`And then?'
`And then I woke up feeling awful. A nice, bright morning and all the windows and doors were shut as they always are.'
`Did you tell Sergeant Malone this?'
`Good Lord, no. He was only after facts.'
`Can I mention it to him?'
`Well...' Cathy gave an unexpected smile. `He already thinks I'm a bit mad so I don't suppose it'll hurt.'
Millicent stood. `I'd better be going. You've no idea how much I've got on my plate.'
`I'll see you out... Oh.'
`What's the matter?'
This time Cathy laughed and the light returned to her eyes. `You don't know how wonderful it is to be able to say that.'
`I think I can guess. So will you let the world know about your ability?'
`It's not much of a world now, is it? What will I say to people?'
`What's wrong with the truth? Doctors can be wrong, you know. Neurologists particularly so.'
At the front door Cathy decided that there was no time like now and accompanied Doctor Vaughan to her trap. The pony had made short work of the grass verge and was about to demolish the hedge. Cathy took his snaffle and rubbed him behind the ears. The animal nickered in pleasure.
`He seems to like you, Cathy. Cussed brute hates me.'
`He likes being scratched. Just like all ponies. Do this now and then and he'll be your slave.'
Doctor Vaughan boarded the trap and took up the reins. She looked speculatively at Cathy. `Do you think you could ride again?'
The bright sunlight sparkled in the younger woman's eyes. `I'm going to try as soon as I can. Looks like it's going to be the only way of getting around for a while.' She hesitated. `You don't think my dream is important, do you?'
`No -- of course not.' Millicent flicked the reins. To her astonishment, the pony moved sedately off without need of further prompting or abuse.
Before returning to the house, Cathy sat in her E-type. She grasped the wheel, eyes closed, while imagining the throaty roar of the engine and the road disappearing under its absurdly long bonnet.
On her return to the surgery, Millicent brushed aside several matters clamouring for attention and shut herself in her consulting room with Cathy Price's file -- a bulkier folder than most. Copies of the reports from two of the country's leading neurologists at the Atkinson Morley Hospital were among the more recent documents. Their findings were independent and unequivocal:
Catherine Price would never be able to recover her sense of balance.
Chapter 57.
AS ALWAYS WHEN SHE was sitting in her cave, Ellen lost all sense of time. There was an indefinable therapeutic quality about staring at those wonderful hunting scenes of 40,000 year ago even though she now knew every brushstroke of those gifted, long-dead artists who could, with a few skillfully-applied sweeping lines of red ochre, bring a bison to snorting, stamping life or a bloody, spear-riddled death.
But her attention was never long from the mighty life-size, woolly mammoth; the old bull's head lowered, its chipped, ancient tusks seeming to leap straight her from the rockface as the great beast charged. The white glare from David's halogen lantern imbued the spectacular scene with the harsh reality of a bright sunlight that these artists did not have to aid their work, and yet it was as if the paintings were meant to be viewed under these conditions; the merciless light diminished nothing. It breathed a strange, surreal life into the creatures, particularly a herd of stampeding antelope, giving them weight, power, movement, sending a rippling tension surging through their graceful forms.
The lantern flicked and dimmed slightly. David put his around Ellen's waist and tried not to think about the tantalising pressure of the underside of her breast through her thin T-shirt. `We need the light to close up. Have you decided, m'dear?'
Ellen nodded, not taking her gaze off the mammoth. `As long as the Wall remains in place, we must say nothing to anyone about this place. I can't afford to keep an indefinite 24-hour guard, and nor can you.'
`I don't think the community as a whole could afford to,' said David.
`So many people hate me,' Ellen continued in a low voice. `To destroy this would be an easy way of getting at me.'
`You exaggerate, Ellen.'
`Do I? They vandalised my shop front. And little bastards like Brad Jackson and his mob don't need the excuse of hate to vandalise anything. No... These wonderful paintings aren't mine, David -- they belong to the world. Oh shit, I'm sounding like a pretentious little fart, but you know what I mean.'
