The Lovers of Pound Hill

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘Well …’ she said reluctantly. She was not going to tell him that they had already arranged to meet.

  ‘No – I insist – it’s part of your job. In fact, why don’t you head off now and meet them at the bottom of the Hill and see if you can persuade them to have a drink with you?’

  Dorcas shuffled her papers together, stood up, slipped her apple green cardigan (she had taken to wearing more colours nowadays) over her slightly suntanned shoulders, and nodded. ‘Good idea,’ she said, ‘I ought to offer to buy it for them. What sort of drink?’

  Miles thought quite often that Dorcas was a little odd. ‘Well, whatever they want. Wine? Spirits. Doubles. Loosen their tongues. Yes?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. Leaning over the desk she pulled out the middle drawer and removed a grey tin.

  ‘What are you doing that for? It’s the petty cash tin.’

  ‘I have no money to buy anyone a drink at your request tonight, Miles,’ said Dorcas. ‘I do not earn enough.’ This was perfectly true. She had money to buy them a drink at her own behest. But over her dead body would she spend any money of her own on behalf of Miles. Miles looked defiant. It was not his business to pay over the odds. He watched Dorcas carefully. ‘But that’s a twenty-pound note!’ he said.

  ‘Three of us, doubles …’ She waggled the note at him before slipping it into her cardigan pocket.

  ‘But you can have a lemonade or something. Can’t you?’

  He hoped that Dorcas had heard for she was already out of the sitting room and in the hallway and making for the front door.

  *

  When Molly saw Dorcas she gave a wave and nodded when Dorcas pointed at the pub and made a drinking gesture. Behind her, Dorcas knew, Miles watched like a hungry hawk. So far, so good. She took the £20 note out of her pocket and flashed it at the two women who smiled delightedly. Did she imagine it or did she hear a groan from the window behind her? As she went up the steps to the pub in high good spirits (but not as high good spirits as she would be when she had bought the drink, obviously) Montmorency came slinking past her legs and down the steps as if he had aged to a hundred. Strange, thought Dorcas, and went on her way.

  Seven

  THE THREE WOMEN could not sit in their customary place by the now unlit fire, as the seats were taken; or rather, two of the seats were taken – by Nigel and Marion. They moved a little apart and rather primly sipped their Coca-Colas when Molly and Winifred appeared (Dorcas was at the bar finding out what she could buy for as near as damn it £20). For once Julie Barnsley was notably relaxed despite Nigel’s being in the company of another woman. For once, Julie Barnsley knew, she was quite safe from usurpation. Indeed, so comfortable was she that when she brought the three women their bottle of wine (honeycomb unoaked, Stellenbosch 06/07 £19.50 and Peter Hanker’s best offering) she stopped to say hallo to Nigel and Marion. She noticed, but put no great store by it, that Marion’s hair was no longer such a mess, indeed, Marion’s hair looked quite smart in its new bob. She was also wearing something above her jodhpurs that looked quite pretty – some sort of shirt in what seemed to be silk. Perhaps, just for a picosecond Julie wondered, but she soon put it out of her head: it was just an immense relief that he was not sitting with that Molly person. Nigel and Marion were looking at an old map together, heads bent over it and nearly touching, despite the gap between them, and it looked – well – rather more intimate than Julie would have expected. But on closer inspection the map they were looking at was so old and tattered that it held no hint of any romantic possibility. As Julie slipped back around the bar, Peter Hanker tickled her ribs. ‘Not throwing her out?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the map readers. Julie laughed. ‘As if …’ she said comfortably. ‘As if …’

  Over in the corner, next to but not with Pinky and Susie, sat Winifred, Dorcas and Molly. The wine, they agreed, was excellent; that it had been paid for by someone else made it even more excellent. That it was Miles who paid made it elixir from the gods. Dorcas told them why the wine was a gift from Miles and that he was likely to expire if they kept up the secrecy for too long. ‘As will I,’ she said firmly. And leaned back in her chair with folded arms. ‘And what is all this stuff about having good news?’ The attempt to look severe did not last, however, and she broke into a broad smile. ‘He’s dreaming of relics of gold,’ she said, ‘to the point that he breaks out in a sweat every time he thinks about it. Have you found relics of gold?’ Molly assured her that they had not found anything remotely resembling gold, silver or anything Miles might consider precious.

