by Mavis Cheek
But just then the door at the back was flung open and Dryden stood there, looking thunderous, holding a shotgun, thankfully broken in the middle. In a voice of fury he called, ‘Nigel? Nigel? What the—?’ Then he saw Dulcima, went very red, retreated and put down the gun, returned and took her arm and brought her back – carefully – to the front of the shop. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, his voice soft again. ‘But I am not supposed to be disturbed when I am working on a gun.’ He glared at Nigel who did not notice since he was staring imploringly at Dorcas.
After he had shown them the gun and it had been admired by the ladies – silver chasing, very beautiful, most rare, possibly the sort of gun Sir Roger would admire? – and it had been properly put away in the workroom, Dryden, adjusting his mien from rage to bonhomie smiled upon the visitors.
‘We want to buy the Spode bonbon dish,’ said Dulcima. ‘I want to buy it for my friend Dorcas. Not a footstool this time,’ she added with a roguish twinkle and a little push of his shoulder. Dryden felt honoured at the touch.
‘You are the kindest of women, Lady Fitzhartlett,’ said Dryden, lifting the item from the sideboard and holding it aloft as if it did, indeed, contain bonbons. ‘It is an exceptional piece, exceptional. Set off by the very fine piece of furniture upon which it sits.’ He gave Lady Fitzhartlett an encouraging look. ‘Oh do call me Dulcima,’ she said. Dryden froze. Dorcas covered her laugh with a cough. In a slightly less obsequious voice he said, ‘And how, D—, Lady Fitzhartlett, is your …’ he hesitated: ‘lovely daughter?’
‘A very happy girl. Practically a horse herself. And do call me Dulcima. I’ve bought so much from you over the years and we have talked of beautiful things so nicely …’ She paused for a moment to dwell on thoughts of beautiful things. Her eyes, engaged with his, went swimmy, ‘I think I can grant you that.’ Taking the dish from him and handing it to Dorcas without her eyes leaving his face she was vaguely touched to see that he had a definite hint of blushing about him. How elegant, she thought, how delicately he colours, so unlike Harty who went the colour of fish livers under the duress of strong emotion.
‘Thank you – Dulcima,’ he said. It did not sit comfortably on his lips but he was immensely pleased to be asked. ‘I’m so glad Marion is well. Aren’t we Nigel?’ But Nigel remained silent.
As Dorcas, after much demur, finally capitulated and accepted with thanks the bonbon dish, the son of the emporium, apparently unable to contain himself, interrupted her words with barely contained emotion; she could feel his urgent breath on her cheek. ‘The girl?’ he asked again, a little more forcefully. He very nearly grabbed Dorcas’s arm and shook her, but since he retained his demonic salesman’s smile and his father was standing at his side, he did not dare. ‘The girl in the pink skirt,’ he said through gritted teeth and in a stage whisper. ‘Who is she? Dorcas, Dorcas – I have to know.’
Dorcas blinked and came back to the world of reality. She had been wondering what it must be like to see something beautiful in a shop window and to want it and to go in and buy it. Just like that. Amazing. Why, she even had to save up for her underwear. It was at moments like these that she tried very hard not to think of Robin. A woman without a man (or woman) tends not to get given many little treasures in her life. The Spode dish had set her thinking again. Treats, rare things, often did.
There was that lump hovering in her chest, ready to rise, and her heart was beginning to be just a little bit achy. Snap out of it, she told herself and looking up said, ‘Sorry, Nigel?’
‘The girl?’ he asked in a strangled voice. ‘In pink.’ He had a wild look in his eyes but since Nigel’s pashes were legendary in the village Dorcas did not take it too seriously. ‘The one who was here yesterday, visiting you and Miles. Tell me who she is.’
‘Oh her – she’s an archaeologist,’ said Dorcas soothingly. ‘And she wants to finish the work that her grandfather, Arthur Bonner, the archaeologist, began on the Gnome before the First World War. She may need some helpers from the village …?’
‘Oh yes!’ said Nigel, clasping his hands as if in prayer. ‘I shall be there at her side, digging for victory.’
‘Oh no,’ said Dorcas, hardly thinking about it. ‘She won’t be digging. Only clearing stuff away from the top.’ She paused for a moment, had a thought, seemed puzzled by it, and then dismissed it. ‘Clearing,’ she nodded, ‘that’s all.’
