A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  He felt tired again after his long bout of shovelling but he had still a lot to do. He couldn’t possibly leave those initials on the wall in the last chamber. He climbed to the pipe and wormed his way through and when he reached the cave he chipped the letters away with his knife and those of Joseph, too, for good measure. There must be nothing to fink the Quilters with this place.

  Back in the lower chamber he set to work to lash up the tools They were heavy and awkward to carry single-handed, and they slowed him in the passages on the return journey. They gave trouble too, when he came to raise them by rope up the big precipice, for the sharp ends of the pick kept catching on the rock face. Stage by stage, though, he got them up, together with his rucksack, his vacuum flask, and everything else that might speak of his presence there.

  He was now almost at the end of his gruelling task. All the ropes and ladders could be left in place—they had been Anstey’s, not his, and if he came down again to close the passage he would need them. He changed back into his own clothes just below the exit, leaving the helmet and the boiler suit, the torches and spare batteries in a neat pile in the passage. They had been Anstey’s, too.

  He climbed out cautiously, replacing the lid with more than usual care and covering it thickly with scree. Looking at it gave him new confidence. The chance that anyone would stumble on his secret was indeed remote, and he felt that he had worried unduly.

  He drove back to the cottage in a calmer frame of mind. This time, at least, he hadn’t failed in what he had set out to do—he’d been resolute, competent and cool. Now it remained only for him ta give the house a final inspection, make himself as presentable as possible, and await the arrival of his wife.

  Chapter Seven

  He passed the next day quietly, dealing with his accumulated mail, answering the telephone and generally putting his affairs into as orderly a state as possible. Then in the evening he took the station wagon down to meet Julie.

  In one way he was thankful that she was coming back, for the cottage had begun to seem unbearably lonely. A sense of guilt wasn’t much of a companion, and at least Julie would chatter and take his mind off things. At the same time, he felt apprehensive. She had an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. Not that she would find them very easy to read to-day—he could scarcely find his way through that jungle himself. But it would be difficult to act with her as though life were normal. He found it almost impossible to tear his mind away from what had happened or to stop worrying about unpleasantnesses that might suddenly develop. Yet he knew that no preoccupation must show itself in his manner, or Julie would certainly sense that something was up.

  The train was late and by the time it puffed in his nerves were pretty ragged, but the first sight of Julie did much to restore his composure. She was leaning out of the window, smiling and gaily returning his wave, and almost before the train had stopped she had jumped out and dumped her case on the platform and was speeding towards him. He held out his arms and kissed her upturned face. Her lips were warm and soft and reassuring.

  “How lovely it is to be back!” she cried, beaming. “Let me look at you properly, darling—see that you haven’t grown thin or anything.”

  Quilter’s hand went automatically to the dark bruise that it was impossible to hide and he grinned sheepishly as Julie’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Darling!” she exclaimed. “What on earth have you been doing?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I walked into a door in the dark, that’s all. It’s nearly better now.”

  “It looks an awful mess. Were you tight or something?”

  “No, just clumsy. Stupid thing to do, wasn’t it? I smashed my watch, too—you should have heard my language.” He went to pick up her case, telling himself that he’d taken that hurdle all right. “So you had a good time, did you?” he said, putting an arm round her shoulder and moving off with her towards the car.

  “Wonderful.” Julie tactfully followed his lead. “Hasn’t it been glorious weather?”

  “Not bad at all. We had one storm here—on Wednesday, I think—but otherwise it’s been all right.”

  “We were lucky, then, we missed that. Muriel and I spent practically all our time on the beach and I’m as brown as this all over …”—she held out a bare golden-brown arm for his inspection—“… or nearly. I’ll show you when we get home. I was sorry you weren’t there—the swimming was divine. We did go into Dorchester one day, though, and I did a spot of shopping—things for France. I’ve bought an enchanting sun-frock—oh, but I told you, didn’t I?”

  Quilter threw the case into the back of the station wagon and opened the door for her, “Yes, I got your letter. I didn’t think you’d expect me to reply as you were coming back so soon.” He climbed in beside her.

  Julie gave his leg a tolerant pat. “It would have been a miracle if you had, darling, and I don’t look for miracles these days. Did you finish your old papers?”

  “Papers?” Quilter had completely forgotten that pile of documents in the rush of other things. He changed down, crashing the gear a bit. “Yes. Yes, I finished them. More or less.”

  She laughed. “I believe you’ve been idling. Tell the truth, now. Haven’t you been lying in the sun most of the time?”

  “No, indeed I haven’t. I’ve done a terrific amount of walking.” His mouth set in a familiar downward curve. “In fact, I think I may have overdone it a bit.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me—you don’t do anything like a normal person. You ought to learn to conserve your energies or at least ration them out reasonably like other people, instead of flinging yourself into things with such fury and then being worn out afterwards.”

  Quilter grunted.

  “Anyway, where did you go?”

  “Oh, the usual rounds. Up Scawfell one day—circuit of Derwentwater on the tops—Grisedale and Helvellyn. Nothing very sensational, but I must have averaged about fifteen miles a day.”

