by Ivy Ferrari
Carrie laughed. ‘It was to give you a change I suggested we all avoid the subject. Seems I needn’t have bothered. We’ll have our coffee round the living-room fire. Anyone care for a game of cards?’
Tina declined. The others began a not too serious game of rummy. She crossed to the radiogram, put on a Brahms waltz very softly. Adam Copeland caught her eye and smiled. The smile was mild, appreciative and plainly said: ‘I like Brahms.’ Nothing else, yet it had the power to scatter her thoughts. She sorted through the discs to hide her face.
Tina helped Carrie serve the coffee. Soon the rummy game got lazier and petered out. Adam dispensed drinks, there was some desultory talk and then the evening broke up. Late nights were not a habit at Hadrian’s Edge, Tina had already discovered.
Chris offered Francey a lift in his car. Adam, who was handing Francey into her coat said firmly, ‘Kind of you, but I think you’ll find Francey prefers the quarry path.’
Francey’s golden eyes flashed. Her tough little chin tilted. ‘No, I feel lazy tonight. I’ll take the lift, thanks.’
Adam’s face betrayed no emotion. The other two left with a chorus of ‘Good-nights.’ Carrie was already pushing the trolley along to the kitchen. Tina and Adam were left alone in the hall. He lit a leisurely cigarette, looked her over and said, ‘Better watch it. Your boy-friend seems smitten.’
‘He’s not my—’
He held up a warning hand. ‘Please, no more protests. I believe I’ve already got the message. It might be kindness, though, to warn him he is handling dynamite.’
‘Oh, really?’ Tina lingered, intrigued.
The collie thrust a loving face into Adam’s hand. He caressed her gently. ‘Or perhaps you’d rather he found out for himself.’ His head was bent, so his expression was hidden.
‘Found out what?’ She was exasperated, yet a little excited. Was she on the verge of some discovery?
He lifted his head and looked her full in the eyes. His voice lifted to a savage rasp. ‘That Francey Finch is a charming little animal with sharp claws and no conscience?’ He strode across the hall to his office and closed the door after him.
Tina stared at the heavy oak door, her heart floundering. Did he love Francey despite everything? And in what way had he been disillusioned? Because Francey ... and Bruno? ... Her heart raced painfully now.
Yet if Francey had proved so treacherous, why invite her to the house? Because he couldn’t resist her company, even now?
There was one way to find out. And being Tina, it was no sooner imagined than done. She tapped on the shut door and entered. Adam was reaching for a book from the wall shelves. He swung about to face her, his expression discouraging.
‘Yes—what is it?’
‘I want to ask you something.’ She tried to speak boldly, but her voice quivered.
‘About—Francey Finch?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘Elementary. We’ve just been talking about her. And now you want to know if she and Bruno were up to anything?’
‘If you must put it so coarsely—yes.’
The answer is that your brother was a good-looking man, practised with women and easily able to sweep silly little girls off their feet.’
‘You mean—Francey?’
‘Don’t underestimate Francey, my dear. Or for that matter any of the Finches. Too many people, including myself, have made that mistake.’
Then what—’
‘What did I mean? Why don’t you ask Francey?’
‘Because I thought you would know.’
He threw the heavy book on the desk with a jarring violence. ‘If I knew exactly the extent of the chaos and unhappiness caused by your brother I would certainly tell you. Perhaps, like yourself, I’m still making discoveries.’
The icy formality of his tone stunned her. She left the room, ran upstairs and collapsed in tempestuous Italian tears.
She had failed to make any sense out of his words. At one moment he had seemed to link Francey with Bruno, at the next he was disclaiming knowledge. But it was not the failure to find her question answered which upset her, but his entire change of personality and attitude at mention of her brother. His animosity had not only been plain, but wounding beyond measure.
By Monday morning it was as if that incident had never been. Adam dictated his letters in a normal manner and politely remarked on the change in the weather. Beyond the heavily curtained window huge clouds raced before a northerly wind, and Tina remembered that before breakfast she had seen a flutter of white wings on the moor, then the circling and mounting of Matt’s pigeons, wheeling in a course due north for Scotland. They would have a rough passage, she thought though Matt had told her pigeons rode on air currents to conserve their energies.
