by Ivy Ferrari
Chris shrugged. ‘Not really. And I didn’t have much contact with her even in the earlier days—Let’s face it, anyway, our dig interests bored her silly. She was always trying to get Bruno away from it.’
Tina stood huddled in her anorak, watching the suicidal diving of the crows, and flinching in spite of herself at their sudden swoops into space. ‘Yet Adam Copeland is quite well informed about the Wall and archaeology generally, isn’t he?
‘Oh, he knows it all. He also affects to laugh at what he calk our fanaticism. He once said his sense of the past, as with most of the locals living on the Wall, was sufficiently developed without having to dig with little trowels to titillate it.’
‘How pompous!’ said Tina hotly. She glanced at Chris, his lean clever face whipped into colour by the wind. ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’
He shrugged. ‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, at least around here. The local people seem to worship him. He can do no wrong.’
Tina remembered what Chris had said in their Rome apartment. ‘ “He bestrides the Wall like a Colossus”.’
And Chris had been right, she told herself reluctantly. His influence, his responsibilities, his bearing, caused him to tower like a giant over his kingdom of Hadrian’s Edge ...
Her gaze sought the climbing Wall again. This was his country, his wild domain, for all the Romans had left on it their eternal monument. ‘They came, they saw, they conquered’ ... And eventually, as he had so triumphantly pointed out, they withdrew.
Her hands clenched tightly. She knew he expected her to withdraw just as ignominiously. And though she had given Chris her promise not to do anything impulsive she made a vow standing there in the same wind which had chilled her countrymen centuries ago, that she would make him retract every word of condemnation against her brother.
Yet her heart quailed a little at the prospect before her.
CHAPTER TWO
When lunch-time came back at the dig, Chris joined his young workers for sandwiches and coffee. Carrie and Tina walked back to the house. Just before the path entered the grounds by the tennis-court Carrie pointed across the moor.
‘See that path? Quarry Farm’s in the dip beyond. You can just see the chimneys. So if you want to visit the Finches, that’s the way to go. Even now there’s no proper road to the place. The path is a blind end so they don’t get many visitors. And last time the Health Visitor called Jamey let all the geese loose and she had to run for her life.’
Tina laughed. ‘It doesn’t look very far. Half a mile, would you say?’
‘Nearer three-quarters. So you’ve decided to go?’
‘Yes. I want to talk to them about Bruno.’
Carrie glanced sharply at her. ‘I know one who won’t make you very welcome, and that’s Francey. You’ll be a bit of a shaker to her, as she’s always queened it as the local beauty. She’ll take rather a dim view of competition. Matt and Jamey—well, they’re another cup of tea. And no one counts the twins. Go if you must then, but don’t count on it being a piece of cake. I don’t know how it is, but everyone who tangles with the Finches comes to regret it.’
‘I shan’t.’
Carrie shrugged. ‘Come on, lunch. I’m hungry.’ Over salad and coffee they discussed the finds at the dig, though Tina’s attention wandered, settling inevitably with a sick anxiety on thoughts of Bruno.
Suddenly Carrie said drily, ‘Why don’t you tell me to close the hangar doors?’
‘Oh...’ Tina said softly. ‘Carrie, how long did it take you to get used to losing Lofty?’
‘I wish I could tell you what you want to hear—that you won’t always feel as you do now about your brother. It’s true that I said all the old trite things about time healing. But time is a very elastic thing. When we lose someone a day can seem an eternity. Then looking back, the years seem to telescope...’ She broke off. ‘Maybe as far as Lofty is concerned I ought to close the hangar doors too. Call an end of thinking about him.’
‘But—some day—someone might come along with news of him.’
‘I suppose miracles sometimes happen.’ Carrie changed the subject abruptly. ‘You were pretty upset at the dig this morning, weren’t you? I can understand why. And if it’s going to help you to talk to the Finches about Bruno then by all means go. But wait until evening when Matt’s home from work. You’ll get some sense out of him.’
That afternoon on the dig Chris took Tina aside. ‘Look, Tina, I’ve had a bit of a talk with one or two locals in the pub. It’s true that the countryside’s buzzing with talk—about this girl seen with Bruno. Now brace yourself, Tina. I’m afraid it’s more than just a tale. There was a girl. And the general idea seems to be that if he was only giving her an innocent lift she would have come forward at the inquest. Whereas she has just disappeared. It certainly looks odd.’
