Crescendo

by Charlotte Lamb

  'We could walk up to the grave circle,' Gideon suggested.

  Staring at him, she asked, 'How do you know about that?'

  He shot her a look. 'The finest grave circle in the north-west? It's in all the guide books.'

  'Oh,' she said. Was it? She had known it all her life and took it for granted but perhaps it was famous outside this area. She wouldn't know.

  'It's a stiff climb up there,' she warned.

  Gideon's eyes mocked. 'You think I look too de­cayed to make it?'

  'I thought I ought to warn you,' she said, a dimple at the side of her mouth. 'What would you like for breakfast? I'm going to have a boiled egg.'

  'I'll have one too,' he agreed. 'And put some others in for us to take with us on the picnic.'

  When they had eaten their breakfast they searched the larder and the small refrigerator for provisions. They found some cold chicken, some salad and some fruit, and Marina searched for some digestive biscuits which they could eat with the large piece of cheese they had found.

  'I'll go up and tell Grandie,' she said.

  'I told him last night,' Gideon returned coolly, his hand detaining her as she was about to fly off to her grandfather.

  She looked up at him in surprise. 'Oh. He didn't mind?' Was that what they had been arguing about?

  'He agreed that we could go,' Gideon said unrevealingly.

  They packed all their food in an old wicker basket which they, carried between them. They had to pass through the village to reach the field from which one climbed to the top of Circle Hill. Mrs Robinson peered from the Post Office window, framed on each side by a black cat. She stared curi­ously at Gideon and waved to Marina. 'We'll have to say hello,' she told him resignedly. 'She'll be hurt if we don't.'

  Mrs Robinson lurked in her shop like a spider waiting for a passing fly, but she was so sweet that it was hard to get annoyed with her. She saw every single thing that happened in the street. Marina sometimes suspected her of concealing secret radar equipment about her small, fluffy person. She seemed to ferret out every piece of information about everyone in the village. It was a small village of around a hundred people and Mrs Robinson knew them all intimately.

  Grandie said her eager interest in the lives of everyone round her kept her preserved. She fixed one with that bright, happy smile and the soft gentle voice asked questions unblushingly. Her only grandchild had emigrated to Australia—to get away from Mrs Robinson, it was rumoured. But the old lady was always cheerful, despite her empty private life. Her mission in life engrossed her to the fullest. She was an information service. She gathered it and she passed it on, often, Grandie said, much em­bellished. Mrs Robinson was an artist. She was not content with life as, it was—she improved upon it.

  As Marina and Gideon walked into the little shop she came gaily forward, already talking. 'I expect you're going for a nice picnic. Just the day for it.

  What a very nice car your friend has got! Staying with you and Mr Grandison, is he? That's nice for you. Mrs Bellish had her baby on Tuesday. Bald, it was, bald as an egg. Poor Mr Bellish, he was shaken—well, it was the first. It just shows, doesn't it? The cat at Ivy Tree got stuck up the chimney. I told her it would. Shot up there every time anyone went into the room. You can't take in a wild creature, I said. A wild cat is a wild cat, it won't change.'

  'A bottle of lemonade, please,' said Marina when she paused for breath, making no attempt to answer or ask any questions, since it was quite unnecessary. Mrs Robinson would go her own way regardless.

  Reaching down the bottle, Mrs Robinson fixed Gideon writh a smile. 'Come from London, have you?' She did not wait for an answer. Grandie said she read the replies in people's faces and if she didn't like them she made up her own. 'Never been there, I haven't. Nasty place, full of fog. Mr Robin­son took me to Blackpool once, but never again. I was so tired getting there and back I needed a holiday when I got home again. Anything else, was it, Marina? How's Mr Grandison's hands? Getting bad, aren't they? Nearly crippled, poor man. Nettles, that's the thing he needs. Mr Robinson swore by them.' A small boy came wandering in and started poring over the boxes of penny sweets arranged at the front of the counter. Mrs Robinson switched her gaze to him and Marina put down the right money on the counter.

