by James Long
‘Surely they’ll let him out?’
‘They’ve got new evidence.’ She told him about the toxicology report and the damning fragment of paper. ‘They’re serious. They’re going to be questioning him again at any moment, so come on. Start remembering and start talking.’
‘It’s very hard to go back there.’
‘Why?’
‘I know how to get back to other times, times when I was older, because I can – oh, I don’t know . . .’ He was casting around for a way to describe it and she sat patiently waiting. ‘I can see it through their eyes if I try. If I know what I’m looking for, all I need is just one little something to tag on to, then I can go back, but this . . . I have to be two years old and a girl and I don’t know how to.’ He sounded so desperate that she was moved to let him off the hook but she couldn’t afford to do that.
‘Yes you do. Think of hurting yourself.’ She thought of the photos and shuddered. ‘Think of grabbing a pair of scissors. They would seem huge to you. Think of holding them in one hand and jabbing them into your arm.’
‘No.’
‘Go on. Do it.’ And she saw his eyes widen then fill with tears and all of a sudden he was on the ground, rolling round, shrieking his affront and his anger, and she made herself sit still and watch for minute after minute until he gradually subsided, lying on his side in a foetal curve, shuddering to a halt.
‘Not a girl,’ he said, and his voice was high and quavering. ‘Won’t be a girl.’
‘Ferney,’ she said, ‘it’s okay.’
‘Not okay. Don’t.’ The boy on the ground writhed violently, pushing out the palm of one hand at her. ‘Let me go. Let go.’
She knelt next to him. ‘You’re here on the hill. You’re a boy. That’s all over. It’s all right.’ But he went on shaking and calling out and she kept on talking, saying calming nothings as if he were a child having a nightmare. In the end he quietened and lay still, his eyes closed, and she wondered if he was asleep. She sat there, watching out for him, looking towards the church. Part of her still wanted to walk away from all of them and lead the simpler life she had known before, but another part had begun to care for him in a different way and to understand the harsh reality of his fate. She looked out at the scattered landscape of the village and wished she could see into its past as he could.
After ten minutes or so, he straightened abruptly, gasped and sat up.
‘Are you happy now? I don’t want to do that again, ever,’ he said.
‘I won’t ask you to. Has that happened before?’
‘Which bit of it?’
‘I meant being a girl instead of a boy?’
Even that seemed a dangerous question at first. He looked at her like a creature cornered, then nodded. ‘Once. Once that I know of. The other way round. Not me, Gally. It made her mad. I think that’s what it does.’
‘Only once before in all that time?’
‘There was a time when we were brother and sister. That didn’t work too well either.’
‘What happened?’ she asked to keep him talking, feeling that she needed to get him all the way back to normality, to talk about other lives before she dared push him harder on this most recent one.
‘That time? They hounded us out.’ He went silent, looked far away, oblivious to her. ‘Our halves are nothing on their own,’ he said in a distant voice, ‘but half and half make one and halves, divided, stand alone when the adding’s done.’
‘A poem?’
‘What?’
‘It sounded like a poem.’
‘Yes. A poem from that time. Poems and songs, they stick in the memory. They’re good signposts.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘I have to wait for them,’ he said. ‘Do you mind waiting with me?’
‘Do you want me to?’ She was a little surprised.
He nodded. ‘I was frightened,’ he said in a very small voice. ‘That was so horrible.’
She saw a chance to make friends with him. ‘Will you tell me a bit more about this place?’ she asked. ‘I’ve read a bit now – in fact I’ve become a bit of a swot. I bought the local history book.’
‘So you know about the battles?’
‘The seventh century, Peonnum?’
‘That was the first one. We never called it that. This was Pen then and it still is.’
‘Mike must have been interested in that?’
‘Frustrated more like. He said the books don’t say much because nobody knows the facts except that I’d told him where it happened, how it happened, what they looked like, what the weather was like, and there was nothing he could do with that – nothing at all. An eye-witness account and he couldn’t write the best thing ever on a seventh-century battle because he’d be laughed at. It’s just like it would be with the police now. You understand. You can’t tell people, can you?’
‘Couldn’t you show him where they buried the bodies? Then at least he could do some digging.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know where that was. We were dead before they were buried.’
‘But next time round people here must still have been talking about it. Wasn’t there anything about a burial ground?’
Ferney shook his head. ‘I can’t remember that next time. Anyway, it wasn’t just the one battle. There was the one against the Danes.’
She thought. ‘Edmund Ironside?’
‘We just called him Edmund.’
‘When was it?’
‘I don’t know. Whenever.’ He pointed to the north of the church. ‘Beyond there, Heath Hay and the next field, towards Pen Ridge farm. The Danes were waiting up at Kenny Wilkins, in the old fort, but Edmund was too crafty. He pretended he didn’t know they were anywhere near, started to set up camp in the open fields like he was having a picnic. They were too drunk to think twice so they rushed out to attack and the rest of Edmund’s men came out of ambush and slaughtered them. Like cutting hay, that was what I heard. The Danes were reeling around seeing double and roaring their heads off.’
