by Peter
The overseer clumped up beside him.
“What do you say, Bathgate?” Perrott said, “Can you bury it as part of the foundations?”
“I could that. Save digging it out.”
“Do that then. Now, did you say you’d found other pieces of a similar rock scattered around the site?”
“That I did.”
“Show me.”
Perrott and Bathgate climbed back out of the diggings and crossed to where the boulders had been piled up. “Seems a shame to waste them,” Perrott said. “Could they be dressed and used in the construction?”
“Don’t see why not, squire.”
“Good. They should do well as the corner posts for the top floor. How many are there?”
“Eight.”
“Perfect. See the architect for the dimensions and get the masons working on them.”
“As you wish, squire.”
“I do.” Perrott clasped his hands behind his back and allowed himself to smile as he imagined his tower rising above the countryside, a perfect place from which the ladies who did not wish to ride to the hunt could watch their men-folk enjoying the chase in the fields and woods that made up his estate. And afterwards, somewhere to relax away from the concerns of the conflict with the pesky French.
ROSE DROPPED HER bag on the floor just inside the kitchen. “What you doing?” she asked eying the large map her house-mate, Saira, had unfolded across the table. She had laid sheets of tracing paper over it and was marking lines on it.
Saira unbent with a sigh, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear as she did so. “I’ve been given a project on canals to develop with the Geography group and I know almost nothing about them.”
“Aren’t there supposed to be more canals in Birmingham than Venice?”
“My tutor says that’s just a rumour and challenged us to prove it.”
Both girls were Education students at Newman College; both were preparing to embark on their final teaching practice. “At least you have a map as a starting point,” Rose said, “I’ve been given an AS level group and I’ve got to explore Birmingham as a source of literature.”
“Are there any Birmingham writers?”
“Lots, apparently. But none of them seem to have made much of a mark on the establishment – with one exception.”
Saira leant over her map and began to trace lines across it. “Who?”
“J J R Tolkien.”
“The Lord of the Rings guy? I thought he was an Oxford man.”
“Seems not. Went to school here or something. Tell you what. I’ll help you with your canals and you help me with my Hobbit man.”
“Deal,” Saira said. “Just give me a moment to fix these sheets together.”
“I’M NOT SURE I’m making much sense of this,” Saira said, once they had laid out the map on the floor of the kitchen, the only hard surface big enough to take the full size flat out. “None of these bits seem to join up.”
“Except in this area,” Rose said. “I think that’s the Worcester Canal where the tourist boats go through the City Centre.”
“There’s nothing I can see that would rival Venice. I wish I’d been assigned the railways instead.”
“Why? Half of those got closed down years ago. My granddad still moans about it.”
Saira sat back on her heels. “That’s it. They don’t show up because they’ve been closed.”
“Or filled in.”
“And built over. We need an older map. Do you think they’ll have one at the Central Library?”
“Hope so. I want to be able to get an idea of what the place was like when Tolkien lived here. What places he might have seen.” Rose looked at her friend thoughtfully. “I’ve got some free time tomorrow. I’ll go into town and see what I can dig up.”
IT COST ROSE a fair amount to get the whole of the Ordnance Survey map from 1901 copied. She and Saira spread it out and carefully joined the sheets together. The black and white patchwork looked very different from the coloured version Saira had been using.
“Where are all the houses?” Saira asked. “It’s mostly fields.”
“I suppose they hadn’t been built. They didn’t have a colour one I could copy.”
“Might be tricky deciding which are the canals. Isn’t that that Sarehole Mill, one of your places?” Saira pointed at the tiny group of squares.
“Yeah. They do bus tours to all the important places.” Rose dropped a leaflet onto the map. “How about we go Saturday? We get entrance to some of the places on the tour as part of the price.”
“Only if you walk some of these canals with me Sunday.”
“Deal.” Rose squinted at the map. “I’d guess that the wriggly lines are more likely to be the rivers and the straight ones are the canals. Do you want me to help you plot them?”
“Yes please. You start on that side, I’ll start here and we’ll work towards the middle.”
An hour or so later, the girls sat back to survey their work. “It makes an interesting pattern,” Rose said. “All these lines seem to converge towards one point. A bit like ley lines.”
“What are those?”
“They were supposed to be lines of power running through the earth.”
“Well, these are,” Saira said. “Lines of commercial and industrial power running in and out of the city. Look at all the factories they had lining them.”
“What’s this then?” Rose pointed to a spot where many of the canals seemed to merge.
“The reservoir. They used it to top up the canals when idiots left the lock gates open. Hey, what’s this place near it? I can’t quite read the funny script.”
Rose peered at the octagonal square, turning her head to read the tiny gothic writing. “It looks like Folly. Hang on.” She reached for the leaflet. “That’s one of the places the bus will take us on Saturday. And it’s one of the few days it’s open so you might be able to see the reservoir and some of the canals from the top. Don’t forget to take your camera.”