  'Good morning, Mrs Robinson,' she said.

  Gideon followed her from the shop, laughing under his breath. They heard the old lady talking to the little boy and getting the same silence from him.

  'Incredible, isn't she?' said Gideon.

  They turned through the gate, carefully closing it after them, and began to walk through the long bearded grass, feeling it whisper against their legs. A great mass of buttercups grew among it and some black and white cows came heavily down from the top to inspect them.

  'Curious creatures, cows,' Gideon observed as they lowered their heads to low mournfully at them.

  If Gideon had ever been a regular visitor to the village, Mrs Robinson would have recognised him, Marina thought, but she had shown no sign of recognition just now. Her little eyes had glinted beadily over him, taking in the casual dark blue denims he wore, the open-necked blue shirt and wide leather belt which emphasised his slim waist.

  Marina was wearing a tight-waisted green cotton dress with shirring at the bodice, her small breasts lifting beneath the thin material, giving her a grace­ful outline. The full skirts blew out as she walked with the wind behind her.

  They climbed the stile at the top of the field. Gideon went first and put down the basket, then turned to lift Marina down. His hands tightened on her waist for a moment as he set her down, then dropped away and he turned to pick up the basket.

  The grave circle lay on the very crest of the hill, overlooking the valleys on all sides. It was almost four thousand years old and had been in use during the bronze age.

  'These are probably the graves of kings,' said Marina, standing in the centre of the broken grey stones. 'There are half a dozen of them, a whole dynasty, buried up here to keep an eye on their subjects after death, presumably.'

  'Big brother is watching you,' Gideon offered.

  She giggled. 'Something like that. Creepy, isn't it? I used to look up at the hill when I was little and believe that at night they came out of their graves and went stealing down the hill in search of vic­tims.'

  'This must have been an enormous chap,' Gideon murmured, standing at the opening to one grave. Stones had been erected on four sides of it. Oblong, raised, covered in grass, it was over six foot long. Gideon lay down inside the wall of stones, his hands crossed across his chest.

  'Don't!' Marina cried in dismay. 'It's unlucky!'

  Gideon looked up at her, grinning. He looked, she thought, as if he might have been one of them, those far-off barbarian kings, with a long Celtic face, all harsh bones and lantern jaw, the black hair wild and windblown, the eyes glinting dangerously through those black eyelashes. All he needed was a horned helmet and a sword.

  She told him her view and he laughed at her. 'You've got your periods all muddled up. It was the Vikings who wore horned helmets and the Celts who had long faces. I think the earlier chaps who built these graves must have been rather short fellows. Most of them are just five foot. This one is exceptional.'

  'Please get out of it,' she begged, not liking to see him lying on that sheep-cropped turf.

  She picked up the basket and left the circle of graves. Up here the wind blew fiercely and if she looked up the sky seemed so close one could almost touch it, moving overhead in a troubled confusion of clouds and wind. Below the valleys were green and fertile, lying trapped in sunlight like a fly in amber, with dark pools of shadow where there were trees in the sides of fields, and cows moving pon­derously in a slow procession.

  She found a sunwarmed hollow in the side of the hill just below the brow on the side less visited by the wind and sank down on the short turf. Gideon dropped down beside her, stretching his long legs with a sigh.

  'This is nice.'

  She spread out
the food on the white cloth they had brought and Gideon lazily leaned over to take a leg of chicken. 'I'm hungry again,' he said.

  'It's almost twelve,' she said, surprised at how rapidly the morning had gone. It had been eight when they ate their breakfast.

  A lark hovered high overhead, the small wings seeming not to move at all, so that it appeared to hang there as if suspended by a string. Song poured from it and Marina lay full length to stare up at it, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand.

  The grass under her back was warm and smelt delicious. Out of the wind it was languidly hot and she half wished for the shade of one of the trees down in the valley; there was no cover up here. She peered at Gideon. He was neatly stripping the meat from his chicken, his white teeth even and efficient.

  'Cannibal!' she said.

