A Night With No Stars

by Sally Spedding

  ‘Probably some Druidic site. Water was always very significant for them.’

  ‘Was?’ she quizzed, aware of her feet and ankles still weighted by mud. ‘I thought they still existed. Doing all that weird stuff with mistletoe and dead animals . . .’

  ‘You’re right. They like to hang out where it’s really wild. Where no one can interfere . . .’

  ‘Like here, you mean?’

  He didn’t answer because the spongy ground had moved them even closer together. She could feel the forester’s warm sap-scented shoulder against her cheek and the surreal stillness of life after near-death. She wanted him to kiss her, to hold her tight, but his eyes seemed too full of shadows. Or was it fear?

  ‘Rhaca would have helped you as well,’ he said, gently easing her away from him and bending down to gather the remaining stakes into a neat pile.

  ‘Rhaca?’

  ‘My special right-hand raven. D’you know, he could understand every word I said. He could mimic me too.’

  ‘That’s impossible, surely?’

  She looked at him. This was no Barnaby Rudge referring to Grip, his own pet raven. This was real and Mark Jones was deadly serious. Surely, she thought, there were no surprises left. Then she remembered what Hector had said about the recent blood on that salting slab. How it had most likely come from an injured bird.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’ she asked, guessing the worst.

  ‘Gone to Annwn.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Who’s she?’

  A tiny smile reached Mark’s mouth. ‘It’s the Celtic Underworld, or Otherworld as they call it. The strange thing is though, I’d dreamt about him the very night before I found his body. I’d just buried him when you arrived. He was eighteen years old, and only four when . . .’ Here he stopped himself, but she was still too incredulous to notice.

  ‘Eighteen? Surely not?’ Then thought of those earth-covered hands, that same grief as her own mother’s, in his eyes.

  ‘Some live to be forty-four in captivity.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. And in the wild?’

  ‘Survival of the fittest. Usual story.’

  They’d reached the first of the old elms near the Hall and she rubbed each foot in turn against its bark Her trainers looked like red-brown overshoes coated in a viscous mud and spectacularly hard to shift. ‘I reckon some bird of prey must have got him,’ Mark suggested in a tone she didn’t find altogether convincing. ‘We get eagles here, you know. And red kites. Nature’s greedy, I’m afraid.’

  Not only nature, she thought, sensing a flutter of alarm pass through her, because apart from that one piece of window glass at Wern Goch, there was nothing to keep any kind of intruder out.

  ‘Look,’ she said, thinking of the bird’s horrible blood again. I’ll need new locks and lockable double-glazed windows first thing. Top priority.’ Then she checked herself. Wasn’t this Tooting all over again? Keys and more keys?

  ‘I was just about to say the same thing.’ He picked up the end of a length of flattened hose which snaked invisibly across the ground. ‘Just give me a list of what exactly you want and I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course. My shifts are from six a.m. till two. After that, I’m all yours.’

  All yours.

  She stared after him as he strode away to an old tap set in the Hall’s windowless side wall and immediately a jet of yellow water spewed from the pipe’s nozzle. She jumped away from it in surprise as he then directed the flow towards her trainers. She tried to think rationally about the implications of his offer, but that rampant headache was already like a bush fire burning up her reasons for saying no.

  ‘So,’ he then trained the hose on to her Rav’s wheels. ‘Tomorrow’s Tuesday. I’ll go to Jewsons for you after work.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she relented, ‘but I can’t pay for anything till next Monday.’ No way was she revealing the details of her father’s legacy to him or anyone else. She watched the red mud slide like thin old blood from her tyres on to the hardcore.

  ‘No problem. We’ll arrange an account with them. Settle up at the end of each month.’ He went to turn off the tap.

  ‘We?’

  ‘You. Sorry.’

  ‘Look, I’d better go.’ She unlocked her car door and opened it. Never had she felt so grateful for its familiar smell and the cheerful dancing figures on its upholstery. ‘Thank you for saving me, back there,’ she called back to him. ‘Those birds were amazing.’

