by Mavis Cheek
*
Sidling as close to him as she decently could without actually elbowing anyone out of the way (though she might have liked to) Julie looked into Nigel’s somewhat anxious eyes. ‘Darling,’ she said huskily.
‘Oh, hallo, Julie,’ he said, in the same tone he might use if he met PC Brown in the street. ‘How are you?’ Nigel could have wrenched his tongue out. He had vowed not to engage Julie in any kind of conversation. He wanted to be polite but clipped. This is what his father recommended for tradespeople who came to the shop: polite and clipped. Nigel had fallen at the first hurdle.
‘I’m lonely,’ said Julie. ‘Little Julie misses Big Nigel.’
Nigel winced and would have thrown his hands over Miss Bonner’s ears had he not stopped himself just in time. ‘And how are you?’ Julie sidled closer. Nigel sidled backwards and nearly fell into the fire. He righted himself but continued to move steadily away. ‘A little cold,’ he said quickly. ‘Thanks.’ The fire was roasting. Miles had been persuaded that if people were warm and had nice sherry then all would be well and Dorcas, oh the profligate, had banked it up.
‘Poor Nigey,’ Julie gave a little pout. ‘I could warm you up?’ she said cajolingly. Though cajolingly, she said it very loudly and she said it very close and very purposefully so that Miss Molly Bonner could not help but hear it. Miss Molly Bonner turned her head away from Dr Porlock and looked at Julie. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I always get very pink cheeks indoors. It doesn’t mean anything at all. I’m just about the perfect temperature, thank you.’
Julie, who, it was often said, had more front than Brighton – hiccuped with embarrassment. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was talking to the cat.’
Everyone looked at the floor where there was, obviously, no cat. ‘Oh flip,’ said Julie, ‘I thought the rug was a pussy.’
At which point the archaeologist’s granddaughter threw back her head and laughed. How adorable. Nigel moved nearer to her; he who had been in love up to a point, now went deliriously beyond that point and was so seriously in love that he broke out in a sweat. Only then did he realise that his trousers were on fire.
He yelled, bent over, beat them – and Winifred, with a smile of alacrity, fulfilled every fear of her husband’s by upending her sherry glass all over the smouldering buttocks of Master Nigel the antique dealer’s son.
‘May I suggest,’ said Molly, thinking that very soon everything would fall apart, ‘that I begin?’
‘Oh please,’ said Nigel fervently, holding a cushion which he had grabbed from the nearest chair to his singed and sherried bottom. But it was no cushion, he discovered, when it dug in its claws. It was the much-affronted cat.
Six
DORCAS STROKED AND calmed Montmorency who had never been so insulted in all his life except when the man he lived with – scarcely his owner, despite his real owner not having made an appearance for some time – had told Dorcas that he, Montmorency, was brought to this abode for the catching of mice. One more incident like this and he would betake him across the road to Dorcas’s house: smaller, it was true, not nearly so elegant nor classy – but with the benefit of being secure in his feline superiority. And his sleep.
Miles stepped forward and, rubbing his hands as if the money were already his, and smiling that extraordinary smile that made so many look away, he began to list Molly’s attributes for the benefit of the party. ‘She is a friend to the village,’ he said. ‘So young and yet so full of good intentions … I am proud to have brought her here to work on our beautiful village’s behalf.’
