The Lovers of Pound Hill

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘As she told us all when she first arrived, Miss Bonner, Molly, had her own reasons for wanting to complete the task her grandfather began, and we can only be delighted at her dedication. Our village of Lufferton Boney and myself as the eternal curator of this Hill and all it contains –’ he paused here as if to make quite sure everyone got the message of who was in charge, of who held the keys to the kingdom – ‘will be forever thankful to her for the heritage she has left us. I am only sorry that my dear brother, Robin, cannot be here to see this day. He loved this place.’ Dorcas thought she might be about to be sick but fortunately Miles started to clap and that took her mind off the prospect. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

  Then Molly turned to the vicar, who stepped forward. He was still wearing his brown cloak and it seemed as if he might shrink away to a puddle of grease so hot was the weather, so hot was he, but this was his moment. He let the cloak slip from his shoulders and stepped forth looking, as Winifred (who was a keen if slap-happy gardener, or had been before Molly’s time-consuming proposal) said afterwards, like a little green and white leaf bug. He had had the foresight to stitch up the hem of his green garment a little so he would not trip and he made a good show of being at the centre of a ritual as he walked the short distance and stepped up and on to the trailer.

  ‘I can see everything from here,’ he said happily. And he put up both his hands (empty, alas, but, oh for a bishop’s crook) in a gesture of blessing, and took a deep breath, the better to project his voice. Molly looked rather anxious. ‘Could you wait for a moment, vicar?’ she said. He closed his mouth and tried to smile.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Well we haven’t actually revealed our findings yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and jumped down again. ‘No, I had quite forgotten that aspect of the day.’ And he trotted back to her side.

  ‘Quite,’ said Molly. Behind her Dorcas whispered, ‘Unbelievable.’

  And Winifred said sardonically, ‘Our brother in Christ.’

  Susie stepped forward. ‘Where do you want me?’ she said, and held her basket aloft. The flowers glistened waxy and bright in the sun.

  ‘You do look different,’ said Molly.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, dear. There comes a time in every sensitive’s life when she must put down the trappings and get on with life. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘But you are still Druidical?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Oh yes, dear, and even more ancient than that,’ said Susie cheerfully. She glanced at the vicar. ‘But you do not need to dress up in all that comical gear to prove it.’ And she gave the vicar a long, considering stare which made the vicar blush and many smile.

  ‘Good,’ said Molly.

  ‘It was the nearest I could think of and appropriate, I think,’ said Susie. Dropping her voice a little she went on: ‘I didn’t want to offend the vicar but – really – it was all before his time. Who knows how long.’

  Miles came up and leaned over the little wooden wall that surrounded the plastic-covered site, and pulled at the covering. Molly put a restraining hand on his arm, and he withdrew his. ‘This has gone on quite long enough,’ he said brusquely. ‘Show us now.’ He found himself looking at the admonishing digit of Molly Bonner.

  ‘One more thing,’ she said, ‘and then we are ready.’ Miles stepped back. Purse strings, and never let and a woman came to mind, but he said nothing. What was a minute or two more? Keep your head, Miles, he told himself, for soon you shall have it all.

  Molly turned to Winifred and Dorcas. ‘And now, perhaps you will kindly tell me what it was that made the two of you so amused last night? And if you delay any further –’ she pointed to the covering sheet – ‘that may not be the only example of such a thing that is found here in years to come.’

  At which the women gave in. ‘Shall you?’ said Dorcas to Winifred. ‘Or shall I?’

  ‘Let’s both,’ said Winifred. ‘Just the relevant bit.’ And so they stood by the edge of the trench and began to recite, very quietly, almost as if they had practised, which, of course, they had:

  … But at my back I always hear

  Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

  And yonder all before us lie

  Deserts of vast eternity.

  Thy beauty shall no more be found;

  Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

  My echoing song: then worms shall try

  That long-preserved virginity:

  And your quaint honour turn to dust;

  And into ashes all my lust.

