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5
Lyn’s flat was in a quiet, leafy street off Iffley Road: part of the first floor of a conversion. Fran wandered through, admiring, as Lyn showed her around: a cheerfully self-deprecating hostess – but Fran’s small suitcase made her feel too much like what she was. A stranger, from the past, just passing through.
‘This’ll be yours,’ Lyn told her brightly, opening the door on her spare room. A futon was spread out, all ready; the pillowcase and quilt smelt freshly washed.
‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying …’ Fran murmured.
Lyn’s beaming face grew earnest. ‘You’re welcome for as long as you like – all right? As long as you need.’
‘I’m … not very good company at the moment. Need a lot of time to myself …’
‘I can understand that. You need a base, you need a bed … they’re yours. Other than that, you can come and go as you want.’ She hesitated, almost shyly. ‘But I’d be glad to keep you company, whenever that’s okay. I’ve really missed you, Fran …
‘Now,’ she went on quickly, before they both got embarrassed, ‘would you like some coffee?’
‘Oh, please.’ Fran put her case down on the bed, and went over to the window. The evening was warm and light: the air like honey. She peered across the rooftops for a minute, listening to the distant city sounds – and those that Lyn was making in the kitchen. Peace, domestic comfort, all around.
Her heart began to race then; before she even realized that she’d just made her decision. Biting her lip, she went through towards the sounds of brewing coffee.
Lyn looked round, smiling. Wiping down her breakfast plates, and putting them away.
Fran swallowed. ‘There’s something else. I need to tell you.’ But in the expectant pause that followed, she no longer thought she could.
‘No hurry,’ Lyn said gently. ‘We’ve plenty of time …’
Fran glanced aside. An itemized phone bill caught her eye: stuck to the freezer door with a cat-shaped magnet. Staring at it, she said: ‘When I was in hospital … it wasn’t just depression. I was hallucinating; hearing voices.’
Silence from Lyn.
‘And I never told them,’ Fran went on, with just a hint of tremble in her voice. ‘I never said a word. I thought that if I did, they wouldn’t let me out again.’
Another pause. She risked a look. Lyn’s eyes were wide, her air less certain. ‘Oh God, Fran …’
‘But I’m better now,’ Fran finished quickly. ‘They just went of their own accord. Not a whisper for six months …’ She took a shaky breath. ‘And I’ve told no one else about them. Not even Mum and Dad.’
Lyn’s reassuring smile looked forced. ‘It might be … an idea to tell someone, though …’
‘I have,’ Fran came back evenly. ‘I’ve just told you. And believe me, it’s a load off my shoulders.’
Lyn nodded, looking doubtful, mechanically polishing a bowl. ‘But just to be sure …’
‘Oh Lyn, don’t worry: I’m not a bloody schizophrenic or something. It was just my mind getting straightened out. I’m all right now.’
Lyn put down the bowl, and came across and hugged her. A gesture worth a million words. I’m not unclean, Fran thought – and held on tight enough to hurt.
‘Sorry,’ Lyn said after a minute. ‘I know how hard that must have been to say. I’m really, really glad you told me first …’ When she eased away, her smile looked fresher: as if she’d shrugged a burden off as well. A weight of doubt and prudent disapproval. Fran grinned – and felt quite giddy with relief. Her leap of faith had landed on firm ground.
Oh Lyn, you angel. How ever did I find a friend like you?
With the subject safely broached, the rest came easier. She described the hospital, the staff, her fellow patients. Talking it out felt physical, a purging of her system. Like the tears that Lyn had won from her before; the rains that broke the drought of her depression …
‘What sort of things did these voices say?’ Lyn asked her after supper. Her tone still cautious, but curious too.
Fran hesitated. ‘I don’t know: that’s the really weird thing. It was a man’s voice, just a whisper … I’d look around, you know? – and the room would be empty. But it wasn’t English; more like Dutch or something.’
‘God, it must have frightened you.’
‘It did. You bet it did. And yet … the tone, it wasn’t really threatening. It sounded urgent. More like an appeal …’
She could analyse it calmly now; back then, she’d just been petrified with fear. The whispers had haunted her down the long, dingy corridors, insidious in their promise of madness. Perhaps finding a lump in your breast brought a stab of dread this sharp. Her voices seemed like symptoms of a tumour in her mind.
