A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  The next session, a canter through Indigenous arte-facts kept in British museums, is more boring. Ruth dozes and wonders what Kate is doing. Sandra is good at making the day interesting, she’ll probably take Kate to the park, maybe do some baking with her. All the same, Ruth enjoys her own Saturdays with Kate. They usually go to the beach and collect shells. There’s a whole line of them in the garden like something from Mary Mary Quite Contrary. Sometimes they’ll go to Blakeney to see the fishing boats and often end up having tea in Cathbad’s purple caravan. Kate has her own dreamcatcher, glittering oyster shells and pink feathers. So far it hasn’t succeeded in making her sleep any better. Maybe tonight Ruth will try to go straight downstairs after reading the story…

  She starts, pink feathers and oyster shells scattering. The speaker, a man called Derel Assinewai, is talking about the worst atrocities of colonial trophy hunters. ‘We’ve heard of Aboriginal people being hunted, literally being hunted like animals. There are rumours that these skulls were then scalped. It was the British, not the Native Americans, who were the first to scalp their victims – and then keep the skin as a souvenir.’

  Ruth thinks of the telltale marks on the skull in the Smith Museum. Was she right to tell Cathbad and Bob? She can’t help feeling uneasy about the fact that, the day after this revelation, Lord Smith was dead. It’s not that she suspects Cathbad or Bob. She looks over at Bob now and he smiles at her. He is sitting in the back row, very much at his ease, legs crossed, head back, listening to Derel’s lecture. No, Danforth Smith’s death can only have been coincidence, but even so it makes her feel glad that she hasn’t got any Aboriginal remains lying around the house. Think how much worse it is to take the very bones of our ancestors and keep them on the other side of the world.

  Why had Danforth Smith been so determined not to return the skulls? They weren’t even on display anymore. And although he had seemed proud of the gruesome collection, Ruth could not see that he got much pleasure from the museum as a whole. That day (was it only last week?) when she had examined the bones, Lord Smith had seemed tired, almost frightened, and the museum itself had seemed a sad place, dusty and forlorn. Ruth can’t see it ever opening again. Who would trek down a side street full of office blocks just to look at a few stuffed animals? No, better to let the place die with Neil Topham and Danforth Smith and quietly return the skulls to Australia. In any case, Ruth has done her bit. She has written a report, stating the bones are not being kept in appropriate conditions, and has submitted it to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. She hopes this might encourage the authorities to put pressure on the Smith family to return them. But the truth is that, as the relics are privately owned, government has little or no influence. It’s as if Lord Smith really did own them, body and soul. But who owns them now? Smith had a son, she knows. Will he be the new Lord Smith?

  Lunch, from a local vegan restaurant, is absolutely delicious. It’s such a lovely day that the French windows are open onto the garden and Ruth and Max sit on a stone seat with Claudia panting at their feet. It is only a few minutes before Cathbad comes up, accompanied by a dark woman in a red dress.

  ‘Max. Good to see you. Ruth, I’d like you to meet Caroline Smith.’

  Ruth jumps up, brushing crumbs off her trousers. Caroline is a good-looking woman of about thirty. There is something oddly old-fashioned about her. Just as Cathbad often looks as if he is wearing fancy dress when he isn’t, Caroline somehow gives the impression of being in period clothing. Her hair is scraped up in a bun and the dress, an unfashionable ankle length, could be Edwardian or even Victorian. Funnily enough, it reminds Ruth of the skirt in Can These Dry Bones Live? She supposes that Caroline, like the painting’s subject, is also in mourning.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Caroline. She has rather a hesitant voice, at odds with her commanding presence. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to come today. Tam… my family thought I shouldn’t, but Cathbad persuaded me.’

  ‘He’s very persuasive.’ Ruth echoes Max.

  ‘I’m fascinated by the Aboriginal peoples,’ says Caroline. ‘I once spent a year in Australia. You know that the Aborigine map of Australia is quite different? It’s literally a different country.’

  ‘The names are different aren’t they,’ offers Ruth. ‘Ayers Rock…’

  ‘Yes, Ayers Rock is a colonialist name. Its real name is Uluru. It’s part of the Ulura-Kata Tjata National Park. The red heart of Australia.’