  “That is a lot. Have you seen anyone we know?”

  “Not a soul. Apart from the odd hiker I’ve hardly seen a human being since you went away.”

  “What bliss for you! Did you manage all right about food?”

  “Yes, I ate out, mostly. Had plenty, anyway.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and watched him negotiate the turning out of Blean. Suddenly she gave a little exclamation. “Why, I’d almost forgotten—wasn’t it odd about Grigson?”

  He shot her a swift glance. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, his resignation—coming practically the very day that we’d been discussing him.”

  Damn! thought Quilter. That would happen! He made a non-committal sound. “The P. M. isn’t being in a hurry to get in touch with me.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s August, after all—I don’t suppose he’s in a mad rush to fill the post.”

  Quilter grunted again. He had no feelings at all about Grigson at that moment. Instead, his mind was feverishly occupied with a glaring omission of his own. He’d been so busy that day with his stack of correspondence that he’d quite overlooked the little pile of obviously unread copies of The Times on the hall table. It would never do to let Julie see those.

  He stopped the car beside the barn. “Would you like to drive it in, sweetheart, while I get some drinks? Special privilege!”

  She made a face at him as she moved into the driving seat. “I believe you want to get yourself a quickie first.”

  Quilter gave a short laugh and carried her case into the cottage. It took him only a few moments to open and fold back the papers and scatter them about the sitting room. As he came back into the hall he noticed the local weekly stuffed into the letter box and with a little spasm of anxiety he quickly paged through it.

  He hardly expected to find anything so soon, but, there it was, a paragraph in the Coalhaven section headlined “Potholer Missing.” Tensely, he skimmed through the text,

  “Fears are entertained,” he read, “for Mr. P. J. Anstey, of
12 Graham Buildings, Coalhaven, who has been missing from his lodgings since the weekend. Mr. Anstey, a science master at Coalhaven Grammar School and a well-known potholing enthusiast, left his home early on Sunday morning with the intention, it is understood, of joining an exploring party in the West Riding. Yesterday afternoon an Ingle-borough shepherd reported to the police that a motor cycle, since identified as belonging to Mr. Anstey, had been left unattended on the moors. Subsequent police inquiries elicited the information that Mr. Anstey did not in fact turn up at the club rendezvous on Sunday, and it is now feared that he may have set out alone to explore one of the many potholes in the district and become involved in an accident. Preparations are being made for an intensive search in the area immediately around the abandoned machine, but in the absence of information about Mr. Anstey’s exact destination, the task is likely to prove very difficult.”

  Quilter felt a surge of relief. Anstey hadn’t told anyone about him, and the hounds were off on the false scent. Everything was going to be all right.

  A light step sounded in the hall. “What, no drinks?” He flung the paper aside. “Sorry! I was just reading a report of the speech I made at Blean.”

  “Narcissus! All right, don’t trouble—I’ll get them myself now.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen and he stuffed the paper into his pocket. In a few moments she joined him in the sitting-room with gin, French, and ice on a tray.

  “I’m not surprised about that bruise,” she said “You’ve almost finished the new bottle of whisky. Serves you jolly well right, you secret drinker.”

  Quilter made a conscious effort to control himself. Why the devil did she have to go snooping around? And how many more mistakes had he made? First the documents, and then the unread papers and now the whisky! It was just such small things that Julie noticed.

  He smiled at her, switching on the charm. “I had to drown my loneliness. Any other complaints?”

  “No complaints at all, darling. I think you did very well—the house is marvellously tidy. You’d make somebody a good wife.”

  “Now then!—no impertinence, just because you’ve been footloose for a few days. Cheers!” He gulped his drink. “And by the way, in case you think I’ve been having wild parties or something, it was I who slept in the guest room. I couldn’t stand the bright sun in the mornings. I don’t suppose my bedmaking’s up to your standards, but I did the best I could.”

  Julie gave him a puzzled look and he knew he hadn’t quite got away with it. “Darling, is anything the matter?”

  “Matter? Of course not. Have another drink.”

  She gave him her glass mechanically, still staring at him.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Julie, stop looking at me like that. I tell you there’s nothing wrong.” He ran a hand wearily over his face. “At least, nothing to get agitated about. It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping well—this bang on the head must have shaken me. It was a hell of a crack. In a couple of days from now we’ll be off on our holiday—I’ll be all right then.”

  “Sweetie! I wish I hadn’t gone away.” Julie dropped down beside him on the settee, her eyes full of compassion, her arms around him. He leaned against her and closed his eyes, wallowing in self-pity. Why had all these horrible things had to happen to him? He longed to tell her everything—to lighten his burden by sharing it. Julie loved him. No matter what he had done, she would never stop loving him. Yet this was something he couldn’t tell her—not how he’d run away. He mustn’t weaken about that. He must force himself to keep silent, and be forever on his guard. Suddenly he groaned, and his grip on her tightened. “Oh, Julie, don’t ever leave me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She stroked his hair, gently, reassuringly, and went on stroking it, but her eyes above his head had an anxious, baffled look. All the gaiety had gone.

