The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  All the same, conflicting thoughts wrestled in her mind.

  The sun was taking on a fiery red as it began to dip into the clouds above the horizon. The gold across the water channels of the Levels took on a bloodier hue. Dimly blue in the distance were the hills which may have held the stronghold of Arthur in his fight against the invading Saxons. The fabled Camelot. She thrilled to the thought that the hero of the west might have ridden his warhorse along the causeway that once had been the only route across the watery wastes to Glastonbury. The sacred island of Avalon.

  Yet she felt a tension in her muscles that would not let her fully relax. She did not want to be sharing this sacred plateau with a man so dangerously unpredictable.

  It was a partial success. She did feel the better for being up here, bathed in this light, letting all the history and legend of this remarkable place resonate through her blood. But another part of her would be glad to leave the summit unharmed.

  More than half an hour had passed before Veronica turned to her with a quizzical look. The glow was fading.

  ‘Do you think we ought to be getting back, before they stop taking orders for dinner?’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose you’re right. I shall be ready for a meal by the time we’ve hoofed it all the way there.’

  They fell silent as they passed the place where they had come upon Rupert Honeydew. They were careful not to go too near the edge. Hilary could not see whether or not the clown was still squatting on the slope just below.

  It was something of a relief to have passed the first flight of steps and know they were out of earshot of the summit. Hilary heard the false gaiety of Veronica’s voice, a note or two higher than usual.

  ‘Well! And I thought we could write him off the suspect list, because he was just a harmless fool.’

  ‘He didn’t actually do anything to us.’

  ‘It was the expression in his eyes. I can still see it.’

  The little town was becoming reassuringly clear and close as they descended. She could just make out the Abbey ruins, closed to visitors now. Grey stones rose in peaceful solitude among the dark green of the surrounding trees.

  ‘But think about it,’ Veronica said. ‘Whoever planted that knapsack at the Chalice Well was sufficiently geared up to the twenty-first century to manufacture a credible bomb. The police haven’t released any details, but I presume they believe it could have gone off. Dancing fool or psychopath, is Rupert Honeydew really up to it technically?’

  ‘You said yourself, you can get all the instructions you need from the internet. And we can be pretty sure he’s intelligent.’

  ‘By that reckoning, half the people walking the streets of Glastonbury might qualify.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone else has given me such a shiver down my spine.’

  TEN

  Wednesday morning promised sunshine. Hilary raised her coffee cup thoughtfully and looked at Veronica over the rim.

  ‘We seem to be galloping through the list of things we meant to do. Glastonbury Tor was on the menu for this morning. What shall we do instead?’

  ‘I did think, if we had time, we might go out on to the Levels, where they found that ancient causeway.’

  ‘The Sweet Track to Glastonbury? Wonderful name, isn’t it? A length of wooden track six thousand years old, preserved because it was covered in waterlogged peat. Of course, it had to be shipped off to the British Museum to conserve it.’

  ‘So there’s nothing there now?’

  ‘They used to have a replica at the Peat Moors Centre, but I think that’s closed. Still, we can go and have a look. A walk in the marshes will give us a feel of the place. And, tell you what, we could stop off at the Abbot’s Fish House in Meare.’

  They donned their walking clothes and shouldered knapsacks for the day.

  ‘You’re sure you haven’t got a bomb hidden inside that?’ Hilary joked.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a laughing matter. Somebody had.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. But we really must stop going around being afraid that the next person we bump into will be on their way to plant another one. Whoever did that at the Chalice Well is going to lie low for a while. There are police all over the place. If they do want a second go, they’ll wait until things die down a bit.’

  ‘Do you think it will be the Chalice Well again, or will they go for something else?’

  ‘It depends on the reason for the first one, doesn’t it? Someone with a grudge against the well, or are they wanting to make a bigger point? Remember the Baedeker raids the Nazis made on cathedral cities in the last World War? You can strike at the heart of a country by destroying its ancient heritage. And Glastonbury’s got plenty of that.’

