The Old Knowledge

by Rosalie Parker

  Maisie shuddered. ‘You can find out so much, but you can’t get at the people, their personalities, their lives. You can’t put real flesh on those bones, or get inside their heads.’

  ‘No.’ David smiled ruefully. ‘But we’re finding out more and more—there are advances all the time … Who knows what we’ll be able to achieve in ten, twenty years’ time.’

  They had another drink and then another. The twins had disappeared upstairs. Jess was chatting to the farm workers at the bar. By now, Maisie felt decidedly merry. She and David drank and talked until the landlord called last orders.

  Despite her rather feeble protestations, David insisted on escorting Maisie home. Once they had stepped outside the pub door he took her arm in his. It had clouded over again and, apart from a few house lights, the village was in darkness.

  ‘You’ll have to lead the way, if you can,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where you live. I think you’re only half human or an elf in disguise. Perhaps you live in a tree.’

  Maisie thought it might be amusing to lead them to one of the grander houses of the village, but on reflection decided against it. They stopped outside her modest front gate.

  ‘Will we see you tomorrow? I do hope so. Or will you be dancing in the woods?’ He leaned forward and Maisie raised her face as he kissed her gently on the mouth. Then she broke away and stumbled up the short path to her front door.

  ‘Goodnight!’ she called as she let herself in. Her mother was in bed and the house seemed quiet and drab after the pub. As she locked the doors and wound the grandfather clock she thought about how she would soon have to return to work at the library. She couldn’t put it off any longer than the following Monday. Would they have finished the excavation by then? As she climbed into her bed, the sheets smooth and chilly against her skin, her befuddled mind drifted once more towards her Bronze Age warrior …

  **

  David was almost incandescent with rage, and could hardly get his words out to explain to Maisie what had happened. She had arrived on site early, at nine o’clock, feeling a little the worse for wear, just after the archaeologists had begun work.

  ‘Look at this,’ David thundered as he pulled off the blue plastic membrane that was supposed to have provided overnight protection for the exposed areas of the barrow. ‘Look what some bastard’s done. It’s all ruined, completely ruined.’

  Someone had prised the pottery funerary vessel away from its resting place at the centre of the barrow, leaving behind a large jagged void. Earth and rubble had tumbled onto the excavated area, and the exposed stone wall of the cist had been disturbed so that it leaned inwards at a crazy angle.

  The three undergraduates leaned dejectedly on their spades. David was pacing up and down.

  ‘Who would do such a thing? It’s not as if what they’ve taken has any intrinsic value … It’s just removed our main reason for being here.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked Maisie.

  He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I suppose we’ll have to carry on. That’s what we’re being paid for, after all. But it’s going to seriously compromise our conclusions.’

  Maisie took his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, David, really I am. Can I stay and watch you today?’

  He took his hand away, rather sharply, but nodded his consent.

  So Maisie sat on the gate while they cleaned up the fallen debris, and then began to dismantle a second quarter of the mound, opposite the already excavated area. There was much to admire in the way they worked as a team, each with their allotted role, skirting around the others in the restricted area. It was a cold day and soon she had to get off the gate and walk up and down in order to keep warm, clapping her gloved hands together. Late in the morning they reached the lower levels of the mound, gradually revealing the old ground surface, a continuation of the burnt area of earth and another side of the stone cist. Jess measured and drew each feature onto her plan and photographed it as it became visible. David filled in a context sheet for each new layer and feature, describing it in detail and noting its relationship with other features and layers. It was a painstaking, skilled and laborious process, with the twins providing much of the brute force required to shift the limestone rubble.

  Maisie went home before lunch to make sure her mother was all right. She made some sandwiches while she was there, then returned and ate them alongside the diggers. They were still in a grim mood, and little was said. As soon as they had finished eating, David ushered them back to work. Susan and Monica were directed to deturf the third quadrant of the barrow, and were soon lifting and carrying away squares of grass and then more stones. Work progressed much as it had in the morning.

