Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  He gave her another long cold look then with a smile he bowed slightly and turned away, walking briskly up the road towards Greyfriars.

  Steve shook his head. ‘What the hell is he talking about? What is he thinking of, telling you like that, in the street, for God’s sake?’ He was furiously indignant for her. ‘I’m so sorry, Viv.’

  ‘You too?’ Viv said somewhat grimly. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not. If he was out to humiliate me, it hasn’t worked.’ She managed to bring her attention back to his face. ‘Look, I wish you hadn’t had to witness that. I’m not the Prof’s favourite person at the moment as you can see and he doesn’t seem to be himself, does he.’ She realised that she was shaking. ‘This is nothing that can’t be fixed, I’m sure. We differ in our approach to things, that’s all. A nice long summer holiday and it will all blow over.’ It wouldn’t, of course. How could it? But there was no need for Steve to know that.

  ‘Come to Ingleborough, Viv.’ Steve reached out and touched her arm. ‘Away from Hugh. Follow the footsteps of Cartimandua. Why don’t you?’

  She shivered. ‘I’ll let you know, Steve.’ She punched his arm affectionately. ‘See you soon.’ And she ducked across the road just as the lights turned green again, leaving him standing looking after her.

  6

  I

  Viv spotted the manuscript of her play on Cathy’s desk at once, with the copy of her book resting on top of it, as she threw herself into one of the armchairs in front of the bookcase. Cathy and Pete were in the kitchen getting supper and Tasha was slumped in front of the TV in the living room. Pat had followed her into the study with a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses. The other armchair was occupied with a certain air of defiance by Pablo, so after a moment’s hesitation Pat pulled up a smaller chair next to the desk.

  ‘This is fantastic!’ She thumped the jacket of the book. ‘Brilliant. I enjoyed it enormously. What a woman!’

  Viv gave a wry grin. ‘Indeed.’ She waited to see what Pat was going to say next.

  ‘And your stab at the play is not at all bad.’ Pat put on a pair of green-rimmed spectacles and laid her hand on the manuscript. ‘Much better than I expected, in fact.’ She reached for the bottle and poured, pushing one of the glasses across the desk towards Viv. ‘I like the approach you’ve taken. The drama. The narrative interludes. That works well.’

  ‘Not according to Maddie.’ Viv took a gulp from her glass.

  ‘And I’ll tell you why.’ Pat glanced up. ‘You don’t mind? It’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Viv shrugged. She minded like hell, but she had no choice.

  ‘You’ve become self-conscious. In the book you were relaxed and confident. On your own ground. You knew what you were doing. Your voice, and Cartimandua’s voice are authentic. In the play you’ve lost that authenticity. It comes through from time to time almost by accident and those bits come alive. Like the first scene. It’s brilliant. Then you rein yourself in again and I think that’s the phrase you used yourself, and the style becomes -’ Pat hesitated. ‘Pedagogic. Even pedantic.’ She groped in her pocket for her cigarettes. ‘Do you think Cathy would notice if I smoke?’

  ‘Yes.’ Viv grinned. ‘Yes, she would.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s a bummer trying to give up.’ Pushing the packet back into her jacket Pat reached for her glass again instead. ‘Does what I’m saying make sense?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  Viv shrugged again. ‘I suppose it does, yes.’

  Cartimandua’s voice - not authentic! She smiled grimly to herself.

  ‘Do you mind if we do some deconstructing?’ Pat went on. ‘Shorter scenes. Punchier. More real. Your good ones are so good they make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. That’s why the others are such an anti-climax.’ She shook her head. ‘And the narrator’s voice needs to be less tentative. This is you, right? Whether we use you in person, or an actor. You are the world authority on this woman. We need to be convinced of it.’

  Viv let out a gasp of laughter. ‘The world authority?’

