by Ivy Ferrari
‘Jamey helped us. We made him,’ said Rosie. Her thin little face was stained with green mould. Bobby wore an Indian headdress of pigeon’s feathers.
‘Made him?’ Tina accepted a square of toffee from Bobby.
‘Aye, we did. You see, we knew about—’ Bobby began, but Rosie nudged him sharply. ‘It was something we knew about him he didn’t want folks to know. So we said we’d keep quiet if he built us a tree house.’
‘But that’s blackmail!’ Tina’s protest was mild. She felt that Jamey probably deserved all he got, anyway.
‘Aye, that’s what Jamey said,’ Rosie giggled.
‘Aren’t you going to school today?’
‘We might this afternoon.’ Rosie banged her slab of toffee against a bough. ‘It was history this morning and we hate history. Francey said she might write us a note if we kept out from under her feet.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a hold over Francey, too?’
The twins exchanged a glance but remained silent Tina peered through a gap to the path below. Do you pelt everyone who passes with fir-cones?’
Bobby was scornful. ‘No. We mostly spy on them. We’ve seen poachers. And once we saw a badger come out of his sett—by the quarry there.’
‘We see lads and girls out courting,’ Rosie said triumphantly. Then we whistle at them and they jump a mile.’
‘Thanks for the warning. Then I won’t come courting here.’ A thought struck Tina. She hesitated, then said, her tone casual, ‘Did you ever see Bruno here—my brother?’
‘Aye, we did.’ Again the twins exchanged a secret glance. There was a silence. Then: ‘We’re right sorry he died,’ Bobby said soberly. ‘He was nice to us, wasn’t he, Rosie?’
Rosie nodded. Tina thought she saw the glint of tears in her eyes. She had been wrong to mention Bruno, she thought. Wrong to question them on impulse. And whatever they had seen from their hiding-place—if indeed they had seen anything of Bruno at all—it was unfair to upset them. She also had a strong suspicion that their silence could be one of loyalty rather than ignorance. She changed the subject abruptly.
‘Does Mr. Copeland ever go past?’
Bobby laughed, ‘He walks past and looks straight ahead. But he’s no’ daft, is Mr. Copeland. We’re sure he knows ... Look, Tina, if you ever want to come up on your own, the rope ladder stays coiled here. You pull it down by that bit o’ string.’
She felt this was a subtle dismissal and got to her feet. ‘Don’t you mind me coming up here, then—on my own, I mean?’
Rosie said importantly: ‘You can come, but mind not to bring anyone else.’
‘I promise.’
She left them in their hideout and walked back to her sunny bank. Here she lounged on a dry mat of pine needles, enjoying the pallid warmth of the sun and sheltered by the thickets on the quarry edge. She thought about the twins. She supposed it was all wrong, their absence from school, the blackmailing of Jamey and perhaps Francey, the determinedly blind eye of Adam Copeland. No one could call it an ideal upbringing for children. Yet they were surprisingly unspoiled and lovable, due perhaps to Matt’s influence.
Tina dreamed a little, thinking with a pang of happy days in Rome before tragedy struck at their close-knit family. She wondered how her father was faring in the States and whether new scenes and interests were helping him control his grief. Eventually she fell into a half-doze, until a fitful wind, chill-edged, wafted into her sheltered retreat. She stirred, glanced at her watch. There might be just time to do some of Adam Copeland’s typing before lunch.
Her arrival at the house, however, constituted a rude awakening. When she let herself in at the office door, a tornado of anger smote her.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ Adam Copeland rasped. He was ranging restlessly, looking bigger and more intimidating than ever, between the desk and the door. After a hard stare he stood slamming papers about, in a haze of cigarette smoke.
‘Out!’ said Tina, after the first shocked impact ‘Don’t worry, your letters will still catch the post’
‘Letters? Did I mention letters? I thought I made it plain that I was expecting a phone call and that you were to give a certain message?’
Tina was dismayed. Of course, she remembered now—Vindobala ...
‘I did forget,’ she admitted. ‘I’m sorry. No harm’s been done, has it?’ It seemed an unnecessary fuss about nothing.