  She manages the names with aplomb but there is something so intense about her that Ruth backs away a little.

  ‘How do you know Cathbad?’ she asks.

  ‘I went to one of his archaeology courses.’

  ‘Cathbad runs archaeology courses?’ Ruth can’t help but be aggrieved. She’s the one who works in the archaeology department but Cathbad has never mentioned any courses to her.

  ‘It’s not conventional archaeology,’ says Cathbad modestly. ‘It’s more about ritual and mystic symbolism.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ruth stops feeling aggrieved. Mystic symbolism’s not exactly on the university curriculum.

  ‘Of course,’ says Max, ‘archaeology’s all about ritual and symbolism. Even people we think of as primitive buried their dead with some elements of ritual, for example. We don’t always know what the symbolism means but we know that it’s there.’

  It could be Erik speaking, thinks Ruth. She looks at Cathbad, wondering if the same thought has occurred to him. Max was a fan of Erik’s, Ruth remembers (though, in some ways, she has never really forgotten). She wonders why Max, an expert on the Romans in Britain, has come to a conference on the treatment of Aboriginal relics.

  ‘Some museums in Sussex hold Indigenous Australian relics,’ he says, as they take Claudia for a quick walk before the afternoon session. ‘I’ve been asked to look into it. Personally, I don’t think there can be any argument against returning them. They’re so important in Aboriginal Australian culture.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Ruth, panting slightly (Max walks very fast). ‘But I can’t agree that human bones shouldn’t ever be excavated. We learn so much from them.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Max. ‘But what do we do with that knowledge? That’s the question.’

  The afternoon session, led by Bob Woonunga, turns out to be riveting. The autumn sun is low against the windows. Bob, wearing a cloak that is apparently made from possum skin, sits on the floor in the centre of the room. One by one the listeners abandon their chairs and sit in a circle around him. Ruth finds herself squashed up close to Max and Claudia. She is grateful to the dog for providing a barrier between them. As she strokes Claudia’s head, her hand brushes against Max’s leg. He smiles but doesn’t move away.

  ‘In the beginning is the Dreaming,’ says Bob. ‘And in the Dreaming lies the sacredness of the earth. It is the beginning of all things but it is not in the past. It is the past, present and the future. When we bury them in the earth the ancestors return to the Dreaming, and in this way the circle is complete. Every place and every creature belongs to the Dreaming. It is where the spirit children live before they are born and where the dead go when they leave their physical life.’

  Bob tells them about souls that are buried in the sand, marked with twigs. Anjea, the fertility goddess, picks up the twigs and arranges them in a circle. She then makes new souls from mud and places them in the wombs of barren women. He tells them how the Bagadhimbri, two brother Gods in the form of dingoes, created the first sex organs from mushrooms. He tells them about Bahloo, the man in the moon, who keeps three deadly snakes as pets. He tells them about the Mimis, fairy-like creatures who live in rock crevices. He tells them about the Nargun, who abducts children by night. He tells them about cloud and rain spirits, about the Sun Goddess, and Yurlungar, the copper snake who was awoken from sleep by the smell of a woman’s menstrual blood, ate the woman and was later forced to regurgitate her. In Australian Aboriginal rites-of-passage ceremonies, says Bob, th
e vomiting symbolises boys becoming men. Ruth thinks, considering the circumstances, that the transition from girl to woman would be more appropriate.

  But Bob’s greatest enthusiasm is reserved for the Rainbow Serpent, the great snake who, in the Dreaming, meandered over the land creating rivers and waterways. His body hollowed out the valleys; where he rested great lakes were formed; the stones are his droppings and his sloughed-off scales created the forests. The Snake, Bob tells them, is the totem of his tribe and he has written many poems about him. He reads some now, his words meandering over the room like the snake itself, winding themselves around its dark corners, taking shape in the last rays of the afternoon sun.