The group stood in silence for a moment, each in their own way consumed by various kinds of desire. ‘How interesting,’ said Dulcima, eventually managing to remove her gaze from the slowly retreating pinkness of Dryden’s skin. ‘We should all help, shouldn’t we? I mean, it is special to the village and all that. Has Miles agreed? How odd. I thought he found the whole idea of the Gnome rather disgusting.’
‘She wants to continue her grandfather’s work and pay Miles for the privilege. I think she hopes to film the dig, too …’ Dorcas looked thoughtful again, frowned for a moment and then went on, ‘Yes, film the – er – clearing process and pay him quite a lot, I believe.’
‘Ah – money and Miles – now it makes sense.’ They all laughed knowingly except Nigel who was enjoying visions of himself on his hands and knees with a trowel and close to heaven.
‘Money. Quite,’ agreed Dorcas. ‘Otherwise he would never have agreed. But I trust her. She seems to know exactly what she’s doing. Her curriculum vitae is impeccable.’
I’ll bet it is, thought Nigel. ‘So when does the excavation begin?’
Nearly dropping the Spode dish, Dorcas appeared to have a sudden revelation. ‘Excavation?’ she said sharply to a startled Nigel. ‘Digging? Finish the dig? But that’s not clearing the Gnome – it’s –’ Dorcas stood thinking for a moment, as if spellbound. Then she said very slowly, ‘I want to finish the dig, was what she said to Miles, not I want to finish the clearing …’ She moved closer to Nigel who bore the brunt of her interrogation. She clutched his arm. ‘What is there to dig up? What?’ Her eyes flashed, her nose twitched, something was not right. ‘What does she mean?’
‘God knows,’ he said, terrified. ‘Would you like me to wrap the bonbon dish?’
Cautiously Nigel disengaged himself and crept towards Dorcas, fixed his hand around the Spode and took it away ever so gently to make it safe in bubble wrap. Beside him he heard his father and Lady Fitzhartlett draw breath. ‘Talking of money, Dryden, shall I pay you in cash?’ she asked softly.
‘As before,’ he replied, with equal softness. She nodded. He ran his hand, a little regretfully, over the George II sideboard. She was his best customer but the disappointment of her not buying it was eased just a little by her invitation to address her as Dulcima. Besides, if there were going to be a film crew floating about the village, business might well be looking up and it did no harm, no harm at all, to have one good piece residing in the window.
‘I hope we shall see Marion here before long,’ he said coaxingly. ‘She does not seem – yet – to have inherited her mother’s eye.’
‘No,’ said Dulcima, reluctantly following Dorcas to the door of the shop. ‘It was the accident. Up until then they were fine. Though I rather like the slight offside nature of her gaze. I think it gives her an air …’
‘Oh I did not mean – that is …’ He turned a shade of blush again. She laughed. He was so very sensitive. Dulcima gave him a nod of goodbye and went towards the exit. Dorcas was holding open the door.
Dryden pushed Nigel forward and nudged him, rather too hard, in the back. ‘Perhaps Marion will help the archaeologist in her digging, too?’ said Dryden.
‘I doubt it,’ said Dulcima, ‘Now if it were one of those white horses cut into the hillside, she’d be up there like a shot … But not Pound Hill. She’s never been up there since …’ Her eyes went shiny and sad.
‘Ah well, er – Dulcima –’ said Dryden boldly, ‘I expect she will be thinking about young men as well? Wedding bells one day?’
Lady Fitzhartlett smiled vaguely again. ‘She is but a girl, Dryden.�
�� Then she paused and thought. ‘Goodness. Perhaps she should be thinking about them. Yes,’ she nodded, ‘why yes – my little girl is a woman.’
‘More or less the same age as my dear son Nigel.’
Lady Fitzhartlett nodded vaguely. ‘You’re right, Dryden dear, of an age … definitely of an age …’
Dryden looked hard at Nigel. Nigel looked at the floor. Lady Fitzhartlett and Dorcas prepared to leave and Dryden, with a look of irritation at his son, darted to the door to see them go.
‘Useless,’ said Dryden, when he had closed the door behind them. ‘Absolutely useless. Can’t you find one nice thing to say to Lady Fitzhartlett about the young lady? Oh, go back to your polishing.’ Nigel needed no second bidding. He had just spotted Julie Barnsley coming in their direction and fled to his sanctuary upstairs.
