Chapter 10
10
The next day I had to drive to Aberystwyth, where a colleague had requested that I take her place at a literary festival. She’d had to drop out because her young son had had an accident, and the associated mother-guilt meant that she’d felt obligated to find a replacement. I was clearly the only person she could think of who had no ties and could swan off to north Wales on a whim to spend six days being the resident expert on folklore literature. I hadn’t been fast enough to come up with a decent excuse and so I found myself filling in for her with inadequate preparation and a slight feeling of guilt of my own.
The talks were mostly based around folk horror, so huge preparation on my part hadn’t been greatly required, but at least I was there and able to give some opinions on whether the early fairy stories were really a primitive form of folk horror. It was interesting, I got my expenses paid to stay in a lovely hotel, was able to mingle with famous authors – some of them interested enough in my research to engage me in conversation – to browse around the festival, and buy too many books.
I felt a little bit guilty at leaving Connor alone, but only briefly. He was my lodger, that was all. It was none of his business what his landlady got up to, and my disappearing from his life to be An Academic wouldn’t affect him. It was also quite nice to be away, after our night of confessions up on the moor. I wasn’t quite sure how to face him again now that he knew about me and my sadness. Packing and driving off very early without telling him felt a little like a thumbed nose; a bit of a ‘fuck you’ to any thoughts he might have about using my revelations for his own ends. Distance was good. Being away from Connor was good. Let him wonder.
I’d carefully mentioned my work on the Fairy Stane to anyone who would listen at the festival, so if he’d chosen my absence to interfere with it, I had an army of bestselling fantasy authors who could help me raise hell too.
I was late in to work when I got back, after a terrible early morning drive back from Wales. ‘Good trip?’ Chess asked, wafting into the office a good twenty minutes after my arrival.
‘Not sure I converted anyone to our cause, but the back seat of my car is full of paperbacks, so depending on how you measure “good”, then yes, or no.’
‘Your professor’s been hanging around.’ She hung up her coat, hooked her bag over the back of the chair and then hitched a hip onto my desk. ‘He wanted to borrow some of your books.’
I glanced over at the bookcase. ‘Which ones?’
‘Not your books, your books. Books that you wrote.’ Chess announced this with a degree of satisfaction.
‘Why doesn’t he use the library, like a normal person?’ I grouched.
‘Doesn’t have library membership. He’s Irish.’
‘Well, he could buy them, then. I presume being Irish doesn’t preclude him spending money?’
‘I dunno.’ Chess fiddled her hair into an updo, checked her reflection in the glass of the window, pouted like a guppy, then pulled it back down again. ‘He’s cute.’
I thought of that night on the moor, the unexpected confidences. We’d gone back to the cottage and headed straight to our respective rooms, and I hadn’t seen him in the morning before I’d left. Perhaps he felt as embarrassed about opening up to me as I felt about telling him about Elliot, a kind of cringey weight in the back of my head whenever I remembered. Hopefully we’d never speak of it again.
‘Any sign of a place to let coming available for him?’ I asked. ‘A basement would do.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Catacomb?’
Chess suddenly realised that I was joking and snorted. ‘Anyway, I’ve finished typing up that diary thing that you had.’
‘Brilliant, thank you. Anything interesting in there?’
Chess frowned. ‘I don’t read them; I type them up. A few interesting bits, maybe. Trees coming alive, that sort of thing.’ She said this as carelessly as though it were an everyday occurrence. ‘Up on the moors.’
‘I’ll check it through when you email it over. And can you find me some books on the buildings up near the stone – Evercey Manor and the village, please?’ I needed to find information about where and when the stone was sourced. If it turned out that the whole thing had been dragged in from somewhere else on the moor because it was the right size to fill in a hole, that would be the end of Connor’s theory about it having markings on the underside.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Chess slithered forward off the desk. ‘Have you got any copies of that last book you did? The one about ghost stories being folk memories of morality tales or something? The professor was looking for it – there isn’t one here.’
