Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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brushed against her shoulders.
But Lyn said nothing; just placed her hand on Fran’s, and gently squeezed.
‘You’re sure you want to do this today?’ she asked after a pause.
Fran nodded quickly: shaking off temptation before it really got a grip. ‘Have to start somewhere.’ Especially there … where it had all begun.
‘There’s no hurry. Plenty of time …’ From the look on Lyn’s face, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at all.
Fran drank some more cool coffee, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the thesis coming on?’
Lyn wavered, then went with the flow. Smiled modestly. ‘Oh … it’s coming.’
‘So, when’s it going to be Doctor Simmons, then?’
‘God, don’t ask …’ But she was beaming at the prospect, and Fran felt a little warmer, deep inside. It eased the guilt she felt for having missed Lyn’s graduation; she wouldn’t lose this coming second chance. Even as they chatted on, she searched Lyn’s smiley face. It sounded like her future was as clear as her complexion. No storms on her horizon; not a cloud in her blue sky …
‘You’re working, then?’ she asked her.
‘Mm,’ said Lyn, ‘but not this afternoon. It’s temping – just to pay the bills. I’m a bit of a church mouse at the moment …’ She flicked at the sleeve of her well-cut suit. Fran couldn’t help but smile to herself.
Lyn hadn’t noticed; her own gaze lingered on her cup. Carefully she set it down, and bit her lip; then took the plunge.
‘Craig’s been in touch,’ she said.
Fran’s chest grew hot and heavy in the silence that followed. She fiddled with her rings; then swallowed. ‘Is he here?’
Lyn nodded. ‘Staying with friends in London.’ Her eyes were down again, embarrassed. ‘He … never forgot you, Fran. All the time you were …’ Tailing off, she twisted round to unfasten her bag, and took an envelope out. After the briefest hesitation, she laid it on the tabletop between them.
Fran rested her mouth against her hands, staring at the neat white rectangle. No stamp on it, and no address; it had gone from hand to hand. Just one word, written with a flourish. Her own name.
‘He gave me that for you,’ Lyn said, unnecessarily. ‘He wants to see you.’
Oh, Jesus, Fran thought numbly. She felt empty inside: unable to react.
Lyn leaned forward. ‘Fran, we’re here,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to face anything alone. He really cares for you – believe me. Just … let us hold your hands; go through it with you.’
Fran felt a tear trickle down her cheek; like the first drop heralding a downpour. She fought to keep herself in check. Lyn took her hands and held them. The threatened cloudburst faded back to grumble gloomily on the horizon.
Fran took a shaky breath. ‘… Thanks.’ She sniffed, her eyes still shining wet; then managed a damp smile. ‘You’re an angel, Lyn. Friend in a million …’
‘Let’s leave it for today,’ suggested Lyn. ‘Come on: let’s just go and sit in the Meadow …’
‘I can’t,’ Fran said, and shook her head. ‘We’ll take it slowly … but I have to go back. I can’t go any further till I’ve laid the past to rest.’
1
Lyn drove out of Oxford and northward through the countryside. The world through Fran’s shades had a monochrome look, but she could smell the breadth and texture of the fields: new-cut grass, and fresh manure, and fleeting wild flowers. Her heart throbbed hard, constricted. She felt a little sick.
Lunch was a welcome hiatus. Past a picturesque village, they found a shady spot above the road, and stopped to eat. Lyn had prepared a modest picnic: French bread sandwiches, fresh fruit, and cans of sparkling wine. Two glasses and a tablecloth as well: she’d always been an organized young lady.
‘Found yourself a man yet?’ Fran asked casually, between mouthfuls. She’d sneaked a glance at Lyn’s left hand soon after they’d met, and the ring finger was bare.
Lyn gave one of her shy smiles, and shook her head. ‘Not yet. Too busy. Too much work …’ She ducked a wasp, and swatted it away. ‘Besides … I’m not sure if I want a relationship right now …’
That last one really hurt you, didn’t it? Fran thought, but didn’t say so. Best to let that lie. Sitting back against the rough bark of the tree, she recalled how it had started. Lyn had been coy at first – Big Secret – but of course she’d had to share it in the end. He was from one of the other colleges: she’d met him at a lecture. The relationship had deepened during Hilary Term; Fran hardly met the bloke throughout, and saw Lyn less and less. She knew she’d been quite jealous at the time. Not that she didn’t have interests of her own. The day Lyn came to tell her how their Valentine’s date had gone, Fran had been prostrate with the after-effects of chasing Cruise missiles round Salisbury Plain until four in the morning. There Lyn had been, bright-faced and bursting to tell all, while her confidante was half-asleep and lolling in her chair …
She took another bite of bread: the taste as bland as cardboard in her mouth. She didn’t feel the least bit hungry. The countryside was peaceful in the sunshine; sheep and lambs were grazing in the field. But their destination – still miles distant – had already cast its aura this far out. She felt its chill and shadow on her heart.
And then there was Craig’s letter: folded and crammed, still sealed, into her bum-bag. Food for thought that overfilled her stomach.
Lyn sipped at her wine; hooked her hair behind her ear. She sensed Fran watching from behind her shades, and beamed encouragingly. Fran found the strength to smile faintly back.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get it done.’
2
They came to the wire. It stretched and weaved away to right and left. Reinforced mesh, with razor coils on top.
Fran stood there on the footpath, staring blankly through the fence. There was an empty road beyond it; then a vast expanse of grass. In the hazy middle distance, a scattering of buildings basked – smooth-backed, like concrete whales.
Her fingers closed on Lyn’s: so tightly that she feared they might do damage. But the gesture was convulsive, and she couldn’t let them go. They’d linked hands coming up the hill from Heyford – Fran had wavered to a standstill when she saw the water-tower. It rose above the skyline like a scaffold.
‘Come on, now,’ Lyn had whispered. ‘You can do it.’
If she felt her knuckles popping now, her quiet voice didn’t show it. ‘Are those the hangars, then … ?’
Fran nodded once, like someone in a trance. The last time she’d been up here, the day had been as bright and hot as this one; but lamps had still been burning on those buildings – shimmering like day-stars through the haze. The quick reaction flight was lurking there: bombed-up, and ready to go.
Today, the lights were off again; the hangars seemed abandoned. An eerie silence hung across the base.
‘Ugly-looking things …’ Lyn murmured.
‘They called them TAB-Vees,’ Fran said; the term came back to her from nowhere. ‘Theatre Airbase Vulnerability Shelters.’ She nodded to herself; then pinched a smile. ‘I used to know all the jargon, you know. Proper little trainspotter, I was.’
‘But