The Lovers of Pound Hill

by Mavis Cheek

  Dorcas walked over to where Molly waited for her and Winifred. You could, thought Molly, feel the pulse in the air that morning, feel the pulse of all the blood pumping in the village, waiting, waiting for the half-hour to be struck by the church clock so that doors could open and the people of Lufferton Boney could walk up to the Gnome and see for themselves what the diggers had found.

  It was, thought Molly Bonner looking all about her, so good to be alive. Which is why she wore the very same outfit she had worn when she first arrived in the village all those months ago. The circle of past and present had very nearly closed. ‘Though I am bound to say,’ she told her companions, ‘that climbing up the Hill in this outfit feels ever so slightly ridiculous.’ She shot a little sideways look at Dorcas’s clothes. ‘Has anyone ever told you, Dorcas,’ she said, ‘how much cornflower blue suits you?’

  And Dorcas said that yes, indeed, somebody once had. Winifred, too, was wearing something colourful and pretty. Including lipstick, which matched the red of her dress and which, so she said as they climbed, had astonished Donald, an effect that pleased her very much.

  ‘When are you two going to tell me?’ asked Molly as they climbed.

  ‘About what?’ they both said, all innocence.

  ‘What he meant.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who. My grandfather and this “marvel” thing.’

  ‘When we get up there,’ they said. ‘And not before.’

  Had they turned to look back they would have seen quite a little gathering now assembled at the foot of the Hill. And, looking peaceful and picturesque, they would also have seen Marion Fitzhartlett leading a pony and riding Sparkle down into the village, very slowly, very carefully. If a riding rhythm can be said to be a thinking riding rhythm – then that is what Marion was doing: thinking. Gently she brought the horse to the bottom of the Hill. Nigel was already there, with his back to the village, his gaze following the women as they walked on up to the Gnome. The breeze caught the pink of a skirt, the blue of a dress and the red of another skirt. Above them loomed the figure, cleared now, bright as new, almost winking in the morning sun. Marion saw it as if for the first time. She could not do it. She just could not. Her parents had not yet arrived, which she found a great relief. What she wanted was to return home with Sparkle and hide.

  Another odd thing was happening at the foot of the Hill. Julie Barnsley, who had arrived there with Peter Hanker, looked – there was no other word for it – like a floating blancmange, in pink organza. Pinker, she thought with satisfaction, than Molly’s. She, too, was staring up the Hill at the disappearing figures. Julie, disengaging her arm from Peter’s, called Nigel’s name. He turned – and then he saw Marion. So Marion turned – and quite suddenly Nigel was running after her, one arm protecting the gun bag, the other arm held out towards her. And there was Julie’s face, quite a picture, the foreground of which might be surprise, the background of which was most definitely confusion.

  ‘Don’t go,’ called Nigel and ran towards her.

  Marion remained where she was, still holding the lead to the pony, Sparkle shuffling anxiously. She shook her head at him. ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ was all she said, over and over again.

  ‘You can, you can,’ said Nigel.

  This went on for some time and eventually Julie, becoming rather fed up with it and not quite knowing what was going on, went over to the pair. ‘Come on Nigel,’ she said, tugging at his elbow. ‘We’re all waiting.’ Then she turned to Marion and said, more kindly, ‘Why can’t you?’

  But Marion was shaking all over.

  ‘She had a fall there – you know that,’ said Nigel, and put his free arm around Marion’s leg, the only part of her available to him.

  ‘Well I had a fall, too,’ said Julie. ‘And I’ve been up the Tor since. Of course you can.’

  But Marion would not be budged. The Gnome winked and winked at her in the sunlight and she was not going anywhere near him ever again.

  ‘Look,’ said Peter, who was getting as impatient as Julie. ‘Why don’t you wait at the bottom here? Then, if you suddenly feel that you can come up with the rest of us, you can.’

