The blackbird is singing again I hear—such a chirpy bird and so unafraid. Of course they’re a devil when it comes to fruit! I protect the current bushes and the strawberries with netting, but they always manage to get in somehow. I have come to accept a certain amount of depredation, but how far should you allow it to go before taking more stringent measures? And just how rigorous should those measures be? Most people would think nothing of spraying aphids with insecticide or poisoning slugs and snails, even trapping a mouse. Is it the size of the predator that determines our response? To my way of thinking you should not be squeamish when protecting your own.
The shotgun belongs to my uncle: I’ve borrowed it to shoot the rabbits that have been eating my vegetables. Not strictly legal, I know—I don’t have a firearms’ licence—but it’s the only way I can think of to get rid of them. My neighbours have become used to the occasional shot and they’re sympathetic because the rabbits are menacing their gardens too.
I’m always on the lookout for new ways to adorn the garden—I did well at the salvage yard, not only finding these chairs and the table, but also the wrought iron bench through the archway and the stone mermaid fountain in the fishpond. I thought as soon as I saw you that you would be an adornment to any setting, so slim and young and pretty—I could understand what Stephan sees in you—but you’re a bit of a disappointment close up.
In fact you don’t look too good at all now—bloated and blue around the edges, and with the flies crawling into your eyes.
Like the honey fungus in my soil, the blight in my crop, I have dug you out, and now I must burn you. The neighbours are used to my bonfires, and will think nothing of it. Stephan is coming home from his work trip this evening and unless I get on with it, you will still be sitting here, corrupting my garden. I thought that I had found the way to end the situation, but after our chat I can see that you’re going to be another work in progress. If I am not careful and clever about disposing of you, you could still spoil my design. I will have to maintain constant vigilance to keep everything in the garden rosy.
Chanctonbury Ring
What you have to understand, before I begin, is that I am not a gullible person. I am a scientist of a sort, an archaeologist, trained in the empirical ethos of the British higher education system. It is my job—or was, as I don’t know if they’ll have me back after this—to conduct a survey of the condition of ancient monuments in the south east of England for a government agency. It is my dream job, one I worked very hard to achieve. I visit the most important and best-preserved archaeological remains—from Neolithic long barrows to World War Two pill-boxes—in some of the most beautiful and interesting areas of the south east of England. Because I have to obtain permission to visit, I often meet the people on whose land the monuments are situated, and they range from the frankly hostile—those who see the sites as nothing but a damned nuisance—to the charming and enthusiastic. So I get plenty of human contact, which increases the fascination of the job.
I don’t feel mad, but perhaps I am. I am no longer able to judge. You couldn’t say that what has happened to me is within the range of ‘normal’ experience. But all I can say is that it seemed very real to me at the time. If I’m honest, it still does.
I’d better get on with writing this. Who knows when they will be back.
It was three days ago … only three days … a beautiful June morning with an azure sky flecked with the occasional high white cloud. I had done my preparation the day before, poring over maps, records and file notes written by my predecessors in the job that I had collected from head office some weeks before. I left Brighton at 9.30am, driving north westwards towards the high chalk escarpment of the South Downs above Worthing. My work for the day was to visit and assess the condition of a group of prehistoric monuments on an area of downland, all within the purview of a large estate. I had telephoned Maurice Farthington, the estate manager, the previous week, and obtained his permission for the visit. I had first come across him when he was second in command of another Sussex estate, and he was always tolerant of, even interested in, what I was doing.
‘You go ahead, Martin,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the time to meet you up there, but send me a copy of your findings when you’ve done. If there are any problems, I’ll do my best to see that they’re addressed.’
I wish all estate managers were like him.
So, there I was, under a blue sky, driving up the A283 towards Steyning, thinking about Stella in her new summer dress on her way to work. Parking the car in a lay-by, putting on my walking boots, collecting my maps, notes and rucksack, locking up and setting off up the waymarked footpath to Chanctonbury Hill.
It looked as if it was going to be a hot day. As I strode further up the hillslope there was a playful breeze that I hoped would render the heat bearable. The lilting song of a skylark punctuated the steady hum of the road traffic below. There didn’t seem to be any ramblers about, probably because it was a weekday in term time and still early in the day. The path led through a small, disused chalk quarry, then up a steeper slope and onto the west-east aligned ridge. The highest point was over 230m above sea level and the view was spectacular—to the south the glittering blue of the English Channel, to the north the densely-wooded clay-lands of the Weald. On such a clear day you could even see the airliners circling around Gatwick airport some forty miles to the north.
The archaeological monuments I had come to survey were spread out along a one kilometre stretch of the ridge, mostly within an area bounded by two prehistoric cross dykes—linear ditches and banks—to the west and east. This was my first visit to this part of the Downs, and I was looking forward to getting my teeth into some really first class archaeology, unhindered by the necessity of placating an owner. I also knew that, because the area was in Maurice Farthington’s care, the monuments were likely to be in good condition, which made my job easier and a lot more pleasant all round.
