Windy Night, Rainy Morrow

by Ivy Ferrari

Carrie came in at that moment, followed by Isa with a laden tray.

  Isa stared, as before, in the intervals of setting down covered dishes and the coffee-pot ‘You’ll find the eggs a bit hard, I dare say, for I’d no’ my usual letter from my sister in the post, and it upset me ... Did you sleep well, hinney?’ This to Tina, who assured her that she had.

  Isa backed out, her lips moving silently. Tina looked enquiringly at Carrie. ‘Another text?’ she asked.

  Surprisingly, it was Adam who answered, with a half-smile.

  ‘Not yet, I’d say. Isa can’t always call one to mind exactly when needed. Don’t be surprised if you hear it half an hour later. It’s a trifle—shall we say—disconcerting.’

  ‘So are the eggs,’ moaned Carrie. ‘I don’t know why it is Isa always has to get upset when she’s cooking.’

  He said lightly: ‘Hadrian’s Edge wouldn’t be the same without Isa, and you know it, Carrie. I think the price of a few spoiled dishes is not too high.’

  Tina looked at him in surprise. He sounded almost human again this morning, she thought.

  Breakfast proceeded. Carrie excused herself to sit reading her letters. Suddenly Adam Copeland turned to Tina.

  ‘Going to the dig this morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I shall be working on it every day.’

  ‘Then a few words of warning won’t come amiss. You’ll be subject to the same rules as the others, since the dig is on Willingdon land, and near the game preserves. No trespassing beyond the wire fences, no damage to trees or walls, no undue noise or horseplay. And scrupulous avoidance of litter.’

  Tina’s face flamed. ‘I’m not a child! And those rules are automatic as far as any serious archaeological work is concerned.’

  He returned her gaze with a vast and merciless patience. ‘Nevertheless I’ve told you, so there’ll be no excuse for you to pretend otherwise. It will also help the smooth running of the house if you can bring yourself to be on time for meals. Otherwise you may please yourself what you do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tina, with irony.

  ‘Don’t mention it!’ For a second their glances locked. She was conscious more than ever this morning of the rock-like arrogance of his face, with its hard bony planes. Those intimidating grey eyes, she noticed, held green flecks, like the colours of a cloud-shadowed sea. She found it difficult to withdraw her gaze.

  ‘Making eyes again?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘A complete waste of time, my dear. I should save it for the youths at the dig, or your friend Chris Irwin.’

  Carrie looked up, surprised perhaps sensing the tension. ‘More coffee, Adam?’

  He threw down his table-napkin. ‘No, thanks. I’ve more work than I know how to cope with this morning.’

  He gave them both a nod and left the room.

  ‘He’s the rudest man I’ve ever met!’ Tina exploded.

  Carrie shook her head. ‘He’s never been rude to me. You must have somehow got under his skin. And if you don’t mind a warning, he likes the women of the house to keep his rules. We’ve always found it a small price to pay for domestic harmony.’

  ‘I’m not his sister.’ Tina was mutinous. ‘Or his housekeeper.’

  ‘No, but you are his guest. And I’m afraid that means you toe the line like the rest of us,’ Carrie said firmly.

  Isa stumped in with her empty tray, her solid face gloomy as before. Facing Tina, she struck something of an attitude and intoned: ‘Love not sleep, lest thou come to poverty!’

  ‘Yes, Isa, we get the message,’ Carrie said. ‘Looks like you’re slipping, though. It’s taken you five minutes to think that one up.’

  ‘Aye, my memory isn’t what it was. And that reminds me, Mrs. Butterfield, I broke another piece o’ the Crown Derby yesterday—a tea-plate it was. The man on the radio had just said the Premium Bond winner was local, and I got fair excited ... I didn’t win, for all that. I’ve only the one bond and I won that in the Chapel raffle. “Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth”.’ And breathing heavily, Isa began to load her tray.

  When she had gone Carrie laughed. ‘You’ll get used to her. We’re an odd lot, I suppose’—her voice softened—‘but I hope our hearts are in the right place.’

  ‘I know they are,’ Tina said, but mentally excluding Adam Copeland. ‘Shall I help Isa wash up?’

