The Buried Circle (36 page)

‘Where’ve you been hiding yourself, Heartbreaker?’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for months.’

‘The hospital keeps me busy, sir.’

‘Not at weekends, surely. Come over to the Manor tomorrow afternoon. I’ve invited some chaps from the convalescent home. Delightful young men, all Scottish, pining for the sight of a pretty face.’ No ‘would you like’ or ‘please’ about it. Mr Keiller always assumed everyone would fall in with his ideas. ‘Put on a nice frock and turn up about half past three. Damn…’

Ahead, a soldier had stepped out into the road and was waving us to stop, to let a convoy of trucks out of the army barracks on the outskirts of town. Mr Keiller slowed the car and took out his battered old cigarette case. He could’ve afforded a brand new solid silver one but he always kept his Russian cigarettes in that old tin with the engraving worn right off. ‘Smoke, Heartbreaker? We’ll be crawling behind them for miles. Tell you what, let’s take the pretty way’ He dropped the case in my lap, swung the wheel into a U-turn and we roared back the way we’d come, then branched off past the sports ground. It was a good straight road and Mr Keiller took it fast, but I felt completely safe as I lit cigarettes for both of us. Flat fields showing the green of young barley flashed past. We crossed the canal, speeding through tiny hamlets with the steep scarp of the Downs rising to our left, past isolated airfields, hangars turfed like long barrows, planes hidden under camouflage. There used to be a white horse carved into the chalk up there but, like the one at Hackpen, he’d been allowed to grow over in case the bombers used him as a landmark.

I sneaked a glance at Mr Keiller. His profile was as clean carved as ever, but his eyes, fixed on the road spooling out under our wheels, looked tired. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was for being young, that sometimes you behaved a certain way because you didn’t know better, or thought it was expected of you.

Perhaps he sensed me looking; he turned his head and grinned. ‘Speed doesn’t bother you, Miss Robinson?’

‘The faster the better,’ I said. Ahead of us, a plane was banking to make its approach to the airfield at Alton Barnes.

‘Training flight, I expect,’ said Mr Keiller. ‘Yes, it’s an Avro. I took one of those up, in ‘thirty-six. He’s coming in a bit low.’ The plane was dipping towards the field at right angles to the road. Mr Keiller pressed the accelerator down hard and the car leaped forward. ‘We’ll give him a run for his money’ We raced along the road on what seemed a collision course with the little biplane. Even I could tell it was far lower than it should have been. There was a smile on Mr Keiller’s lips as he gunned the car along the road. ‘Fast enough, Heartbreaker?’

I could hear the plane, an angry wasp. It was wobbling as it made its approach, the wings dipping and lifting as the pilot fought to keep it on line. Perhaps this was his first solo. Surely Mr Keiller would ease off the accelerator–the plane was low enough to catch the car with its undercarriage. But, no, he pushed the throttle even harder. The plane was huge now, bearing down on the car from our left. The wheels seemed level with my window. Raindrops streamed off the cockpit glass. I could see the pilot behind it, his goggles insect eyes under his leather helmet. Impossible to see an expression but I could sense panic in the movements of his head as he wrestled with the controls. I closed my eyes. The buzzing turned to thunder.

And then the thunder rolled away. I opened my eyes, let out my breath, and turned in my seat in time to see the plane cross the road behind us, wings swaying. He came down in the field on the other side of the road, his wheels bouncing right off the ground and the wings tilting alarmingly, a flock of sheep scattering before him, but somehow he brought the plane to a halt safely. There were at least two hedges between him and the airstrip.

‘That’ll teach him to keep his nose up,’ said Mr Keiller, easing off the accelerator. And much as I’m enjoying it, you can let go my arm now, Heartbreaker.’

I wanted to impress him the next afternoon so I put on my favourite frock, the one I went dancing in, red polka dots on a cream background. Was it too formal for tea? But I didn’t want to wear blouse and skirt, or either of my flowery summer dresses. The horse-chestnut candles were like gnawed corncobs now, and June not far off, but the sky hadn’t got the message: the grey clouds were as heavy-bellied as fat ewes in February. So I put on the red polka dots–it was the Manor, after all, where they dressed like film stars–and a pair of red shoes I’d bought off one of the nurses at the hospital, to replace the ones I’d lost at the Starfish, then set out with my umbrella.