I stared blankly at the bookshelves. That had been the book I’d been working on when Elliot died, and it had gone out unedited. ‘I’m not sure. There’s one about somewhere. I might have it at home.’
Chess grinned broadly. ‘That’s good. You can give it to him tonight, then, when you get back.’
‘Just finish typing up the memoirs and get to the archives, Chess.’ I sighed. ‘There’s a dear.’
After she’d sauntered out, smug as someone who’d had the last word, I slumped down across my desk, arms outstretched and my face buried in my elbows. I hadn’t slept well for my final night in the hotel, there had been partying in the bar which had kept me awake and the drive back had been horrific. I was still getting over appearing in public where I seemed to be regarded as a self-deluded fairy believer, and all I really wanted to do was go home, put on a disreputable tracksuit and slob around with a packet of crisps. Thank goodness it was Friday was all I could think.
Except… except Friday meant the weekend. I usually spent the weekend doing a little cursory housework, walking on the moors and, at this time of year, lighting the fire and curling up on the loveseat to remember how things had been when Elliot had been here. Not, I knew, the healthiest way to behave, but anything else required an energy I didn’t have. The literary festival had offered me a change of routine and now I could go back to my ‘normal’. I was looking forward to it. But this weekend, unless I was lucky and he’d wandered off with his mates, Connor would be there and that would curtail my slobbing about. I wouldn’t feel comfortable lounging around in my holey hoodie if he was going to be bouncing around in his cashmere, all legs and enthusiasm. And, horror, he might even start telling me details from his thwarted love, and what I really did not need on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I wanted carbs and comfort, was a lanky Irishman following me about to give me chapter and verse on his gorgeous, cheating ex.
I might do some writing. Yes, I thought, sitting back up. I could write. That would keep Connor away – even he wouldn’t be so self-absorbed as to interfere with someone who was writing, would he?
I looked around the room. I had small parcels of material dotted all over the tiny space – an old dairymaid’s apron, some butter presses, an ancient kettle, donated by those tellers of tales. I could photograph those ready for inclusion in the book, and my cottage would be a perfect backdrop. Then I could go through my typed-up notes and sort out the stories that were particularly local, maybe find a way to reference everything back to the stone and its locality. I could work on the ‘fairy’ element – if I broadened the category to include the hob and the boggart and elaborated on my theory of these being linked to ancient memories of genii loci then I’d practically got enough to fill a book already. I hadn’t written anything much of note since Elliot. I hadn’t really felt like it. But the thought of protecting the Fairy Stane was giving my imagination and my enthusiasm the kicking it needed.
That was a cheering thought, and it gave me enough energy to start working through some of the older notes.
I opened the first document. There was the date right at the top. Because dates and attribution were so important in this field, I made sure that they were the very first things I noted. The name of the person who was telling me their family story, their age, the place in question and… dates, dates, dates. When did this happen? How old were you? How old was the person telling you? That way we could trace tales back, sometimes a hundred years or more.
This document was dated six months after Elliot died, which would have been the first thing I did when I returned to the office. Because Elliot’s death had been sudden and unexpected, there had been all kinds of legal hurdles – he’d had no will, and the mortgage company had really not wanted to pay out on the insurance. There had even been a brief attempt to prove his death an uninsured suicide, although I’d had a storm of doctors who’d come to my rescue over that one.
Death was never simple, I knew that. Maybe it shouldn’t be. Some of the stories coming down from the high moors told of people dying and included the habits, myths and traditions that were followed and meant that bodies weren’t buried for sometimes up to a week. There were bodies placed on the kitchen table for the neighbours to come and view, there was the construction of the coffin – which had to be the right material – the procession to the churchyard, which could often consist of a six- or seven-mile walk over treacherous land, and the burial itself, then the wake.
Perhaps, I thought, still staring at that date, things had been better in the ‘old days’, when friends and neighbours were as much a part of the bereavement as the family. I’d been left to grieve alone, once Elliot’s workmates, our few friends and our scattered and distant families had paid their respects. Not for me the collective gathering, storytelling over the coffin the night before burial and the quiet assistance of the entire community. There had been no community. Only me, the silent cottage, the rushing water.
