by Phil Rickman
‘Oh my God, Irene, I dreamed of the dead!’
‘Well, that’s you, Jane,’ Eirion said. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to dream of soft green meadows and bunny rabbits.’
‘A sign of rain.’
‘What?’
‘To dream of the dead is a sign of rain.’
‘You needed signs?’
She’d dreamed of Lucy Devenish. Lucy standing by her own grave, her poncho torn and muddied, and when Jane had tried to talk to her Lucy had just looked right through her, towards the orchard, as if it was Jane who wasn’t there. And in that moment of terrifying non-existence she’d awoken, desolate.
‘It’s like war’s been declared.’
Eirion was pointing up towards the square, where people, including Mum in her black cape, were starting to gather near the market hall, a couple of women holding kids back.
‘They’ve come out of church, that’s all,’ Jane said.
No voices trailed from the assembly. Eirion was right; this was what it must’ve been like when war was declared. They’d all known in their hearts that it was coming. And now the bell ringers were starting up, all bright and Merry Christmassy. Like the dance band on the Titanic. It should be a solemn dong, dong, dong, a warning toll wadded in cloud to freeze everybody into stillness and dread. Before they all turned as one, pointing down the street at Jane. She did this. She let it happen.
‘Well…’ Eirion looked up. ‘This is going to curtail Blore’s dig.’
‘He’ll probably just erect some huge marquee over the whole site.’
‘You want to go and see?’
‘No!’
‘Be a good time,’ Eirion said. ‘There’s nothing we can do here.’
‘It’s not my place any more. It’s his. Blore’s.’
‘You don’t think that. Not in a million years.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I think. I count for nothing. The sodding cops have got my database, Blore’s got my… my future. Squashed in his big hand.’
‘Oh, Jane, come on, let’s not…’
‘Not what?’
Eirion pushed back the hood of his yellow slicker, gripped her arms above the elbows.
‘You can’t, see. You bloody can’t.’
‘What?’
‘Let it go. Abandon it. Even Lol said that. There’s too much… emotional investment.’
‘Like, wow,’ Jane said sourly.
‘When we did those pictures in the summer, you were just… lit up. I was…’ Letting go of Jane’s arms. ‘I wanted to kick uni into touch, get a job as a gardener or something, just to keep on seeing you.’
He backed away, embarrassed now. She looked into his face, taut with adult anxieties and things he probably wasn’t sure he was ready to handle. She didn’t know what to say, shaken by his intensity and all churned up like the river man with whom she’d tried to fake a relationship.
Probably fortunate that Gwyneth came rattling alongside, her bucket pulled into her big yellow chest, GOMER PARRY PLANT HIRE in green on her flanks. Gomer leaning over to the open side of the cab, glasses gleaming.
‘Takin’ her up the square, Janey. Hold the high ground, see.’
‘Your bungalow’s not—?’
‘No, no, but I en’t takin’ no chances with this ole girl.’ Gomer beamed at Eirion. ‘’Ow’re you, boy?’
‘I’m OK, thanks, Gomer. And you’re looking—’
‘Good boy!’
Gomer raising a hand, Gwyneth clanking off towards the cobbles.
Eirion shaking his head, bemused.
‘He looks kind of… energised?’
‘He is,’ Jane said. ‘Some people go on about him being too old to be doing what he does, but they won’t be saying that now, because a JCB’s about the only vehicle that can get through deep flood water. It’s got the weight, and its exhaust pipe’s really high up.’
And Gomer Parry had the only one in the village. Jane watched the JCB crawling onto the cobbles, Gomer jumping down like somebody thirty years younger.
‘Helps to feel needed, doesn’t it?’
‘You think Coleman’s Meadow doesn’t need you, Jane?’
Jane said nothing.
‘Who’s it got left?’
‘It’s a field. That’s all it is.’
‘Come on. Please.’
‘Why? What’s the point?’
‘It’s like a pilot getting back into the cockpit after a crash.’
‘I was never in the sodding cockpit.’
‘You were. You found it. The whole set-up. You were led to it.’
