The Genesis Inquiry

by Olly Jarvis

  Rob the tour guide came in and slid onto the stool next to her.

  The barman poured a Guinness without speaking.

  ‘Nice little tip from those Yanks, like,’ said Rob with a satisfied sniff. Then he swivelled towards Ella. ‘I googled you last night, lass.’

  Eyes staring firmly ahead, Ella didn’t respond.

  He flicked his head up. ‘Don’t you want to know how I got your name – Ella Blake?’

  She downed the rum. ‘Same again.’

  Rob smirked. ‘Found this on the floor a couple of days ago,’ he said, waving her credit card in front of her face. ‘Must’ve dropped it after one of your sessions.’ He was laughing now. ‘Bit of a lush, aren’t you?’

  She bristled. Deep down she knew her drinking had made her vulnerable, weak. She hated who she’d become. She reached out to take back her card, but he pulled it away, then stopped, letting her snatch it from his hand.

  ‘Seems you were a right ball-crusher back in the day, won some big cases?’

  She didn’t engage, hoping he would back off.

  ‘What happened?’ he goaded. ‘How does a top QC end up getting pissed every day in an empty pub on a remote island?’

  Ella continued to stare straight ahead, sipping at her drink.

  Rob looked her up and down. ‘You not going to thank me for the card?’

  She ignored him.

  ‘Arrogant bitch.’

  ‘That’s enough, Rob,’ said the barman, who had been hovering within earshot.

  Ella put down her glass and turned to face the young man, putting a hand on the bar. ‘How come a bloke who comes in here every day banging on about his masters in early medieval history ends up working as a tour guide?’ She gave a contemptuous shake of the head. ‘Every day you recite your little quote from Simeon of Durham.’ Her voice was getting louder. ‘That was written hundreds of years after the invasion.’ She stood up, her face inches from his. ‘Why don’t you quote from something written nearer the actual fucking time?’

  The barman glanced at the startled guide.

  Ella waited for a reaction.

  Nothing.

  ‘I bet you haven’t even got a degree,’ she said with a sneer.

  Rob sneered. ‘Who the fuck do you think you—’

  ‘Save it,’ she snapped, turning back to the bar. She downed the rest of her drink and slammed the glass down.

  She felt Rob watching her every move, trying to regroup for a new attack.

  Ella took a twenty out of her pocket and left it on the bar, heading purposefully towards the door.

  Behind her she heard Rob get off his perch and follow her out. From the doorway, he called after her, ‘Yeah, away, piss off. You’re not welcome here.’

  She walked off up the lane, a tirade of abuse piercing her back like an arrow.

  ‘No one wants a dried-up old prune, anyway.’

  Despite herself a tear fell, then more.

  She trudged back towards the causeway. She hated that she couldn’t control her emotions anymore. She’d never been like this before. People used to say she was a closed book; some even called her the ice queen.

  She kept on walking, increasing her pace with every step as she crossed over to the mainland. She strode on over the top of the hill that overlooked the campsite and down the rocky path. Her foot slipped into a pothole causing her body to rocket forward; her outstretched arms did little to break her fall. There was a thud as she hit the uneven ground.

  She lay sprawled out on the track, her eyes closed, despair sweeping through her like the tide. This was it, rock bottom. If that was where she’d wanted to go, she’d made it. Dark memories she’d kept at bay came flooding back. She lifted her head, her cheek studded with grit, and gave a deep guttural groan, then sobbed. She let her head drop back down. What reason did she have to get up? Lizzie danced across her mind in the pink fairy dress she’d worn to her seventh birthday party, waving the wand she’d loved so much. She got slowly to her feet and brushed the mud and stones off her clothes. Straightening up, she took in the patchwork quilt of undulating fields around her.

  She couldn’t stand another day of feeling numb.

  It was now or never.

  Chapter Three

  Ella manoeuvred the campervan into a space at the front of the Gonville Hotel. It took a few attempts to straighten it up. She turned off the ignition and puffed out her cheeks, relieved the long drive was over. A few raindrops settled on the windscreen.

