long it took, and however bizarre Jones’ idea of an evening out.
The chill of the water eased with the effort of swimming. No weed snagged the feet and the bottom had fine gravel, easy on the toes. Oblong had never done this before and felt invigorated.
‘Ladies first and eyes left,’ Jones shouted over his shoulder as Miss Trimble strode ashore. Jones followed, and Oblong glimpsed an ugly zigzag scar from his left shoulder to the base of the spine, white as old wounds are. Jones threw Oblong a towel and a cross between a judo jacket and a dressing grown.
Here, beyond the Island Field, Jones and Trimble had established a primitive camp – no tent, only groundsheets and blankets, with a simple iron grate, food and a frying pan. Jones set the fire going without matches.
‘How a gentleman ignites,’ he announced, ‘a flint, charred cotton in which we place dried wool for tinder, and a firesteel.’ Jones held up a C-shaped ring like a knuckleduster.
‘The flint strikes off a sliver of steel and the friction heats it. High carbon steel works best and stainless steel doesn’t work at all,’ added Trimble. ‘Yes, Mr Oblong, I went to school too. Jones is the only primitive here.’
Only Trimble and Gorhambury still called him Mr Oblong.
Jones cooked straightforward fare; his conversation had a similar simplicity. He explained how you should always sleep out on a south-facing slope, and talked of navigation by the stars. Miss Trimble deduced that Jones had led an itinerant life.
Oblong’s concentration drifted until Jones suddenly sprung into life. ‘Miss Trimble, an hour to midnight – time for our naughty lecture. We’d better take Obbers.’ He giggled inanely, but gave no further clue as they tramped across the Island Field and into the meadows beyond. Mist scarfed their fe
et, but the starfields shone brilliantly above. Dark shapes emerged – megaliths. Inside the stone circle stood a familiar figure beside a tripod, wrapped in a scarf – Vesey Bolitho, the School astronomer, had finally emerged from his South Tower observatory.
He spoke of the ancient people who had built these structures, of their astronomy and their engineering skills. He spoke of a mysterious priesthood and seasonal renewal, and Oblong finally understood the naughtiness: Bolitho’s lecture was pure, unadulterated history. He talked about other circles hidden away in Rotherweird Westwood, explaining how each circle had a central stone, and how they all pointed to the same celestial point. He claimed that other stones were aligned, not to indicate the solstice as in wider England, but Midsummer Day.
‘Did they wear clothes?’ asked Miss Trimble.
‘Wolf pelts in winter,’ replied Bolitho, leaving their summer attire unaddressed.
Miss Trimble glowed.
Oblong decided that a more searching question was called for. He followed the line of the jagged stone into the heavens. ‘The North Star perhaps?’
‘No – no star. Why this point in empty space matters is a mystery lost in time.’
Bolitho’s talk lasted the best part of an hour. At the end he packed up his telescope, shook hands and headed back to town. ‘Secret way through the boathouse,’ he murmured to Oblong as he left.
They trudged back to their camp, where Jones gave Oblong a rug and lay down a respectable distance from Miss Trimble.
Much later, Miss Trimble, cocooned in her blanket, rolled towards Oblong. ‘Are you cold under there?’ she whispered.
‘Middling to all right, thank you,’ replied Oblong.
‘My toes need warming up,’ replied Miss Trimble, raising herself onto her elbows and revealing a glimpse of a magnificent billowing bosom.
Odd that only her toes are cold, reflected Oblong.
Miss Trimble flicked a swathe of flaxen hair away from her cheek. She looked more than ever like a Viking, and not the kind who stays at home. ‘I’ll tell you the trouble: Jones is ever so friendly, but he doesn’t engage fully. He seems nervous of me.’ At that moment, to his amazement, Trimble leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I like gangly men,’ she whispered.
‘But . . . I . . . I am bespoken.’
‘You’re a tailor too?’ she giggled.
‘No, but it’s early stages—’
‘Imagine we’re in one of those circles, and it’s Midsummer Night . . .’
‘I really mustn’t . . .’ babbled Oblong.
‘Oh, men!’ exclaimed Miss Trimble, and with an air of distinct disappointment she rolled back the way she had come, leaving the historian in dismayed confusion.
He had sacrificed much for Miss Cecily Sheridan.
Throughout the exchange Jones lay as dead to the world as a stone. When you rest, you rest: that was always the soldier’s rule.
Miss Trimble woke Oblong at dawn – Jones had disappeared. Oblong felt mildly offended that she was more concerned about Jones than making a further bid for his affections.
‘He talks in his sleep, you know,’ she said, sounding worried. ‘Something like “malaria” and “Vic’s tricks”. I think he may be mad.’
*
Sir Veronal strode across the Island Field with the actress stumbling to keep up.
Unsettled by the absence of any complaint about her attendance at Mrs Banter’s funeral, the actress found the trip, which lacked any explained purpose, and her inclusion in it, deeply puzzling. Under a hazy but unthreatening sky, the riverbanks untenanted at such an early hour, they crossed the small footbridge by a yew tree at the southwestern corner. From time to time Sir Veronal sniffed the air. They tried various meadows and copses before stumbling on a sunken way, choked with undergrowth. The actress noticed broken stems and trampled grass: someone else had been this way.
She felt Sir Veronal’s confidence grow as they pushed through, and an old road opened up.