David gave her a hug and helped her to her feet. `You could never sound pretentious, m'dear, and I agree with you. They've waited four hundred centuries -- they'll have to wait a little longer.'
They crawled out of the cave. Working by the light of a three-quarters moon that blazed a trail of glittering silver across Pentworth Lake, they repositioned the hurdle in the tunnel opening that led to the cave and filled it in with soil. David stamped the turf home and filled the gaps. There was little to show the casual eye that the bank had been disturbed but, as a finishing touch, David whistled up his sheep and scattered handfuls of winter feed pellets so that their hooves would obliterate any signs of human activity.
`Just as well the public won't be seeing this cave,' said David, sniffing. `I swear that the stink from that Chinese tree of yours is getting worse.'
`It's no match for your sweat, David.'
`My sweat is natural. The stink from that tree is anything but.'
They trudged uphill, arm-in-arm, not speaking as they skirted the tumbling stream, sparking like a torrent of molten silver in the humid moonlight. Bats wheeled and swooped silently about them, feeding on the bonanza of midges that the warm nights produced. Above them the great scarp of the Temple of the Winds loomed dark and forbidding, the knotted scowl of its weathered sandstone face in full moonlight seeming to hurl a challenge at the distant and unattainable folds and humps of the South Downs as they were before Man gave them a name.
`Let's climb up to the temple,' Ellen suggested on an impulse, and steered David along the path that led east. Ten minutes later they arrived at the foot of the steep, zig-zag track that led to the summit.
David looked up at the sombre tor. `Not sure my legs are up to it, m'dear.'
`You're turning into a young fogey, David Weir. Come on.'
They emerged onto the plateau a few minutes later and stood in silence by the marker obelisk, taking in the scene: the lake, the stream below, the hills, all bathed in the moon's pallid, ethereal light, the faint glow of oil lamps from far off farmhouse windows.
Ellen stood in front of David and leaned against him, his arms around her waist while, with the lightest of touches, she traced her fingertips along the fine hairs and bold, knotted veins on his forearms. She took both his work-hardened hands and steered them under her T-shirt so that his palms gently cradled the weight of her breasts.
`Have you ever climbed up here before, David?'
`No, never. At least it's above the pong.'
`It was Tennyson's favourite spot.'
She idly guided David's hands so that each nipple was gripped lightly between a thumb and forefinger. As usual, this little encouragement he always seemed to need caused a little stab of irritation but she didn't want anything to spoil this moment.
`My mother used to bring me up here when I was a little girl and tell me hoary old legends about this place.'
`Such as?'
`That the Beaker people used to make human sacrifices to their gods here. It was said that they used to throw virgins off the edge onto sharpened stakes below.'
David nuzzled his way through her hair and kissed the back of her neck, moving the tip of his tongue along her jaw and gripping her earlobe between his teeth while his fingers started rolling her nipples in and out, with increasing difficulty as they hardened. He had discovered that this was something she liked -- not as a result of any diligent research on his part, but because she had once told him -- in some desperation.
`When I got interested in pre-history, I did some checking,' Ellen continued, her voice catching in her throat. `There's not a shred of evidence that they did... Oh God, that's nice.' She reached behind her and idly stroked David's hips. `But a witch was once scourged here.'
`You're joking?'
`1646. An agent of Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder General, ordered the arrest of an Eleanor of Fittleworth. She was about my age. They brought her up here where she was stripped, beaten and raped. Then she was taken back to Pentworth and burned at the stake in Market Square.' Ellen chuckled. `The buildings around the square were thatched in those days. Half the town burned down. Several local dignitaries had to pay fines because they used an illegal method of execution. In England witches were supposed to be hanged. After that the good people of Pentworth told Matthew Hopkins' rep to piss off.'
`All a long time ago,' David remarked. `Three centuries plus.'
`You have to get time into perspective, David. There are certain to be some people alive today who were born in 1899.'
`It's possible. So?'
`Their lives span three centuries.'
David considered. `Yes. I suppose you're right.'