After dictating the letters Adam announced he had to go out, leaving directions as to his destination with a rather heavy insistence. Tina said: ‘It’s all right. I’ll be here.’ and slammed her typewriter carriage across with force. He ignored the action and left the office.
When he had gone Tina lapsed into thought. Seeing the pigeons had made her want to see Matt again. He had been so sympathetic, so quietly kind, had little but good to say of Bruno. She felt passionately that she needed such reassurance often. There was also a less commendable reason. An open friendship with Matt might shake Adam Copeland’s monumental self-complacency.
She typed his letters with care, determined to give no room for criticism, gave explicit directions as to his whereabouts to two telephone callers, and left the office in a neat and efficient state.
That afternoon she spent as usual at the dig. The wind held an icy quality as it skimmed over the southerly ridge to rake the site. The students, huddled in anoraks and scarves, knelt and dug, squatted and examined with their usual persistence. Eventually Tina made her way over to Chris, who was entering the records at a camp table, his papers held down by rough pieces of boulder.
‘Well, how did you get on with Francey?’ She turned over a few shards from a Roman lamp, traced with her finger the raised design on the glazed earthenware.
Chris did not look up, though whether deliberately or not she wasn’t sure. ‘We found a stone laver in section sixteen—some kind of altar vessel. Cracked but otherwise intact Alice is cleaning it now ... Francey Finch? She’s quite the local beauty, of course.’
The Finches have rather an odd reputation round here.’ Tina was deliberately trying to draw him out.
‘Watch those shards. I’ve got them in a certain order.’ He spoke with restrained patience. ‘And don’t fish, Tina, please. I’m not interested in local gossip. And I found Francey quite good company. Satisfied?’
‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’ She patted his arm. ‘Sorry. I’ll get down to some work and leave you in peace.’
The weather blew even colder, with now and then the sting of rain. Tina was glad of the undemanding company of the students, interested in the stone laver and in a bone Roman comb one of the boys had unearthed in his section. It had fine teeth, though much damaged, on both sides, with a rough form of rivet through the central portion. Carrie, now on the scene, examined it with intense interest. ‘It’s smaller than others found—could have belonged to a child, one of the commandant’s children, possibly...’ Standing with the comb in her hand she went off into a dream of her own. Tina guessed she was reconstructing some scene in perhaps the second century, with her almost uncanny gift for the past.
That evening Adam was missing from supper and Carrie announced that he was visiting Helen. His absence made Tina restless, though she could scarcely have said why. Perhaps Carrie noticed it, for she suggested a walk.
They wrapped up warmly and climbed the rise of the Military Road to Limestone Corner. Here the highway rode high on the base of the Wall, reaching the brink of a plateau giving vast views of the surrounding country. It was a clear still evening, though piercingly cold. Cross Fell loomed a chill blue to the south-west, the Cheviots were grey wraiths to the north, while the
undulating land between was a circular frieze of palest green and sapphire landscape, serrated by the harsh darkness of forest.
‘The best view on the Wall.’ said Carrie briskly. ‘But we didn’t come to look at the view. I wanted to show you what’s left of Milecastle Thirty, among other things.’
They scrambled about in the fields on either side of the road, Carrie pointing out the line of the Vallum, which here was cut through solid rock, and tracing the Wall ditch on the opposite side, where the rock still bore evidence of the work of the Roman engineers.
They were both absorbed, fascinated, lost in thoughts of that distant past, but at last became aware that dusk was falling. As they walked back downhill Carrie said abruptly: ‘Gets you, doesn’t it? To think that the men building the Wall looked at that same view, felt the same cold of an English spring, even marched where we’re walking now. Lofty had a theory, you know—that the more you walked the Wall, the more you let the scenes of it seep into your mind, the more odd things began to happen, as if your eyes and ears were tuned to the past.’
‘Have you ever seen anything, Carrie?’ Twilight was now shadowing the still fields, where ewes and their lambs called plaintively to each other.