And if you ignored them, would they go away? A lump in her flesh would not. She’d heard of women losing precious time – too scared to see a doctor, till too late. And she’d been just as stymied: afraid to tell a soul about the voices in her head.
The world had closed down like a coffin-lid upon her; the voices were the hammer and the nails. Fragments of phrases, faint with distance; sometimes they’d fall silent for a week. The silences were worst of all. She’d sit and cringe for hours: just waiting for the words to come again.
But she’d kept them secret – and they’d gone away. The malignant lump had simply disappeared. A miracle cure must feel like this. She hardly dared believe it, even now.
‘Shall we do the washing up?’ she said, to change the subject.
‘Oh, shh, don’t worry about that …’
‘Don’t flatmates share their chores?’ Fran asked her drily. ‘I’d much prefer it that way. So come on, let’s get to it. And then I think I’ll have an early night. It’s been a tiring day …’
6
Fran
So much has changed. The whole world’s turned around. But I’ve not forgotten you. Can we meet someplace – and sometime soon? Lyn’s got my number. I really hope you’ll want to get in touch.
Still thinking of youCraig
Fran read the letter through again. Much more slowly: savouring each word. Her heart beat like a slow drum in her chest.
His face was very clear now; the years between had faded like a fog. She remembered every line of his rugged good looks. The short brown hair, brushed back; the deep-set eyes. The wry mouth, sometimes smiling; sometimes grim.
Still thinking of you – even four years down the road. She felt a pang of pleasure, a twinge of helpless pride. Like someone with a treasure, hidden secretly away. He’s mine, she thought: he still belongs to me.
She folded the letter carefully, and slid it back into the envelope. Laying it aside on the bookcase, she started to unpack. Nightie, towel, toilet bag … but then she let an impulse overcome her, and delved into a side-pocket instead. For a moment her fingers searched in vain; but then they found the badge, and drew it out.
She’d been wearing it the day they met. A rectangle of metal, with a sheen like bluish gold. The stern and haloed image of a saint. She ran her thumb across the rough, raised lettering. Cyrillic script: an alien language. Only the dates made sense.
988–1988. One thousand years. Stretching like a bridge from the Dark Age past to the year she’d come to Oxford.
She laid her head down cautiously. First night away from home for many months; her first night back in Oxford since her breakdown. For an hour or more she lingered on the very edge of sleep: afraid of what unconsciousness might bring. But the stresses of the day had worn her out. Oblivion pounced, and caught her unawares.
She didn’t dream.
CHAPTER III
Cross of Iron
1
‘Is this seat taken?’
Fran studied her drink for a moment longer; then slowly, almost archly raised her head. After all the keyed-up waiting, she was suddenly so cool. She’d known it was him as he’d crossed the room towards her. She’d known it when he walked through the door.
Craig stood there, looking just a little awkward. She’d sensed him hesitating on the threshold; how long had he been standing just outside? But to judge by his face, his doubts had been won over. For all that he was ten years older than her, his smile was as engaging as an eager little boy’s.
She gestured. ‘Be my guest.’
He pulled out the stool, and sat. Still smiling; but his pale blue eyes were watchful. Their clearness – with his slightly scrappy haircut – helped preserve his boyish aspect; but that handsome face had harshness in its lines. Fran felt herself excited by the contrast – just like she’d been before.
He’d brought his bottle with him from the bar. A Budweiser, of course. He raised it to her – ‘Hi,’ – and took a pull.
She raised her glass in turn; then sat back, looking smug.
Craig cocked his head, enquiring. ‘What?’
‘I just love a man out of uniform.’
He gave a snort at that, amused. His coat was brown brushed leather, well worn-in. Fran, by contrast, was wearing Lyn’s best bomber jacket, complete with sheepskin lining. Which was quite ironic, really.
‘How have you been?’ Craig asked after a pause. His tone was quiet and calm, as always; the concern was in his eyes.
‘All right,’ Fran told him softly. ‘Coming on.’
‘You’re looking well.’
She shrugged.