  They stepped out on to the car park. Veronica turned towards Hilary’s Vauxhall.

  Hilary stopped her. ‘Would you mind if I slipped off first and bought a newspaper? Not that trash they give us at breakfast. I should have ordered a decent one at reception.’

  ‘There’s a newsagent not far down the street.’

  In the shop, Hilary handed over her money and turned from the counter, already scanning the front page.

  ‘Oh, spare us!’

  ‘What’s wrong? It’s not something about Gaza, is it?’

  ‘No, thank God for that. But almost as bad. Look, the heavyweights have got it now.’

  The picture on the front page was the all-too-familiar photograph of the ornamental lid of the Chalice Well. An arrow directed the reader to page four.

  The newsprint crackled as Hilary refolded the pages.

  ‘It’s there. Blast them, they’ve got my name, too.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, under the circumstances. You found the bomb, after all.’

  ‘There are times when I wish I’d been a million miles away. I could wring Joan Townsend’s neck.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been her, someone else would have fed them the story. She was just lucky that she happened upon you first.’

  ‘I’m glad it’s made somebody happy,’ Hilary grunted, in a tone that belied her words.

  Back in the hotel car park, she threw the offending paper on the back seat.

  ‘Right. Let’s put all that behind us. Got the map? Which way to Meare?’

  Hilary turned off in the village and parked by a hedge. Across the gate, they could see an ecclesiastical-looking building of grey stone, standing alone in a field of buttercups.

  ‘That’s got to be it,’ Hilary announced. ‘The Abbot’s Fish House. They’d catch the fish in Meare Pool and store them in holding ponds until the abbey wanted them. The monks at Glastonbury must have got through an awful lot of fish, with all those fast days.’

  Veronica read the notice beside the gate. ‘It says that if you want the key, you have to fetch it from a house by the church.’

  ‘Looks to me as if we may not need to. Someone’s got there before us.’

  Figures were beginning to emerge around the corner of the two-storeyed building. More followed.

  ‘Just my luck,’ said Hilary, halting on the narrow stone footpath. ‘A school field trip.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘Sometimes. But not as much as I thought I would.’

  They were near enough now to see that the school group were all girls, dressed in checked skirts and purple blazers. Round the corner behind them came their teacher. She was quietly dressed in a grey skirt and a plain green jacket. There was something calmly cheerful about her round face. With a sudden insight, Hilary thought that she was probably a nun. It was hard to tell nowadays. They rarely wore black or grey habits and white wimples. She felt a twinge of envy for the serenity she read in that face. It was not an expression normally associated with running a field trip for a party of teenagers.

  The teacher smiled at Hilary and Veronica as they met. ‘Lovely day.’

  ‘Great,’ Hilary agreed.

  ‘There’s not a lot to see inside. Old beams, a stone fireplace. But you have to imag
ine how it used to be, when Meare Pool came right up to this field. It was a great lake, two miles long and a mile wide. They dug a channel to bring their boats up to the ponds and the fish house.’

  Veronica looked out where she pointed, over the level pastures just beyond them. ‘I’d have said it was hard to imagine all this underwater, if we hadn’t had those terrible floods last winter’.

  ‘Was that the same Meare Pool where they found those lake villages built on artificial islands?’ Hilary asked. ‘Two thousand years old?’

  ‘That’s the same. It’s an old inhabited landscape.’

  Hilary peered in through the metal lattices which protected the window spaces. As she turned back, she was aware of a stirring among the waiting schoolgirls, a ripple of excitement. She looked around blankly for its source, but saw nothing.

  ‘Would you like the key? We’re about done here. You need to return it to the house by the church.’

  ‘Up there on the ridge, by what looks like the manor house? Right.’ Hilary took the key from her.

