The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [105]
A couple of days later, we was at war. Seeing as how everybody else was doing their bit, I thought it time to do mine too. I found a job in the almoner’s office in the hospital at Swindon.
CHAPTER 26
Beltane approaches, and weekend pagans gather again. Ed’s on campsite patrol Friday night: as I leave the caf, I see him in the distance, climbing into the National Trust Land Rover and gunning it down the gravel drive, aviator shades in place like a cop in a seventies movie. Asking me to lie about what I remember of the crash is unforgivable. I’m annoyed with myself for wanting to wave him down and jump in beside him.
Martin and the film crew appear briefly, shoot some fire-juggling in the circle on Saturday afternoon, then leave once dusk falls, Martin heading for Bath to spend the rest of the weekend with a friend of his, caving in the Mendips.
But by quarter to ten on Sunday it’s raining heavily. Martin won’t be potholing today.
‘Better drive you down to church,’ I tell Frannie, though I’m still in my pyjamas, an old towel wrapped round head. ‘Give me twenty minutes to rinse the colour off and dry my hair.’
‘That’d be smashing,’ she says. Her voice is bright, but her eyes have loose brownish-purple pouches beneath, and her skin has a tired, yellowy tinge. The doctor can find nothing physically wrong, but has suggested a social worker should call to see her this week, and she’s been worrying about that. ‘You don’t have to wait around, though–Carrie Harper’ll give me a lift back. Her sister usually gets out the car for church.’ She spoons down the last of her porridge. ‘Must find me collection money.’
I will wait around,’ I call after her. I could put in some time at the museum…’ Sorting out the Keiller archive for Michael has taken much longer than expected, my days off from the caf usually occupied with filming.
‘Not your television thing again.’ Frannie can’t understand why the programme isn’t finished yet. But Ibby is working on several other productions at the same time.
‘Not exactly. You know, they’d still like to interview you.’
‘I told you, no,’ says Frannie. ‘Don’t like this digging over the past. Get a job on Flog It!, that’s my advice. I’m sure they don’t spend nearly so much time on that. Anyways, you take long as you want in your old archive. Carrie Harper’ll offer me a roast lunch, if I know her.’
‘I could cook a roast…’
‘No need, Margaret.’ Frannie’s briskly in control, the raspberry hat jammed over her curls. Shame she has me confused again with my mother. ‘Just because we live in the same house doesn’t mean we have to be on top of each other. You do your thingy, I’ll do mine.’
Having dropped Frannie at the lich-gate, I drive round to the staff car park. Graham’s red Mazda is about to pull out. I draw up beside him and wind my window down.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Trouble at the campsite in the wee small hours. Over-enthusiastic drumming. One of the locals rang and hauled me out of bed first thing this morning to read the riot act. Not that it’ll make any difference. They wait till I’m gone, then start up again.’ He sighs. ‘Thank God I’ve an appointment with a chainsaw tomorrow. This wind’ll bring down a hell of a lot of dead wood.’
He drives off. In the distance, the sound of drums pulses raggedly from the campsite, as I battle with gusts to open the car door before letting myself into the staff entrance of the building.
The museum is open, but there are hardly any visitors, and the volunteer manning the desk has his nose buried in the Sunday papers. Upstairs, the attic office is cold and gloomy, but this time there’s a convector heater under the table and I plug it in before settling down with the last unsorted box of Keiller’s correspondence.
I like offices when no one else is around. In London I often used to tube or bus it into Mannix TV at weekends.