  She made a half-hearted attempt to brush some specks of mud off her fleece, then leaned forward, studying her face in the rear-view mirror. As expected, the verdict wasn’t good; she looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks ruddy from a cocktail of whisky and weather. She turned her head slightly and touched the grey roots sprouting from her temple, making a mental note that she needed to sort out her colour. She wondered if she was too old to have long hair. She took a bobble out of the cup holder and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She’d been letting things slide for too long, needed a complete overhaul.

  There was a knock on the driver’s window.

  Ella jumped.

  ‘You can’t leave that here,’ said an officious teenager in a doorman’s livery.

  It took a moment to get her bearings. ‘I’m a guest,’ she said, opening the door and climbing out. It was still spitting. ‘I’m sure parking is included?’ She slid open the side door and reached in for her bag and suit carrier.

  The young man peered in at the rows of books.

  ‘Maybe you could take this?’ she asked, thrusting her luggage at him.

  After an inspection of the outside of the van, then of her, he complied. He hunched his shoulders, as if in protection from the spots of rain that nestled onto his crisp white shirt, and waited for her to follow.

  Ignoring the drizzle, she took in the view across the road towards Parker’s Piece, a spacious flat green with groups of students milling around, chatting under their umbrellas. Others criss-crossed the paths with small knapsacks on their backs. She remembered the warm spring days when she’d been one of them, sitting cross-legged with friends, drinking Spumante. Another lifetime.

  ‘That’s the birthplace of Association football,’ the young man offered.

  ‘I know,’ Ella replied, fully aware she was getting the standard patter. ‘1863.’

  He gave her a double-take. ‘You’re a historian?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ she replied, staring wistfully across the open space at Hobbs’ Cricket Pavilion. ‘Just good with dates.’

  She followed him across the forecourt and through the contemporary glass portico of the Georgian hotel.

  ‘Thought you might be a professor or something?’ he asked. ‘With all those books?’

  ‘No.’ She was only half-listening. ‘I’m a lawyer.’

  The young man put the luggage down in reception and lingered for a tip.

  ‘Ella Blake,’ she said, turning her attention to a receptionist with hair up like a cottage loaf and a name tag on her blouse. ‘I have a reservation.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ her eyes widened in awe. ‘The QC?’

  Ella gave her a plastic smile. She noticed the luggage kid blushing, so she took her wallet out of her back pocket and handed him a fiver.

  He accepted the note without his former swagger.

  ‘Here we are,’ the receptionist said, reading off the computer. ‘De Jure College are taking care of everything.’ She handed Ella a key-card and gave an obsequious smile. ‘Welcome to Cambridge, Miss Blake.’

  Chapter Four

  Ella paced her hotel room, took a deep breath then touched the contact name on her phone. Her stomach tightened as she heard the call being answered.

  ‘Hi Mum, what’s wrong?’

  Ella had already forgotten her opening line. ‘Why do you assume… never mind. How are you?’

  ‘Good,’ came the flat response. Then a reluctant sounding, ‘You?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks,’ El
la replied with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  Silence. Ella bit her lip. Their conversation was already out of steam. She stood at her window and closed her eyes, concentrating, readying herself to go again. ‘Lizzie,’ she said, trying her best to sound unrehearsed, ‘I’m in Cambridge actually – for work.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Lizzie replied sharply. ‘It wouldn’t be to see me.’

  The missile landed in Ella’s gut, ripping it apart. ‘No, Lizzie… I…’ She floundered, eyes tightly shut, admonishing herself. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I thought you’d retired?’

  Ella fixed on the traffic beyond the car park but saw nothing. ‘I have… I had.’ More silence. ‘I thought we could have dinner?’

  No reply.

  ‘I used to know a great Italian in Market Square.’

  Eventually Lizzie spoke. ‘Don Pasquale?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ella replied, realising she sounded more like an over-excited child than a mother.

  ‘Yeah, it’s still there.’