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  They had been on holiday for nearly a week and Julie was bitterly disappointed. Everything seemed to have gone wrong.

  The start hadn’t been too bad by her fairly undemanding standards. Laurence always enjoyed being in control of a car and the drive down to Newhaven had been quite amicable. At times he’d seemed rather absorbed and once or twice he’d flared up about trifles, but Julie was used to his moods and more ready than most wives to make allowances for temperament. By now she had learned that she must reconcile herself to long periods of silence, fits of gloom and occasional outbursts of irritation for the sake of the utterly satisfying companion he could be in between. She had nourished the hope that when they got to France the nice part of him would come out on top.

  In fact, though, it had been after they’d landed at Dieppe that the real trouble had started. Looking back, Julie had to admit that all the incidents had been very petty, but they’d been enough to cast a blight on the southward journey. On the first night it had rained hard and Julie had suggested stopping at a little auberge which had looked all right from the outside but hadn’t turned out too well. Laurence had sulked, and half-way through the meal he’d gone quite white for no reason that he could explain and as always she had felt obscurely that it was her fault.

  Next day they’d stopped in Rouen so that Julie could do some shopping for lunch and they’d arranged to meet again at a certain time because Laurence had said he couldn’t stand shopping; and Julie had been a bit late. Laurence had been furious about that. When the tantrum had passed they’d settled down to have an apéritif at a café in the market place and Laurence had begun to talk about Joan of Arc in a morbid way, almost as though he were sorry he’d missed the chance of being burned at the stake too, and when Julie had said so, teasing him, he’d got angry again. It had all seemed so unnecessary. And they’d had another flare-up south of Chartres because Laurence had suddenly started to drive like a demon and when she’d mildly protested he’d said, “What the hell does it matter, anyway?”

  Somehow they’d survived the journey and established themselves in a little old-world town called Pouillac in the Dordogne, where English tourists were only just beginning to penetrate. The district had proved to be full of interest, the scenery novel and intriguing. The weather had been perfect. They had explored old Frankish ruins and descended a most spectacular hole in the ground at a place named Padirac and examined a fascinating ancient skull at Les Eyzies. They should have been having a wonderful time, but actually it had been worse here than anywhere.

  It was as though a cloud had now settled permanently on Laurence and there was no trace of the delightful intimacy which, Julie admitted to herself, was what she lived by. She had never known him so preoccupied for so long. He was going about like an actor rehearsing Hamlet, brooding, abstracted, completely cut off from her. Silence, which was usually a bridge of understanding between people who were really fond of each other, had become a gulf that divided them. Even his attempts at love-making had been so absent-minded and perfunctory that Julie had felt repelled.

  For a time she had put it all down to overwork and nervous strain. He had said he wasn’t very well, and he certainly wasn’t himself. Sunshine and rest and good food, she had told herself, would soon bring him round. She had tried to be gay, to woo him from his melancholy by the sheer contagion of cheerfulness, but he had crushed her high spirits with sneers. Deeply hurt, she had still tried to be patient and sympathetic, as with an ailing child. But that hadn’t worked either—nothing that she did was right. Her patience had begun to wear thin and there had been moments when she had felt her self-control would snap. They couldn’t go on like this. At last she had suggested that he see a doctor, but that had produced a frightening display of ill-temper on his part. Now she felt baffled and increasingly resentful.

  There was still tension between them when they set out, on the third morning after their arrival in Pouillac, to see the Lascaux paintings. Julie had been attracted by these prehistoric marvels ever since she had read an article about them during the war, and had been thrilled to learn that they were
so accessible to Pouillac. As they drove along the unfrequented side-roads in the morning sun she made a fresh effort to disperse the cloud of gloom that hung over them. She talked lightly and unaffectedly of their surroundings and from time to time drew Laurence’s attention to sights she thought might interest him. When he showed some signs of responding, her own heart lightened and she began to feel happier than she had done for days.

  They stopped in the pleasant little town of Martignac to buy a long crusty loaf, some cheese and a bottle of red wine, and then they drove through plantations of sunflowers and up the white, poplar-lined road that led to the famous cave. There was a turning circle at the top with a parking place for cars, but there were only three or four there just now—a fact which Julie noted with relief, for Laurence in his present misanthropic mood would be certain to shy away from a crowd. One of the cars was an old jeep with a U.S.A. rear plate, and a man was sitting on the bank beside it reading a book. He looked up with friendly interest as the Riley stopped and watched them get out.

  “The cave’s just closed down for lunch,” he said. “It opens again at two.”

  They thanked him and Julie turned to Laurence. “Let’s go and picnic up in the woods,” she suggested. “They look so shady and cool.”

  Quilter nodded, and they strolled up through the trees, passing one or two family parties with folding chairs and tables set up in the open and. an air of having established themselves for a solid two-hour meal. “Better get away from, the kids,” Quilter grunted. They went on for a bit and presently found a quiet glade. For all its fame, the place seemed totally unspoiled. Through the wood of walnut and hazel and scrub oak they could just make out a rustic café with faded blue benches and little tables in the dappled shade, but there were no other signs of commercialisation. The drawing power of prehistoric art was evidently limited.