  They watched her shepherd her flock back through the gate to the road. Some of the girls turned their heads to stare back at them.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Veronica asked. ‘Why are those girls looking at us?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Well, the old Peat Marsh Centre may be closed, but it says “Avalon Marshes Centre” down this road. Shall we give it a try?’

  They pulled into the car park, in front of a Portakabin which announced Visitor Information. A minibus was parked in the corner, but there was no sign of its occupants.

  ‘Right. It’s a fine day. The café’s open. We’re five miles out of Glastonbury. It’s highly unlikely we’ll meet anyone here who was at the Chalice Well on Monday, so we’d be daft to keep looking for suspicious individuals with bombs in their knapsacks. Let’s enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Masters,’ Veronica said demurely.

  Hilary glared at her across the bonnet. ‘You wouldn’t be taking the mickey out of me, would you? I’m retired now.’

  ‘Yes, Hilary. I’m sure you are.’

  Hilary grinned, with a sudden release of tension. It really was true. Today felt like a holiday for the first time since she had seen that knapsack at the well.

  Beyond a gate rose the conical roof of what appeared to be a reconstructed Iron Age roundhouse. Swirls of Celtic patterns in ochre paint decorated its low white walls. They settled for enjoying locally made fruit juice before tackling the visitor centre.

  The Portakabin was empty. Around the walls were information boards about the Avalon Marshes. Photographic displays told them all about the wildlife and flora of the wetlands, the history of how the Levels came to be drained for agriculture, the bird sanctuary.

  From outside, through the further door came the sound of voices. Young female voices.

  Veronica stifled a giggle. ‘It seems we can’t get away from them.’

  They stepped out into the sunshine. Through the trees, they saw the same party of schoolgirls they had met at the fish house. The girls had taken off their blazers and were hard at work. Under the guidance of a ranger, they seemed to be doing something with poles and planks of wood.

  Hilary and Veronica stepped closer.

  ‘It’s the Sweet Track!’ said Hilary. ‘At least a replica of it.’

  Poles forming X-shaped supports were being set in the peaty ground. A line of them led away through the bushes. Along them, other girls were laying rough-hewn planks.

  Veronica gasped and clapped her hands. ‘This is what you meant! They really did find this here on the Levels.’

  ‘It was amazing to find wood surviving after six thousand years. That’s three times as old as your lake villages at Meare. And long before King Arthur’s time, or even Joseph of Arimathea – supposing he ever did come to Glastonbury.’

  ‘Do you think they were peaceful people, out here in the marshes?’ Veronica said. ‘Or was the lake their defence?’

  ‘Not much evidence of royal status or weapons, from the sound of it. Simple country folk, I should think. No shortage of fish, that’s for certain.’

  She could feel the tension flowing out of her as she left the violence of the twenty-first century behind her. If she could only get back to that simpler way of life. But perhaps it never was like that.

  A sudden silence had fallen over the party of schoolgirls. Then there was a burst of excited chatter. Hilary suddenly realized they were staring at her again. The teacher she thought was a nun got to her feet and came over. Her eyes twinkled.

  ‘They know who you are. You were on the telly, apparently. You found the bomb.’

  Hilary’s heart sank.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve forbidden them to ask for your autograph. You don’t look as if you’re enjoying your notoriety.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘All the same, I’m truly grateful to you. Sister Mary Magdalene, by the way. St Bridget’s School. I know a lot of what you hear at Glastonbury is fanciful legend, but there is an aura of sanctity about the place, don’t you think? It would have grieved me if someone had blown up the Chalice Well. Let alone the thought of human casualties. We live in a terrible world. But the Lord’s hand was over you that day.’

  She smiled radiantly and moved back to the reconstruction, before Hilary could think of an answer. The girls were evidently badgering her with questions, but she shook her head.

  ‘So we couldn’t quite put it behind us,’ Veronica said. ‘But she was nice. I suppose she may have been imagining herself taking her girls to see the Chalice Well that afternoon. At least we don’t have to worry about whether she was the bomber.’