The lunchtime buzz and bustle of The Grapes drew in around them.
Her hand was on the table; so was his. She felt his need to reach across and touch her – and knew he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He moistened his lips, his pale gaze still intent. ‘I’m glad you called me, Fran.’
‘I’m glad you waited, Craig. I mean that.’
He took her hand, and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
‘You’re sure about this afternoon?’ he asked, his voice a murmur.
‘Yes,’ she said, still holding on. ‘I’m sure.’
2
The first time she’d seen him, he was doing some repair work on a truck. Thinking back to that first moment, she knew she hadn’t dreamed where it would lead. All she’d done was stand there, feeling curious: wanting contact. Above all else, she’d wanted to get through.
He’d realized she was watching; turned and grinned. Encouraged, she’d smiled back. He’d wavered for a moment, then wiped his hands and slowly walked across. Right up to the high mesh fence that blocked his way.
‘Hello,’ Fran said politely.
He nodded amiably, tweaking the brim of his cap between finger and thumb. His camouflage fatigues – green, brown and black – bore a master sergeant’s stripes: she was getting good at recognizing ranks. FLAHERTY was the name stencilled over his breast pocket.
Fran hooked her fingers through the mesh, and leaned against the wire. She wondered if her shades made her look flirty. ‘How are you liking England, then?’ she asked.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he murmured. ‘Nice little place you’ve got here. Some of the natives aren’t too friendly … but there you go.’
She took that coyly; cocked her head. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to us.’ He’d caught sight of her Cruisewatch badge, of course.
His smile grew broader. ‘I’m a great believer in freedom of speech.’
‘Which is what you’re here defending?’
‘Surely. Yours and mine.’
‘When we put all our resources into preparing for war, humanity hangs from a cross of iron. You know who said that?’
He shook his head, still smiling.
‘Dwight D. Eisenhower.’
‘Yeah? I never heard that.’ He leaned forward for a better look at the other badge she wore. Fran eased herself away along the fence; he followed. She felt a sense of mischief, like playing hard to get. The barrier was frustrating. She clung to it, and kept him close.
‘Aha,’ he murmured drily, having seen the thing at last. ‘I knew you were a commie.’
‘No, I’m not,’ she told him. ‘That’s my icon.’
Intrigued, he studied it more closely. ‘What does it say?’
‘Russia Baptized: One Thousand Years.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You been over there?’
‘’Fraid not. I got it at the Orthodox church in Oxford.’
‘Oxford, huh? That where you come from?’
‘It’s where I’m studying.’
‘Always wanted to visit Oxford …’ he said lightly, and would have said more, but a patrol truck was approaching: chugging up along the perimeter road. It came to a halt behind him, and the driver climbed out. Fran saw it was a woman, not much older than herself. Dressed in camouflage like Flaherty, but with a black beret – and a holstered pistol at her belt. MATTHEWS said the name-strip on her blouse.
‘Any problem, Sergeant?’
‘No problem.’ He held Fran’s gaze for a moment longer; then turned away. Fran stared at his retreating back, then looked across at Matthews. The other woman was eyeing her levelly. Her fresh-complexioned face was set and grim.
Fran tipped her head back: took it on the chin. Resentment twinged inside her, mixed with something more unsettling. She’d thought there’d be some fellow-feeling somewhere – one woman to another. But there wasn’t the slightest spark of it between them.
She’d shoot me, if she had to. Shoot me dead. The knowledge took the wind out of her sails.
Flaherty was back at his truck. He gave her a final, sidelong glance; no more. Matthews was still watching her. Dispirited, Fran turned and walked away.
But now she was here again, and reaching out to touch the fence. Curling her fingers round the cold green strands, and holding tight.
‘Looks different,’ Craig said softly; ‘from the wrong side of the wire.’
She glanced over her shoulder. He looked different: standing there behind her.
They’d driven up the road from the A339, Craig silent at the wheel of his rented car. The tunnel of trees had closed around them, channelling them through gloom until they were almost at the fence. They’d parked there and got out; Fran pausing with her hand on the open door. It had rained that afternoon, and the wood smelled damp and green, still dripping. The song of a blackbird came from somewhere close.