‘New Age bullshit, Irene. Pure accident. Even you don’t believe it.’
‘I’m not clever enough on this issue to know one way or another, but I believe in… well, in you, anyway. The you that gets excited about… Look, if we go halfway, I’ll take a look first, OK? If the bastard’s there I’ll come back and we’ll forget it.’
‘Irene, I don’t…’
‘You do, Jane.’
Rain on his face making it look like he was in tears. The old Eirion, somehow.
‘And Lucy Devenish is dead,’ he said.
In a situation like this, Merrily thought, feudalism rose again. James Bull-Davies was too impoverished now to be much of a squire, but it was in his blood, and she was glad to see him taking control.
‘Panic’s premature — chances are it won’t get much higher.’
James, in his holed and etiolated Barbour, talking on the square to a couple of migrant mulled-winos she didn’t recognise.
‘Only village hall in the firing line so far.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s that bloody Pierce? Suggest he gets off his arse and onto his council. Uses whatever influence he’s got to get us some technical assistance.’
‘No chance o’ that.’ Gomer Parry took out his roll-up, cupped in his palm against the rain. ‘Pierce don’t give a monkey’s for the hall getting flooded. He wants a new one, with squashy courts. Part of his master plan. Ole hall sinks, supermarket gets the site, Pierce fills his pockets. You know that, boy.’
‘You may not be wrong, Gomer, but this is hardly the time for politics.’ James nodded at Gwyneth. ‘That thing fully functional?’
‘Wash your mouth out,’ Gomer said.
Merrily smiled, pulled the bottom of her cape out of a puddle and stepped under the market hall.
‘What can I do, James? How many people do you need at the village hall?’
‘Can’t do much there apart from sandbags. If they don’t work and it floods… well, it floods. Least nobody lives there. Not much you can do for the present, vicar. Couple of us will take a look at the river, work out where we can either build up the bank or create a new barrier… and then rely on the expertise of our good friend Parry.’
‘Well, just let me know.’
‘Will do.’
She’d need to be prepared. If anyone was made temporarily homeless, there were spare bedrooms at the vicarage, just need to get more beds from somewhere. And she’d need to get over to Knights Frome and pick up the Boswell. Get across the county without a boat.
‘Mrs Watkins?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry…?’
She turned to find a woman standing next to her under the canopy of furrowed oak.
Fulsome red hair against turquoise Gore-Tex and a metal-framed case. Oh God, not now.
‘My name’s Leonora Winterson.’
‘Oh… yes.’
‘I think you met my husband?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well.’ Mrs Winterson gazed down Church Street. ‘This is all looking a bit critical, isn’t it?’
‘Well, not exactly critical yet…’
‘Nothing’s safe any more, Mrs Watkins. Not even a place like this. All these people moving in looking for Olde England, and Olde England’s getting washed away before their eyes. Soon be no more stable than Bangladesh, but I suppose we all have to grab what we can while we can. And I think I…’ Stooke’s wife pushed her hair back from her pale
face ‘… need to grab you.’
‘Me?’
Mrs Winterson pushed the strap of her camera bag higher up her shoulder, looking down at the cobbles, like smooth brown stones on the bed of a shallow stream.
‘Is there somewhere private we could go?’
‘Well, I need to be available, in case…’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What about the church?’ Merrily said.
Mrs Winterson almost laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
37
Emperor of Unbelief
The stone effigy wore the high-necked jacket of a puritan, had a sword unsheathed by his side. And that feature every tourist seemed to notice.
‘Who is he?’ Mrs Winterson asked. ‘And why do his eyes appear to be open? That’s not… normal. Is it?’
Her own eyes were grey-green and quick with nervous energy. Merrily stepped down into the chapel.
‘His name’s Thomas Bull. One of the post-feudal lords of the manor who’d have to shell out periodically to stop this church falling down. You probably saw one of his descendants organising things on the square just now.’
‘Oh, the… bossy one. James?’
‘A lot less wealthy than his ancestor. But a better man.’
‘It’s awfully gloomy in here,’ Mrs Winterson said.
‘But it is private.’