‘Chris, you can’t honestly believe all this?’
‘About Bruno’s supposed motives? I hope I knew him better than that’ He hesitated, his eyes uneasy. ‘But, Tina, Bruno could have had secrets from me, even from Helen.’
‘I still don’t believe he would do anything to hurt her,’ Tina exploded. ‘He loved her—you know that. He was crazy about her.’
‘He was.’ Chris shrugged. ‘But Copeland was determined to make him wait for marriage, as Helen was under age. Isn’t it just possible he got involved with someone else—in a casual way? And there’s that hotel booking. It’s not easy to explain away.’
Tina shook her head. ‘It doesn’t make sense, knowing Bruno. Except ... Chris, do you think it might have been Francey Finch? Bruno knew her well, didn’t he? Would she be the kind of girl to try and entice him into some—well, adventure of that kind?’
‘Francey?’ Chris frowned. ‘It’s just possible, I suppose. Bruno did go quite often to Quarry Farm, and gossip says she’s getting rather tired of carrying a torch for Adam Copeland.’
Tina spoke with a spasm of irritation. ‘Another worshipper—does everyone make a God of that man?’
Chris sighed. ‘I wish I could make you see—this is why there’s so much talk against Bruno. Local opinion is that he served Copeland and his sister very badly indeed. I really doubt if trying to dig up the truth is going to do much good. You might prove Bruno innocent, but who is going to believe you or even care? I think you’d be better to leave well alone.’
Tina glanced at the students kneeling, digging, sifting the earth.
‘You don’t ask your workers to leave the past alone. If they didn’t dig they’d never find the truth. I’ll find it too.’
Chris shook his head. The truth isn’t always pleasant. Just as when we dig here we find a layer of peaceful living, then evidence of fire and bloodshed. And once dug up the evidence can’t be destroyed again. Better forget it, Tina. And after all, what will it matter, when we’re both back in Rome, what a parcel of Northumbrians thought of Bruno?’
‘It does matter,’ Tina said passionately. ‘Because Dad’s a Northumbrian—Bruno had Northumbrian blood. Isn’t that a good enough reason?’
Chris reached for his anorak. ‘There comes the rain. We shall have to call a halt to any more work today.’
The rain came like fine needles on the force of the wind, drenching and chilling. By four o’clock all work on the site had stopped and equipment was stored under cover in a makeshift shed. Later that evening the wind strengthened from the west, blowing away the low curtain of cloud and revealing odd glimpses of chilled blue sky. After the evening meal Tina decided to visit the Finches. She had changed into a blue wool dress, swinging high above her dimpled knees, and slung a white cardigan about her shoulders.
‘You’ll freeze on the moor dressed like that,’ Carrie told her. This isn’t Rome, you know.’
Tina, who hated coats, pulled a face. ‘You’ll learn,’ Carrie sighed.
Tina followed the track through the woods at the back of the grounds, where Carrie had promised her she would find the path forking to Quarry Farm. Except for the somb
re green of fir and spruce, the woods were bare and wintry still, even in April. And as Tina emerged on the open moor she shivered at the bite of the wind and wished she had taken Carrie’s advice. She ran down the stony track to keep warm, and suddenly the farm lay revealed below, a low white house, roughly limewashed. A line of linen flapped in a rough garden, she could hear the gaggle of geese from outbuildings, and then, like grace notes above a line of music, there came a silver flutter of wings over the stables.
Racing pigeons, Carrie had said. It seemed a strange occupation to Tina, but then so much about her father’s beloved homeland was strange to her.
As she approached the farm she saw that the front door was almost obscured by neglected creepers. She found a back one open on to a stone-floored scullery, smelling of paraffin. She knocked. A voice called to her to come in. Rather diffidently she opened the door opposite, finding herself in a high beamed room with an old-fashioned black grate. The furniture was old and scarred, the paintwork peeling, but there was an air of instant and rather pathetic homeliness about it There were also two young men, both staring at her the way all young men stared at Tina on first sight She forced a smile. ‘I’m Tina Rutherford. I hope you don’t mind—’
The taller of the two stood on the hearthrug, regarding her soberly. He had a thin, rather intense face, with a steadiness and depth to his eyes, she found reassuring. ‘You must be Matt.’ She held out her hand. He took it, his fair thatch of hair falling forward over his face. ‘Nice to meet you, Tina. This is my brother Jamey. We heard you were expected at Hadrian’s Edge.’