  ‘No, though it’s probably no wilder than some of the speculations I’ve entertained. I even found myself wondering why that young woman in the gift shop was so reluctant to talk.’

  ‘Let’s forget about it, shall we? Why don’t we get an early lunch here? Then I fancy a walk along one of those wetland trails they’ve signposted in the nature reserve. They say this is a great place for rare birds.’

  ‘Not that I’d know one if I saw one. Still, we’d be walking over the course of the original Sweet Track, even if the path is made of recycled plastic bottles now.’

  ‘Hilary!’

  ‘Don’t look like that. It’s what it said on the display board.’

  After their walk through the reed-fringed wetlands, they drove back over the Levels. To Hilary it felt strange to be down in this totally flat landscape, after the hills of her native Devon. Behind her lay the still pools of the nature reserve. On either side, a patchwork of pastures, ribboned with ditches of water that mirrored the brightness of the sky. The hedges were awash with may blossom.

  Veronica was gazing out at it more thoughtfully. ‘It’s terrifying to think of this being all underwater last winter.’

  ‘Nature getting its own back. It’s made it easier to imagine what it used to be like two thousand years ago, when the Bristol Channel came all the way up to the Tor. A wilderness of meres and marshes, with little islands here and there.’

  ‘And then Glastonbury Tor, soaring up like a magic mountain. You can see why so many legends gathered around it.’

  They looked ahead to the Tor. The tower of St Michael’s church looked dramatically high from here. But Hilary did not want to think about that encounter with Rupert Honeydew the day before.

  ‘The Isle of Avalon. Down here, there were people going about in coracles, or picking their way across boardwalks over the marshes. And everywhere you went, you could see that astonishing hill.’

  The day had been, Hilary thought, like a magic island itself. Apart from that one hairy moment when she was in danger of being engulfed by curious schoolgirls, she had been able to put away the shock of what she had discovered, and its aftermath. They had met no one she needed to feel wary about as a potential bomb maker. No need to worry whether she had missed something vital, the way others had missed seeing that bomb at the well.


  It was all very well for the police to tell her to keep out of it, but she couldn’t, could she? Whoever planted that knapsack was still walking free. The police had made no arrest, taken nobody in for questioning, as far as she knew. DS Petersen had been shadowing Amina Haddad, though. Could Hilary be sure that it was only religious stereotyping which made the young woman in the burka a suspect? Did the police know something Hilary didn’t?

  She thought again of those curious blue eyes through the slit in the burka.

  She felt the weight beginning to descend over her as the car neared Glastonbury.

  They parked at the hotel.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I fancy a nice old-fashioned teashop with gingham tablecloths and home-made cakes.’ Veronica’s smile was appealing.

  ‘You’re on.’

  It seemed strange to walk along the crowded High Street of Glastonbury, after the solitude of the wetlands. Hilary tried to stop scanning everyone she passed and imagining that they were carrying a bomb. Vigilance was one thing; paranoia was something else.

  She was aware that Veronica was no longer beside her. She looked back. Veronica had stopped further down the pavement. She too was looking behind her. Hilary was not sure what had caught her attention. It didn’t seem to be anything in a shop window, nor the passers-by on the pavement.

  In a few strides Hilary rejoined her.

  Veronica spoke in a low voice. ‘That woman. The one standing beside the grey car. Where have I seen her before?’

  Hilary followed her gaze. A short middle-aged woman with clipped dark hair was standing by one of the cars parked at the kerbside. Nothing triggered a memory in Hilary’s mind.

  ‘Sorry. Can’t help you. She looks a bit impatient. Hubby not turned up on time, do you guess?’

  Veronica looked for a while longer, then sighed. ‘No. I suppose we’ve got into the way of thinking that everyone we meet must have something to do with that awful thing at the well. I can’t place her, but I don’t suppose it would mean anything if I did.’

  ‘So, do we find those home-made cakes or not?’