by Mavis Cheek
‘And I’d better continue my ride,’ said Marion in voice light with what Peter realised was happiness. How amazing, he thought, that a horse could do that for a woman.
‘All the same, if I can help I will,’ said Marion. ‘You’ve been a good friend.’ Up she jumped on to the saddle, and turning Sparkle’s head, she rode out of the yard and into the street. ‘Faint heart,’ she called over her shoulder, and she was gone.
From the window of Hill View House, Miles took his eyes off the girl on the Hill and watched, as Dryden Fellows often watched, the horse’s rump as it rolled its muscular way along by the side of the fields, with its tail swaying like a hula dancer and above it Marion Fitzhartlett’s slender body also swaying from side to side. Miles might have a sharp mind where money was concerned, but he was not self-deluded. It was highly unlikely that Marion Fitzhartlett would ever consider becoming his wife and there was no one else up to the job. He certainly did not feel that bursting sense of love he remembered Robin banging on about after he met Dorcas, and he was not sure that he wanted to experience it. Robin had gone very peculiar after becoming engaged – whistling and singing and stomping his feet all over the place and never seeming to sleep. What a long time ago all that was. Miles could honestly say – though not to a living soul – that he did not miss him at all. Well, maybe a tiny bit. As someone to be enjoyably aggrieved by. He sometimes wondered what people meant by a heart – apart from the literal meaning of an organ pumping blood around – but he only ever wondered with the slightest shadow of regret. People who had a heart, he observed, usually got stung for it. Miles was a mixer of metaphors just as he was a mixer of truth and lies. Miles was a man one should not cross.
Even four-footed creatures were required to earn their keep. There was no such thing as pleasure without a price. Miles turned and looked at the idle cat, Montmorency, who was as usual asleep in a chair. Robin had been so indulgent. Why, Miles could almost hear the mice squeaking with delight behind the wainscoting. He went over to the chair, grasped it at the back, and tipped the cat out on to the floor. Then, with a none too gentle movement of his foot, he pushed the astonished and affronted creature towards its place – in the kitchen. The cat went, thinking dark thoughts. Miles was cheered by the thought of Montmorency running amok among the rodents, dark thoughts or not. But Montmorency suddenly had a lighter one. It being spring, and the sap rising and whatnot, the cat also thought along the lines of ‘While I’m up,’ slid out of the catflap and headed towards the pub and its coarse, but willing, newly procured pub cat called She.
Miles and Dorcas had been working all morning on the likely three-year forecast of remuneration from Molly’s scheme, and it looked very promising. Of course, the remuneration would not be huge but – like so many mean people – Miles was also a lover of power. Making people pay for the privilege of a visit would please him very much. Not to mention the nicely growing bank account he had, with joy, already opened in the name of Gnome. He imagined how swiftly the balance would grow. Miles, to be fair, had never read Silas Marner.
The vicar, from afar off and seeing Miles at his window, waved. He pointed upwards to the figure on the Hill and nodded approvingly. Miles was glad that he appeared to have God on his side. He was less glad about the vicar, who seemed to be more than a little interested in the amount of money Miles might make from the project. The vicar, Miles knew, had a desire for a new pulpit, something a little less high around the edges and Miles was damned if he was going to offer a penny towards it. He quickly changed his choice of word from ‘damned’ to ‘blowed’ – just in case there was something in the idea of an all-seeing, all-powerful God. Though, as he turned his gaze once again to the gross depiction up on the Hill and the charming figure crouching in thinker’s pose beside it, he wondered if the vicar’s God was the right one to be working for.
The bastion of the Fitzhartletts was atop the battlements – well, the walkway around the roof of the Old Manor – with his gun. On the whole, on the domestic front, it was felt that he was at his safest when he was very high up and only allowed to shoot at things that were also very high up. Sir Roger concurred. Though he did find, as age settled upon him, that his guns all felt a tad heavier than he would like.