  At a quarter past two, Monica bent down and pointed at something sticking up between two stones. Maisie moved closer as Susan and David carefully removed the material packed around an old grey stoneware bottle. As more of it emerged, a stylised grimacing face became visible on its neck.

  ‘It’s a Bellarmine,’ said Jess. She saw Maisie’s uncomprehending look. ‘A German salt-glazed vessel dating from the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. Look, it’s still sealed up with a cork.’

  ‘What’s it doing here?’ asked Monica. ‘You can see it’s been carefully buried here from the fill around it.’

  David was stroking his chin. ‘Maybe it’s a witch bottle,’ he said.

  ‘What’s a witch bottle?’ asked Maisie.

  ‘They’re usually buried in houses, but that’s what it looks like. We’ll have to open it up back at the lab. If you thought you were under a witch’s spell, you sealed up pins, hair and sometimes other stuff with some urine in a bottle and buried it. Then the witch would die.’

  Maisie felt a sudden chill and moved away. ‘Ugh. What nonsense. Of course the witch didn’t die.’

  ‘Well, maybe not, but that’s what they believed.’

  ‘At least we have something interesting to take back, even if it’s not Bronze Age,’ said Jess.

  **

  Maisie spent the evening with her mother, who was lying on the sofa. Her legs were giving her some pain, but she was in reasonably good spirits. Maisie was quietly confident that she would be up and about again soon.

  When she had come home from the dig, Maisie lit a fire in the small Victorian grate of their sitting room, and the cheerful room became warm. She cooked and then cleared away their evening meal, and fetched them both a glass of wine. Seating herself in the shabby but comfortable armchair, Maisie sipped her wine while relating the events of the day. On being told about the witch bottle, her mother laughed sourly.

  ‘There has always been discrimination against wise women.’

  ‘We’ll never be free of it, Mum,’ said Maisie sadly. She rose and fetched the Bronze Age funerary urn from its place in the cupboard under the stairs. ‘At least I’ve still got him. I’d like to have him out on display, but we’d better be careful. It’s a pity no one really understands. He’s a local man, after all, and I think he should stay local. We can use the old knowledge on his bones.’

  The Cook’s Story

  7th October

  The taxi-driver didn’t regale me with stories of ‘The Big House’ on the way from the station. He just grunted when I told him where I wanted to go and then talked disconsolately about his marital problems—his wife has left him after thirty-five years, he is on pills for his nerves, etc. Usually I would have commiserated, and I could have responded in kind with my own troubles, but I’m sick of it: the endless discussions and breast-beating. And this is meant to be a fresh start. I don’t want to look back. Colin has made his choice, and I’ve just got to get on with it.

  The drive up to the house is certainly impressive—the long flanking avenues of beeches, their leaves already fading to orange—occasional deer grazing among the trees of the park. It’s a well-realised appetiser leading up to the main course. And what a dish! The house is superb. A Tudor masterpiece, not too big as to be rambling, well balanced and honey-toned, with plenty of tall so
uth-facing windows. The driver showed no signs of wanting to get out and help, so I lifted my case from the boot and watched the car drive off. I stood on the gravel wondering whether I should go up to the front door or find some sort of tradesman’s or servant’s entrance.

  I was saved from my dilemma by the appearance through the front door of a sprightly-looking grey-haired lady, in a kind of plaid pinafore dress. She took my arm with a smile.

  ‘You must be Mrs Finley, my dear, or can I call you Ellen? I’m Janet Maddocks, the housekeeper. It was me who telephoned the agency, and very pleased we were to hear that they had a cook on their books who could start immediately. Mrs Telford was taken poorly last week—she’s had a stroke—and it looks as if it’s going to be a long haul for her. She’s in a nursing home in Buxton, close to her family, so we may need you for more than a few weeks.’

  She led me up the front steps.

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy here, my dear, however long you stay. I’ll show you to your room, and you can settle yourself in for an hour or so, then find your way down to the kitchen and we’ll have a chat about what’s in store for you, and you can ask any questions you may have.’