  ‘We have, however, found relics of something else …’

  Dorcas leaned back looking – very slightly – disappointed. ‘Ah – so that’s the good news.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Molly, sipping from her glass and looking as innocent as she possibly could, which was not very. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. Not at all. It’s quite separate from the Hill and you’ll just have to wait.’

  Dorcas folded her arms and looked severe again. ‘Are you playing games with us, Molly Bonner?’

  Molly leaned back and also folded her arms. As did Winifred. Both looked with equal severity at their companion. ‘I most certainly am not,’ she said. More than that on the subject she would not say. ‘But Dorcas, there is something we want to show you tomorrow, up on the Hill, something we have found which is extraordinary. It’s not fully excavated yet, but we are almost there and there is enough to see what it – they are. I want you to be the first to see it apart from ourselves. I’m going to trawl back through Grandfather’s books and notes again tonight to see if I can link it with anything there. Though I have to say he was pretty obscure. Quite clearly didn’t want anyone to find out before he had finished the job.’

  ‘All men are obscure,’ said Winifred. ‘It is their job in life. As teenagers must rebel, so men must keep what they are thinking to themselves. They were not made to share information, merely to dictate it. If only they were capable of saying what they wanted, life would improve considerably.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Dorcas. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Experience,’ said Winifred bluntly, and raised her glass thoughtfully before sipping.

  Next to her Pinky sat bolt upright, looked a little shocked, then stroked his chin consideringly, before continuing the game of cribbage with Susie.

  Winifred smiled at the two younger women. ‘Doesn’t mean we don’t love them, though. Silly buggers.’

  Molly saw the shadow that flowed across Dorcas’s face. ‘Drink up,’ she said cheerfully. ‘For who knows what tomorrow might not bring?’

  ‘Oh now come on,’ said Dorcas. ‘This is not fair, not fair at all.’

  Molly put her finger to her lips. ‘Enough for the moment. I’ll see you both at the bottom of Pound Hill at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Now I must go and plunder those books for any help I can find …’ And, after draining her glass and tapping the side of her almost impeccably honest nose, she departed.

  ‘My lips are sealed, too,’ said Winifred.

  ‘And the other piece of good news? The one affecting me and Miles? Molly wouldn’t tell us any more than that.’

  ‘Absolutely no idea,’ said Winifred. And poured out the rest of the wine.

  *

  Behind them, Nigel and Marion were still deeply engaged in the study of the map. Old and tattered it certainly was. Nigel had found it in one of the drawers of the old mule chest at the manor, right at the bottom under the strange and antique playing cards and other Victorian games. It was odd, he thought, as he poked about in the ancient dust and crumbling spiders, how much more interesting and alive old furniture and stuff was when you had it all around you in a home and used it. He had begun to enjoy his visits to Marion’s house – to look forward to rummaging about in things, running his fingers over silky elmwood chairs or over rough oak – pulling books out of the dark, carved bookcases and generally feeling – well – at home. Marion said that his visits stopped the bore
dom – which he took to be a compliment – and she had taught him backgammon. She had practically, though not quite, forgiven him for not being a rider. But she did understand that it came from fear rather than dislike. After all, she had her own little fear to contend with.

  The map, newly found, intrigued them both. It was of the surrounding area, showing footpaths, and bridleways and tracks some of which neither of them had encountered before; lost, probably, in the mists of time. There were also several places marked as thickets and woodland that were now cleared. The map did seem to be very old indeed and it was Marion’s plan to explore these byways and tracks and bridleways but she wanted to do this on horseback. It was the only way, she decided, and far too tiring on foot. Since Nigel felt quite faint at the very idea of getting up on a horse – he had never even liked the up-and-downers at the fair – he told Marion that he was not entirely happy. She merely patted his arm as if it were a fetlock and said no more. Oh well, he thought, as they sat in the pub and studied the various strange routes, Oh well – cross that bridge when we come to it. While his beloved Molly Bonner was unavailable, this was passing the time very nicely, and meanwhile, his father was completely off his back now that he was up at the Manor most days.

