The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [66]
I lay back on the barrow top, and let the wind play with my skirt and tease my goose-pimply legs. Charlie was playing in the sunshine somewhere below. I could feel the vibrations of his running feet.
I sat up. I could feel vibrations.
The wind had blown the sound of the engine away from me. There were two of them riding the motorbike, bouncing at speed over the tussocks of grass. Davey was in front, controlling the bike, his hair blowing half over his eyes, and Mr K, wearing a leather helmet and goggles, was behind him. His arms were round Davey’s waist, and as I watched he bent his head as if he would bury his face in Davey’s hair. Neither of them had noticed me: they were travelling away from me across the top of the hill towards the stand of trees that tumbled down the northern slope.
I stood up to wave–then sat down again. Even if Mr Keiller had turned his beautiful head at that moment, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to see me. The shifting wind tossed the growl of the bike back to me as Davey revved it towards the brow of the hill, like he was gearing it to jump into space and float through the air. Then they were gone. The sound cut out among the trees, and a cloud flicked its tail over the face of the sun so my arms went goose-pimply too.
CHAPTER 15
It’s a fact of life that television people delay and delay and then want everything done right now, no matter whether their schedule matches anyone else’s. The week after Ed’s arrival, Ibby from Overview calls to tell me Daniel Porteus is coming to Avebury, presenter in tow, to talk to the National Trust. He’s expecting me to be there, as Ibby herself will be otherwise occupied.
Corey is less than enthusiastic about rearranging my shifts. As I pant into the caf, she gives me a glare from behind the counter and jerks her head in the direction of the tables. Daniel Porteus and another man, his back to me, are at the far end. A fluffy mic on a boom pole is propped against the wall. Seeing me, Daniel stands up. ‘India, good of you to join us.’ Said with a touch of sarcasm: I’m late. We exchange the obligatory double-barrelled media air kiss. ‘This is Martin Ekwall…’
The other fellow stands too. He’s a bear of a man, in beige chinos and a bright red sweater, holding out a furry paw, a smile splitting his thick but well-barbered beard. Even the backs of his fingers are hairy. ‘Glad to meet you. Daniel says you’re good with a camera.’
‘Well, um…’
Daniel takes this for modesty. ‘You don’t mind shooting a few pieces to camera with Martin, while the sun’s out? May never use them, but it gives him practice.’
Beyond the window is a lovely day, chilly for April, but under puffs of cloud in a blue sky the lime leaves are unfurling, juiciest green. Martin is a palish shade of green to match, and rooting in a leather satchel slung over the back of his chair.
‘Standing, sitting or walking?’ I ask.
‘All three,’ says Daniel. ‘Can you walk and talk, Martin?’
‘About a minute, like you told me?’ says Martin, his head buried in his bag. ‘Sorry, need the loo…’ He bolts.
‘Want a coffee, India?’ Daniel waves in a lordly fashion to Corey, who looks thunderstruck since the caf is self-service. ‘I’ll take a flapjack.’
I pull up a chair, and he starts to examine the photocopies of archive stills I’ve brought him. Corey bangs the cup down on the table so coffee slops into the saucer. Martin emerges from the Gents, looking more confident.
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I’ve a ten-thirty meeting to talk the National Trust into letting us dig up a stone.’ Daniel has to negotiate many strata of bureaucratic approval before so much as a skewer can penetrate the sacred soil. ‘You two start filming.’
‘Fine,’ says Martin. He looks relaxed, but under the table he’s picking at the skin round his thumb. There’s a smear of blood on his chinos.
‘Shall we go, then?’ Daniel wraps the uneaten half of his flapjack in a napkin, then puts it into his pocket. He ducks under the table and emerges with a padded camera bag. ‘You have used a mini-DVC