The Lovers of Pound Hill

by Mavis Cheek

  Long after that night, when the work on the Hill and its Gnome was over and done, the people of Lufferton Boney would remember how they all laughed together in the village inn, and how the simple harmony of that experience was as ancient as the Hill itself, as ancient as the Old Holly Bush itself, and should never be forgotten for the beginning that it was. Given what would be found up on the Hill, the Lufferton Boneyites thought it was highly appropriate that Miss Molly Bonner, the archaeologist’s granddaughter, should show them the way to a new kind of harmony.

  Six

  THE WEATHER WAS mixed over the next few weeks and the covers were kept over the site for the whole time. No one was allowed up there unless Molly specifically invited them, and Molly invited only Winifred, her helper, and Dorcas, her occasional coffee and bun provider, but even she was banned eventually. Now, as the days of sunshine increased as they moved into and through May, Dorcas provided them with home-made lemonade and biscuits which they collected from her and took up to the top themselves. Miles was not keen to furnish them with any refreshment at all, but Dorcas said – quite rightly – that if she kept in communication with them she could report back on how they progressed. But all she seemed to report back was that the progress was slow, very slow indeed. Added to the beads was some kind of button. Miles could hardly contain his disgust.

  Slow progress was the truth. But only because the trench had opened up to reveal – if that was indeed what it seemed to reveal – something that was so astonishing, so unusual, so unique, that Molly and Winifred must take their time and definitely, definitely not disturb it. They became totally absorbed by the task. People below noted that the two figures who went up the Hill spry as you like each morning, returned each evening shuffling and bent. Truth was, they did that thing that chiropractors and osteopaths and physiotherapists need you to do in order for them to exist, yet order you not to do when you do it: they worked in the same crouched position for hours. It is known as archaeologist’s back and is one of the reasons why, if you venture into the home of an archaeologist who lives alone and employs no cleaner, it will generally be dusty and unvacuumed, for the activity of hoovering catches the same band of muscles used when on a dig. Archaeologists’ wives, husbands and partners find this very inconvenient. Archaeologists, in general, do not.

  One morning Peter Hanker handed Molly a letter with an exotic stamp on it. ‘Another one? Now who’s that from, I wonder?’ he said, winking at her. Molly tucked it away to read later.

  ‘Good news?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. But more than that was not forthcoming.

  As soon as she left the pub for the day’s work, she forgot about everything else – even a letter with an exotic stamp and the possibility of good news. Later would do, even for that.

  Now that the weather was more benign the two women took their break outside the covers, leaning up against the trailer, and if they looked down on the village it was always a certain bet that someone or other would be standing there and looking up and waving. Molly thought they showed remarkable patience (having had to learn to be patient herself) and she looked forward to the day when she could show them the secret of the Gnome. She thought they would be very pleased, and she thought that Miles would not be very pleased. Dorcas, who knew just enough about the find to keep her semi-honest nose content, also thought he would not be very pleased and that made her much more cheerful than she had been of late. Somehow the dig and the find, although tantalising, had reawoken her sadness, and she thought of Robin more than she had for a very long time. But look on the bright side, she told herself, and enjoy the moment, which is what she tried to do. And there was enough good humour in the mixture to lift her spirits.

  The surprise was Winifred Porlock, who showed herself to be a woman of strong conviction and iron will and who had not wavered in the face of her husband’s persistent disapproval. ‘He will just have to learn,’ said Winifred grimly, when he accosted her one evening at the foot of the Hill. It was Dr Porlock’s belief that his wife’s lack of care was doing his patients no good at all. And that it was why he felt weak during the day and inclined to be short with whoever visited the surgery. He was taking iron pills for it. Winifred’s answer was to get out the cookery books, pile them on the kitchen table, and suggest he consider them in the same way he considered his medical textbooks. The consequence being that Dr Porlock took it upon himself to learn to cook. Having done so less in the spirit of generosity and more in the spirit of one who has the hump, so far the results had not been results to relish: they were results to eat if starving hungry. But, as Winifred said, it would be unkind of her to criticise. After all, Donald had never criticised her less than cordon bleu offerings. Nevertheless, his conversion had its moments. On one memorable occasion Winifred had to excuse herself and race down the Hill to The Orchard House which appeared to be on fire.

  As Winifred told Molly on her return, Donald had been making chips. ‘Why can’t he go to the pub to eat if he wants pie and mash? Or even something more fancy?’ she said indignantly. ‘He doesn’t even like chips …’ Molly had to agree with her. The food at the Old Holly Bush was now of the quality known in the pub trade as gourmet. All because of the dig. People came to look from below at – well – nothing – except tarpaulins – but come they did and the villagers used the pub much more in the evenings. What Molly noticed when Winifred returned from saving The Orchard House was that, although she was highly indignant at her husband’s behaviour, she was also – beneath the crossness – affectionate in her condemnation. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose he is trying.’ She paused, laughed and appended the old adage, ‘Very trying.’