  Marion’s mother was very accommodating and charming to him and kept giving him little taps on the back and encouraging looks, and Orridge brought them refreshments from time to time, while her father continued to look threatening but took it no further. One way or another the Fitzhartletts seemed to favour treating people as they treated their animals. Sir Roger was probably equally brusque with his gun dogs. Well, brusque was how he described it to his father – Sir Roger’s actual words on one occasion were ‘I have my eye on you and if you step one little toe out of line with my only daughter you shall feel the toe of my boot.’ Marion said that this meant he liked Nigel, but Nigel was not convinced. Still, it mattered not because he was certain that when he had finished the gun and presented it to Marion’s father, Sir Roger would fall over backwards with gratitude.

  ‘I wonder what these marks mean,’ said Marion, peering closely at the map. Nigel rather liked the way she peered at everything. It was rather touching, he thought, as if she were a newly born kitten. He moved closer, and following her pointing fingertip, which – he saw – was very pink and rosy, he made out the faded writing. ‘It says something like cysts. Cysts? I wonder what cysts are?’ they said in unison, and looked surprised. Third time that day, thought Marion.

  Julie over at the bar laughed. ‘Lumps,’ she said, ‘that grow on you. A bit like warts only softer.’ Marion recoiled and Nigel felt her lean against his shoulder. It made him feel curiously manly. He was just beginning to explore this odd thought when he looked up for a moment and caught the eye of Winifred who was watching him very beadily. ‘Nigel,’ she said, ‘would you mind showing me that map?’ Nigel obliged.

  *

  From her bedroom window that night Dorcas gazed out at the Gnome. It was one of those June nights that seem not to get quite dark and the Hill and its occupant were almost luminous against the deeply lit blue. She had the strangest feeling nowadays that the Gnome was vexed. The sense of threat that Dorcas usually felt on looking up at the vulgar creature was absent, or reduced, and inside herself she felt the faintest stirrings of something pleasant. What was it? she pondered. There it goes again, she thought. And as she slid into bed and saw the moon shining on the Spode dish with its pretty patterning, she knew. It was the second wave of that elusive little thing called happiness. ‘Oh sugar,’ she said, as she switched out the light and sank her head on to the pillow, for as if called up by some unkind demon, Miles Whittington’s face suddenly appeared in her mind. ‘I forgot to report back. But if I’m invited up the Hill then I’ll have to drop a note through the door for Miles, tomorrow. Or maybe,’ she yawned and smiled, ‘maybe I’ll knock on the door instead. Wake him up. Who cares?’

  And with that cheerful thought, she fell soundly asleep. Beyond the window the Gnome also slept, though perhaps he slept fitfully for the edges of the tarpaulins covering his most private part flapped slightly and constantly in the summer evening’s breeze.

  Molly was sucking on a chicken bone, courtesy of the Old Holly Bush’s best coq au vin, and she was deep in thought as she stared at the open pages of notebook II : ‘I remind myself that there are more ways to rebel than using slingshot and arrows,’ she read. ‘Perhaps our Iron Age brothers were more subtle in their rebellions than I thought? It is odd that the phallus is shaped so strangely at its furthest end. The conquering Romans were so exact in their engineering and measurement. It might have been there already, of course. Or the Romans might have ordered it to be cut out but did not actually do the cutting … This is speculation. Time may reveal all.’

  Molly, too, went to her window and looked up at the Hill, and she, too, contemplated the rustling covers and thought about what they covered. It always made her smirk, try as she would not to, and she consoled herself by saying it was better than blushing at the sight of him. The rest of the shape was so exact, so perfectly in proportion – yet it failed at its most important point. As if the cutters had run out of space. ‘We’re getting there,’ she said. ‘We’re on your track now.’ She nodded to herself, removed the well-sucked chicken bone from her mouth and put it back on the plate.