  ‘Too right!’ Pat took off her glasses and looked at her earnestly. ‘I’ve got such a good feeling about this. It will make a fabulous piece of radio. I’ve got a friend down in Cornwall who could compose us some music. Lots of ambient sound. Celtic stuff, you know. Penta-tonic scale - all the black notes! Full of mystery and atmosphere. Maybe record it on site with the wind in the mike. I can hear it in my head already. Viv, this is going to be wonderful.’ She took a sip of wine, then reached for her spectacles again. Opening the manuscript she glanced at it, running her finger down the text as though she were going to read a bit from it. Then she changed her mind. ‘What we need is a new outline.’ She studied Viv’s face and hesitated. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘What?’

  Who is Maeve?’

  ‘Maeve?’ Viv echoed the name in shock. ‘Why?’

  Maeve. Medb.

  Medb of the White Hands.

  She was not in the play. Not in the book. She had no part to play in recorded history.

  Pat was frowning. ‘The name keeps coming to me. I dreamed about her last night, as though she was a character in your book. But she isn’t. Is she? I checked the index and I couldn’t find her.’

  Viv shook her head. ‘No, she’s not in the book.’ Her mouth had gone dry.

  ‘But the name means something to you?’ Pat cocked an eyebrow. She picked up her glass and standing up, wandered over to the other chair near Viv’s where, careful not to disturb the cat, she perched on the arm. ‘Who is she?’

  Viv shook her head. ‘I believe she was someone Cartimandua came across in her early life. A period not covered by the book because we know nothing about it officially.’ She paused. Then she found herself unable to resist asking,‘What did she look like. In your dream?’

  Pat was silent for a moment, remembering. ‘She was young. Very beautiful. Tall. Slim. With amazingly striking eyes. Intense light steely-blue. A hard face.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think she was very nice.’

  The silence in the study drew out into a long pause as Pat swung one leg slowly back and forth, the shoe dangling from her foot. She was studying Viv’s face.

  ‘No.’ Viv sounded worried. ‘She wasn’t very nice. But I don’t know how we know that. We know nothing about Cartimandua’s life apart from what the Roman historians tell us. They were not interested in anything much but politics.’

  ‘A point you make very clearly in the book.’

  Viv nodded.

  ‘And yet you’ve put in a lot more than Roman politics.’

  ‘Extrapolated from other sources,’ Viv said, almost to herself. ‘From archaeology for instance.’

  ‘And Maeve’s name is not mentioned anywhere.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But she features in the story, doesn’t she? Why haven’t you mentioned her?’

  It was Viv’s turn to reach for the bottle. Lunging forward out of her chair she grabbed it and slopped a little wine into her glass with a shaking hand, spilling some onto the carpet. ‘Nothing more than guesswork. Forget her. She’s not part of this story.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Pat was frowning. ‘Why would I dream about her?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  For a moment the two women looked at each other, then at last Pat shrugged. She changed the subject. ‘How do you want to work with this? Shall we get together each morning? I could come over to your place and we can concentrate on getting it done before you have to go away. I gather you have a publicity tour coming up?’

  Viv nodded. ‘A week or so talking about my book.’

  ‘Right. Well, we’ll try and get as much done as possible before that.’ Pat paused. Then went on,‘Another idea has just occurred to me. Rather than do all this in a studio, I think it would be really effective to record some if not all of it on location. With sound effects. Like the music. It would be tremendously atmospheric. It works on radio. Something TV has taugh
t us. Any editing we need I’ll do myself initially on my laptop.’

  ‘That sounds a wonderful idea.’ Viv nodded vehemently, then she glanced round as the door opened and Pete put his head in. ‘Supper’s ready, girls.’

  As they stood up and made their way after him towards the kitchen Pablo sat up and stretched, then he jumped down from the chair to follow them. In the doorway he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder into the empty room. For a moment he hesitated, eyes wide, his tail fluffing with fear, then he followed them.

  There were five of them around the table this time including Tasha, and tonight’s menu was once-more child friendly. Fishcakes made from a mixture of organic wild salmon and sustainably-sourced white fish, the name of which Cathy could not recall.

  ‘You can help Viv and me choose a name for ourselves, Tash,’ Pat said with a grin as she sat down. She was becoming quite fond of this precocious mixed-up child. ‘Maddie has suggested we form a production company. And this could be the start of a very exciting new angle to Viv’s career. You realise, Viv,’ she added enthusiastically,‘if this is the success I think it is going to be, we needn’t stop with Cartimandua. We could go on to make other historical drama documentaries for radio. The success of this will carry us forward and your name will be linked with the product rather than with the period. That would get your professor off your back.’