The Bull Chapel was one step down from the chancel, behind the organ pipes. It had one leaded window that looked frosty even in summer. ‘And all mod cons.’
Merrily pulled two folding wooden chairs from a stack wedged between the tomb and the chapel wall. She opened them out. ‘Not long after we moved here, someone told me that, when the tomb was sculpted, the eyes — as with most effigies — were shut. But, because of the iniquities he’d perpetrated in his lifetime, Tom Bull was unable to rest. One day, the vicar’s wife walked in, looking for her husband, and the eyes were… as they are now. It was said that particular vicar’s wife never came in here again.’
‘And you… believe that, do you?’
‘Well, no, my guess is that Tom Bull left instructions for the eyes to be left open so he could lie here for all eternity ogling visiting women. How can I help you, Mrs Winterson?’
Merrily sat down and gathered her cape across her knees, all prim and priestly. Mrs Winterson didn’t join her.
‘You’re probably thinking I haven’t chosen a particularly good time for this.’
‘Well, the village is slowly flooding, and I’m sure there must be something I could be doing out there, but…
‘This really is a horrible place.’
Merrily nodded. It was, sometimes. Interesting that the atmosphere, which she’d always felt was distinctly unholy, should get to an atheist.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘we could’ve gone to the vicarage. Only I didn’t want to disturb Jane. She might be in the middle of a ritual to persuade the river god to turn back before the flood water reaches the grave of the high priestess, Lucy Devenish.’
Mrs Winterson stared for a long moment, exhaled a brittle laugh. Then she sat down opposite Merrily, unpopping her jacket.
‘All right. Point taken. I listen to gossip. I like gossip, I’m a journalist, it’s what I do. I’m sorry. I’m guessing you’ve had bad experiences with the media.’
‘Not so far. But then, they usually make a direct approach.’
‘I’m sorry. When I met your daughter, I…’ Mrs Winterson hooked an Ugg-booted foot around the strap of the camera bag, dragging it in front of her chair. ‘What did my husband have to say?’
‘He asked me a lot of questions.’
‘It’s not something you can easily turn off, professional curiosity. Besides, if you’re looking for somewhere to settle, you like to know how the place works. And the people.’
‘Yes, he was asking how I worked.’
‘Look, if we’ve offended you, I’m sorry. Elliot can be…’
A bank of rain washed against the leaded window and Merrily sensed the water rising, the sudden urgency of life and what a waste of energy it was, all this tap-dancing around the truth.
‘Disingenuous?’ she said.
‘What are you saying, Mrs Watkins?’
‘That’s what you call him is it? Elliot?’
‘It’s what I’ve always called him.’
‘You didn’t like Mathew?’
Leonora made a small noise in her throat.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s saved a bit of time.’
The site was isolated by the rain, Cole Hill mired in cloud. Couple of long tents and the two caravans. Puddles turning into pools, where they’d hit clay. And nobody around, thank God, except Gregory, the security guy, standing in the doorway of his caravan. Jack-the-lad in his bomber jacket, leather trousers, Doc Martens. The caravan behind him a big boom-box vibrating to a hip-hop stammer.
‘What a shithole, eh?’ Gregory said.
Jane could only agree. It looked no prettier than a building site. If Eirion thought she’d feel better seeing it like this, he was wrong. No connections were made. It wasn’t hers, wouldn’t be again.
‘Last day for me, anyway,’ Gregory said. ‘I’m out of here tonight.’
‘What, there’s going to be no security over Christmas?’
‘Not me, anyway. I’ll be getting pissed with my mates. Will you miss me?’
Jane said nothing.
‘He’s a bastard, Blore, isn’t he?’
‘No, really?’ Eirion said.
‘This your boyfriend?’
‘Eirion,’ Jane said. ‘Gregory.’
‘Eirion? Wassat, Welsh?’ Gregory stood back, gesturing inside. ‘You guys wanna beer? On the house?’
Jane flashed no at Eirion.
‘Why not?’ Eirion didn’t look at her. ‘Thanks.’