  ‘No, she would never allow it. She likes to muddle along in her own way. I’ve a few things to see to, though, so I’ll join you at the dig later—right?’

  Tina walked into the hall, unhooking her anorak from its peg. Gyp lay in the shaft of pale sunlight before the open door. As Tina stooped to fondle her a voice said: ‘Off to the dig, then?’

  She straightened herself, saw an open door on her left giving on to a not-too-formally furnished office. Adam Copeland stood behind an untidy desk, an open letter in his hand. His expression was derisive, she thought.

  ‘I suppose you find the dig rather a nuisance?’ she challenged him.

  His eyes flickered. ‘The dig? I have no complaints to make. It seems to be admirably run. Perhaps I find this eternal questing into the past a little—shall we say—overdone at times.’

  ‘Then you can’t have much imagination,’ Tina ventured.

  His gaze became stony. That’s possibly better than having too much, don’t you think?’

  ‘You suggest that I—’

  ‘Like all women, you tend to take everything personally. If new discoveries of Roman occupation provide you with thrills, far be it from me to criticise you. You will probably develop a quite acute case of Wall Fever. And, like a lot of other searchers, you will tend to forget one important thing.’

  He reached to the desk to light a cigarette. Tina lingered, stung but curious.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  He raised his eyes coolly. ‘That the Romans did defeat this land once, but failed to make good their victories. They came, they saw, they conquered. But eventually they had to withdraw. That’s why the Wall is a monument to failure as well as success.’

  ‘I don’t quite see—’

  ‘What all this has to do with you? I’m telling you, perhaps, because this new Roman occupation—your presence in this house—is unlikely to be more successful. Dig as much as you like, my dear. We at Hadrian’s Edge have nothing to hide. And you won’t find what you’re looking for. Not only that, you will only distress yourself into the bargain.’

  ‘And if that’s a risk I’m prepared to take?’

  His face changed, softened almost to regret. Then I’m sorry for your sake.’

  Tina’s anger flashed. ‘You couldn’t possibly be wrong, could you—about my brother, I mean? You can’t even envisage any fault on your sister’s side?’

  ‘None whatever. That’s why I deplore this idea of yours, to dig for a truth which can only give you pain and humiliation.’ His voice harshened again. ‘I say again you are welcome to our hospitality, such as it is. I can’t prevent you from giving yourself even more grief than you’re probably suffering now. You are obviously an obstinate and spoiled young woman. I’m trying to make allowances for you—’

  ‘Don’t bother!’ Tina blazed. ‘I shall try to keep out of your hair as much as possible, Mr. Copeland. As for digging into the past—neither you nor anyone else can stop me doing that, either on the dig or concerning my brother’s life here. As for Wall Fever—’

  She stopped for breath. Again she saw that infuriating lift of his black brows. ‘Yes, you were saying?’

  ‘I’ve learned one thing already,’ she said, greatly daring. ‘I’ve learned why they called the Wall a barrier between the Romans and the barbarians!’

  She fled from the house before he had time to reply.

  Tina followed a path round lawns, past a dilapidated tennis-court and through a gate on to rising pasture. Free of the trees, she could now see the vast tawny stretches of the northern moors, patched here and there by acres of dark forest. Looking below and to the west she saw the site of the dig, Chris a
nd his workers gathered in a knot as he gave directions for the day’s work.

  This particular dig was on the site of an old civil settlement below the Wall. Like all other sites it consisted of buried layers of overlapping cultures, to be studied in the light of modern knowledge. But Tina was seeing it emotionally. This was the scene of Bruno’s last labours, his hopes, his inspirations, his successes. Now Chris was in charge, arid while she could not grudge him the position he deserved, a bleak sadness overcame her. Some moments passed before she could rouse herself to descend the slope.

  She walked down slowly, her practised eyes taking in every detail. The site was being excavated on a grid system, consisting of hollowed squares of a uniform size, connected by the crossings of the grass baulks between. With this method students and other workers could be given individual, squares to investigate, the vertical sides of the hollows providing evidence of the different levels of civilisation.