  ‘But I’m a Celticist.’

  ‘You’re a talented woman with several strings to your bow,’ Pat contradicted. She sat back in the chair, her arms outstretched on either side of her plate, eyeing her fishcake. She was dying for a cigarette. Opposite her Pablo the cat was sitting on the draining board watching the proceedings with inscrutable green eyes. ‘So, what are we going to call ourselves?’

  Half an hour later they were still arguing. Wearily Cathy stood up and went to rummage in the fridge for another bottle of wine. ‘Do you think you’ll find it easy to agree the script if you find it this difficult to decide on a name?’ She picked up the corkscrew with a rueful smile.

  ‘Sisters. That’s good. Something sisters. Or sisters of something,’ Pat went on, ignoring her. She too was growing impatient. They were going round in circles.

  ‘Sounds too much like feminist stuff.’ Pete shook his head. He helped himself to the last of the peas.

  ‘Daughters, then.’ Cathy topped up their glasses.

  ‘That’s less aggressive, certainly.’ Pete nodded. He was keeping out of the argument.

  ‘Daughters of Fire,’ Viv said suddenly. ‘That’s it. Brigantia is a fire goddess, the Brigantes the people of fire and Cartimandua is a fiery woman.’ She was conscious of Pablo watching her, his eyes unblinking.

  ‘As are we! Perfect!’ Pat punched the air. ‘Yes! Then if we write other things we can specialise in feisty women. Mary, Queen of Scots. Elizabeth. Mary Tudor. Eleanor of Aquitaine -’

  ‘They needn’t be queens of course,’ Cathy put in. ‘Jane Austen. The Brontë Sisters, George Eliot.’ The excitement was catching. ‘Amelia Earhart, Mata Hari. Florence Nightingale.’ She paused. ‘So, as I said, no need to panic at being typecast as a Celticist who kicked over the traces, Viv!’ She laughed. ‘Right, now, one thing at a time. Don’t forget you need a working title for the play.’

  ‘The Forgotten Queen,’ Viv put in quietly. ‘That’s what I’ve called it. After all, you’ll find hardly anyone has heard of her.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Pat nodded. ‘It’s intriguing. Descriptive. Tantalising.’ She didn’t tell them it would probably be changed several times before the editors decided what was right. ‘So, let’s drink a toast. To the Daughters of Fire: Viv, Pat and Cartimandua, the Forgotten Queen.’

  Tash was very silent. She had finished her fishcake, pushed aside the impeccably vegetarian peas and rice and the especially bought bottle of tomato sauce which was her exclusive property and which now stood untouched beside her plate. ‘Do you want to drink to us, Tash?’ Viv asked, uncomfortably aware that the child’s eyes had been fixed on her face. There was a glass of orange beside her plate.

  Tasha shook her head. ‘She’s there again,’ she said, her small face screwed into a puzzled frown. ‘That woman behind you.’

  Viv froze, paralysed with terror. The room had grown very still.

  The others fell silent. One by one they turned to look at Viv.

  ‘Tasha!’ Pete was very stern. ‘We told you before.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Tasha stood up. ‘It’s true!’ she wailed again. ‘Look!’ She pointed. ‘Can’t you see her? Pablo can. Look at him.’ The cat had risen to his feet, back arched, and was staring towards Viv, his fur on end.

  There was a further second of utter silence. At last Cathy spoke. ‘We can’t see anyone, Tash,’ she said gently. ‘Pablo is just stretching.’

  ‘I’m not making it up!’ Tash screamed.

  Pablo let out a screech of terror and jumped off the draining board, fleeing out of the door. Tasha paused for only a second before breaking into floods of tears and running from the kitchen after him.

  ‘Wow!’ Pat took a deep breath. ‘Does she often do that?’ She glanced at Viv, who had gone white as a sheet. Cartimandua was here in the room with them. She could feel her.

  ‘She said the same thing last time I was here,’ Viv replied shakily.

