The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [78]
The sulky housemaid from Beckhampton was strapping a hamper onto the side of the car. She gave me a look like she hoped I’d burst into flames on the spot, and I give her a haughty look right back that said she had no right to be smart with me. I was one of the party today, off on a picnic with Mr Keiller, and with the man she’d dropped her knickers for–that hadn’t done her much good, had it? Mr Cromley was acting like she wasn’t there, holding open the door of the Kegresse for me so I could sit up front.
Mr Keiller came down the path at a lick. ‘Donald! Did you bring the rugs?’
‘Strapped on the back.’
My foot was on the running board, and I was ready to swing myself into the front seat. Then I saw who sauntered behind Mr Keiller, wearing her lovely tailored trousers, as doe-eyed as Bette Davis.
Miss Chapman was coming with us.
Bright red, I stepped down. Mr Piggott leaned over and opened the rear door for me, looking his usual crosspatch self. Mr Cromley climbed in after me; the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. I shuffled further along the seat towards Mr Piggott, who squeezed himself against the far door like he didn’t want to be touched. Wasn’t no good doing that, because we all had to squash up together. Miss Chapman slid into the front seat, the loose material of her trousers draping her long legs. She nodded to the men–‘Hello, Stuart, morning, Donald,’–and ignored me. Mr Keiller jumped in the other side, put the car into gear, and as the caterpillar tracks ground over the cobbles he took one hand off the wheel and laid his arm along the back of the seat behind her, his fingers loosely touching her shoulder.
I killed a hundred times, as we bounced down the fields alongside the stones of the Avenue, suffocating the stupid fantasies I’d made up in the ten minutes between Mr Keiller inviting me to go with them and Miss Chapman following him down the path, and I died myself with every one of those little murders. The pressure of Mr Cromley’s knee against mine was a strange comfort. Seemed to me he understood.
We parked up in the lee of the Long Barrow, out of the wind. There had been showers that morning, and the grass still sparkled with raindrops. Mr Piggott went walking round the barrow, counting to himself as he paced its length. Mr Keiller spread out the rug. Miss Chapman unloaded the contents of the picnic basket, a smug little smile on her face all the time because she was his consort, his Wallis Simpson. She’d even done her hair the same, though I didn’t reckon the Marmalade King would abdicate for love of a woman, the way King Edward had, two summers ago. I’d thought it was romantic, but Mam said Mrs Simpson must have bewitched the poor man.
Mr Cromley was standing next to me. He took his silver cigarette case out of his pocket and offered me one.
‘Heartbreaker,’ called Mr Keiller. ‘Come and lay out the cutlery, will you?’
We sat on the tartan rugs to eat our lunch, cold chicken and late Scottish asparagus that Mr Keiller had had sent down from his estate at Morven, with a buttery mayonnaise, but it was all salt to me, near inedible. There was chilled white wine, too, with a soft smoky taste, and I drank a glass or two of that, until it smudged the sharp edges of my hurt like a wet finger on a line of pencil.
Afterwards there was a Thermos of hot, bitter coffee. Mr Piggott took his cup away with him, wandering round the other end of the mound to look at the massive stones blocking the entrance. The barrow was all stopped up with earth, always had been, and I wondered what he found so fascinating about it.
I had forgotten my drawing, but Mr Keiller hadn’t. When I opened the clasp of my handbag to look for a handkerchief, he spotted my sketchbook. ‘Let