by Mavis Cheek
‘I agree,’ said Dulcima, nodding. ‘And I’d say it was more likely to be a force for the good than not. An affirmation rather than a negation. Never hurts to consider the past and even to revalue it.’
Dorcas gave Dulcima a look of surprise – and then covered it up as quickly as she could. Dulcima was not usually given to making philosophical statements so articulately. ‘Integrity,’ said Dorcas. ‘She has integrity.’
‘Well, quite. And I want to know more about what she’s doing up there. I shall ask her to the Manor to dine.’
‘I doubt you’ll get her to come,’ said Dorcas. ‘At the end of a day spent up there she’ll want to have a drink, have her supper at the pub, and go to bed early.’
Dulcima looked sad. She was sad. It had just occurred to her that it was a very long time since she had wanted to invite someone, anyone, to her home for dinner. A very long time. Dorcas saw her disappointment.
‘Why not come down to the Holly Bush instead? You can always have a little chat with her there. She’s extremely amenable. Once she’s had a glass of something warming.’
Dulcima thought about the suggestion. Usually, unless something very odd was happening, like having house guests or a Fitzhartlett family dinner, she was a little ragged, not to say sleepy, by the evening and not very inclined to set foot outside the Manor. All the same … ‘Well,’ she said, surprising herself, ‘I think I might just do that. I’ll come down this evening and ask her myself. I’ll bring Marion. She needs to get out more. On her legs.’
And leaving Dorcas at her door, Dulcima walked back towards her home, wondering if she could, possibly, avoid the cellar enough to remain able to make the journey back into the village tonight. She thought perhaps she could.
Despite some frantic waving, she walked with her head down, deep in thought, and straight past Beautiful Bygones and Dryden’s determined gestures. So lost in thought and wonder was she that both the vicar and the doctor, who were on the pavement deep in conversation, were not a little shocked when the Lady of the Manor walked straight into them.
‘Oh I am so sorry,’ said Dulcima.
‘Lady Fitzhartlett,’ said the vicar,. ‘Please do not mention it.’ He bowed so low that his little nose very nearly scraped the floor. Dr Porlock was less inclined to go the whole hog in matters of feudal response and merely inclined his head and said, ‘Think nothing of it, Lady Fitzhartlett, it was as much our fault for standing there as it was yours for …’
Dulcima looked up at him. ‘Your wife seems to be having a very interesting time with our little archaeologist, doctor. Has she said anything to you about what’s what?’
‘Oh I expect she’s just up there making a nuisance of herself,’ said Donald, trying to sound at ease.
‘Quite, oh quite,’ said the vicar. ‘Ladies of a certain age, eh?’
Dulcima gave him an odd stare, somewhat fish-like he thought, not like her usual melting, doe-eyed self at all, and said, ‘Your point, vicar?’ A response so unlike Her Ladyship, so requiring of a justification, that he could do nothing but gesture heavenwards with his little hands and say, ‘Always busy, always busy,’ and hope it hit the mark.
Dulcima, still very fish-like, said ‘Better that than stand gossiping in the street like you two oldies, I think. You might get stuck in that position with rheumatism in this weather. At your age. And you, vicar, are dangerously close to the puddles down there.’ And she sailed on with more grandeur in her mien than either man had heretofore witnessed in their patroness.
As she approached the Manor the rain ceased. Marion, out in the stableyard, was grooming one of her horses with a vim and vigour that appeared to be leaving the horse somewhat dazed.
‘Marion,’ called her mother.
‘Yes, Mother,’ returned Marion.
‘It is about time we found you a husband.’
Marion rubbed her ears. ‘Sorry, Mother, I didn’t quite catch …’
‘A husband, Marion, is what we must set about finding you. You’d quite like one, wouldn’t you?’
Marion thought for a moment. She tried to put the image of the Gnome out of her mind and think about a man on a horse – which she just about managed. ‘Well, possibly,’ she said. ‘But—’
‘I know, I know – you don’t like your father’s young men and you only like young men who ride but do not hunt. Which has restricted us, I admit. So we must look elsewhere, mustn’t we? We must find you someone suitable. And someone who is right for you.’
Marion managed a faint, ‘Yes. But how will I know?’
‘Know what?’
‘If he’s the right one? I don’t know any – young men. Well – apart from Peter – and I’m sure he isn’t the one. I’ve had no practice.’
