The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [104]
‘Connections, Stu. That’s what it’s all about.’
Mr Cromley had behaved as if nothing had happened between us. He seemed sure enough he’d frightened me into keeping quiet. And me? I’d never speak out–it’d kill Mam. The tobacconist’s shop in Devizes was dragging her down. She was thinner. Her hair looked dry, like dead moss in a bird’s nest. Her skin seemed papery, and she had a yellowy colour. No, I’d do anything to protect her from knowing what I’d done, but I never let myself cry over that day. They were scum, him and his uncle. Magic, my arse. It was a game to them. Pass the Parcel. Unwrap it. Take turns.
Davey was there at the party, face like misery. I felt sorry for him: he always gave his heart too easy. He idolized Mr Keiller, didn’t think Miss Chapman was right for him at all. I thought I guessed how it had been: driving about together up and down to London, stood to reason they was close and Davey had opinions. But I’d never seen him so wretched. If he could have sunk into the wood panels of the wall, clasping his beer glass, he would have.
He and I weren’t clever. We didn’t have connections. I went over to him and laid a hand on his arm. He put his hand over it, slopping some of his beer on the polished oak floor.
‘It’s all over, Fran.’ His golden eyes were swimming; he was very drunk, and I’d never seen him that way. ‘You, me, and–Mr Keiller, he was special, deserves better than her. Didn’t think I’d mind, but I do.’
‘I know you do,’ I said. There was plenty to mind, for both of us. We’d both had our souls caught and eaten, one way or another.
So, as the new season started, we were a depleted team–no Mr Piggott, no Mr Cromley–and the atmosphere on the dig was jittery. No one was sure when the fighting would start, but for all Mr Chamberlain’s bits of paper, there wasn’t a living soul optimistic enough to think we could avoid war now.
And Davey going, too. The day after my conversation in the Library with Mr Keiller, I found him in the barn, his legs sticking out under one of the cars.
‘What’s this I hear about you joining the air force?’
He trundled himself out and sat up, propping himself against the side of the car. Oil had dripped on his hair, making it look like wet corrugated iron. ‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘Well, I hope it isn’t anything to do with me. I don’t want you flying off and getting killed on my behalf.’
‘I won’t be flying anywhere. I’m going in as ground crew. And, no, it’s nothing to do with you. When I heard Mr Cromley had enlisted, I thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I kicked the car tyre, inches away from his thick head. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you admire that…that…’
‘He went in because there’s a war coming. I call that brave.’
‘He went in so he could grease his way into a cushy desk job, like his uncle.’
‘He’s a pilot, Fran. Nothing cushy about that. Stop kicking the Hispano’s tyres. They cost a lot to replace. Anyway, we’ll all be in sooner or later.’
‘But what about the excavations? Mr Keiller needs you.’
‘No, Mr Keiller doesn’t need me, not any more. He says he’s proud to spare me for the RAE He has Philip to drive him if he dun’t drive himself, and he won’t be racing the cars this summer. Everything’s different this year.’
It was. Mr Keiller’s inconstant demons let him down, and stole away both his time and his money before he could finish. He dug up the stones of the inner circle on the south side of the village, many as he could find, and set them in concrete. But he didn’t get round to finishing the rest of the great outer circle. Before summer was over, he’d joined up himself: part-time duty with the Special Constabulary. There was tanks chewing the grass along the Avenue, and the soldiers scratched their initials on the stones.
‘Have you ever noticed, Miss Robinson, that the Encyclopaedia Britannica classifies intelligence into three separate types?’ said Mr Keiller. ‘Human, animal and military. In that order of preference, I think.’
On the first of September, the first evacuees arrived in the village,