He peered at the speck on Pound Hill. It had been moving around earlier but now seemed to be sitting (or standing, hard to tell) very still indeed. It was absolutely forbidden, of course, but could he get it from here? He leaned forward. It might be a deer. Or it might be a fox. A bit of venison would be very pleasant, especially if it were venison he himself had shot and the accolades could go on all through the dinner if they had guests. Dulcima seemed less and less amused by his skills in that department; indeed, Dulcima seemed less and less amused by any of his skills in any department nowadays. Well, for some years, actually. But if it were a fox, then he would be in good odour with everyone. Except the fox, of course.
He puffed his chest for a moment, and raised his gun to have a sight – but just as quickly lowered it again – although, strictly speaking, and he could argue it, he could take a shot because the fox – or deer – was on a level with him so it was fair game. But reality surfaced and he remembered the archaeologist girl. He had been told, very slowly and very loudly, by Dulcima and Marion this very morning, that she would be on the Hill, and moving around, and he was not to fire at her under any circumstances.
As he brought his regretful gaze down from the unmoving figure he saw his wife’s back view half hidden by the two mimosas they had planted on their return from honeymoon. Dulcie’s choice – against the gardener’s advice. But they had flourished, and though they were said to be short lived – ten or twenty years maybe – here they were, all this time later, healthy and alive as anything. Clever girl, Dulcie. Never seemed to get to the other side of her. He turned and started back down the winding little staircase that led to the third-floor attics. When he reached the bottom of the steps he sat down on a broken boot box, rested his gun against his leg and began rubbing the ear of the nearest dog. It really was ruddy heavy, ruddy heavy that gun. He’d talked to that chap in the shop about a new one but nothing had come of it. Something lighter altogether. An older model. He closed his eyes to picture the kind of gun he meant.
Orridge found him there two and a half hours later having searched all over for him to ascertain if he required his luncheon cheese sandwich toasted or not. Before waking him, Orridge put his thumb to his nose and waggled it. Which made him feel a whole lot better. He’d suggest a good claret tonight because that’s what Orridge wanted, having got Mrs Webb to make him a nice shepherd’s pie.
Dulcima was standing by the overgrown tennis court, the only place in the garden which showed the Hill and the figure perfectly. What a shame, she was thinking, that the village’s volunteering had ended so soon. How very much she had enjoyed working on the ground up there, in a team. Harty wouldn’t come, of course, nor would Marion. And she’d managed not to drink anything that morning but her breakfast orange juice. Why, when the whistle blew for elevenses, that was what they had, elevenses, out of vacuum flasks, coffee and tea and biscuits – and the like. She’d had her little safety bottle in her pocket but hadn’t touched it. Which proved, yet again, the thought she shied away from: that she was not, really, a serious drunk. Can’t even succeed at that, she thought, not even that.
Dulcima shook the thought away and looked at her watch. The girl on the Hill had not moved for over half an hour. Now that was dedication. That was serious commitment. Dulcima decided to wait to have her pre-prandial snifter until Molly Bonner stood up. Even more progress, she thought, even more progress.
Dorcas looked up to the Hill, too. But she smiled to herself, with no regrets, no fancies, no thoughts beyond the little bit of a secret that she was privy to. The clearance would certainly be more than that. An actual dig somewhere up there. It would be exciting to see what it produced – if anything. And even though she knew that Molly could not see her, she waved from Miles’s window,
a wave of good luck. The archaeologist’s granddaughter did not seem to consider luck to be a part of anything. Just plain good sense and science, with a little fairy dust mixed in, was what she suggested would make it all work out in the end. Good sense, a good eye, science – and a touch of magic. Not a bad philosophy for any undertaking. If she could only get out to Robin’s last known camp, Dorcas thought, she might be able to use it as a blueprint herself. Her determination, which had faded a little over time, was greatly restored at the thought.
Just before she turned back to resume her work with Miles, Dorcas noticed Montmorency with a slinky look about him making his way, with resolute tread, towards the side entrance of the Old Holly Bush. Was it her imagination, or did his gonads look a tad larger than usual? Better not go there, she told herself. A single woman could only stand so much visual masculinity – the Gnome was quite enough without admiring the size of Montmorency’s balls as well.