It had taken me some months to be ready to get back to more than the most superficial tasks. And here was the evidence, in these badly typed notes, where my mind had obviously not really been on them, although training and habit had made sure that the basics were covered.
I started skimming, highlighting anything that seemed relevant to what I intended to write. I’d select my material and then work on chapters and grouping by type or location once I’d got an outline sorted, I decided.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said, less than delighted as Connor’s head appeared around my door. ‘Don’t you have your own office?’
‘Yep.’ He cheerfully slithered the rest of him inside. ‘But I’m declaring it closed for the weekend.’
‘I thought I told Chess to not let anyone in?’ I was determined to show him that I wasn’t one whit softened towards him by our previous confessions. This was me, unemotional, detached, aloof. If he didn’t like it, well, someone somewhere would have a damp room in a noisy house that he could move in to.
‘Chess has gone home. It’s half past six.’ Unabashed, Connor leaned against the opposite wall and swirled his coat around him. ‘I was going to get a taxi back, but I decided to swing by to see if you were still here. You’re cheaper,’ he added. ‘The lights were on, so I popped in and here you are.’
Half past six? How could it be? But he was right, it was dark outside, which gave this subterranean room a measure of borrowed cosiness. I’d been so absorbed in my work that I hadn’t noticed the time pass, although the soggy remains of a cheese and lettuce sandwich sprawled across a plate showed that I’d at least eaten lunch. I couldn’t remember doing it. Chess must have brought it in whilst I was writing. She must have come through to tell me she was leaving too, but I hadn’t noticed that either. I only hoped the book was going to be as compelling as the writing clearly was.
I shook my head to try to clear the feeling that I’d been woken from a dream. ‘Um. Yes, I suppose I ought to… yes.’
‘You look tired,’ Connor observed, and it was a good job he was across the room because it meant I could glare at him. ‘Bad week?’
Guilt poked me in the ribs. I should have told him that I was going to Aberystwyth. ‘A literary festival,’ I said shortly, wondering if I’d secretly wanted him to suffer alone, without transport, in my cottage miles from anywhere. But he was an adult. I was his landlady, not his taxi service…
‘There was me thinking you’d been swept off your feet and taken to a luxury hotel for a week of passion and debauchery,’ he said.
I could not work out whether he was joking, teasing or had seriously assumed I’d gone off on holiday with my lover, so I ‘hmm’phed at him, then added, ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ in case he really had thought I’d been whisked off for sex and spa baths. ‘Anyway, you’re just lodging with me. I don’t have to account for my movements.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ he replied, robustly. ‘I texted Chess, to make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch, and she told me you’d gone to Wales.’
So he had been teasing about the ‘mysterious lover’. I felt relieved but didn’t know why.
Connor waited while I locked up and set the alarms, and then trod as quietly as Barghest alongside me to my car in the puddle-festooned car park at the back. My gritty-eyed tiredness meant I didn’t remark on his unusual silence until we were almost back at the cottage.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, rather grudgingly. ‘I should have told you I’d be away.’
‘Ah, you’re all right. Like I said, I checked with Chess to make sure nothing had happened.’
‘How did you manage to get in and out of York?’
Connor gave me a grin. ‘I’m a big lad, I can sort myself out with that kind of thing. I have students keen to do me favours, and there’s taxis and all.’
Guilt prodded me again. ‘I shouldn’t have left you to find out from Chess, though. I’ll give you my mobile number. It will probably be easier if you can text me. I don’t always pick up my emails when I’m at home, and you can’t trust Chess to relay information, particularly if she’s out for the weekend.’
‘That’s very sensible.’ Connor kept his eyes on the bleak darkness outside the car. ‘Thank you.’
‘No drunk dialling, mind.’ I tried a smile and got one back, a lot wider and more appealing than I was sure mine had been.