Greenham Common airbase lay in silence.
They were close to the silos here. The last time she’d ventured up this way, the MoD police had chased her off. A winter’s night, dark early – but the those sinister mounds had been brightly lit. They’d made her think of spiders’ lairs – nestled deep in their funnels of gleaming razor wire.
A ripple of cold went through her flesh. She shivered, and hunched her shoulders.
The webs were empty now, though; their spider-holes as derelict as Heyford’s silent hangars. Life had gone on while she’d lingered in the dark. The world had changed so much.
‘I heard they’re gonna turn it into a theme park,’ Craig said, with wry amusement. ‘Or something like that.’
She shook her head, bemused. The place had been an inspiration through her teens; had drawn her down from Oxford again and again. Now here it lay, forgotten. What was it they’d sung around the campfire? And we shall build Jerusalem in England’s Greenhorn pleasant land. Well the missiles were gone – but no sense of peace had come to take their place. The silos had a haunted feel; like burial mounds, robbed out.
The evening sky was overcast and low. Crimson light seeped through it here and there, staining the clouds like blackberry juice.
‘I didn’t like it here,’ Craig murmured.
Fran turned her head.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he went on drily. ‘I think we were right; I think we did some good. But we never fitted in. Just stuck in our own little world behind the wire. And so much hostility outside …’
‘Was that the only reason?’
He was silent for a minute. ‘I’d be lying if I said that sharing a base with ninety-six Cruise missiles didn’t give me the creeps sometimes.’
‘It wasn’t the nukes that scared me,’ Fran said slowly, looking back towards the row of gutted silos. ‘It was the fact that people were actually ready to use the bloody things.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened. That was the whole point.’
‘Maybe not. No, really … maybe not. But the readiness was there.’
A pause. Then he slid his arms around her waist. Fran stood there for a moment, not reacting; then let herself relax against his body. He squeezed her gently; touched his cheek to hers.
‘You know what it reminds me of ?’ he said after a while. ‘Cape Canaveral. You go there now, there’s just these burned-out shells of concrete, where the rockets blasted off. Dead silence. When the clouds are like this, and there’s a wind off the desert, it’s so damn’ eerie. It feels like the end of the world.’
CHAPTER IV
Testament
1
Lyn tapped her pen against her teeth – and wondered if she’d found her man at last.
The library was hushed, as if expectant. The lamp above her recess cast a cosy golden glow. The cloudy afternoon had brought a premature dusk, like grey fog seeping inward through the windows. The lamps were beacons, keeping it at bay. Back down the unlit aisles and stacks, the gloom was growing thicker.
The manuscript before her was the fragment of a will. Ninth century West Saxon; the testator’s name was written aeelgar. She felt uncertain, rather than excited. Was it him? Perhaps – but she was never going to know. He didn’t even have a face, to match the name against.
She’d been looking for him since childhood – whether consciously or not. It went back to that holiday in Norfolk. The thesis she was writing now had been conceived that summer. Not that she had known it then: she’d just been ten or twelve. They’d visited an ancient church, for Daddy to take pictures. Martin had moped around outside, as little brothers would, but she had walked on in to look around. The place still had its medieval rood screen, with painted figures dimly visible. Pictures of saints, according to the leaflet – some of them not known outside the district.
One disfigured shape had caught her eye. It had been worn to a shadow, with the face completely gone. The presence of a raven suggests Paul of Thebes or possibly Elijah. But maybe he was just another nameless local saint.
It seemed there were traditions of some link with nearby Ely. She’d heard how Hereward the Wake had fought the Normans there. Was this one of his warriors? Or a hermit of the fens who’d prayed for him?
She’d walked out of the church – and like a shadow, he had followed. Ever since that day, he’d been an element in her imagination. How had local glory turned to centuries of silence? What could be inferred about the medieval mind? The thought had slowly gelled into her topic for research: this interface of history and myth.
The study would be a social one; but still there was this itchy fascination. The twelve-year-old inside her kept on wondering. She couldn’t help but follow up the vaguest reference; the thesis grew in tandem with her search. Here, an ancient grant of land; there, a manuscript that spoke of scincræft. Cryptic mentions; fleeting clues. They’d led her to this brittle testament.