  It seemed the best solution. So when Nigel offered to stay with her she said firmly that he should go because he wanted to give her father the gun, and anyway, there was no reason for him not to go. He could tell her all about it later. Julie, with a light in her eyes that was the beginning, but only the very beginning, of the dawning of understanding, put her arms through both men’s arms and pulled them towards her. And off they set. By the time they were halfway up to the top Julie was perfectly clear about what had happened. She had kept her eye on the wrong ball. The way Nigel turned every two yards and gave Marion a little wave, the way Marion gave a little wave back – the more she knew – definitely, definitely the wrong ball. Now what could she do? She looked at Peter who was looking upwards, carefree as anything. There was no way Julie would ever be able to compete with an aristocrat. Dryden Fellows, who was already up ahead of them, would see her under the floorboards of Beautiful Bygones first. He’d cheerfully turn her into a beautiful bygone, rather than lose a Fitzhartlett connection. So it was all over.

  On the three of them walked but Julie was no longer quite so puffed up with magnificence. True, she was still wearing the floating blancmange, and true it was as fluffed up and Ginger Rogers as possible, but the person within its folds had a certain shrunken quality about her. And that is, indeed, what was happening. Julie was shrinking. Julie was back to feeling inadequate. The term bogtrotter came to mind. She thought she had buried it for ever but now it came back to haunt her. Uncivilised bogtrotters, they had been called. And now this …

  Dr Porlock feared the worst: what with Winifred and her skirt and sandals and all that lipstick it was enough to give him a seizure. He had so hoped for a quiet and unprofessional day of it but now Peter called him over and it was – he could tell at once – another case of physical disturbance through mental stress. ‘Now Julie,’ said the man of medicine to the trembling woman. ‘What exactly do you think started this?’ Julie shook her head and her eyes were dark with fear. ‘I don’t want to be called a bogtrotter,’ she said, and looked pale enough to faint. Dr Porlock fought his way through the organza to get to her and felt her forehead. It was cold and clammy. Oh, he pleaded, please do not say you have seen a ghost. Not another one. He sneaked a quick sideways look at Dryden but he seemed to be all right. You never knew. Oh, thought Donald Porlock, oh for a nice sprained ankle. Julie crumpled like a collapsing pavlova and Peter crouched down beside her. ‘Anybody calls you a bogtrotter,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘and I’ll thump them.’ ‘Really?’ she said weakly. ‘Really.’ That was more like it, she thought, passing into the momentary comfort of blackness, that was what she needed to hear. Though she knew very well that Peter Hanker, whatever else he did have in his nature, he did not have an aggressive bone in his body. And perhaps that should be enough? He was not likely to thump anyone. Including, of course, her.

  *

  Nigel, edging away from Marion in a strange and regretful hopping motion, saw Sir Roger and Lady Dulcima arrive in the village street and wave rather anxiously at their daughter. Nigel wanted to be up there and in place when they reached the top. He gave Marion one last wave, and she him, as up and onwards he went.

  Dryden was quite oblivious to the fact that Nigel had left Marion at the foot of the Hill. Last seen, the two were together and looked set to ascend together. He was beyond any thoughts other than the joys of making such a good match. That boy of his, who would have thought it? Well, perhaps Lottie had been trying to tell him that Nigel was better than he thought for all these years, but nevertheless – he had to hand it to the boy – he had done most of this on his own. He must tell him that he felt – yes – very proud of his only son.

  Dryden was perfectly and wonderfully lost in thoughts of his future in-laws and dreaming of a By Appointment sign on the shop, one with feathers for pr
eference (they could do that, these people, they had influence with royalty). He was well up the slope by now and scanning the distance with his hand shading his eyes, looking to see if Orridge was driving the Fitzhartletts or if they were walking. And walking it was. As he stood there he saw them turning along the lane that led between the church and Beautiful Bygones: they were taking their time – which was utterly fitting. They would probably be the last to arrive – perfectly, perfectly fitting. He did not wish to be seen to be watching them so he turned his face Gnomewards and continued on up.

  Much heartened by Nigel’s continuing concern and smiles of encouragement, when her parents arrived Marion insisted that she was absolutely fine, fine – that they must go on without her. Her mother looked at her with sad eyes. ‘I had hoped you’d got over all that,’ she said. But Marion merely shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘in time.’ Her oddly set eyes flicked up towards Nigel and she smiled.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said her mother. ‘Are you absolutely sure you won’t come with us?’ But Marion shook her head (the hair of which was once again being scraped back any old how and comfortable for riding).