‘You heard, you say?’
‘My father hid me in a hole but I heard all about it when I was old enough. Edmund chased them away past Bourton, but they left seven hundred Danish dead behind and I do know where they’re buried.’ He looked towards the church again and frowned. ‘Where have they got to?’
‘Give it time.’
‘We could get your car and go looking.’
‘And miss them if they come back? Be sensible. So go on. I suppose it’s odd that there should be two battles in a tiny place like this.’
‘Two?’ Ferney looked at her in surprise. ‘There weren’t just two.’
‘There was another one? There’s nothing in the book.’
‘Isn’t there? No, I don’t suppose there is.’ He looked all around him. ‘It left its mark though. One castle over there, a second one that way, another just down there, plus there was a wooden watchtower right here and an outpost at Kenny Wilkins. Five Norman strongpoints round one little village, all because of what happened here.’
‘Are you saying that’s something that’s not in the history books?’
‘Yes. It’s not a good idea to start talking about that kind of stuff.’
‘Because I’m an outsider?’
‘If you like.’
She judged her moment. ‘So is it true, Ferney? Did . . . did Rosie do all that to herself?’
‘You mean did I do it to myself? Yes, it’s true. I can’t exactly remember but I’m sure I did. Does it make a difference?’
‘It makes a huge difference to me. Why did you do it?’
‘I was in the wrong body. We live for each other, Gally and me. That’s the only thing that makes it bearable. We made a promise, she and I. We had to stick to it.’
‘And that’s the promise that put you both in that grave? Mother and daughter?’
‘How could we be mother and daughter? Not once the memories came back. It was
n’t possible.’
‘So Gally did it? She killed herself and she killed you?’
He frowned. ‘Until now, we only ever told one other person in all the years. Then there was Mike and that doubled it. Then there was you and now there’s the mother, and that doubles it again. It’s not good. It’s hard enough doing this with just us two.’
‘How did you get away with it for all that time? People must have asked questions, surely. Didn’t they find you strange?’
‘There were strange people everywhere. That was how things were. Touched by God or the Devil depending on your point of view. You should have seen it in early spring when the stores ran low. People went off their heads then. The hungry months. You would be down to the leftovers, the mouldy grain. If you didn’t eat it, you starved. If you did, it sent you mad.’
‘I’ve heard about that. It was called ergot, wasn’t it?’
‘We called it mould, but it wasn’t just that. It was the births that went wrong, the rest of the crappy diet, the illnesses nobody could treat, and then there were the misbegottens, the children of cousins or worse. We weren’t expected to be normal. If they thought we were odd, they left us alone.’
‘Is that what it was like?’
‘Only sometimes. People loved Gally. They always do. I usually get a bit of that, like a reflection, but it wasn’t like that this last time. People left me alone. I was by myself, years and years and years, right up until she and Mike came back. I wasn’t going to let that happen again, not if I could help it. It’s the two of us – that’s all that counts.’
‘Is that really how you think?’
‘Time was we’d stick our necks out to help other people. It never works. We knew stuff but we couldn’t solve everyone else’s problems.’
‘I bet she tried to.’
‘Often enough, but do you know what happens when you do that? People start turning to you for everything. They’ll hand over responsibility just like that and then you’re lost. I made that mistake when I was green. I never made it again. If they think you’ve got the answers, they’ll put you on a throne then they’ll watch for a reason to pull you off it and give you a good kicking.’ He broke off. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘They’re coming back.’ Two far-off figures were walking towards the churchyard gate.
‘Mike needn’t be the enemy here,’ she said. ‘There has to be a kind way out.’
He didn’t look convinced.
Those words ‘a kind way out’ turned in her head and led back to the main matter. ‘So she brewed up some sort of mixture and she gave it to you too?’
‘It was the old country way. Time to bring out the black teapot. That’s what they used to say if someone was dying in too much pain. There were different potions but hers was the best. It was gentle. She had all the old knowledge and she’ll have it again.’
They saw Gally and her mother go into the graveyard.
‘So, just to be brutally clear,’ Rachel said, screwing up her eyes to try to make them out, ‘your promise to each other was that you would do away with yourselves and start over again if anything got in the way. Yes?’
‘It wasn’t brutal. It was the only way that worked for us.’
‘It was brutal when other people got involved. Do you ever stop and think what you’ve done to Mike? You’ve destroyed him.’
He looked at her defiantly and for a moment she thought he would try to shrug it off, but he let his eyes drop. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s why I don’t like letting other people in. That’s why we don’t have children. It only works if we keep it to the two of us, but that’s getting harder all the time.’
‘You can help me put it right. Mike Martin is carrying the can for you two. Would Gally remember exactly how she made that potion?’
‘I think so. She will if I help her.’