  As we climbed what seemed like a hundred stairs, I half expected a garret, but she led me into this beautiful bright room with its cream-and-roses wallpaper, and—what bliss!—a small en-suite bathroom. After I had unpacked, which didn’t take long, I spent a happy ten minutes looking out of the window onto the park and beyond to woodland and the purple-brown hills of the northern Peak District. The heather would have been in bloom over a month ago, and I thought about the red grouse that would be sheltering in the shrubs on the moor-tops.

  The kitchen is at the back of the house, partly underground and enormous. Mrs Maddocks (I can’t think of her as Janet yet) showed me the layout—it’s surprisingly business-like and modern—and explained about how to order from the suppliers, and that I would have two ‘helpers’ when there were guests.

  ‘There’s only the master and mistress at the moment,’ she said, and I was surprised to hear her use those archaic terms. ‘They like the traditional English style of cooking, mostly, even though they come from Sweden. They’ve been here nearly two years. The master runs a furniture importing company based in Sheffield, and is away a lot, as you can imagine. Mrs Johannson does some charity work, but her real love is the garden. She supervises everything that goes on, and does a lot of the planting and weeding herself.’

  ‘Do they have children?’ I asked, thinking that they might be away at school.

  Mrs Maddocks shook her head. ‘No, they haven’t been blessed. It’s a great sadness for them, I’m sure.’

  She left me to it, then, and having properly checked out the larder, fridge and freezer, I began to plan menus for the next few days. This evening I decided to show off my skills with roast lamb, roast potatoes and parsnips, creamed swede and braised leeks with mint gravy, followed by apple tart and homemade vanilla ice cream. If traditional is what they want then, I can do it, and I can always gradually introduce some more ‘fancy’ courses as they learn to trust my taste, to make life more interesting. I may have lost confidence in my love life, but I have always been sure that I am a good cook.

  The ‘helpers’, who came along this evening mainly to meet me, turned out to be Linda and Jan—two teenage girls from the local school working occasionally in the late afternoons and evenings to help their parents put them through university. They are nice enough girls, and although I didn’t really need them, they prepped for me with little supervision and served the food when it was ready.

  Afterwards, as we were clearing up, Mr Johannson came into the kitchen. He is the kind of person most people find it easy to like. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I just wanted to welcome you, Ellen, if I may call you that, to our home, and to thank you for a delicious meal. My wife and I are lucky to have found you at such short notice.’

  He is tall, slender and elegant and speaks almost perfect English with a strong Scandinavian accent. He told me to call him Peds and his wife Ingrid, and that they do not believe in formality. And he said I could have ‘the run of the grounds’, as he put it, and the use of his library when he wasn’t at home.

  ‘I have to work work work, you see. A damned nuisance. But it keeps the wolf from the door.’

  I thought that he had already managed to buy himself a pretty impressive defence against the wolf, but then I suppose for all I know he may have the place mortgaged to the hilt.

  He looked serious suddenly, smoothing his longish, light brown hair before speaking.

  ‘My wife, Ingrid, she is delicate, you know. She has been ill. Perhaps you would be kind enough to find the time to talk to her now and again, when I am away? I think she would be glad of the company of someone more her own age.’

  I was tired after we had tidied everything away, my long day of travelling and working in a new environment has caught up with me, so I came up here to my room and got myself ready for bed. There is a desk in front of the window. I’m writing this journal looking out over the dark gardens, the clipped yew hedges standing sentinel under the hanging moon, the stars the only fixed points in the limitless sky. A minute or two ago I was startled by a movement on the far side of the formal knot garden which fronts the house, but it was only a dog, an Alsatian, I think, sniffing the herbs—it soon trotted away.

  I wonder what Colin is doing now? Is he making love to Miranda in their smart new flat? Does he ever think of me? It is now, at night, creeping alone into my strange bed, that I miss him the most.

