The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [69]
‘Yep, that Mick Feather.’ One hit only, and that about aliens landing at Stonehenge.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Martin. ‘You have touched glory, young India.’
Mick Feather, skin grimy-tinged as a coalman’s no matter how thoroughly he washed, Keir’s father. Laughing Mick. ‘He wasn’t that famous,’ I say. ‘And it was a crap song.’
‘Iconic,’ sighs Martin. ‘Whatever happened to him?’
And a shudder runs down my spine.
‘No idea,’ I say, crouching on the damp grass to open the camera bag.
Daniel has definite ideas about what has to be said in this piece to camera. ‘Tie it to 1938,’ he says. ‘Same year as the cine footage.’
‘How about saying something about the Barber Surgeon?’ Martin points across the circle to a huge lozenge of a stone. ‘He was discovered that summer, over there. You don’t look keen, India. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, prickles of electricity running up and down my skin. The Barber Surgeon stone has always been among the stuff of my nightmares.
‘Well, hurry up,’ says Daniel, over his shoulder. ‘Rain’s coming on.’
The clouds are threatening as Martin and I pick up the camera equipment to follow.
‘Was 1938 really the year they found him?’ I ask. ‘Because my grandmother was working for Keiller then.’
Martin almost drops the tripod. ‘Your grandmother worked for Keiller? Is there no end to your surprises? Are we interviewing her?’
‘She refused.’ The first raindrops are already pattering on the back of my coat. ‘But I’m working on it.’
‘Were you there?’ I ask Frannie, at home in Trusloe. Filming had to be suspended after an unsatisfactory twenty minutes’ dodging raindrops, Martin’s beard getting damper and stragglier with every take. ‘Did you actually see them dig up the Barber Surgeon?’
Her eyes are fixed on the TV screen.
‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘I drew him, didn’ I? Mr Keiller took his photograph, but my job was to draw a picture of him under the stone.’
CHAPTER 16
1938
That year the plan was to put back up the stones in the south-western quarter of the circle. There was only two or three showing above ground, but Mr Keiller seemed to think he could find the others that were buried, and even know where the ones had been that was gone for ever. He was like an old wizard: could tell you what had vanished simply by digging in the ground and looking at the soil. Those that had been broken up by old Stonebreaker in the seventeen-somethings, Mr Keiller would mark where they’d stood with a concrete pillar.
The workmen had already cleared the rubbish out of the ditch and dug right down to the chalk, flaying the banks of their green skin. A caravan had been trundled onto the field for a site office. I still had no permanent job, and was reduced to skivvy work all over again, sometimes, dusting Mr Keiller’s collections. He used to watch me, to make sure I didn’t break anything, his eyes narrowed and his lovely strong mouth a bit open, so you could hear his smoker’s breathing sucking at the air.
Heartbreaker, he’d say, you have a delicate touch. I’d run the duster so lightly over the backs of them creamers you could almost see the cows shudder with delight.
Mrs Sorel-Taylour was hanging up her coat when I trailed back into the museum one afternoon after another lunchtime stroll to Windmill Hill. I’d taken my sketchbook: the barrows were a mass of spring flowers. She gave me one of her sterner looks. ‘You’re freckled, Frances. Didn’t you think to wear a hat?’
‘Didn’t know the sun would be so warm.’ While she went into the back office to look for Mr Young, I put my sketchbook down on the mahogany case nearest the door, and peered into the glass top to check my reflection.
The door behind me opened, and Mr Keiller walked in. ‘Miss Robinson! We keep colliding, don’t we?’
I straightened up and backed away. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Keiller.’
‘Don’t be. You’ve gone quite pink. Is it the sun or that beau of yours?’ He picked up my sketchbook. ‘Whose are these? Yours? Heartbreaker, you’ve been hiding proverbial lights