  Drawing nearer, she saw the usual clutter of measuring rods, photographic equipment, trays to hold pottery finds, brushes and bowls for washing the shards. Excavation work, she knew, included everything from the first sheer navvying to delicate towel work and the intricate keeping of records.

  Chris looked up and saw her, covered the ground between them with swift strides. ‘Welcome to the site, Tina. Settled in all right?’

  ‘Far from all right. I’ve got to talk to you, Chris. It’s important.’

  He studied her troubled face. ‘We can’t talk here. But there’s rain coming. I’m afraid we won’t do much this morning. When we stop for elevenses I’ll run you out somewhere in the car—show you something of the district.’

  Tina restrained her impatience. She supposed he was right. They were facing south now, across the great open saucer of the Tyne valley. A curtain of smudged cloud moved sluggishly across a far ridge to the south west. That’s Cross Fell,’ he told her, and pointed out a few more landmarks. Depressed and chilled as she was by the blustering wind, Tina saw only a vast bleakness, a waste of hills and moors. An intolerable homesickness came.

  Chris seemed to sense something wrong. ‘Come on down to the dig and see what we’re doing,’ he suggested. ‘Carrie will soon be here—she’ll put you in the picture.’

  Tina shook off her gloom. Perhaps this was the answer, to interest herself in immediate affairs, to try to forget Hadrian’s Edge and the shadow over Bruno’s name.

  Later Carrie materialised workmanlike in trousers and anorak.

  She glanced keenly at Tina, perhaps divined her troubled spirit and led her briskly over to a trestle table where some previous finds were arrayed.

  ‘We had quite a harvest in one of the far squares, right there on the perimeter. It must obviously have been in the area of the settlement’s rubbish-dump. See these flanged rims of cooking pots. Pre-Samian ware, I would say. And look at this ... a Flavian platter—late first century, according to Chris. But we’ll get the experts at the Museum on that. And what about this?’

  Carrie produced with triumph a heavy jet ring, grey with the dust of centuries and carved to represent a twisted rope. ‘How would you like that for an engagement ring?’

  Tina, turning it over in her hand, was thrilled as always by this pathetic reminder of the vanity of primitive woman. Someone had prized it, worn it always, was even perhaps buried with it still on her finger, for long after bones crumbled such objects remained unassailed by time.

  Her eyes met Carrie’s. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ the older woman said. ‘Makes you wonder why we fret and fume over anything. Time, in the end, looks after it all.’

  Tina sighed and handed back the ring. She felt a little steadied, taken out of her brooding sorrow. And for the next half hour was crouching with Carrie in one of the squares, patiently digging and sifting with her trowel, losing herself in the layers of the past.

  At elevenses time the rain sent the workers to the shelter of the open shed which served as office and store. Chris drove Tina down the stony track which connected the dig with the Military Road, and turned westwards. Soon he swung the car up another narrow road to the right, curling past a farm under the brow of the rise. He stopped in a small parking area at the top of the ridge.

  This is one of the few points where it’s possible to reach a stretch of the Wall by car,’ he told her. ‘If the rain clears we can walk as far as Crag Lough from that stile in the corner there ... Now, Tina, what’s the trouble?’

  She met his dear gaze. ‘Adam Copeland,’ she said. ‘You might have warned me what he was like.’

  ‘Is that all? Anyway, I did tell you he ruled the world hereabouts. Been dictating to you, I suppose.’

  ‘Worse than that It was a toss-up whether I stayed as a guest at all.’ Suddenly Tina was spilling out her story, in tearful resentment ‘He actually believes it—he believes Bruno would treat a girl like that—the girl he loved—’

  Her voice choked. For a moment Chris was silent.

  ‘Chris, did you hear what I said?’ She caught at his arm. ‘We can’t let him get away with it—at least I can’t.’

  ‘I agree it’s upsetting. Embarrassing too, as you’re his guest. Wouldn’t you rather pull out, come down to the hotel for a while?’

  She shook her head. ‘I told you what he said, that it would look better if I stayed. But that’s not my only reason. If I’m in the house I’ve a much better chance of finding out what really happened.’