  Peter Hanker had been doing such good trade that he asked Julie if she would do some of the cooking. The results were spectacular: wonderful pies, roasts, stews and gammons, with puddings made – as far as anyone could work out – entirely from sugar and milk and cream. Peter saw to the vegetables, which was never Julie’s interest for in Ireland, she said cheerfully, it was greens and potatoes only, and he also saw to the cheeseboard (local Cheddar or blue vein with crackers, £2 a serving) – and the fruit. When he offered Julie an apple and winked at her, she took it absently and bit into it without looking up from her magazine. He felt a little touch of sadness for her. The magazine was full of pictures of wedding dresses, pictures that were designed to make any red-blooded male weak with anxiety, he told himself. Nevertheless he leaned on the counter next to Julie and started to look at them, too. Julie had lowered her game considerably. For one thing she was much busier now and had far less time to scheme, and for another she saw no sign of anything untoward between Nigel and Molly. She was not entirely sure why she felt so much more relaxed, but something had changed. Only her determination to walk down the aisle of St Ethel’s had not. ‘That one would suit you,’ said Peter, pointing at a particularly gorgeous froth of white tulle. ‘Would it?’ she said, surprised. ‘Yes,’ he said positively, no less surprised himself. ‘Yes it would.’

  There really was no excuse for Donald to take iron pills, said Winifred, apart from his cussedness. Cussed Donald, she now called him. But she said it kindly and Molly saw a tender look in her eye when she recounted her husband’s latest attempts at self-management. It was, said Winifred like watching a toddler learning about the world. Donald fell down as often as he got up, but get up he did. There was love hidden in it, thought Molly, love in what he was trying to do for himself, and love in the way Winifred never said a cross word and just let him get on with it even if it meant her mopping up after a long day on the dig. Even the chip pan episode was never referred to again. When Molly said that she admired this benevolent attitude, Winifred just smiled and looked all around the Hill. ‘You can be kind as anything if you are happy in yourself,’ she said to a passing pigeon.

  Nigel had abandoned standing at the bottom of the Hill with his binoculars since there really was nothing to see. He also noticed that Julie no longer trailed him quite so much as in the
past and he supposed that he felt relieved. All the same, with the ex-great-love-of-his-life busy making such things as steak and ale pies (very good ones, he was surprised to find), and the new-great-love-of-his-life under a tarpaulin every day, time hung heavy. But he had something to occupy him, something he hoped would impress his father and make him look more kindly on him. It was the obvious solution. Finish off making the gun as sound as new, oil up the wood, bring up the silver, check the mechanism which his father said needed a new part – make it all lovely again – and then sell it to Sir Roger. Unfortunately Sir Roger seemed to have forgotten all about it for now, there being so much else going on all around them. Dinners at the Manor were happening much more frequently, the guests intrigued by news of the dig, and the Fitzhartletts were much taken up with a revitalised social life. Marion told Nigel this when they met in the street.

  ‘I escape whenever I can,’ she said. ‘And ride out a bit further than I used to in the mornings. I think I preferred it when it was quiet at home.’ And then she did something very strange. She took Nigel’s hand and put it on the flank of her horse and held it so that they were stroking the coal black hide together. It felt rather nice. Then Marion mounted, turned, appeared to wink at him again though he was never quite certain, and slowly swayed away down the street. He thought it was rather sweet of her. It was the first time he had touched a horse for years.

  Dryden was so busy that he had little time to attend to anything beyond restocking his shop. The number of visitors had increased, and with it the number of sales. So the gun was put back into its cover to be dealt with by Dryden later. Nigel had time. In between serving in the shop while his father was away on various errands and at various sales, he began working on the Churchill.

  This was the first project he had ever taken on all by himself and it made him feel very grown up. Why, he even began to enjoy exchanging a few words every day with Marion, and even looked forward to it. She made her way down the street each morning as usual but now she regularly stopped by the shop. Not many words were exchanged, it was true, but the few that there were were friendly enough. She had, he thought, a nice voice and a nice smile and was altogether not quite so bad as he first thought.

  A few weeks after the laughter incident (as it was known to the puzzled villagers, for they were still uncertain what had brought it about, enjoyable though it was) Dulcima Fitzhartlett entered the shop. For once Dryden was there and he looked upon her with delight. He had not seen Lady Fitzhartlett except in the company of her daughter, for a week or two and he wanted to show her his latest purchase of a fine nineteenth-century wooden saddle horse, still with its original blue-grey paint – most rare, most rare. He rubbed his hands as she approached and then, composing himself so as not to look too keen, he said, ‘You have been much missed, Dulcima.’

  He found it very strange calling her that but not half as strange as she seemed to find it. Having absolutely no memory of suggesting that Dryden adopt the intimacy of using her Christian name, Dulcima Fitzhartlett was astonished. Had the man lost his senses? Her mouth gaped and her eyes blinked. Dryden wondered for a moment if he had dreamed her invitation. Something was not going right about this. ‘Mr Fellows,’ she said kindly, in a voice that emphasised the title. She hoped this implied that he might like to adopt her approach. ‘I have something to ask you but …’ Today, thought Dryden, there is nothing of the swimmy-eyed melting person of old: here is a lady of high bearing, with clear eyes somewhat bright with offence at the moment. He looked into those eyes, which were definitely displeased, and he was thrown. Competely thrown. She was also wearing a tweed suit of severe cut without so much as a ruffle at the neck. She had transformed herself into a lady who appeared to mean business. She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Dryden tried again and stammered over her name – ‘D-D-D –’ He then saw the light and opted for wisdom, ‘Lady Fitzhartlett?’ She relaxed and the eyebrow returned to its normal position. Women play games, thought Dryden. I should remember that. And for a moment he stared beyond the tweed-clad aristocratic shoulder to the shop window and his eyes were dark with fear. The phantom of his dead wife – which looked rather too real for his liking – was nodding at him. He nodded twice and then looked rapidly away.

