The Buried Circle (20 page)
‘Miss Robinson! What are you doing cowering in the passage?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ I could hardly bring the words out because all I could think was what he’d said in that letter. ‘…various branches of the erotic impulse…’ I imagined long lean ladies, draped in cream silk, lying back while Mr Keiller stroked their rounded breasts and soft ivory skin for his studies, turning away now and then to say a few words into his dictation machine.
‘Oh, the letters.’ He’d seen the machine under my arm. ‘Come into the Library and I’ll sign them.’ He held open the door for me, and I had to pass under his arm, smelling the warm scent of expensive soap that came off him. Underneath was something darker, more bullish. It was nothing like the smell of Davey when we were snuggling with our backs to the stone and our fingers lacing like cat’s cradle while I tried to keep his hands somewhere this side of decency.
I stood while he leaned against the table and read the letters through before dashing off his signature on each. There was one to some old colonel that had written complaining because Mr Keiller wouldn’t let him bring a group to see the dig when it started.
‘Claimed I was placing him and his ghastly friends on a level with a cheerio coach party of trippers from the Black Country,’ said Mr K. ‘Which is exactly why I don’t want his type here. Frankly, I’d much rather have the trippers. Can’t stand snobbery.’
The shelves in the room were arranged to make six big bays, and held more books than I’d ever seen in one place, more than there were in the Boots Lending Library in Devizes. There were some by Charles Dickens and Rudyard Kipling, but most were dusty old things you’d never want to read. One title leaped out on the nearest shelf–
The Sexual Life of Savages
–and I dropped my eyes quickly, feeling myself beginning to redden again.
Mr Keiller put the top back on his fountain pen. I’d the feeling he was laughing at me. ‘Interested in books, are you, Miss Robinson?’
‘I’m a member of the lending library.’
‘There are some here that should never be lent. Look at this one: seventeenth century. Belonged to the Bishop of Aush.’ He pulled a fat leatherbound book off the shelf. It didn’t look really old. I said so.
‘Because I’ve had it rebound, you ninny. It’s a classic of witchcraft.’ He pretended to cuff me with the book; his hand skimmed my hair.
‘L’Inconstance de Demons
. The faithlessness of demons.’ He sighed, and handed me the letters. ‘Now there’s a lesson for us all. Don’t sell your soul–or, at least, don’t sell it cheap. Right you are, Miss Robinson. Pop them in the envelopes and deliver them to the post, if you would, on your way to see your young man.’
I felt myself go hot all over again. How could he know about me and Davey? And I’d been thinking of
that
, what we did by the stones, childish fumblings, comparing it to Mr Keiller and his studies, the dark secret things he did with ladies like Miss Chapman and, if gossip was to be believed, plenty of others, although he and Miss Chapman were supposed to be getting married.
‘I see I’ve hit bullseye,’ he said. ‘So pretty Miss Robinson
is
courting. We shall have to start calling you
Heartbreaker
Robinson from now on.’
I was too young for him, I knew, but did he really find me pretty? The air outside the Manor seemed warmer than it had been, positively spring-like. Reckon I wasn’t the only one thinking that way, because when I came round the side of the barns, where the stones Mr Keiller had raised the year before loomed over the ditch, there was a soft giggle and a flash of white in the dark.
They were the other side of the big stone nearest the gate. Would have been hard to see them in the dark, as I went past, but for the petticoat and the glimpse of pale leg, hooked around his waist. I recognized the voices, though, hers high and excited, his low and controlled.
‘Give I your coat to lean back on,’ she said: it was the housemaid who’d let me into the Manor. ‘This stone’s powerful rough.’
‘You like it powerful rough, do you?’ said Mr Cromley’s voice.
Mam was cross with me that evening. ‘You’re late back, Frances. Where’ve you been?’
She could always see into the belly of my thoughts. It made me sharp back. ‘At the Manor, of course. Where else would I be?’
‘Only asking. I made your supper…’
‘Well, you won’t be having to do that soon enough. When I’ve my own place, it’ll be a relief not to have to answer all these questions.’
Mam’s eyes widened and went shiny under the kitchen light. She turned her back to me and started stirring something on the stove. I didn’t care. It was my life.
