Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 11

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ I asked, with little confidence in obtaining a positive response, ‘that you’d care to clarify that remark?’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Oakley,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t care to even if I could.’

  Mr Disvan swiftly rose to his feet.

  ‘I think we’d best be going. Time is moving on and Mr Oakley has to work tomorrow, don’t you? Doubtless we shall all meet again.’

  * * *

  In the event, Mr Disvan’s prediction was fulfilled in very short order. The very next evening I noticed, upon my arrival, that once again Ellie and he were sitting out in the Argyll’s garden. I fetched a drink and hastened to join them.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Oakley,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you again.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’

  ‘Be careful of Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, ‘he’s something of a charmer when he wants to be.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Ellie replied, unimpressed. ‘Incidentally, talking of charm or the lack of it, you two left very suddenly last night, didn’t you? I hope it wasn’t something I said.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I replied.

  ‘Not especially, no,’ Disvan agreed—or at least partly agreed.

  ‘Good. The thing is that I’m more of a city person myself, and being out in the country, amidst the trees and fields so to speak, tends to make me a bit broody—even anti-social sometimes. Hence my behaviour at the end yesterday.’

  ‘How awful for you,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Can’t you get professional help to cure it?’

  ‘Well,’ Ellie replied, a little taken aback, ‘it takes all sorts to make a world.’

  ‘Oh yes, there is that saying.’

  I decided to intervene before this exchange became barbed.

  ‘Rest assured, Ellie, you gave no grounds for offence. As Mr Disvan said, I had to be up early for work and I’d forgotten. Anyway, have you made good progress today?’

  ‘Not in archaeological terms, no, but in terms of my career, yes, I think I have.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘My study supervisor came down from the university to see me and visit the dig today. He’s heard the word that, together with what I’ve already submitted and the results that this excavation will produce, my Ph.D. should sail through without a problem.’

  ‘Congratulations, you must be very pleased.’

  ‘Pleased and relieved, yes I am. I’ve invested five years hard work, not to mention the attendant poverty, in that doctorate, and the only alternative to having it passed that I’d be prepared to accept is death! Don’t look so shocked Mr Disvan; I’m only joking. Probably.’

  ‘What next?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, the usual limbo, I should imagine. The dole in between odd archaeological commissions. Pouring over The Times and Guardian university appointments columns for years on end. Possibly a lectureship at the end of it if I’m lucky. So long as I don’t have to get married and/or settle down I don’t really mind.’

  Disvan obviously didn’t like this line of questioning and wanted to keep things specific.

  ‘Is the entire doctorate to do with cemeteries, Ellie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Romano-British ones to be specific, the later the better. Mind you, I’ve often dabbled back into the Iron Age if there’s the slightest evidence for continuity.’

  ‘As there is in the case of Binscombe.’

  ‘Like there is here, as you say. Only here there’s continuity to an extraordinary degree, which is pleasing. A sort of crowning glory to my researches, if you like.’

  ‘Why did you choose cemeteries in particular?’ asked Mr Disvan.

  ‘Dunno—that’s the honest answer. I just got interested in them early on, I suppose, had a few ideas, and felt like following them up. It’s not everyone’s idea of paradise when your foremost companions are the dead and gone, but it’s better than filling in forms in a office. At least I think so.’

  There seemed to be, at heart, a lot of truth in this, not least in relation to my own life, and I pondered on it as I went to fetch a fresh round of drinks from the bar. When I returned I found that, in my absence, the conversation had remained on much the same topic, shifting only slightly in location to the subject of the barrow on the ridge.

  ‘No,’ said Ellie in answer to a question of Mr Disvan’s that I did not catch, ‘we’ve left the burial alone. From what we saw when it was first revealed, the level of disturbance is so low, and the preservation of the remains so good, that I felt justified in leaving it so a specialist could do the full works. The original clothing, if any, may have left very subtle soil staining, for instance, which we mightn’t pick up—things like that. I’ve got the evidence I want from the main cemeteries, so I won’t be too disappointed if the barrow burials aren’t up to expectations. If they are—if they’re late Roman, say—it’ll just be the cherry on the top.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Disvan, ‘we wish you luck.’

  ‘You can do better than that even. The specialist from the Institute in London is coming down on Friday. Why don’t you both take the day off and come up to the dig? You can keep your fingers crossed for me and see what turns up at the same time.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d offer that opportunity,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘but I didn’t like to ask. I gladly accept.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Won’t we be in the way?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if I couldn’t rely on you not to be.’

  ‘Righto, it’s a date. Expect us on Friday, then.’

  ‘Good. Right, gentlemen, who’s for more drinks?’

  ‘Just a fruit juice for Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, ‘he’s got to drive you home later.’

  I turned to look at Mr Disvan and he returned my gaze with beatific innocence, as if completely unaware that he was ordering my evening. Try as I might I could detect no mockery or guile.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said slowly, ‘so I have.’