‘I need to talk to her. Would she remember what the rest of that piece of paper said?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Not to me.’
‘She was talking about Rosie getting back an old man’s memories and how that must have been torture for her. She can hardly say that to the police, can she? I don’t know what . . .’ Whatever else he was going to say was forgotten because they saw people coming out of the graveyard. This time there were three, and two of them seemed to be having difficulty getting the other one into the silver car.
Ferney stared across the fields between them. ‘Something’s gone wrong.’
‘With Gally? Your eyesight’s better than mine.’
‘Yes, Gally. She’s in a bad way.’
‘You can see that from here?’
‘They’ve put her in the car. No, Gally. Don’t do that. Don’t!’
‘What’s wrong? Maybe they’re just going round the village.’
‘No they’re not. She’s only just got back. She mustn’t leave.’
They heard the faint sound of the car door slamming shut, the noise finally reaching them three or four beats after the sight of it, then watched as the car drove away, dipping out of their view below the hill.
‘No!’ The word burst out of Ferney, overflowing with anguish.
‘Calm down. They might not be going far.’
‘It’s too soon to go anywhere. She knows who she is because she’s here. If she goes away, she’ll lose it.’
‘She won’t remember?’
‘Worse than that. She’ll bury it and mistrust it and it will turn round and bite her.’
‘They might be heading back to the house for all you know. Let’s go down there.’
Ferney strode ahead in desperate silence, listening to every distant car. Rachel watched, disturbed, as he found the key and unlocked the door.
‘Just remember, it’s not your house,’ she said, ‘and I’m not happy about you walking in like that, but I need to look for something while we’re here. I need to see if he kept their old diaries, but I want you to know that I’m doing that in my client’s interests and that means it’s all right for me to be in the house. I’m not so sure about you.’
He took no notice of her and sat looking out of the kitchen window towards the gate while she searched. The cupboards were full of boxes, a messy avalanche of books and papers. When she found the diaries for 1993 and 1994, she leafed back through them. There were five or six entries saying ‘Phone Angela’ with no number, then she came to the first entry and there it was – ‘Angela, healer’, but when she dialled, all she got was a message saying it was no longer in use. She ruffled through the pages again and a small piece of paper fluttered out. It was thin, brittle, stained and yellowed – an oblong label. She angled it to the light and saw writing – “November 1823”. There was something else but the ink was faded. She went over to the light. It said “For F and G, with affection JO.” She took it to show Ferney.
‘Do you know what this is? F and G, is that for Ferney and Gally? It must be, mustn’t it? November, eighteen twenty-three? Who was JO?’
He was staring at the label.
‘You know something, don’t you?’ she said. ‘I can tell. Have you seen it before?’
‘Are you sure it says JO?’
She looked again. ‘I can’t tell exactly. It’s very faded.’
‘JO,’ he said. ‘Well, maybe you’re right.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Will you tell me?’
‘Not now. It doesn’t matter now. There are far more important things.’ He sounded frantic. ‘They’re not coming back, are they?’
CHAPTER 26
As Jo, she would have kept it all to herself, but in this place Gally was supreme and Gally knew only the plain truth would do. They stood on the ramparts of the old camp, staring east between the trees. Gally talked as if to herself, half surprised by what she knew. ‘It didn’t look like this,’ she said. ‘They kept it clear. The forest grew all round but up here, you had to be able to see. We knew they would be coming from over there and we took our tu
rn watching.’
‘They? Who are they?’
‘The Saxons, Cenwalch’s men. They never forgot his name round here. They call him Kenny Wilkins these days.’
‘Exactly when are we talking about?’
Gally had to think. ‘We didn’t do dates. It was five summers after this or ten winters before that or in the eighth year of the reign of some king, but Ferney’s told me since then. It was the year 658.’
‘658. You mean over thirteen hundred years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you remember that?’
‘I remember remembering it. Ferney says – I mean, I think every time we go back to an old memory we change it a bit.’
‘So you’re not sure.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘It’s all Ferney this and Ferney that with you. This boy you’ve just met seems to have a lot to say about this.’
‘This man I’ve always known.’
Her mother let it pass. ‘So why are we here?’
‘There’s nothing before this. Right here, this was the first time. That’s why I’ve brought you.’
‘And what happened here that made you so special?’
Gally looked sideways at her mother, who was staring straight in front of her, tight-lipped.
‘Go on,’ said Fleur. ‘Just tell me whatever story you’ve got to tell then we can get out of here.’
‘A lot of men came here. It seemed like all the men of Somerset,’ said Gally. ‘They knew it was the best place to stop the Saxons. They camped down by the village because there was no water here. Villagers like me did sentry duty because we knew the land. You had a fire you kept burning and a pile of green leaves to put on it to make smoke. Horns to blow too. But while I was on watch, it poured down and my fire went out. Then all at once we could hear them down in the valley through the mist and the rain, all those feet and their swords rattling. I grabbed the horn and I ran as hard as I could.’