  ‘Pure self-interest, Miss Mitchell,’ he smiled again before heading up the Hall’s steps and into the gloom beyond the front door. ‘By the way,’ he added. ‘Did you know that ravens possess the biggest brains of all birds and they always mate for life?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘According to Roman legend they bear the character of Saturn and were once white as swans. Very picky carnivores too,’ he added with a wicked grin which didn’t quite work.

  ‘Your father told me they ate Frau Muller when she’d been shot.’

  That grin soon changed. Perhaps she should have kept quiet, because obviously she’d upset him. But surely, that tragedy happened a long time ago. Way before he was even born . . .

  She watched him knock on the study door and go in. Shortly afterwards an argument was in full swing, permeating outside through the Hall’s old stones as she unlocked her car and secreted Magical Tales safely in the glove box. She wondered why the rumpus, and it was only when she’d peeled off her denim jacket that she realised not one fibre of it had been damaged by the ravens’ beaks.

  Lucy drew breath in the privacy of her own car but its comforts were short-lived as she dwelt on Mark’s last odd comments. Maybe he was as mixed up as the Evanses he’d so derided. After all, wasn’t his surname like hundreds of others in the local phone book? No, she told herself, aware of her damp feet beginning to smell of the marsh. It was more than that. Further anxieties had spawned like mould in her mind; not least the prospect of returning via that scary narrow lane to Horeb House, but also what else its allegedly barmy proprietor there might have in store for her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I am spear that roars for blood

  I am a raging boar

  I am a stag of seven antlers

  I am guilty of lobe.

  I am a wave on the sea.

  RFB 1990

  Books and more books. Robert had never seen so many in just one small place. Even the State Library off Macquarie Street couldn’t match this. Not that he’d been much of a reader – more a doer, his teachers had said – but apart from learning most of Sohrab and Rustam off by heart for his English teacher, he’d been drawn far more to non-fiction tales of real life. Conflict and revenge. The sense of justice done. Yes, he thought, finishing breakfast on his second morning at The Bont B&B in Hay-on-Wye, that notion certainly hadn’t lost any of its appeal.

  He walked away from the guest house feeling as stuffed as a Christmas turkey after what the menu termed “the full English.” However, he’d left both slices of black pudding to languish against his plate’s decorative border. Why assume he’d enjoy the taste of blood? It was bad enough seeing it, and to his relief, the crusty widower who ran the establishment had merely raised his eyebrows when he’d cleared the table. No further questions about this or that or where he was off to next. Something at least to be grateful for.

  The sun felt warm through his cotton shirt. Short-sleeved, blue-striped, paired with maize-coloured chinos. Country yet smart. He’d spent time and money getting this balance right, because in Oz, despite the slobs on the TV soaps, appearance was all. Shoes especially, which is why he’d not only invested in natty suede loafers but also discreet mole-coloured lace-ups which went well with most things. And glances of fellow pedestrians told him that in these details he was well ahead of the game.

  He’d just stopped by Gervaise Talbot’s Antiquarian Bookshop to goggle at some illustrated fairy tales which hadn’t been in that wi
ndow yesterday, and which no kid of his would ever be shown, when a sheila’s voice behind him made him spin round.

  ‘That’ll cost you an arm and a leg,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t even think of it.’

  He took in her cropped cerise-coloured hair, her mini-skirt and matching jacket, the accompanying scent.

  Her scent . . .

  The stranger’s recklessness was catching and he laughed too.

  ‘It’s not called Rip-Off on Wye here for nothing,’ she added, shielding her hazel eyes from the sun before asking the next question. ‘Are you in the book trade?’

  ‘No. Company law. How about you?’

  ‘I write articles for in-flight mags. Not as romantic as it sounds, I’m afraid. Hack work if you want the truth. Have you ever been to the Festival here?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it, naturally.’ He was content to nudge along in this manner because where he came from it was no big deal for the sheila to start up a conversation. But here? Surely here was different?

  ‘My aunt’s got some Margaret Tarrant books,’ she went on, peering into the shop window at the illustrations from Puss In Boots. ‘Used to work for The Connoisseur. Knew exactly where to go hunting.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked up at him.