Spring was coming. The museum was almost ready. I’d thought of it as a job that would go on for ever, but now I could see I’d be let go after it opened. For all my bold talk of finding my own rooms, it looked like I’d be off to the cigar box in Devizes with Mam and Dad, come September. The thought of leaving the Manor was almost unbearable, for reasons I didn’t want to put into words. But I found myself looking up, every time the museum door opened, to see who it was. When Mr Keiller’s tall shadow fell across us, I’d feel the warmth in my face, and an extraordinary, unreasonable happiness.
Mrs Sorel-Taylour was running out of work to give me. The flow of crates from London had dried up completely. The last one, with the skeleton of Charlie, the child they found at Windmill Hill, had been unpacked last week. Or Charlotte, said Mr Keiller. Could as well be a girl. There was something funny about the head: a clever doctor who was down from London had been brought over to the stable block to take a look, and he said the skull was distorted, too big for the body; some disease had swelled the brain and pushed the bones out of shape. The skeleton had been laid out careful, in a glass case sunk into the floor, a strange last resting place for a little boy thousands of years old. Every time I went into the museum I took a look, poor little mite. I didn’t want to believe he might’ve been killed deliberate, like Mr Piggott suggested.
Yooman sacrifice:
I hated the way he’d laughed, showing his large, prominent teeth. Instead I pictured Charlie’s mother laying him to sleep in the ditch as the sun sank over Cherhill and Yatesbury, stroking his clumsy misshapen head. ‘My special boy,’ she said, her eyes wet and shining. ‘You sleep quiet.’ They said he’d been laid to face the sunrise.
It made me think different about Windmill Hill. I’d always liked sitting on the old barrow mounds, wind rippling the grasses and the wild flowers. But now I went up there and thought about Charlie. I could see him in my mind’s eye, running through the tall grass, chasing butterflies. He was as real as real to me. This morning, we’d finished the last of the labels. Mrs S-T had to go to the dentist in Swindon and she told me I could take longer for lunch, only be sure to be back by three thirty when she’d show me how to type up the excavation notes Mr Young had found from last season’s digging. I’d walked to Windmill Hill to enjoy the sunshine. Could’ve gone to look for Davey to see if he was free to come with me, but to be truthful I was no longer so keen on Davey’s poky Angers. It was someone else’s hands I’d have liked roaming, strong, manicured hands. I wondered what it would be like to be Miss Chapman, and have Mr Keiller come to my room late at night.
I lay back on the barrow top, and let the wind play with my skirt and tease my goose-pimply legs. Charlie was playing in the sunshine somewhere below. I could feel the vibrations of his running feet.
I sat up. I
could
feel vibrations.
The wind had blown the sound of the engine away from me. There were two of them riding the motorbike, bouncing at speed over the tussocks of grass. Davey was in front, controlling the bike, his hair blowing half over his eyes, and Mr K, wearing a leather helmet and goggles, was behind him. His arms were round Davey’s waist, and as I watched he bent his head as if he would bury his face in Davey’s hair. Neither of them had noticed me: they were travelling away from me across the top of the hill towards the stand of trees that tumbled down the northern slope.
I stood up to wave–then sat down again. Even if Mr Keiller had turned his beautiful head at that moment, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to see me. The shifting wind tossed the growl of the bike back to me as Davey revved it towards the brow of the hill, like he was gearing it to jump into space and float through the air. Then they were gone. The sound cut out among the trees, and a cloud flicked its tail over the face of the sun so my arms went goose-pimply too.
It’s a fact of life that television people delay and delay and then want everything done right now, no matter whether their schedule matches anyone else’s. The week after Ed’s arrival, Ibby from Overview calls to tell me Daniel Porteus is coming to Avebury, presenter in tow, to talk to the National Trust. He’s expecting me to be there, as Ibby herself will be otherwise occupied.
Corey is less than enthusiastic about rearranging my shifts. As I pant into the caf, she gives me a glare from behind the counter and jerks her head in the direction of the tables. Daniel Porteus and another man, his back to me, are at the far end. A fluffy mic on a boom pole is propped against the wall. Seeing me, Daniel stands up. ‘India, good of you to join us.’ Said with a touch of sarcasm: I’m late. We exchange the obligatory double-barrelled media air kiss. ‘This is Martin Ekwall…’
The other fellow stands too. He’s a bear of a man, in beige chinos and a bright red sweater, holding out a furry paw, a smile splitting his thick but well-barbered beard. Even the backs of his fingers are hairy. ‘Glad to meet you. Daniel says you’re good with a camera.’