Dulcima gave an exasperated little shrug. How many of her contemporaries had daughters who were endlessly surrounded with young men? And here was her beloved and only daughter, who had never wished to be near one. ‘Basically, darling,’ she said, ‘if you find yourself smiling when you think of him, that will do.’ Dulcima put up a warning finger. ‘But not laughing …’
At the hairdresser’s recently, Dulcima had read an article that said women who ran several miles a day were usually doing it out of some deep inner unhappiness rather than a desire to be fit. Running away from life, so the article said. Well, Marion, thought her mother, was riding away from life. And that could not be. She went over to her daughter and touched her cheek. ‘A husband is better than a horse,’ she said. ‘Just.’
The two of them smiled a little guiltily. In the distance they could hear Sir Roger misfiring his gun. Marion plucked up courage and asked, ‘How did you and Daddy know that you wanted to marry each other?’
Dulcima thought for a moment. Yes, good question. Then she remembered the tea-tent.
‘We were at Great-Aunt Belinda’s for the village fête. And it was hot. Your father turned to me and said, “I wonder if there’s anything available to drink other than tea.” – just as I turned to him and said “I wonder if there’s anything available to drink other than tea.” It seemed as good a reason as any. He brought me champagne and it did make me smile, despite the heat. And we kept interrupting each other with the same things. I’d say “I wonder if I ought to go and buy something?” And he would say “I wonder if I should go and buy you something.” So we ended up playing verbal snap. Very funny.’ She went off into a reverie for a moment but was brought back to reality by the sound of a gunshot close to the vegetable garden.
‘Oh heavens,’ said Dulcima. ‘I don’t mind if he tries to shoot pigeons but Orridge is putting in the potatoes this morning … I’d better go and see.’ Then a thought occurred. ‘Marion – would you like a bit of practice? If we could find you a young man to practise on? Just to get used to being with them. It might be helpful. They are a very different breed …’ The gun sounded again. ‘Quite so,’ said Dulcima, and set off in the direction of the vegetable garden. She was already waving a white handkerchief. Orridge might be even more odd with her nowadays but he did not deserve to be shot.
Marion watched her mother walk away with all the alarm of an infant left stranded on a Spartan hill. She had a terrible feeling that she had just seen – she looked at her watch – her mother absolutely sober in the middle of the day, and strangely, uncharacteristically, determinedly mentioning the word marriage. She threw down the currycomb, saddled up Coco, rode like the wind and made for Spindle Tor. She always rode to Spindle when the world became too much. From there she could only see the side of the Hill that did not have the Gnome visible – and she enjoyed the little leaps over the little lumps in the ground that she and Coco or Sparkle had to negotiate.
The last time she had heard her mother use that commanding tone of voice to anyone was when they brought her down from the Hill, after her pony trouble, all those years ago, and her mother had told them to Go Very Carefully – She’s My Only Daughter – Steady Now, Gently Does It – and so on. But after that Mummy seemed to go bonkers. Som
e said it was the shock. Daddy said it was nonsense. And Mummy went even more bonkers. But she was a nice kind of bonkers. Very calm and pleasantly disconnected. Now her mother showed every sign of reconnecting herself. Which Marion felt would also require her to reconnect herself. Something had changed. Marion wondered what. She remembered how Peter looked when he talked about the barmaid. Maybe she could do something to help him and agree to her mother’s suggestion at the same time? Marion was not entirely without good sense, even if she preferred to keep this to herself.
From the top of Spindle Tor Marion looked down on the village. Both she and Coco were breathing hard but whereas Coco was merely breathless from the ride, Marion was both breathless from the ride, and breathless from the thought of what might be to come. Marriage! Frightening thought. Even so, a dim stirring of something calling itself Duty – she had royal blood, after all – whispered its way through her. But it was immediately countered by a bright flash of imagery that incorporated the horrible Gnome and his horrible thing – which she saw in her mind’s eye as she had seen it when she and her pony tripped over the hidden edge of his extended arm and she had rolled right over it. Marriage.