THE BUS, A vintage model from the 1950s, drew up at the curb side in a narrow Edgbaston street. The woman who was controlling the Tannoy told the passengers that there would be a short walk from the bus along Monument and Waterworks Roads and that they would be able to ascend the tower of Perrott’s Folly in small groups. It was not safe for too many people to be trying the steps at one time, but would everyone stay together and not wander off. Rose nudged Saira and whispered, “Should we ask to see her risk assessment?”
Saira giggled and tucked a stray lock of hair back under her head-scarf. She found the niqab restricting and only wore it out of doors because she had promised her father she would. That promise was one reason he had let her move out of the family home and into the student house when she began her teacher training course three years before. Since then she had gradually been finding ways of stretching the restriction. He had also persuaded her to agree to consider potential husbands. Her period of freedom was rapidly coming to an end – he had even started sending her CVs of suitable boys (anyone younger than him was a boy). Her response was to be picky. She had no objection to him matchmaking but she wasn’t interested unless the candidate was under thirty, childless, British born and university educated. And she had to like him. Father had, literally, muttered into his beard. If she was honest, Saira didn’t really want to settle down with a family yet. There was a lot of world she would like to experience first.
Following the rest of the visitors, she wondered if inside the Folly would count as being indoors. She took stock of the others in the group and thought that she might take the risk as long as the Muslim family striding along at the head of the column were not in her group. Rose said she should make up her mind either to follow her father’s instructions as he had intended, or renounce them altogether; to stop trying to reconcile tradition with her own instincts.
“Do you want to go up in the first group?” Rose asked as they passed the gate and started up the narrow path.
Saira
shook her head. “I’d rather look around outside first.”
“Okay. I’m going to get pictures.” Rose headed off into the garden surrounding the base of the tower.
Saira let her gaze drift slowly upwards. The base of the red-brick tower seemed to grow from the cluster of buildings huddled against its base. She counted four sets of arched windows before a ring of small round ones circled the structure. Above that another set of recessed windows was separated by grey stone pillars. At the sight of those she felt a tingle of anticipation. Something made her want to touch them, despite their height above the ground. She couldn’t walk all the way round as the city had encroached on some of the original grounds but she could see the octagonal structure with its abutting circular tower would have looked spectacular when first built – a monument in green fields. She smiled suddenly. Monument Road had been the track that led to this tower. For a moment she wondered why it had the strange column attached to the side, spoiling its symmetry, then realised that this was where the staircase was. Now, she was eager to climb the steps to see the view from the top, to try to imagine what it was like when it had first been built.
She found Rose taking snaps, trying to get Perrott’s Folly and the other brick tower in the distance in the same picture. “What is that?” Saira asked.
“The Waterworks. Some reckon they gave Tolkien the idea for his Two Towers. Are they the same age?” Rose consulted her notes. “No. The Waterworks is Victorian. I think it pumped water from the Reservoir and the canals.”
“Then I want to go up and see the view. Let’s try for the next batch.”
The inside of the tower was a little disappointing. Empty, white painted rooms opened off from the spiral staircase at intervals on the way up. Saira stopped in the first one to peer through the grimy windows at the surrounding houses. It was not particularly inspiring. She missed out the others, hurrying upwards, feeling the pull on her calf muscles at the unaccustomed number of steps. She ducked into the top room. The ornamentation around the windows was a little more adventurous but the white paint hid most of the detail. In several places it was flaking away, especially on the corner pieces, exposing the bare stone beneath. The view was better now that she was looking down on the roofs. She rested her hand on the wall as she tried to peer around the side of the building. For a moment it appeared as if the houses below were a tented encampment. She giggled at the illusion caused by grimed windows, light-headedness from the climb and imagination, after watching all three Lord of The Rings films with Rose during the past week.
“You coming onto the roof?” Rose asked, startling her. When she looked back, the scene was normal, just a cityscape viewed through smudged glass.
They had to walk carefully, not venturing into the centre of the lead-covered space. Saira walked round peering between the crenellations before taking the map from her shoulder-bag and trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The perspectives were very different from this elevated position. Rose was busy photographing everything from every angle.
Saira glanced around at the other people up here. What she wanted to do was take off her headscarf and allow the breeze to ruffle her hair. These were times that she envied Rose her freedom from parental strictures. Saira didn’t quite have enough courage to flaunt them. She sighed and left her hair covered. It would be too much of a hassle to try putting it back on neatly at the bottom of the tower. Too soon, the guide was hustling them back down, to let the next group have their turn.
As she stood in the garden, half listening to Rose’s enthusiasm, Saira’s gaze was drawn upwards again to the highest windows. Someone peeped over the top but she scarcely noticed. “Why are the pillars between the high windows stone instead of brick?” she asked.
Rose shrugged. “Decoration I suppose.”
Saira shivered as if a cloud had momentarily obscured the sun. A glance showed her that the sky was clear. “I’m going up again,” she said.
“Our guide won’t like it. It’s bad manners.”
“Who cares? I’ll just tag onto the last group. Coming?”
“No. I want to get a few more pictures from ground level.”
