Dying Fall, A (5 page)

Shona still doesn’t look like a mother. She is too slim for one thing, having miraculously regained her prepregnancy figure. ‘It’s the breast-feeding,’ she says smugly, floating away to put the kettle on. She is also too well dressed. Ruth spent her entire maternity leave in tracksuit bottoms; Shona is wearing a short flowery dress, and high-heeled sandals tied with ribbon. She has even done her hair, though, as usual, it looks artfully dishevelled. It is only when Ruth sees her close up that she notices the shadows under the mascara’d eyes.

‘How are you?’ asks Ruth, when Shona reappears with tea, and juice for Kate.

‘OK. Knackered.’

‘They are tiring, the first months,’ says Ruth. ‘I remember it well.’

Louis starts to bang his rattle on the table in front of him.

‘Noisy baby,’ says Kate, primly sipping her juice.

‘When are you going back to work?’ asks Ruth. Shona teaches English at the university, which is how they first met.

Shona pulls a face as she reaches down to pick up Louis’ dropped rattle.

‘I’m not sure I want to go back.’

Ruth stares at her friend. She remembers the emotional intensity of those months alone with your baby. She remembers the feeling that work was another world, one that you are no longer equipped to enter. But not to go back at all?

‘I remember feeling like that,’ she says. ‘But, when I went back, it felt great. I felt like I was a person again.’ She had almost cried with happiness when she saw her office again, but she’s not going to tell Shona that.

‘I don’t know,’ says Shona. ‘I just love being with Louis. I’m so enjoying him.’

Maybe it’s different if you have another adult at home, thinks Ruth. Mind you, that other adult is Phil.

‘What does Phil think?’ she says.

‘Oh,’ says Shona dismissively. ‘He thinks I should go back. He says we need the money. He says we should get a childminder. He’s always going on about how well you cope.’

‘He is?’

Part of Ruth is gratified to hear this. She has tried hard not to let her motherhood intrude on her work or to burden her colleagues with excuses about illness or child-minding problems. But on the other hand—
cope
? How many men are complimented on how well they ‘cope’ with fatherhood?

‘Well, you’ve got a while to decide,’ says Ruth. ‘You can take a year now if you want.’

‘But you only get paid maternity leave for six months,’ says Shona. ‘Honestly, I never knew Phil was such an old woman about money.’

But Shona didn’t know Phil that well at all, thinks Ruth, until she moved in with him. They had been lovers for some time but, as we all know, lovers are more attractive than husbands or boyfriends. Phil probably made efforts to disguise his chronic stinginess (a standing joke in the department) when he was only seeing Shona twice a week, stolen hours in a country pub or in the office after dark. Even so, Ruth bets that he kept the receipts.

‘Louis is gorgeous, though,’ says Ruth, retreating to a safer topic. ‘I can see why you don’t want to leave him.’ Shona puts her son on a rug on the floor, propped up by cushions. Kate sits next to him and solemnly shows him how to work his shape sorter. Louis doesn’t seem that interested in shape-sorting himself. He just sits and smiles goofily at Kate.

‘Isn’t it sweet?’ says Shona. ‘Maybe they’ll get married.’

‘Maybe,’ says Ruth drily. ‘Maybe they’ll achieve something neither of their mothers managed.’

Shona looks sideways at Ruth. She knows about Nelson but is usually very good about ignoring Kate’s parentage. Like most of Ruth’s friends, she acts as if Kate sprang fully formed from the maternal egg.

‘How’s Max?’ she asks.

‘OK,’ says Ruth. ‘He’s down next weekend.’

‘We should get babysitters and go out, the four of us,’ says Shona.

‘We should,’ says Ruth. She has no desire to see more of Phil than she has to but maybe it would be good for them to socialise with another couple. It might make her relationship with Max seem more like a relationship.

‘We might be going on holiday,’ says Ruth.

‘You and Max?’

‘No.’ Ruth realises that this isn’t what she meant. ‘Me and Kate.’

‘Oh.’ The sideways glance again. ‘Where?’

‘Blackpool. Well, Lytham.’

She tells Shona about Dan and about the invitation from Pendle University. She doesn’t tell her about the text message or about the possibility that the fire might not have been an accident. Shona listens, entranced. She always loves a story. Her subject is English literature, after all.

‘Oh you must go,’ she says. ‘Kate would love Blackpool. She could ride on the donkeys, go on the rides at the Pleasure Beach.’

‘Most of the Pleasure Beach rides look terrifying.’ Ruth had looked on the website last night.

‘Well, there must be a carousel or something,’ says Shona. ‘You ought to go. Dan might have discovered something big after all. It would be good for your career.’