The rabbit-grazed turf was springy beneath my boots—if you looked closely you could see that it was made up of a lot of tiny plants, not just grass—it was what the ecologists call ‘herb-rich’. I stopped for a swig out of my water bottle, and sat down for a moment on a hummocky old anthill. I took my survey forms out of the rucksack and fixed them to my clipboard.
I could no longer hear the skylarks: they were in the sheep fields on the more gentle slopes below, and the traffic was too far distant to be intrusive. Now that I was on the ridge, the wind had dropped and even though it was only eleven o’clock the sun beat down, baking the back of my neck. I consider myself a fit man—I have to be in my job—but I had climbed the hill quickly and broken into a sweat. I took off my fleece and packed it into the rucksack.
I was approaching from the west, so the first of the prehistoric sites on my itinerary was the western cross dyke. I have seen many of these—they are a fairly common feature on the South Downs—and although they are not very well understood, I have become convinced that they are the boundaries of Bronze Age barrow cemeteries, defining an area sacred to the people of that time. It was a relatively easy site to assess—there was no damaging scrub growth, and the rabbits had chosen not to burrow into its linear bank or ditch. I swiftly filled in a survey form, took a couple of photographs and moved on. Next was a part of the cemetery, a group of five barrows—one saucer and four bowl barrows—also in good order; the mounds of the bowl barrows surviving to the impressive height of around two metres, their encircling ditches clearly visible. I had to fill in a form for each barrow, which took about half an hour in all, and I was concentrating so hard—I had to make sure I had matched each barrow with its correct file number—that I didn’t notice the change in the weather until I had finished. It was still warm, but the breeze had picked up again. I retrieved my fleece from the rucksack and put it on, spotting as I did so a bank of low cloud approaching from the lower-lying land to the south east—a sea fret. I would have to get on with the survey—if it reached the ridge, then the fret would act like a dense
fog and could well limit visibility to such an extent that I would no longer be able to carry out my work.
The next site was to my mind the most interesting as well as the most complicated. Around one hundred and fifty metres to the east of the barrows was Chanctonbury Ring, a large, roughly circular Iron Age enclosure, planted by its mid eighteenth-century owner with a grove of beech trees which had become a well known local landmark. Excavations in the interior of the enclosure carried out in the twentieth century had revealed the foundations of two Roman temples, and the lack of evidence for any habitation suggested that the site had always had a largely ritual rather than a more practical significance. Many of the mature trees had been uprooted by the great storm of 1987, doing a certain amount of damage to the archaeology, and although there had been some clearing up, and new young saplings had been planted in the 1990s, the giant bleached carcasses of old fallen beeches still littered the area.
With one eye on the fast approaching sea fret, I strode on towards the enclosure. If I hurried, I should be able to finish work before the fog arrived. The enclosure was bounded by a large bank and ditch and, despite the trees, was easy to make out. I could see something pale fluttering among the taller, older trees. I thought at first that it was an old newspaper, but it seemed to be moving towards me, and as it came closer, it resolved itself into a girl in a beige-coloured dress. She scrambled over the earthworks and ran towards me, waving her arms.
To be honest, I was dismayed—I just wanted to finish my survey and get home before the weather closed in. Now it looked as if I was going to have to help out this girl. She was young—about sixteen or seventeen—and, as she came closer, I could see that she was very pretty in a natural sort of way, with long red hair and creamy-white skin, although her face was rather dirty. Her dress was simple, with a split neck and gathered at the waist with a narrow twisted cord. It was filthy. On her feet were some old, battered sandals. She was clearly upset—she almost fell at my feet and clutched my trousers to steady herself. I helped her up, gripping both her shoulders. Down the gaping neck of her dress I caught a glimpse of her small round breasts.
‘What’s the matter? Can I help?’
She grabbed my arm and looked imploringly into my face, then broke into a stream of guttural language. She pointed urgently towards the trees and the enclosure, and grabbed at my sleeve.
To be honest, I was very reluctant to go with her. I had decided that she must belong to a group of travellers camped in a lay-by somewhere—there were plenty of them hereabouts—and heaven only knew what sort of scam she could be involved with. But I needed to survey the enclosure, so I walked with her towards it, on the alert for any shenanigans. I wouldn’t have made a good mugging victim as I had very little money on me, no credit cards or anything else of any value, apart from the camera, which was pretty bog-standard work issue, and my phone. The girl ran on ahead, then returned to grab my arm, coaxing me to move faster. Reluctantly, I broke into an uncomfortable trot, wondering how I would manage to shake her off. She spoke some more of the harsh-sounding words.
As we neared the enclosure I began to feel even more uneasy. The fret had reached the bottom of the chalk escarpment and was creeping inexorably up the slopes. I would have to get a move on—as well as the enclosure I had three more barrows, some Anglo-Saxon grave mounds and the eastern cross dyke to survey. The girl had a firm grip on my arm. As we neared the enclosure ditch and bank, she slowed her pace and, turning towards me, put her index finger to her lips. Then she led me around the perimeter of the ditch towards the south, taking great care not to tread on any of the dry sticks and twigs that were scattered over the turf. We reached the entrance of the enclosure—a simple five metre wide gap in the ramparts on its south eastern side—and the girl stopped, knelt down and began a strange, low keening, rocking back and forth on her heels. Her eyes were shut tight.