Jamey perched on the table edge, his dark bold eyes frankly assessing her charms. He was black-haired, swarthy, well aware of his masculine vitality. And he did not so much grip her hand as hold it ‘Well now, if I’d have known I’d have worn a clean shirt.’ His glance was warm, a little more than friendly.
Tina had assessed him at a glance. She had been approached by and carelessly brushed off dozens of such young strutting males at Rome parties.
Jamey reached over, tipped a ginger cat off a chair and turned it towards her. ‘Might as well sit down, now you’re here.’
‘Thanks,’ she said coolly.
Matt spoke, a little uneasily. ‘Tina, we’re all very sorry about Bruno. He was our friend, at least we were proud to think so.’ She recognised in his voice the rougher Northumbrian burr of the moors, subtly different from the more sing-song accents of the Tyne valley. Jamey’s voice was lighter, more impatient ‘Aye, it was bad luck. A burst tyre in the fog.’
‘He came here quite often, didn’t he?’
Jamey nodded, his eyes admiring her brief skirt. ‘Francey brought him first. I think she had a bit of a fancy for him.’
‘Don’t talk daft!’ Matt argued. ‘It was just friendship and you know it. Miss Copeland was his girl—much more his stamp, educated and all that.’
Matt sat down in the sagging armchair by the fire. ‘Staying long?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Tina hesitated. ‘That depends on Mr. Copeland.’ She rushed on. ‘Please don’t be shy of talking to me about Bruno. I’d like you to tell me all about his life here.’
Jamey drew on his cigarette, grunted. ‘That wouldn’t be much. Bruno was a bit of a dark horse. You don’t think he told us everything, do you, pet?’
Pet ... a well-known Tyneside endearment and one her father often used. Like the more usual ‘hinney’ of the rest of the county it could cover a multitude of relationships. She was not and never would be a pet of Jamey’s, but the word reached her without offence.
Matt began sorting a box of coloured rings. His hands, though work-worn, had a shapely strength Tina found herself admiring. She guessed the rings were for the pigeons.
‘No, he didn’t tell us everything,’ Matt said. ‘Nor did we want him to. He was friendly—a canny lad, but a bit above our level.’ And his glance, curiously defensive, said plainly enough—‘And so are you.’
‘You’re bonny, I’ll say that for you.’ Jamey was plainly, anxious to be more personal. ‘Bruno said you were. You knock spots off Helen Copeland—or even our Francey.’
‘Francey? She’d be all right if she didn’t plaster her face with all that make-up muck.’ Matt spoke shortly.
‘Is Francey out?’ Tina asked.
‘You’d be lucky to catch her in, nights,’ Jamey grinned. ‘Me either, for that matter.’
Matt pushed the box of rings aside. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Tina?’ He hesitated. ‘Or coffee, if you’d rather. It’s only the instant stuff.’
Tina gratefully accepted the coffee. Matt pushed a heavy kettle further on the stove. His glance went to an old wall-clock. ‘Time Rosie and Bobby were in. I suppose they’re up the crags.’ He glanced at Jamey.
‘Not after Hadrian chased Thompson’s lambs. Old Thompson said he’d shoot the dog if they went up there again.’ Jamey spoke with a half grin.
‘He’d be within his rights,’ Matt said grimly. ‘They know better than to go near the lambs. I’ll have a word with them when they come in.’
‘I saw them this morning,’ Tina said hastily. ‘They were serenading Mrs. Butterfield.’
‘ “Cushie Butterfield”, was it?’ Jamey’s laughter was uninhibited.
‘I’ll tan them both if I ever catch them at it,’ Matt promised. ‘I hope Mr. Copeland didn’t hear.’
‘What’s the odds?’ Jamey asked. ‘Carrie doesn’t care.’
Matt said: ‘Aye, Carrie’s a canny lass. She doesn’t take offence.’
Jamey winked lazily at Tina, who had to repress a smile. Jamey was rather like a naughty but endearing dog playing for attention. Suddenly, though, he got up and efficiently produced three mugs of coffee of a strength to take the roof off her mouth.