‘Not the ghostly company from Chesters, I’m afraid. But queer things have happened to me. Sometimes I’m up on the Wall at dawn or twilight. They’re the best times. It’s just as if then the veil is very thin between the past and the future. Sometimes I’ve even fancied I heard Latin voices singing on the wind—’
Tina clutched Carrie’s arm, her skin pricking. ‘Listen—what’s that?’
Carrie had to wait until a car swished past. Then a sweet reedy sound came, seductive and wild. They glanced at each other, startled.
‘Look!’ Tina pointed. A tall figure stood in dark silhouette near the roadside wall. The seductive lament sounded again.
Carrie clicked her teeth. ‘It’s only Sandy Armstrong, on his pipes. His cottage is just through the trees there. I suppose he saw us and this is his idea of a joke.’
They walked towards him. A full-throated laugh sounded. ‘Do you no’ like my serenading, Mrs. Butterfield?’ He came to join them.
Tina looked at him with interest. So this was Sandy, whom Carrie affected to despise, Sandy the practical joker and happy bachelor. He was big, given to brawn and muscle, and had a soldierly stance. His hair was undoubtedly ginger and his craggy face alive with good humour. He smiled at Tina. ‘You’ll be Miss Rutherford—I heard you’d come, hinney.’
Tina shared a hearty handshake, looked with interest at the Northumbrian pipes tucked under his other arm; a black and white plaid bag, with scarlet fringes and brass-mounted keys. ‘How do you get your mouth down to play them?’ she asked, mystified.
‘My mouth, pet?’ he laughed. ‘Why, you don’t play the Northumbrian pipes with your mouth. You’re thinking of the Scottish ones. With these you just finger the drones ... Aye, they’re grand little pipes, these. What about a tune while I set you both down the road?’
‘Anything but Cushie Butterfield, please,’ Carrie said sharply.
‘What about this, then?’ As they walked on he played a delicate air. That’s “Sweet Hesleyside”, he told them. ‘It’s a song well known on the North Tyne. Ah, and Hesleyside’s a bonny spot—I’ll have to take you there one day, Carrie.’
This was so patently an invitation that Tina smiled. But Carrie’s reaction was a sniff. ‘I’ve more to do with my time than traipsing half way to Kielder, thank you very much.’
Sandy seemed in no way abashed, but announced that he would play ‘Blow the Wind Southerly’.
He sang the words softly under his breath:
‘Blow the wind southerly,
Southerly, southerly—
Carrie dropped back. ‘Don’t wait. I’ve a stone in my shoe. I’ll catch you up.’
Tina guessed she was upset. It was a sad song and one she knew well herself, having heard her father humming it often when she was small and his widowhood still raw and near. It clawed at her own heart, too, hinting in some way of joys and sorrows still untasted.
And Carrie? Was she thinking of Lofty, back there in the twilight, knowing only a miracle could bring him now?
Sandy glanced behind him, hesitated, then walked on. He had finished playing and said softly: ‘She’s a canny lass, is Carrie. I think the world of her. It’s plain she’s had trouble in her life, though. Does she ever talk of her husband?’
‘No, never.’ Tina told him.
‘I’ve often wondered—’ He broke off. ‘That was a sad case about your brother, pet. You’ve been through a bad time and that’s a fact.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You’ll just have to stick out your chin and go marching on, like we did in the Army. And there’ll come a day when it won’t seem so bad. For nowt so bad if we face up to it—I’ve proved that time and again.’
Carrie came up with them. ‘Tired of the pipes?’ she asked. ‘At least the Romans were no pipe players. Far too civilised.’ she finished triumphantly.
‘Get away!’ He laughed loudly. ‘They hadn’t the brains for the pipes. Take them all their time to finger a harp!’
‘You’d better watch it. Tina’s half Roman.’ Carrie warned him.
He turned to wink at Tina. ‘She’s only mad because I won’t let her dig up my garden to find a Roman bakehouse. She’s never forgiven me for that. And what use would it be when it was found? A few stones held together with clay. Though I could keep my manure in it, come to think of it,’ he grinned.
‘You’re a fool, Sandy Armstrong!’ Carrie said crisply. ‘No wonder you had to join the Army. The Air Force would never have had you!’
‘What, the Brylcreem Boys? You should have heard what we thought of them!’