  Chris said quietly: ‘And if you discover something you don’t like—’

  Her eyes flamed. ‘Chris, you don’t actually—’

  ‘Think the story’s true? ... It’s just possible there’s enough of truth in this hitch-hiker theory to excuse Copeland thinking so. And let’s face it, Tina—he thinks the world of his sister. You can hardly blame him for feeling sore.’

  ‘I do blame him, for judging Bruno without proper evidence, for accusing a dead man who can’t—who can’t—’

  She was suddenly overcome and hid her face in her hands. She felt Chris’s arm cradle her shoulder. ‘I know, Tina. I know just how you feel.’ His voice was wretched. ‘It’s been hell for all of us who loved him.’

  She mopped her eyes. ‘You’ll help me, won’t you, Chris? You want the truth brought out as much as I do.’

  He patted her shoulder arid withdrew his arm, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Of course I do. But if you intend to stay on as Copeland’s guest you’ll have to watch your step. You know how impulsive you are. And you can hardly go round calling him a liar ... No, it’s no use rushing it, Tina. I’d like time to think about it, maybe to make some enquiries of my own. And I promise you I’ll let you know if there’s anything new. But you won’t do anything impetuous, will you?’

  She gave a reluctant promise. For some minutes they discussed the situation afresh, then Chris broke in firmly: ‘And that’s enough of it for today. Look, the rain’s stopped. And you’re about to set foot on Hadrian’s Wall for the first time ... Come on, try to forget everything else...’

  Tina roused herself with an effort and got out of the car. The wind whipped her hair into a flag. Chris took her arm. ‘We make for that stile over there.’

  Tina climbed the stile and then gasped. She had stepped from its wooden platform directly on to the Wall itself, at this point fully six feet high and carrying a broad footpath on its face. Before her the dark gray ribbon swooped and climbed the rising crags of the Great Whip Sill, soaring up impossible heights, dropping steeply in incredible feats of engineering to swamp and hollow. She saw the exactitude of the masonry, the almost insolent regard for dangerous contours. She saw the pride and the strength of the barrier built so many centuries ago by her own countrymen, still implacable, undestroyed under the wild moorland skies. She was seeing the Wall as those Roman legionaries had seen it. Nothing had changed, no sign of civilisation, the only movements the white spotting of lambs with their grey mothers, the movement of the leaves in the plantation behind them.

  ‘Oh Chris,’ Tina sa
id. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Isn’t it—Oh, isn’t it—’ Words failed her.

  ‘Better than any plaster model, isn’t it?’ Chris said. ‘Look, that water ahead at the crag foot—it’s Crag Lough—we’ll follow the Wall to it.’

  Tina moved on reluctantly, as if breaking a spell.

  Chris pointed out a hundred things she might not have noticed, the exactitude of the masonry, the deliberate weaving of the stones, the corner pieces and angles, the outlined foundations of castle, set back from the line of the Wall itself. His voice went on, reasoned, interested, enthusiastic, and yet she was only half listening, knowing that she too was catching “Wall Fever”, that she wished she were alone to dream and wonder and that Chris would forget to lecture.

  But now they breasted the last steep rise before Crag Lough, arriving panting at the summit. The Wall soared on towards the Flatbank heights, hut they dropped down to a footpath along the top of the perilous crag.

  Tina shrank away from the edge. It was a perpendicular drop of black rock with the water of the little loch so far below, now silver as the light lifted, now wrinkled and peat-dark as the wind sent the clouds scurrying. Ragged crows volplaned from the edge, swooping and circling and diving into that great airy nothingness. Apart from their cries, there was no sound but the rustle of dead rushes in the clefts of the crags.

  Chris said softly: ‘This was one of Bruno’s favourite spots on the Wall. He had one or two tries to get a watercolour of the moon from here, hut he always said the colours changed too much even while he was working—’

  Tina understood, gazing beyond the lough to the pale patchwork emerald and sapphire folds of the far-stretching fells. Chris pointed out the first black tongues of Wark Forest running into the clefts of the hills, and pale blue ribbons of small farm roads ‘winding interminably over the moor

  ‘Did he bring Helen here?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it. She gave me the impresses of being ratter a hothouse plant. I should imagine she’d prefer a warm car.’

  ‘You must have really known her quite well,’ said Tina.