Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
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is about her life before the book starts. The part of her life no one knows about.’
Fiction.
The word hovered on Viv’s lips but she didn’t say it. It wasn’t true. ‘I’m not making it up, Cathy. I can’t stop. She’s talking to me.’
Cathy nodded. ‘I’m sure it feels like that. Your brain has gone into overdrive. The exhaustion from writing the book and then the hassle with Professor Graham has probably triggered the same reflexes which give us nightmares and make us sleep walk. That, combined with your very real frustration at finding there are so many aspects of her life you can’t ever know about.’
Viv slumped back in the chair. ‘I suppose so. But it’s so vivid!’
‘As are a lot of dreams.’
Viv hesitated. ‘So you don’t think she is actually communicating with me?’
‘No.’ Cathy shook her head.
‘Or that Tasha and Pete really saw her the other night?’
‘No.’
‘But you don’t rule out the possibility of some sort of communication between the living and the dead?’
Cathy frowned. ‘Like spiritualism, you mean? I think, on the whole, most of that is a con.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe in some paranormal stuff, in fact, yes, I do believe in some things, but not that you’re being stalked by some Celtic female with tattoos, no.’
‘So, Tasha told you what she looked like.’
Cathy nodded.
‘It was Cartimandua.’
‘I don’t think so. Look,’ Cathy leaned forward in her chair, ‘you have a story to tell. You are putting on a radio play. So your brain is providing you with the story. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter where this stuff is coming from. Who ever knows where creative stuff comes from? It is a wonderful story. You now have an extra scene or two to go at the beginning of your drama: her childhood; her marriage. Who cares if it’s fact or fiction?’
‘I care.’ Viv shrugged. ‘I care very much. I’m a serious academic.’
Behind them there was a slight click as the door opened a fraction and Pablo pushed his way into the room. He sat down, carefully surveying them both before beginning to wash his ears.
‘You can’t tackle this academically and I think that fact is at the root of your problem,’ Cathy went on. ‘Your brain is creating a let-out for you. Just use it. Tell Pat what’s happening. Let her help you write it into the play.’
‘And give Hugh Graham even more ammunition to use against me?’
There was a pause. ‘Why do you really care so much what he thinks?’
‘Because he is my professor. The head of department.’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean, and?’
‘What is wrong with an academic writing a semi-fictional piece? I am not saying any of your book was sourced like this –’ Cathy stopped abruptly. ‘Or was it?’
Viv shook her head. ‘No! No, of course not! At least …’ She looked at Cathy in despair. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all got so muddled up.’
Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to lose, if you ask me. Exploit your dreams and your creative visions. Turn them into, what do they call it, faction?’ She grimaced. ‘Use all this as a kind of catharsis to clear Cartimandua out of your system.’
‘Catharsis, maybe.’ Viv shook her head wearily. ‘But for me professional suicide.’
‘Why?’ Cathy looked genuinely bewildered. ‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against it. You are an academic writing fiction. It’s been done before.’
‘No, Cathy, I’m not a fiction writer. I can’t make these leaps of deduction. It’s not allowed.’
‘Who says?’
‘It’s just part of the rules.’
Behind them Pablo finished his ablutions and sat watching Viv intently. Neither woman noticed him.
‘Yet in your book, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Cathy said slowly, ‘everything is supposition because it is pre-historic in the literal sense of the word, and all your sources are suspect in that they are Roman spin! Didn’t you tell me that? So, how come that is allowed?’
‘It just is.’
‘Well, now you have Pat on board to keep the academic in check. Use her, Viv. You really upset her by chasing her away yesterday, you know. And then this morning. She is threatening to go back to London.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if she does.’ Viv was getting more and more stressed.
Behind them Pablo stood up. He was staring at her in a panic, eyes wide, ears flattened against his head, and leaping off the chair, he fled through the door. Once more neither of them noticed.
‘You don’t mean that,’ said Cathy.
‘I do. She’s going to interfere.’
‘That’s what she’s here for.’ Cathy frowned. ‘Be reasonable. Don’t upset her. Listen to her.’
‘And if she upsets me?’ With her mentions of Medb, for instance. Where had they come from? She shuddered.
‘She hasn’t. Or if she did, she didn’t mean to. You need her –’
Somewhere in the flat a door banged. Cathy sat back in her chair, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. ‘Look, that must be Pete and Tash,’ she said gently. ‘Hang on a minute while I let them know we’re here –’
Before she had a chance to move the door was flung open and Tasha stood there, an evil grin on her face. ‘I thought so. You’re hiding! Mummy’s here. Don’t you want to talk to her, Cathy?’
Cathy laughed uncomfortably. ‘Tasha, we are having a meeting. I’ve asked you before not to burst into my office. I might have had a patient here.’
‘But you haven’t,’ Tasha retorted.
Cathy groaned. ‘Nevertheless, we are having a meeting. When it’s finished Viv and I will come and say hello, OK?’
Tasha looked both quizzical and smug. It was an extraordinary feat of facial gymnastics which brought Viv to the conclusion that the child would go far on the stage.
‘Should I surrender now?’ Cathy smiled wryly as the door closed behind the girl. ‘May as well.’
Greta greeted Viv and Cathy with a patently insincere smile. ‘I’m so sorry not to be able to stay. I have an appointment.’
‘That’s all right.’ Tasha smiled. ‘We want to talk to Viv about her ghost, don’t we, Cathy.’ Turning, she reached for her mother’s handbag. ‘Mummy, please. You promised me some extra pocket money.’
‘Ghost?’ Greta frowned. ‘What ghost?’
‘It’s nothing, Greta.’ Cathy glared at Tasha repressively. ‘A joke, that’s all.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Greta turned towards her daughter. ‘Put my bag down!’ She was peremptory.
Viv clenched her fists. Cartimandua was a ghost; not a dream, not imaginary, not a disembodied memory. She was a ghost and she had shown herself in this room.
‘I’m frightened of ghosts!’ Tasha continued firmly and glanced at her father as Cathy sighed.
He pursed his lips.
Greta