She turned Coco so that they could head slowly down the Tor. Well, maybe if she had to get married she could do it as a duty? As Coco made his clever and careful way over the ancient lumps and bumps of the landscape, it occurred to Marion that there was one person of whom she was very fond that she could help by pursuing marriage. Marion was quite taken with the idea of ladies and knights. The attitude of Dame Ermyntrude and Lady Edith in Sir Nigel by Arthur Conan Doyle, and anyone at all from Sir Walter Scott seemed to Marion the height of romantic chivalry. And they all rode horses. Given this, it seemed to her utterly fitting for a lady to make a sacrifice for both duty and friendship, and – if she could not have love herself – Ah me – then she could, perhaps, clear the path for someone else’s desires. With that satisfying thought she set Coco to trot back through the village and home.
Some hours later Winifred sat back on her heels almost as comfortably as she used to sit on them when a young girl, and said to Molly’s very active back view – ‘Well, we have got on splendidly. I know it’s only a little trench but it will be very indicative and I think we should have the first few layers completely off by nightfall.’
Molly did not look up but nodded as she continued to work. ‘You’ve been fantastic,’ she said, ‘I had no idea you were so skilled.’
‘Comes from a lifetime of gardening,’ laughed Winifred. ‘And not wanting to disturb the bulbs. But I suppose it’s a competence you don’t forget.’ She took a deep breath before adding, ‘This will be the most infuriating of questions – but I’m longing to ask. What exactly are we looking for up here?’
‘Oh damn,’ said Molly jumping up and putting her head out of the tarpaulin cover. And she thought: Saved by the Rain.
The sky darkened once more and the downpour made hard patterings on the tarpaulin. A rook or two made its raucous way home and the soft sound of water falling on turf and soil drummed in their ears. Molly slipped out from under the covers to stand in the rain and look about her at the glistening emptiness. There was no way of avoiding the question now. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I’m certain that there is something and I didn’t even know that before I started. My grandfather was extremely cagey, even in what he wrote for his own private consumption. “There are more ways to rebel than using slingshot and arrows,” he wrote in the second of his notebooks when he was digging up here. “And what I think we may, just possibly, discover about the Gnome, is that he was used to counter deeply held beliefs and rituals – I find there is something unkindly in his stance – unlike the phallic warriors and gods of Greece and Rome. It could be that he was a way of undermining long-held and cherished ideals – and doing it in the mode that every coarse soldier, every coarse schoolboy knows. If I’m right what the Gnome sets out to do is as old as time in terms of insult. As old as the myths themselves …” So he found something that excited him. You can tell from what he wrote that there is an underlying conviction.’ She stopped and gestured all around as the rain pelted down on her. ‘I’m just following my intuition,’ she said, unusually pathetically.
Winifred nodded. ‘You are doing more than that. You are using your educated intuition.’
‘Exactly,’ said Molly, firm of voice again. ‘Exactly.’
‘Well, come back under the covers, dear,’ said Winifred, ‘or your educated intuition might get washed away in the deluge.’ Molly did so.
‘As I said,’ went on Winifred, ‘we filmed an extensive dig over near Bonwell – and all round Lufferton Boney was chock full of sites of one kind and another. Ritual burials coming out of its ears. So I’m surprised that there is nothing up here. I wonder if that’s why it’s been left empty? Ungrazed?’
Molly nodded. ‘According to Arthur Bonner that is significant.’
‘But in what way?’ said Winifred, almost to herself. ‘Obviously the Gnome is newer than most of the burials and enclosures round about. An untainted site, maybe.’
‘So that he could taint it himself?’ said Molly.
‘I suppose you could also see it as marking the landscape for the conqueror …’
‘But in that case why choose this hill? It’s less visible than half a dozen others. Its only focus seems to be the village and immediate surroundings.’
‘Maybe that’s all they were interested in,’ said Winifred. ‘Whoever they were.’
Both women sat back on their heels, listened to the rain, and pondered the mystery. Then Molly said, ‘The only thing to do is to put all these questions out of our heads and keep on with the work and see if that brings an answer. Who knows? If we do find something beneath this layer, something beneath him … And those shale pieces are late Iron Age, I think. British. Not Roman. So why would there be such a mixture of the two?’
‘As you say, the only way we’ll find out is to get on and dig. By the way …’
Winifred’s voice had a definite edge to it; an excitement, even. Molly looked up from her trowel. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d say this trench area has been dug up once before. Wouldn’t you?’