  Ella convinced herself there was a microscopic hint of interest in Lizzie’s nonchalant response. ‘Tonight, say eight, I’ll book a table?’

  ‘Sure. That’s doable.’

  ‘Doable? You make it sound like a business meeting,’ Ella said, then winced, wishing she could take it back.

  ‘Ok, Mum, whatever.’

  Ella felt herself sinking further. ‘Sorry, ignore me,’ she said, as if releasing an air bubble, fighting its way back to the surface. ‘See you later.’ She pressed “end call”.

  ‘You total idiot,’ she shouted, covering her face with her hands and crumpling onto the bed.

  Chapter Five

  Ella saw Lizzie first, already sitting at the table, centre stage under a white, vaulted ceiling. The place was full and a term-time buzz hummed from lecturers and students leaning into their conversations.

  A wave of regret washed over Ella seeing the apprehension on her daughter’s face, her hands fiddling with a napkin. Ella weaved her way around the other diners, keeping a smile firmly fixed in place. ‘Hi Lizzie,’ she called out, using her best advocacy to hide her trepidation.

  Lizzie didn’t get up.

  Ella bent down to administer a mumsy hug, but her shawl got in the way, making her feel like a squid enveloping its prey. She took a seat opposite her daughter. ‘Place hasn’t changed at all,’ she observed, the tension now obvious. ‘Still got the same tablecloths.’

  Two faux smiles.

  A waiter came over with a couple of menus and lit a red candle sticking out of a Chianti bottle.

  An awkward wait for him to retreat.

  Lizzie went first: ‘I’m sure they’ve washed them since you were last here.’

  Ella laughed, grateful for the connection. She took a deep breath. ‘So, how are you, really?’ The flame danced to the tune of her breath.

  It drew Lizzie’s focus. ‘Happy.’ She picked at the bottle, snapping off some wax.

  ‘That’s great,’ Ella replied, studying her daughter’s face for other clues.

  Lizzie gave her mother a prickly stare. ‘Where you staying?’

  ‘The Gonville,’ she announced in triumph. ‘It seemed fitting with my brilliant daughter being at Gonville and Caius.’

  Lizzie ignored the compliment. ‘And what’s the job?’

  Ella put her elbows on the table, beginning to relax now that the exchange had gained some rhythm. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t really know much yet. An internal issue at one of the colleges, De Jure.’

  One side of Lizzie’s mouth curled upwards. ‘You took your first job in three years and that’s it?’ Realisation spread across her face. ‘Oh, I get it, because it’s in Cambridge?’

  Ella leaned in. ‘I thought we could catch up… properly.’

  Lizzie looked down and straightened her cutlery. ‘It’s a bit late, Mum.’

  ‘It’s never too late,’ Ella almost shouted. Then, in a loud whisper: ‘There’s always a way back.’

  ‘A way back?’ Lizzie repeated. ‘Interesting word choice.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so cold,’ Ella replied, locking into their familiar pattern.

  Lizzie’s eyes did a room scan. She said, in a louder voice, ‘I learned from the master.’

  Ella felt crushed. ‘Please Lizzie, let’s not do this?’

  Lizzie pursed her lips then closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled.

  The waiter saved them.

  ‘Two diet cokes?’ Ella suggested.

  Lizzie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Have what you want, Mum, I’m not your keeper?’

  ‘OK,’ Ella replied, fiddling with the tassels on her shawl. ‘One diet coke and a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc.’

  The waiter gave a slight bow and left.

  Lizzie made an obvious inspection of her mother’s face. ‘You look different.’

  ‘Really?’ Ella replied, self-consciously brushing away a few strands of hair. ‘I’m off the fags again, only been a couple of days.’

  ‘No, it’s your clothes, and—’

  ‘I know,’ Ella cut in, unable to stand more. ‘I came straight from Lindisfarne in the van.’

  Lizzie frowned. ‘Why didn’t you go home first?’

  Ella felt her body shrink. As always, her daughter had got the better of her.

