The Lovers of Pound Hill

by Mavis Cheek

  ‘Now the problem to consider is: why here? Why not on one of those other hills over there where it would be seen by far more settlements? It has to be because the Hill was sacred. And that the figure was designed to oppress and suppress through desecration. We might find it amusing now but then – you’d have to imagine England being invaded today and the first thing the invaders did was to plant a figure like this over Princess Diana’s grave – or Winston Churchill’s. This Roman figure was cut over the most sacred of graves, deliberately, so that it would lower the morale of the rebellious population. It’s a foolish tyrant who forgets the power of satire and laughter to undermine belief, and the Romans were good at that. But it is also a foolish tyrant who underestimates the native response.’

  A ripple of pride went through the group. Just for a moment they saw themselves as the descendants of warriors – which, of course, they were.

  Molly continued. ‘There is enough archaeology here to show that what we now see as the Gnome’s hat could easily have been a pair of horns – which would fit the theory. And his outstretched arm that seems to be nothing but gestural once held something that – if I’m right – was a flagellator. Faunus liked nothing better than to see naked women whipped by his followers in the – so they say – belief that the more you whip a woman, the more babies she will have. Hence the rather muddled thinking about fertility, perhaps.’ Pinky felt profoundly relieved that he and Susie had not previously known that. ‘No wonder,’ he said, ‘that he turned into something else over the years. You wouldn’t want to live with that on your doorstep.’

  They all agreed that this was so. In a strange way each of them began to look more kindly on the Gnome. When you think of what he might have been …

  Miles blenched. And then righted himself. The prospect of knowing the true meaning behind the view from his windows was dreadful, to say the least. On the other hand – he perked up again – if it were such a dirty business – well – nothing sold like sex – so if it brought in the ticket money … At the bottom of the Hill, Marion was looking up in silent tableau. Despite the perfect weather and the curiosity she felt, she could not, could not go up the Hill and join them. Nigel, who was glad she had not been close enough to hear Molly’s explanation, thought he would go back down and join her. Dulcima stepped forward and placed a kind but firm hand on his arm. ‘Leave her,’ she said. ‘Let her make up her own mind.’ And she gave him the kind of look that he, personally, thought would have quelled a Roman invader any day of the week. He stayed put.

  ‘These were lovers,’ said Molly, pointing at the grave. ‘This is not the pose of good friends or a brother and sister. And I think their importance was that. Love. It is what makes them so special, so unique. For the first time in history as ancient as this we can see how our ancestors actually felt. Up until now we have known how they lived, what they wore, how they worshipped, what they made, ate, drank – but we have never known how they felt. This is proof that they loved, too, just as much as us if not more than us. We assume our civilisation nowadays is on a higher plane, and clearly –’ she looked down at the embracing skeletons – ‘clearly we are not. In fact, we are often quite the opposite. Even here in this village you have to look very hard to find an embrace as loving as this.’

  The people of Lufferton Boney suddenly found themselves considering this, considering the truth of it, considering the very bones of their lives and feelings. It made them all feel quite uncomfortable. All except Miles who was too busy doing calculations in his head.

  Winifred, who was now filming the proceedings, panned her camera from face to face and there was not a smile among them. Winifred, had she been asked, would admit that she wasn’t feeling too proud of herself, either. In fact, nobody was.

  ‘Would you,’ she said to Molly, ‘say clearly why this particular hill was chosen. Look to camera, please.’

  ‘Pound Hill is quite free of anything – except these lovers. Everywhere else is full of graves. Therefore Pound Hill is likely to be the most sacred place of all hereabouts. There are no lynchets, no signs of grazing, no disturbance of any kind. Perfect if you want to invade the locals’ psyche with a desecrating figure like this.’

  ‘Date?’ asked Dulcima softly.

  ‘Well – probably around the time that the Romans arrived. I can’t be more exact. This area was one of the most rebellious in Britain. It took a lot of quelling. The Romans, never ones to hold back, were ruthless. So they would need to find a way to crush the local tribes.’