At which point, with the curious smell of singed cloth all around her, Molly thanked Miles, and began quickly and firmly to explain her mission. Miles kept his mouth open for a moment, realised that the glory had been snatched from him, forgot to smile (which was a relief all round) and was silent as Molly began to tell them about her grandfather’s great interest in the Gnome of Pound Hill, how he had wanted to investigate its source and origins – and to make sure it was as accurate in the land as it was when first cut out of it – but that the Great War had intervened. She told them about her grandmother and how he had loved her. And how she wanted this work of Molly’s to be like a memorial to him. She asked that they help her with the initial clearing of the space but that, once the covers were in place, they leave her – and the site – alone, until she had finished. Indeed, that was a sine qua non of the understanding between her and the village. The task, she thought, would take several months and after that – well, after that – she hoped that she would leave them with a new understanding of the value of the place. Miles then broke into the talk and said, ‘Ah yes – after that, it will be ours again.’ He said this with such fondness and such a benign expression that it had everyone reaching for another sherry in disbelief – but since Molly stood there looking open and honest and enthusiastic, they had to believe him though they surely doubted, they surely doubted. Miles hated the Gnome. And now he was professing to love it. What was going on?
Susie asked, ‘Does it mean that you want us all to stay away for the duration … ?’ She said it slightly wistfully.
‘Yes,’ said Molly, as straightforward as the day was long, ‘I must insist on it. A notice will go up. But after that it will be restored and ready and maybe made even more – powerful.’
Susie closed her eyes in pleasure at the prospect. Pinky closed his eyes in sheer relief. He moved a little closer to his wife and vowed, privately, to try hard to rekindle his love. He put the phrase ‘over my dead body’ out of his mind. ‘Take your time,’ he said very firmly. ‘Take your time, Miss Bonner – please.’
‘Thank you. And you might all want to know that there is a television company who are very interested in the outcome of this. But that is for later … much later.’
‘I used to work in television,’ said Winifred, even more wistfully than Susie. ‘Many years ago. When I was in my prime.’ And then she laughed and began quoting a favourite ditty, ‘When I was young and in my prime’ but the sound of Donald’s groan and the look of horror he gave her brought her up short. The next line, the one about wetting one’s knickers, was really, she thought, a little strong. Donald said ‘Good God’ and held his head. She took pity and stopped speaking but she did not stop thinking of herself in her prime and all those assignments she’d enjoyed when she was young, working for the BBC with, quite literally when she visited the North Pole, the world at her feet. ‘We used to say all sorts of things off-air,’ said Winifred. ‘It livened up our on-air performance tremendously.’
Very gently Dorcas put Montmorency down. The cat swivelled his head and took a long, penetrating look at Nigel, before settling his paws, putting his chin between them, and returning to sleep. Nigel saw nothing of this for he was aghast at Molly’s words. He moved towards her.
‘Don’t you want us to help?’ he stammered. ‘Can’t we come and – oh – hold a torch or something?’ It was on the tip of Julie Barnsley’s tongue to say that he seemed to be doing that all right anyway, without having to ask.
Molly nodded. ‘You can certainly all help with getting my equipment up the Hill – it’s too steep for the van. And with the clearing, that’s really important. But the more … delicate work I shall need to do on my own. Still, there’s quite a few ways you can help before that.’
Nigel practically melted at the idea of Molly being alone, anywhere in the universe. ‘I’ll be there for you – every step of the way,’ he said. ‘Ow!’
Julie had quite a firm pinch on her; very probably she drew her finger strength from pulling pints.
Molly ignored the noise for she was focused on one thing, and one thing only: that she would get her way. She leaned forward, resting her small hands – hands, thought Nigel, as he rubbed at his singed bottom, that did not look as if they could shift earth even in an ordinary garden – on the desk and saying most earnestly, ‘Believe me. This is for the good of the village – and for the good of the villagers. My grandfather thought that there was something in
nately special about this site of yours and I want to find out – that is, restore it for you. His letters to my grandmother, and his notebooks, will all be available for you to see – for the world to see if they wish to – once the work is completed. Until then, will you respect my request?’
‘What exactly is the extent of the work?’ asked Dorcas.
Molly’s eyes held that shadow again as she said, ‘I won’t really know until I get up there, but clearing the edges, obviously.’
She gave Dorcas a straight look. ‘Obviously,’ replied Dorcas, returning it. Molly nodded. ‘Obviously indeed.’