  ‘House-hunting. Something near a river. Own mooring, fishing rights. That sort of thing. For vacations.’

  ‘Hey, tell me more.’

  She seemed impressed, but it wasn’t mutual. He’d seen the way her hair lay damp and dark against her neck. So, she sweated easily, he thought. Black mark number two. He gestured towards The Granary Café.

  ‘It’ll do till the pubs open,’ he said, pulling out some estate agents’ details from his chinos pocket and passing them over to her. ‘Then you can tell me which one of these you like best.’ Nothing featured was valued at less than £450,000. She looked even more impressed.

  ‘Great.’

  They made their way towards the few still unoccupied tables and chairs outside the café, occasionally having to stop close together on the narrow pavement to allow horse riders or some farm vehicle or other to pass. It was then he detected her other smell, as if she wasn’t wearing grundies.

  ‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ she asked finally, removing her jacket and settling herself in a chair. ‘Great place.’ She crossed her sturdy bare legs and instead of looking along her thighs, he transferred his gaze to the deep freckled cleavage showing above the neck of her Tee. He saw her nipples, the ribs of her bra. She shouldn’t sunbake, he thought.

  ‘S’ right. Woollomooloo, in Sydney.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she grinned. ‘Who’d dream up a name like that, for God’s sake?’

  ‘It’s fair dinkum. London’s got Park Lane and Mayfair, we’ve got Woolloomooloo and King’s Cross.’

  ‘Have you read any Noel Ricci? He’s from Canberra.’

  ‘Dark Waters? Cold Coming?’ He rushed the last title which had recently been plastered all over Sydney’s bookshops because it was too near the bone.

  ‘Sure. Just missed out on the Booker longlist. Shame. He’ll do it one day. Just like Peter Carey.’

  A young lad with a white apron tied around his middle emerged from inside the café and Robert ordered two coffees.

  ‘I’m Phil, by the way,’ he said to her afterwards. ‘And you?’

  ‘Jade.’

  ‘Hey, that’s my cousin’s name. Got a vineyard near Adelaide. She grows the Grenache.’

  ‘Lucky her. Tell me more.’

  ‘It’s bloody hard work, I can tell you. I used to spend Uni vacations helping out there. Yeah, we had some fun too, I s’pose.’

  The coffees arrived, and the sunshine helped of course. The young woman relaxed by uncrossing her legs and stretching them out, glancing occasionally at the property sheets in front of her, but much more interested in telling him about her busy job and why she was in Hay-on-Wye in the first place.

  ‘They start planning now for next year’s Festival,’ she explained. ‘Bit of a busman’s holiday for me, really, but I’ll be on a panel with some of the other journalists I work with. We provide good all year round entertainment for the discerning traveller. Could all do with a bit more exposure, that’s all.’

  Exposure . . .

  She could do with rather less, he thought, aware of a birthmark like a bruise on her left thigh; her pink knees and how she gulped down the contents of her cup as if all her yabbering had made her thirsty.

  ‘Do you have any family over here? Any friends?’ she asked unexpectedly.

  ‘No family, but a couple of mates to call up if I get lonesome. Trouble is, I’ve only got a fortnight to find a place, so I’m homing in on the Wye until Monday, then off to Gloucester to suss out the Severn.’

  ‘Sounds good, but they do both tend to flood.’ She’d found a half-dissolved brown sugar lump in the bottom of her cup and popped it in her mouth. ‘You’d need to watch out during the winter.’

  ‘I’ve considered all that,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘No probs. So, where are you shacked up?’

  ‘Fulham normally. Got a big interview in London tomorrow.’

  ‘Sheep from the goats, eh?’

  ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’

  ‘’Fraid it is.’

  This one liked to talk alright, he thought. In fact, she probably liked to do a lot more with her mouth than that. He didn’t usually have to wait too long to be proved right.

  ‘Are you doing anything special right now?’ she asked once his cup was also empty. ‘Would you like to see Booth’s Bookshop?’

  ‘Booth’s?’ he lied as if he’d never heard of it. He’d got what he wanted from there yesterday.