  The grave’s a fine and private place,

  But none, I think, do there embrace …

  There was a smattering of polite applause from those near enough to hear, though the gathered looked as sheepish as any gathering of British on British soil will when poetry is invoked without due warning. Except for Julie, of course, who being Irish was quite used to it.

  ‘Andrew Marvell, dear,’ said Winifred to the astonished Molly.

  ‘To His Coy Mistress.’

  ‘Seventeenth-century poet. English. Mid-seventeeth century, actually. Metaphysical,’ added Dorcas, trying to look ponderous.

  ‘He also wrote a poem called “The Unfortunate Lover,” said Winifred, quite mercilessly. ‘Which might ring a bell.’

  Molly sat down in puff of pink skirt, all at once and in a heap, right at the side of the dig. ‘All there in the notebooks. So he did know what was there. But he wanted to write it up properly. And the reason he didn’t want it made public was that he wanted to know why? Just like I do.’ She thought for a moment. There was a groan from the crowd, and she held up her hand as if to say, soon, soon, soon.

  ‘Well, I think I can make a decent guess,’ she said aloud. ‘No wonder he was amused, given what he and my grandmother were up to.’ Molly Bonner looked completely happy. Miles, on the other hand, appeared to be having some kind of fit – he was hopping from foot to foot and very red in the face.

  ‘Time to do the honours,’ said Molly to Winifred and Dorcas. ‘Or there may be another death.’ And they obliged.

  *

  The cover was pulled back to a great swelling breath of excitement and everyone crowded forward, peering downwards. Fortunately the low wooden fencing protected the site so that no one would damage it with their feet.

  ‘The veil was rent,’ said the vicar sonorously, his green and white garments flapping in the breeze, but when he too peered and saw what was revealed he, like the rest of the villagers, was suddenly silent. ‘Good Lord above,’ he said. And appeared to mean it. Yes, even the vicar was moved at the sight. And who could fail to be so? Who? Well, there was one. But for the moment we will ignore his crimson, baffled face.

  And what did they see, the gathered of Lufferton Boney? They saw that, where once had risen the extensive corona of the Gnome’s mighty maleness, lay a grave – stark, simple, unadorned – in which lay two skeletons. The skeletons faced each other, their skulls close as if kissing, their arms outstretched and holding each other tight, their legs entwined. Scattered near each neck, as if they had both worn the same decoration, was a handful of shale beads. If bones could show love, then these bones showed it. ‘A fine embrace,’ said Molly. ‘And an undoing of Marvell.’

  Five

  NO ONE SPOKE for a moment and then Molly stepped forward. She addressed Dr Porlock. ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you could confirm the genders of the pair?’

  Donald, who felt rather moved by the sight considering he had spent a large amount of time surrounded by skeletons one way and another, knelt down and studied them for some time before standing up, brushing down his knees and nodding. ‘As you might expect, I would judge that those are young bones. Maybe in their mid- to late teens. The one on the left is male, the one on the right is female.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew into it very noisily. ‘And I would say that they are in situ as they were laid in the earth.’

  ‘Thank you, Donald,’ said Winifred. ‘That is what we thought.’


  ‘Can you say what they died from?’ asked Dorcas.

  Donald knelt again and studied the pair. Winifred looked at the back of her husband’s head and found that she just had to reach out and touch it. He went on studying the bones for a while. Then he stood up. ‘Without proper analysis I can only say that I see nothing to indicate foul play,’ he said. ‘Nor that they were buried alive. If that had been the case they would not be embracing so peacefully. My guess – only a guess, mind – is that they died from natural causes – certainly not from anything painful. Poison is possible but it would be some kind of narcotic, there has been no struggle. Perhaps they died of the same illness.’

  ‘And you agree that the bones are old?’ said Molly.

  ‘Very. But how old I could not say. I leave that up to you.’