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, firmly. But her parents must go, she insisted. They had a position to uphold.

  Marion insisted that they went. Marion was extraordinarily firm about it. Dulcima was surprised by her daughter’s sudden attack of self-confidence. Despite her fears and refusal to budge, Marion looked oddly radiant. They left her as she requested.

  ‘Do you think she’s sickening for something?’ asked her father as he and Lady Dulcima marched forth.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dulcima. ‘I rather fear that I do. You did ask the Hescott Brown boy for today? And Toadie Logan’s younger brother? He’s nice, isn’t he?’

  ‘Wet,’ said Sir Roger.

  ‘Wet in this instance is good. He’s agreed? And the others?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said her husband. ‘The lot.’

  ‘Good. And I’ve asked Orridge to do the drinks. Mrs Webb is doing her finger foods for us.’

  ‘Finger foods!’ said Sir Roger disparagingly. ‘Roast beef and Yorkshires is what she does best.’ He let his thoughts drift lovingly back to the meat.

  And then, as if by magic (or angels, perhaps?) and quite dispelling Sir Roger’s happy mood, the vicar appeared at their side. Pink and puffing a little and, even on such a hot day, wearing a very ordinary, very large, very dull brown cloak.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said beatifically, and extended his hand. Up the Hill they climbed together. Conversation was not indulged in as neither the little man, nor the big man, could do more than puff. And Dulcima was lost within her own thoughts, which were largely of her daughter and that thing called love. If she had been a white rabbit she might have started muttering something along the lines of Oh dear, Oh dear, Oh my ears and whiskers.

  Above them was Miles. He had intended to be first up to the spot, of course he had, but just as he was coming down the stairs, Montmorency was tottering up them (an unheard of liberty, in Miles’s opinion. The only kind thing to do to himself, in Montmorency’s. It was a bed he needed and there were plenty up there and unused, he knew). Montmorency’s timing was unfortunate, which was due to the immense languor filling his body. He needed to sleep. He had been told – shown, even – by the ladycat at the pub – that humans’ beds were extremely nice places to rest upon. It had never occurred to him before. And it would hurt no one. But instead of the joys of a sprung mattress he got halfway up the stairs and was tripped over by the so-called Master so that they both tumbled to the ground. Disgraceful. Why did he not look where he was going?

  Miles had no time to chastise the cat, though he wanted to, by golly he wanted to – but he needed to change his shirt which was torn from the rapid journey down to the hall. Hence he was late. Hence the smile he had determined to wear all day today if necessary was overly toothed and betokened nothing benign whatsoever. He had expected to be privy to what the Hill and the Gnome held before anyone else, naturally enough, and due to the infernal cat it was not going to happen.

  For the occasion Miles had put on his best black suit and now wore his second-best white shirt. The suits and shirts he kept for funerals and committee meetings. He looked like some strange, thin Gothic creature, thought Molly, as she watched him climb the Hill. But he was smiling, looking up and smiling, which was a rarity and although it was hardly a melting butter kind of smile, it helped dispel Miss Bonner the archaeologist’s granddaughter’s slight sense of anxiety where Miles was concerned. She thought today would be one of the best days of his life, one way or another. He would, naturally enough, be disappointed about what she had found on the Hill, but she had something else lined up for him that would more than make up for it. More than. In fact, it would make more than one person’s day. Possibly their lifetime. Nevertheless Molly continued to feel a slight sense of foreboding which made her give a little shiver as Miles arrived at the top and took her hand. ‘Well done, well done,’ he said. He turned to feast his eyes upon the spot and was disappointed to see that Molly had fixed a tarpaulin across the – er – top of the Gnome’s – er –. ‘I was hoping,’ he said, still showing far too many teeth, ‘to see what you have found. Now.’

  And Molly, overcoming her sense of foreboding, and the teeth, said, ‘Not yet, Miles – we must wait for everyone to be here. Everyone.’