  8th October

  My alarm clock woke me at six, startling me out of a recurring dream I have in which I am cooking an endless meal for an infinite number of guests. I showered and dressed, carefully drying my hair and putting on a touch of make-up. Mustn’t let myself go. I was in the kitchen by seven, on my own this time, preparing a proper cooked English breakfast—sausages, bacon, fried egg, black pudding, mushrooms and tomatoes, with hot buttered toast made from the bread I baked yesterday afternoon. At eight, Mrs Maddocks appeared to serve the Johannsons, then we sat down at the kitchen table and had our own breakfasts. She was in a talkative mood.

  ‘The master’s flying to New York this afternoon. He’s negotiating a deal to import his furniture into America. If it comes off then it will be a big triumph for him. He will be back in a few days’ time. The mistress is feeling tired, poor thing, so she has cancelled her charity work this week and is going to make a start on tidying the garden for the winter. The fresh air should perk her up.’

  ‘The mas- … Mr Johannson said that she’d been ill. What was wrong with her?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, she had a miscarriage last year. She’s never quite pulled round after that.’

  I asked about something that had been puzzling me. ‘Where are the staff that do the cleaning and the gardening? It must take quite a few people to keep this place looking so trim.’

  She smiled. ‘We have contract staff to do the cleaning. They come in once a week to give everything a good going over, and I do a little polishing and tidying in between. The garden is seen to by a local firm, Greenfingers, from Bakewell, and the mistress does a fair amount of the lighter work herself. It means that we rattle around in the house most of the time, but it soon fills up when the master throws one of his parties. I hope he has one while you’re here, dear. They’re such fun! Everyone comes in fancy-dress. We have fairies, devils, animals, all sorts!’

  I spent the rest of the morning ordering in the food for the next week. The stock cupboards were very low. With only three or four people to feed most of the time, this job is not proving to be exactly onerous. But I’m not complaining about that.

  Before I started work on lunch, I found my way to the library. It’s a large room, serving as a study and home office as well, with a phalanx of telephones, computers, television screens, fax machines and other gadgets. The books are relegated to two floor-to-ceiling, built in book-cases, and most
of them are business tomes—with titles like Dog Eat Dog: The Survival of the Fittest in Modern Business and Cut-Throat Marketing—and modern novels. But there is also a small collection of volumes of local history—local to Derbyshire—and folklore, and a lot of do-it-yourself books on health and well-being. I pulled out, more or less at random, one of the local history books—Ilan: The Folklore and History of a Peak District Village by Hampden Grade, to read in what I envisage will be my fairly frequent periods of spare time. It seems quite a racy read, going into detail about seventeenth-century cases of witchcraft and some curious unsolved murders that took place hereabouts in Victorian times.

  I prepared a light lunch, as per instructions, for Ingrid Johannson, of scrambled eggs and fresh herbs on wholemeal toast with tomatoes, followed by fruit salad and cream. When I took it into the dining room on a tray she was standing by the window. The weak October sun shone through her almost translucent blonde hair.

  ‘Oh, Ellen, thank you so much. Would you like to join me here with your lunch? It would be nice to have some company.’

  I explained that I hadn’t yet cooked my or Mrs Maddocks’ lunch, but, mindful of what Peds—Mr Johannson—had asked, said I would be glad to sit down with her while she ate.

  You can see that she’s not entirely better. She’s painfully thin, and as with the other meals I’ve cooked her, she picked at what was on her plate, eating only the tomatoes and the fruit salad. She’s pretty in a washed-out way, almost a girl-doll in a too-big dolls’ house. She asked me about myself; politely attempting to hide her surprise when I told her I had studied English Literature at university before going to catering college. Her conversation only became animated when we talked about the garden. She revelled in the fact that the growing season was longer in Derbyshire than in Stockholm, and talked about her love of unusual planting schemes, involving lots of architectural foliage plants interspersed with the more traditional flowers.

  ‘But, you see, I don’t understand all the herbs in the knot garden. I am not much of a herbalist or a cook. Perhaps you could come out this afternoon and explain them to me? And you can use them in your cooking, Ellen.’