  He looked at her with charm in his face, his eyes wrinkled in amusement. 'Aren't you going to eat?'

  She yawned. 'Too lazy.'

  He wrapped the chicken bone in a piece of paper and put it in the basket, then shifted to get some cheese and a digestive biscuit.

  'Here you are, lazybones,' he said in a deep, dark brown voice at her side.

  She took her hand away from her eyes and saw his black head blocking the sky above her. For a few seconds her heart raced oddly. Gideon stared down at her. She looked into the black eyes and then down at the hard, sensual mouth.

  As he bent forward she knew he was going to kiss her. It was a gentle kiss, soft and exploratory, almost a question, as if Gideon were unsure.

  When he drew back Marina said a little breath­lessly, 'I think I've met you in another life.'

  'Do you believe in reincarnation?' he asked, laughing.

  'I've never thought about it, but...'

  'But what?' he asked quickly, watching her.

  'Have we met before?' she asked him.

  Gideon stared down at her. His face had that oriental emptiness again, his black eyes bottomless, unplumbable.

  'What makes you think we have?'

  'Something familiar about you,' she said. 'I'm certain I've seen your face somewhere before.'

  He studied her. 'I hope the impression was a favourable one.'

  It was an odd thing for him to say and she felt

  that he was waiting almost with anxiety for her to reply.

  'I don't feel like running away shrieking when­ever I see you,' she told him lightly.

  'What do you feel like?'

  Again that hard ring of question in his voice. Marina frowned, staring at him.

  'Why won't you tell me? There's something, isn't there? You and Grandie are hiding something from me.'

  He drew back then, smiling drily. 'What a vivid imagination you've got! Eat your cheese.' He prof­fered it again and she slowly took it, aware that he was avoiding any further discussion.

  'What sort of businessman are you?' she asked him.

  'The busy sort,' he said coolly. 'I've been working flat out for months. I'm mentally and physically exhausted.'

  She considered him, nibbling her cheese. 'You look as if you're more at home in luxury hotels than little cottages.'

  He grimaced. 'I see enough of hotels in the rest of the year. I travel widely and one can get very tired of hotel life.'

  Marina sighed. 'Oh, I'd love to get tired of it.'

  There was a curious silence. Gideon stared at the valley, his face rigid, the harsh bone structure dominant,-making his features seem fleshless like an eagle's hooked profile, the black hair blown back off his high forehead.

  He raked a hand through it and she watched. 'You have a good span,' she told him suddenly. 'Do you play the piano?'

  His mouth twisted. 'Slightly,' he said.

  'You must play to me when we get back,' she said, delighted.

  'I'd rather not,' Gideon said flatly. 'I'm not in your class.'

  She seized one of his hands and laid it over her palm, surveying the sinewy length of it, studying the strong fingers.

  'It's a powerful hand.'

  'What are you? A palmist?' he asked derisively.

  She began to laugh and turned his hand oyer to view the palm. It was smooth and pale, the lines bitten into it deeply. 'A good life line,' she told him. 'But very little heart line. On the other hand your head line is extra strong.'

  He chuckled. 'Clever stuff! You forgot to ask me to cross your palm with silver.'

  'All contributions received gratefully,' she re­torted with a smile.

  He drew a fifty-pence piece out of his pocket and laid it on her hand.

  'Thank you, little gypsy.'

  She bit it. 'Not over-generous, but it will do. Thank you.' She slipped the coin into her pocket. 'I'll buy a new crystal ball.'

  'Too late,' he mocked. 'You've already met the dark stranger.'

  She looked at him through her lashes. 'But are you a stranger?'

  He stared at the impudent curve of her cheek, the slight smile on her small pink mouth. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'Am I?'

  The crunch of grass disturbed their concentra­tion on each other. They started, looking round,

  and the mild surprised eyes of a sheep gazed at them from the top of the hill. They laughed and the sheep skipped away in dismay.

  Gideon stretched out again and ate some more of the food, lying on his side, watching the shadows chasing across the grass lower down the hill.