‘It so happens’—his tone was one he might have used to a three-year-old—‘a call did come. Isa had to answer it and could give the caller no idea where I was. It’s not her job to know my movements or my business. Those I entrusted to you.’ His voice took a razor edge. ‘Even if you were tempted to go out, you should have left the message on the phone pad. And it may interest you to know that the man who phoned needed to find me urgently on a financial matter. It may well be that your carelessness has cost him a sum of several hundred pounds.’
Her face flamed. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry—and I mean it.’
She saw in his eyes impatience, contempt and a disgusted acceptance that nothing better could be expected of her. ‘After all.’ she protested, ‘you didn’t say how important it was.’
‘I didn’t see the need. Even the most incompetent secretary makes a note of any directions she’s given.’
It was true. But knowing she was in the wrong only increased her resentment.
Her eyes sparked. ‘I’m not your paid secretary. You can’t really hold me to blame. And anyway.’ she said it defiantly, ‘why couldn’t the man look after his own affairs?’
He sat very still, regarding her. The dark curve of his moustache above his lip had a cynical twist, almost cruel, she thought. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because it is my job to advise these people, because this particular man trusted my judgment and was prepared to act by.it. Because it is my duty to protect the tenant farmers’ interests. But more than all this, because he happens to be a friend. Does any of that mean anything to you?’
‘I’m sorry.’ she said coldly. ‘If you’d explained—’
‘I’m not in the habit of giving explanations. When I leave explicit orders I trust people to carry them out, without giving reasons.’
‘Orders?’ Tina questioned. ‘Orders?’ But she quailed a little as she met his eyes.
‘Directions, then, if you can’t stand plain speaking. Was it so much to ask, after all? Especially when you’d already agreed to the arrangement.’
‘I agreed—yes.’ She felt warm and flustered now. ‘But I didn’t mean—’
‘I know exactly what you meant, my dear.’ he said with harsh deliberation. ‘What you meant was that you would oblige when and if it suited you. But the sun shone this morning, so your Roman lotus-eating temperament took over. Right? “Work can always wait another day—today we sit in the sun.” ’
She coloured. How well he understood her nature, her motives. Yet why should she be ashamed of her Roman characteristics?
He went on relentlessly: ‘Unfortunately, there is always our duty to others. Laziness is inexcusable, if it means others have to suffer. But perhaps you haven’t thought very deeply on the subject.’
‘Shall I do the letters now?’ was all she said, with a shaking hint of tears in her voice.
‘If you please!’ Abruptly he left the room.
She sat down blindly at the desk. She knew it was now necessary to redeem her fault by hard work. For she would not be helping Bruno’s cause by allowing her normal rather spoilt young nature to assert itself. Now Bruno was dead Adam Copeland would judge the family by her actions.
And this, she well saw, meant altering her ways, being more thoughtful, considerate and punctual—all the virtues which her indulgent father and loving brother had never really required of her.
It was perhaps at that moment of truth Tina really began to grow up...
CHAPTER THREE
Alone in the office, Tina laboured over Adam Copeland’s letters. She was still distraught enough to make many mist
akes, and much careful re-typing was necessary. At last Carrie looked in.
‘Lunch, Tina. You still at it? ... We had quite a good morning at the dig. Looks like we’ve found the corner of a memorial stone in the central section. There’s an inscription showing up, but not enough to decipher yet—’
Tina was unusually unresponsive. Carrie rattled on for a few minutes, then said abruptly: ‘I’ve been thinking about that supper-party. What about Saturday? Adam could ask one of his women friends.’
‘Has he so many?’
Carrie grinned. ‘I saw a real touch of Latin cynicism in you there ... Well, as to friends, he has a number of hopers and wishers. I could name half a dozen now who would give their right hands to come.’
Tina said coldly: ‘He shouldn’t have much trouble, then,’ and thought Carrie gave her a curious look.
On that Saturday evening Tina dressed with care, wearing a pale primrose dress, perfectly plain except for a row of gilt buttons down one side. With it she wore a matching gilt bracelet. Her hair lay like black satin about her shoulders and she had been lavish with forget-me-not eye-shadow.