  Strange, thinks Ruth dreamily, that the snake should be the big baddie in the Christian creation story. Here he seems to be both hero and villain, at once creating and destroying. One of Bob’s poems describes how the snake eats a boy because he won’t stop crying, but then the boy and his crying are absorbed into the Dreaming. Bishop Augustine, too, seems to have had rather an obsession with snakes. On one hand the snake was the demon to be destroyed, on the other the agent of his vengeance. Of course, the snake has another, more Freudian connection too, especially if Augustine’s sexuality really is in doubt. Did the snake represent Augustine’s assumed manhood? Aren’t some snakes hermaphrodites?

  Bob finishes by reading from from a piece by the great Aboriginal poet Ooderoo Noonuccal. It’s called The Ballad of the Totems and is about her father and the sacred symbol of their tribe. In one place she describes it as a ‘carpet snake, which sounds rather odd to Ruth. Carpet Snake sounds more cosy than the great Rainbow Serpent, almost as if it could be used as a draught excluder.

  She realises that Max is holding out a hand to help her to her feet. She scrambles up without his help, embarrassed at how stiff she is.

  ‘What’s happening now?’

  ‘I think we’re having the smoke ceremony.’ Max points to where Bob is leading the way out through the French windows into the garden. In the centre of the lawn Cathbad is enthusiastically building a bonfire.

  ‘Cathbad does love fires,’ says Ruth, putting on her jacket.

  ‘Well, fire’s important in ritual,’ says Max. ‘That was quite some session, wasn’t it? Incredibly powerful poetry.’

  It is almost dark now and the wood catches light quickly. Cathbad and Bob, in their cloaks, are silhouetted against the flames. Ruth can see Caroline just behind them, her long skirt billowing. Then she jumps as a loud crack reverberates in the darkness.

  ‘It’s just a clapping stick,’ says a voice behind them. It’s this morning’s speaker, Alkira Jones. She smiles encouragingly. ‘They’re sometimes called singing sticks. They’re traditional Aboriginal instruments.’ Ruth sees that Cathbad and the other speaker, Derel Assinewai, are now armed with long, decorated rods which they bang enthusiastically together, creating a thunderous rhythm. Bob takes a burning brand from the centre of the fire. ‘Fire is our gateway to the Dreaming,’ he says. ‘Surrender to the fire.’

  Boom, boom. The relentless beat continues. Smoke fills Ruth’s mouth and nose. The flames seem particularly pungent, as if they’re mixed with balsam. Her head starts to swim. At Max’s feet, Claudia whimpers.

  Ruth turns to Max. ‘Do you want to come back to my place?’

  CHAPTER 20

  Nelson, too, is participating in a ritual. He is sitting on Brighton beach eating fish and chips out of a paper bag. Tasted better from newspaper, he thinks. Why don’t they use newspaper anymore? He puts the question to Michelle.

  ‘Health and safety,’ she says knowledgeably. She is finishing the last of her chips, chasing the last grains of salt with a moistened finger. It is so rare for her to eat something so calorie-laden that Nelson watches her with genuine pleasure. For some reason, he isn’t feeling very hungry. He throws a chip onto the pebbles and three seagulls immediately swoop down on it. It’s getting colder now, though the sun is still warm on their faces. Behind them the carousel is playing its jolly, heart-breaking tune and, from the pier, they can hear the shrieks of people on the rides. A group of girls wearing bunny ears staggers past them, weaving in and out between deckchairs, falling over on the sloping shingle.

  ‘Hen night,’ says Michelle.

  The day in Brighton was Michelle’s idea. Friday night’s meal was not a success. Nelson had got home late; Michelle had ended the evening in tears. But she woke on Saturday in a determinedly positive state of mind. Why not drive down to Brighton to see Rebecca? It’s a long drive but they could take Rebecca out for lunch and celebrate Harry’s birthday at the same time. And it has been a good day. Rebecca had told them firmly that she could only spare them an hour but they had taken her for lunch at Browns and bought her a number of pastel-coloured objects for her room. How many scatter cushions or strings of fairy lights could one student need, Nelson wondered. He didn’t say it aloud though. Shops full of novelty mirrors and cute lower-case writing make him feel nervous.

  After Rebecca had wandered off to meet friends at the cinema, Nelson and Michelle had done the tourist things. They had shopped in the Lanes, admired the Pavilion from afar and walked on the pier. In the arcade, Nelson developed an obsession with winning a cuddly toy from one of the machines. He fed in twenty pence after twenty pence, only to watch the white fluffy cat fall in slow motion from the feeble clutches of the mechanical arm.