  Marina ate a little salad and an apple. Her face was flushed with sun now and she felt sleepily dis­inclined to move. A hooded crow flew down and watched them avidly, stalking to and fro like Ham­let on the battlements of Elsinore, waiting for the crumbs of their food. Gideon had laid out the chicken on a paper napkin. Suddenly the crow leapt forward and grabbed a piece of chicken, flap­ping away with it in its beak.

  They both burst into laughter. 'Do you think he'll eat it?' asked Marina, and Gideon nodded.

  'Crows are flesh-eaters.'

  'Ugh, how horrid!'

  'They steal fledglings from nests, didn't you know?'

  'I suppose I did. I just never thought about it. I know butterflies eat carrion because Grandie told me long ago. I was disgusted. They look so pure and ethereal, yet they feed on putrid flesh.' She shud­dered. 'It makes one see them in quite a different light.'

  'Life's more complicated than it seems,' Gideon agreed.

  He lay on his back, his hands locked behind his head, and stared at the sky. Marina saw his eyes close and the harsh features smooth out into peace. The lines of his mouth softened and grew gentle.

  The bones relaxed from whatever tension was hold­ing them. At ease like this, Gideon looked a gentle, tender man, his mouth curved warmly, the glitter of the clever black eyes hidden under those heavy lids. His lashes lay in a black arc across his cheeks.

  She let him sleep, unwilling to disturb him. Some more sheep appeared to crop noisily on the short turf above them. A few gulls swooped in the blue sky above the village, their wings white curves against the sky. The sea glittered in the sunlight, dancing blue waves receding into a haze which hovered some way off shore towards the horizon.

  Gideon snorted and she saw his lids flicker. Bend­ing, she watched consciousness come back into his face. He opened his eyes and looked-up at her. She smiled at him, the limp fine drift of her silver- white hair drooping towards him.

  He put a lazy hand to it. 'Moonlight,' he said deeply.

  'You slept very deeply.'

  He frowned. 'How rude! I'm sorry.'

  'Don't apologise. I didn't mind—I had company.'

  He raised his brows.

  Marina glanced at the sheep and down at the gulls. 'There's always plenty of company around if you look for it.'

  He smiled again, his mouth tender. 'Like Emma and Meg?'

  Marina's eyes opened wide, their blue gleam vivid. 'How do you know about them?'

  'Your grandfather told me,' he said, but there had been a brief pause before he spoke and she wondered if she was imagining all these odd little glances, strange little silences. H
e had said she had a vivid imagination, but Marina wondered.

  She glanced at the sky. 'I think we should start going down. Grandie will wonder where we've got to.'

  She rose and he extended a lazy hand. Laughing, she pulled on it and he rose to her side. Still holding her hand, he looked down at her. 'You're pink. You've caught the sun.'

  'My skin!' she moaned. 'I can't be out in the sun for a moment without turning lobster red.'

  'Not lobster today,' he assured her. 'More of a salmon pink.'

  She laughed. 'Oh, thanks. You're very reassur­ing.'

  'I adore salmon,' he said, and kissed her cheek.

  They walked down the hill much faster than they had gone up, but it still took them half an hour to cover the distance to the village. As they passed the post office Mrs Robinson came hurrying out with Grandie's newspaper. Marina smiled and listened to the spilling sentences. When it was possible to move without being rude she smiled again and said they must go.

  Walking towards the cottage, Gideon said with amusement, 'What does anyone need a newspaper for around here? Mrs Robinson does it for nothing.'

  'They don't put the really interesting news in newspapers,' Marina said. 'When Mrs Dudeck locked her husband in the coal cellar for the night it never got published in the newspaper, but we all knew about it. And what newspaper would print the fact that the third Smith baby wasn't Mr Smiths but the milkman's?'

  'Good heavens!' said Gideon, laughing loudly. 'How on earth did she know that?'

  'Heaven knows. Guesswork or sheer invention or the fact that the poor baby has got ginger hair and so has the milkman.'