`As a 100-year-old dies, so a baby is born that will also live a 100 years or more. Four people link us with the scourging of Eleanor of Fittleworth right where we're standing. Just four people.'
`I've never looked it like that,' said David. `It makes it seem like it was only yesterday.'
`It was only yesterday. Disease was rampant; children dying young; ergot-infected crops that caused healthy people to keel over and die. Cholera, smallpox. A 1001 diseases whose causes we understand today so we no longer blame them on witches. Unless something surfaces again that causes misery and depravation -- something that people don't understand.'
`Like the Wall?'
`Yes. You've been brought up in a city and probably find this hard to believe, but in the Weald towns across southern England people still believe in the supernatural. You produce a ouija board at a party in London and your sophisticated friends will think it great fun. Produce one in Pentworth, Midhurst, and people will be too frightened to use it. And there were all those who came up here dressed in sheets to witness the 1999 total eclipse. They weren't the Bodian Brethren. The old superstitions and beliefs are still with us. Still an underlying but potent force'
`You don't have to tell me,' said David with feeling. `The Crittendens are riddled with superstitions. Grandma Crittenden went berserk when a visitor took a photograph of her. She really does believe in the evil eye and possession of souls.'
`A few people think I'm a witch.'
`What?'
`Herbalism is often thought of as an offshoot of witchcraft. And I daresay Harvey Evans thinks I'm one.'
`Why should he think that?'
They were silent for a few moments, enjoying the eroticism and closeness of each other.
`I used to love coming up here to sunbathe,' said Ellen. `I never have the time now.' She paused and chuckled. `The last time I did a little dance out of sheer exuberance. I'd been reading a book about a namesake of mine who liked dancing in the outdoors. I had my Walkman with me so I decided to try it. Naked. Harvey Evans saw me -- he came zooming over in his microlight before I had a chance to grab a towel. Can you imagine a stuffy old biddy like me doing an Isadora Duncan stunt?'
`So it was you? We all heard about it from him in the Crown.'
`Looks like it's common knowledge,' Ellen grumbled.
`We couldn't prise a name out of him. Not for want of trying. All he said was that a voluptuous female with magnificent breasts was disporting herself naked on the Temple of the Winds, and that had he been flying a helicopter, he would've landed and arrested her.'
Ellen laughed and brought her hands together, gently kneading him through the thick denim of his jeans.
`Anyway -- it would hard to imagine anyone less like a stuffy old biddy than you, Ellen. 'Specially one doing what you're doing.'
She suddenly turned around, pulled him close, and kissed him. `David -- I want you to promise me something. This Wall thing could outlast us.'
`How do you mean?'
`It could be here for hundreds of years--'
`Oh, really, Ell--'
`It could, and you know it could. I want you to promise me that you'll never reveal the whereabouts of the cave to anyone while the Wall is still there. Do you promise me?' Her fingernails were digging with unconscious intensity into the back of his neck.
David was at a loss. `I don't understand, Ellen. You sound so... so...' He groped for the right word. `Well -- fatalistic.'
`Realistic. You could outlive me.'
`Statistically unlikely.'
`But you do promise.'
`Yes, of course -- I promise.'
David's word was enough. Ellen knew him well enough to have absolute faith in his integrity. She relaxed and kissed him again. When he returned her kiss, she wondered why an image of Mike Malone's brown, wide-set eyes intruded on her thoughts.
Chapter 58.
`FERNBRIDGE HOUSE USED TO be a Victorian mission hall, Mr Harding. It's been the Pentworth Museum since the Boer War,' said Henry Foxley, leading the scientist down the central aisle of rosewood glass cases. Harding hadn't been able to get much of a word in since his arrival. The museum curator was a gifted talker.
`We were on the point of closure when Ellen Duncan discovered her palaeolithic flint mine.' The curator paused and pointed to a wall display of flint tools. `Suddenly we had publicity and a flood of visitors willing to pay for admission, so we were reprieved.'