  * * *

  It was very dark when we returned, but the path to the ridge was not so much of a problem the second time around. I knew which deep sloughs of permanent mud to avoid and which bushes in particular offered do or die resistance to a car’s progress. Even so, all my concentration was required to prevent insurance-claim-worthy damage to the car’s bodywork and therefore, once again, I failed to follow Mr Disvan’s and Ellie’s conversation as we neared the camp. Nevertheless, despite my lack of attention, I noticed that as before, once the five-bar gate came into sight, Ellie lapsed into nervous silence and hesitated perceptibly before leaving the car to clear our way.

  On this occasion the rope binding on the gate seemed to be more recalcitrant than before and Ellie struggled wildly to release it without effect.

  ‘She’s making a meal of that,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘I think I’ll go and help her.’

  Just as these words left his lips, Ellie stood stock still and stared hard into the trees and thickets on her left. She remained thus for a second or so, a horrified look on her face, before turning as if to run back to the car. A few steps into this sudden change of plan she stopped, obviously thought better of it, and returned to the gate. From the depths of one of the pockets of her Belstaff jacket she drew a large clasp knife, and with deft actions sawed asunder the offending rope loop. Kicking the gate open she raced back to the car and flung herself in.

  ‘What is..?’ I started to say, but Ellie pointed forward and shouted, in a voice not lightly to be contradicted, ‘Go, go, go!’

  I obliged by causing the car to leap forward just as fast as first gear would permit.

  ‘Don’t stop here,’ she said. ‘Go right up to the tents.’

  ‘But we’ll wake...’

  ‘Just do it, please!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  We came to a halt, engine racing furiously, a mere few feet from the first tent. The headlights lit it up and roused, if the noise had not already done so, the three occupants.

  ‘T
hanks,’ said Ellie, ‘and sorry.’

  She got out of the car and dived without further ado into what was presumably her tent, just as Dave’s head emerged quizzically from his shared abode.

  Mr Disvan and I emerged from the car feeling rather ridiculous and guilty. Ellie did not join us to lend support.

  Dave looked at us as if at apprehended scrumpers. ‘Can you offer any explanation for your behaviour?’ he said. The public school tones were a surprise.

  ‘Well...’ I started, and then was glad for once that Mr Disvan took it upon himself to speak for me.

  ‘To be absolutely honest, I’m afraid that we can’t,’ he said disarmingly.

  ‘I see,’ said Dave. ‘Well, in that case I’ll bid you goodnight—and drive carefully,’ he added, withdrawing his head back into the tent and fastening the zip.

  We were left alone, our feeling of stupidity undiminished. I reversed the car as quietly as one can on a silent hillside and, in a state of some puzzlement, we returned to the lights of Binscombe.

  ‘What do you make of all that?’ I said to Mr Disvan.

  ‘I’m not sure, but we’ll know when Ellie tells us herself tomorrow.’

  ‘How can you be sure that she will?’

  ‘Because,’ he replied with certainty in his voice, ‘her sense of propriety will make her.’

  ‘We shall see,’ I said doubtfully.

  * * *

  ‘I couldn’t just leave it as it was,’ said Ellie. ‘I had to offer you some explanation.’

  Mr Disvan gave me something approaching an ‘I told you so’ look.

  ‘Besides which,’ she continued, ‘I think I need your advice.’

  We were once again sitting out in the Argyll’s beer garden enjoying the mellow evening sunshine. Ellie looked even more incongruous among us than usual, for the majority of the clientele were, on this occasion, dressed in formal black and a few sported black armbands, whereas she adhered to her customary paramilitary school of fashion. I suspected, however, that her evident unease was not due to any sense of being incorrectly attired.

  She had been waiting for some time before our arrival back from the memorial service and wake that had arisen from Stan, the local policeman’s, suicide just over a week before. We briefly explained the reason for our sombre garb and then, as was fast becoming the custom, took our drinks into the garden.

  ‘It’s a more suitable and private place for the dispensing of advice,’ Mr Disvan said.

  There was a standard family (father, mother, boy and girl) of trippers already in occupation of our normal table and so, to avoid being overheard, we had to sit at the far end of the garden by Lottie’s flower beds and the kiddies’ swing and sand pit. At one point it looked as if the trippers’ offspring were minded to come and make use of these facilities, but Disvan managed to catch their eye and they revised their plan so as to stay close to mum and dad.

  Ellie looked suspiciously about her and felt the need for a sip at her drink and a drag from her cigarette before commencing whatever she had to tell us.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy for me,’ she said by way of warning.

  ‘Perhaps I can assist you, then,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘What is it that you can see or hear in the woods by the gate?’

  Ellie looked at him keenly.

  ‘It’s that obvious, is it?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘I suppose my actions the last couple of nights haven’t been all that normal or subtle. Okay then, you’ve guessed my secret. The next big question is whether you’ll believe me.’

  ‘You haven’t told us what the problem is yet,’ I said.

  ‘No, that’s true. It’s just that I’m naturally reluctant to get around to revealing it. The problem is, gentlemen, that I hear voices in the wood—or one voice, to be quite specific.’

  ‘And this occurs when you’re by the gate does it?’ asked Mr Disvan.

  ‘Generally, but not always. I’ve heard it when I’ve been near other parts of the woods.’

  ‘And what does it say?’