  ‘The King of Hay, no less. Come on.’ She secured her vinyl bag’s strap over her shoulder and, after he’d insisted upon paying and leaving a generous tip, they both set off down the hill towards a grey stone building set back behind a parking area. Seeing each of its book-packed windows again renewed his hatred of such places. Even at the best of times. To him the fiction shelves were repositories of every kooky mind under the sun. You only had to read the blurbs on the covers, never mind ingest what was harboured between them.

  He followed her into the shop’s small foyer. Some consolation at least seeing her solid rear move inside her skirt and wondering if her pubes were also cerise . . .

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly to the same assistant who’d served him before. ‘This guy’s new here. From Australia. I’m just showing him round.’

  However, the assistant turned to him.

  ‘Sure I saw you yesterday evening. You enjoying that Mabinogion you bought? Nice copy. Worth hanging on to.’

  He gulped. He’d never stepped on a landmine before but this was close.

  ‘Mab what?’ he asked with a major frown, aware that the tart was looking at him.

  ‘The Charlotte Guest translation. You spent long enough finding it.’

  He thanked God his tan was hiding the blush.

  ‘You’re mistaken, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been here in my life.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ the guy raised both hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘My mistake.’

  With that, they both entered the cave of print and its mix of smells as if the volumes themselves were breathing in and out, filling the whole vast space with madness and confusion. Robert’s eyes soon began to feel heavy as she fidgeted her way along the Biography shelves. Whether it was a delayed reaction to the long-haul flight or the subsequent sleepless nights after that Sunday shower, he didn’t know, but when she reached CRIME he made his apologies.

  ‘Need to grab some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you outside. Take your time.’

  ‘I won’t be a mo. Say ten minutes?’

  ‘No worries.’

  He strode out of the fusty hole without making eye contact with the geek at the desk and once in the bright daylight installed himself on a low wall out of sight of the foyer, to plan his nex
t move. He now wished that, with a little more foresight, he’d thought of a different persona.

  Anything. A Cardiff tennis player. A mineralogist. He realised it was too late now to change things here. Which meant no slip-ups. No ends untied . . .

  ‘Hey, look at this,’ she waved a worn looking book at him, fifteen minutes later. ‘Dodie Smith. I Capture the Castle. D’you know I’ve never got myself another copy since my mum nicked mine off me when I was a kid.’

  ‘Nice mum,’ he said in a way which made her glance up at him. ‘Anyway,’ she ferreted inside a brown paper bag and produced a slightly grubby paperback. ‘This is for you. Only little, mind. A souvenir of today.’

  He stared at the title.

  ‘History of the Kelly Gang. It’s ripper. Thanks.’ He grinned at her, and she grinned back. Then he realised that after all the tiresome preamble, the moment had come. ‘Look, would you like a drive out to Clifford? Just for an hour? Got a viewing there at midday. Be good to get another angle on the house. Especially a woman’s. This could be the one.’ He patted his chinos’ pocket where the particulars lay then held his breath.

  For a nerve-wracking moment she hesitated then checked her watch.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Up by the B&B. Cusop Road.’

  ‘OK. Do me good I suppose. It is lovely round here after London.’

  ‘You’re on. Anyway, I’ve got to seriously move my butt this afternoon. Got another three to look at. It’s all go, I’m telling you.’

  He was on the ball, doing great, he told himself as they reached the minor road out of town. It had been too long since the last time for him to fuck this up and, dammit, he’d earned it . . .

  ‘Nice car,’ she said, patting the warm spare at the back. ‘Black’s my favourite colour.’

  ‘Keeps itself clean, that’s the main thing.’ He disabled the alarm and opened the passenger door for her, relieved all his camping gear and that Mabinogion lay hidden under a tartan rug.

  ‘Whew, it’s hot,’ she exclaimed, sitting down and arranging her bags on the floor by her feet. Her skirt was right up now. Her smell more intense. ‘I came in by bus today from where I’m staying. Just to give it a whirl. There were only two of us on board. Mad, isn’t it?’