When she joined Carrie in the living-room she found her enjoying a sherry and a glance through the local paper. The older woman looked up approvingly. ‘I must say you look all continental glamour. I’m afraid I haven’t tried very hard.’ She glanced down at a rather full air-force blue suit, almost as if she had forgotten what she was wearing.
She threw the paper down. ‘I see that fool Everard-Kipps is at it again!’
‘Who is Everard-Kipps?’
‘Oh, he’s a local amateur historian and would-be journalist. Writes pieces for the North Tyne Chronical and considers himself an expert on the Wall. But he’s dead wrong about the Vallum at Housesteads, and I shall write in to the paper and say so. We’re always battling in print. I quite enjoy shooting him down.’
Tina laughed. ‘There’s Chris’s car now. I’d better let him in.’
Carrie stared at Chris, who looked unusually distinguished in a dark formal suit. ‘Heavens!’ Carrie gasped. ‘We’re all scarcely recognisable away from the dig. I suppose it does us good to be civilised for once.’
She had just begun to pour sherry for Tina and Chris when Adam Copeland entered with his lady guest. Tina experienced a tingling shock. Even Carrie’s eyebrows lifted.
For the lady guest was Francey Finch.
‘Hallo.’ Adam spoke easily. He too was formally dressed in light grey. ‘We’ve all met, I think. Sherry, Francey?’
‘Yes, please. Sweet for me.’ She stood rather defiantly in the centre of the room, her tough little chin well up. Tina was surprised to see her in a simple cream shift dress, her make-up quite underplayed; it was evident, though, that she had spent time on her hair. It was a gleaming sunset halo about her face.
Tina also noticed that Chris was eyeing Francey with some appreciation. They had met before, of course, but perhaps this was the first time he had seen her in civilised surroundings.
‘Found anything wonderful on your dig yet?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, bits and pieces. But you’re not interested, surely?’ Chris gave her an indulgent smile.
‘You’re right—it seems an awful waste of time to me.’ But her eyes ogled him over her glass. Tina saw Adam intercept the look and wondered what Francey was up to. Was this an attempt to sting Adam to jealousy? If so, he looked remarkably unimpressed.
Isa looked round the door, heavily flushed. ‘It’s on the table, so don’t blame me if good food goes to waste.’ Her soured eye settled on the sherry glasses. ‘For strong wine is a mocker!’ she announced as she left the room.
‘Isa’s getting worse,’ Carrie sighed. ‘But then she did badly at the whist-drive last night, so I expect we shall suffer for it. Come on, let’s learn the worst.’
They trooped into the dining-room, where Isa handed soup-plates with a face of doom. She was wearing a rather peculiar dress of mustard-coloured velvet, with a marabou-fringed neckline. The colour was distressingly at odds with her sandy hair and heightened colour. Tina smiled to herself as she saw Chris give the outfit a rather stunned glance.
A large steak pie followed the soup. Carrie looked resigned. ‘I’m afraid the pastry’s pretty U.S.... Sorry—unserviceable in Air Force language. Anyway, the steak and mushrooms seem all right.’ She began serving it at the head of the table opposite her sat Adam, with Tina and Francey to right and left of him and Chris next to Francey.
‘Sorry we’re still odd numbers.’ Adam remarked. ‘I asked Sandy Armstrong along, but he’s playing at Hangingstones Barn Dance tonight.’
‘And a good thing too.’ Carrie retorted. ‘Or he’d have been piping in the steak and kid instead of a haggis.’ Was she disgruntled, because he had been invited, Tina wondered, or because he had not accepted?
Isa, bearing in a sauceboat of gravy, caught the last words. ‘We have piped on to you and ye have not danced!’ she quoted as she made for the door.
Chris showed his astonishment. Adam’s grin was complacent. Only a man so maddeningly sure of himself, Tina thought, could accept with such poise the eccentricities of his domestic staff.
‘That Sandy Armstrong!’ Carrie exploded. ‘He led me a fine dance when we first started the dig. He wasn’t above stealing down after dark and burying all kinds of daft things in the rubble. Foreign coins, for instance. And were our faces red when we’d cleaned them up! And once it was a broken earthenware bowl. We thought we’d got some Samian ware until we found the “Made in Stoke-On-Trent” stamp on the base.’