Her career. In recent years Ruth has wondered whether her career hasn’t, in fact, become a job. She still loves archaeology but she has never written a book or made her name in any way. She did discover the Iron Age girl and has certainly helped the police a few times, but students in years to come are hardly going to talk about the Ruth Galloway Theory or the Ruth Galloway Method. She is a jobbing forensic archaeologist, that’s all.

‘I might go,’ says Ruth. ‘Funny, I’ve travelled all over Europe but I’ve hardly ever been further north than the Midlands.’

‘Oh, it’s all different up north,’ says Shona. ‘I’ve got an aunt in Hartlepool, so I know.’

Nelson, too, is on mother and baby duty. He had been surprised when Leah informed him that Judy was already back at home. ‘They only keep them in one night these days.’ Then, as he and Clough had driven back from investigating a reported shooting near Castle Rising (turned out to be an airgun being fired at pigeons), Clough remarked casually, ‘Judy lives near here, boss. Shall we pop in?’ So they had stopped at a petrol station and bought flowers and chocolates and were now, rather selfconsciously, examining the tiny object wrapped tightly in a yellow blanket.

‘Can I hold him?’ asks Clough. Nelson looks at him curiously. He’d heard rumours that Clough and Trace had been talking about starting a family, but now the relationship is over and Clough has custody of the couple’s dog, a rather demented labradoodle. Certainly Clough seems better with babies than is usual for an unmarried (straight) man.

‘Say hello to your Uncle Dave,’ says Clough, but the baby’s eyes remain resolutely shut. He is very dark with soft down over his forehead.

‘How are you?’ Nelson asks Judy. She looks exhausted, he thinks, her hair dark with grease and her eyes bloodshot. Darren, on the other hand, who is now preparing tea in the kitchen, seems manic with happiness.

‘Bit tired,’ says Judy. ‘It’s hard work, having a baby.’

‘So Michelle tells me.’

‘He’s beautiful,’ says Clough. ‘Have you got a name yet? What about David after his favourite uncle?’

‘Michael,’ says Darren, coming in with the tray. ‘We’ve decided on Michael.’

‘Why Michael?’ asks Clough. ‘After Michael Owen?’

‘No. I’m a Chelsea supporter. My granddad was called Michael and we just liked the name, didn’t we, love?’ Judy nods. To Nelson’s expert eye (he has three daughters, after all), she looks close to tears. He wishes they hadn’t come. It’s far too soon for visitors. Clough, slurping tea and scoffing cake, is oblivious to everything. Darren has now taken charge of the baby and is looking with wonder at the wizened little face.

‘He’s very dark,’ observes Clough. ‘You must be glad he isn’t ginger like you.’

Nelson raises his eyes heavenward. Just when Clough is almost behaving like a civilised human being, he comes out with something like that. But Darren, who is undoubtedly red-haired, just laughs. Today, nothing can offend him.

‘Oh, he’s got Judy’s looks. And Judy’s brains too, I hope.’

‘He’s a grand little chap,’ says Nelson.

‘Do you want a hold?’ asks Darren.

‘You’re all right,’ Nelson begins, but the proud father has placed his son in Nelson’s arms. On cue, Michael’s eyelids flutter and he looks at Nelson out of big, dark eyes that are somehow oddly familiar.

As Ruth and Kate approach their house, they see a dilapidated car parked in front of it.

‘Cathbad!’ shouts Kate in delight.

She can hardly wait until Ruth has undone her car seat before she throws herself in her godfather’s arms. Ruth’s eyes prickle, and not just from the salt wind blowing in from the sea. She is glad that Kate has Cathbad in her life, a solid male figure (albeit one in a purple cloak) who will continue to be there for her whatever happens to Ruth and Max—or Ruth and Nelson.

‘Hi, Ruth.’ Cathbad comes towards her carrying Kate. ‘I’ve brought that book I was telling you about.’

Yesterday, Ruth had mentioned Dan’s letter and the reference to the Raven King. Cathbad had thought that he had a book about the mythology of birds and, sure enough, here he is, holding it out as if it is his alibi. But Cathbad doesn’t need a reason to visit. He knows that he is always welcome.

It is such a lovely evening that they walk down to the beach, swinging Kate over the little streams and ditches. The tide is coming in but there is still a stretch of sand, wide and clear. Ruth takes off Kate’s shoes and the little girl runs delightedly towards the sea, stopping occasionally to look at starfish and clam shells.

‘A water baby,’ says Cathbad. ‘Typical Scorpio.’

Nelson is also Scorpio, thinks Ruth. She’s never thought to ask if he likes water. He is certainly no fan of the Saltmarsh.

Ruth and Cathbad also take off their shoes and walk in the shallows. The water feels heavenly against Ruth’s tired feet.