  ‘To start with it was just like a sighing—a man’s sigh when he’s expressing a longing for something. Then it developed into a whisper saying things that were indistinct, but even so I still ignored it. I told myself it was just the wind in the trees or some defect in my hearing. But then last night, at the gate, the voice was quite clear—and it was calling for me.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Just by saying my name: “Ellie...Ellie...” it was saying. It wanted me to come to it.’

  ‘And it was a man’s voice, you say?’

  ‘In origin, perhaps, but it sounded as if was coming from a million miles away. It really was a vile, cold voice, Mr Disvan!’

  ‘Well, don’t distress yourself anew Ellie. It’s broad daylight now and you’re in company.’

  ‘That hasn’t prevented it from happening before. One of the first occasions I heard it was when I was doing some grid-planning in the lunch hour. Suddenly all the birds rose out of the woods and flew off in a crowd and, in the silence they left behind, I heard the voice whispering to me. Oh no, Mr Disvan, daylight’s no safeguard, I’m afraid.’

  Once upon a time I would have doubted, made discreet remarks about mental stability, and sought rational explanations. Now, after years of Binscombe residence, I found within myself the ability to accept the unlikely as quite probable—Ellie’s story included.

  ‘In that case,’ I said, in an attempt to be both practical and helpful, ‘assuming it’s not something awry with your ears or to do with the wind through the branches, there’s a ready solution to your problem.’

  ‘And what might that be, Mr Oakley?’ said Disvan looking at me with interest.

  ‘It’s that as far as possible you keep out of earshot of the woods or, if you must work alongside them, use one of those Walkman things. That way you won’t hear whatever the voice might care to say. Also, leave the gate open and unfastened if you leave the site. I’m more than willing to give you a lift back in the evenings, and we can drive straight on and drown anything your friend’s got to whisper with the noise of the car.’

  Mr Disvan nodded his approval. ‘Given that an explanation for your voice is unlikely and that your stay on the ridge is only temporary, Mr Oakley’s proposals have a lot of sense in them,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you’ I replied. ‘After all, as Mr Disvan says, it’s not as if you’ll be there for ever, is it? How much longer do you really need to stay?’

  ‘Two, maybe three weeks,’ said Ellie.

  ‘There you are then. That’s not too long a time to display a little eccentricity—especially in the context of the rest of your team.’

  ‘It’s very nice of you to believe me, both of you,’ Ellie said warmly, although apparently little cheered by my suggestions.

  ‘Here in Binscombe, it’s not so hard to credit,’ I replied. ‘For instance, one person we knew heard...’

  I intercepted Mr Disvan’s gaze and, because of the note of caution contained therein, dried up immediately.

  ‘Mr Oakley means that we realise you’re a person of integrity and so we’re obliged to believe what you say. Isn’t that so, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘That’s right...’ I concurred weakly.

  ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ Ellie continued. ‘I was afraid you’d think I was cracking up but, all things considered, I don’t think I am. Not yet anyway. I appreciate what you’ve suggested, Mr Oakley but unfortunately your measures wouldn’t be any help.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, for example, you said to stay clear of the woods, out of earshot, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that was one of the things.’

  ‘I thought so. Sadly you see, there isn’t anywhere on the site out of range of the voice if it wants to reach me. I’ve even heard it while we were sitting round the campfire and Ros and Jayney were talking to me. However, I can’t go around with a Walkman on, blaring away all the time, even if I could afford one. It
wouldn’t be practical—or professional for that matter.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but at least you could leave the gate open so you wouldn’t have to linger there to unfasten it each time you passed.’

  ‘No again. There was terrible trouble this morning as it was, what with the fastening being found sawed off and so on. The road to the ridge is privately owned. We can use it in moderation but one of the strictest stipulations that the owner made was that all gates were to be kept closed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘That land’s owned by a man called Griffiths and he’s got a real mania for tidiness. He drove his wife mad, he did, following her round straightening piles of magazines and looking for dust. I well recall their wedding and the rumpus over the confetti. They had to get in extra police from Goldenford.’

  I interrupted a potential stream of Disvan remembrances and brought the conversation back to the matter in hand.

  ‘Well then, Ellie, I’m afraid that all my good ideas are brought to nought.’

  ‘It seems so, yes.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘what exactly did you mean by saying it was too easy to feel at home on the ridge?’

  ‘Just that, Mr D. Despite the voice, despite everything, I more and more feel that I belong up there. I don’t want to feel that way, but it just keeps on growing.’

  ‘That is worrying,’ said Disvan. ‘You’ve no Binscombe blood in you, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. My family, such as it is, are from all over.’

  ‘How much longer did you say you are staying here?’

  ‘Two to three weeks.’

  Mr Disvan fixed her with one of the most earnest and impressive looks in his extensive repertoire.

  ‘Don’t make it any longer,’ he said.

  ‘I shan’t, don’t worry.’

  ‘Good. In the meanwhile I advise you to ignore what the voice says to you. Just try to live with it but don’t listen to it. You can borrow my Walkman if you like. I’ve also got one of those portable compact disc players. It’s very impressive.’