  ‘Considering that life expectancy seems to have been about thirty-five years, they were in their prime,’ said Molly. ‘They look too perfect together to be anything sinister. I suppose they could be a sacrifice but then I’d have expected to see more grave goods – special pots, or maybe decorated beakers or other symbols of their status. You see the grave,’ said Molly, ‘is a little larger than the usual Iron Age grave. As expected, it is a well-cut oval pit (2.58 metres long by 2.68 metres wide by 0.55 metres deep) with vertical sides and a flat base. The skeletons have been placed in the grave very carefully, their arms placed around each other in an act of love. It is as if they were laid there so that they might be united in death for ever.’

  Someone in the crowd gave a little sobbing noise. Oddly, it was found to be Dryden. And it was Dryden who found the sob most strange. It came straight out of him, no messing, without a by-your-leave, just out it came. ‘So they would each have company,’ he said miserably. And gave another sob.

  Nigel looked at his father in perplexity. Donald gave him an encouraging smile. He knew exactly what Dryden was thinking. Lottie. What Lottie might have thought, had she been anywhere in the ether, was that these were the first tears he had shed for her.

  Molly continued, ‘Each of the skeletons wore a necklace of twenty-four perforated and polished shale beads, Kimmeridge shale, brought here for the purpose of making decorative items. The female skeleton’s necklace has lost three of its beads – we have found two and my grandfather found one, which he gave to my grandmother. Who knows how they became detached: animals … land movement. And they both wore armlets of Kimmeridge shale as well. The jewellery and the fact that there is a grave here at all indicates that these are the bones of very well regarded people …’

  ‘A prince and a princess?’ asked Dorcas, a faraway, dreamy note in her voice. ‘Star-crossed lovers?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said practical Molly. ‘More likely they are ordinary people made to be significant. There’s not enough wealth to indicate a grand burial.’

  ‘Wealth?’ There was a sudden howl of something: Rage? Pain? Disappointment? It was all three. It was Miles. He fell to his knees. He pointed. He seemed momentarily beyond speech. Then he began. ‘These people buried here? Is that it?’ Miles peered down at the two embracing skeletons with some distaste. Why on earth were they so thrilled to find these? A long-dead pair of old skeletons. He had imagined treasure trove. He had been led to believe it was something wonderful, wonderful. Gold, perhaps. Lovely artefacts that he could sell, or put on show for good ticket money. He said, with hope, ‘You don’t know that they weren’t important people, now do you? A prince and a princess? It might be a king, perhaps? And a queen. High-ups. Celebrities of their day?’ Already he felt better for he could imagine how such a story would up the stakes. Something had to. But to his chagrin Molly shook her head.

  ‘I doubt that they were anything like that. If, as I think, this is a shrine – and this is the highest of all the hills which only faces in its full gradient one way and in the direction of what we know was an area of very well farmed Iron Age sites – then, perhaps – probably – they were an ordinary pair of lovers made special by being chosen for this grave. If it were a richer grave I’d be less sure of myself, but with these simple grave jewels on them, it’s almost certain. They do not represent grandeur. I think they represent love, or at least the heart of a people.’

  The assembled were silent. The Hill was silent. Molly explained that she based this summation on what all archaeologists know. ‘The evidence for human burials or other funerary practices is lacking for large parts of Britain in the Iron Age,’ she told them. ‘Some burials have been found, but these were the exception, not the rule. In most parts of Iron Age Britain funeral rituals did not include burying the dead person in a grave. Individual human bones were sometimes found on Iron Age farms, hill forts and villages. More rarely, the complete skeletons of a small number of people were found placed in pits, postholes or in ditches. A grave like this is very special. Marked out. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it. The evidence suggests that when most ordinary Iron Age people died they were placed somewhere until their body had rotted away, leaving just the bones – similar types of funeral rituals occur in many places around the world today. In Iron Age Britain some of the bones left behind were later buried around the settlements. Any ritually buried human remains found on settlement sites probably came from from human sacrifice and other rituals. Our two skeletons are different. It is a type of burial quite unknown …’

  ‘Does that mean it’s valuable after all?’ Miles had broken out in a sweat.