‘Well, um…’
Daniel takes this for modesty. ‘You don’t mind shooting a few pieces to camera with Martin, while the sun’s out? May never use them, but it gives him practice.’
Beyond the window is a lovely day, chilly for April, but under puffs of cloud in a blue sky the lime leaves are unfurling, juiciest green. Martin is a palish shade of green to match, and rooting in a leather satchel slung over the back of his chair.
‘Standing, sitting or walking?’ I ask.
‘All three,’ says Daniel.
‘Can
you walk and talk, Martin?’
‘About a minute, like you told me?’ says Martin, his head buried in his bag. ‘Sorry, need the loo…’ He bolts.
‘Want a coffee, India?’ Daniel waves in a lordly fashion to Corey, who looks thunderstruck since the caf is self-service. ‘I’ll take a flapjack.’
I pull up a chair, and he starts to examine the photocopies of archive stills I’ve brought him. Corey bangs the cup down on the table so coffee slops into the saucer. Martin emerges from the Gents, looking more confident.
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I’ve a ten-thirty meeting to talk the National Trust into letting us dig up a stone.’ Daniel has to negotiate many strata of bureaucratic approval before so much as a skewer can penetrate the sacred soil. ‘You two start filming.’
‘Fine,’ says Martin. He looks relaxed, but under the table he’s picking at the skin round his thumb. There’s a smear of blood on his chinos.
‘Shall we go, then?’ Daniel wraps the uneaten half of his flapjack in a napkin, then puts it into his pocket. He ducks under the table and emerges with a padded camera bag. ‘You have used a mini-DVC before, India?’
My hands tense. It’ll be the first time I’ve touched a camera since…
But of course I can do it.
I thought I’d feel more, but it’s just grey plastic and cables, inert, innocuous, not an instrument of mass destruction. Maybe it helps that it’s so small, nothing like the heavier on-the-shoulder camera I used in the helicopter. I hold it up to my eye, half expecting to see through the viewfinder a flash of Steve’s head, welling crimson, but the frame is filled only with Martin’s hairy, worried face.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Know it like the back of my head. You ready, Martin?’
I’ll take that croak as a yes.
As we leave the caf, he hangs back and grabs my arm. ‘Be gentle with me, India.’
‘You have done telly before?’
‘Yes, but only as the chap being interviewed. Now I’m supposed to be front man, every sensible word has flown out of my head.’
I’m scanning the camera furiously, running my fingers over the casing. ‘Tell you a secret. I can’t remember where the eject button is so I can load the tape.’
‘Well, don’t ask me. I’m useless with technology.’
Somehow between us we set up in the henge with the camera loaded and Martin semi-coherent, and Daniel hasn’t noticed what a pair of idiots he has in his employ. Martin strikes a manly pose, staring into the far distance, while I position the camera.
‘Take off your jumper.’
‘You forward young thing.’
‘It casts too much colour up onto your face. You’ll look like a tomato. Can you hold this piece of paper?’
‘What’s written on it? “Beware, lunatic talking”?’
‘It’s for the white balance. Don’t ask me to explain.’ Daniel is wandering between the tall stones of the Cove. ‘Does Mr Porteus make you as nervous as he does me?’
‘Too right,’ says Martin, fervently, throwing his sweater to land untidily next to his leather satchel by the tripod. ‘Am I white enough?’
‘Lily-like. Now, in your own time, speak.’
‘Hang on–what am I supposed to do with the rest of me? Where do I put my hands? No, don’t answer that.’
‘Lean on the stone, looking casual…Oh, shit.’
A green Land Rover has pulled up on the verge by the gate. A pair of muddy cowboy boots descends from the driver’s door: Ed, wearing aviator shades. Michael, togged up for telly in a Barbour so pristine the wax gleams, is walking round from the other side.
‘What’s up?’ asks Martin, uneasily. ‘Haven’t got coffee froth in my beard, have I?’
‘Nothing. I thought they’d be meeting in the office.’ Another car parks behind the Land Rover, disgorging the National Trust’s film liaison officer, in green wellies, and the curator, in pink ones and a long flouncy skirt. ‘Carry on. We’re rolling…and speed.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Something camerapersons always say. It means ready, steady, go.’