There was a finality to Molly’s tone that Dorcas decided to respect. ‘I see,’ she said. And that was that. Later, my girl, she thought. I shall pin you down later.
There was a short silence. Then, gradually, the room became full of nods and smiles and agreement. They would all help and they would all abide by her rules. While the men were impressed with Molly’s spirit and charm, the women were impressed with her mixture of authority and amiability. But above everything they were all impressed with her passion and her cheerfulness. There is nothing quite like passion and belief to endow a speaker with great communication skills. When Molly spoke about how excited she was at the prospect, how interesting she hoped it would be for the village when the work was completed at last, even Marion was impressed. For the first time she found something almost as compelling as a horse. What a pity that it was to be up on Pound Hill. Passion was not something that had entered Marion’s world very often and she found Molly’s passion very engaging. How odd, she thought, that such a stirring should come to her from the loathsome Gnome. She wondered, fleetingly, if she might get involved but decided that she was, perhaps, not quite ready yet to dare to visit the Hill again and finally put away the memory of falling off Tickle. Not quite.
Peter Hanker then stepped into the middle of the room. He was not usually one to put himself forward unless there was something in it for him and when he arrived he had planned to take Miss Bonner quietly to one side at the end of the meeting and suggest she pay him a substantial sum; after all, the pub could do with it, for which he would give her something she might want in return. But somehow, and he really could not say the why or the how of it, a little flutter of shame entered his mind and he decided to bypass the first bit. Instead, he held up a folded, creased, stained, rough-edged square of paper, about A4 size, and carefully opened it. He laid it on the desk before the young archaeologist as if it were a treasure he had found for her. And, if her reaction was anything to go by, so it was. She clapped her hands, then put them one on each of his cheeks and gave him a smacking great kiss on the lips. Nigel nearly fainted away. As did Peter Hanker. And Julie Barnsley was involuntarily moved to wish, yet again, that she could scratch the bloody girl’s eyes out. Both of them now, she thought. Bloody hell, what was the girl on?
‘Wow!’ said Molly when she had released Peter’s cheeks, ‘Wow!’ She was looking at the paper as if she could eat it. ‘How did you get it?’ Her eyes were shining. Peter felt a glow all about him and said proudly, ‘It’s my great-great-something-grandfather’s map of what he found when he went to clean up the Gnome. Or drawing, I suppose, would be most accurate.’ Molly peered at the paper saying, ‘I thought this was lost for ever.’ The room seemed to hold its breath. The gathering to crane its universal neck. ‘This is wonderful,’ said Molly. ‘Quite, quite wonderful. Oh thank you so much, thank you Peter.’
Peter, with a pleased smile, pointed to some very faint writing in the corner of the paper. ‘I think it says that the outline of the Gnome was based on a much earlier document which was in such poor condition that it had to be transferred to this paper. Where he got that from,’ Peter Hanker said, ‘I’ve no idea. I held on to this because I thought it would be worth something one day …’
‘Oh, it is, it is,’ said Molly. ‘There is a date – faint but definitely a date …’ She took the paper over to the window and scrutinised it. ‘Yes,’ she said, her smile so broad that the gathering in the room felt like cheering – but didn’t: ‘The original paper came from the church which he thinks had held it for hundreds of years. Hundreds of years. I wonder why?’
‘He may have been exaggerating,’ said Peter. Molly nodded, still thinking. ‘Or perhaps the priests liked a bit of dirt now and then.’
The vicar said, ‘Oh I say.’ And Dorcas was quick to answer with, ‘Oh I don’t think he means now, vicar.’ Much to Miles’s chagrin, she refilled the clergyman’s empty glass yet again.
Standing by the window, Molly seemed oblivious of anything but the paper. ‘Well, it certainly looks as if your man has changed shape on his outer rim. And the Gnome’s hat now is much plainer.’ She looked out of the window and up the Hill, then back to the paper. Dorcas was at her side and Miles was relieved to see that instead of another bottle of rather fine sherry his assistant was holding a magnifying glass. Molly took it from her as a surgeon takes an instrument, without removing her gaze from the drawing. ‘Well, well,’ said Molly. ‘I think I see a little of what it might, just might, be. But we won’t know anything more until I get up there, down and dirty.’