  The Fitzhartletts and the vicar finally arrived. But where were Pinky and Susie? Molly shaded her eyes and looked down. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I do hope they haven’t forgotten. I need them, or rather Susie, to be here. ‘Susie, Susie!’ she called. The others looked among themselves and then turned back and said, ‘She’s not here.’ Molly looked dismayed for a moment, and then she spotted Pinky. ‘Where is Susie?’ she asked. And he laughed out loud. ‘You’re almost looking at her,’ he said, and laughed again. There was a rustling from within the crowd and a woman appeared at its edge – quite an ordinary-looking woman wearing a pair of loose linen trousers of that hue sometimes known as beige and lovingly described by fashionistas as taupe. She also wore a very straight pale blue shirt above which her nice, round face wore a smile. There was not a hint of kohl around her eyes. Her hair was neat and short and beautifully cut, and she wore no jangling jewellery, nothing but a simple pair of pearl earrings. The only slightly strange thing about her was that she carried a forage basket brimful of those same yellow flowers.

  Everyone looked at the woman for a moment, familiar and yet not familiar, and then they realised that it was Susie. A new Susie, a changed Susie – actually a Susie who looked a great deal less frightening than usual. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said to Molly. ‘All is well. I would have been up here to see the dawn rise but I’ve been feeling a little bit icky recently. Still, better late than never …’

  Pinky said nothing, just rocked on his heels and looked pleased with the world. He loved being up here now.

  The clock on the church started to chime the hour and the ceremonies could begin. It was going to be a beautiful, beautiful day. In all sorts of ways, thought Molly. Winifred smiled at Donald, and then winked at him. A gesture that he found, in this desert of sanity, strangely comforting. It was a definite wink, he told himself, and not a twitch. It looked absolutely sane and – if he said so himself – rather alluring. As did the fluttering of her skirt. So he winked back.

  As they all huddled together at the top, Nigel managed to manoeuvre himself next to Sir Roger and said, in a disturbingly hoarse tone, delivered, even more disturbingly, from the side of his mouth, ‘I hope you will find this useful, sir. I renovated it entirely by myself, with you in mind. I know you like a good Churchill.’

  Sir Roger looked at him cautiously. The last time he had been spoken to in that manner was at Newmarket when a toothless man crept up to him and gave him a tip for the three-thirty. He had not taken the tip and it won by a head. So perhaps …? He smiled a little nervously and took the gun case and peered into it. For the first time that day his face lit up. ‘But this is m
agnificent! This is wonderful, wonderful my boy.’

  He, too, spoke from the side of his mouth. If sotto voce was the way to play it, so be it. His wife nudged him. She had no knowledge of toothless seers at racetracks and wondered if Sir Roger had been at the sauce already. She was finding being on the dry side very tedious and it did not cheer her very much to think that her husband had not supported her in this. Her thoughts went to Marion. And then to Orridge. Had putting him in charge of the drinks been a good idea? No matter, Mrs Webb would keep an eye on him.

  Nigel was happy. The gift had been well received. Success, his very own success. His father had not noticed. His father – opposite him – seemed not to be noticing very much but merely smiling in that dreamy way he had taken to lately. Nigel hoped he wasn’t on the turn. It’d be all he needed just when he wanted to show his father how clever he could be. He watched Sir Roger lean the gun in its case against his leg so that no one would really notice it. And he was patting it like a dog. I have jolly well gone and done it, he thought. I have fixed the gun and fixed my life. Nigel nearly shouted for joy. He realised, in a moment of pure ecstasy, that he was in love with the right woman and the right woman was in love with him and how could he ever have even thought he loved Molly Bonner? Or Julie Barnsley. He looked across at them both. They were both very pink. Not his sort at all. Even with those boots. If only Marion had made it up the Hill he would have sung like a lark.

  The clock below finished its chimes. It was time for Miles to give a little speech.

  Four

  MILES HAD HIS hand on his heart as he spoke. He looked the picture of inspired fervour. ‘None of us know, not even me, what lies beneath that cover, but you may be assured that it is a rich and rare discovery effected by our own dear Molly Bonner here … She has assured me that we will be thrilled with what she has found.’ He turned to Molly and took her hand in his. For one dreadful moment it looked as if he were about to propose to her, or kiss her palm, something of the sort – and Nigel was considering stepping in to stop it – but then Miles let go of the hand and continued.