I felt ridiculous, standing above her. Rather sheepishly, I looked around to see if there was anyone else in sight, but it was still deserted so far as I could see. The first tendrils of the fret were creeping up onto the ridge, and I knew that I would not be able to finish my survey work that day. Feeling annoyed about the partly wasted journey, I turned my attention back, somewhat irritably, to the girl. What could she possibly want with me?
She rose and, motioning me to stay where I was, crept into the enclosure. Very rapidly the bank hid her from me and I seriously considered legging it. I don’t know why I didn’t, but I suppose some kind of deeply ingrained protective instinct and a certain amount of raw curiosity kept me there. After a minute or so she reappeared, now carrying a large wicker basket by its two handles. She put it down at my feet. To my astonishment, lying inside and wrapped up warmly in a plaid blanket was a sleeping baby. I know nothing about babies, but I could tell it wasn’t a new-born. It had plump little cheeks and I guessed it was a few months old, but was still quite small. It was wearing a sort of leather cap that tied under its chin, from which tufts of pale red hair were escaping.
When I looked up, the girl was gone.
I couldn’t believe it at first. The fret was all around me now, and visibility was down to just a few metres. I called out, thinking that maybe she couldn’t see us, then I looked for her in the enclosure, amongst the trees, and around and about, but I didn’t want to stray too far from the baby in case I couldn’t find it again. After about ten minutes’ searching, I returned to the basket—thankfully, the baby was still asleep. I decided to stay where I was and wait until the girl returned. She couldn’t have gone far, surely?
Time dragged slowly by. After a quarter of an hour I began calling out again. After forty minutes I was starting to feel cold—with the fret the temperature had dropped by about fifteen degrees. I decided to give it another twenty minutes.
At last I faced the fact that the girl almost certainly wasn’t coming back. And she’d left me in charge of her baby—me, who’d never so much as held a baby in my life! Thinking on my feet, and trying not to panic in the meantime, my first thought was to offload the baby as soon as I could. I took out my mobile to look up the number for social services. But it occurred to me that it was unrealistic to expect a social worker to drive out here and trek up the hill in the fret. The best thing would be to carry the baby down the hill and drive back to Brighton. Hopefully, social services would be able to track down the girl at her traveller encampment, wherever that was, and get to the bottom of her problem. Why on earth had she brought her baby up onto the hill in the first place?
I picked up the basket—its heaviness surprised me—and headed back round the edge of the enclosure ditch towards the footpath. The fret was extremely dense and I could feel droplets of moisture on my face. I still half expected that I would meet the girl somewhere on the way back down to my car.
As I walked on, I began to be troubled by what I thought might be a tension headache, brought on by the stress of the situation. It felt as if there was a slowly tightening metal band fixed around my temples, and my head was throbbing rhythmically. After about five minutes’ walking, the basket felt like a leaden weight and I stopped for a breather. My headache was worse and I was having trouble focussing, although there wasn’t a lot to focus on, as visibility was so poor. I picked up the basket and began walking again, although I no longer recognised any landmarks and began to be uncertain as to whether or not I had taken the right path—several other footpaths joined the main one I had taken up to the ridge. After a few more minutes I estimated that I should have reached the disused chalk quarry, but there was no sign of it. I stopped again and searched in my rucksack pocket for my compass, until I remembered that I had left it at home, deciding at the time that this was too easy a route to necessitate its use. I looked at the map, but it wasn’t any help as I was no longer sure where I was.
I was beginning to feel disorientated and even more worried, and wondered if I should simply wait until the fret had lifted. However, I reasoned, it might take hours, and the baby would be unlikely to
sleep that long and would soon need some attention. I drank more water, and cursed the fact that I had neglected to bring any food. I must be getting complacent about these trips—I should view today as a lesson in being better prepared. It was a reminder that even in the crowded and relatively gentle countryside of the south east of England, it was still possible to get into difficulties.
After several minutes of wondering what to do, I decided that the best thing was to walk on and listen out for traffic. That way I would at least be able to head towards a road. It was somewhat odd that I couldn’t hear any cars, as they had been clearly audible on the way up. I picked up the basket and walked on.
It is painful to remember the next hour or so. My head was throbbing, and the basket became heavier and heavier. I no longer had any idea where I was going. I stumbled on, taking frequent breaks and listening in vain for some clue as to where I was. I was terrified that the baby would wake up, and I was beginning to panic. It was a horrible feeling—I just couldn’t think what to do.
Finally, I sat down, my head in my hands. It sounds silly to say it now, but I was close to tears. I felt foolish and belittled. Never before had I been so powerless. I was used to relying on my wits and my intellect to get me out of trouble, or to prevent me from getting into trouble in the first place, but they were of no use to me now. What made it worse was that I had become temporarily responsible, even if by default, for the welfare of another, very vulnerable human being. I was not used to this situation, not being a parent or even an uncle or god-parent. And on top of everything else, my head was pounding.
The Old Knowledge and Other Strange Tales Page 5