‘Ah, you great spoilsport. What’s the point of having your number, now, if I can’t phone you in the middle of the night slurring about how much I love you?’
‘Don’t you dare.’ His tone made it plain that he was joking. ‘Anyway, we’re in the same house. You could open my door and tell me. Only,’ I added with new sternness, just in case, ‘you’d better not try it.’
He continued the smile but twitched his head as though he’d made me do something against my will. ‘I’m a lot of things, Rowan, but sex pest never made the list.’
I reached out to change gear and my hand brushed against his leg. He moved away at the contact. ‘And I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘You’ve been very brave to assume it up to now.’
‘You’re a professor. One word of accusation from me and you could lose everything, so maybe it’s you who’s brave.’
He did the smile and twitched-head again. I was clearly surprising him tonight.
We pulled up in the usual spot, but the cottage was in darkness. ‘I didn’t think to leave a light on,’ he said. ‘I was in a bit of a hurry this morning when I left – the taxi turned up while I was beating off the ducks. I didn’t have toast,’ he added, in explanatory fashion.
I opened the front door and wandered through, putting on lights as I went. The cottage began to hum, from the deep rattly purr of the fluorescent kitchen light to the high-pitched squeak of the table lamp in the living room – it was as if the place were talking to me, through illumination. Although Connor was still at my shoulder, I began to feel the relaxation of Friday night settling over me.
‘I can’t really be bothered with food. I’m shattered,’ I said. ‘I might go straight to…’
The map was back. Hanging on the wall, in its original frame, in its original place. I stared at it.
‘Did I hallucinate the whole thing the other night?’ I asked, faintly.
‘Oh, the map? It was important to you, so I found a framer in York who did me a favour yesterday.’
I stared some more. The frame was definitely the original, but completely repaired and with new glass. ‘But… how?’ I stroked the wood with one finger. ‘I mean, you only had a few days…’
‘Ah, I didn’t say it was a cheap favour now, did I?’ Connor looked – well, it was hard to place his expression. It wasn’t happy , it was more self-satisfied than that and wavered in the direction of smug . ‘They came over last night to fix it in situ.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘Actually, they gave me a lift.’
‘You got the frame fixed and a ride home?’ I wanted to turn it around to check the repairs on the back, but it seemed ungrateful, so I settled for a bit more staring.
‘The amount I was paying, they should have flown me back on a silver unicorn,’ he said, but sounded as though he was trying not to laugh. ‘But it looks all right up there now, does it not?’
‘It does indeed,’ I half breathed the words. The map was smooth, the frame was intact, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
‘I got the fastening reinforced. Quite frankly it had been hanging by one tack for months. Accident waiting to happen.’
We stood for a moment together. The single lamp gave the room more corners than it should have had.
‘Thank you, Connor,’ I said softly, still keeping my eyes on the map.
‘You’re not upset? After what you said before, about – well, about your husband making the frame, I didn’t want to do anything that might make any of it worse.’
‘I’m not upset.’ My voice was still very level. ‘It was a very kind thing to do. And I’m sorry that I got so angry with you over the other frame, but…’ I tailed off.
‘No, no, you were right.’ Connor adjusted the hang of the map, where my touching the frame had unbalanced it and made it list towards Pickering. ‘That awful pine frame wasn’t good. Like hanging the Mona Lisa in something you picked up from IKEA.’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far,’ I said. ‘It’s just a map.’
‘But for you, it’s memory, isn’t it?’ His voice was soft now. ‘Everything tied up with everything else, all leading back to the one thing. Your husband, in this case. The stone, in another.’
I began to move towards the stairs. ‘Can we not talk about the stone for now? I’m going to have a shower and go to bed with my laptop. The house is all yours. Turn the lights out when you go up.’
I left him standing in the middle of the barely lit room. He stood very still and quiet and I couldn’t see what he was looking at as I trod my weary way up the steep staircase towards a hot shower, my bed, and some rubbish on YouTube.