The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [124]
‘Mrs Robinson, you know?’ Bob continues, oblivious. ‘Like in the film with Dustin Hoffman?’
‘No need to be fresh,’ says Frannie. ‘Thought all you social-work boys were poufs anyway. Where are we going?’ she asks, under Bob’s helping arm, as she sinks arthritically onto the back seat.
‘You’re going to the day centre,’ says Adele. ‘Remember? We did discuss it.’
‘What for?’
‘To make new friends,’ says Bob, brightly.
‘Got plenty of friends here,’ mutters Frannie. ‘Nancy-boy.’
Adele, a small dark woman whose eyebrows meet in the middle, clamps writhing lips shut to prevent a giggle escaping. Bob’s jovial expression has not shifted one millimetre. Perhaps it rolls off him, though he shuts the door with a little more force than necessary.
Click: like a police car, the rear seat of his is fitted with childproof locks. Frannie’s imploring eyes meet mine.
‘Have a nice time,’ I say helplessly.
The stone should have been raised today, but an emergency in the underground quarries where Kit usually works has called her away. Instead the morning is spent filming students plaiting yet more ropes from strands of tough, woody honeysuckle, and cutting timber props with bronze axes.
‘Can’t we lift the stone without her?’ asks Ibby ‘Don’t get me wrong, what you’re doing is art, Martin, but if I see one more shot of a honeysuckle rope I’m going to strangle someone with it. Or brain them with a bronze axehead.’
‘Sorry.’ Martin is unrepentant. ‘Can’t be done, unless you want to film squashed students. Wouldn’t trust myself to supervise without Kit around.’
By late morning, there is still no Kit. The students are given a half-day off, and the film crew set up outside the Manor instead, on the paved pathway between two beds of fragrant lavender. Martin is explaining to camera that Keiller lived under this historic roof, when my phone rings.
Ibby shoots me a withering look.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say. ‘Forgot to turn it off. Wasn’t expecting it to work here.’
Martin tries to pretend he doesn’t care, but such is the perversity of mobiles at Avebury that I’ve wrecked what would have been a perfect take.
‘You might as well answer it now,’ says Ibby. ‘Harry, you ready for a tape change?’
I retrieve the phone from my jeans pocket.
‘I’ve been trying you for ages,’ complains Michael. ‘Is Martin with you? Something I want him to take a look at.’
Martin’s doing his actor bit, striding up and down waving his hands and repeating the lines of the piece to camera to fix them in his head. His face goes still and blank as he puts the phone to his ear. ‘Right,’ he says, after a minute. ‘Yes, I’d be delighted.’ There’s a twinkle in his eye.
‘Martin!’ Ibby and Harry have finished conferring. ‘We need to crack on.’
‘OK,’ says Martin. ‘We’ll head up there when we’re done.’ He peers at my phone, ostentatiously turns it off, and slides it closed.
‘What was all that about?’ I ask.
‘Tell you in a minute.’ He grins. ‘My favourite kind of archaeology. Poking around in mysterious holes.’
The afternoon sky has turned grey by the time we set out for Windmill Hill, and a sprinkle of rain dampens the air. Ed drives us in the Land Rover, parking at the top of the track. Martin unfolds a natty little rambler’s stick.
Ibby was singularly unimpressed when we explained what Michael wanted.
‘So all we’re talking about basically is a hole in the ground? And not a terribly big one?’
‘With animal bone and flints,’ said Martin.
Ibby’s face showed what she thought of that.
‘Think I’ll stick to Plan A,’ she said dismissively. ‘The crew and I will take the Steadi-cam to the Avenue. India can take the smaller camera and film anything…interesting in this hole.’
The gate onto the hilltop is padlocked. Ed climbs over, then notices me struggling with the camera bag. This afternoon is the first time we’ve been in talking distance since his return to Avebury. ‘You want a hand with that, India?’
‘I can manage.’
‘Wasn’t implying you couldn’t.’ He takes the bag, then