  ‘It’s a fix,’ he announced. ‘Impossible.’ When, later, he noticed a man carrying three of the fluffy cats, his indignation knew no bounds.

  ‘Why do you want a cuddly toy anyway?’ asked Michelle, slightly beadily.

  ‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ Nelson had said.

  Now they are sitting on the beach watching the town get ready for the evening. The families are drifting away, to be replaced by more hen nights (L-plates, novelty police uniforms that make Nelson wince), foreign students in brightly coloured sportswear, men too well dressed to be straight. Nelson and Michelle walk between the piers, past archways that have been turned into night clubs and restaurants. All that is left of the old West Pier is a rotting iron structure like a Victorian birdcage, a hundred yards out to sea. Appropriately enough, the birdcage is full of birds – hundreds and hundreds of starlings swooping and soaring in the last of the evening sun, black against the violet sky. Nelson and Michelle stop to watch for a few minutes.

  ‘It’s a bit spooky, isn’t it?’ says Michelle. ‘Makes me think of that film, The Birds.’

  Nelson grunts, he’s never seen the attraction of birds himself.

  ‘Are you OK, Harry?’

  ‘I’m fine. Come on, we’d better get to the car.’

  But, as they walk through the tunnel towards the underground car park, Nelson realises that’s he’s not fine, not really. Come to think of it, he’s been feeling odd all day. He hadn’t fancied his food and even walking is an effort, as if his feet are encased in lead. Once or twice he has noticed the promenade, with its Regency hotels and barley-sugar railings, swooping and swirling in the most disturbing way. It is only when he gets to the car and the ground lurches again, so violently that he has to hold on to Michelle to keep his footing, that he realises the incredible truth. He feels ill.

  Kate is asleep when Ruth arrives to collect her. ‘I’m sorry,’ says Sandra, ‘but we had a busy day. She hasn’t stopped.’ Kate has certainly stopped now, her head back, mouth slightly open, fingers still gripped around a grubby lump of pastry. ‘We made mince pies,’ explains Sandra. ‘A bit early but who cares. Do you want some?’

  Ruth accepts a freezer bag full of mince pies while thanking Sandra profusely. She doesn’t mind that Kate is asleep. She needs time to think about the evening ahead. Max has said he’ll meet her at the cottage. ‘I’ll give Claudia a walk first,’ he said. ‘Shall I pick up a bottle of wine and a takeaway? Would that be a good idea?’ Ruth said it would but, privately, she thinks things are moving a little quickly. She had imagined a cup of tea and a chat, maybe some time admiring K
ate or walking on the Saltmarsh; now they are having dinner together. It’s dark too and Kate is asleep. Awake, she is a distraction, almost a chaperone. Now she will snooze picturesquely in the background; they’ll have to rely on Claudia and Flint for light relief. Flint! What will he think about having a dog in the house? Ruth hopes he won’t go missing again. Maybe he’ll run to Bob’s house. She finds herself hoping that Bob will come home soon so that she isn’t left alone on the Saltmarsh with Max.

  What is she afraid of? Isn’t this precisely what she wanted, what she has allowed herself to dream about over the stressful summer months when Nelson was out of bounds and Ruth was alone with her own anxieties? Yes it is, and Ruth knows that part of her fear is also anticipation. Her skin tingles, she is conscious of the touch of her clothes on her legs and arms. She feels slightly sick and, at the same time, extremely hungry. She hopes she will be able to have a shower before Max arrives. But will that look as if she is trying too hard, opening the door smelling of Badedas and toothpaste? Better than nappy sacks and last night’s supper hardening in the saucepan though. She drives through the dark roads, worrying and hyperventilating. She starts to hope that Max won’t turn up.

  But when she draws up outside her cottage Max’s Range Rover is already there. When he opens the door Claudia shoots out, barking wildly. Ruth sees a ginger streak as Flint disappears into the long grass. She hopes he’ll come back soon. Ruth starts to lift out Kate’s car seat, fumbling with the straps.