To pay my respects to National Flash Fiction Day the Berkshire suite of three pieces from my Work in Progress, American Daughters: Advent, can be read individually or in a continuum. The time is December, 2001. Enjoy these glimpses of West Berkshire with me!
John
turned off the M4 on to the A34 to go south on the Newbury by-pass, telling his
daughters of the local struggles against it and the nearby American base. They
were sympathetic to the diehard female protesters who had refused to be cowed
by the police in their on-going protest. At least this interest seemed to their
father the smallest of victories. Three cheers for the women of Greenham
Common, he silently offered up as he took them off on the by-roads north of
Whitchurch where the story of Watership Down commenced.
They
drew up on the outskirts of Overton so that they could inspect the River Test
where the rabbits had made their escape from General Woundwort’s troops by
boat. The girls looked bemused at the narrow, manicured trout stream, its banks
fortified with planks and the chalky almost weed-free bottom.
‘I
hadn’t imagined it would be like this,’ Robin murmured, barely concealing her
disappointment.
‘It’s
not very big, is it?’ John had observed. ‘The scale is almost a miniature of
what I’m sure you were expecting. However, the Downs are something else.’
He
took them up on to the top of Watership Down and they went into a ploughed field
to view the distant horizons shrunk closer by the grey sky. The wind was more
powerful here on the exposed expanse and reminded them it was very much winter.
Robin tramped off a couple of hundred yards in her new green wellies and purple
Burberry beanie, a now much appreciated welcoming present from Livia. She stood
looking south to the farm where the dog had been awakened to divert the
attackers at the warren. Hilary helped her search for rabbit holes while John
leaned against the Freelander and watched their every move.
He had
to admit to himself a profound regret, that things had come to this pass with
his daughters. He had seen it coming but not like this, not so soon. He felt
the ground had been taken from beneath his feet. He needed to find a way to
reach them but every avenue seemed closed. They flared up at the least
provocation and he could not determine how to pass through the minefield
unscathed. He further recognised that he did not deserve to pass through heart
whole. At least they were civil to Livia and had seemed to respond to her
surprisingly well. That was so much of a relief to him.
They
came tramping back, their Hunters well baptised with the mud of England.
‘It’s
not pretty up here, hadn’t seen it as quite this barren.’
‘Well
it’s not Death Valley, Hilary. But for the south of England it can be pretty
bleak at this time of year.
*
Hilary
and Robin did not need goading up the steep hillside. It was just the walk to
stretch them after their flight. They pushed on determinedly for the top with
John initially leading but then a few steps behind as they got nearer to the
summit. They had been partially sheltered on the path going up the east side of
the Beacon, but once at the top the full strength of the wind, which seemed to
have increased to near gale force, drove them to a stop. They looked down the
north side to a small herd of bedraggled sheep sheltering disconsolately in the
lee of what John informed them was an Iron Age hill fort. He was not to be
deterred, however, and pushed on a little way down the exposed west side side on
the scrubby, uncared-for grass, weaving between the dried stalks of dead
thistles under the darkening sky, until he reached an isolated grave surrounded by tall, solid iron railings.
‘What
is it?’ Hilary asked
Robin
stared uneasily, then switched her gaze to look more hopefully at the well-tended
farm below and the small village further to the west.
‘It’s
a tomb. It’s the resting place of Lord Carnarvon.’
‘The
discoverer of Tutankhamen?’ Robin asked.
‘The
same.’
‘I
thought Howard Carter made the discovery,’ Hilary interjected.
‘Well,
yes. You’re right. But Carnarvon financed the expedition. He was an amateur
enthusiast. Carter was the professional.’
The
blackened railings held off the curious or the vandalous at a safe distance.
But the lichened catafalque seemed monstrously neglected.
‘That
village below was part of the family seat. That’s the stately pile of Highclere
Castle over there to the north you can just see through the trees. And he asked
to be buried up here. To avoid bringing any evil down on his family. His life
was not a happy one.’
‘The
curse?’ Robin looked at her father expectantly.
‘Yes.
Cursed by his findings. He was dead within two months of the opening of the
inner tomb.’
‘I
don’t believe any of that.’ Hilary poured scorn on his assessment. ‘I read that
he died of pneumonia following blood poisoning from an insect bite that became
infected.’
‘Then
how does it feel to you up here?’
‘Cold,
windy, isolated, for sure.’
‘Not
forlorn?’
‘I’m
not sure about that,’ she continued, ‘not the way I see it. He wanted to be up
here, didn’t he?’