The tea party was held in the Great Hall, the biggest room in the Manor. Seven or eight young men in RAF uniform, their faces white and fragile, were sitting uneasily on sofas and dining chairs; a couple of crutches were propped against the wall. Mr Keiller was standing by the vast fireplace, china cup and saucer in his hand, holding forth about the visit of Queen Anne who’d had her dinner there hundreds of years ago. The young men were trying to look fascinated. There was no sign of Mrs Keiller.

‘Heartbreaker! A sight for sore eyes,’ said Mr K, as I came in. ‘You’ve put your glad rags on. I’m sure these young chaps will appreciate it. Help yourself to a scone.’ There was a teapot and crockery laid out on the dining-table, and two platters of scones, with dishes of jam. I filled a cup and plate for myself and sat down on the edge of one of the settees next to a young man who was biting his lip nervously.

‘Aren’t you having a scone?’ I said cheerfully to him. He shook his head. I glanced down, and saw metal gleaming below his trouser turn-up: an artificial foot. ‘Let me bring you one. They’re delicious.’

‘Honest, I don’t want one,’ he said, in a Glaswegian accent. He was a tall, solid lad, with strong features and thick dark hair swept back from a widow’s peak. ‘But you could fetch one for my pal.’ Beyond him sat a blond boy with bandaged hands. He leaned forward and smiled at me.

‘Jam?’ I asked, putting my cup down on the side table–the tea was almost cold anyway.

‘Just a bit o’ marg.’

It was butter, of course, from one of the local farms. I halved two scones and spread a good thick layer on them. The dark-haired Glaswegian mouthed
knife
, and mimed cutting something up with a knife and fork, so I divided each of the halves again and took them back to the boys on the sofa. The Glaswegian fed his friend, a mouthful at a time, while the blond boy raised his eyebrows and winked at me. My own scone sat unfinished on the plate. Something in my throat was choking me, and I couldn’t have swallowed to save my life. I could have asked what had happened to them, but their stories would have been like the others I heard on the wards: hands burned trying to heave a friend from a blazing cockpit, legs lost when the impact of a crash landing shunted a red-hot engine onto a lap.

The door swung open under its massive carved pediment. The latecomer sauntered into the room, another young man in air-force blue, this one the picture of health, wearing a pilot officer’s chevrons.

It was Mr Cromley.

He caught up with me in the passage when I went to ask for another pot of tea. ‘Hello, Heartbreaker.’

‘I can manage,’ I said. ‘No need…’

‘Every need.’ He was laughing at me again. ‘You were playing lady of the Manor so nicely. Doing good works. But you haven’t quite the hang of it, have you? You shouldn’t go yourself to tell Cook to put the kettle on.’

‘I don’t see what business…’

‘Oh, and another thing. That dress. Lovely, I admit, but not the thing for tea-time.’ Before I could stop him he’d run a finger over the curve of my breast. ‘Nor the shoes.’

‘Take your hands off me.’ I was trembling.

‘Don’t be too proud, Heartbreaker. You might be grateful one of these days for what I can do for you.’

‘Fuck off’ The men on the wards sometimes forgot themselves and used it, but I’d never said that word before.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr Cromley. ‘Aren’t you spirited, these days, Fran? But remember who and what made you that way.’

I was too angry to speak. I turned and clacked on my second-hand platforms down the passageway, tears leaking from my eyes. Mr Cromley didn’t follow, and I told Cook it was the young men, so brave, poor things, so hurt, that made me cry.

What was he doing in Avebury? Last I’d heard he was in Kent, on a fighter base. I spent the rest of the afternoon talking as brightly as I could to the boy with burned hands and his pal, avoiding Mr Cromley’s eye. But he was watching, all right. I could feel it in the prickle of my skin.

I wanted to leave, but he might follow, so I was determined to stick it out. I heard every story those boys could tell; I laughed at every one that needed a laugh; I touched their arms when they told me how they’d been hurt. They were bomber crew, both of them, one a gunner, the other a wireless op. I told them my feller was training in navigation, up in Scotland; maybe one day he’d be posted to their squadron. Did they have sweethearts? The blond boy shook his head, and raised an eyebrow hopefully. The tall tin-footed lad blushed, and said he missed his special girl back home.

Mr Cromley was bored. He was fidgeting next to Mr K on the other side of the room, like his faithful dog, but where Mr K was all gracious-ness and easy chat–he loved planes, and he could talk flying for hours–Mr Cromley was sullen and superior. I used to think of him as charming, but now I could see through that front. He left after about three-quarters of an hour.