  ‘Oh shut up, Miles,’ said Dorcas, so that he stared at her his eyes popping, his jaw sagging. Right, my girl, he thought, you are out of my house, out of the Squidge, and out of a job from this moment on.

  ‘Go on, Molly,’ said Winifred. ‘Pay no attention to him.’

  ‘Well, at certain times in some parts of Iron Age Britain, a tribe or community would break with the traditional ways of treating the dead and, instead, bury them in graves. This was the case in the West occasionally where the dead were buried in stone-lined graves for much of the Iron Age. In the South-West it was not so common, but not unknown that from about 100 BC until after the Roman conquest, some crouching burials were performed. Many late Iron Age dead were cremated before being buried. Urns were sometimes used. I have seen one or two of those, and Winifred’s film, made some years ago, shows that a wide variety of burial methods were used around about the area … This part of the South-West is extremely ancient and sacred. But with nothing, so far, like this …’

  ‘Why are they buried up here?’ asked Nigel. ‘When Marion and I did our ride-about, the graves as marked on that map were all over the area but these are the only ones on Pound Hill.’ He stepped back, slightly embarrassed. Dryden looked at his son in surprise.

  Molly said. ‘Exactly. That is exactly what we asked ourselves over and over again. ‘Why here? Why these two? What is so special about this one hill? And then the answer came to me. The Gnome, originally, must be Roman. And cut into the Hill not long after they arrived.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Sir Roger, coming out of his reverie about the Churchill and forgetting to pat his gun for a moment, ‘I had no idea the Romans brought their garden decorations with them. Just like the Webb family today. Roman gnomes. Traditions. Excellent.’

  ‘Darling,’ whispered Dulcima, ‘I don’t think she means they were used as something so innocent as garden ornaments.’

  But Sir Roger did not mind being corrected. All he was thinking was that it had been a very long time since his wife had called him darling. He hugged his gun to his side all the tighter or he might have found himself hugging her. And in public, too. Good Lord!

  ‘No,’ said Molly kindly. ‘It wasn’t originally a gnome. I’m pretty sure it was a Roman god of sexuality.’

  ‘Priapus?’ said Pinky, without thinking. He was often in the library if he finished early.

  ‘Clever thing,’ whispered Susie.

  ‘No, love,’ he said. ‘You are the clever thing.’ And he very tenderly placed his bright pink hand (the blush always spread ev
erywhere) on her blue-bloused belly and left it there. One day they would travel to Florence and he would see the Arnolfini portrait for the first time and it would remind him of this tender moment.

  ‘Quiet for now,’ said Susie softly. ‘Let Molly tell us.’

  ‘Not Priapus, I don’t think,’ said Molly. ‘Because he was impotent.’

  ‘What?’ said Peter Hanker, before he could stop himself. ‘With one that size. Bloody hell.’ In need of a moment of levity, everyone, or almost everyone (Miles was on another planet of pain) laughed. Peter gave Julie a squeeze and she did not seem to object. Progress, thought Peter Hanker. Possibly progress.

  ‘Impotent. Yes. He could, so to speak, get it up, but he could not, so to speak, fire live bullets.’

  Sir Roger found his hand immediately and automatically reaching for the Churchill’s trigger. But just then Dulcima slipped her own hand through his free arm and Sir Roger smiled contentedly. Who needs to shoot at anything at a time like this? He might surprise her later, though.

  ‘So I have looked elsewhere,’ Molly continued. ‘And I think this might be the answer. It could be a combination of Priapus and Faunus. Faunus was extremely lively in the matter of sex, much given to doling out fertility. And this Priapus, as you see, had an enormous, erect member that would be seen by any of the tribes who lived at the bottom of the Hill. Just like yourselves. Settlers.’ A ripple of mirth spread through the people of Lufferton Boney. Settlers? Us?

  Above it all in the bright blue sky a pair of rooks cawed in apparent glee, echoing the amusement below them. ‘Shoot the buggers,’ muttered Sir Roger, but Dulcima gave him a nudge. Maybe later. He patted the gun again. Definitely later.