  ‘If you hate the house that much,’ said Lizzie, ‘why don’t you sell it, move somewhere else?’

  Ella’s thoughts lurched backwards and forwards. ‘But, don’t you want the memories?’

  Lizzie looked bemused. ‘It’s your house, Mum.’

  The waiter arrived with the drinks.

  ‘Cheers!’ Ella clinked Lizzie’s glass, frantically trying to move the conversation on. ‘So, met any nice men since you’ve been here?’

  ‘Are you for real?’ said Lizzie, throwing her head back. ‘Is that really going to be your first foray about my time at Cambridge?’

  Ella’s shoulders dropped. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right, trying too hard.’

  Lizzie gave an affirming nod.

  The flame stopped dancing.

  Ella dropped her shawl onto the back of her chair and started again. ‘Tell me about the course?’ Encouraged by the twitch of excitement around Lizzie’s mouth, she said, ‘Three years of history, you’re so lucky.’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ Lizzie replied, suddenly animated. ‘I’m learning so much – trying to answer the big questions – I’m loving it.’

  Ella’s eyes moistened. ‘The big questions?’

  ‘Come on, you know that’s what Cambridge is all about, Mum,’ she gushed, seeming relieved to be free of their normally guarded interaction.

  Moved, Ella reached out to touch Lizzie’s hand. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  For a moment there was peace, at ease with their shared history.

  There was always a way back.

  Chapter Six

  Ella had bought a new pin-striped trouser suit and some flats for her meeting at De Jure. Even without wearing stilettos it felt odd to be dressing for work after so long.

  King’s Parade hadn’t changed at all. The sight still took her breath away. The white, limestone spires and gothic detail made the colleges seem unreal, like a movie set. She crossed the street to get a better look at the immaculate lawns of King’s College until someone shouting ‘move’ made her jump onto the pavement. A line of bicycles flew past, prompting a flurry of memories. She’d been so happy when she’d been a student here, not a care in the world.

  She dodged her way back across the road and into the cobbled entrance to De Jure. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the view of the huge courtyard with its bedded rose bushes bordering a grass square.

  ‘Miss Blake?’ A little, balding man poked his head out of a tiny archway leading to a small office. His round belly pushed at his shirt, revealing slits of white skin between the buttons. He brushed a few flakes of pastry from around his mouth.

  ‘Yes,
that’s me.’ She could see a Gregg’s paper bag poking out of his trouser pocket.

  ‘I’m Bartlett, one of the porters,’ he said. ‘Follow me, please.’

  She waited for him to shuffle past and fell in behind. They crossed the courtyard then under a low, medieval arch built at a time when men were shorter, and into another, smaller courtyard. A few bleary-eyed students trudged across the open space in dressing gowns.

  ‘No en suites here,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘That’s the price you pay if you want to be in fourteenth-century accommodation.’

  Ella laughed, hurrying to keep up.

  After a few more turns and a climb up a stone staircase, they were at the Master’s office. The porter knocked at the door.

  A voice from inside said, ‘Come.’

  ‘Miss Blake, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, come in Miss Blake, welcome.’ A middle-aged man, impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey suit, held out his hand. ‘John Desmond, Master of De Jure.’

  Ella was pleasantly surprised by his firm handshake. He wasn’t the stereotypical academic Ella remembered. The days of scruffy professors seemed to have gone. She scanned the room, taking in the framed certificates on the walls, amongst them a photo of John Desmond in a gown and mortar board. There was an ornate, Victorian fireplace and bookshelves either side of an oval window looking onto the main courtyard.

  ‘Please,’ he said, pointing to an antique chair in front of a tidy, mahogany desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ She sat down and crossed her legs – an automatic posture from the days when confidence at meetings was everything.

  ‘Miss Blake,’ he began. ‘Or should I call you Mrs Blake?’

  She flinched. Did he know? ‘Ella’s fine.’

  ‘Ok, Ella,’ he said deliberately, seemingly uncomfortable digressing from the usual etiquette. ‘We are hugely honoured that you have agreed to take this… brief.’