Mr Keiller was about to move on to the next group of airmen, so I made my excuses to the boys, stood up and put my hand on his arm. ‘You didn’t tell me Mr Cromley was coming.’

‘Didn’t I? I meant to. Awfully good news he’s back, isn’t it? I’ve always liked young Donald. I was worried he’d be killed–a terrible loss to archaeology. Odds aren’t good for the fighter boys, but he’s done his tour of duty and lived, and won a DFC–his squadron shot down thirty-seven Hun in a single day during the Battle of Britain–so they’ve given him a cushy posting as a rest.’

‘Where’s he stationed?’

‘Didn’t he tell you? He’s flying trainee wireless ops at Yatesbury before he rejoins his squadron. If I were five years younger…’ Mr K grinned ruefully. ‘Well, maybe ten. He’s living in the caravan park behind Rawlins’s garage with a lot of other chaps from the base.’

I sat through another half-hour, jaw aching with my clenched smile, then made my excuses and left. The clouds were blowing away and there was blue in the sky as I walked down the Manor drive, the breeze wrapping my silly silky dress round my legs, scared half to death he’d be waiting for me. But he wasn’t. He was a lot cleverer than that.

CHAPTER 30

Avebury has become an Ed-free zone. There is no sign of him for most of May, and the start of June.

‘What did you do to him?’ asks Corey, adding another layer of shine to the countertop. ‘He’s not been in for coffee for weeks.’

‘I don’t know.’

Don’t like to admit it, but I miss the clunk of those stupid cowboy boots on the cobbles outside the caf. I’m regretting the way I blanked him after our argument. Perhaps what he was asking wasn’t so very terrible after all. Or, at least, it’s understandable he’d want to do anything to avoid losing his pilot’s licence. When I catch sight of Graham, unloading bin-bags from the back of the Land Rover, I ask him what’s happened to Ed.

He taps the side of his nose mysteriously. ‘Personal business, I guess.’

‘He’s working on his dissertation for the MA,’ says Michael,
en route
to the museum. ‘On archaeology from the air. He’s been helping with a Lidar survey of Savernake Forest.’

‘Wow,’ I say, little the wiser. Later, I look it up–laser photography that penetrates tree cover and can detect earthworks.

Meanwhile, with the academic year almost over, the film crew are back and Martin has taken up residence again in the cottage the Trust have lent him. He seems quieter and more distant, disappearing at frequent intervals to Bath. Permission has at last been granted to raise a stone. Although Martin’s favoured option was to lift the Bonking Stone, local opinion was against the idea, and instead the excavation will focus on a buried one, in the untouched northern part of the circle. Nobody seems to remember that it was my idea.

By mid-June Martin’s archaeology students have finished exams and arrive, pale and slightly twitching, to start the dig. The men whip off their shirts to make up for lost tanning time. The girls are all thinner than me and wear shorts to display sleek thighs. Graham decides it’s an opportune moment to repair the pathway and starts to spend most of his time on the henge banks, trundling barrowloads of gleaming chalk, with his shirt off too. Two days later, Ed’s with him.

‘You’ve spent at least as much time watching him prowl the banks as you have filming,’ says Martin, coming up to stand beside me at the lip of the deepening trench. He’s lost weight; under the beard, his cheeks have hollowed. ‘Don’t play games, petal. If you like him, let him know. Life’s too short.’

‘I don’t mean it to be games,’ I say. ‘But how do you tell, Martin? Suppose you
never
have dreams about a Brushwood Boy. Maybe all you’re feeling is…just about shagging.’

Martin’s face has that closed-down look again. ‘No point asking me. I’m one of the bloody dreamers.’

The team has been excavating for a couple of days now, Harry and I wielding cameras. First, the skin of turf has been peeled away over an area the size of a small living room. Now the students are chipping away layer by layer at the soil. They’re a metre down, and still haven’t reached the stone. One of the men–rangy, bearded, bright red sunburn–holds up a fragment of something. Martin leans down and takes it from him. ‘Clay pipe,’ he says. ‘Seventeenth century, I’d say. Bag it, Reuben.’

‘Boring, then,’ I suggest.

‘No!
Martin brightens as soon as the subject is archaeology. He pretends to tear out handfuls of hair. ‘Why can’t television people ever get it into their thick heads that the past isn’t about frozen moments, it’s about layers and continuities? That was Keiller’s mistake. He was only interested in prehistoric Avebury, so it didn’t strike him as vandalism to wipe out the later settlement that grew up within the circle. How’s your grandmother, by the way?’