  ‘But I thought,’ said Peter, ‘that the Romans were good at letting people carry on with their traditions and sort of worked alongside them instead of doing it all with a mailed fist.’

  ‘Up to a point,’ said Molly. ‘But Pomponius tells us that people didn’t just roll over when the legions marched in – they fought back. Particularly the Druids who were the recognised rulers of Britain: they made the laws and they were said to know everything including the shape and size of the world, the movement of the stars and the will of the gods. The Romans were accommodating once they’d conquered them but they would not tolerate any supreme rivals in the form of deities or knowledge. Some of those British tribes certainly took some taming.’

  ‘Good show!’ called Sir Roger.

  ‘It was nearly two thousand years ago, Roger,’ said Dulcima, but kindly.

  ‘We still have our pride,’ said her husband.

  Molly laughed. ‘And you can take even further pride, Sir Roger, for I’m fairly sure that the strangeness of the shape of the end of the phallus, that rather odd angle it sits at, is because the Romans themselves did not cut the figure. I think they made the local tribes cut it. An even more shaming loss of honour. They were to put the great end of the shaft right over their sacred lovers. So – what did they do? They could not refuse because that would almost certainly mean death. Instead, being intelligent and also understanding the art of subversion, they made it so that it did not quite fit, not sit right – they rebelled in the only way possible short of committing suicide, they created a phallus that was a double cross, less powerful than peculiar in its droop. You do not necessarily need slingshot and arrows to win a victory. I’d like to think that when it was completed it made those locals smile.’ This time a smattering of clapping broke out.

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouted Sir Roger who was overcome with joy and pride. And, since Dulcima had removed her restraining hand, he held his new gun aloft as if to prove it.

  Now that the sun was higher in the sky the outlines of the barrows and cysts and circles were even more apparent in the surrounding landscape.

  Miles was still trying to work out whether a shrine was a good thing or a bad thing. He decided that very probably it was a bad thing. Sex (he did not like to dwell on the word) sold things. Not shrines. Much better if they could weave a story around the skeletons. The lovers might be the uncouth Romeo and Juliet of the Iron Age, perhaps. That could be marketed very usefully. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘This is no shrine. These are two young people who were probably put to death by their own people – maybe they were from different tribes – maybe they crossed the line, did what they shouldn’t do. Much more likely. After all, the doctor here thinks they were very young. Underage.’

  ‘There’s not a mark on them,’ said Donald crisply.

  ‘Oh shut up,’ said Miles peevishly.

  Winifred, standing close to him said, ‘Shut up yourself, Miles. This couple were probably considered quite mature if you popped off in old age at about thirty-five. Much more likely that they represent the deepest sentiments of humankind.’

  ‘In the Iron Age?’ said Miles incredulously. ‘They just painted themselves blue, couldn’t write and lived like animals. Primitives of no consequence.’

  Winifred, who had, like Molly, grown fond of the couple in the grave, handed the camera to Dorcas, took a step forward and gave Miles a look. Donald, who had been thinking that his wife looked rather nice in that skirt and those shoes, and very professional i
n the way she dealt with the camera, winced as she bent down and picked up a large bowl containing slightly muddy water. Oh, not again. He knew what was coming. And he was right, for Winifred then proceeded to tip the contents of the bowl over Miles, with a joyous smile. ‘Fool,’ she said, with satisfaction. Miles, with water streaming down his face, gasped for air and looked like an astonished fish. For once, Donald took her point. Indeed, Donald Porlock thought that had he another bowl containing a similar fluid, he would follow his wife’s suit and do exactly the same. ‘Oh Winifred,’ he said. To which she, slightly surprised, replied, ‘Oh Donald.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the vicar, looking down at the puddle on the ground and the dripping, gaping, furious Miles. ‘That was the holy water.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Susie. ‘We can bless them with a shower of these lovely flowers.’

  The vicar gingerly picked one out of the basket.

  ‘It’s Chase-Devil, vicar. Just what we need. The perfect name for a flower that is known to keep darkness away. You can bless these if you like.’ The vicar looked helplessly in the direction of his patrons but, like the rest of the group, his patrons were staring at Miles Whittington with astonishment.