‘Oh yes!’ came the fervent cry from the fireplace. But Nigel was quelled with a penetrating look from Julie.
‘And if the dates fit, then that will be most helpful. Marvellous.’
Molly looked sad for a moment as she returned to the centre of the room. ‘I don’t think my grandfather saw this – or at least, he doesn’t mention it. What a shame. He would have been thrilled.’ She threw up her hands in what looked to Nigel like a lovely gesture of abandoned despair and to Julie like a fit of very bad acting. ‘But this looks so early, Peter,’ said Molly. ‘Which is a shame. Your aeons-ago grandfather wouldn’t have had a clue about the site. No one bothered to make a proper scientific record of these things until the blessed General Pitt-Rivers arrived on the scene and took the recording of archaeology seriously.’ She flapped the piece of paper. ‘And that was as late as the 1860s. Until then it was all about digging it up and jotting it down on any old thing – like this church drawing. Nothing scientific at all – more or less done on the back of a fag packet.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Sir Roger, ‘I didn’t know ancient churchmen smoked. How civilised.’
He looked at Dulcima in amazement. She laughed – and such a true laugh that it reminded him of when she was first at the Manor – and she said, ‘Oh Roger, Molly was speaking metatata—’ Dulcima took another run at it, ‘Metaphosically …’ She gave up.
‘Yes,’ said Molly helpfully, ‘I was. My grandfather might have been the bridge between the General – whom he admired immensely – and men like Sir Mortimer Wheeler in the thirties – but that futile war stopped his progress. She gave the room the benefit of a particularly firm stare and this time it was slightly less sweet. ‘And very possibly his lowly status.’
‘Talent will out,’ said Winifred. ‘Eventually.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Won’t it, Donald?’
She was not holding a glass and there was nothing nearby – so far as he could see – that could be poured. Nevertheless, he backed away slightly. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said. He did not, quite, like the way she then tapped her lips with the tip of her finger in thoughtful, speculative manner with that faraway look in her eye again. It was when she started thinking that things got into a mess, a damp one, usually. He tried not to think of incontinence apparatus.
‘It was also to do with the subject matter of the site,’ said Molly, and had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. ‘If you know what I mean. You can only wonder how the church fathers felt with that looking down on them. Very off-putting. Of course,’ she added as a little afterthought, ‘they might have welcomed it. Being expected to be good all the time. It might have stirred them up a bit.’
At which the vicar began a coughing fit, Dulcima decided that she liked this archaeologist girl and Sir Roger bellowed a laugh. It may have been the implied suggestion that the cl
ergy liked erotica or it may have been that his little legs could not hold quite so much sherry as everyone else’s (Miles had decided that the whole bloody village had hollow legs where his drink was concerned), but the vicar’s coughing and snorting went on for some time and was only ended by a resounding thump on his back from Sir Roger. His Lordship might not have the living of Lufferton Boney in his gift any more, but he still had a slightly proprietorial feeling about this man of the cloth, despite his size. Bullying the vicar was part of the history and structure of country life as much as any Gnome, thought Sir Roger, and practically his duty. The vicar, while attempting to look grateful and with the purple of his face slowly subsiding, took a very large swig of sherry. Miles let out a groan. ‘Better open another bottle,’ said Dorcas, and slipped off to do so before Miles could stop her.
Despite the vicar’s distress, there was not a man or woman in the room who was not pleased at the advent of Molly Bonner and puzzled that Miles should be so amenable to the scheme. And Molly was pleased with the assembled because they supported her, which was important for the success of any project like this; and she now had her bit of paper. Precious are the artefacts of history. She held the drawing as if it were a newborn baby.