When the barmaid reached the shop Dryden gave her a horrible smile, one that topped his son’s to Dulcima by a long way, and turned the open sign to closed. Julie peered through the glass of the door but saw no sign of her intended. Now she knew something was up. Well, that was all right. Forewarned is forearmed. She strode off. Dryden came to the door and switched the shop to its open state. As he turned from the window to go back to the gun, he did a most peculiar thing. He grabbed the edge of a Victorian burr walnut card table (c.1870, damage to central pedestal £600) for support and, much as he had flushed earlier, now he drained to white. ‘I’m doing my best,’ he said to the empty shop. ‘I’m doing my bloody best.’ And looking fearfully over his shoulder he returned to the small back room.
Outside Beautiful Bygones, Dorcas just about managed to recover her good graces to thank Dulcima again for the pretty dish. ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Dulcima, ‘The pleasure was all mine.’ But, Dulcima thought, Dorcas did not look the happy recipient of a delightful and unexpected gift. She still wore a doubtful, puzzled look on her face and it might have been possible to enquire what the problem was if Julie hadn’t interrupted them. Julie did not look her usual cheery self either. She looked even less her cheery self when Dorcas told her who the girl in the pink skirt was and why she was here and that she would be around for some time.
‘I expect she’ll be staying at the pub. Good for business.’
‘How long?’ demanded Julie.
‘A few months, I think. And we’re all going up the Hill to help her,’ said Dulcima, to try to lighten the conversational mood a little. ‘Men and women of the village, all over the Gnome again. Who knows what his influence might not produce?’
Dorcas laughed but in her heart she knew that she had to get to the bottom of it – both literally and metaphorically. Something was not quite right. Whatever it was about, the girl obviously had a Plan B, when she had only told Miles about Plan A. Digs and excavation were not surface clearance. And the clearance of the Gnome’s edges was all Molly Bonner had enquired about. Dorcas must, very delicately, find out what was really going on. It was something to live for. To find out the truth. A bit of action, something out of the ordinary. And how she yearned for a touch of that in her life.
Neither Julie nor Dorcas said anything more. They scurried off in opposite directions, taking their brooding faces with them and leaving Lady Fitzhartlett standing in front of the shop, staring at the relic of George II. So Marion was of marriageable age and she had overlooked this? It made her feel suddenly very inadequate. Still, it had been nice to do something nice for someone and be noticed. Dorcas was a good person. Dulcima found that she had tears in her eyes, though whether it was from thinking about Robin and Dorcas who had been so in love, or about her daughter, who had not, she was not entirely sure.
She turned towards the path to the Old Manor, vaguely – but only vaguely – thinking that Marion was now of a marriageable age – and wondering, wondering, wondering where the years had gone. Time for another little rummage through the cellar, she thought. Or maybe, if she had discovered a project today, maybe not …
Five
IN MARYLEBONE, Molly Bonner was packing. Into her enormous case she placed her favourite battiferro trowels (two), her handbrush with the medium bristles, her camera, her laptop, voice recorder, journal and compass. Unlikely that she would need a compass but it had been her grandfather’s and she carried it around with her like a talisman. The rest of the gear was in the van: the markers, shovels, pegs, tarpaulins, wheelbarrow, plastics, heavyweight rucksack and all the other necessary equipment. At least, after the first few weeks, she would be working under cover which would help.
She had made a pact with Miles Whittington that, after the initial clearance, there were to be no gawpers or visitors until she invited them. She used the idea of outsiders destroying evidence if they came, but really she wanted complete privacy while she did what she had to do. Being out on that hillside day in day out with the elements thrashing her would make progress slow. When they had worked on Hullington’s Roman villa she was wet through from start to finish, almost mad with cramp and steeped in loathing for the public at large. This must not happen at Lufferton Boney where she would not even have the benefit of a professional co-worker to keep up her spirits. Freddy.
