The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [58]
‘He’s very good with trees,’ I say apologetically.
It seems to be my day for embarrassing encounters. Walking back to the Land Rover we see Frannie, who waves enthusiastically and totters along the cobbles towards us.
‘Been to the post office. You heard these rumours it might close?’ She eyes Ed keenly, as if she suspects him of being responsible. ‘My granddaughter takes me shopping in the supermarket, but I tell her you have to support the local shop.’
So again I feel obliged to introduce him. She nods, not taking her eyes off his face. She looks tired today, her skin white and dry in the March sunlight.
Ed gives her a charming smile. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Robinson.’
As he climbs into the front seat, Frannie grabs my arm. ‘He’s not so bad,’ she hisses, with a salacious and completely unjustified twinkle. ‘Lovely green eyes. Reminds me of that doctor chappie on Grey’s Anatomy!
‘Nothing like him. The eyes aren’t green. And he’s a colleague! Ed has started the engine, so I squeeze Fran’s hand and turn to climb into the passenger seat.
‘Greeny-grey, then. Go on with you. I’d be after him meself if I was fifty years younger.’
‘It was my fault,’ Ed says suddenly, as we jolt down a rutted farm track, after a round trip involving Silbury, the Long Barrow, the Sanctuary, and finally the barrows along the Ridgeway, to check out Graham’s theory that the beech trees on the Hedgehogs are dying because of climate change.
‘What was your fault?’
‘The helicopter crash, of course.’ He doesn’t look at me, keeps his eyes fixed on the track. At the time I thought a part had failed. Wrong. It was LTE–loss of tail rotor effectiveness. A problem with some choppers if you fly low and slow. Close to the ground, the main blades can create a vortex and there’s not enough air for the tail rotor to work. The machine goes into a spin.’ His hands tighten on the steering-wheel. ‘It’s in the training manuals–now. But it was my judgement call. I knew what Steve was asking was–well, on the edge. Shouldn’t have let myself be persuaded. Showing off His eyes narrow as if they hurt.
‘You are legal to fly, aren’t you?’ I ask. ‘You haven’t lost your licence?’
‘Not yet. That could happen after the inquest. The Air Accident Investigation Board has to file its report first.’ He chews a fingernail. ‘Probably should find a solicitor, but I can’t afford one. Flying’s kind of gentlemanly. The decent thing is to ground oneself.’
‘Which you haven’t done.’
‘I suppose I’m not a gentleman.’
He draws to a halt as we approach the end of the track, and I hop out to open the gate. The cowman is in the yard by the milking sheds; he waves as the Land Rover trundles through, and I clamber back in.
‘This takes us back into Avebury now?’ Ed asks, turning onto the metalled lane and changing gear with a grinding noise.
‘Yep. Past Tolemac–the wood coming up on the left–and then into the henge.’
‘Tollymack? That’s a weird old Wiltshire name.’ Ed slows as we draw level with the trees, peering through the windscreen into the thicket.
‘Nothing weird, old or Wiltshire about it. Spell it backwards.’
His face screws up with effort. ‘K…’
‘C’
‘Oh, I see.’ His mouth twists in a grin. ‘Is this where the visiting pagans camp? I can smell woodsmoke.’
‘Damn. Not again! Graham has been complaining since Imbolc about what he describes as ‘a couple of crusties