  Miles, wiping the streaming moisture from his eyes, turned to Molly and said, ‘There is no proof of anything that you say and it doesn’t exactly hit the mark in terms of impact. Just a pair of lovers in a grave is hardly going to get them queuing round the village. You promised …’ And then he stopped. He had a vague feeling that he had said too much as, through the bleariness of his wet lashes, he saw Molly come towards him with her hands on her hips. She did not look sympathetic.

  ‘Oh good,’ whispered Dulcima. ‘She’s going to hit him.’

  But Molly did not hit Miles. Instead she stood in front of him, hands clasped fast to her hips, chin jutting, and said, ‘And if that is what you really think, Mr Whittington, may I suggest you just turn again and go home?’ There was a loud cheer from the assembly. ‘Because they did not just paint themselves with blue and go about like animals. They had a sense of community, a sense of loyalty and protection of each other, a sense of love that we could do with a bit more of nowadays … And they were not Tinseltown celebrities for you to exploit. They were lovers. And these are the lasting bones of lovers. Which is almost certainly why the village is called Lufferton Boney.’

  Miles took a step back. He went very red in the face, opened his mouth, and then closed it again to stop the filthy water dripping in. He reminded himself that whatever the girl said, he was the owner of the Hill, he was the person who would control and market and do all the things necessary to make the Hill and its contents – even if it was a mere pile of bones (oh why couldn’t they be wearing gold torques?) – somewhere for people to come and pay their dues to see the sight. Therefore he would bide his time and remain silent. Miles had the upper hand and he knew it. Very well, he would wait.

  The vicar said, rather tentatively, ‘Well, they were heathens. Without a religious path in their lives. They took quite a lot of persuading to come into the Christian fold.’ He pursed his little mouth and resembled one who had sucked on a lemon. Disapproval radiated from every pore. He smoothed his green garment and lifted his arms again. Had he but known it he was doing a very good impersonation of how a Druid greeted the sun. But now it was his turn to get the full Molly stare. Now it was his turn to wonder if he was going to be hit. Molly advanced towards him and pointed to the landscape, letting her outstretched hand move slowly in a circle as if to encompass all they could see.

  ‘I should have known,’ she said, ‘With a name like Lufferton Boney and with a public house called the Old Holly Bush – such an ancient fertility symbol – I can’t think how I missed the clues. St Etheldreda’s, of course, is part of the whole. It was built on a previous church so before that it was probably something else. Even something pre-Roman.’

  The vicar looked rather shocked. He hoped very much that there was nothing in the building and naming of his church that was connected with such wickedness. Peter Hanker, on the other hand, looked rather pleased at the idea of his being in charge of something connected with ancient rites, sexual or not. Though he drew the line at whips. He looked at Julie and winked. And Julie thought, maybe second best can become first when you take everything into account. He’d been kind to her. No one else had shown such kindness. The Old Holly Bush was doing well since the Molly person had come to the village, it had begun to feel like home – and – come to think of it – now that St Etheldreda’s was mentioned, she thought that Peter, with the sun on his head and the glow of his fair skin in the sharp light, looked a bit like the stained-glass image of the desirable Egfrith so often admired in the church. She was also, though she would not wish to say it, moved at the sight of those lovers’ bones locked in their eternal embrace. Love for all time. It counted for a lot.

  Molly continued. ‘What you are looking at, as far as the eye can see, vicar, is the route these so-called heathens with no path of spirituality made from one place to another and which they used over thousands and thousands of years. And along the way of it they buried their dead in careful and caring ritual manners, according to the dictates of the time – cremations, inhumations, crouching, in urns, with beakers, without beakers – grave goods and no grave goods – sometimes the whole skeleton, sometimes a part of it. These careful burials are placed all along this sacred route of theirs for hundreds of miles. As you can see if you look out from here, it was as crowded as your own graveyard at St Etheldreda’s. In fact, it looks very much to me as if the church is right on their route. Very probably it was a place of ancient sanctity long before Jesus was a twinkle in his Father’s eye. Oh yes, they had a religion – and we can call it that for it was a belief in something other than the living human world – like you, they believed in a life beyond – for thousands of years. How long has Christianity existed, vicar?’