  ‘And as before, we all know it’s rubbish,’ Cathy said firmly. ‘Collect up the plates, Pete, would you? She got a wonderful reaction last time and she thought she’d try it again. Let her be. Ignore it.’

  ‘I saw something,’ Pete said quietly. He hadn’t moved.

  The three women looked at him. Viv blanched. Please, no.

  ‘A shadow. Just for a second. There, immediately behind Viv.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Cathy began to gather up the plates herself. ‘Come on, Pete. Let’s have a bit of stark reality here, please!’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course. It must have been a trick of the light.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Too right!’ Cathy was cross.

  Pete shrugged. He was watching Viv’s face. ‘You OK? Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘Well, you did!’ Viv stood up. Suddenly she found she couldn’t breathe. ‘I need some fresh air. I’m going home. I’m sorry. I’m all right …’

  Ignoring the anxious voices behind her, Viv ran down the elegant curved stone staircase with its wrought-iron balustrade which climbed up through the house towards an oval skylight above her head. As she reached the entrance hall, she glanced over her shoulder with a shiver of terror. The street door was closed. The vestibule was silent, shadowy and cold, and smelled of pine disinfectant and, faintly, of cigarettes. Scrabbling frantically at the latch, she let herself out into the street. Behind her the light clicked off on its timer and left her in darkness.

  II

  Pat couldn’t sleep. The so-called box room in which she had been installed boasted a narrow pine bed and a duvet decorated with fairy tale princesses, aimed she suspected at Tasha or her friends in earlier, more innocent incarnations. On the small chest of drawers she had laid out her notebooks and laptop. Her capacious red canvas bag acted as wardrobe and her cosmetics such as they were sat on the window sill where earlier she had rested on her elbows puffing the smoke from a guiltily smoked cigarette into the darkness. She left the window open as she turned out the light and climbed into the bed to lie staring up at the ceiling.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. Tense and uneasy, she kept playing back the extraordinary scene at the kitchen table. Tasha and Pete had both seen something. There was no doubt about that. And Pete had not just said it to show solidarity with his daughter. She pictured Viv’s white face. She had often heard people described as looking like rabbits caught in a car’s headlights. That was how she had looked. Disbelieving. Trapped. Terrified.

  They hadn’t wanted her to go home alone. Cathy was worried and cross. Cross with Tasha and with Pete. Protective. Pete and she had had a row after Viv had gone and Pat had left the
m to it, wandering into the sitting room where she had joined Tasha who was sitting on the sofa in front of the television. The news was just finishing and a map of the next day’s weather was flashed on the screen. Tasha was hugging a large cushion. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I did see something.’

  ‘I know.’ Pat was dying for a cigarette.

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I didn’t see anything myself, Tasha,’ Pat said cautiously. ‘But your dad said he did.’ They were both staring at the screen.

  ‘It was a woman.’ Tasha’s arms tightened on the cushion.

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘She was looking at Viv. Trying to get her attention. She had reddish hair.’

  Not Medb, then. Pat had felt a surge of relief. And not a shadow either.

  She turned over and punched the pillow. Pete was going to drop her off at Viv’s in the morning on his way to a meeting so that she and Viv could start on the play. Suddenly she was dreading it.

  Somewhere outside a dog barked and she found herself tensing. The sound was eerie in the silence of the city streets.

  She awoke suddenly some time later, aware that she was shouting out loud, her heart thumping in her chest. Staring round the dark room she held her breath, wondering if she had woken the others. There was no sound from the rest of the flat. Perhaps the shout had been in her dream. Groping for her watch, she squinted at it. One a.m. She had been asleep for less than half an hour.

  Lying back on the pillow again with a groan she screwed her eyes up against the darkness, willing herself back to sleep.

  Medb.

  Her eyes flew open.

  Medb must be in the play. She was a key character. Medb who wasn’t in the index. Who wasn’t in the book. Who did not exist at all, according to Viv who had shrugged and then admitted that she had heard of her. Somewhere. Pat saw again the pale clear eyes in her mind’s eye and she shivered. The woman’s implacable hatred was a physical presence in the room with her.