They reached the side-road to Hadrian’s Edge. ‘Shall I walk you both up to the house?’ he asked. ‘We could have another bit sing and a go at the pipes up the road there.’
‘No, thank you.’ said Carrie with great emphasis. ‘I don’t want Isa frightened out of her wits, or Mr. Copeland thinking we’ve all been down to the pub.’
‘Then I’ll say good-night!’ He gave them a gay salute and strode back up the hill, the thin sound of the pipes giving out a tune which was certainly “Cushie Butterfield”.
On Saturday afternoon, as was the custom, work on the dig feeling the encounter had stimulated her, and she noticed that as Carrie passed through the hall she glanced rather self-consciously in the mirror and smoothed back a strand of hair.
On Saturday afternoon, as was the custom, work on the dig stopped for the week-end. The students dispersed to shopping in Hexham or more sophisticated delights in Newcastle. Carrie too was going to Hexham and even Isa was in holiday mood, bound for an outing with the Women’s Institute.
Carrie mentioned that Sandy was playing at another dance, up Bellingham way, and that he had actually had the audacity to ask her along.
‘He must be out of his mind.’ she added. ‘Can you see me at a barn dance? I ask you.’
‘You’ve got to close the hangar doors sometimes.’ Tina said slyly.
‘I’ve my own ways of closing the hangar doors.’ Carrie retorted. ‘I don’t need any Sandy Armstrongs to show me.’
Tina herself felt rather at a loose end. Adam Copeland was visiting Helen that afternoon and was later dining with friends at Otterburn. She felt that the day stretched endlessly ahead.
When he was in the house she was always tense, stretched to the limit of her powers and with a sense of battle and challenge in the air. Hadrian’s Edge without these emotions seemed woefully flat.
In the end she decided to go to Quarry Farm. Even if Francey’s welcome might hold a chill, the boys, she knew, would be glad to see her.
It was a brisk windy day, with more than a hint of spring in the air. Huge cloud masses raced across a bright sky. As Tina ran down the moor track she met two small trudging figures, Bobby and Rosie. They looked almost tidy for once, though still in jeans and jerseys.
‘Hallo.’ Tina greeted them. ‘I was just coming to visit you all.’
‘You can’t visit us.’ Rosie said. ‘We’re off to Hexham on the bus, to spend our pocket-money.’
‘How much do you get?’
They exchanged glances. ‘Officially—’ Bobby brought out the word with pride, ‘it’s fivepence each, but—’
‘But we get other money on the side.’ Rosie explained. ‘Jamey has to give us twopence each to keep us quiet, and Francey—’
Bobby dug his twin in the ribs. He went on proudly, ‘But we’ve got lots more this week. Mr. Copeland gave us fifty pence.’
‘To keep you quiet?’ Tina asked ironically.
They stared. ‘No.’ Rosie explained. ‘Because he’d heard we’d been a whole week at school without being late or absent, and there’d been no complaints about us or Hadrian from the farmers.’ That was generous of him.’ But Tina despised him for this type of bribery. Bobby’s next words, however, changed her opinion. ‘But Mr. Copeland said if we expected to get money every time we behaved ourselves we’d be sadly disappointed.’
‘What are you going to buy with it?’
‘Some cups and saucers for the tree house. And cakes and things to eat for a picnic.’ Rosie gloated.
Bobby shrugged. ‘She’s aye wanting to play house. I’m after a fishing line.’
Tina dug in her bag. ‘Have an ice-cream on me.’ She handed out two sixpences. Rosie kicked the turf, her eyes downcast ‘Matt says we haven’t got to take money off folks. And anyway’—blue eyes raised hopefully—’the ices we like are ninepence!’
Tina laughed. ‘Well, I haven’t got ninepence, so you’ll have to pay the rest yourselves. And don’t worry about Matt—I’ll tell him it’s all right Is he in?’
‘He’s in the pigeon loft.’ The twins ran off, giggling at their own audacity.
Tina skirted the house. Hadrian, sprawled by the back door, thumped his tail at sight of her. She stooped to pat him. Pigeons were wheeling round the loft, with a soft rubbery sound of wings. Matt’s voice hailed her.