Tina set hers aside to cool and appealed to Matt again: ‘Didn’t Bruno ever—well, talk to you about himself?’
Matt, lounging against the mantelshelf, gazed soberly down at her. ‘No, he didn’t. And look, Tina, it would be better for you if you didn’t come here too much.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. There’s nothing for you here, except maybe trouble. We haven’t got much of a reputation.’
‘I don’t care about reputations!’ Tina spoke spiritedly.
Then you should.’
‘Don’t frighten her off, man!’ Jamey protested. ‘As far as I’m concerned she’s as welcome as the flowers in May.’
Light footsteps sounded in the scullery. A small slender blonde flounced in, heavily made up, and reeking of cheap perfume. She stared at Tina, catching her breath. ‘Who’s this? Oh, don’t tell me, I can guess. Bruno’s sister, aren’t you? She dumped her handbag on the table, flung off her coat and slumped into the armchair opposite Matt
She was lovely, Tina conceded, with a rough wild-rose beauty. Her hair was naturally curly and despite obvious attempts at straightening, it clustered in tiny rings about her ears and temples. Her eyes were dark by contrast, long-lashed and wide-set above a pert tilted nose. There was perhaps too much of the healthy peasant in Francey for glamour, but there was also James’ pulsing vitality.
‘Welcome to the Palace,’ she drawled. ‘If I’d known you were coming I’d have baked a cake—eh, Jamey?’ Their unbridled laughter brought swift colour to Tina’s face.
‘Hold your tongue, our Francey,’ Matt ordered. ‘And it’s more of a pigsty than a palace, thanks to you.’
Francey eyed Tina closely. ‘Come to work on the dig, have you? You must be daft! Catch me grovelling for old Roman rubbish.’
But her gaze, settling on Tina’s simple well-cut dress, held something of a hungry wistfulness. ‘Must be great to have money,’ she said. ‘And be educated and all that. And invited to stay at Hadrian’s Edge.’ The last words held surprising venom.
So that’s it, Tina thought. She hates the fact that I’m living up there.
She finished her coffee, got up and said: ‘I must go. But I’d like to come again.’ She avoided Fran
ces’s sulky stare. ‘You were Bruno’s friends, so I’d like you to be mine too.’
‘I don’t see why?’ Francey got up and collected the muss, slammed out a rather stained tablecloth.
‘Francey, watch your tongue!’ Mart s voice was a rasp.
Francey ignored him and turned to bring plates from the dresser. Tina sighed and prepared to go. Her visit had been less than a success Jamey had nothing to offer but flirtation. Francey was openly antagonistic. Only Matt held any promise. ‘Like to see the pigeons?’ he asked suddenly.
She brightened. ‘I’d like to.’
‘You’ve asked for it,’ Francey said. ‘Love me, love my pigeons. You’ll learn.’
Tina followed Matt into the yard. The light over the moor was waning, turning tawny shadows to russet blackening the plantations tucked in the folds of the hills. A few pigeons circled in a desultory way above the loft.
‘It’s feeding time.’ Matt explained. He filled some shallow pans with maize, calling in a curious cooing chuckle. There was a rubbery sound of wings, then the pigeons were clustered and bobbing about the feeding pans.
‘I’ve got eight pairs,’ he told her. ‘Four of them still at the trial stage. That’s a Barless Blue. Those two are Barred Mealies, they’re Blue and Red Chequers. That pair are Silver Duns.’
‘What pretty names!’
‘Oh, they’re just the names of the various strains. They’ve their own personal names too. That’s Storm Princess. She’s Pearl of the Wind. He’s Red Knight and this is Silver Cloud.’
‘You’re quite a poet.’ She watched him pick up a bird here and there, stroking the wings with a gentleness she found touching. ‘You love pigeons, don’t you?’
He smiled. ‘You can’t beat pigeon-racing. It’s not the prizes, nor the silver cups. It’s waiting, in the dark and cold in the loft—watching for your birds, knowing the canny wee things are battling through storm and wind to you. It’s like having a share of the sky with them. Your heart’s with them all the way, hundreds of miles, from the Highlands or the Lakes or up from the Sussex Downs—’ He broke off, smiled again shyly. ‘We’re all daft that way, us fanciers. You might say we’ve only got one leg on me ground.’