The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [68]
‘India,’ says Martin, his breath tickling my ear, ‘you do realize, don’t you?’
‘Realize?’
‘I am gay.’
Shit. Cold, hot, entire body thermostat throws a breakdown. ‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s fine, blossom. I don’t make a thing of it, no need to shout it from the rooftops. I just don’t want you getting the wrong idea, given that we’ll be working together.’
‘Right.’ Whatever I say is only going to land me deeper in trouble. I stare fixedly at the LCD screen, my face on fire. ‘I hope you didn’t think…’
‘Er, hi, India. How’s it going?’
‘Oh, hi, Ed.’ At least my blush makes it look like something’s going on between us. ‘Martin’s a natural.’
‘Really?’
My eyes meet his–and find no hint of jealousy, damn it. Either he knows instinctively that Martin presents no threat, or he simply wouldn’t care if we flung our clothes off and got down to it right now on the Bonking Stone.
Over lunch in the Red Lion, Martin flirts outrageously with the curator–is there a woman he doesn’t count as a friend within two minutes of meeting her? The National Trust haven’t yet committed themselves to a dig, but it looks hopeful: Channel 4 have come up with the money, Martin has promised students and expertise, and Ibby arrives tomorrow with a full crew. Filming will take place over the next few months depending on weather and Martin’s academic commitments. Daniel, roughing out a schedule on the back of his paper napkin, leans across the table to interrupt. ‘How are you fixed towards the end of June?’
‘That’s Solstice,’ I say. ‘You don’t want to film then. The place is heaving.’ ‘Great!’ says Daniel. ‘Remember what Cameron said? Channel 4 want pagans. Know anything about modern pagans, Martin?’
‘Not much.’ Martin looks less than enthusiastic. ‘My speciality’s the ancient sort.’
‘Well, now’s your chance to learn. India, can you find out when the next stone-huggers’ shindig takes place?’
‘There’s a Wiccan frill-moon ritual, just before Easter, all comers welcome,’ I tell Martin, after a conversation with John on the pub’s pay phone. We’re watching the stream of cars for an opportunity to cross the main road.
‘That didn’t take long.’
‘I have a friend who’s pagan.’ I give a thumbs-up to Daniel, waiting for us among the stones on the other side. ‘Well, more than a friend. My spirit-father.’
‘Your what?
‘Equivalent of godfather. My mother held a naming ceremony for me at Stanton Drew stone circle when I was small. But, hey, you don’t want to hear my family history’
‘Of course I do,’ says Martin, with a brave grin. ‘I’m a vicar’s son. Trained to listen sympathetically from birth. Your mum was pagan?’
‘My grandmother says it was a rebellion. Meg married too young, then walked out on her husband and met up with a guy who took her to Stonehenge for the free festival one Solstice. She went back again and again–well, until 1989.’
‘Because the police set up an exclusion zone that year,’ says Martin. ‘Don’t look so surprised, blossom–I was studying for my PhD and my supervisor was digging the outlying barrows. So I remember the good old Second Summer of Love–been there, done that, got the smiley-face T-shirt.’
A gap appears in the traffic, and we scuttle across the road, the camera bag bouncing against my leg. While Martin was excavating at Stonehenge, my mother and I were in Avebury.
Margaret laying out the crystals, offering me the shiny black lump of onyx, the stone for secrets. Me opening my mouth, and the memories of a June afternoon in Tolemac pouring out in a thin grey jet of mist, a helicopter glimpsed through the trees, a column of filthy black smoke pouring into the sky, soaked up by the dark crystal.
Her voice whispers in my head. Time wounds all heels, but you don’t have to go on limping for ever, do you?
Martin has been saying something I didn’t catch. ‘Pardon?’
‘I said, free festivals weren’t my scene, but I once saw Angelfeather play Glastonbury’
‘You saw my mother then. She danced with them. The bloke who took her to Stonehenge was Mick Feather.’
‘Mick Feather? Martin’s goggle-eyed.