‘They say charcoal-burners lived here,’ declared Sir Veronal, following the sunken road to emerge in a bowl with an apron of trees high above them. He prowled the ground, sniffing more intently now, and extending his hands. He paused in the middle and scuffed away the topsoil, exposing a white tablet with a single flower finely incised in the centre.
‘Ah-ha!’ he exclaimed, ‘a Druid stone. They are said to bring great luck.’ The actress watched his face – it looked transformed, almost youthful.
In fact, on the very threshold of Lost Acre, he felt a sudden nervousness. The landscape had changed; might not the tile have changed too? Reconnaissance is needed, he decided, but not by me.
‘Ladies first,’ he added.
The actress looked up. The beeches peered down as from the Royal Circle. Sir Veronal’s face had changed again: a trapper, now, hardly the expression of a bestower of good fortune.
But with no prospect of escape, she could only play the game. ‘Of course,’ she replied gracefully. She stepped on the tile and opened her arms dramatically. Nothing happened.
Sir Veronal’s mask of self-satisfied triumph slipped, and he pushed her roughly aside.
The audience must be gripped. She had turned the tables and stolen the scene.
‘This isn’t possible.’ He stood on the tile himself, again with no visible effect, and kicked the ground violently.
‘Get on there again,’ he barked, pushing her back, ‘and take your boots off.’
The aggression gave her something to work with. ‘I’m touched you wish to bless me with luck,’ she said, a strong line, defining her character, not his – defiant but polite. She had control of the scene, but feared it would die, unclear as to how the tension could be sustained. She need not have worried.
A strange apparition in white shorts and running shoes, naked from the waist up, descended the steep slope, half-skidding, half-
jogging.
‘Glorious morning,’ said the apparition with an easy heartiness.
‘Who the hell are you?’ growled Sir Veronal, scraping the earth back over the tile.
‘Gregorius Jones, Head of PE at Rotherweird School,’ replied Jones, bowing faintly. ‘You all right, your Ladyship?’
She bit back the words ‘narrow escape’ and smiled: a handsome man, although perhaps more likely to shine on film than stage.
‘Of course she’s all right.’
‘These are ancient woods,’ replied Jones. ‘Take nothing for granted, including the way out.’
‘Home,’ barked Sir Veronal, his mind in turmoil at this unexpected setback. He could not believe his ill luck. The tile had failed. He had recovered his past – but to what purpose, if the prize it had revealed remained forever beyond his reach?
At the bridge, the actress rested a hand on the yew’s gnarled trunk and opened her face to the sun, seeking to convey what she felt – reprieve from a danger she could only guess at.
*
Buoyed by his night in the open air and Miss Trimble’s unexpected offer, Oblong returned a little regretful that he had declined her invitation. During the mid-morning break he hurried to the Town Hall Information Desk, whose middle-aged occupant evidently disliked outsiders.
‘What?’ she responded to Oblong’s innocuous request.
‘Miss Cecily Sheridan. Her address is not in the book.’
‘It’s not in the book for a very good reason.’ Oblong imagined a harsh injustice he would shortly remedy. ‘She doesn’t exist.’
The remark did not register. ‘I only want to make contact.’
‘You deaf?’
‘She’s Miss Valourhand’s sister.’
‘Miss Valourhand has no sisters.’
‘She looks like her.’
The woman looked at Oblong as if he were mad. ‘Frankly, nobody looks like Miss Valourhand.’
‘She runs a travelling library,’ he added.
‘How interesting: a woman who doesn’t exist runs a library that would be illegal.’
Oblo
ng gasped for air. She was right. Rotherweird would never allow a trade in old books. He thought back: Cecily had inveigled him into telling her about the frescoes. How could he have been so naïve! First a snowball, then fancy dress – he had served as target practice for the girl with the golden bolas.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he replied limply. ‘Must be the heat.’
By lunch the receptionist had told her colleagues, and by teatime Oblong’s infatuation with a woman who did not exist had become the talk of the town. Snorkel greeted the news with merriment and satisfaction – Oblong could hardly be bettered as Flask’s replacement.
After his single afternoon lesson, Oblong rushed home, drew the curtains and lay on his bed. He had turned down Miss Trimble for this. Another detail deepened his humiliation – the book Cecily had promised him – Gullible’s Travels! He contemplated winning her over by confrontation, a flawed plan as Cecily did not exist. He then raged at Valourhand for treating his kindness with such insouciance.
Slowly he admitted a truer voice to the debate: to be made a fool of requires of the victim more than a grain of foolishness.
Late afternoon was losing out to dusk when a knock at the door brought further embarrassment. He had forgotten an appointment to visit Baubles & Relics to discuss the Midsummer Fair. Orelia Roc entered, not in a forgiving mood. ‘Fable tells us grasshoppers have short memories where work is concerned. Always summer, never winter.
‘Sorry.’
Orelia dropped, rather than placed, a bottle of red wine on the table. ‘Corkscrew?’
‘I can do a screw-top.’
‘Thought as much.’ Orelia produced a corkscrew and uncorked the bottle. ‘Would glasses be stretching hospitality?’
Oblong shuffled to the kitchen and back. Why did people always bring drink to his flat? Was he such poor company?
She poured two glasses and toasted him. ‘Here’s to your celebrity!’
Mindlessly Oblong took a cheery swig before absorbing the import of the toast. ‘Celebrity?’
‘You fancy Valourhand dressed up as a travelling librarian – we’re not used to that kind of thing in Rotherweird.’
Rotherweird Page 29