`If I could see your store room please,' said Harding patiently.
`Yes -- of course. Bound to have some useful stuff. This way, Mr Harding.'
The scientist followed the gnome-like curator and his endless chatter through a fire escape door and down a flight of stone stairs into a gloomy basement crammed with junk, or what had been considered junk before the crisis. Harding produced a pocket memo recorder and began dicatating a catalogue of finds that included typewriters, sewing machines, bicycles, and even old printing machines.
`So much stuff that people have donated over the years,' said Foxley. `We've never been able to exhibit a tenth of it. We give the dolls to the Doll House Museum, of course. My predecessor refused to throw anything away.'
`Mangles,' said Harding. `You mentioned mangles, old boiling coppers, and cast iron Victorian irons.'
`I thought you were joking.'
`The council is considering setting up a couple of public laundries.'
`What a sensible idea. Over here, I think.'
They had to climb over bales of old magazines and newspapers to reach the far corner of the storeroom that was lit by a row of high windows. Foxley pointed apologetically to some tall display cases in need of repair, and stacks of bulging tea chests. `They're behind that lot.'
Harding was impatient to get back to the installation of an intercom system in Government House. Not because of any great enthusiasm for the job on his part but because the building was well-stocked with young girl clerks who were trying to come to terms with the warmth and humidity by wearing next to nothing. He started dragging the chests and cases aside. It needed both of them to haul the last and largest unit clear of the wall.
They stood staring at the mahogany cabinet for some moments. It was about the size of an upright piano.
`Well I'm damned,' Harding muttered, the girls in Government House forgotten.
`I'm so sorry, Mr Harding. I'd forgotten that the old switchboard was here. The mangles must be over--'
`It doesn't matter. This is much more important.' Harding peered at an oval nameplate and read out: `"Western Electric Company. London. 1908. 100 subscriber exchange. Patents Pending."' He pulled up one of the many jack leads from the desk panel and plugged it into one of the rows of labelled sockets on the jack field panel.
`So far as I know, it's never been exhibited,' said Foxley. `That's its
original position. It's screwed to the wall. Up until the beginning of the Great War, this corner was Pentworth's telephone exchange. That side door was for the ladies that manned it. The rest of the room was the mail sorting office.'
Harding shook his head disbelievingly. His fingertip made a trail of gleaming, polished mahogany through the switchboard's dust. `Looks like this one's in better condition than the one in the Science Museum.' He pressed his fingernail into one of the jack cables. `Insulation hasn't perished too badly, either. Could be because it's been kept in the dark. It's been here for a century?'
`So it would seem.'
`Remarkable.'
`I doubt if it would work now.'
`Mr Foxley -- these things are so simple that there's no way that they can't work.' The scientist pointed to the rows of jack sockets. `Each one of those was connected to a subscriber's line. When the subscriber wished to make a call, they picked up their telephone and cranked a handle that sent fifty volts down the line to flash a light against their number here.' He pointed to the jack field. `The operator plugged into the caller and asked them who they wanted to speak to. She then connected to the required number and cranked her handle -- this thing. That rang the bell on the receiving subscriber's phone. If it was answered, she merely patched the two lines together on this jack field and she had two happy subscribers who found it good to talk.'
`Sounds simple.'
`It was simple.' Harding studied faded labels on the jack field. `So simple that they hardly bothered with numbers. Look: the rectory, fishmonger, undertakers, greengrocer, Squire Prescott.' He turned his attention to the markings on the nearby tea chests. He opened one and lifted out a small polished mahogany box that was fitted with a crank handle, a small, horn-type microphone, and an ivory-handled headphone dangling on a length of cable. `Voila! Telephones.'
`No dial?' Foxley inquired.
Harding chuckled. `These were made about twenty years before Almon Strowger's automatic exchanges became commonplace. He was an undertaker, you know. He only invented the automatic exchange because he was convinced that a telephone operator in his town weren't sending business his way. The manual telephone operators in a small town had a lot of power in the old days -- upset them at your peril.'
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