The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [60]
Ed’s waiting outside.
‘We should track down the smoke before we go,’ he says. ‘I don’t like people leaving unattended fires under trees.’
‘Mr Backwoodsman, now?’
‘I was a Boy Scout,’ he says, with immense dignity.
‘Until you got kicked out for cheating on your Pathfinder badge, I bet.’
‘Actually, it was for smoking in the tent.’
Someone has built a ring of stones in a clearing a few yards behind the bender. There are turves banked over it, a thin stream of smoke escaping from the top. Ed kneels and peels one back. ‘Whoever built this has been watching too many telly survival series.’
‘Or he’s genuinely ex-SAS.’
‘Nah. Bender was too untidy.’ Ed lets the turf drop back into place. ‘Believe me, I’ve worked with some of the buggers. They’re borderline obsessive-compulsive.’
‘Come on, the fire’s safe,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ The sun’s dropped too low to penetrate the clearing and the trees are getting to me.
Ed straightens up, shooting me a suspicious glance. ‘You’re twitchy’
‘I need to be back.’
‘You’re behaving like the peasant in a Hammer vampire film. Any moment you’re going to whip out the garlic and crucifix. The sun is setting, Ma-a-aster, it is not safe to be out of doors. Go on, roll your eyes, that’s it. All you need is a baggy shirt and a big droopy moustache.’
That was why I slept with him. He made me laugh.
‘We should tell Graham,’ I say.
‘So get out your phone and do it. No, silly me, you’re a Transylvanian peasant. Long-distance communication by flaming arrow only.’
I explain about the mobile-phone black spot. He pulls out his handset, and looks at it, surprised. ‘Bugger me, you’re right. Hang on, two bars have just popped up–no, down to one now. What’s that supposed to be about–mystic vibrations? Magnetic resonance from the stones? I’m sure your pagan pals have a theory.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I think it’s more to do with the ethics of erecting mobile-phone masts within a World Heritage site. You get a signal now and then, but it doesn’t last long.’
‘I was wondering why mine hadn’t rung all day. Better check my voicemail while I can.’
And a sick, tired feeling washes over me. She’ll have been calling him. Love you, darling. When are you coming home? The weekend? That’s great. Missing you already.
I tug my cagoule down to hide the rip in my jeans and plod back through the trees to the Land Rover, leaving him in the clearing with the phone at his ear.
When I get home Frannie’s in bed.
‘You haven’t had supper yet, have you?’
‘Don’t feel like any’ A ghost of a smile twitches her mouth. ‘I liked your young man this morning.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No. Tired.’
‘It’s only six o’clock.’
‘Leave me, India. I had a bad night last night, and wore meself out walking to Big Avebury. Just need a bit of sleep and I’ll be fine.’ She rolls over and pulls the bedcovers up to her chin.
There’s a frowsty, stale smell in here. The bedroom–dining room as was–is crammed with furniture. The drop-leaf dining-table is pushed against the wall, with a mirror hanging over it. As well as her bureau, there’s a wardrobe, a chest of drawers by her bed, and an open-fronted cabinet with what she calls her ‘knickknacks’–china figures I wouldn’t give house room to, but she seems to think they’re the last word in elegance, and a couple of really hideous pots I made for her at junior school. Everything seems to have accumulated a thick layer of dust since I was last in here, but Frannie insists she should be left to do her own cleaning.
I don’t like this ‘tired’, though. She’s been sleeping later and later in the mornings, and Frannie always used to be out of bed with the lark. Maybe she is ill.
‘Let me take your temperature.’
‘No.’ Muffled, stubborn. All the same I open the top drawer of the bedside chest, where she keeps a variety of first-aid bits and pieces, to look for the thermometer.
My God. A nauseating smell pours out.
There’s a half-eaten sandwich in there, green with mould. It might once have been ham. ‘Frannie…’
‘Aren’t you