‘I
suppose so.’
‘There’s
something else up here, though, Lar,’ Robin countered. ‘I think there is a
weirdness. I don’t like it. It’s creepy. I wouldn’t want to be up here at
night. It would give me the shivers.’
She
walked solemnly all the way round the tomb of the forgotten explorer, as if
marking the narrow perimeter of his abandonment, watched by her father and
sister. Then they returned to the Freelander.
*
The
welcome warmth of the log fire was echoed by a huge black Labrador that
lumbered to its feet and planted its muzzle unerringly and indecorously into
Robin’s groin, while John looked for a table. It brought a smile to her lips as
she gently but firmly stroked its head behind the ears and pulled it back. The
pub was busy as many of the weekenders in the village and surrounding area were
already in situ, getting an early start to the holidays on this last Friday
before Christmas, catching up with the locals and the rural gossip. At a table
near the bar a couple of pretty, dark-haired girls nearly the same age as
Hilary and Robin were snorting stertorously, engrossed in some private joke
over their bottle of white wine. From their Sloaney accents and smart country
garb John guessed they were either senior students at Marlborough or some other
similar institution or freshers at one of the posher universities.
An
inviting smell from the kitchen wafted towards them, encouraging them to look
forward to choosing something from the specials on the chalk board, as Hilary
and Robin stripped off their parkas and sat down. John ordered drinks after
playing hide and seek with the barman behind the red brick centrepiece that
divided the bar, and was relieved to hear they could still be served at the
late hour if they ordered right away. Robin wanted a pint of diet Coke, John
had the same, while Hilary expressed an interest in trying a local brew. After
a brief discussion on the merits of the West Berkshire ales John accepted the
barman’s recommendation. Hilary and Robin were talking about Carnarvon by the
time John handed them their glasses.
‘So
are you trying to say you’re cursed too?’ Hilary looked up at him.
‘Accursed?
I don’t know. Somehow I should be feeling blessed but . . .’
‘So
you should. Your life has worked out.’
‘And
yours?’
‘It’s
getting there. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m cut out for scientific
research.’
‘Well,
science runs in the family. My grandfather was a pharmacist, you know. My Dad
should have been one too by all accounts but he left his schooling to go out to
work as his Dad died in his early teens and his Mum when he was seventeen.’
‘And
you?’
‘I
was never going to be interested in pharmacology. But I did have a fascination
with forensics which I applied to both archaeology and anthropology.’
‘Me
too,’ Robin chipped in. ‘I’m interested in forensics. I’ve been thinking of
working for the FBI when I leave college.’
‘That
would be a waste.’
‘Would
it? I don’t know. It seems we always need to solve problems.’
‘Robin’s
also got the idea that big government is a solution to problems,’ Hilary added
helpfully. ‘Not me, though. I’m all for little government.’
‘I’d
have to agree with you, there,’ John added. ‘That leaves you as the odd one
out, I’m afraid, Robin.’
She
shrugged and half-smiled to herself.
‘Have
a look at this government we’ve got here as a good example. They’re making laws
for fun. The statute books have doubled in size, and they’ve brought in so many
regulations to amend the laws when they’ve got them wrong the only people
benefiting are the lawyers.’
Hilary
had picked up the menu and focused her attention on choosing her lunch. John
directed them to the specials board near the open fire, which was burning
cheerfully. Perhaps, he thought, he would be able to ride out the solstice
after all. He sustained this hope with an ample ploughman’s lunch while Hilary
chose the bangers and mash in onion gravy and Robin took the game pie.
By
the time they left the Old Boot the afternoon had darkened with heavy clouds
threatening the onset of an early winter night. The village street was
deserted. As they got in the Freelander they heard a distinctly tinny peal of
bells brought down the wind. John thought the word tintinnabulation highly
appropriate for this knell of parting day.
‘That’s
probably from the bell tower of the Stanford Dingley parish church of St Denys.
Or St Denis as they say en Paris. Very old. A twelfth century rebuild surrounds
the remains of a Saxon site of worship which would, of course, have been made
of wood.’ He thought it appropriately symbolic. After all St Denis had had his
head removed after an invasion and warbled on walking for several miles with
his head in his hands.
‘That’s
impossible,’ Hilary retorted after hearing the legend. ‘No scientist would
accept that.’
‘I
know what you mean. But miracles do happen.’ Please god, yes, he prayed
silently, though his faith in south-east England manifesting a magic realism
was sorely tried. What next, one of the Sloanes in the pub would be wooed by a
Prince Charming?