  Below her the pub was silent, except for the low murmur of Julie and Peter’s voices. They often went on talking for a while after last orders and chucking out. It was a soothing sound, caressing almost, and Julie seemed to have become a little less watchful and disapproving of Molly, as if something had smoothed out a wrinkle of behaviour. This was a relief as Molly found it positively exhausting having to be warm and friendly to one who quite clearly wished her off the face of the planet. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to her,’ she said once to Dorcas. But Dorcas only said, ‘You haven’t done anything except be yourself. It’s Nigel. He falls in and out of love all the time. Never stops. And Julie’s hoping to take him down the aisle. You’ve taken her place.’

  ‘But I haven’t encouraged him, have I?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to. It was bound to happen. But I bet if you asked him the colour of your eyes – if you asked him the colour of Julie’s eyes or anyone else whose eyes he has looked into and imagined himself in love, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what colour they were. He’s got a long journey ahead of him, that boy.

  So Molly lay down to sleep, soothed by the murmur of voices below, and looked forward to showing Dorcas what had so far energed from beneath that shocking part of the Pound Hill Gnome. And seeing for herself if what she thought they had uncovered could be so…

  PART III

  One

  WHO KNOWS HOW in a small village, word had spread overnight about a significant find up on the Hill. Not gold, not jewels, not a Viking longboat – but something. The news produced a sense of unity, a collective excitement, of pride even, in Our Hill. Some of the villagers who rose early were clustered by the gate of Miles’s house, shading their eyes against the early morning sun and looking upwards to where the distant tarpaulins rippled gently in the air. Molly, dressed for action and waiting at the foot of Pound Hill for Dorcas and Winifred, put her finger to her lips when asked what she had discovered. ‘All will be revealed,’ she said. ‘And soon.’ They had to remain content with that. They were remarkably accepting.

  Among the passers-by was the vicar. ‘Aha,’ said Molly. ‘Just the person I wanted to see.’ She took him to one side and had a quiet word with him. He nodded several times. Put his hands together in delight and looked extremely joyful. Then his little legs took him away as fast as he could go – not in the direction of the church, nor the vicarage, but in the direction of the Old Manor. His greatest joy was to have a reason for visiting his patrons, and Molly had just given him a cast-iron excuse. How nice to bring a little cheer to people, she thought, being of a cheerful nature herself.

  Miles was hanging around, trying to look bo
th superior and nonchalant. Not an easy combination: the result was less superior and nonchalant and more like a man with trapped wind. He watched anxiously as the vicar skipped off, and he wondered. But to his enquiring gaze Molly simply did what she had done to everyone else and put her finger to her lips. It confirmed to Miles that Molly was in a league of her own when it came to resolution. Her determination and much-dangled purse strings won over his loud bluster every time. So he shut up. A little example, though Miles would not own it, of how the power politics of the world could operate with a different financial balance. But, alas, as far as he was concerned the fact that women did two-thirds of the world’s work and owned less than 1 per cent of its assets and therefore had less than 1 per cent of its power seemed perfectly acceptable. So he stood by and was comforted, at least, to see Dorcas approaching the bottom of the Hill and being, apparently, welcomed. She was going to be allowed up there today. Clever girl to have wormed her way into their trust. He’d get the full details from her later. The church clock struck half-past seven. Time for breakfast.

  Marion was out riding Sparkle – and she looked as if she was echoing her horse’s name. Her hair gleamed in the sun, her cheeks shone with health, and her strange eyes glowed as she rode up to the base of the Hill. Molly remembered to check their colour and noted they were an unusual shade of sea green. ‘Was the map useful?’ Marion asked. And Molly said that yes, it was interesting, and handed it back. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘If you really have finished with it, Nigel and I want to follow it about a bit, to see if some of the things that are marked still exist. If I can get him on a horse. Which doesn’t seem likely,’ she added, mournfully. ‘He’s afraid of them. And we can’t walk – it would take for ever.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll just have to try persuading him again.’