  Molly might not have had a broad liberal education that encompassed Andrew Marvell but she’d learned enough from history to be quite daunting when she set her mind to it. The vicar, answering like a caught-out schoolboy, said ‘Two thousand, er-um.’

  ‘A mere baby, then,’ she said, keeping the glint in her eye, the flint in her tone. ‘And another thing –’ Molly advanced again. The vicar retreated until he felt – what?– something poking him in the middle of his spine. For one frightening moment he thought it was a gun held to his back and he put up his hands – but it was only one of the handles of the trailer. Though it should be said that the mistake made by the retreating vicar was a considered reality for a moment as it crossed Sir Roger’s mind.

  Molly continued to advance. ‘But vicar,’ she asked, ‘why are you done up in all that church mummery?’

  ‘Well, er – this is the correct colour and these are the correct garments for Church Ordinary. Green.’ He gave a little twirl, without meaning to, which added to Molly’s wrath.

  ‘And do you think the white alb and the green sash’ (green brocade with a hand-worked Celtic cross £95) ‘with its golden embroidery is any less bizarre than a blue face? They are, after all, ritual garments in ritual colours, yes?’

  The vicar nodded. ‘Point taken.’ And then said nervously, ‘Do you still want me to bless the – er – unfortunate couple?’ He gave Miles’s dripping form a regretful glance. And looked appealingly at Sir Roger and Lady Fitzhartlett. Lady Fitzhartlett said, ‘We do, vicar. We think it would be nice. A little extra duty for you to perform. Do it well and who knows what might not happen with your pulpit.’

  The vicar beamed. He would give those bones a mighty good send-off. Perhaps one of the best he had ever given, and he had buried a few over the years. Susie nodded and came forward. ‘And then I will give a little Druidical blessing as well. Just to be sure.’

  ‘Well, that will all be very nice,’ said Dulcima, casting a covert look at the vicar who did not, if his expression was anything to go by, agree with the sentiment. ‘Then we must hurry off home for
we have a little party waiting for us.’ She did not catch the hopeful eye of Nigel.

  Dryden was looking thoughtful. ‘But would they – I mean the Romans – think of it as obscene?’ he asked. ‘I mean, they were a bit more up front about what they wanted their gods to do in those days, weren’t they? It may be that they thought they were being helpful by adding someone with – that …’ Words failed him. But a voice from the group said ‘Big knob?’ At which Dryden went quiet, the crowd turned to see who had made the disgraceful – if slightly funny – comment – and saw that Peter Hanker and Julie Barnsley were doubled up on the grass, clutching each other and laughing uncontrollably. In the manner of their clutching one another they did not look a million miles away from the lovers’ bones. ‘Oh go on,’ said a voice. ‘For goodness, sake kiss her.’ The voice proved to be that of Dorcas Fairbrother. Who was usually so – well – the Lufferton Boneyites might call it buttoned-up. Not that there wasn’t a very good reason for it. To lose the love of your life and only have a boot and a hat to remember him by – that must be hard.

  Peter did then kiss Julie, and Julie – without even thinking – kissed him back. Bang goes my being a lady, she thought, but who wants to be one of them—? On the whole, she also thought, I am truly Irish – and I wish to have some fun.

  Pinky and Susie applauded them, remembering how it used to be for them on this very grass. And when Peter and Julie scrambled back to their feet, Julie suddenly gave Molly such a smile, a heavenly smile, a smile of total friendship and kindness, that for a moment Molly was without speech. How strange – only yesterday she had refused her breakfast porridge on the grounds that it had a strange smell to it and Julie was so insistent that she should eat it all up like a good girl that Molly had the distinct feeling there was something of the Borgia in her enthusiasm. Now she realised this was very wrong of her. Perhaps some of the discord in the village had begun to work on her? Well, that must stop. How wrong she had been. Julie was perfectly all right.