Which was exactly what Molly had been thinking but dared not voice out loud. Molly – looking quite as rapturous as if Winifred had suggested this was probably another Sutton Hoo – happily said that she thought so too. ‘I’m sure this is where my grandfather was working. At least, there’s no record of anyone else working on the site. And nowhere had the bosing echo.’
‘Come on then,’ said Winifred. ‘Before the light goes.’
On they went. It was another four hours before darkness descended. Time to get down to another layer. It went well. The buckets filled. They began to think they might be nearing something more interesting than soil and flints and chalk. The strata were changing. They talked no more. Speculation was exasperating and they needed all their energy.
That night both women were almost too exhausted to eat. Winifred crawled to her house, passing Miles on the way. Miles appeared to be standing sentry. He asked her a question that she could not quite understand. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said to him in a faint voice and with a limp pat on his shoulder she steered him away from her front door. He did not seem altogether sympathetic but complied. In fact, he seemed to be downright unsympathetic – but she was quite beyond caring.
Indoors she peeled off the various layers of what she was wearing and then stood, damp, flushed and exhausted at the door of the sitting room. She raised her hand in a weak gesture of greeting and stared rather wanly at her husband. Her husband continued to sit, as if made from stone, in front of the television holding what appeared to be the wrapping of something quite greasy – fish and chips, from the smell of the vinegar. Winifred made her way into the kitchen. There, possibly as an admonition, was the day’s cold collation and the three slices of wholemeal bread she had left out in the morning. All untouched. Admonition or not and feelin
g no shame (as Donald said to himself afterwards) about the fact that he had been forced to buy chips, which he loathed, and fish which he loathed, Winifred sat at the kitchen table and ate the rejected meal. She then crept up the stairs, had a hot bath, and fell into bed to sleep very happily and very soundly. Her last thought being that it would do Donald no harm at all to eat a bit of fish now and then. He might get to like it.
Infuriating behaviour, as anyone with an ounce of decency would agree, thought Donald when he came to bed some hours later. He had gone all the way into the town for the fish and chips, they were cold by the time he got them back, and he had no idea, no idea at all, how to use the fool of an oven. And she had not so much as said sorry.
Molly was in no better condition than Winifred, and just as happy. She declined Dorcas’s suggestion that they might eat together, saying that she would see her tomorrow night at the pub but for now she was completely done in. Dorcas did not have to be told, she merely had to look at Molly on whom tiredness and elation sat in strange disharmony. In Dorcas’s opinion Molly was practically asleep where she stood, which was at the pub door. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will be just as nice. Now you go straight to bed.’ But Molly managed to remain awake long enough to drink a glass of wine, consume a mushroom and rabbit pie, and drink a pint of lemonade before staggering her way up the stairs, into the shower, out of the shower, and into her bed, without quite knowing how she achieved it. As she removed her jeans she heard the rustling of something in the pocket. It was only once she was in bed that she realised what it was. The letter from this morning. ‘Oh,’ she said out loud, and the image of Dorcas’s face floated into her mind’s eye. ‘Oh I must …’ But before she could decide what, if anything, she must do about it she fell soundly and smilingly asleep.
In the Squidge Dorcas was sitting at her dressing table remarking to herself that she had definitely perked up no end since Molly came to stay. It takes something fresh and lively, she thought, to show you how flat your life has become. Here she was, brushing her hair (as if she cared), growing older, growing more insular, and living without relish – just going through the motions of day to day living – and it was just not good enough. She saw that now. Molly was alive – even in her extreme tiredness there was a vitality in her face, the pleasure of discovery. Dorcas realised that a little bit of that elation had dusted itself off on her. She might no longer have someone to love, but now she did have something interesting in her life and someone to care about in the person of Molly and her friendship. Even Winifred, whom she had hardly said two words to over the years, was a different woman now – and Dorcas looked forward to knowing her better. How bad of me, she thought, to forget that every person is interesting in their own way, that every person has a story and a life and a right to exist (she put Miles out of her mind), and so forget what it is to be arrogant and alone. So, she had lost Robin, so Robin was the love of her life, so she would never, quite, recover from that – but the world moved on, things happened, other people suffered and survived. And somewhere in all this pursuit of archaeology was the great truth it brought: that the past always has a future and that future, if it is wise, takes its lessons from the past. For the first time since Robin was lost to her, she felt an interest, real interest, in the outside world and its changing shape.