Two
IT WAS IN his first notebook that grandfather Bonner wrote about the outline of the Gnome and suggested that its edges should be checked. He had not been able to find any contemporary, near-contemporary or convincing records of the original shape – but he thought that they must exist somewhere, perhaps once kept in a monastery or in an old attic or library, as his notebook entry went on somewhat mournfully to say:
Detailed examination shows that it is highly likely the figure was not originally this size or shape but I have no proof of the original outline or anything approaching it, alas. Despite searches in the local museum collection and in the archive of the Society and in local sources such as religious houses and old libraries, nothing has come to light. I cannot see the point of this figure in terms of status or power or even as amusement. It is highly localised and I cannot see any religious or ritual significance from the late Neolithic nor the Bronze period that might be appropriate for such a small area of notice. If anything, the figure is naught but a foolish, laughable even, travesty of the well regarded priapic figures that were worshipped on a smaller scale by our indigenous peoples, and on a large scale by our Roman invaders, and taken very seriously. Phallicism was a very important cult of regeneration for most cultures – particularly the Romans, but I have no proof that this figure was cut so long ago, alas. I have an idea that it was – but this is not enough. I hope work on the site will put this question to rest. Of course the prevalence of phallic worship in Italy spread to all parts of the Empire but it was certainly also here before the Roman invasion. I doubt there was a religion in the world that did not want to worship what it saw as the bringer of crops and progeny. Therefore, generally, the totems were given a dignity that this figure lacks. Post-Christian, I very much doubt.
I would, if pressed, say that the figure came to be cut in Roman times, but I have no convincing proof except my instinct and my eye. It could certainly be possible that the figure is more ancient than we suspect, Druidical perhaps, and that its shape was much altered over the centuries but the initial investigation makes this hard to ascertain. This is because the outline shape of the figure has been worked and worked anew over many years by those who sought to exploit its visitor value. I must make assumptions for now about why it was cut in this unlikely position. All I would say is that it may be the case that they chose Pound Hill because of its remarkable shape and steepness, the surrounding hills being smoother and rounder. But it is not of a scale to be seen from much distance, which is most strange. It has certainly not been well-grazed land.
There followed a series of measurements drawn on his own sketched diagram of how the Gnome looked – his measurements being imperial (how apt, thought Molly, given that this was at the height of imperial Britain). She transcribed them on to her own sketch, which she had based on the drawing from Peter Hanker. It was a little changed. Enough for Molly to know that in less than one century the demarcations of the figure could alter even without anyone setting out to do this. Which meant that her grandfather’s theory was probably right. If the Gnome was as ancient as he thought, or even halfway as ancient, it was likely to have been very different when first cut. It confirmed what Molly concluded from her observations.
Such an effort for a very small impact is unusual, and unknown to me. Just possibly this is a site of significance, which might make sense of it, but I have no way of establishing what that significance might be. When we have excavated further, particularly around the edges, I hope to be more positive in my suggestions. I also feel that the shocking nature of the phallus, and the rather odd way it sits with the figure, is something to consider. But I will be methodical. Once it is cleared we will begin our search at the feet and continue upwards. I shall bose. Taking two sidesteps on the way – the one to explore the phallus and its peculiar twist – the other to explore his out-thrust arm – which also looks odd to me.
Grandfather Bonner was a man of his time and although there were laboratory techniques, analysis of soil samples, geophysics and all the other brilliantly helpful stuff of modern science available to her, Molly hoped to complete her task and find out what her grandfather came so near to discovering without using anything more modern than he would have used. He had reached a point where he felt he knew some of the answers, so she would be a poor follower if she could not do the same. The new excitement was Peter’s drawing and although that was not known about in 1914 Molly decided it was quite justifiable to use it. After all, it was around when Grandfather’s dig took place; he just didn’t have sight of it.