She glanced at her watch – it had just gone six – and wondered how Fran and Craig were getting on. The rain had stopped some hours ago, but the sky outside was dim. They knew that she was working late tonight. They’d be eating out, Fran said – somewhere in Oxford. She was aiming to be back by nine.
But what if she’d upset herself, revisiting the past? What if the reunion wasn’t working out … ?
Lyn realized she was doodling, and sat up straighter. She read her rough translation through again, then looked back to the text. The Old English script seemed to creep before her eyes: clinging to the page with its hooks and downward strokes. Her attention was drawn once more by the name of the testator.
aeelgar
It was different from the wills she’d seen before. Part of it was set out like a poem.
Seek a lord
whose heart is whole
And hold to him
until his days are done
Written by the man himself, or by some later copyist? This version was two hundred years more recent. So no, she couldn’t even answer that.
We know nothing at all about Æthelgar.
She re-read her last sentence with a real sense of loss. Whoever he’d been, the flow of time had carried him away. There was just this frozen glimpse on the horizon. Like Martin’s stars – so distant that you saw them in the past. ‘See that one?’ he’d told her once. ‘It could have died a thousand years ago. Now that’s the kind of ghost I can believe in …’
Dispirited, she pushed him from her thoughts – and then felt guilty. Frustration gave the knife an extra twist. She’d better take a break, before she really got upset. Gathering her papers up, she read her glum conclusion one more time. The verdict seemed to mock her: an admission of defeat.
And yet the name was curiously familiar.
2
She was still worrying it when Fran got back; the chapter only halfway pieced together. Her neatly ordered notes were strewn all over her front room: a pile on the floor, a sheaf on the arm of the sofa. One open textbook lay upon another. But the A4 sheet in front of her stayed blank. The flow of her analysis had got itself hung up.
We know nothing at all about ÆEthelgar.
Perhaps she’d seen the name before in one of Daddy’s books. Since childhood, she’d spent hours in the treasure-house of his study. The Old and Middle English texts had lured her with their strangeness; the manuscripts enchanted her like giant picture books. Martin had come and teased her: called her bookworm. She could hear her brother’s goading voice right now …
Oh, where had she seen that bloody name before? It niggled, like an itch she couldn’t scratch.
Lyn allowed herself another chocolate biscuit, and crunched it feeling guilty; then straightened as she heard Fran’s key in the lock.
She went into the hall, trying not to look too anxious. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine,’ Fran told her, smiling. ‘Really well.’
Lyn could see that it had. Fran had been so nervous over breakfast, just picking at her cereal; but her face looked fresher now, and more relaxed. Lyn stayed where she was, admiring. ‘That jacket really suits you …’
‘I know. So can I keep it?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Miss Bennett. Do you want coffee?’
‘Mmm, please.’ Fran followed her as far as the kitchen threshold; watched as her friend got the percolator going. Lyn glanced over her shoulder.
‘You can ask him back, you know. I do quite like the man.’
‘Thanks …’ Fran murmured. She pushed her hands into the jacket pockets, and rested her shoulder up against the doorframe. Leaned her head against it too. ‘We’re trying to take things one step at a time.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘The Randolph.’
‘Expensive tastes.’
Fran grinned. Well he’s American, isn’t he?’
‘Help yourself to bikkies. They’re in the front room, on the table.’
Fran wandered through. The biscuit jar was doubling as paperweight for some of Lyn’s notes. ‘How’s the thesis coming, then?’ she called.
‘Slowly. Too easy to get distracted – not by you, don’t worry, I need the break.’ Lyn joined her, took a biscuit of her own. ‘I was reading someone’s will today, and it sent my mind off at a tangent. I just keep wondering who he was.’
‘Why, did he leave you anything?’
‘Hardly, since he died about a thousand years ago.’
‘Well, you’ve made a start, at least,’ Fran told her drily.
Lyn pulled a rueful face. ‘That’s just his name. I doodled that.’
Fran craned her head. ‘So how do you say that, then?’
‘Athelgar. The TH sound was written like a D, it’s called an Eth…’
‘Lithp’d a lot, the Anglo-Saxons, did they?’