Saira deliberately lagged behind as the tourists climbed the stairs. She found it easier this time, perhaps because she was going more slowly. She stayed in the top room when the others went onto the roof. Initially, she did a swift tour, glancing out of the seven windows in turn – the doorway occupied the eighth wall of the room. She saw only Birmingham. She put her hand on the stone upright and closed her eyes. What she had seen before was undoubtedly an illusion.
She opened her eyes, intending to make her way down. The view had changed. The window panes were out of focus and beyond she could see the tented encampment. It appeared to be only a little lower than her viewpoint. Leaning forward to look closer, her fingers lost contact with the stone. Instantly the window, and Birmingham, was back. When she touched stone again, the tents reappeared.
Saira trailed her fingers along the window sill to the next aperture and touched the stone where the point had flaked away. There was a different scene. She was looking into a farmyard, the space filled with milling sheep. She glanced behind her and above the doorway, expecting to see a video projector triggered by her touching the stone. The wall above the architrave was bare. As she looked back, a skinny black-skinned child turned and waved to her. Saira took a step back and the vision disappeared.
Fascinated, Saira stepped to each embrasure in turn. Each gave her a different image, except for the fifth which remained window – or it did until she realised the paint still covered all of it. She glanced around, listening to the muted sounds of people on the roof before taking a nail-file from her bag and using to scrape away some of the paint. Then she saw a place of slender towers linked by walkways. Sleek, futuristic vehicles zipped between them. She leaned forward to get a better look, one hand reaching out to steady herself against the glass. It wasn’t there. She stumbled forward panic rising in her throat, expecting to fall. She didn’t. Her feet touched grass.
She turned quickly. Behind her rose a small grassy knoll capped with a ring of standing stones. Terrified, she reached out to touch the pillar. It was rough beneath her hands. Her momentum carried her forward. She stood in the centre, grass beneath her shoes. Frustrated and wondering how she could get back, she clenched her fists and closed her eyes. Then she deliberately calmed herself down. Panic was not going to help. Slowing her breathing she reviewed the events that had got her into this place. Then she touched one of the stones and just looked, going round the circle, inspecting the views between each pair. Some she recognised. One was the interior of the tower. She took a deep breath and stepped past the stone into the upper room of Perrott’s Folly.
“Wow!” she stood in the centre of the room, hands covering her mouth. No wonder they only opened the tower a few days each year. It wouldn’t do to have people wandering in from these other places. Rose would love this, she thought. Pity there wouldn’t be time to get up here again before they were moved on to the next stop on the tour.
Much as she would have loved to explore these alien worlds, Saira was conscious not only of her own ambitions – to be a good teacher – but also of the expectations of others, including her parents. As she reluctantly turned away from her discovery, she realised that the tower was very quiet. She couldn’t hear the echoes of steps on the roof above or the clatter of feet on the stairs. For a moment she thought she was in the wrong place, then realised that the tour had gone on without her. She hastened down the stairs as fast as she could but still placing her feet so she didn’t trip on the uneven stones.
The door, when she reached it was locked. No matter how she twisted the handle, it wouldn’t budge. She tried hammering on it then gave up with a final, disgruntled kick as she realised that the wood was too thick for anyone outside to hear her.
She raced up to the first floor and peered out of the window. Over the hedge she could see the heads of the party as they traipsed
back to the bus. She banged on the window and shouted. No-one gave any sign of noticing her.
Saira slid to the floor, dispirited and leaned her back against the wall. Someone would notice she was missing. Then she grinned. She could phone Rose. She dived into her bag and pulled out her mobile. She pressed the on button and waited for the screen to light up. It didn’t.
“I don’t believe this,” she muttered. She was sure she had recharged the battery. She often forgot. Here it was, dead. At a time when she really needed it. All she could do was wait.
ROSE SCANNED THROUGH her pictures as she ambled along behind the group heading back towards the bus. She was pleased with the results. In her head, she was already planning the lesson that would impress her tutors. She climbed onto the bus and was part way to her seat when she stopped.
“Where’s Saira?” she said to no-one in particular as she looked round at the passengers.
“Please sit down,” the guide said irritably. “We are already behind schedule.”
“Saira’s not here.”
“Who?”
“The girl I was with. She’s not on the bus.”
“There was no-one else. When did you last see her?”
“She went up the tower with the last group. You must have noticed her. She was wearing a bright blue headscarf.”
“I checked. No-one was left in the tower. I was last down.”
“But…”
“She probably made her own way home. Though she should have had the courtesy to say so.”
Reluctantly, Rose took her seat. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled Saira’s number. It went straight to her voice mail. Frustrated, Rose left a message. Her friend tended not to turn her phone on unless she actually wanted to use it or she had forgotten to charge it – again.
Maybe the woman was right and Saira had gone home. She wasn’t going to worry until she’d checked it out.
AS IT BEGAN to get dark, Saira started to worry that no-one was coming back for her. Rose, surely, would have realised she was missing. What if they didn’t think to look in the tower? After all, she hadn’t actually been in it when the last group had made their way out. She felt panic bubbling up inside. She could starve to death here. When they next had a public opening, all they would find was her skeleton. Firmly she suppressed the fear. She wouldn’t starve. She had seven other places she could go.