Freddy was supposed to be helping and now he wasn’t. First he let her down at Hullington. But she understood and forgave him for that. The opportunity was a rare one and he had to go. It is not every day a young geologist and palaeontologist gets invited to work on such a special upper salt water drainage site, so no help from him there. But now, just as Lufferton Boney was set to happen, he was away in South America. How like a man: the minute you really needed him he lets you down. She felt considerably better for saying this to herself although she knew in her heart that it was not true and unfair. He, like her, was committed to the work he did – and for now their work came first. It was a decision they’d made when they first met. But this was the last time that either of them would be allowed to let the other down. This they had also agreed. Love was a powerful invader of ambition. After this they would put their united selves first. After this, just like her grandfather’s undertaking, it would all be different.
She hoped it would be a very big After This, one that caused a bit of a stir. Then she would be content. It was another of the wisdoms that Molly had learned from her grandfather’s letters. Even if he did not manage to achieve it, he had set out to do his one last selfish deed before he put archaeology in second place to the woman he loved – but the country he loved beat them both. She and Freddy would do the same for each other. This was the last great project for each of them, the name-maker – then they would marry and be – well – different. It was to be hoped that she and Freddy would not follow the same path as her grandfather and grandmother. ‘Let’s hope the EU holds firm and Germany doesn’t go invading Poland again,’ she said ruefully, as she kissed him goodbye at St Pancras.
Well, she smiled at her precious packing, she was on her own and she would show Freddy – and who did he think he was to tell her that the whole idea of the Gnome and its mystery was probably nonsense? Men in archaeology always got their antlers out. He was jealous, that was all, and she would definitely, definitely show him by the time he came home. She missed him very much and she wrote that in her journal. One aspect of her life was very different from her grandmother’s: she had a profession to match his – and that would need to be accommodated.
The rest of the suitcase was soon filled with various items of clothing from lightweight cottons to the most heavyweight of outdoor garments she could possibly need in an English early spring up a hill doing a dig; or clearance, she winked to herself. She would arrive there at more or less the same time of year as her grandfather had when he spent his few months at Lufferton Boney; she knew from his writing what to expect. She had them all, both her grandmother’s treasured letters from him and his somewhat cryptic notebooks, and into the case they went, carefully protected by a pink Tupperware box. If what he had written was anything to go by it was likely that she would need every kind of outdoor clothing before the project was
complete. She trusted her grandfather’s words – from the smallest details about oilskin kneeling pads because of the rough flints that could damage a delicate kneecap and the good sense in the sun of wearing neck shields, to the more exciting and more generalised suggestions of what she might find when she began work on the Gnome.
Her grandmother had never doubted that she would fulfil the task her grandfather began. ‘All it needed, Molly,’ she whispered to her one night, ‘was someone who was as passionate about the work as he was. Someone with intelligence and who loved a challenge. No one took much notice of him because he was not the right sort. He wasn’t a general like Augustus Pitt-Rivers, he wasn’t knighted like Arthur Evans, he wasn’t a consular official like Frank Calvert nor was he a formidable woman of means like Gertrude Caton-Thompson. He was a miner’s son – and his brilliance could never balance that out. Wouldn’t it be fun if you could do that for him now?’ The little girl thought that the word fun was a good one, the rest of it she did not entirely understand. But she got the gist and she did love digging things up. Perhaps there was mining in her blood. ‘Oh I know,’ said her grandmother, ‘that they have since made all sorts of reparations for him – but there would be none better than completing the investigation he started. For me and my memory of him as much as anything else. And you’ll continue the name of Bonner in his chosen world – which will be one in the eye for any of those professorial dinosaurs if they’re watching from on high.’
Her grandmother had laughed very heartily at this and though, again, Molly was not sure why, she joined in with the chortling and never forgot those words.
At eight years old Molly was already bringing in pipe stems, and sometimes the pipe bowl from the garden, or the odd shard of pottery that might (or might not) be very old. These little trophies she kept on the shelf in her bedroom, reminders of what she would do when she was a grown-up and able to choose. Her parents, for whom she was a late arrival and something, she eventually realised, of a surprise and then an experiment (they were both scientists and pragmatists), had privately thought that Molly’s grandmother was getting a bit old and a bit wandering in her ways whenever she brought up the subject of grandfather Bonner’s unfinished project. Molly’s father had not, as her grandmother hoped, followed in his father’s footsteps. He was not the least bit interested in digging up the past, he was a scientist who built on it. ‘I never look back,’ he said firmly, ‘I only look forward.’ Molly heard her grandmother mutter, ‘Well more fool you.’