  ‘May I share something with you, Lady Fitzhartlett?’ So far, so good, it seemed. ‘I have had the most wonderful piece of luck and I found this –’ Dryden stood to one side and gestured towards the fine saddle horse. ‘Nineteenth century,’ he began. ‘Still with its original—’

  But Lady Fitzhartlett put up her hand. ‘I am trying,’ she said, ‘to wean Marion away from her horses and into more social situations. I have neglected my duties in that direction for too long.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dryden. ‘Then she will need somewhere to put her saddle – when she has hung it up, so to speak?’

  Lady Fitzhartlett thought for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Perhaps. But in the meantime I would like to borrow Nigel for a day or two, perhaps even an evening or two. I would like him to visit Marion, and accompany her to the the Old Holly Bush and anywhere else a single young man goes, and I would like him to talk to her. Bring her into the world of – well – young men, and young women. Marion is happy with the arrangement if you are, even though your son does not ride. Indeed, that may be a distinct advantage.’

  Dryden was ecstatic. He put his hands together in pose of prayer and looked, he fondly imagined, like one of those patrons on a votive painting. Possibly beatified. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ he said. ‘With a view to …’

  ‘Why marriage, of course,’ said Dulcima Fitzhartlett, with just a hint of excitement behind the strict tone. ‘What else?’ And so absorbed was he in the delightful projection that he did not hear her final phrase which was: ‘With someone suitable.’

  Dryden nodded. He was almost beyond speech. His very dreams coming true at last. He was about to express his gratitude when he looked up – and there again, with her pale face pressed against its glass, was the image of his dead wife. The image appeared to be nodding at him in mournful pleasure. Dryden shook his head to be free of her and returned his gaze to Lady Fitzhartlett. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I am sure it is what you, I – we all – wish.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘You are sure? You seem a little pale suddenly.’

  ‘I am more sure than I can say, Dul— Lady Fitzhartlett.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then. And Nigel will contact Marion?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said Dryden.

  Dulcima Fitzhartlett was rather surprised at the glow of joy that suffused the antique dealer’s face at this suggestion. How nice the people of the village were, she thought, as she turned to leave. But sometimes odd, she thought, remembering the use of her Christian name. Harty would have a fit.

  ‘And the saddle horse?’ said Dryden.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Lady Fitzhartlett. ‘Later. How much is it?’

  Dryden, who would once have added a nought without concern, considered his position. Dulcima Fitzhartlett was not quite so – amenable to suggestion as once she was, he felt. Not at all. So he said, ‘I think we can talk about that at another time, when Nigel has proved himself worthy …’

  Lady Fitzhartlett, finding the choice of words rather strange but not inclined to wonder overmuch, nodded, thanked him and left the shop.

  ‘Nigel!’ roared his father as soon as she had passed the window (which was quite empty of spectres again, thankfully). ‘Come here at once!’ And to Nigel’s astonishment, for he expected some kind of dressing-down, he was offered the other kind. Dressing up.

  His father took him to Lanyon and Lanyon’s in Bonwell to buy him some new clothes. And it has to be said that when Nigel saw himself in the cheval mirror at that establishment, in a jacket of delicate checked tweed and a pair of buff cotton drills, he felt he looked the part and did not mind quite so much that he was to be companion to Marion. There were worse uses for his time, he thought, remembering Julie’s thu
nderous face.

  The day was so glorious that Susie and Pinky took their lunch out with them. They were surprised to find someone already up on Spindle Tor when they reached the top. There was Marion Fitzhartlett, sitting with her back against a raised mound, her horse gently grazing at her side, and looking with her somewhat strange eyes at the horizon. ‘What made you two get married?’ she asked. Her mother was right about her daughter’s need to practise; Marion was not one for the social cement of small talk.

  ‘We wanted children,’ said Susie.

  Marion Fitzhartlett shuddered and looked across at Sparkle (Coco had flatly refused to come out of his stable), still grazing quietly. ‘That’s what I thought you would say,’ said Marion. And looked, if possible, even glummer.

  Susie sat down beside her with a tremendous thump and expellation of air and pulled her kaftan around her. It was black and purple, this particular garment, something of an improvement in Pinky’s eyes, but still very purplish. ‘I must be getting old,’ Susie said. ‘I used to be able to run up here, now I’m done in.’

  Pinky was very pink and it was a pinkness born of pleasure. He was beginning to have his suspicions. Good suspicions. He offered Susie a can of beer but she turned up her nose and took out a bottle of water. ‘Euggh,’ she said, after sipping it. ‘That tastes of fish.’