Tight-lipped, Jane followed Gregory. Inside, it was surprisingly respectable, with a bed-settee and a car battery for the yellow and black DeWalt ghetto blaster. Gregory switched off the music, fetched three bottles of Budweiser lager from the kitchen area.
‘They’re all bastards.’ He snapped off the bottle tops, dropped them in a waste bin, handed bottles to Jane and Eirion. ‘The students, too. Think they own the place, wherever they are.’
‘All students?’ Eirion said.
‘We done a few digs for Blore’s outfit. He’s a bastard, like I say, but he’s straight. He’s a straight bastard.’ Gregory laughed. ‘Look, don’t stand around, girl, sit on the bed.’
‘It’ll get all wet.’
‘It’ll dry out. Students’re a pain in the arse. All wannabe celebs… like the professor. They come back wetting themselves laughing yesterday, after you and him…’ Gregory pointed his bottle at Jane. ‘You were a gift, girl, that’s what they were saying. Never do TV with the professor, I coulda told you that.’
Jane took off her parka, sat on the edge of the bed.
‘What was he saying?’
‘Blore? Nothing much, far’s I know. TV — he despises it. He come in here, one night — not this job, one we done down the Forest of Dean — and the TV’s on, and he just switches it off. Never watch it, he says. And I go, what, not even your own show? And he’s like, that’s the last fucking thing I’m gonna watch. Comes in here quite often, stretches himself out on the bed, where you are, and we have a couple of beers.’
Yeah, Jane thought, he’d do that. Hang out with his security guy to get away from people who wanted to show him their bit of Roman pottery.
‘Anybody wants to be on TV, they deserve all they get. Easy meat. We done this one in the Cotswolds last year and Blore’s doing a bit of a recce of the site — jeans, jacket covered with badges. Along comes this old colonel type, cravat, bristly moustache, shooting stick, face like a beetroot.’ Gregory extended his neck, nose in the air, did the gruff and grumpy. ‘Devil’s going on here? Don’t you know there’s going to be an important archaeological dig on this site? You have any idea how much damage is don
e by you bloody treasure-hunters with your damned metal detectors?’
‘I think I saw this one,’ Eirion said. ‘Blore keeps quiet, playing him along with expressions of dumb insolence. Winding him up, before completely paralysing the poor old boy with a lecture on the history and the potential of the site, with chronological references to every excavation there since about 1936.’
‘And then, as the Colonel’s walking away, he goes…’
‘Didn’t you used to be in Dad’s fucking Army?’ Eirion smiled. ‘I could never figure how the old boy didn’t see the cameraman.’
‘Back of the van,’ Gregory said. ‘Little peephole in the side. They often do it. Then they invite the old guy for a drink, all have a good laugh and he’s more than happy for them to use it. Signs the form, no problem. People will take any shit from TV. That’s what Blore says.’
‘He doesn’t care what he does to people?’ Eirion said.
‘’Cause it ain’t real, mate. It’s TV. Whoosh, gone. And you pick up the money and on to the next one. It ain’t real.’
‘It is for the viewers.’ Jane sat up, both hands around her beer. ‘For some people, he’s the only thing they know about archaeology.’
‘That’s their problem.’
‘He’s right, I suppose.’ Eirion said. ‘TV’s been degraded. Too many channels, it is. Instead of variety, it all goes into a cheap mush. Trench One — you used to think quality, but they all go the same way. People interested in archaeology, that’s just a minority audience. There’s a much bigger one for like…’
‘People getting made to look small,’ Jane said.
‘He don’t do it,’ Gregory said, ‘some other bastard will and he’ll be out on his arse. I could show you half a dozen guys here who’d have his job, no messing, if he starts to go soft. Walk over his corpse.’
‘That’s scary.’ Jane drank some lager. She didn’t really like lager, but she didn’t want to look like a girl. ‘I mean, if—’
‘It’s survival, darlin’.’
‘But if the only way you can get on in archaeology is to, like, become a bastard on TV—’
‘It’s not the only way.’ Gregory grinned. ‘You seen the big caravan over there? Bigger than this, anyway. That’s his. Blore’s.’
‘He sleeps here? I thought he had a room in the Black Swan.’