‘Soil samples and the scientific laboratory are wonderful things,’ said Molly to the fluffy, pale grey clouds above her. ‘As are the geological survey boys but it’s time for me to find the courage to begin without them.’ And courage it certainly would need, as it always does at the very beginning of a dig, for in the end – never mind all the facts and research and results – someone, some one person, has to make the final decision alone. Where to begin? She always felt rather like a surgeon about to make the first cut. It could all go horribly wrong. Freddy was wonderful at being positive at such times, but no – she was on her own so far as decisions were concerned, just like her grandfather. She and she alone must decide the position of the first trench.
Something about her grandfather’s later writing, once he had begun the work, nudged away at her even as she felt delight in discovering the alterations to the shape of the Gnome. He wrote of finding something beyond that, something that touched him emotionally – and, of course, he thought he would come back. Like so many in his field who find a possibility, he did not want to share it with the world until he was sure; he would be no different from the rest of his profession in wanting a touch of glory. What – if anything – was the subtext of his findings? Why was he able to ‘dispense with Marvell’? What did that mean? And what about the shale bead? There was a frustrating feeling that it was all there, right in front of her, clues and help – and she was missing it. In which case she must just try harder.
The Gnome’s left arm was held out from his body, as her grandfather wrote, and did look odd (though little of the Gnome looked normal) and it was altogether likely, since they agreed on this feature (albeit with nearly a century between them) that it had been covered with something once; something that hung over the extended forearm perhaps, or down from the hand? And the Gnome’s hat, which did – just as her grandfather described – look ridiculous, had once been a very different shape: much more ornate. Military, perhaps. Not a cap like now. That must be quite a recent change. A helmet? Hard to tell. She must go carefully and make no assumptions.
What was odd was how hard it was to confront the phallus itself. Indeed, as she told Dorcas, whatever its reason for being there, it was still able to shock even an experienced field archaeologist like her. But then, she counselled herself, if the phallus were placed there not to enhance, but to alarm or disturb, it was merely fulfilling its duty. You could be as modern as you liked, you could think you’d seen it all, but the Gnome was still disturbing. Since no one could
read her thoughts, she allowed herself to think that it was – even to her – rather frightening. Molly was no shy little virgin but still it had an effect on her. And this effect was made worse by the peculiarity of its shape.
Whilst perhaps not being a world expert on the human male’s anatomy, Molly had seen a great many historical phalluses – from all ages and of all materials and of many and varied sizes with all kinds of meanings. But this one was just wrong. Something about its proportions and the lie of it was unusual. Phallic worship might represent the member as gross and disproportionate – but not slightly silly. Mixed messages were not to the purpose, surely. And never in her experience, which was, of course, not as wide as her grandfather’s, had she seen one quite so alarming and quite so absurd at the same time. The images were to be worshipped, revered, feared – not mocked. In this case, the end of the phallus – the tip – was placed at a strange angle, as if it had been strained by the creators to get to where it ended. It reminded her of the mosaic floors in outposts of the Roman Empire like Britain, where local and inexperienced mosaic layers were asked to recreate a floor from a pattern book. Invariably they began all right and as they got towards the end of, say, a line of animal medallions they would find the space was wrong and either cramp the last bit, or extend it, to fit. But with a figure this imposing could such a mistake be possible? It hardly seemed likely.
Molly put her head on one side and viewed it critically again. It was a physical conundrum. After all, the figure was not here for the people who saw it to admire its ears. The standard form of all these phallic figures, from the earliest times, through Hebrew phallicism certainly to the Romans – and even beyond in some parts of Europe – was that the massive phallus was supported by the free, right hand and thrust upwards at an eye-watering ninety degrees. This one was made with what she could only think of as a wonky bit on its tip. More interestingly, it seemed as if that particular part of the phallus was scarcely changed from its original size and shape while the rest had been lopped off and added to fairly randomly. Maybe it was simply its connotations that had allowed it to be left alone.