‘Have you seen Judy?’ asks Cathbad.

‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘I sent a card but I thought they . . . she . . . might like some time alone.’

‘You’re probably right,’ says Cathbad. He looks out to sea for a moment, his cloak blowing back in the wind. Ruth is reminded of the first time she saw him, standing on the beach trying to defend the henge, looking as if he could stop the tide itself. Then he turns and he is Cathbad again, a middle-aged man in a cloak, looking slightly sad. ‘When you see Judy,’ he says, ‘will you give her my love?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘I cast the baby’s horoscope, you know, and he’s going to have a full and happy life.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yes. Yes it is.’

Cathbad looks as if he is about to say more but Kate runs up to them, her little feet soundless on the sand. Cathbad lifts her high above the waves, sadness vanishing momentarily.

‘This is a magical place,’ he says.

‘I know,’ says Ruth. Then, thinking of her prospective holiday, she asks, ‘Is the sand at Blackpool like this?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’ve never been there.’

Ruth explains about the invitation from Clayton Henry.

‘My friend Pendragon lives in Lancashire,’ says Cathbad. ‘In the Forest of Pendle. It’s an interesting place, by all accounts.’

In bed that night, Ruth opens Cathbad’s book and turns to the chapter on ravens. There is a rather horrible illustration of a black bird perching on a skull. She hopes it won’t give her nightmares. As a precaution, she puts on her headphones and tunes in to Bruce Springsteen. The Boss will protect her.

Because of its black plumage, croaking call and diet of carrion, she reads, the raven has long been considered a bird of ill omen. Great, thinks Ruth, I don’t think I’ll buy one as a pet. But, she reads on, the raven is a significant and benevolent figure in many cultures. For some indigenous American tribes Raven is a deity and is known as He Whose Voice Must be Obeyed. In many legends, Raven is a creator figure, sometimes the creator of the world. In Norse mythology (Ruth turns up the sound on her iPod so as not to hear Erik’s voice), the ravens Huginn and Muninn sit on Odin’s shoulders and bring him all the world’s news. The Old English word for raven was
hraefn,
which also means a premonition of bloodshed. ‘The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements,’ says Lady Macbeth. And, of course, that visit went spectacularly well.

But the raven is also a trickster god. In the culture of the Pacific Tlingit people, there is a Creator Raven, known as the Owner of Daylight, but there is also a childish Raven, forever performing nasty tricks such as stealing the sun.

According to Livy, the Roman general Marcus Valerius Corvus had a raven settle on his helmet during combat with a gigantic Gaul. The raven flew into his enemy’s face and allowed Marcus to win the fight. Henceforward, the general always had a raven on his flag. The Vikings too often went into battle under the device of the raven. Ragnar Lodbrok had a raven banner called
Reafan.
It was said that if the banner fluttered, Lodbrok would carry the day. King Harald Hardrada had a raven banner known as
Landeythan,
the land-waster.

The Norse names are making Ruth’s eyelids droop. She scans the next few pages quickly—Tower of London, Edgar Allen Poe,
corvus corax
. . . Then her eyes light on two familiar words.

‘It is sometimes thought (she reads) that King Arthur’s spirit left his body in the form of a raven. For this reason, Arthur is sometimes known as the Raven King.’

King Arthur.

Could Dan possibly have found the body of King Arthur?

Her phone bleeps, alerting her to a text message. She has a bad feeling about this, a premonition, you might say.

Keep away from Pendle. You have been warned.

Tramps like us, sings Bruce Springsteen, baby we were born to run.

‘A summer holiday in Lancashire,’ says Judy. ‘You must be mad.’

‘I haven’t definitely decided to go,’ says Ruth, rather defensively. ‘But I’ve been asked to look at some bones at Pendle University.’

‘Sounds wild,’ says Judy. ‘I went to Southport once. Never again.’

Ruth sighs. She is finding Judy rather hard going. She has popped in on her way home from the dig to see mother and baby. Actually, it was rather a trek from Swaffham and Ruth is feeling that Judy ought to be, well, not grateful exactly, but at least pleased to see her. So far, Judy has not even offered her a cup of tea. It’s another lovely evening but they are sitting in a stuffy sitting room with the windows closed. The air smells of nappy bags. Judy, wearing stained jeans and a man’s shirt, is obviously conforming to the Ruth style of post-birth wardrobe rather than the Shona yummy-mummy look. Ruth doesn’t blame her for this in the least but she does feel that Judy could make some effort. She didn’t even laugh at the latest Clough story. (Last week Clough burst into an illegal gambling den with such force that he fell down two flights of stairs; the den turned out to be the local bridge club.)