Tina laughed. ‘All very well.’ Carrie grumbled. ‘If you ask me it’s just childish—playing practical jokes at his age!’
As the meal proceeded all was not well with the conversation. Carrie, with no one to impress or entertain, had lapsed into some train of thought probably connected with the third century. Chris discussed a current film with Francey, who treated him to flirtatious looks between responses. Adam watched them both with a carefully blank expression. Was he actually jealous? Tina wondered, and the thought chilled her. Then he was asking her, lightly and ironically, ‘I hear you’ve been to Winshiels and Crag Lough already? Were you impressed?’
‘Yes, I was. Those crags are fantastic. And the Wall—’ she faltered, lost for words.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it? Considering every stone was hauled by hand labour, it must still be the greatest engineering feat of all time. A bit different from the plaster model, I imagine.’
‘I admit it.’ she said stiffly.
‘I used to do some climbing on the crags above the lough—the usual rope and tackle stuff. When I was a lad, of course.’
‘You mean you went down that—that awful drop?’ She shivered.
‘Nothing to it, when you know how.’ He went on to speak of Chesters fort. ‘You know, I suppose, that there’s a local ghost story about it.’
‘No. What is it?’
‘Oh, a troop of legendary Roman horsemen are supposed to emerge from some underground stables and roam the night countryside.’
‘Has anyone seen them?’ Tina asked sceptically.
‘You needn’t sound so superior. What has been seen or believed to have been seen on moonlight nights along the Wall might surprise you. And, still talking of Chesters, you know, of course, who was governor of the fort in the second century?’
‘Ulpious Marcellus.’ Tina said without hesitation.
‘Go to the top of the class!’ His tone was lightly mocking, but his glance, Tina saw, was for Francey, now in animated conversation with Chris.
‘What about Ulpious Marcellus?’ Tina asked coldly, determined in some pettishness to transfer that glance to herself, and when she had engineered it, to give him the full forget-me-not treatment.
He met her efforts with amused eyes. ‘As I was about to say, Ulpious Marcellus was quite a martinet. Before going to bed he used to write out a series of orders to be sent at intervals to his guards on the Wall, so they would think him s
till awake and watchful.’
‘Nice person.’ said Tina. She remembered her father telling her the same story. ‘Perhaps you’d-like to do the same thing in your office, to make sure I stay on the job?’
‘Certainly an idea.’ His gaze moved wickedly over her face, the curve of his mouth was more sardonic than ever. At this point Carrie intervened.
‘I thought we weren’t to talk about archaeology or Wall history.’ she complained.
‘Sorry, Carrie.’ Tina heard genuine courtesy in his tone. ‘I’m afraid I forgot. We’ll certainly close the hangar doors, as you would say!’ He turned with some determination to interrupt the other couple.
‘How is the family, Francey? The twins been in trouble again?’
‘Nothing worth mentioning.’ Francey’s voice was cool. It was obvious she was deliberately playing off Chris against Adam.
‘And Matt?’ Adam persisted. ‘How are the pigeons?’
‘Oh, flying as usual.’ This time her tone was pert and the look Adam sent down the table was clearly a warning. Francey dropped her gaze and fiddled with the bread on her side plate.
After a short silence Chris said pleasantly to Adam: ‘Nice place you’ve got here. I should imagine it’s bleak in winter, though?’
Adam agreed. ‘The summer visitors to the Wall should see it in January and get quite another picture. The winters up here were of course responsible for so many early deaths among the legionaries and slave labour.’
‘I thought the Romans had central heating.’ Francey said meekly, seeming determined now to placate Adam. But it was Chris who turned to explain: ‘That’s true—it was the holocaust system—what we would now call underfloor heating. But that was mostly for the commandant’s and officers’ quarters. The men on the Wall guarding the forts and milecastles would have to do with open braziers.’ He caught Carrie’s ironical glance. ‘Oops, sorry! We’re away again. That’s the worst of Wall Fever!’
